Kendra's Strip, Squirt and Piss Show for Him

The afternoon had gone quiet in their living room, the kind of quiet Kendra liked when she was about to be looked at. She was twenty-eight, and exhibitionism was not a costume she put on; it was the way her pulse worked. She had set the sturdy wooden chair in the middle of the rug, away from the coffee table, where the light could find it, and she had told Andre to sit. He was thirty, her lover, and he had stripped without being asked twice, leaving his clothes in a heap by the couch. Now he sat naked with his back against the chair, thighs spread, cock resting thick against his stomach, both palms planted on the armrests the way she had ordered.

She stood before him in a tight dress the color of dark wine, the cloth molded to her waist and to the full weight of her breasts, the hem high on her thighs. She let him look. That was the point. His eyes moved over her and his cock stirred, lifting a little, and she felt the familiar hot pride of being the thing in the room worth starving for.

"Hands on the armrests," she said. "They stay there. You do not stroke until I say so. You sit in that chair and you watch me, and if those hands come off the wood, I stop and you get nothing. Tell me you understand."

"I understand," Andre said. His voice had already gone low. "I'll watch. I won't touch until you let me."

She smiled. "Good. I want you desperate before I give you permission. I want that cock hard and your hands useless and your eyes all over me."

She turned slowly, letting the dress pull across her ass, then faced him again and slid one strap down her shoulder without taking the dress off. She held there, enjoying the way his jaw tightened.

"I trimmed this morning," she said. "In the shower. Not shaved bare. A neat little bush, short and soft, exactly the way you like it when I open my legs. I keep it that way for you. For your eyes. When I show you my pussy, I want you to see that I did it thinking about you sitting right there, hungry, not allowed to touch."

His cock jumped. A clear bead gathered at the tip. His fingers dug into the armrests and stayed.

Kendra took the other strap down. She worked the tight dress over her breasts, over her ribs, over the flare of her hips, peeling it with a slow twist of her body so he missed nothing. The dress sighed down her legs and pooled at her feet. She stepped out of it and stood in her bra and panties, skin warm, nipples already peaked against the thin cups. Andre breathed through his mouth. He did not move his hands. The tension between them was delicious, a wire pulled taut, and she was only getting started.

She reached behind her back and unhooked the bra. She didn't fling it. She held the cups against her chest for a moment, then let them fall, and her full breasts spilled free, heavy and flushed, nipples dark and tight. Andre made a sound in his throat. She cupped herself the way she knew he loved, lifting the weight of them, squeezing until the flesh pillowed between her fingers. She pinched one nipple, then the other, rolling them until they stood stiff and aching, and she watched his face while she did it because his hunger was the best part of the touch.

"You love this," she said, tugging a nipple out and letting it snap back. "You love watching me play with them. I can see it. Your cock is dripping and you haven't even seen what I keep trimmed for you."

She hooked her thumbs in her panties and drew them down her thighs, slow enough that the damp spot in the crotch caught the light before the cloth dropped. She stepped out of them. Between her legs the bush was exactly as she had promised: short, neat, dark against her skin, trimmed close enough that her lips showed beneath it, already glossy. She spread her stance and slid a hand down over the soft hair, parting herself with two fingers so he could see how wet she was.

"Look," she said. "This is for you. I get this wet from your stare. From knowing you have to sit there with your hands stuck to that chair while I open up."

She dragged a fingertip through her slick folds and held it up, shining. Then she brought it back down and circled her swollen clit, slow at first, a lazy stroke that made her hips rock. "God, Andre. I'm soaked. You haven't touched me and I'm soaked. That's what your eyes do."

She fingered herself in front of him, two fingers sliding in, then out, glossy to the knuckle, her other hand still toying with a nipple because she refused to let him look away from her breasts. Her clit stood proud under the trimmed hair. She rubbed it in tight circles and let the wet sounds fill the room. Andre's cock was fully hard now, flushed dark, a thread of precum sliding down the shaft toward his balls. His knuckles were white. He watched her fingers disappear and his mouth hung a little open and he did not stroke.

The urge came on her as the pleasure climbed: a hot, heavy pressure low in her belly, the need to piss rising alongside the need to come. She had drunk water on purpose. She had planned this. The dirtiness of it made her clit throb harder under her own hand.

She stepped in close and squatted over his lap, not sitting, hovering, her knees wide, her trimmed bush inches from his stomach, her pussy open and glistening right where he could not miss it. She masturbated faster. Her fingers worked her clit in a blur, dipping down to gather more slick and coming back up, and the wet shine on her bush caught the light. The pressure in her bladder pulsed with every stroke.

"I'm going to lose it," she said, breath breaking. "Watching you sit there so good, so hard, not allowed to touch. I need to piss, Andre. I need to let it go all over you while you look at me. And you're going to stay still until I say otherwise. Tell me you want it."

"I want it," he said, hoarse, eyes fixed on her fingers and her bush and the sway of her breasts. "I want all of it. Please."

She laughed, shaky and mean with pleasure, and rubbed faster, riding the edge, the exhibitionist filth of the moment shoving both of them toward the drop.

"Stroke," she said. "Now. Take your cock in your hand and stroke it while I keep going. I want to see you jerk off to me. Don't look away."

Andre's hand left the armrest so fast it was almost a gasp. He wrapped his fist around his shaft and started to pump, slow at first, then with a grateful, hungry rhythm, eyes locked on her. The sight of it punched a fresh wave of heat through her: his cock hard in his own grip, his chest heaving, his attention nailed to her body like she had hung the sun in the room.

