Chapter One

It’s Christmas Eve, and we’ve been trapped with your parents for who-knows-how-long. By which I mean 7 hours, 43 minutes, and some odd number of seconds. The holidays are meant to be shared with family — at least in principle — and I’ve had the chance to meet yours before. They’re absolutely lovely people. They make me feel like I’m their daughter, bless them, but sometimes they just don’t stop talking. I love your father, but I simply don’t share the same interest in woodworking that he does. The cutting board looks phenomenal Sir, and in my expert opinion I’m sure it’ll look even better when the ham is on top of it.

Still, it’s nice to be treated like their daughter.

Your family is the sort of cookie-cutter perfect that you see in Hallmark Holiday specials. The kind of family that actually owns cookie cutters and decorates holiday cookies together. And as foreign as that life is to me, I don’t know that I envy you. I’ve heard you talk about all the pressure to be capital-P Perfect: Perfect SAT scores, graduating from a Perfect university with Perfect GPA, the Perfect job, and of course — a Perfect son with the Perfect girlfriend.

When I ask you how you managed to survive 25 years of Perfect, I get a shrug and a kiss on the cheek. Sometimes it feels like I’m just along for the ride, but over time I’ve really begun to settle into things. You’ve made a place for me in your life, and despite their flaws even your Perfect family has grown on me since I first met them last March.

Of course, you wouldn’t possibly let this day pass without teasing the ever-loving heck out of me. Grinding against me from behind, while your father steps away into the shop for a moment to grab something that looks (to my eyes) like an overly elaborate screwdriver. Slipping your fingers up my skirt, as your mother slips her fingers into the oven mitts in order to check the casseroles. I’m worked up, I’m needy, but most of all — I’m with your parents.

From across the kitchen we make eye contact; your hand rests at your crotch, and you loudly announce that you’ll be back to help dice the potatoes in a moment. I stammer an excuse to your mother before rushing out of the kitchen after you. A brief sly glance over your shoulder, but you don’t acknowledge me until we’re both locked behind the bathroom door.

A moment of tension — what are you scheming? Especially in your family’s cramped half-bathroom! I can’t help but think of other scenes that have started like this, just you and I alone. Gulping down your piss until I can’t possibly keep up, your urine spilling out of my mouth and over my breasts to mark me with your salty scent. Oh, the way that being marked with pee made my head spin. But those scenes usually began with me on my knees in the shower… and a shower was conspicuously absent in this bathroom. Straightened teeth flashing a smile to me. Your whisper urging me to be a good girl.

I’m on my knees in a heartbeat, waiting at your side expectantly. I don’t know what you have planned, but I trust you completely. You wouldn’t press my boundaries here, especially if it meant your family finding out about… everything else. There was no place in your family’s cookie-cutter life for a dirty girl like me, one who encouraged their son to explore the kinks he’d been repressing for years.

You gaze down at me, one hand holding the waistband of your pants as the other undos your brown leather belt. The sound of metal-on-metal jingling as you let the buckle hang freely, and the crisp noise your zipper makes as you reveal plaid boxers underneath. I can smell hints of your sweat in the air now; there’s a fresh musk that always seems to linger near your crotch, one that never fails to drive me wild.

My hands rest on my knees and my heart flutters. I let my mouth hang open, lips parted ever so slightly. The scent gathered around your hips grows stronger as you tug your boxers down to reveal bare flesh. You wouldn’t… not here, not now… would you? My tongue hangs out reflexively. I know that however you want to use my mouth, you’ll make sure I’m taken care of. You’ll help clean me up. Right?

And with no more hesitation you begin to pee.

I shut my eyes in nervous anticipation. And then open them, as the sound of your stream splashing against the toilet bowl next to me greets your ears. I don’t dare say a word — what if someone hears me from the hallway? All I can do is watch your piss flow into the bowl, mouth agape, mesmerized by the sight and yet completely paralyzed. Waiting for your command.

The air faintly salty in my nose. Is that just your sweat, or something more? I need a taste of you. Need it all over my face, my hair, my body. I want everyone to know that you own me, want them to scrunch up their noses at how badly I reek of your piss. And yet I kneel by your side obediently, watching and waiting.

At long last you finish, and wordlessly line yourself up in front of my face. A single drop remaining. And I can finally have the tiniest taste of you on my tongue.

I thought I’d be able to get away without wearing panties beneath my skirt at your family’s celebration. I didn’t think that you’d be bold enough to work me up this much. And all I can hope is that whoever uses the bathroom next misses the damp spot forming between my legs on the carpet, the spot where my juices have leaked onto the floor.

You place two fingers beneath my chin, guiding me as I stand back up. It’s at this moment that I notice just how red your cheeks have turned. As much as you like to play with me, I know just how conservative your sensibilities still are. And watersports in your parents’ bathroom at Christmas goes against an entire lifetime of pressure to be the Perfect Son.

I stumble out of the bathroom, head still fuzzy. Heaven forbid the two of us get caught there together by your family! The cool air blows against the exposed flesh beneath my skirt, and my entire body shivers. It’s not from the temperature, either.

Your mother runs into us in the hallway. She makes the suggestion that we go up the road to the park to blow off some steam with a walk before dinner. Does she know? You place your hand against my rear, and you guide me towards the door. Casually exerting the ownership that I oh-so-willingly give you.

I can feel the flannel skirt pressed against my bare cheeks.

Chapter 2

Despite growing up so close, you never managed to make it out to this park more than a handful of times. A few Boyscouts trips here and there, nights spent at the rental camping grounds. But you were never *really* the outdoorsy type — more of the Esteemed Eagle Scout Box Checker, earning merit badges just to move up the ranks and make your parents proud. I couldn’t blame you, with a family like that. And with everything else they heaped onto you, when were you supposed to explore things off the beaten path?

