Piss on the Towel

Wren had put the old towel on the bathroom floor and nothing else.

She was thirty-one. Pavel was forty-six. The rule was hers. She had been holding it since the film. He was hard from watching her shift on the sofa. If she needed to stop, she said the word. If he did, he left the room. Neither of them had said it.

"On your back," she said.

He lay on the towel. Wren stood over him, naked, one hand on the sink, and let go. The stream hit his chest, his stomach, his cock. He groaned and stroked himself in it. She aimed lower, pissing on his hand and his shaft, and laughed when he swore.

"Don't come yet. I want to sit in it."

She crouched and sank onto his cock, both of them wet, the towel dark. He fucked up into her. She rubbed her clit and came fast, filthy, happy. He came inside her. They stayed there, soaked, the ordinary bathroom light making it ruder.

"Leave the towel," she said. "I want to see it in the morning and get wet before coffee."

He nodded, wrecked, and did not move.

Wren looked at the towel in the morning and got wet, as promised. Pavel was still there. She stood over him and pissed again, shorter, hotter, and he stroked himself in it until she sat on his cock and rode him on the damp cotton. She came. He came in her. The towel was a write-off. She hung it on the door like a flag and texted him a photo at lunch. He replied with a time. That night she held it through dinner and let go on his cock while he was already inside her, a messy miracle of aim, and they laughed and fucked through it. The good towels stayed in the cupboard. These ones had a job.

Pavel brought a second towel without being asked. Wren called that romance. She pissed on the first while he lay on it, stroked him in the wet, and rode him until the cotton squelched. She came. He came on her stomach and she rubbed it into the piss and kissed him. The morning flag stayed on the door. At lunch the photo made him hard in a cafe toilet. That night she held it through the film again, worse, and let go on his cock while he was fucking her, both of them swearing, neither of them stopping. The good towels never found out.

Wren held it through a whole film and a argument about the ending. Pavel lay on the towel when she said now. She stood over him and let go, chest, cock, thigh, and he stroked himself in the heat of it until she crouched and took him in. They fucked on the soaked cotton. She came. He came in her. The towel went on the door. At lunch he stared at the photo and had to wait the hard-on out. That night she did it again, shorter, meaner, pissing on his cock while he was already fucking her, and neither of them reached for the good towels. Those stayed innocent. They did not.

The door flag became a joke and a trigger. Wren saw it and got wet. Pavel saw it and got hard. She pissed on him before coffee, rode him on the towel, and came with her hand on his throat, not tight. He came in her. At night she held it longer, cruel, and let go on his cock in the middle of a thrust. They swore and kept going. The good towels stayed folded. The old ones had a career. She said the film was just the wait. He said the towel was the bed. They fucked on it again before sleep, soaked, laughing, already late for being decent.

The old towel stayed on the door. She got wet seeing it. He got hard. They used it again before coffee and called the good linen innocent.