She kept rubbing her clit, circling hard, slick gathering under her fingertips, and she lifted her other arm high over her head. Her elbow bent. The soft hollow of her armpit opened to the air and to her own mouth. She turned her face into it. Her tongue came out and she licked the warm skin there, a long, shameless stroke, tasting salt and the faint clean bite of her own sweat. Then she bit, teeth closing on the tender flesh of her armpit and the inside of her upper arm, a sharp little claim that made her moan against her own skin.

The piss broke at the same moment. A hot golden stream left her in a strong, shining arc and struck Andre's chest, splashing over his sternum, running in bright rivulets down the grooves of his stomach. She angled her hips and the stream moved, pattering across his abs, soaking the dark line of hair there, then pouring over his stroking hand and his cock, hot and relentless. He groaned and did not stop. His fist slid wet through his own precum and her piss, pumping faster, and he watched the stream leave the shadow of her trimmed bush and land on him like he had been waiting his whole life to be used that way.

"Look at me," she gasped, tongue still at her armpit, teeth grazing the soft skin. "Look at me piss on you. Look at my tits. Look at this bush I keep for you. Stroke that cock. Don't you dare stop."

She came hard with the stream still going. The orgasm snapped through her belly and down her thighs, her clit pulsing under her fingers, her pussy clenching and fluttering while the golden flow spat and then eased into a weaker ribbon over his stomach. She stared at him the whole time, at his fist working his slick cock, at the awe and lust wrecking his face, and the sight dragged the climax out, made it meaner, made her bite her arm and cry out against her own skin while she shook above his lap.

The stream dwindled to a few hot drops that fell onto his navel. She wasn't done.

She dropped her arm only long enough to grab her breast and squeeze, mauling the soft weight, pinching the nipple until it hurt in the good way. Her other hand drove back between her legs, two fingers plunging into her soaked pussy and then hauling up to grind her clit in ruthless little circles. She chased the second orgasm without mercy. Her trimmed bush was wet with her own slick and the last of the piss, glistening for him, and she spread herself wider so he could see every frantic movement of her fingers against that neat dark hair.

"Again," she said. "I'm going to come again watching you. You love this. I can see how much you love watching me play with my nipples. Watching me show off this pussy I keep trimmed just so you'll stare. Stroke it. Stroke it for me while I fall apart."

Andre's hand flew. Piss shone on his chest and stomach and wrist, catching the late light. His cock was flushed almost purple, the swollen head appearing and disappearing in his fist, and he looked at her breasts, at her pinching fingers, at the neat wet bush, like each part of her was a separate mercy he did not deserve and could not stop taking. That look undid her.

The second orgasm hit harder than the first. Her pussy clenched and then bore down, and a clear, forceful squirt burst out of her, not piss, sharper and sweeter, jetting from her cunt in quick pulses and splattering his stroking hand, his cock, his lower stomach. She cried out and kept fingering, riding the squirt, milking it with the heel of her hand on her clit, watching it land on him while he jerked off in the mess she was making. Her whole body jolted. She mauled her breast harder, twisting the nipple, pulling it, letting it go and grabbing the other one so he could watch her abuse both, and the climax rolled and rolled, stronger because his eyes never left her, because he was so obviously ruined by the show.

She didn't let it fade.

"Third," she panted, almost laughing, wrecked and proud. "Watch me. Don't stop stroking. I want another one. I want you to see how filthy I get when you look at me like that."

She threw her arm up over her head again and licked her armpit in a desperate, open-mouthed swipe, tongue flat and greedy, then bit the muscle of her upper arm hard enough to leave the print of her teeth, while her other hand blurred on her clit. She had already mauled both breasts raw for him, nipples stiff and flushed from her own pinching, and now she came with that arm high, biting herself, fingering herself, staring at his cock in his piss-slick fist. The devotion in the way he stroked exactly because she had allowed it, the way he drank in her breasts and her nipples and the trimmed bush she kept only for his pleasure, broke her open. The climax tore through her stronger than the last, a white-hot clench that made her vision spark, her pussy gushing another short squirt across his knuckles while she screamed into the hollow of her own arm. She came and came, thighs trembling, bush dripping, eyes locked on him jerking off to the whole shameless performance — the strip, the squirt, the piss, the way she played with herself because being seen was the thing that made her come. He groaned her name and kept stroking, obedient and wild, and she rode the aftershocks with her fingers still moving, wringing every last pulse out of her clit while he watched like a man who had forgotten there was a world outside her body.

She was still trembling when she rose out of the squat, thighs shaking, pussy dripping down her legs. She stepped in closer, close enough that her wet bush brushed his mouth, and she cupped the back of his head.

"Taste me," she said. "While you finish. Come on my thighs. I want to feel it."

Andre leaned in with a broken sound and licked her, tongue broad and grateful through her slick folds and over the trimmed hair, tasting her cum and the sharp edge of everything she had done. His fist never stopped. He stroked himself hard and fast, face buried against her pussy, and she held his head there and watched his shoulders shake. He came with a rough groan against her, cock pulsing in his hand, and thick ropes of cum sprayed up across her thighs, hot stripes over her skin, some catching in the short hair of her bush, some sliding down toward her knee. She smiled down at him, proud and glowing, proud of how intensely he enjoyed her body, her breasts, her nipples, the neat bush she kept just for him, and the shameless show she had put on in their living room. They were both breathing hard. He pressed a last open-mouthed kiss to her pussy and she stroked his hair, already leaning down to his ear.

"Next time," she whispered, "I'll make you wait even longer before I let you stroke. And I'll do it all again. Every filthy bit. Just for you."

"Please," he whispered back, still shaking. "Please do."

He sat in the ruin she had made of him and knew he would never again come for a woman who did not demand to be watched.