He stands at the center of the room, the way he always does, his muscular back and buttocks and legs cast in bronze. My pencil travels the page, dancing from shadow to shadow, building a graphite impression of something real. A real man. With real skin and real warmth and real desire.

I don’t know what possessed me to take the chair on this side of the circle. Maybe it was because his face was too damned beautiful. Maybe it was because his manhood made my heart pound. Whatever the case, I was trying to avoid distraction. But now I’m kicking myself.

Every Wednesday for the past month I’ve rushed out of the studio, packed up as quickly as I could and practically run back to my single. The pages of my sketch pad hadn’t even time to settle before my pants were off. Shirt pushed up, bra still hanging from my shoulders, I fondled my nipples and shoved my twat against my satin sheathed pillow. And I rode that pillow hard until my body throbbed in climax, muscles clenching when the clear liquid spurted from between my folds, through the pillowcase, and into the hypoallergenic foam. I’m getting better at keeping it off my bedsheets, but it’s not always a guarantee.

Tonight, though, I’ve paid for an extra thirty minutes. After everyone else leaves, I can sit wherever I want, sketch whatever I want, stare at any part of him I want. And right in front of him, under his perfectly bridged nose, I’ll craft the details our dream coitus in my mind until my skin burns with desire, and when he leaves, I’ll stay and lift my dress and masturbate here in the studio.

I’ve thought it all out. It started as a loose idea last Wednesday, flashes of fantasy at the edge of an orgasm. But I haven’t been able to let the flashes go, and I’ve been building on them. Each time that I’ve added some new part of the plan, in class or in the cafe, I’ve snuck away to push a few fingers into my slippery crevice. Except when it happened in the library. There was no one in the study nooks, and I was wearing a skirt. I still feel a little guilty about what I did to that chair. But only a little.

My pencil shortens imperceptibly with each stroke, and he stays perfectly still. How does he do that with an arm up? An arm that looks so heavy. I heard one of my classmates mention he’s a farmhand somewhere nearby. They also said he doesn’t talk. Specifically that he can’t. In my life, I’ve been acquainted with one deaf shop keeper and seen a blind man play the piano at a sing-along bar. I think mutism must be pretty rare. Well, not to be crass, but I doubt his disability or whatever it is would keep him from fucking like a stallion. Fucking someone else. Not me, anyway. I’m as good as engaged. His name is Robert. We’re in love. He went to school in Boston, and because I always find a way to torture myself (probably a side effect of being an artist), I chose an art program here in the middle of corn and cattle country. I’ve been thinking about leaving, applying up there somewhere in the city near Robert. Funny how those thoughts have been conspicuously absent since this class began.

I’m wearing a sun dress, my favorite one. It’s lemon yellow with white laces up the back and across the bust. I decided to lose the bra today as well. In the right light, I’m pretty sure my nipples are visible. Given the looks I’ve been receiving, I don’t think anyone really minds. Something about a thin layer of cotton between my body and eager eyes… it’s delicious.

As bodies go, I’ve never really felt ashamed. I don’t suppose I’m what you’d call slim, but I run once a week (or I think about doing it, usually even get my shoes on), and I do enjoy regular yoga and pilates. The college guys that hit on me are few, and they’re usually nerds (though there’s something awkwardly charming about nerds). I guess you could say I pull more serious sexual attention from older men, and I’m good with that. Not that it matters. Robert loves me the way I am.

He’s just… he’s just a little bit of a prude. Before his family moved north, Robert spent birth through seventh grade in the Bible Belt, and that certainly had an impact on his upbringing. He hadn’t even jerked off until junior year (he said), and I basically had to rub myself to completion in front of him before he felt comfortable trying it himself. Not that he’d let me touch his cock. Eventually, like a whole year later, he let me blow him, but he has yet to go down on me.

I think about that all the time.

I would say our biggest point of contention is porn. I love it. It makes Robert nervous. And I think that’s why we agree my sexual maturity is considerably ahead of his. That, and I lost my v-card to Marco Knox in his jeep freshman year. The point is, I have tastes, specific tastes. While I do worry that they’re a little too – messy – for him, I truly believe my Robert will catch up on the basics. But on his terms, that means we’ll be married first. It’s cool; I’m wearing him down.

