Chapter 1: Human Toilet
The Velvet Grotto hummed with its usual Thursday night energy, a low, persistent throb of bass and murmured negotiations. Lisa felt different moving through the crowd now. The green band around her wrist wasn’t a novelty anymore; it was a part of her, a signal she understood and had learned to wield. She wore a simple black lace bodysuit, her softness outlined rather than hidden, and the casual brushes of appreciation from passersby felt like confirmations, not surprises.
Wanda was in a mood. Draped in crimson silk that barely contained her, she moved with a predatory grace, her eyes glittering with a specific kind of intent. They’d been circling each other near the bar, the electricity between them a live wire, when Marcus approached.
“Ladies,” he said, his smile a slash of white in the dim light. He looked crisp, as always, but there was a focused energy about him. “Heads up, we’re shooting in the west bathroom. Chloe’s running point.”
“The tub scene?” Wanda asked, her interest immediately piqued.
“The very one. Thom’s committed. Sign’s already up.” Marcus’s gaze flicked to Lisa, reading the curiosity on her face. “Concept is simple. Thom’s in the tub, under the toilet. Guests who feel the urge can contribute. Chloe’s… facilitating.”
“Facilitating?” Lisa echoed.
“Jerking him off while they piss on him,” Wanda clarified, her voice matter-of-fact. “He gets off on the humiliation. The warmth. The surrender.”
A vivid, unbidden image flashed in Lisa’s mind: the woman in the tub from her first visit, smiling as urine splashed across her belly. The shock then had been pure. Now, it was laced with a sharp, clinical curiosity.
“Camera’s rolling in there,” Marcus added, nodding towards the corridor that led to the bathrooms. “There is three of them. One of them is shooting from under the seat. It’s for the channel. So if you go in, you’re on film. Just FYI.” He gave them a casual salute and melted back into the throng.
Wanda turned to Lisa, her dark eyes gleaming. “I have to pee.”
Lisa’s bladder, on cue, gave a slight, insistent pressure. She’d been nursing a soda all evening. “Me too.”
“So go.” Wanda’s smile was a challenge. “Use the west bathroom.”
The statement hung between them, loaded. This wasn’t a gloryhole booth, a private transaction. This was a performance. A recording. Lisa would be seen, by Thom, by Chloe, by the unblinking eye of Marcus’s cameras. The act itself was one thing; the permanence of the film was another.
“I don’t know,” Lisa breathed.
Wanda leaned in, her scent of jasmine and skin cutting through the club’s musk. “He wants it. He’s literally begging for it with a sign. It’s a gift. And,” she added, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “it’s fucking hot. To just… let go. On someone. To see that look on their face.”
Lisa remembered the power she’d felt in the booth, the anonymous control. This was its inverse: an identified power, a directed flow. Her heart thumped against her ribs. “Okay,” she said, the word leaving her lips before her mind could veto it.
They walked together towards the west wing. A small, hand-written sign with an arrow pointed to a single door: “IN USE FOR FILMING – PISS WELCOME.” The mundanity of the script made it more surreal.
Wanda pushed the door open.
The bathroom was larger than the others, designed for accessibility. The lights were brighter here, for the camera, casting a harsh, unforgiving glow. The centerpiece was a clean, white porcelain tub, empty except for a man lying on his back inside it. Thom. He was naked, lean, with a nervous but eager energy. His head was positioned directly under the rim of a toilet, which sat on a raised platform at the head of the tub. A clear plastic sheet was tucked around the tub’s edges.
Chloe knelt beside the tub, nude but for her collar. Her hand moved in a slow, steady rhythm on Thom’s erect cock. She looked up as they entered, her expression serene, professional. “Hey,” she said, her voice calm. “You’re just in time. Our last contributor left a minute ago. Thom’s getting lonely, aren’t you, baby?”
Thom’s eyes, wide and a little glazed, shifted to Lisa and Wanda. He swallowed. “Yes, Miss Chloe.”
“See?” Chloe said, her hand still working him. “He’s eager. He needs it. Don’t you, Thom? Need to be used like the filthy toilet you are?”
“Yes, Miss Chloe,” Thom panted. “Please. I need to be pissed on.”
Wanda didn’t hesitate. She walked to the toilet, her heels clicking on the tile. She didn’t look at Thom; she looked at Lisa, a dare in her eyes. She hiked her red silk dress up around her hips, pulled her panties aside, and sat down on the toilet seat with the regal bearing of a queen taking her throne.
