Date: Thu, 9 Aug 2007 23:23:42 -0500
From: cbru49@gmail.com
Subject: Pissage to India

Life is as extreme as fiction.  If there is any reason why you should not
be reading material that involves sexuality, age, laws, whatever change
your filter and go away.  The Is not so much a story as a slice of life
that happened this evening.

A Pissage to India

I'm not really trying to emulate or satirize E.M.Forster, this is more
realistic and less victorian than any of the poor old Nance's fantasies.  I
was sitting in my second meeting of the day trying to keep my mind on what
was being taught to the twenty some eager men and women in the audience
when I was given a jolt by a young Hindu that felt I needed to know about
his health status before I would be able to fully answer his question about
travel between India and the U.S.  It is very seldom that I find Indian men
attractive or sexually appealing, but this young man's black eyes were deep
set and reflective with nicely arched dark eyebrows.  The lesbian woman
that was sitting beside me doing most of the teaching passed me a quick
note saying how handsome the man was and that he was cruising me.

I had thought the same about the cruising when I walked into the room and
he moved from a table at the far end of the room to where he was sitting
directly in front of me.  That often happens, so I didn't think much of it
until after the introductions I sat down and he had spread his legs and put
his hand directly over his crotch.  I was unsure if that was a cultural
mannerism that might mean more in India than it does here but there
certainly wasn't anyway I could ask or figure that out except to continue
watching what he did with his slender fingers and hand.  Honestly, I'm a
fidgety presenter when I am forced to attend these meetings and unable to
walk around the room, sitting in one spot for two, two hour stretches is
irritating.  This evening I was attending the class/meeting as an advisor
and to answer questions that the woman who is training to take my job could
not.

Hopefully, Singh is a generic enough Indian name that no one will attempt
to try finding out the man's identity.  That was not his name, he was
certain to tell it to me directly four different times within the first
half hour I was in the room and then twice more during the class.  I doubt
that Singh could be half my age, most likely he is twenty three or four; I
am closer to sixty although no one has ever managed to guess.  While I'm
six foot tall he is about five foot six or seven and one hundred and
fifteen pounds, I am strawberry-blond and he is medium brown.  I'm trying
to tell you how different we are to let you see how unlikely that there
would be any connection between us.  I'm told fairly often that I'm decent
looking; not like that, but in better terms that are embarr-assing to
repeat.

I've always liked fucking short, thin, young men and being fucked by men
with some muscle in their butts and legs.  Dick size has never been an
obsession, as long as the guy wanting to fuck me has an average dick and
can get it hard he can make me happy if he's not premature.  If he can get
it hard time after time, better yet..  So I was sitting in this meeting
room watching Singh rubbing his fingers over what I imagined would be his
balls not paying too much attention to what was happening around me.  The
woman beside me gave the audience a break and was talking to me about the
next part of her presentation when I saw the same pair of skiiny jeans I'd
been looking at approach our seats.  After answering a question the woman
had about a arcane point she had missed in her training I looked straight
ahead and saw a wet spot on the tight, low-riding, black jeans.  There was
no mistaking the spot for precum, Singh had voluntarily let a bit of piss
to escape into his jeans.

I've been approached by men looking to use somebody as their urinal or piss
slave before, but only in circumstances that were more sexually charged and
I suppose I should say appropriate?  This was an entirely new approach, I
wanted to discuss his intent and desire but anywhere I would move in the
meeting room I would be overheard by his fellow workers.  Singh discussed a
matter of little interst to either of us before allowing the fingers of his
other hand drop to the wet spot on his left leg and look me directly in the
eyes. With the fore-finger tracing the wet spot he asked if we could talk
after the meeting.  His approach had put me off until he began tracing the
wet spot, at that moment I might have risked dragging him outside into the
bushes if he hadn't suggested the time he had.  Just as the moderator for
the meeting was asking everyone to be seated, Singh returned to my table
with two bottles of water and a small pot of tea.

As I looked to where he was planning on sitting I saw that he had outfitted
himself likewise.  Any doubts about what would be happening later were
fully dispersed, we were going to do more than talk.  The last hour and a
half of discussion and questions dragged, I was pulled into the discussion
by a few old colleagues but my mind was focused on a spot that had almost
disappeared under the warmth of one finger.  I attempted staying busy so
none of the participants in the class would be tempted into a long a
discussion about their lesson.  It was nearly nine-thirty when Singh and I
were left by ourselves in the rooom.  I had volunteered to wait until the
staff returned the room to normal so that nobody would wonder about me
sitting in the hall when there didn't seemed to be a reason.

