As partnerships grow and mature, there comes a time when couples happily accept that they need not live their lives as though joined at the hip.   

To me, it seems unhealthy and almost narcissistic to settle down with one's exact duplicate. Fortunately, my partner, Martin, agrees; so, although we spend most of our leisure hours together, we are also free to pursue different activities without stirring up feelings of jealousy or resentment.

For example, Martin is definitely not a fan of structured exercise, whereas I have always been a gym junky. Thankfully, we both enjoy long walks and spending days at the beach or by the pool, and I've managed to introduce him to the joys of tennis as well. We don't play each other in a spirit of fierce competitiveness; it's more of a fun thing.

Martin's game is largely built upon a lollypop serve and the occasional unsuccessful venture to the net. In return, I make no attempt to dazzle him with thunderbolt serves or savage volleys. The key thing is to enjoy the exercise. He's a great retriever - prepared to run down every ball he can - and so we both get some highly beneficial outdoor exercise whilst enjoying ourselves too.

We also take long walks in the countryside. There is a vast and heavily wooded area to our east, and we occasionally spend an entire Saturday or Sunday trekking our way up hills and down dales. It's always peaceful there, with the tranquillity disturbed only by birdsong and the sounds of our own feet as we tramp along.

Another huge difference between us is that Martin is not remotely competitive. While I love to play Monopoly, Scrabble and lots of other board games, Martin would rather watch television. While I enjoy regular games of bridge, pool or darts at the local tavern, Martin would rather stay home and cook up cakes and delicious casseroles in the kitchen.

But Martin does have one particular interest that requires him to leave the house. He likes to check out other guys' junk, whether it's confined in clothing or hanging free. It's not an interest I share, but I have no problem with it so long as it's confined to looking without touching. We agreed from the outset that neither of us will have sex with any other guy. I've had absolutely no difficulty with this myself and, to the best of my knowledge, neither has Martin.

My partner's junk-spotting game has even become a source of amusement to me. We might be on a crowded beach, or walking down a busy street, or battling our way through busy fellow shoppers at the local mall; and suddenly Martin will urge me to check out the bulge on the guy wearing the red speedos, or the man in the tight blue jeans, or the guy in the grey business suit.

I'll never be the connoisseur that he is, but I have gradually learned enough to be his sounding board on matters of the groin.

'Look at that' Martin will say.

'What? Where? Whom?'

'The guy outside the Deli' he'll hiss. Or 'That guy over there in the green board shorts.'

And I join in the game.

'Not bad' I'll say.

Or 'Mmph. Nothing special.'

'Not bad?' Martin will protest. 'It must be huge.'

Of course, it's not as simple as that. Martin also likes to speculate on a great many other aspects of a man's basket. He will comment that one guy dresses to the right - whereas, he tells me, the vast majority of guys dress to the left - or he might speculate that someone's package is "all balls and no cock". He doesn't have X-ray vision but he still confidently asserts that this one is cut and another one is uncut.

I sometimes worry that Martin's attention to guys' crotches will earn him a punch from someone who notices his stare and objects to it. But most guys seem totally oblivious and, when I think about it, so was I once upon a time. When Martin and I first met, I was completely unaware that he'd been checking out my presumed assets for several days.

As well as speculating on the endowments of passing strangers, Martin also likes to bewilder me with his allegedly infallible gaydar. He tells me which guys are gay, bisexual or heterosexual. And there are added shades of meaning to his categorisation; he might also tell me that one guy is "gay but he doesn't know it yet"; or that another guy is "haveable because he's gay curious".

It goes without saying that Martin gets more satisfaction from standing at a urinal than the simple relief of a good piss. He also does his best to string out the process, taking every opportunity to spot other guys' equipment. He tells me he doesn't stare openly. He assures me of the excellence of his peripheral vision. I hope this is true. I think I'd probably give someone a very black look if they were perving on me in the men's room.

