The first splash hit Manfred’s face, and a forceful stream ran down the navy blue and black-striped tie resting like a ribbon of night on the white cotton shirt. Kurt spread his legs in the door of the stall. He had last worn a civilian tie to his mother’s funeral four years ago, but the lawyer owned a rack of silk ties in colours and designs to complement his tailor-made suits. Huddled against the marble wall under the showerhead, Manfred pulled his knees up as urine saturated his shirt and tie, followed by a drenching of the fine-wool fibres of the suit jacket. Kurt had allowed him to remove his Italian shoes, but not his socks, which matched the tie. He told Manfred to lower his knees while he pissed over the silver belt buckle and the lawyer’s groin. The man could do nothing to ward off the torrent. He had been ordered to keep his hands behind his back. Kurt directed the still-strong stream once more at the lawyer’s face. He had been saving it up for this moment. Open, he commanded.

The piss bubbled out of the man’s mouth and soaked his Van Dyke beard. He choked, spluttered, his face showered by the hot liquid, his eyes closed, his entire body trembling in a kind of private ecstasy, lapping, swallowing as much piss as Kurt aimed down his throat. “You pathetic pig, drink it; show me how much you love me, faggot!” the soldier shouted, obeying the lawyer’s wish to hear his commanding abuse while giving him a golden shower. His bladder finally drained, Kurt zipped up and lit a cigarette in a luxury condo where no one ever smoked. A speculum designed to keep the mouth open. He had a couple at home, but the lawyer would have to buy his own for next time. It wasn’t wise to share the intimate toys.

After blowing smoke into the stall, the smell of strong tobacco mingling with the stench of fresh urine, Kurt dredged up a gob of spit, aimed it at Manfred’s still open mouth, and splattered his lips and chin. He sat on the toilet. The fabric of his fatigues tightened over muscular thighs. The lawyer shivered on the shower floor, licked his lips, hands behind his back, his tie and jacket saturated. Standing quickly, the soldier smiled over the sheen of his black boots, which Manfred had earlier caressed and polished with his tongue.

What you ate affected the smell and taste of piss and semen, Kurt knew, so he avoided cabbage. Having wolfed down a tin of Boyardee ravioli for lunch before arriving at the condo, combined with a few bottles of beer, he wondered if Manfred tasted tomato sauce and hops even as the odour of urine long exposed to the air intensified. He just paused above the lawyer, spitting again, wrinkling his nose against the smell until he had dragged the life out of the cigarette, and then flicked it, still burning, into the stall. It fizzled in a pool between Manfred’s feet, the Calvin Klein socks darkened with piss.

“Don’t move, my little pig, until I let you out.”


In the galley kitchen gleaming with granite countertop and gleaning appliances, Kurt opened the fridge door. Wanda was supposed to be home by now, as the couple had agreed to take time off work for fun. Kurt struck a match along the corrugated sole of his boot to light another cigarette while he waited. He could do anything he wanted with the lawyer, and he had every intention of pushing boundaries. What he wanted now was to fuck the lawyer’s wife, fast and hard, then fuck her again while her husband watched, ball-gagged and shackled. She knew he was easily annoyed, although since they met at the bar a couple of months ago, this was only his fourth visit to play dominant bull to the submissive couple.

He suspected Wanda delayed on purpose, his anger adding to her excitement. After drinking more beers, he’d probably have to relieve himself. He’d piss on the lawyer again, maybe in the tub, or even on the white Berber carpet of the living room where he now stood exhaling smoke and hearing a helicopter. Make Manfred strip and spread himself like a flagellant before the altar on the beautiful rug; make him say a few worshipful words to his bull, who would then spray liquid gold over the naked body while Wanda protested. He might have to bind her like a prisoner to prevent interference. She’d like that, probably expected it, something she had mentioned in their preliminary discussions about scenarios, even if she lamented over her fine furnishings. Like most civilians, she paid too much attention to possessions. They could pay to have the rug cleaned.