I was ready to check out the crew when Singh walked up beside me and said
the first word he'd said since the earlier break, "Ready?"  Was I ever, I
had held all the water I could for the last four hours, having added the
tea and watching Singh do likewise had me ready to piss like a racehorse.
I glanced in the room to be sure I wouldn't need to return before walking
down the hall with Singh to a restroom that was off limits to the men
setting up the meeting room.  My boss's predecessor had the restroom built
in the hall between his office and the sales fllor because he had a number
of disabled employess that required the presence of a restroom close by
their work stations.  The ADA had finally done something for me.  The door
hadn't even fully swung shut when Singh tugged his dick out of his pants.

I'm not a size-queen and am seldom impressed with length or girth, but
Singh had been forced to drop his tight jeans and boxers to tug himself
free.  Hanging over the dark grey boxer was seven inches of soft fat cock
waiting for one thing, my mouth to take every drop of piss it could spew.
My enchantor easily pushed me to my knees and once his dick touched my lips
I took in the head.  He stopped me from trying to take more, as I let my
tongue lick away the tang of his earlier discharge he began a slow stream
that flowed over my mouth and into my throat.  None of the piss I'd ever
drank before prepared me for the taste treat I was being given.  Absent was
the saltiness I would have expected from a person sitting in meetings all
day, there was no odor that reminded one of the fact that one was imbibing
human waste and his flow was neither too weak or too powerful.

For an easy five minutes I knelt less than fifty feet from the office that
held my desk tasting a zesty, sweet liquid like none I'd ever had
previously.  As Singh's stream of piss slowed his dick began to swell,
raising my head and causing me to stretch my back to hold only the head
within my lips.  From the water and tea he had given me earlier I expected
what happened next.  Singh helped me to my feet, as if he knew that my
knees would be stiff from the cool floor.  Without a single word he undid
my pants and slid to the floor with them in his hands.

I don't know how I tasted that evening, usually I'm salty and if I've been
at work around a pot of coffee, somewhat bitter.  Singh didn't complain, if
so.  I've been trying to control the flow of my piss better and over the
past six months have managed to slow down the flow enough that piss
drinkers have been able to drink every drop without spilling a drop on
their shirts, or chests.  I still enjoy pissing hard and making the man in
front of my gag and soak his clothes, but this didn't seem like the right
time for that.

Although my dick was stiff by the time Singh had finished swallowing his
urine cocktail we didn't engage ourselves in giving and receiving blow
jobs.  I would have broke down and let him have a load of cum had he
pressed, but I had a date that was at home waiting to get fucked and I
wasn't sure I'd be able to do both.  By the time Singh stood up he had as
much precum leaking out of his cock as many men shoot for a full load.
Unfortunately it was nearly tasteless, unlike my ex-lover whose precum
could be used to sweeten tea or coffee.

After I returned the items to my office that needed to be returned Singh
walked with me toward the exit.  We had made it to the atrium but hadn't
yet seen the guards when he guided me into the first floor restroom.  I
thought Singh had decided that he wanted sex other than what we'd had, but
he simply dropped his pants again and told me he had another load of piss
for me.  Like other sex, drinking piss often leads one to wanting to drink
more and with the taste treat he was, I sank to my knees without any
complaint.  On the way out of the building I had removed my tie and was
loosening my shirt, I drive a convertible and often drive home dressed only
in that day's t-shirt and a pair of short shorts that I kept under the
front seat.


Singh suggested that I take off my shirt which he tossed on the sink.
Looking down on me he let loose with a hard stream of piss that not only
soaked my head, filled my mouth and drenched my t-shirt but splashed all
over the floor.  I would say that Singh kept the piss playing over my body,
face and in my mouth for another five minutes.  I wasn't drunk and I know
better, but pulling Singh down so he lay under me I returned the flow of
piss he was giving me.  Much of what he got was recycled-recycled waste,
whatever sense of civilization I lived with failed me.  From my knees I
soaked Singh's pants, shirt and ended the flow in his open mouth.  All of
our clothes soaked, our hair wet and pulsing erec-tions pushing out the
open zippers of our pants we ran giggling from the building through the
parking garage up to the third floor where my twenty year old convertible
sat waiting seven parking spaces away from Sigh's Prius.

I had opened the driver's side door and turned to say let's do this again
when Singh pressed me back to my knees and favored me with a little stream
of warm piss and a hard dick that that spurted after fifteen seconds of
sucking.