Now, apparently.

I whimper and just barely hold back from cursing, as another branch whips back into my neck. We’re off the marked trail now, as you lead the way in search of the perfect clearing to “blow off some steam,” as your mother so-naïvely suggested. The same thoughts, the same fantasies running through both our heads. Mine growing perhaps a little more antagonistic towards you, as we stumble into another tangle of thorns. My skirt catching on said thorns.

A few words of loving coercion from you, and without another thought I leave my skirt behind in the underbrush for us to retrieve on our way back, when we’re floaty and free of all the pent-up desperation that clouds both of our minds. Until then, I’ll go bare-bottomed through the woods with you. We’ll get my skirt when we’re ready to return to being Beloved Son and Daughter-In-Law-To-Be.

We’ll get my skirt when you finish breeding me over some fallen tree. When the cum is left dripping down the insides of my thighs. When I’m spent and worn out, quivering legs barely able to walk me out. Because neither of us had the foresight to bring condoms — despite us both knowing exactly what we were about to get up to — and besides, it was still close enough to my period that I probably wasn’t at risk of getting pregnant. Probably. We would worry about that when we worried about the skirt, worried about making it back in time to sit down for dinner.

You mention something about “Trail Marking” and I absent-mindedly agree, still caught up in my own fantasies for the (very near) future.

I finally find a stump for us — call that my natural Forest Intuition (TM) — and allow you to force me over it. The bark cuts into my bare legs, but at least my sweater provides some protection from the rough wood. The feeling of your chest pressed against my back is familiar, reminiscent of the countless other times we’ve ended up like this. It just feels right to be beneath you, my face forced into the cold dirt beneath us. But you don’t care about that. Neither do I. All I can focus on is your hand placed against the bare skin of my neck, gently wrapping around to caress my cheek. You love me. And I love what you do to me.

The hand migrating up to grip at the base of my hair. Your hips grinding against my ass, both of us leaking in anticipation. Dripping onto the frozen earth, the two of us doing our part to bring this little patch of winter forest back to life. I scream as you finally jerk my head backwards, breath fogging the air. And just like that a second cloud of breath appears next to mine, as you begin thrusting at me from behind.

Making feral noises all alone, together.

I needed this just as much as you did. All that teasing since my arrival that morning leaving me beyond pent-up. Constant denial interspersed with your parents’ handmade pepper grinders and homemade deviled eggs. Wanting to grind yourself deep inside me, to flash that devilish smile after breeding me. To make me a parent too. I could be the Perfect slut for you. What would your family think if I got knocked up before we were even engaged?

And that singular taste of your urine, given to me in your parents’ bathroom, that taste lingers in my memories. I replay it over and over in my head, savoring it in my head as you hump me. Letting my brain float away in bliss. I can feel your pace slowing in the way that you always do when you’re trying to relax a different set of muscles. Trying to regain control again. The same way you’ve done it before when we’re alone, just the two of us. And what could be more alone than out here, in the middle of a frozen forest?

“Sweetheart… you’re absolutely sure you’re okay with me marking you out here?” It doesn’t quite register for me at first — I just want more from you, can’t bear the thought of you stopping. And then I realize that you don’t want to stop. You just want to make sure my needs are taken care of.

My words jumble together, my response is eager if not coherent as your wordplay earlier finally clicks for me. I want you to mark me in the way that a dog marks his territory. To pee all over me, to treat me the same way you’d treat the stump I’m bent over. I’m eager for you to soak me in your piss. I need it. More than anything else that I could possibly need in this moment. You step back from my hips. I need to be defiled. Used up and ruined. The thought giving rise to waves of pleasure, starting in my core and radiating outwards through my limbs. A warmth that makes me forget about the brisk winter air. Animating my body as I lay there splayed out over the stump.

I don’t even notice as your hot stream begins to spatter across my ass. And when it makes its way onto my sweater, I can’t do anything but begin to cum again. White noise filling my ears, drowning out all rational thought. It feels so dirty. I feel so dirty. Some part of me probably know that you didn’t mean to get it on my clothes right before Christmas dinner. But here we are, two desperately horny creatures alone in the woods, dominance asserted in the most primal way we know how.

I spread for you, gaping myself wide for you. Any sense of propriety is long-gone. The one thing I need now is you, and of course you oblige. You’re so eager to please. Feeling your hips press against me again, making my eyes roll back with no difficulty whatsoever. The last few remnants of your stream escaping you now, mixing with the rest of my juices. And soon the cum *is* dripping down my thighs, I *am* spent and worn out, my legs *are* quivering. And the stench of piss fills the air between us.

I reek.

Epilogue

“Fuck.”

The afterglow begins to subside, and neither of us are feeling floaty and free anymore. Our thoughts are weighed down by the realization that there’s no way to clean up before dinner. No way to sneak past your parents, no way to climb through a second-story window for an urgent shower.

What will your parents think of their Daughter-In-Law-To-Be? And more immediately, where the hell is my skirt? In silence and in shame we make our way back to the marked trail. A trail of our own drips behind me.

---

I bailed on Christmas dinner — what else was I supposed to do? — and things had just spiraled from there. Whatever excuses you tried to stammer to your family clearly didn’t work; you were unable to defend me against the topic du jour at the table that night.

I never did find out exactly what transpired. But the one word apology message from you said it all.

I didn’t need to read the follow-up message. It was far too many words to tell me what I already knew. You folded to your oh-so-Perfect family’s wishes, as was to be expected. I was neither surprised nor disappointed. The absence of the latter emotion surprised me considerably more than the former. Then again, I hadn’t exactly felt much since Christmas.

That was three weeks ago.

Now, as I huddled in the bathroom, I watched as the second line on the test turned pink.