Eau De Toilette

by uksnowy

Copyright© 2017 by uksnowy

Erotica Story: A device's fantasy in the hands of a human

Caution: This Erotica Story contains strong sexual content, including Voyeurism   .

Where is he taking me this time? In his hand and warm, voices young and old. Some excited, some just chatting, a female one very close to me and constanty talking to him and he responds. His stride seems swift and urgent, we’re definitely on a mission, great - I like that, don’t like being stuffed on a shelf, yeah OK with something inside me and throbbing, but not the same as being free.

Ah! a change of possession, feminine hands, gentle, soft and now we are standing, muffled tones, they must be finalising plans and suddenly we are now in a closed, echoing area out of the sunlight. Sounds of flapping, clunking shoes and some clicking of footware on hard surfaces, the dribble of liquid, occasional torrents of liquids, high pitched howl of something electric, a rattle, chattering females and now we’re in a more closetted space, voices in the space but distant, still they’re bouncing of echoing planes, but in a less harsh tone, the slam and click of a locked door and I’m out of her hand and on a shelf. Kept blind, I sense I’m going to befree soon.

Back in her hand, fiddled with, click - now I am active. The creases of her palm, the black paint on her nails, several rings on fingers, a swift view of her lined mature face, a tiled wall, a door with a hook, a porcelain wall mounted box, roll of paper – all a blur and then yes a pool of water, then I am blind as her hand masks my eyes, but she can’t keep the mission secret from me, not that she needs to, I know my place. Finally I am fixed, still and waiting and she’s left me alone, a pity but I’ve seen her before, she is fascinating.

My view is a concave rim, brighter above, the hook on the door, crude graffiti above the hook, overhead light tubes, one constantly blinking. Gurgling water, slapping, clumping and click of feet, the roar and howls of machines, all female voices - some kids as well, doors slamming, locks clicking, it won’t be long.

Oh the Toilet, the title? - a skillful play on words – or not

A voyeur driven fantasy following many viewing of hidden cameras, ingeniously designed and postioned

Our first visitor is mature, blonde hair, wearing rimless spectacles, dressed completely in black. She grimaces into the bowl with a resigned shrug, turns and hangs a standard sized soft hand bag on the door hook. A clear seam of her big pants under her skirt indicates her choice of underwear. She stoops and hitches up her long skirt to her waist, stepes back and thumbs down a pair of dark tan tights, taking a pair of plain white large knickers with them – so far. The gusset is trapped up in her crack but is released by the drag of her hand between her legs, she holds the tights and knickers forward away from the oncoming ablutions, hovering above the rim.

The dark pigmented surround of her sphincter is framed by a goodly curl of greying dark brown hair. She has a bulbous ring piece and then beyond, the gathered lips of her twat. There is a wait, a dribble, and finally a torrent gush of piss is forced through the clasp of labia, the torrent controlled by the in and out actions of her pelvic muscles, which tempts her arsehole to exude it’s load too, but it remains steadfastly closed.

The piss ceases and she shakes any remains away with a few lminor bounces, stands a little higher, reaches for tissue paper and swipes, from her front, through her crotch and drops the paper to one side. A concentrated attendance to her knickers, her tights and then her skirt follows, making sure they looked the same as when she entered my domain. She takes her bag, reaches over me and leaves, the flushing process in full action.

A contrast in age, now as a young blonde woman appears with a slight smile, maybe she’s been talking outside, there is a constant babble of voices, springing from the surrounds. Her blonde hair is tied back from her face, she has no bag and swiftly turns her denim clad frame, exposing the tight, single pigtail down her back. Her belt swings wide, her zip is dealt with and her jeans are lowered. A miniscule black thong goes below the rim and she squats releasing two streams from a cute, neatly flapped minge. Her urethra is spouting a full flow a seemingly urgent flow yet it’s emerging from two places in her labia – a sight often seen until the folds of her vagina give way and the streams join. When it stopps she stands further erec and does some more vigorous bounces than the previous lady, drops fall then a swift hitch of her thoing, her jeans, zip and belt and a quick glance back she leaves.

There was no wipe and no attempt to flush.

A chubby, busty middle aged woman occupies the space, dressed in a maroon trousers and jacket, with a black top. The material is lightweight, no visible panty lines and there are signs of spare wobbly flesh beneath as she fumbles with the fastening, after hanging a large soft leather bag on the door hook. The trousers and black knickers go down in one piece and she squats high over the rim, exposing a hairy pussy pouch, a long slit and then again, two dribbles preceded by a squirt of a thin white substance. It is a quick hurried stop and she does a cursory wipe from the front, discarding the tissue to the side, then up with a small pair of black briefs, her flabby buttocks quivering, her trousers up, a couple of twisty wriggles, fastened and after a swift turn, flush and she’s gone with her bag.

The weather must be cold, judging by varieties of clothing, as the next pisser is enveloped in a massive padded winter coat, with a furlined hood. She stands, fussing with something hidden from my view. The coat is hitched up a fraction and she is in trousers. They and preumably pants as I don’t detect any go down to reveal a black haired pussy and strikingly white and dangling a good five inches, the string of a tampon. She stands, reaches through and her hand shifts the string to one side, holding it there out of the spray. It wasn’t a spray but a single stream, very brief. She bounces twice, wipes - reaching round her butt, her hands are manicured and delicate, heavily rinnged then she drops the tissue to one side and wriggles her trousers up, not before a sight of black briefs with a vivid logo on the back. She fastens, makes sure her coat is in place and then I see her two big, large store, shopping bags and handbag removed from the hook until the door swings shut.

The door swings and a middle aged lady in a white padded jacket with a black trim and black slacks enters, turning to hang a shoulder bag. She takes a quick look at the water, drags down her slacks with pink knickers, bends to rest her hands on her knees and from a lightly haired gash she pisses. It was urgent. Plain panties arise, showing a dark smudge a little too high to be caused from a leakage. A brief adjustment of garments, she leans to fluch and she’s gone.

An athletice girl next. Brutalist face, fair hair tied back in a bunch wearing a logoed pale tee-shirt, a loose black cardigan, several neck adornments and jeans held with a broad studded belt. She grimaces fiercely into the bowl and as she’s unhitching her buckles and zip - up comes a foot, then another to turn then squat on the rim in soft street shoes. She mustn’t slip. Her bum low, she reaches round and sticks fingers into her bald cunt, then finds a string and hauls out a dirty tampon, which leaves blood round her snatch while she drops it aside. A long steady piss, a couple of bobs up and down then she stands. More fiddling then a new tampon is carfully inserted. It’s wrapping and tissues follow the messy cotton. She clambers to the floor, rights everything, then raises one leg and activates the flush mechanism.

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