Mature Man Locked in Piss Hood at Public Urinal

The fluorescent tubes over the urinals buzzed like insects, and under that thin noise the chains made a colder one. Lionel knelt on the tile with his knees spread and his forehead forced toward the porcelain, fifty-two years old, the kind of married businessman who had shaken three hands before lunch and signed a lease in a tower six blocks from this downtown men's room. None of those men would have recognized him. A thick black rubber piss hood encased his head completely, smooth and airless except for the valves they had checked, and the only opening that mattered was the large funnel tube fixed at his mouth, fat and open, jutting out so it sat under the lip of the urinal like a second drain waiting to be used.

Giselle tested the last padlock with her thumb and let it fall against the pipe. She was thirty-eight, boots planted, skirt already gathered in one fist, and she looked down at him the way she looked at equipment she trusted. Victor, forty-one, rolled his shoulders and ran two fingers along the chain that locked Lionel's collar-ring to the urinal bolts, then the shorter chain that held his wrists behind the bowl. Both of them had been in the scene longer than Lionel had been brave enough to ask. He had asked. In their apartment, on his knees, in writing, he had named this hour, this hood, this public toilet, and the terror he wanted to be made to feel. A rubber clicker lay in his right fist. Three clicks and they unlocked him. He had not clicked. His breath whistled in the tube. The final padlock was still warm from Victor's hand, and the chain at his collar did not give a fraction of an inch.

"You are not a man at a urinal," Giselle said, calm as a clerk. "You are the urinal. We fastened you to it. We are going to use you exactly the way we use that bowl. Piss in your mouth. Make you swallow. Leave you chained when we are done so you can sit in what you asked for."

Victor's palm settled on the crown of the hood. "Nod if you still want it, Lionel. Straight, married, fifty-two, suit still buttoned, and already hard. We can see your cock fighting your pants. Nod, or click."

The hood jerked in a small, frantic nod. A muffled sound climbed the funnel, wet and ashamed. Terror climbed with it, bright and nauseous, the kind that made his thighs shake against the cold tile. Under the terror his cock throbbed, shameful and insistent, and he loved the collision so much he thought he might come before they touched him. Somewhere beyond the door a man's low voice passed in the corridor and was gone. Lionel trembled, waiting to be used.

Giselle did not rush. She hiked the skirt higher, bunched it at her waist, and stepped in until the heat of her body filled the narrow space above the funnel. No panties. She had come prepared, the way she always did when she meant to use a hole and not a person. Victor stood at her shoulder and opened his fly with the ordinary motion of a man at a urinal, belt loose, cock already heavy in his fist, not hard yet, just ready to piss. They looked at each other once, a small nod between partners who had done this before, and then they used him.

Her stream hit first. Hot, sudden, a hard yellow rope that struck the inside of the funnel and splashed straight down the tube into Lionel's open mouth. The taste was sharp and animal, salty-bitter, flooding his tongue before he could decide to take it. He gagged. The rubber hood held his head still so he could not turn away, and the tube kept his jaw open around the funnel's mouthpiece, so the piss had nowhere to go but over his tongue and down his throat. He swallowed because he had to, a convulsive gulp, then another, and the heat of it spread through his chest like shame given a temperature.

Victor started a second later, casual as if the bowl were empty porcelain. His stream was thicker, hotter, a man's piss blasting into the same funnel, colliding with hers, overflowing the tube in wet slaps that echoed off the tile. It poured into Lionel's mouth in a double flood. He choked, bubbles breaking at the rim, piss running back up the tube and down the outside of the hood in thin shining lines. He swallowed again, desperately, throat working, eyes blind behind the rubber, nose full of the smell of it even through the valves. Panic flared white. He was a married man on his knees in a public toilet, drinking from two people who were standing over his head as if he were plumbing.

"Don't waste it," Giselle said, almost bored, angling her hips so the last of her stream shot straight down the tube. "Swallow. That's what the funnel is for."

Victor grunted, shifting his stance, and the force of his piss punched the back of Lionel's throat. Lionel gagged hard, shoulders jerking against the chains, a muffled whimper climbing the tube that was half terror and half a plea for them not to stop. His cock had gone painfully hard inside his pants, trapped against the zipper, throbbing with every swallow. The humiliation sank deeper than the piss. He was straight. He had a wife at home who thought he was in a late meeting. He was fifty-two years old and he was kneeling in a men's room, chained to a urinal, gulping down a dominant woman's piss and her partner's, and his cock was leaking in his pants like he had been built for this.

The streams slowed, then pattered, then finished. Giselle shook herself once, a practical little motion, and a few last drops fell into the funnel and onto his waiting tongue. Victor did the same, milking the last of it out with his fist, letting it drip down the tube. Lionel swallowed convulsively, again and again, chasing what was left because his body had decided that obedience felt like relief. His whimpers did not stop. They came out wet and broken, panic still bright in them, and under the panic a raw, desperate need for more degradation than they had given him yet. His cock jerked uselessly in his pants. He did not click.

Giselle swung a boot over the bowl and straddled the hood, skirt bunched at her waist, bare cunt settling over the mouth of the funnel. The rubber was slick with piss. She ground down until the tube pressed up into her, then dragged the inner seal just enough that his tongue could reach. They had built the hood for this. The funnel held his jaw wide, but his tongue was free, and she meant to use it.

"Lick," she said. "You drank us. Now you clean me."

Lionel pushed his tongue out through the mess and found her. She was hot and swollen, tasting of piss and salt and her own arousal. He licked because the chains would not let him do anything else, and because the terror had turned into a hunger that scared him worse than the lock. His tongue dragged through her folds, clumsy, then desperate, lapping the piss off her and swallowing the slick that followed. Giselle rolled her hips and rode his hooded face, using his mouth like a toy bolted to the wall. Porcelain cold on his chest. Her thighs hot on the rubber. Every grind shoved her wetness down the funnel and into his open mouth.