The sound was immediate—a strong, confident stream hitting the water below. But then Wanda shifted her hips forward, angging herself. The stream changed tone, becoming a louder, splattering sound as it left the bowl and rained down onto Thom’s upturned face.
He gasped, then let out a low moan. His eyes closed. His mouth opened.
Wanda watched, her face a mask of concentrated release. She directed the flow, painting his face with it: his forehead, his cheeks, his open, accepting mouth. He swallowed reflexively, his throat working. Chloe increased the pace of her handjob, whispering to him, “That’s it. Drink it. You’re nothing but a piss slave. A human toilet for beautiful women.”
Lisa watched, transfixed. The scene was vulgar, profoundly so. The acrid scent of piss mixed with the bathroom’s cleaner filled the air. But within the vulgarity was a stark, stunning beauty. Wanda’s power was absolute. Thom’s submission was total. The transaction was complete, and it was vibrating with a raw, sexual truth.
Wanda’s stream tapered off. She stood, smoothed her dress down, and without a word, walked to the sink to wash her hands. She glanced at Lisa in the mirror, a question in her raised eyebrow.
It was Lisa’s turn.
Her legs carried her forward, seemingly of their own accord. The pressure in her bladder was acute now, a physical need amplified by the pounding of her heart. She approached the toilet. Thom was blinking, wiping his eyes, his face and chest glistening. He looked up at her, his expression one of naked pleading.
“Please,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “I need it. Piss on me.”
Chloe gave Lisa an encouraging nod, her hand never stopping its rhythmic motion on Thom’s cock, which was achingly hard, bobbing with each stroke.
Lisa turned, pulled down the lace of her bodysuit, and sat. The toilet seat was still warm from Wanda. The reality of it—the plumbing, the banality of the act—clashed violently with the intensity of the moment. She closed her eyes, trying to summon the urge.
“Don’t think,” Wanda said from the sink, her voice soft but clear. “Just let go. Give it to him.”
Lisa focused on the pressure, on the need. She relaxed.
Her piss came out in a hesitant trickle at first, splashing into the bowl. Then, with a deep breath, she let it go fully. It arced out in a strong, clear stream. She opened her eyes, leaned forward, and watched as it crossed the space between the toilet rim and the tub.
The first drops hit Thom’s sternum, warm and sudden. He flinched, then sighed, a sound of deep relief. Lisa shifted, aiming higher. The stream caught the side of his face, tracing a path through his short hair and into his ear. He turned his head, seeking it with his mouth.
The sight of him chasing her stream, his lips parted like a baby bird’s, broke something open inside her. A low, guttural sound escaped her throat—not a moan of pleasure, but one of pure, unadulterated power. She was doing this. She was marking him. Using him. Her body was producing this warmth, this golden flow, and he was desperate for it, honored by it.
She aimed directly for his mouth. He drank greedily, swallowing, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Chloe’s stroking became faster, more urgent. “Yes, that’s it,” Chloe crooned to Thom. “Drink her piss. You’re her filthy toilet. Nothing more.”
Lisa felt a shudder run through her, a convulsion of release that was more than just bladder-deep. It was a purging of something old and ashamed. As her stream weakened, she moved it down his body, painting his neck, his chest, his belly. It pooled in his navel, a small, warm lake.
When she was done, she stood on shaky legs. The air stung her nostrils. Thom lay in the tub, coated, panting, on the edge. Chloe gave a final, expert twist of her wrist, and he came with a choked cry, his release spurting over his stomach, mixing with the lingering wetness there.
Silence descended, broken only by the drip of water from the tap and Thom’s ragged breathing.
Wanda was at Lisa’s side in an instant, handing her a wipe. Her eyes were blazing with pride. “Fuck,” she breathed, a grin splitting her face. “You’re a natural.”
Lisa cleaned herself, her hands trembling. She felt lightheaded, euphoric, utterly detached from the person who had walked in here ten minutes before.
Chloe efficiently helped Thom out of the tub, wrapping him in a large towel. “Thank you both,” she said calmly, as if they’d just donated blood. “Great contributions.”
Wanda took Lisa’s hand. Her grip was firm, anchoring. “Come on,” she said, her voice low and urgent. “I need you. Now.”