I used to remind Martin that a good-sized flaccid cock does not necessarily indicate a whopper when it's erect. I quote myself as a prime example of this. My own dick is a reasonably impressive and thick seven inches or more at rest, but it doesn't double in size when tumescent. It's quite a bit bigger than average but hardly the world's biggest - and it doesn't grow all that much thicker either.

But, as he eventually confessed to me, Martin is not obsessed with other guys' hard-ons - though he is happy to see these too! No; his obsession is with cocks at rest; ones that are not worked up to impress; dicks caught unawares. And he likes watching guys piss too, especially if they have no idea is he is watching.

I don't waste time wondering if this obsession is healthy. Humans are creatures of infinite variety. We might like checking out a woman's tits or her legs or her ass. If you're gay, then it's not so weird to like checking out another guy's cock.

Anyway, it's time to tell you of the time I unexpectedly made Martin's hobby a great deal easier to pursue.

Our local mall has four sets of rest-rooms situated at various points along the concourse. For some reason I always patronise the men's room close by the book-store. Perhaps this is because I spend a good deal of time in the bookshop, browsing for good biographies and sporting periodicals.

Also, it happens to be the rest-room closest to the supermarket we visit most often. It's a small men's room, with just one cubicle on the left-hand wall and, right alongside it, two porcelain urinals with no privacy screen between them.

I had the urinals to myself one afternoon. The only other patron was locked away in the cubicle alongside. I was enjoying a much-needed piss. Presumably, some other guy was enjoying a much-needed dump on the other side of the wall that separated us. For some reason I looked downwards towards that wall and noticed a small hole had been drilled in it. I didn't immediately jump to any conclusions about this hole. Maybe it had always been there. I just hadn't noticed it before.

But then it occurred to me that this might be a spy-hole. And that made me a bit cross. All the enjoyment of taking a leak drained out of me as rapidly as my urine had. I half-turned so my dick would no longer be visible, flicked away the last few droplets, zipped up and left.

When I caught up with Martin - who was busy filling up a trolley in the nearby supermarket - he was immediately intrigued.

'Did you bend down and take a peek though the hole?' he asked.

'No; of course I didn't. Anyway, the hole may not even go all the way through. And if it does, I certainly didn't want to be caught looking through it.'

'Here - you take over' Martin responded, handing over his shopping list and the trolley. 'I'm going to check it out.'

And off he went, with a spring in his step, leaving me amused; and also a bit annoyed because the shopping list was huge and there was still a long way to go.

He was gone for quite a while. I was in the queue to go through a checkout when he finally reappeared.

I wanted to reproach him for having taken so long, but he had such a happy look on his face that it would have been mean to spoil it. I opened my mouth to speak but he got in first.

'I'll tell you all about it when we get out of here' he whispered.

and he did.

We bullocked our way through the nearest coffee shop, using our over-loaded trolley as a battering ram so we could get to a fairly private booth at the rear. Once we'd ordered and received our coffee, Martin - keeping his voice very low - told me what he'd encountered in the men's room.

'That hole does go all the way through' he said. 'If you sit down in there and put your eye to the hole, then there's a clear view of guys using the pissers.'

Apparently, the rest-room was deserted when he got there. So there was no one there to see him check out the hole, lock the cubicle door, sit down, and apply his eye to the wall.

'It's just a tiny pin-hole' I said. 'I bet you can't see much though it anyway.'

He assured me that even a tiny hole was window enough to see directly across the urinals at dick-height. Just a minute or so after Martin took up his vantage point, someone came in to take a leak. And after that there was a constant stream of visitors.

Sometimes there were two guys peeing alongside each other. Sometimes there was just the one. I gathered that the urinal nearest the wall was the preferred pisser. That made sense to me. That's the one I generally use too. What I hadn't previously realised was that this meant my dick was just a few inches away from any prying eye.

After two cups of coffee each, after we'd stowed all the shopping away in my vehicle, Martin asked me to visit "his" men's room with him. He wanted me to stand at the urinal and give him a good view of my cock while he peered through "his" spy-hole. I was a bit reluctant.