Lighting another cigarette from a new pack the lawyer had bought, he stood in front of the expansive window and stared at the city landscape lightly dusted with recent snow. The temperature was exactly zero centigrade. Kurt blew smoke circles. A helicopter whirred within his line of vision. Kurt waved, knowing the pilot wouldn’t see him. He pressed against the glass door leading to the balcony. It was too cold to stand long outside without a coat. The last time he flew in a chopper, the heat and humidity were so thick even the trees perspired. His T-shirt had clung to his skin as if glued.

Aside from a payload of artillery pieces and medical equipment, the craft carried the pilot, three other soldiers, trusted buddies, and the hogtied prisoner. They had been ordered to transport him to local authorities 20 kilometres from their base camp and interrogate him to find out what he knew about local insurgents. If he had accidentally tumbled out of the chopper, the prisoner would have been snagged in the branches and hung there like a sweating coconut. Accidents happened all the time, even during peacekeeping missions. The fucker just wouldn’t talk, although he pissed his own pants in the midst of his silence, revealing the whites of his terrified eyes.

Kurt heard the front door to the condo open. Was it time to give Manfred permission to move? Lead Wanda into the washroom? Get her on all fours by the toilet, lift her skirt, and fuck her from behind like a mastiff mounting his bitch while Manfred huddled and soaked in the shower stall watching his bull in action? He thought of the German shepherds in the army’s canine unit. The helicopter suddenly whirred by again. This time, Kurt could read the insignia; it belonged to a local radio station, manned by a traffic reporter who flew over the city. It was lighter in purpose and spirit than the army copter with a belly full of military equipment, chugging and whirring over hooting monkeys and screeching birds in forested region of the terrain. He recalled more brown dust and heat on that mission than forest, more treeless savannah and desert than jungle. A couple of hours had passed already since his arrival. Preliminary play with the lawyer had taken up most of the time. Drenching the pig had lasted less than a minute. Kurt sucked the beer down. He wanted his bladder full.

Before Wanda touched his back, he smelled her perfume. When she pressed against him, Kurt flinched. Her arms reached around his chest, her faux fur coat sleeves bristling with static electricity. His kept an eye on that helicopter, leaned on the railing and spat. He would humiliate Manfred again while Wanda bore witness. That was part of the deal; that was what they both wanted, their bull taking control. He grabbed her hands to prevent them from rubbing his nipples.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing, bitch, just don’t. Get me a beer.”

Closing his eyes in a fit of weariness so sudden that his knees buckled, Kurt listened for the helicopter, its clattering engine breaking into the prisoner’s screams when Kurt had threatened to hurl him into the trees. Wanda returned with a beer. He wondered about the height of the balcony to the waterless fountain almost directly below. It seemed to be the same as the height from the copter’s open door to the forest canopy. Kurt rubbed Wanda’s neck; her body relaxed, but the prisoner had gasped and stiffened as Kurt squeezed his gloved hand around the man’s throat. She stepped closer while he guzzled down half the bottle. He grabbed her shoulder.

“Let’s go on the balcony.”

“It’s chilly outside.”

“Leave your coat on.”

He did not slide the glass door shut as he spun her around on the balcony and kissed, his unshaven cheeks abrading her smooth skin. Slipping his arms under her coat, he lifted Wanda onto the railing.

“What the…what are you doing?”

Holding her tight with one arm, he raised her left leg around his waist, secured her close to his chest, and fingered her under her dress. She struggled to break free, but he leaned her backwards over the railing, pushing three fingers into her cunt. Her scream Kurt interpreted as encouragement, not protest. In the tavern where they had first met after he had answered their discreetly worded ad on the BDSM website and later negotiated the terms of the arrangement, they’d agreed on a safe word, uttered only when she wanted the action to stop. She was trapped by her own excitement over being precariously balanced on the balustrade. If Kurt let go of her waist, she’d somersault over and plummet several floors to her death. Removing his wet fingers, and with the prestidigitation of a magician, he retrieved a rubber from his pocket, tore open the package with his teeth, slipped it on, and pushed his cock into her receptive body.