"There," she said, breath tightening. "Don't you dare get shy."

He whimpered into her cunt and licked harder. Panic still lived in his ribs, bright as the fluorescent buzz, and it made him faster. He was a straight man with his tongue in her pussy in a public men's room, hooded and chained, and his cock was so hard it hurt. Giselle felt the fear in the way he licked and laughed once, low, grinding down until all he could breathe was her.

Victor watched, cock in his hand, then crouched and unzipped the helpless man's pants. The zipper stuck and gave. Wool and cotton dragged down. Lionel's cock sprang into the cool air, flushed dark, already wet at the tip, and the front of his underwear was soaked where piss had run off the hood onto his lap. Victor wrapped a fist around that piss-soaked shaft and stroked, slow and filthy, spreading the wetness until Lionel jerked in the chains and moaned straight into Giselle's cunt.

"Look at you," Victor said. "Straight as they come, dripping for a man's hand while you eat her."

Each stroke made Lionel's tongue stutter, then surge. Giselle chased it with her hips, riding his face in short grinding circles, breath going loud against the tile. The men's room threw the sound back, obscene and public.

"I'm going to come on your tongue," she told him. "Keep it out. Take it."

She rode him harder, thighs clamping the hood, cunt smearing open over his mouth. He licked and swallowed, pussy juices flooding the piss-taste, thick and sweet-salt, running down into him. Her orgasm hit loud. She swore, a raw open sound, and ground down so hard the chains rattled, pulsing against his tongue in throbs he had to drink. He swallowed her through it, helpless, terror and ecstasy braided so tight he could not tell which one made his cock jump in Victor's fist.

Victor gave him one last tight stroke, then stood. Giselle swung off on shaky legs and held the funnel steady.

"Throat," Victor said.

He fed his cock into the funnel in one long push. The tube was slick with piss and her cum, and the head slid over Lionel's tongue and into his throat before he could brace. He was a straight married man, and a cock was filling the urinal tube, filling his mouth, pushing past the gag into the clutch of his throat. He had asked for this. The asking did not make it less terrifying. It made the terror his.

Victor fucked that throat in long, deep strokes. Out to the funnel's mouth, so Lionel could gulp air and taste cock and cunt and piss together, then back in, slow and heavy, until balls pressed the rim. The chains held him on his knees. He could not pull off or close his mouth. He swallowed around the shaft because it was the only way not to choke, and every swallow dragged a groan out of Victor and a fresh spill of shame out of Lionel. His cock swung free, leaking onto the tile, jerking with each thrust. The funnel made a wet sound around Victor's shaft, obscene and steady, and spit mixed with piss ran down Lionel's chin-seal and onto his bare cock. He gagged, recovered, and took the next stroke deeper, a muffled whimper breaking into a needy moan he could not swallow back.

Giselle crouched by the hood, one hand on the rubber. "Take it all the way. Piss funnel. Cock sleeve. Ours."

Lionel whimpered around the cock, panic bright and pleasure brighter. Tears soaked the inside of the hood. His throat fluttered, then yielded. Victor kept the rhythm long and deep, pulling back when the gag turned violent, driving in again until Lionel's world was only stretch, taste, chain, and the helpless throb of his own cock.

"Swallow me," Victor said, breath rough. "I'm close."

Giselle took Lionel's cock again and stroked him in time with the thrusts, grip slick and merciless. "You come when he does. Not before. Hold it."

Lionel held. Every stroke in his throat shoved him closer, and her fist kept him shaking on the edge, chained, swallowing cock and the last of her juices. The haze took him. Terror and ecstasy stopped being two things. He loved it so hard he did not click. His balls drew up tight, desperate, and still he held because she had told him to.

Victor's rhythm broke. He shoved in deep and came with a low grunt, cock pulsing, thick spurts Lionel had to swallow or drown on. Lionel swallowed, convulsively, again and again, a muffled cry vibrating around the shaft. Giselle stripped his cock in three hard strokes and he came with them, spilling over her fingers and his pants and the tile, orgasm tearing through the terror until his knees nearly gave. She stroked him through the twitch. Victor stayed buried until the last pulse was gone.

Lionel knelt there chained, throat working, still tasting them, cock dripping, hood full of piss and cum and the echo of her loud orgasm. He had never been more afraid. He had never wanted anything more.

Victor pulled out slowly, wiped his cock on the rim of the funnel, and zipped his fly. Giselle let her skirt fall and zipped the side of it with steady fingers, then crouched and patted the trembling crown of Lionel's hood as if she were patting a dog that had done its trick.

"One hour," she said. "We come back in one hour. We'll see how many more men have used our new public piss slave. You stay locked. You swallow what they give you. That's the rest of what you asked for."

Victor's hand joined hers on the rubber, a brief heavy pat. "Clicker still works if you need the scene to end. You know that. We're locking the outer stall gate so only the urinal row is open, the way you wrote it. Be terrified. You look good terrified."

They walked out. The door sighed shut. The fluorescent buzz rushed back in to fill the space their voices left.

Lionel stayed on his knees, chained to the urinal, still locked in place, hood and cock dripping with piss and cum, harder than he had ever been in his life. He was terrified of what was coming. An hour. Other men. The bowl he had become. He shook, and he did not click.

Under the shake, the plan started. Next time he would ask them for ninety minutes, not sixty. Next time, before the hood went on, he would kneel in their apartment and beg Giselle to schedule the downtown toilet for two Fridays in a row, because one hour of this was never going to be enough.