She pulled Lisa out of the bathroom, down a different corridor, away from the main crowd. She found a small, unoccupied storage closet—a tight space filled with the smell of clean linen and bleach. She shoved Lisa inside, closed the door, and clicked on a single bare bulb.
In the harsh light, Wanda’s face was fierce. She backed Lisa against a shelf, her hands cupping Lisa’s face. Her breath smelled of the club’s cocktail, her skin of jasmine and the faint, unmistakable tang of urine.
“That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen,” Wanda growled, her lips inches from Lisa’s. “You. In control. Marking him.” She kissed her, hard and claiming. Lisa kissed back, a feral energy surging through her veins.
Wanda’s hands pushed the lace of the bodysuit aside, yanking it down her hips. “Sit,” she commanded, pointing to a low stack of towel bundles.
Lisa sank down, her knees falling apart. The rough cotton of the towels scratched her thighs.
Wanda didn’t undress. She merely pushed her scarlet silk dress up around her waist, revealing she wore nothing underneath. She stepped forward, placing one foot on the stack of towels beside Lisa’s hip, opening herself.
“Taste it,” Wanda demanded, her voice a raw whisper. “Taste me. Right now.”
Lisa didn’t hesitate. She leaned forward, burying her face in the dense, dark curls between Wanda’s thighs. The scent was overwhelming—musky, deep, and yes, underpinned by the sharp, pungent note of fresh urine. Wanda hadn’t cleaned herself. The thought sent a jolt of pure, uncut arousal straight to Lisa’s core.
She licked. A broad, flat stroke through Wanda’s slick folds. The taste was complex, bitter and sweet and profoundly animal. It was Wanda, utterly. It was the club, the tub, the power, the surrender. It was everything.
“Yes,” Wanda hissed, her fingers tangling in Lisa’s short hair. “Eat my fucking cunt. Taste what you did to me.”
Lisa obeyed, her tongue finding a desperate rhythm. She lapped at Wanda’s clit, circled it, sucked it into her mouth. Wanda’s hips jerked forward, grinding against Lisa’s face. She was soaked, her arousal a copious, tangy flood. Lisa drank her in, the flavor of piss now just a faint, salt-edged backdrop to the deeper taste of Wanda’s come.
“You like it,” Wanda panted, her voice rising. “You nasty slut, you love tasting my piss on my pussy, don’t you?”
Lisa groaned in response, the vibration against Wanda’s clit making her shout. Lisa didn’t just like it. She was ravenous for it. The degradation, the intimacy, the sheer forbidden reality of it fused into a white-hot point of need. She fucked Wanda with her tongue, plunging deep, then returning to the hard bud of her clit.
Wanda’s legs began to shake. Her swearing became a fragmented, desperate chant. “Oh fuck, Lisa, right there, don’t stop, you perfect fucking cunt-licker, yes, YES!”
Her orgasm hit like a thunderclap. She convulsed, her inner muscles clenching around Lisa’s tongue, a gush of salty-sweet fluid coating Lisa’s chin. Lisa rode her through it, gentling her strokes as Wanda shuddered and cried out, her body slumping against the shelves.
In the sudden quiet, the only sounds were their ragged breaths and the distant thump of the club’s music. The bleach-scented air was now thick with the smell of sex and sweat and their shared transgression.
Wanda slowly lowered her leg, then sank to her knees in front of Lisa. They were eye to eye, both of them disheveled, breathing hard. Wanda leaned forward and kissed Lisa deeply, tasting herself on Lisa’s lips.
When they broke apart, Wanda rested her forehead against Lisa’s. Her eyes were soft, the ferocity gone, replaced by something vulnerable and awed.
“No one has ever done that,” Wanda whispered. “No one has ever wanted me like that. Right after.”
Lisa understood. It wasn’t about the piss. It was about the absence of hesitation. The complete acceptance. The desire that saw every facet, every darkened corner, and didn’t flinch, but burned brighter.
Wanda stood, pulling Lisa up with her. They rearranged their clothes in the cramped space, not speaking. The world outside the closet door felt distant, irrelevant.
As they stepped back into the corridor, the sounds of the Grotto enveloped them once more—the moans, the laughter, the relentless beat. Lisa took Wanda’s hand. Her body thrummed with a new, unshakeable certainty. The lines inside her had been irrevocably redrawn. She had crossed a threshold, not just of action, but of self. She was no longer just exploring. She was becoming. And in Wanda’s eyes, she saw her own fierce, flawed, gloriously messy reflection, and she did not look away.