Chapter 2: The Piss Fountain
Leonard swallowed the last of it, the gritty paste coating his tongue and throat. His eyes were streaming, but his cock was a rigid, throbbing column straining against his zipper. He knelt there, panting, his fingers still smeared with her, the taste an indelible brand on his soul.
Bertha watched him, a slow, satisfied smile spreading across her broad face. She gripped the sink and hauled herself up with a grunt. The toilet gasped as it was freed from her weight. She stood over him, a mountain of quivering flesh, her belly a vast, pendulous shelf hanging low, the skin stretched and shiny, streaked with dirt and dried sweat. She placed a meaty hand on his head, matting his thinning hair with the remnants of filth from his own face.
“Good pig,” she snorted. “Cleaned your plate. Now we move to the next course.”
She nudged him with her bare, grimy foot. “Lie down. On your back. Right there.”
He didn’t hesitate. He lowered himself onto the disgusting tiles, the cold sludge seeping through his shirt. He looked up at her, a grotesque idol silhouetted by the flickering light. His hands twitched at his sides, aching to touch himself but not daring to without permission.
Bertha turned, presenting the broad, dimpled expanse of her ass. She then turned back, facing him. Without ceremony, she stepped over his prone body, one heavy foot planted on either side of his head. She lowered herself into a squat, her knees popping loudly. Her massive thighs framed his vision. The tangled, sweaty thatch of her pubic hair was right above him, dripping. The smell was overpowering, a concentrated funk of piss, stale sweat, and the deep, musky odor of her cunt.
“Open,” she commanded, her voice casual, as if asking for a coffee.
Leonard opened his mouth wide, his tongue lying flat.
“Wider, you fucking mook.”
He strained his jaw.
“That’s better.” She sighed, a sound of pure physical relief, and then a hot, pungent stream of piss erupted from her. It wasn’t the thin trickle from before. This was a thick, forceful torrent, a golden-brown arc that hit the back of his throat with shocking heat.
It filled his mouth instantly. He gagged, his body seizing reflexively, but he forced his throat to relax. He swallowed convulsively, the acrid, bitter liquid flooding his system. It kept coming, a relentless cascade. It pooled in his mouth, spilled over his lips, ran in rivers down his cheeks and into his ears. He was drowning in her. He swallowed again, and again, gulping it down like a man dying of thirst. His eyes were screwed shut, tears mixing with the urine. His nose was filled with the scent. His entire world was the sound of her pissing, the feel of it on his skin, the brutal, authentic taste of her filth.
“Swallow it all, you greedy bitch,” Bertha grunted, shifting slightly. The stream intensified, spraying over his face, his closed eyelids. “Take your dinner. That’s it. Drink me.”
He did. He drank until the stream tapered to a trickle, then to a few last hot drops pattering on his forehead. He lay there, gasping, his mouth and throat burning, his stomach sloshing. He was baptized.
Bertha chuckled, a wet, phlegmy sound. She wiped herself roughly with her hand, then smeared the gathered moisture across his lips. “Refreshing, huh?” She straightened up with considerable effort, stepping off of him. “Get your pants off. Time for the main event.”
His fingers fumbled, slick with filth, but he managed to undo his belt and shove his trousers and underwear down to his knees. His cock sprang free, jutting up, red and weeping.
“Turn over,” she said. “On your hands and knees. Pretend you’re a dog. A fuckin’ nasty, piss-drinking dog.”
Leonard rolled over, pushing himself up. The tiles were slick under his palms. He heard her moving behind him, the wet slap of her thighs.
“Arch that back. Present that accountant’s ass.”
He obeyed, lowering his head, sticking his ass up in the air. He felt utterly exposed, completely debased. It was perfect.
He felt the hot, heavy weight of her body behind him. Then her hand, rough and demanding, gripped his cock, guiding it. She wasn’t aiming for his ass. She was positioning herself. He felt the swollen, shit-smeared lips of her asshole press against the head of his dick. It was hot, incredibly hot, and loose, surrounded by wiry hair and the gritty evidence of his earlier meal.