'I don't desperately need to take a piss' I argued. 'I went just an hour ago.'

'Doesn't matter' he said. 'I just want to look at your dick that way. It'll only take a minute.'

So - feeling a bit ridiculous - I humoured him. As it happened, I did manage to produce a fair amount of urine - coffee has that effect on me - but the thought of being watched by Martin caused me to sprout an erection part-way through.

And, as luck would have it, while I was spraying piss everywhere through a hard dick, the door behind me opened and another man came in to use the urinal alongside me. I managed to cut off my flow and zip up quickly.

While I washed my hands at the basin, this guy struck up a conversation.

'Don't you just hate shopping?' he remarked over his shoulder.

'Yeah. Doesn't turn me on at all' I responded while using the hand-dryer.

As I prepared to exit I could tell he was doing what we all do. That flick or shaking routine at the end of a pee. As I opened the door to make my way out, it was apparent that he'd moved on to the part where we bob our backsides and bend our knees slightly in order to stow our junk away before zipping up. It amused me that Martin was secretly watching this man's antics.

Once outside, I loitered outside the nearby bookshop until Martin emerged.

'That was fabulous' he told me.

'What was so fabulous? Me or him?' I said with a laugh.

'Both' said Martin, and I punched him playfully. I knew he was joking and I wasn't jealous.

'No - seriously' he continued, 'I loved looking at you through the hole. Close up it looked enormous and so beautiful.'

'And the other guy ...?' I queried.

'Nowhere near as big as you, but nice enough. He was cut though. You can't see faces through the hole - just a chest to knees view. How old was he?'

'Oh, I don't know' I replied. 'Maybe fifty or a bit older.'

'Ah' said my friend the foreskin-worshipper. 'That explains it. Boys were still being routinely circumcised in those days. By the way, do you usually flop everything out when you're at a urinal, balls and all?'

'Umm ... yes. I do. I like to give them some fresh air and a bit of liberty after time stuffed into a confined space.'

'You sure you're not showing off?' he enquired with a smile.

'Of course not' was my indignant response. 'You're the one who suddenly finds pissing so exciting. Me - I just go to the men's room to do what men do. It's not a line-up or a beauty pageant.'

It won't surprise you to learn that, whenever we went to the mall thereafter, Martin always shut himself away in "his" rest-room, to use "his" peep-hole. I suddenly found myself assuming the trolley-pushing role in the supermarket.

I wasn't all that annoyed. I knew he enjoyed these little escapades and I don't suppose anyone was harmed in the process. Sure, a lot of guys had their cocks and pissing techniques secretly observed. It's almost certainly against the law to spy on people like that, but I guess - like any other transgression - it's only a problem if you get caught.

Whilst I am not an authority in Martin's area of research, I now know a lot more about how guys piss than I ever did before. And, of course, I know more than they think I do about other men's dicks. My partner liked telling me what he'd observed.

A couple of times, he got me to deliberately keep an eye on who went in and out of the men's room while he was in there on watch. Afterwards, he would ask me who it was in the black trousers or the ripped jeans or the chinos. It went a bit like this:

'The guy in the blue suit?'

'Average height and build' I'd reply. 'Mid-thirties. Dark hair. Quite nice looking.'

"Tiny dick but a beautiful long foreskin. Doesn't pull it back when he takes a leak.'


'The one in uniform. Black pants and white shirt.'

'It's that tall boy from the Pharmacy' I'd respond. 'The nice-looking one with auburn hair.'

'Mmm. Well he has a beautiful cock. Almost as long as yours but nowhere near as thick. Pulls his foreskin right back and then moves it back and forth when he's finished. I almost thought he was jacking off for a while there, but it's probably just part of his usual routine. Really strong blast of piss so I knew he was a youngster.'

Naturally enough, I wanted to know if Martin was getting his rocks off while staring at other guys' junk. I wanted to know if he got an erection, whether he jerked off while watching. His answer surprised me.

