Pee Pistol

“Four students built them.” It was a stuffy afternoon in a junk shop on the cobbled crescent that led downhill from the engineering department. The shopkeeper and I stood at the counter, looking at a plastic water pistol of the kind that can be bought in any newsagent for fifty pence or so. He cleaned his half-glasses on his handkerchief and continued his tale. “Three men and a woman, all brilliant students. The woman was a neurologist. There was a tall American who specialized in micro circuitry, a sonar physicist and a radio engineer.” He picked up the plastic pistol and held it in the palm of one hand. “The four of them met in the Students’ Union bar one evening in June, discovered each others’ creative talent, and as none of them had a job for the summer, they spent their three months vacation in the effort of realizing their common ambition. I lent them the money unsecured to survive and buy components, knowing that if their project worked the profits would be so vast that I’d never worry over an unpaid bill again. But they built two prototypes and then abandoned the attempt.”

“What were they trying to do, exactly?” I asked.

“Mankind’s eternal dream: an effective aphrodisiac. Womankind’s too, I shouldn’t be at all surprised. This was going to be it. The fun gun, the sex pistol, I suppose you could call it. They wanted it in time for the autumn term dances, when all the fresh eighteen year olds come up from school virgo intacta. It was the neurologist, the woman, who explained the idea to me: you would only have to point this gun at the girl or boy of your choice and squeeze the trigger, and it would produce a pang of desire, a twinge, deep in the… in the seat of her emotions. Or his emotions, if you wanted. It wasn’t a love potion. They never thought you could make a girl fall in love with you against her will — it would take more than a plastic gadget to do that — but they did think they could produce a sort of fake sexual arousal in other people without their consent. They thought they could deflower a fresh virgin each evening, for as long as the supply lasted.”

“A delicious thought. You just aim it at the head and shoot?”

“Good Lord, no. Stand in front of the person or directly behind, aim at the pants and shoot at the lowest fly-button.” He showed me the workings of the pistol. There was a recognizable battery and a tightly packed assortment of electronic components, of which I recognized a few as coming from sonar applications. Other parts looked as though they had military specification, or were custom fabricated. “It looks like a toy, but it isn’t. If it’s fired at you, you feel a sudden firm pressure at the crotch. They thought it would produce sexual arousal, like a girlfriend stroking you there. It isn’t painful at all. It just never worked as expected, although it does produce a pang and most people respond to it — after a fashion. The students just never saw a use for it. After the summer the neurologist had exams to work for and the American had to go back to California, and the sonar guy joined the Navy, I think, so nothing else ever came of it. They gave me the prototypes because I’d financed them. I sold the one to a young lady a few days ago, so this is the last one.”

“You must have been disappointed when the gun didn’t work.”

“Well, yes, I wanted to go to those dances and take the same girls home, but it was no great loss when they gave up. I could afford it, and most new enterprises fail. It was like placing a heavy bet on an outsider and losing. In any case, it does work, in a messy sort of way. Just not as expected.”

He put the pistol back together again and held it out to me to hold.

“I can try it out?”

“Not in the shop unless you mop up afterwards.”

I took the gun to the doorway and picked out a woman of thirty years or so walking up the cobbles towards me, carrying a week’s groceries in a plastic bag. She was pretty in her way, fair-haired, slightly built, and looking away from me. Still uncertain whether the thing would work, I watched her walk and imagined the underwear beneath her coat: plain bra, probably, and cotton panties. I must have looked a real clown aiming a water pistol at her. I aimed the barrel at where I imagined the gusset of her panties to be and squeezed the trigger. There was a soft whistling note from the gun: a quick, falling tone, as from an electronic flashgun.

Either I was a crack shot or the weapon did not need to be aimed with great accuracy: the shock to the woman’s toilet parts was obvious. She stopped in her tracks and looked about herself desperately. She felt as though her panties had been filled with melting ice, as though hands were pressing it into her soft and hidden openings, and her bladder began to empty itself uncontrollably. It was obvious that the ray, however it worked, had given her an overpowering urge that needed immediate attention. She pressed her thighs together vainly, but the mounting pressure drove her to part her legs and a small puddle formed on the pavement beneath her feet. As the flow stopped, I saw her hide in a side alley and then peel off her tights, her raised skirt giving a brief flash of wet white cotton panties taut across her slim, pale bottom. She screwed the tights up into a wet ball and pushed them distastefully into a litterbin. Presumably she intended to put up with the wetness in her panties rather than remove them in a public place.

I paid the price demanded for the gun. “Don’t wrap it, I want to use it.”

I walked down the high street to the park, where two women, possibly nurses, were sitting eating lunch together on a bench. The younger was shapely, blonde and carefully made up, and her long legs were adorned with black and gold patterned tights. Her tiny skirt, perhaps eight or ten inches above the knee, had ridden up until it just concealed her crotch. I could hardly wait. I sat on the ground across the lawn from her, breathless with anticipation. The blonde was sitting facing me, gossiping and eating, and momentarily she parted those tempting legs. The gun whistled and the shock must have hit her full on the tender toilet tissue. She squealed and, rushing to beat the irresistible tide, she pulled her skirt up at the back and screwed her tights and yellow panties down to her knees. I saw a brief glimpse of dark pubic hair and pink labia as she squirmed in her seat and her urine squirted over the planks of the bench and dripped onto the ground. I heard her friend enquire after her, and she gave a reassuring reply. My hand went to my own crotch and rubbed gently as my victim composed herself, replaced the panties and smoothed out the tights over her slim thighs.

