Wet Denim

Chicago—September, 2015

The September gathering of piss aficionados was unique in my experience:  I did not fuck anyone.  I saw no one get fucked by anyone else either.  There were simply no anal bottoms there—tons of guys to piss on each other and suck, but there was no fucking at all.  I was stunned.  I still had a fun time but it was just very different.

What guys wear for the party is as varied as the people who attend.  Naked is good.  Well, naked with some sort of foot wear—for, after all, it is the wet concrete floor of a bar.  Many opt for a jock or an ass-less brief.  Wrestling singlets of Neoprene or rubber, usually crotch-less or ass-less, are popular.    A few leave on their brilliantly white cotton briefs—which are a yellowed sopping rag by the end of the evening.  There are men in just t-shirts with a hard dick jutting from below.  Often the tee shirt is a neon yellow or proclaiming he’s been to Wet ‘N Hot or it is emblazoned with the international symbol for recycling.  There are a smattering of harnesses, some leather, but mostly Neoprene.  Lots of wrist bands and lanyards holding a bottle of poppers.  Boots of all sorts, tennis shoes, sandals and flip flops cover the feet.  I am almost always in either a yellow jock or a yellowed jock, the black Neoprene harness with the yellow piping, a wrist band of black leather on my left wrist (the leather code for anal top), a yellow and black leather band on my right wrist (coding that I am versatile for piss play) and my original pair of combat boots which are saved for just this party.  But the man who wore something different got all the attention—but more about him in a bit…

I am hydrated.  And have been.  I actually have to piss in the blow up wading pool before anyone else is ready to play.  I refill my water bottle from one of the large thermos jugs on the bar.  I don’t have long before a regular in a yellow jock is on his knees and sucking my dick.  I let him get me hard.  I concentrate and piss, still hard, down his throat.  He pulls off me after the first few moments, grabbing my dick and spraying his shoulders, chest and backwards ball cap.  When I run dry, he goes back to sucking.  Another man  moves in behind my sucker.  He pisses down my sucker’s back.  The pig on the floor is sopping wet in just the first 15 minutes.

More men arrive.

A ripped Black man in nothing but athletic socks and white running shoes is leaning against the bar talking to the bartender.  He is the most muscle bound man in the room—all the hours at the gym show in his pecs, biceps, abs and thighs.  The beautiful bubble butt is jutting right at me—but I know he’s all top.  Sitting on the foot rail under the bar is an older pig.  He is suckling on that black beauty of a dick.  I hear him grunt deep in the back of his throat as I approach.  I can only guess that the piss has started to flow down his gullet.

The Ripped God smiles at me.  We have spoken at other parties—and have sucked each other’s cocks.  I think I have swallowed his piss in the past.  I want more.  I move around behind him.  My arms circle his chest and work his nipples.  He grunts his approval—pausing in his conversation to turn and give me a grin.  My cock is grinding into his ass crack, standing straight up.  I hear the gurgle of swallowed piss below him.  When it returns to cock sucking, I give his nipples a twist and let loose a torrent of piss on his ass.  It bursts up like a geyser, hitting the small of his back and sluices down his ass crack.  It’s not a lot, but enough to make him tremble.  I slide to my knees and get my face between those incredible butt cheeks where I have just pissed.  I relish the wiry hairs brushing my lips, his smell, his taste.  The guy on his dick picks up the pace of his cock sucking when he sees me rimming opposite him.  The Ripped God has had to stop talking.  He leans so his chest is on the bar, his head on his forearms—giving me access to his most secret spot.  My tongue works carefully all around his hole.  And then I poke at it.  He’s so damn tight.  But my tongue is now a battering ram.  He opens and allows me in, groaning into his arms, “So damn good.”

Someone, I know not who, takes advantage of us and sends a stream of hot piss right to the top of Ripped God’s ass.  It cascades over my tongue.  I work some into his butt.  Just as suddenly, the Black man straightens up, pulling away from me and the mouth on his dick.  The moment is over. 

But I can taste him on my tongue and beard for the next hour.

More men have arrived. 

At the far end of the bar is one of them.  He has a shaved head and a tightly trimmed goatee.  He’s likely mid-40’s.  His hairy chest is bare.  Around his left bicep is a red and black arm band—a fisting top.  He has left his 501’s on.  The mound of his crotch is generous and pronounced against the worn denim.  He is sipping his beer and sizing up the crowd.

There are men everywhere on their knees in front of another sucking or getting pissed on.  There are groups of threes and fours.  A couple of pigs are wallowing in the pool—where three men are covering every inch of them with piss.  Many guys try to do something with Mr. 501, but he nods at them and does nothing.

Waiting.  And tanking up.

Our eyes meet.  I get no more than the rest from him, and I go off to play in the back corner with two regulars.  We take turns sucking each other.  We all get to drink.  Easy, relaxed, not trying for orgasm—just in giving and getting wet pleasure.

They leave to get more beer.  I stretch and turn to survey the crowd.  Mr. 501 is standing right there.

“You’re hot,” he tells me.  “And a pig.”

I shrug a thanks and certainly don’t argue about the other.

“Will you wet me with that big thing?”

I smile.  There is little I’d like better.

Then the surprise.  He steps in and kisses me.  He’s a great kisser—the amount of tongue and the pressure are just right.  And he is wetting himself.  A massive stream of piss must be streaming down his leg from how dark the denim is turning as we grind together.

We pull back just as he finishes the flow.  His left leg is soaked.  “Now do the other.”  My cock is rock hard from the kiss.  I’m not sure if I can piss.  I swig my water and it starts the juices flowing.  He half leans, half sits on one of the oil drums which serve as tables.  My piss spurts out.  I aim at his crotch and begin painting the dry leg of his jeans turning the fabric dark blue.  As I reach the knee, he unbuttons his jeans and I see the sodden, once white jock bulging with a tool straining to stand up.  I direct my stream back up and finish off flooding his crotch.

“Stay there,” I tell him.  I get on my knees and start licking his cock through the drenched fabric of his jock.  He groans and, now that he’s wet, a string of men come and piss on his jeans as I suck his cock.   Ten minutes and countless piss loads later, the denim becomes so heavy he has to slowly peel them off.  The moment they hit the puddled floor, I have my face buried in his hairy, wet ass.

We exchange blow jobs, kisses, and ass eating.   Each of us revel in the taste of the other and the added hotness of piss.  Soon we incorporate a cute little cub into our play.  Now whoever is sucking cock gets two insistent dicks slapping at their face demanding attention.  Or the third is pissing on the one you are sucking.

We grunt and piss and suck and lick—unaware that the party is breaking up around us. 

The cub comes first in Mr. 501’s mouth.  He snowballs it to me. 

I get Mr. 501 off—so deep in my throat I can’t share. 

I get off—just as deep in Mr. 501’s mouth, while the Cub works his tongue into my piss soaked ass crack.

The moment I shoot—the lights come on.

We see his forgotten jeans, a sodden, twisted mess, next to us.

The party is done.  And so are we.