Wife Accidentally Pees During Pussy Eating

Sunday light lay soft and gold across the bedroom, the kind of lazy afternoon that made the rest of the week feel far away. Selena, thirty-two, had spent the morning in nothing but an oversized shirt and a pair of cotton panties, sending her husband the sort of texts that left him useless at the kitchen table. Weeks of it. Little notes about his mouth. About how she thought of his tongue when she should have been thinking about groceries. About how wet she got remembering the last time he had gone down on her until her thighs shook.

Everett, thirty-four, an accountant who kept other people’s numbers tidy and lost every shred of composure the second his wife looked at him like that, had finally closed his laptop and followed her upstairs. He watched her peel the shirt over her head. Her breasts swayed, nipples already tight. She hooked her thumbs in the panties and pushed them down her legs, stepping out of them without ceremony, then climbed onto the bed and lay back against the pillows. Her knees fell open. The sight of her—dark curls trimmed short, folds already glistening—hit him low in the gut.

“Come here,” she said, voice warm and sure.

He knelt between her thighs on the mattress, hands sliding up the soft insides of her legs, spreading her wider. She smelled like warm skin and the faint sweetness of arousal. He kissed the crease where thigh met hip, then lower, breathing her in until she made a small impatient sound. His tongue came out slow. One long, flat stroke from the bottom of her slit up to her swollen clit. She tasted bright and salty-sweet. He did it again, unhurried, letting his mouth learn her all over, sucking gently at her outer lips, then settling his lips around her clit and drawing on it with a soft, steady pull.

Selena’s fingers found his hair. “God, Everett. Just like that.”

He smiled against her and kept going, lazy and thorough, building the kind of tension that made her hips tilt up to meet him.

He didn’t rush. That was the cruel, perfect part of him. His tongue flattened and dragged, slow as honey, gathering the slick that kept welling from her and spreading it upward until her clit shone. Then he changed the rhythm without warning—quick, precise flicks right on the aching tip, barely there and then suddenly everywhere. Selena’s breath broke. Her hips jerked. He pinned one thigh with his forearm and slid two fingers into her, curling them forward until he found the swollen spot inside that made her gasp his name.

“There,” she managed. “Right there, don’t stop.”

He didn’t. Long strokes, then rapid little lashes of his tongue, then a deep suck that pulled her clit between his lips while his fingers worked a steady come-hither inside her. Wet sounds filled the quiet room. Her heels dug into the mattress. The teasing texts had been nothing compared to this—the real heat of his mouth, the way he knew exactly when to soften and when to press harder.

Pleasure climbed fast, bright and almost too much. Under it, something else pressed. She had drunk two tall glasses of water with lunch and another while they lounged, and she hadn’t thought about it until now, until her whole body was clenching and the need in her bladder tangled with the need between her legs. She shifted, trying to ease it, and the motion only ground her clit harder against his tongue.

“Everett—” A warning, or a plea. She wasn’t sure which.

He hummed, the vibration shooting straight through her, and curled his fingers again. Her thighs began to tremble. Moans spilled out of her, desperate and getting louder, hips bucking up into his face no matter how she tried to hold still. The pressure low in her belly swelled with every stroke. Orgasm and that other urgent fullness braided together until she couldn’t tell them apart. She was right at the edge, shaking, soaking his chin, and the more he licked the less she could hold anything back.

“I’m close,” she panted. “I’m so close, baby, I—oh God—”

He buried his face deeper, mouth open, sucking her clit hard and relentless while his fingers stroked her G-spot in tight, perfect circles. Selena’s back arched clean off the bed. The orgasm hit like a wave breaking—sharp, total, ripping a cry out of her that filled the room. Her cunt clamped down on his fingers and pulsed, and in the same helpless convulsion the pressure in her bladder gave way.

Hot piss rushed out of her in a sudden gush, straight into his open mouth.