Where were the prettiest girls, I asked myself, reluctantly ruling out for the moment the sweet sitting ducks in a dozen school playgrounds. The art college. I took a bus. Upstairs, I saw two young men in jeans sitting together. Both were slim, muscular, and sexy; the taller one wore a leather jacket and the other a denim top, open far enough to show a fuzzy, tanned chest. They were talking in subdued voices. As I took a seat across the aisle from them, I guessed that perhaps these two were as attracted to each other as I was to both of them. I decided to break the ice: I fired twice. The stopping and starting of the bus must already have had an effect on the pair, for in an instant both men were standing, holding the grab-rails with one hand and tugging their fly zips with the other, desperate to free their dicks and keep their urine off their clothes.

“What’s up with us?” laughed the lad in leather, and suddenly instinct and desire overwhelmed both of them. I watched them pull down each other’s pants and hold each other’s penis lightly, directing one another’s flow of urine onto the floor. The only other upstairs passenger, an elderly woman, looked away in disgust. Both men were generously endowed, and as their urine ceased to flow a leather clad arm slipped into the open denim top and held its owner by the waist. Their lips touched lightly. “Don’t leave go”, breathed the shorter lad, holding his friend’s other hand onto his own tool. Their hands brought each other’s dicks to erection. “Christ – this is good.” “More later,” promised the other. They fastened their jeans again and for the rest of the journey each had a lump the size of an orange in his lap. They sat, arms around one another’s waists, caressing each other’s crotches with light, long strokes, enjoying the paradise of petting.

It was evening now. I had been waiting on a seat outside the art college hoping to catch one of the especially beautiful girls who seemed to form their main intake. I had been sitting still so long that I was beginning to wonder whether to give up my vigil for the moment and find a toilet myself when my ideal target swayed down the steps carrying an artist’s portfolio and a folder of notes. Very tall, with long brown hair, she wore a tight sweater over a firm bosom. Shiny spray-on trousers, high heels, a loosely fastened leather belt that hung low over her hips and showed off her pencil slim waist. There was nobody else on the street. My idol walked to a car parked at the roadside and fumbled in her bag for the key. Her back was to me as I fired. Strong men’s’ hands seemed to empty an ice-tray into her jeans, rubbing pellets of ice over her mons, along her groins, across the tops of her thighs, between her buttocks, around her labia. She stood upright suddenly with shock, breathed in sharply through her teeth, and pressed her legs together tightly. She was going to get into the car before the flow began, I thought, and I wanted to see the urine pour from her. I fired again. The effect of the second jolt was immediate: a second set of hands began to force the freezing pellets into urethra, anus and vagina. She had lost control before the sound of the pistol had died away. A dark stain spread outward from her crotch and down her legs. Shock gave way to relief in her pretty face. The spray-ons clung to her body, showing clearly that she was wearing nothing underneath them. On her way to a special date, I surmised.

She saw me across the road from her and she asked me cheerfully: “Were you watching me just then?” I wasn’t expecting the question; I blushed and nodded. She was an exhibitionist, she suspected nothing. “I don’t mind. I have to get these jeans off, so stay and watch the show.” She turned her back to me, took off the high heels, and removed the spray-ons, tossing the lot onto the back seat of the car, baring her bottom. She turned around with her hands covering her crotch. I gasped at her beauty: she exhibited her long bare legs and then slowly parted her hands, resting them on her thighs, displaying pink, clean shaven panty parts. Legs wide apart, she fingered her labia gently, letting me admire all the folds and crevices of her vulva. My penis swelled, keen to take up the invitation of those moist lips and the tight canal beyond. She pulled the sweater upwards a little, revealing a taut waistline. “Want to see a bit more? It’s OK, my boyfriend won’t mind if I turn up nude. Would you?” No, I wouldn’t mind a girl like you arriving at my door naked, especially if you admitted to having wet yourself on the journey. She opened the car door, pulling the sweater up, over the nipples and then completely off as she settled into the driving seat, then closed the door. Except for the skimpy, white, lacy bra, which clung to her generous curves, she was quite bare.

She turned towards me and wound her window down. “Kiss me.” I walked over to her and kissed her lips. Her mouth was fragrant and sweet. She wrapped an arm around my neck and snuggled towards me, deliberately and invitingly bringing the bra clip into my reach. I had it half unfastened when I heard a switch click and a familiar electronic whistle coming from inside the car. Something urgent invaded my genitals, as though a torrent of cold water and snowballs had landed on my dick, testicles, and bottom. A set of strong, icy fingers held the snowballs in place. Other fingers seemed to grasp my penis from base to tip and force urine along it; it was as though a water main had burst in my pants. I would have had a couple of seconds to get my zip undone, but the girl held my arms firmly. Hot urine poured into my pants. My jeans, shoes and socks were all drenched in a moment, and the sweet-smelling flood went on until my jeans clung to my legs and my shirt was soaking too. It was this young lady who had bought that other prototype sex pistol.