'I occasionally crack a hard-on if it's a truly beautiful cock, but nothing more. The sex is purely cerebral. The thrill is all in my mind.'

'Which proves you're a dickhead' I replied.

For that, I got one of his playful - but painful - punches on my arm.

In time, maybe I became a dickhead too.

It was all quite fascinating in a vicariously voyeuristic way. If I visited the Pharmacy, I even found myself looking at the young boy with the auburn hair and thinking "I know all about your dick and how you pee."

It was not something I'd ever thought about before - and it was something I'd never been interested in - but it was undeniably a bit of a rush to discover intimate details about store employees and customers.

It's a strange feeling to catch up with someone you know quite well and to chat with them, all the while knowing they have a thick, thin, cut, uncut or ugly cock and that they don't know that you know.

If they have a wife or girlfriend standing beside them, it's just as weird a feeling to have inside knowledge about what she sucked, fucked or fondled the night before.

But, of course, all good things must come to an end. The day came when Martin returned from his favourite men's room looking most downhearted. Apparently someone had finally caught on. Maybe someone complained or maybe the maintenance people decided to fix a potential problem. So a metal plate had been affixed to the wall, covering up Martin's spy-hole. He could no longer enjoy his regular meat smorgasbord. I tried to console him by saying he probably wasn't the only one facing deprivation.

'What do you mean?'

'Well, Martin, surely it's occurred to you that someone must have drilled that little hole in the first place. So someone else has been robbed of his thrills too. I know you like to call it "your" spy-hole but it must be used by at least one other guy too; probably many guys.'

So poor Martin could no longer watch anonymous dicks being squeezed, caressed and shaken. He could no longer watch urine come out in an even or a spraying flow. Worst of all - given his particular fascination with them - Martin could no longer watch foreskins being pulled back or being left in place.

Privately, I must confess, this came as a relief to me. I need no longer worry that he might be caught and arrested as a peeping tom. And - selfishly - I need no longer fret about having to do nearly all the shopping by myself while Martin views a passing parade of piss and other men's genitals.

Once something is out in the open, it is impossible to ignore it from that day onward. It becomes the elephant in the room.

I have never been remotely interested in what some call "water sports". I have never felt a burning need to be pissed on or to piss on somebody else. Until Martin's spy-hole days, it had never occurred to me that pissing might be in some way erotic.

I believe that partners should do their best to compromise, to be accepting and supportive of each other's strengths and frailties. Although Martin is still able to check out guys' junk in change-rooms or at a nude beach; although he can still see dicks galore in porno movies and in clips on-line, this doesn't fully cater for his particular interest. You see, much as he enjoys watching guys have sex on film, what also turns him on big time is to simply watch a man piss via a flaccid penis.

Not long after the spy-hole was covered over, Martin asked me if I'd do him a favour. He seemed a bit embarrassed - which is unusual for him - and he also seemed a bit ashamed. He eventually got it out, however. In simple terms, he wanted me to allow him to kneel beside the toilet bowl and watch me pee.

This request did not gross me out, but I did have to point out a few concerns. I told him that the scenario struck me as a bit S&M-ish; that I didn't want to perceive him as servile any more than I wanted to see myself as masterful.

I also expressed reservations about my ability to avoid an erection with his head so close to my dick. And, finally, I worried that my aim might be imperfect and that he might be splashed with a bit of side-spray.

'I'm willing to risk a bit of spray' Martin said. 'I won't feel in the least like your slave, I assure you. After all, it'd be happening at my request, not yours. And maybe we could avoid the erection thing by doing it just after you've shot a load. If you drink a glass of water or two before we have sex, you're sure to need a piss soon afterwards.'

And that's how we managed it the first time. I dutifully drank water before we went to bed. After a nice, leisurely fuck, I soon felt a need to pee. Martin accompanied me, knelt beside me and watched the piss flow. Actually, flow is an exaggeration. My cock was not yet completely flaccid so it came out as more of a spray. Far from seeking to avoid being splashed, he seemed to relish any drops that fell on him.