When Mr. Agostina thanks everyone for their creative efforts, and my contemporaries begin to pack their supplies, my heart begins to thump in my chest. It’s hard to hold my pencil through the tremors. On their way out, a few of the other girls shoot straight daggers in my direction. Art students shouldn’t be able to afford a private session independently, but I have cash squirreled away from… ahem: webcam work. I did mention older men are into all this, right? There’s a reason I know that.

In a few minutes, it’s just him and me. My breath roars in my ears. He must be able to hear it. He must. I bite down on my lip to steady myself. But my… my legs don’t want to respond.

When I approached him before class, I couldn’t meet his eyes. I think they’re blue. Or gray. Or blue-gray. And he has this sun-bleached hair that’s thick and wavy, and in my daydreams, when I’m standing in a shower stall and he’s running his tongue in slow circles around my clit, the tip of his nose disappearing in my dirty blonde bush, I’m grabbing that hair and pulling him closer. I think his name is… shit. I can’t remember. I’m going to call him Mars. Because he’s a fucking warrior god.

Mars doesn’t move. He just stands there, a pillar of lean muscle and fine hair. I can almost make out his scrotum through his thigh gap.

Get up, Coppa. Just get up. Walk around. You don’t have to look at his face. But I want to look at his face. And I want to see those eyes and imagine them looking up at me.

And I realize something. Part of the reason I can’t move is the pressure on my bladder. I really thought I’d make it to the end of the session, but God damn if I don’t have to really piss. I just didn’t want to miss anything.

This isn’t usually a problem for me. Why is that, you ask? I enjoy peeing while I masturbate. I pee on camera for my viewers almost every day – well, when I’m on camera every Wednesday. (What? I have shit to do). Sometimes I crave it. I’ve had screaming orgasms while thinking about pressing my pussy against Robert’s mouth, making him drinking me while I stroke him off, or suck on his fountain and drink it all down before I chase the salty musk with his sweet wad of jism. When he lets me blow him, IRL that is, he never lets me swallow. I did one time, and he nearly gagged, so I had to backpedal and pretend there just wasn’t much there. I’m not an idiot. I know this repression is feeding into my fetishes. I do the webcam to get relieve. To feel like there are other people out there just as starved as I am that need my release to fuel their own.

So yeah, I like pissing. I like the idea of pissing in naughty places and pissing on weird things. I like the idea of getting pissed on, getting pissed in. I think about laying in the shower, taking a jet of hot pee on my nipples, on my clit. I think about pissing in someone’s mouth. Fucking hell, I think about that more than I think about Robert going down on me.

But what I never think about – never never NEVER think about – is getting caught.

So my current concern, as my bladder presses against the walls of my gut, is how the hell am I going to hold out for another thirty minutes and still get to build my fantasy? I can piss right here in this chair when Mars leaves, and I’m all alone. Probably will, probably while I’m rubbing myself off. Fuck me, my cunt is practically dripping just thinking about it.

I just have to make it… twenty-seven more minutes?!

I let out a little moan. Oh my God, did he hear that? But Mars hasn’t moved. He’s a fucking statue. The stamina on this guy!

Probably – maybe – my best option here is just to let some of the pressure out. Just a little. Just so I can make it a bit longer. There’s not really anything nearby to mop it up with exception of my dress, and I have to walk home in this, so that’s not an option. If I can just keep the peeing minimal, maybe he’ll leave and won’t notice.

Quietly, I slide my pencil into the spiral of my sketch pad and set it onto the easel. Using one hand for support, I engage my legs and lift my bottom just enough to pull the fabric out from under me with the opposite hand. I skipped panties today, given my intentions, so that’s one thing I don’t have to think about. Fuck. I could have used them to mop up a bit. My bare ass hits the metal, warmed by my bottom over the last hour, and the feeling of the chair directly on the lips of my twat sends a charge up my spine. Scooting a little, I spread my ass cheeks to feel that smooth sensation on my wrinkled starfish. I can feel my nipples saluting, and every twist of my torso rubs them into the lemon yellow fabric.