“No lube,” she whispered, her breath hot on his back. “Just my shit. That’s all you get.”
And she dropped her weight onto him.
He cried out, a sharp, strangled sound. She was impossibly tight, a crushing, burning ring of muscle that yielded with a vile, wet sound. His dick was buried to the hilt inside her rectum, surrounded by intense, convulsive heat and the soft, yielding pressure of her bowels. The sensation was agonizing, exquisite, raw beyond anything he had imagined.
“Fuck,” he gasped into the floor.
“Yeah, fuck,” she grunted, already beginning to move. She rose on her thick legs, then slammed back down, taking him fully, using him. Each descent was a rough, grinding impact that stole his breath. The sounds were obscene: wet slaps of her flesh against his, the squelching noise of his cock pistoning inside her loaded channel.
She began to ride him in earnest, a relentless, jolting rhythm. Her thick hands braced on his back, her fingernails digging in. He could feel everything—the internal folds, the clenching heat, the shifting mass within her. A new pressure built at his tip with each penetration.
“You feel that?” she panted, her voice tight with exertion and pleasure. “You feel how fuckin’ full I am? You’re stirring it all up in there, Lenny. Gonna give you a little extra.”
She bore down, grunting. He felt her asshole spasm wildly around his shaft, and then a fresh wave of heat engulfed the base of his cock. It wasn’t a full release, but a soft, yielding ooze of shit, pushed out by his relentless thrusting inside her. It smoored around where they were joined, a hot, filthy lubricant, the smell rising between them, thick and primal.
“Oh god,” he whimpered, the words shoved out of him with each of her downward slams. “Oh god, Bertha.”
“That’s it,” she moaned, her own pleasure mounting. She was using him like a toy, a crude implement for her own gratification. “Fuck my shit-hole. Make it messy. You love it. You love being up to your balls in my crap.”
He did. The degradation was total. He was nothing. A vessel for her waste, a tool for her pleasure. His own climax coiled tight in his gut, an inevitable eruption fed by every vile sensation. The burning tightness, the wet, dirty sounds, the smell of her shit and sweat, the glorious, crushing weight of her contempt—it all fused into a single point of blinding need.
“I’m… I’m gonna…” he choked out.
“You come when I say you can come, you little worm!” she snarled, slamming down harder. “This is my show. You’re just the fucking ride.”
She rode him with a furious, jerking intensity, her breath coming in ragged gasps. He could feel her inner muscles fluttering, tightening. With a final, guttural cry, she shoved down onto him one last time and held him there, deep, as her body shook with a raw, convulsive orgasm. Her asshole milked his cock in rhythmic, brutal pulses.
“Now,” she breathed, collapsing forward slightly, her massive breasts pressing against his sweaty back. “Now you can come, pig. Fill my ass with your pathetic load.”
It was all the permission he needed. With a broken shout that was half-sob, he erupted. His orgasm ripped through him, violent and endless, each jet of semen pumping into her fouled depths, a sterile offering lost in the vast, warm corruption of her body. He spasmed beneath her, his arms giving way, his face pressed into the filthy floor.
She stayed impaled on him for a long moment, both of them breathing in ragged unison with the reeking air. Then, with a wet, sucking pop, she lifted herself off. He felt his slick, filthy dick fall against his thigh. He collapsed fully, spent, a hollow shell.
Bertha stood, waddled to the toilet, and pissed again, the sound loud in the silence. She didn’t look back at him.
“Time’s up, Lenny,” she said, her voice returned to its normal, gruff indifference. “Clean yourself up in the sink. The money’s on the stool by the door.”
He lay there, unable to move, marinating in the cooling proof of their act. The fluorescent light buzzed like a dying insect. In the street below, a car door slammed. The other world was calling him back. But here, in the putrid dark, he had been real.