For a while, this was sufficient. It became the norm for me to pee while Martin watched. Occasionally, he'd ask me to leave my foreskin forward - not something I usually do - and he seemed to relish the effect this had on the flow; that it was less streamlined, that it was less predictable.

Also, on occasions when my foreskin was not pulled back, it became the norm for Martin to take me in his mouth afterwards and tease with his tongue. I protested at this at first, but he assured me that - to him - it tasted beautiful and felt deliciously intimate and erotic.

Eventually, we progressed to other things that Martin enjoyed. Things that had never occurred to me.

One evening, he suggested we share the bathtub instead of showering. I had visions of candles and bath oils. It seemed to me quite romantic and I was sure it would lead to highly enjoyable sex afterwards.

Well, we did have a highly enjoyable fuck - doggy style - with Martin on his knees facing the faucets and me on my knees behind him. It was a bit slippery - there were foaming bubbles all around us - but it was also great fun.

When I'd blown my load deep inside him, Martin showed no sign that he wanted to ejaculate too. Instead, he asked me to stay inside him because he wanted to try something new.

'I want you to piss up my arse' he said.

'Whaaat? No way.' I protested. 'There is no way I could pee in there. It wouldn't work. And, besides, I don't want to. It can't be hygienic. It might cause an infection or something.'

By this time, my cock had dwindled to almost its normal size and I was about to pull away and set it free. But Martin reached behind and pulled me closely against him.

'Trust me' he said. 'There'll be no harm done and you'll be giving me the thrill of a lifetime.'

I decided to keep quiet. Humour him for a while. I felt certain it wasn't really feasible to piss inside someone. I also felt absolutely no desire to do so.

Then Martin began to clench on my cock, setting up an exquisite and urgent tightness. At the same time he began to talk dirty.

'Mmm. I love the feel of your cock up my arse. I can feel it getting harder with each squeeze. Oh, I want it to grow bigger and harder and fill me right up.'

Whether I could pee inside my guy was one question. Whether I could get hard again was quite another matter. An erection was outside my control. It was inevitable once Martin started to contract and move gently back and forwards. Having fucked only a few minutes earlier, there was no difficulty in picking up the pace. It was still tight in there but it was well lubricated too.

Somehow - and I'm not sure why - I found this coupling more erotic than most. Perhaps it was because Martin's unusual request had evoked a response deep within me. What he wanted was light years away from any conscious desire I had ever experienced. Perhaps a spark lit up in my sub-conscious.

Irrational and taboo though I considered it, I found myself almost desperate to piss inside him.

So I fucked him at a furious pace, pounding away almost brutally because I was impatient for two things - firstly, I wanted to blow my load deep within him; secondly, I wanted to fill his arse with urine immediately afterwards. All the while, Martin kept up his dirty talk, urging me to fill him with creamy jizz.

When I finally shot a load of cum, we were both gasping and sweating and exhilarated. I slumped against Martin's back and felt totally spent.

'Oh fuck' I gasped. 'That was incredible.'

That's when I suddenly became aware of how sore my knees felt. A bathtub is not the softest option for doing it doggy-style.

'Oh fuck' I said again. 'My knees are killing me!'

'Wuss' was Martin's predictable reply. 'We're only half-way there, Andy. Stay with me. Don't you dare withdraw.'

Well, I couldn't have withdrawn anyway. My cock usually takes quite a while to be totally flaccid. On this occasion, my dick seemed to stay as hard as ever and Martin had his arms behind him, pulling me forwards and ensuring we remained glued together.

'Now' he murmured. 'I want you to concentrate on taking a leak. You know you want to and I know you can.'

I wasn't as confident as Martin, but I tried my hardest to concentrate. At first it seemed hopeless. I was thinking there was no way I could piss in this position. It seemed against everything I'd ever learned in life. I was accustomed to taking a leak in a toilet or a urinal. I was fine with taking a leak behind a bush or a tree. But peeing whilst kneeling in a bathtub and deep inside someone's arse, well, that felt a bit like wetting the bed. It went against thirty years of potty training!