Slowly, so slowly, I spread my legs and hike the dress up to my hips. Looking down, I can see the fine peachy fur framing the deep groove of my plump mound. Squatting on a toilet, I rarely get to see my stream, so I’ve found a rather unexpected thrill in watching the golden flow trickling from my pee hole. Between the weight of my screaming bladder and the sheer erotic delight of what I’m about to do here in the art studio, right behind a naked god who is far from omniscient, the orchestra below my navel is reaching a crescendo.

I slip my feet out of my sandals.

With my index and middle fingers, I part my labia and press down to get a clear look at the exit. Glancing up, I confirm that Mars hasn’t moved a single glorious muscle, and then I try to unclench. The sphincter of my anus settles sweetly on the chair with a ripple of pleasure, and I wait. And I breathe.

I can feel the liquid flow suddenly, and a short hiss sounds as a jet erupts from my hole and splashes onto the concrete. Cutting off the flow almost instantly, I look up with fire in my cheeks and heart pounding. But Mars still hasn’t moved.

Fuck, Coppa! You stupid girl. But it’s fine. It’s fine, he didn’t notice a thing. But goddamn if that wasn’t hot. The floor is wet with my salty juice. And I can feel the slick fluid oozing from my vagina and leaking onto the chair to join the dribble of pee. Lifting my ass slightly, my tacky labia clings to the metal.

Lungs nagging for more air, I quickly dart my fingers onto my clit and rub a few circles. Uuuuuuuuuung that feels nice. But my internal pressure is far from tolerable. This is what I was worried about. I’m a bit of a squirter. Not much, usually, but enough that Robert finds my orgasms distasteful. Enough to add pressure to an already full bladder. There’s no way around it. If I don’t let out a bit more, I’m going to have a full on accident, and there’s no coming back from that.

Looking at the concrete floor, I’m already watching the wet spot blend with the mottled evidence of past creative spills. It should be fine, right? I just need to control it, keep it quiet.

Spreading my legs a little wider, shoving my ass back in the seat so that I can aim a little more into the chair, I part my lower lips once more. Control, Coppa. Control. Urine stirs within me, and this time the trickle that bubbles from my urethra is painfully slow. It runs down and over my love opening, collecting the white mucus of my arousal and moving it onto the chair. I can feel the warm liquid flowing down to my anus, and I can’t help scooting my bottom around just a bit to feel every slosh of wetness on my brown eye.

He’s still not looking.

I’m breathing hard now, and I’m dropping my fingertips into my dibble, feeling it come out against my hand, rubbing it up onto my clit, around and around. Fuck. Fuck. Fuuuuuuuck, I might cum. But I can’t. If I cum, I’ll erupt. Game over. So with burning regret, I pinch off my stream and regard the output of my effort.

Pee is dripping off the chair now, and there’s a dark spot directly beneath me. Oops. But it’s possible he still won’t notice. This floor is filthy. I can get up and distract him. Maybe stand over it or block his view with my sketch pad. But that means… I probably can’t walk to the other side of the circle. Not if I want to obscure my wet work.

Releasing my labia, I close my legs and feel the slosh on my chair. I can’t resist scooting my bottom around, just a bit.

And then I look up. Mars is standing statuesque as always, but there’s something a little different. I can’t put my finger… Oh. He’s breathing. I don’t think I’ve ever noticed his shoulders rising and falling before. It reminds me what I’m doing here. I’m supposed to be crafting my fantasy. I’m supposed to be preparing to get off, not pissing myself and getting off right behind him. Though the thought makes my insides swirl. At least the pressure on my bladder is more tolerable. I might make it until –

Holy shit.

The floor. There’s a dark spot on the floor. Not in front of me, in front of him. Oh my God… did he…?

And then I see it, from the other side of his magnificent squared ass, a golden rainbow splashing down in front of him. Mars is pissing. He has to know I can see it. Why would he…? Does he know what I did? Damn it, my body is on fire. But I can’t move, every muscle frozen despite my pussy screaming for attention.

It would be so easy to stand up, to walk around the circle of chair, to spread my legs and finish emptying my bladder on his exposed, pissing cock. Would he like that? I could kneel before him, let his golden nectar flow over my tits, soak my dress and then piss in my own hand while I rub my cunt. I could take that cock in my mouth and suck and swallow and suck and swallow.