She felt it leave her, shocking and unstoppable, a thick warm stream that splashed his tongue and flooded past his lips. For one wild second she thought she should push him away, apologize, stop—but the orgasm was still crashing through her, and the release felt so obscenely good that her hands only tightened in his hair. More came. It poured over his chin, down his neck, soaking the sheets beneath her ass in a spreading dark patch. The sharp, clean scent of it rose between them, mixing with the musk of her cunt.

Everett didn’t pull back.

He groaned, low and hungry, and swallowed. She heard it—the wet click of his throat working—and the sound sent another spasm through her. His tongue kept moving, lapping at the stream as it came, drinking what he could and letting the rest spill. Piss ran from the corners of his mouth. He sucked her clit through it, filthy and devoted, fingers never stopping their curl inside her. She squirted then, a thinner jet of cum mixing with the urine, splattering his cheeks and his nose, and he chased that too, mouth wide, greedy for every drop she gave him.

“Oh fuck,” she sobbed, grinding down. “Oh fuck, I’m peeing, I’m peeing in your mouth—”

He moaned an answer against her, the vibration filthy, and drank deeper. His face was drenched. Piss dripped from his jaw onto her inner thighs and back onto his tongue when he licked upward again. He loved it. She could feel how much he loved it in the way he pressed closer instead of flinching, in the eager swallows, in the broken sounds he made like her piss was the best thing he had ever tasted. Shame flickered and burned away under pure, blazing pleasure. She let go completely. Another hot pulse left her, and he took it, licking and swallowing, chin shining, eyes half-closed in something like worship.

“Yes,” she gasped, thighs clamping around his ears. “Yes, drink it, God, drink me—”

He did. He lapped the mess from her folds, sucked the last weak spurts from her urethra with obscene care, tongue flat and thirsty, cleaning her and filthy her all at once. Cum and piss slicked his fingers where they still moved inside her, and every thrust made a wet sound that would have embarrassed her an hour ago and now only made her moan louder. They were loud together—her high, wrecked cries, his muffled groans, the soft splash of what she couldn’t hold. The sheets were ruined. His face was ruined. She had never felt more wanted.

The orgasm rolled on and on, smaller waves chasing the first, each one squeezing another trickle out of her that he caught with his mouth. She watched him through blurred eyes: her husband, thirty-four, respectable, on his knees with piss running down his throat and a look of pure bliss on his wet face. Her clit throbbed under his tongue. She rocked against him, feeding him, and he took everything she offered like he had been starving for it.

Everett finally drew back just far enough to look up at her, face glistening, lips parted, piss shining on his chin and in the stubble along his jaw. He grinned, wrecked and happy.

“I loved that,” he said, voice rough. “Tasting you. All of you. Do it again if you need to. I want every drop.”

Then he dove back in.

His tongue found her clit and licked broad and slow through the mess, gathering what had pooled and swallowing it with open delight. Selena flushed hot from chest to hairline, ecstatic, and ground against his mouth without shame, chasing the aftershocks. “Keep drinking me,” she begged, fingers tight in his hair. “Don’t stop, Everett, please, lick it all up—”

He obeyed, devoted and filthy, cleaning her folds, her clit, the crease of her thighs, groaning every time he swallowed. His free hand shoved his pants down. He stroked his cock hard and fast, fist slick with her, hips jerking. She watched his shoulders shake and felt another weak, warm leak spill onto his tongue; he moaned like it was a gift and didn’t miss a drop. The wet sound of his hand matched the wet sound of his mouth. She begged him again, voice breaking, and he answered by sucking her clit one last time while his fist flew.

He came with a choked groan, spilling in thick pulses across her soaked thighs, cum striping the piss-wet skin, mixing with everything already there. They stayed like that, both panting, his cheek against her leg, her hand loose in his hair, the room thick with the smell of sex and urine and sweat. Already she was whispering that she wanted it again—next Sunday, tonight, whenever he knelt for her—and he was whispering back that he would drink her every time, that he had never tasted anything better.

She smiled down at his shining face and knew they had only just begun.