With my eyes closed, and with Martin whispering encouragement, I did my best to relax and shake off any inhibitions. I could sense that my bladder was in need of emptying. I could also sense that years of training were preventing the necessary muscles from letting go.

'Just keep quiet' I said. 'Don't say a word and don't clench at me. I need to relax and focus.'

Martin did as I asked.

I cleared my mind of non-essentials. I gave no thought to where I was. I blanked out the protests of my aching knee-caps. I forced my mind to focus on one thing only. Pissing.

I somehow isolated whatever valve or sphincter it is that allows urine to flow out of my bladder, down the length of my cock and then into space.

Trust me, it's not an easy thing to do the very first time you attempt it. There were several false starts; several times when I thought I was just about to let go; but, finally, it began to happen.

It was a very feeble flow at first. I said nothing to Martin because I wasn't sure the flow would increase. And I didn't realise whether he'd even notice what felt like a pathetic trickle.

I was wrong. He noticed immediately. He didn't speak but I heard him sigh, and his arse seemed to signal its satisfaction at being irrigated.

Eventually, I could sense that I was pissing freely. I could feel the warmth of my own urine around the head of my dick. I was amazed at how erotic this felt.

I surrendered myself to sensation. I no longer worried about stuff spilling out of Martin's arse and into the bathwater. I no longer saw our activity as a bizarre or perverted or unsanitary practice. I thought of all the times I'd considered my cum as a gift when it spurted inside my man, an intimate gift we both appreciated. I realised that this was yet another way of giving Martin something he considered precious; another body fluid I could share with him.

When I felt I could pee no more, I finally spoke and asked Martin if he was OK. And - now that he was free to speak again too - he told me how wonderful it had felt. He also told me it was time to disengage.

Once my cock was withdrawn, I looked down to check out the bath-water. To my surprise, the water was clear. I'd expected it to be stained yellow. I'd also expected to see floating globs of jizz. I'd expected my piss to have dislodged the cum deposited previously.

Once we'd emptied the bath and dried each other off with bath-towels, Martin smiled at me and I sensed that - as usual - he knew what I was thinking.

'It's all inside me still' he said.

I must have looked incredulous.

'It's not completely water-tight, Andy, but I do have some control over my arse-hole. Mechanically, this is no different to using an enema. But oh, fuck, it's so much better. I'm full of Andy-fluids. I'm carrying your cum and your urine inside me. I'm on top of the world" he declared ...

... "and now I need to go potty!"

And that's how we expanded our repertoire. Nowadays, I often piss inside Martin after fucking him. It still requires concentration, but I no longer worry about the fluids pouring out of him. He doesn't need to lure me into the bathtub. We occasionally do it in the shower, but most of the time it happens in our bed; or - on a winter's evening - on the rug in front of the fireplace; or - if the mood takes us - in the kitchen with Martin bent over the table or a counter-top.

I can't say I get any physical thrill out of peeing into my lover. For him, it's all sensation. He tells me how much he loves the feel of warm urine flowing into his gut; that it feels like a love potion or a balm; that it fills him with exquisite pleasure. For me, it is more related to my heart and my mind. I love the thought that I'm pleasing him; that he's accepting part of me deep inside; that we are achieving an incredible level of intimacy.

Not everyone's cup of tea, I know. Indeed, many people might be revolted - just as I was when Martin first spoke about it - but it has added another dimension to our love-making. Sometimes, I find myself more excited about what might happen afterwards than I am about blowing a load of warm, creamy cum up Martin's fantastic tight ass.

There's more, of course. Several new activities. Martin is a creative and sensuous guy. I doubt he'll ever run out of new things we can try. I also doubt I'll ever resist.

I may be depressingly conservative in many, many ways, but I find myself increasingly willing and eager to explore any opportunities he might suggest.


Andrew Tait

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