“I’m willing to take that risk.”

“I’m willing to take that risk,” you murmur, breathing the vibrations into her thighs; you almost think you see the tips of her hairs flutter. Then you are back at work, salivating over your tongue, then bringing its centre her nub, pressing down, lapping at her entrance with your tip. She begins to writhe, her thighs twisting, and so you grip her mound between your lips, running your hands up her thighs, half pressing down against her undulations, half advancing on their joint. Your tongue is beginning to ache, but Ally’s silent movements indicate she is beginning down the path of her pleasure, and so you accelerate through the pain, flicking at the point of her sensitivity even as she squirms under your arms; as you do so, your hands climb, under a cover of stealth provided by your oral endeavours, until a middle finger penetrates her, drawing at last a gasp.

You have a hunter’s taste of blood now, and bring out your killer moves even as your prey twists and resists. Your middle finger is followed up her canal by its index neighbour, as both curl to satisfy her; your tongue oscillates in pressure and pacing even as her pussy tries, half-heartedly, to pull away; over and over you seduce, and stimulate, and overwhelm.

“Gnuhhg,” she grunts, a grunt that might have been an attempt to say, ‘Please stop licking me now, I am actually about to pee,’ but fades into indecipherability. Maybe she meant it, but couldn’t articulate the words through the combination of pleasure and tension you imagine was wracking her brain. More likely, you think, she has simply stopped caring about the intolerable outcome. She has surrendered.

So you keep up the pressure, making yourself relentless. Her trembles and squeals grow until you know, from experience, that her orgasm is all but inevitable – with what perhaps might now inevitably follow it – and only moments away. Then she goes soundless, solemn, and everything tightens beneath you, a stillness engulfing her as though even the air in her lungs has frozen, unable to surface to express her ecstasy.

And then it happens. The next sound isn’t from her lips (or at least, the ones above her chin). It’s a soft splatter, accompanied by an acrid taste. Her labia have opened, and a warm fluid is rushing over your fingers and onto your mouth, coming fast. The flavour is not one you regularly consume but is nonetheless familiar: this is not ‘female ejaculation’, but straightforward urination. The waste water has begun to fill you up until it spills down your chin. You spit it out, and will reflect later as you relive this moment that this, perhaps, is not so dissimilar to the experience Ally would have had on the occasions she had been kind enough to let you finish in her mouth. Her flow is unabated even as you withdraw, and seeing her in full – hands over her head, her legs open, urine arcing from between her parted thighs onto a rapidly spoiling bedsheet – it is all the more inescapable that what is happening is not a mere sexual release, but a total loss of bladder control.

By the time she has finished, the stream gradually then suddenly declining into nothing, the bed is a scene of devastation, its clothes yellow and sodden, Ally’s lower body glistening, a sour odor in the air. Ally herself is the centre of this, unable from dopamine or shame to open her eyes or speak. You fetch a towel, easing it under her buttocks. Eventually she comes to, muttering about having an accident. You do not discuss the happenings in detail, but instead she shyly wipes herself down, dresses, and leaves; you agree only that you will talk later.