Eddie, a 40-year-old office worker

“… for number two.”

That’s the last thing you hear before the piercing shriek of the alarm clock wakes you up. You turn around in a single practiced motion to disable it, glancing at the blinking red numbers: 6:15. Dreading another boring day at work, you sit up on the edge of your bed, feeling around for your slippers with your feet while you reach for your robe.

Well, that certainly was a weird dream, you think. I should probably stop snacking right before bed. In the middle of buttoning up your robe, you hear a sleepy groan next to you.

“What time is it?” asks Jane, your wife, not moving an inch from her bundled-up position on your king-sized bed.

“It’s quarter past six,” you answer. “I’m waking up early today. Sorry I woke you, babe; you can go back to sleep.”

“Mmm-kay,” she says, barely louder than a whisper.

“Oh, wait. As long as you’re awake…”

It takes her a second to get the hint. She gives an annoyed grunt, wrapping the bedsheet around herself tighter as a form of self-defense.

“Come on, sweetie. It’ll just be a minute,” you plead.

“Ughhh. Fine,” she concedes, sitting up against the pillow. Even after ten years, you’re just as attracted to her as ever. Her long, black, currently messy hair and piercing green eyes complement her slender, toned body, which she’s proud to keep that way through a strict workout regimen. Her perfectly-cut, flowing black nightgown is just the perfect wrapping.

Throwing the sheet away, she lifts the hem of her nightie to reveal a pair of white cotton panties, spreading her legs for maximum visibility. If you didn’t know any better, you’d almost think she was horny herself.

“Make it quick,” she warns.

You pull aside the bottom of your robe and grab your dick, pulling back the foreskin. Already stiff from morning wood, you try your best to subdue your erection as you focus on the task at hand. After half a minute—longer than you would’ve wanted—you manage to let go of your sphincter. A stream of piss forcefully starts shooting out of your peehole, landing just short of Jane’s accepting crotch; a minor adjustment of pressure on your part allows your stream to land directly on the gusset of her panties, turning it semi-transparent and splashing onto the surrounding area—her mons, her thighs, the underside of her buttcheeks—while most of the piss flows down into a growing pool on the bedsheet under her.

After a short while, your stream starts landing in a shorter and shorter arc until only a few drops drip straight down onto the bed below you, and then stop. You shake your dick to get rid of the last of the pee and cover yourself with the robe again.

“Thanks, sweetie. I needed that,” you say. You get closer and give her a kiss on the cheek. You’re about to turn around and get on with the rest of your day when you realize your wife hasn’t moved from her sitting, legs-spread position, her panties damp with your piss. “Something wrong?” you ask.

She doesn’t answer. Instead, after a few seconds of silence, you see a clear trickle appear on her already soaked crotch. The trickle grows, now shooting up and away in a growing parabola and landing in the middle of the bed, forming an expanding wet patch. Your wife yawns and stretches as she nonchalantly pisses onto your shared bed through her underwear. After some time, she too runs out of urine, her squirt shrinking back into a dribble and eventually disappearing.

“You know, this reminds me of my dream just now, before I got up,” you mention.

“What’s that?” she asks, only half-interested in the conversation.

“In my dream, people would routinely pee into the toilet,” you say, unsure of your already fading memory.

“Was everyone a neat freak or something?” she asks, now a little more curious.

“I don’t know. And get this: most of the toilets were separated by gender. So you’d have toilets for men and toilets for women, in separate rooms,” you say, struggling to come up with the right description. “Same thing with changing rooms. It was very strange.”

“Yeah, sounds like it. Like something out of The Handmaid’s Tale.”

“I guess that’s one way of putting it. That’d be a shame, living in a world where I wouldn’t get to see you pee.”

“Pffft. That’s so tame. What are you, a schoolboy?” she says, teasing you, although she’s obviously flattered.

“You got me. I just love every little thing about you,” you continue, managing to extract a smile from her. “Well, I’m going to get ready for work. Now you can go back to sleep.”

“Mm-kay. See you when you get back,” she says, giving you a quick peck on the lips and lying back down on top of the mixed piss puddle beneath her.