But I just sit there, my breathing ragged, my skin humming. And then I notice. Oh fuck. Oh Jesus fucking Christ. Across the circle, sitting on an easel, is a mirror. Someone must have been using it for a portrait. And Mars is looking at me. He’s watching me watching him. Can he see that I’m petrified? I look closer, and it’s there, his pissing cock. His dangling pissing cock.

His smile is warm but slight, his eyes narrowed beneath long lashes. His stream continues.

I lick my lips. Oh God I’m not going to make it. Yes, this is happening. I’m doing this. I’m fucking doing it.

Slipping down into the chair, my cooling pee washing over the side and onto the floor, I thrust my groin out and separate my legs as far as I can, my fat labia spreading on their own. Pleasure courses through me as the air hits my vagina. And this time, there’s no restraint.

Piss jets from my little hole, and I rub my self. I rub myself fast and hard, and I let the piss splash where it will. And I moan. Ohhhhhh unnnnnnggg. Nnnnnnnng.

Mars finally moves that thick arm, and he reaches down, and he holds his pissing tube. He begins to stroke, pee shooting off in bursts, flung onto the nearby chairs. Damn, I could be ON those chairs. I watch him in the mirror, increasing speed. My own golden stream peters out, but I push anyway, trying to squeeze out the dregs. In the mirror, Mars’s dick is starting to pulse upward. Yes. Fuck yes! I’m gonna… I’m gonna…

I’m cumming!

I’m cumming!

I’m cumming!

Squirt erupts from my pee hole, clear and fresh and hot as my body shakes. Literally shakes with climax as I writhe in my chair and arch backward. My squirt hits the floor in a spray, the darkening arc spreading. It hits my legs, it hits my sketch pad. My vision blurs and fades as I enter a new round of tremors with another jet of squirt.

Fuuuuuuuuuuuck! And I quake in the aftershock of the most powerful orgasm I may have ever experienced.

And as I get a handle on my body, as the feeling begins to return to my feet, and my vision comes back, I look once more at the mirror. Mars has stopped peeing, and he’s stroking his meaty beast for everything he’s worth. His muscles ripple. I watch the power in every movement, and I can practically feel him thrusting into me, a ghost of fucking that spreads me wide and tight. And I run my fingers through my soaking bush, lolling lightheadedly but never looking away, and imagine that cock spilling white seed on stomach, on my bush, down into my canyon.

A few seconds later, Mars shoots his massive load. In four violent pumps, jizz fires from his nozzle like a cannon, and a glob hits the mirror. It oozes down as his body shakes just like mine did.

And I watch with three fingers up my pussy, feeling my own sticky mess inside my silky pocket, smelling the familiar acrid aroma. His strokes become less forced, more fluid. His dick wilts. We watch each other, for a few full minutes, staring fulfilled through the glass. Finally, his stream of urine returns, just for a moment, as it splashes onto his wiggling toes and slows to a drip, and then nothing.

As much as I want to walk over there and lick his manhood clean, as much as I want him to come over here and lick ME clean… I’m spent. I’m sure after I hydrate and get some food in my stomach, I’m going to fuck my pillow. I might fuck it all night after this. I might skip class for the next two days. But right now, I need… I need to lie down.

There’s still fifteen minutes left on the clock, but I stand anyway, piss running in rivulets down the back of my legs. Unsteady on my feet, I slip wet feet back into my sandals and grab my damp sketch pad. Going to need a new one of those.

With my supplies under my arm, I stagger toward the door. “Uh…” I start. “Uh, thanks.” Stupid, Coppa!

Mars steps off the short pedestal, his high arched feet treading through his puddle. His huge chest and hard abs and glistening, dangling cock move toward me. I falter for only a moment, dropping my sketch pad, but he’s there to keep me upright. His arms are so warm. And sooo big. I actually feel tiny in them. He smells like mown grass.

With a level of grace and control that only comes with tremendous strength, Mars lowers to one knee and retrieves my pad. But he pauses. And his free hand lifts my dress. And he leans in to the apex of my furry lips, and he inhales deeply through his nose. And I quiver, head to fucking toe.

Standing, he hands me the sketch pad. Flush and wet and buzzing, I push through the doors and stagger out into the corridor.

I guess I’m going to be paying for private sessions from now on. And Robert…? Yeah, he and I are going to have a talk.

THE END