Her voice muffled by the approaching helicopter, he picked up speed, Wanda secured only by his lust, just as the prisoner’s life depended upon his whim. The bastard wouldn’t talk or was too frightened to talk. When the pilot dipped the copter, then veered suddenly upward on an angle, the prisoner rolled over, begging for mercy in his native tongue, the soldiers mocking his terror. They had been ordered not to harm him, only to transport and try to learn what he knew. He belonged to a rebel group that had fired on a patrol, injuring one of their brothers, soldiers who had been deployed in the region, not to engage in combat, but to bring peace, to act as buffers between warring factions, and to help maintain order and food distribution among the civilian population.

If the traffic helicopter pilot flew overhead, he’d see Wanda hunched over a balcony railing in a brown fur coat, hanging onto to a soldier who, despite the chill, wore only a green army-issue T-shirt and fatigues. The injured soldier died from the wounds before the army helicopter lifted off the tarmac. Kurt raised his eyes, squinting in the late afternoon winter sun, loosening his hold on the woman who groaned and clung to his neck, both legs cinched so tightly around his waist that she’d hurtle over the railing with him firmly locked between her thighs if he didn’t maintain control. Death by fucking.

“Oh, please.” Wanda’s voice was scarcely audible; he couldn’t tell if she was begging for her life or for his cock. He kept up a steady and riveting thrust. Her fur coat dropped off her shoulders and hung like a bearskin draped over the railing, her red hair coming loose from its pins. The helicopter hovered overhead. The insurgent wouldn’t talk or he jabbered in his native lingo, except to say Please don’t kill me in English, which he knew as well as any of his captors. Remembering the strange quirky smile on his mate’s face before he died, Kurt yanked the prisoner by the ropes and dragged him to the threshold of the door. He didn’t want a confession, he didn’t want information; he wanted to see the man’s body plummet and roll in the sky until it broke in the upper branches of the trees.

He released the woman, who instinctively clasped the cold iron railing, and jackhammered her cunt, sweat dribbling down the back of his neck even in the cold. He wanted to be finished. He had wanted to kill that rebel fucker. He slammed into Wanda, who screamed when he let go. Yes, she had admitted in the tavern, she wanted it hard. Her legs slipping away from his waist, her upper body began falling backwards, but Kurt pulled her up and off the railing and onto his explosive cock. He finished the hard fuck with three upward thrusts, lifting her off her feet, which kicked over a stand of dead plants in ceramic pots. They cracked on the concrete. The chopper lurked upward, swerving to the right. Kurt had pushed the prisoner towards the exit, but the army helicopter tilted and knocked both men off balance. The prisoner blurted out incomprehensible words in his own language, but at last confessed in English.

“Oh, please, don’t leave me, I’ll do anything,” Wanda whispered in his shoulder, slack and needy. Just like her husband waiting in the stall. There were so many things he planned on doing, so many things they didn’t even know they yearned for. He now owned them. They said they wanted a bull to own them; that was part of the play, and the husband wanted to be humiliated, any way Bill chose, and yes, with his face blushing over their drinks in the tavern, he had whispered his desire for golden showers, as if confessing to a rare and abominable obsession. Craving to be cuckolded and degraded by a soldier wearing his boots, a common fantasy which Kurt and a couple of his army buddies took advantage of when the opportunities arose. One day, he also wanted to bring his private bitch Terry to join in the action. He, too, obeyed his soldier. The wind picked up. Kurt shivered. He opened the door and gently pushed the wife inside, her coat falling to the floor, where it lay like a dead animal.

“Get me another beer, cunt. Bring it to the washroom. We’re not done yet.”