I tell you the worst part about FFF — other than, you know, actually doing it. The longer it takes me to look through several hundred erotic fan fics of varying terribleness, the less I want to do FFF. I mean, even if I’m not writing FFF, reading these stories is punishing enough. If I’ve not found a story in two hours of searching, I’ve still paid the emotional price of an FFF, but have nothing to show for it.
My point is that this happened today, and I very, very much did not want to do an FFF at all. But I hate disappointing you poor, twisted souls who look forward to agony of FFF every Friday, and I just happened to find this very short story right before I gave up. It was between this or nothing, so I hope you appreciate it. It might not be too punishing to you, but it is literally the last of hundreds of erotic fan fics I’ve looked through today. This is about all I could take.
He’s working late again, so she fixes him a drink. It’s bourbon, orange juice and spit. She knows it’s a little bitchy of her, but he has barely looked her way these past twelve days, and he did marry her, after all. She thought that would change things.
Yes, you should always marry someone expecting them to change totally for you. That always works out.
You see, he doesn’t really like orange juice.
MAYBE BECAUSE YOU KEEP SPITTING IN IT, POTTS. Sigh. Let’s continue this after the jump.
“What was it this time?” he asks while wiping his mouth. “Your hair boiled with the spaghetti? Fingernails in the buns?”
She shakes her head and smiles from across the table. She worked hard on the meal. “Something much more traditional than that,” she tells him. “Pee in the soup.”
Is not eating the food Pepper brought not an option? I know they’re married, but couldn’t Tony just hire a chef or something?
He raises an eyebrow at her. “Yours?”
“We don’t have a cat.”
“Did I say cat? I meant the hobo who sleeps in the alley next to the office tower. He often meows and shits in a box, so I guess I got confused.”
“Pepper,” he says as they’re preparing for bed. “I wouldn’t have minded if it was yours.”
“I know,” she replies. She is letting her hair down, showering pins on the vanity. “That was the point.”
“I had a ‘too much Pepper in the soup’ joke all ready.”
“That was the other reason I didn’t do it.”
“Aren’t I forgiven already?”
“You’d have to apologize first.”
“It’s my work, Pepper. It’s always been like this and it always will be like this. You used to be fine with that.”
PROTIP: If your wife tells you you need to apologize for something, DON’T ANSWER WITH ANYTHING OTHER THAN AN APOLOGY.
“Mmm,” she intones noncommittally.
“All right, Pepper, whatever you want, I’ll do. I’ll abandon the business. I’ll stop playing superhero. Would that make you happy? Come to bed, dammit.”
“JUST STOP PEEING ON THINGS. Seriously, I’ve had to hire seven different maids in the last two weeks alone.”
She walks over to the bed and allows him to pull her on top of himself. Despite all their problems, all these years, the feel of his skin sends an electric thrill through her. She wonders, not for the first time, if it isn’t just that – electricity escaped from his mechanical heart.
Even without his suit, he could snap her in two.
Like a bitchy Slim Jim with poor bladder control.
She turns her head away when he tries to kiss her. He kisses her chin instead, and her neck. The scratch of his stubble sparks her skin to life.
“Tony,” she gasps. Her fingers tighten on the sheets.
“Mmm.” His big hands run down her back to grasp her buttocks. He’s had countless women, she reminds herself, probably nearly all of them in the same perfunctory manner. She wonders how dirty one of those girls had to get to hold his interest beyond the first five minutes.
Let’s think… super attractive, charismatic billionaire? I imagine if girls aren’t making balloon animals with their vaginas while fellating a rodeo clown on PCP, Tony gets bored pretty fast.
She allows him to roll her over on her back and kiss his way down her body, lingering – unnecessarily – on her nipples, sucking and licking at them as if they could give him milk. She pushes his head downwards impatiently, and he buries his face between her legs.
Looks like Tony…
/puts on sunglasses
…is about to pick a patch of pickled Pepper.
This – ah – now this he can do. His tongue swirls around her pearl, licking, sucking, teasing, his jaw drenching with her juices. They roll over again, and she is straddling his face as he eats her out, his arms wrapped around her hips.
We all know where this is going, right?
Can she…? Yes, she’s not too far gone. Abruptly, she lifts herself on her knees and concentrates.
I don’t know why, but I’m imagining Pepper muttering “HEY batta batta HEY batta batta” while she does this.
Urine dribbles down her legs, and as she grabs his head and shoves her cunt into his face, it runs all over him, too, and the sheets ($570 plus tax), sinking into the mattress (god only knows, four figures is as close as she can guess). The smell will be in his hair. The fluid is warm on her thighs.
If Tony is cool with drinking piss, isn’t the only person being punished here the maid?
She ignores what noises he makes.
I’m going to take a wild guess, and say “glub”.
Whether they form words or not barely matters. Somewhere along with the piss her orgasm flows into being, gentle as a whisper, so light it’s barely there.
Because you’re confusing “urinating” with “orgasming,” Pepper. They take place in vaguely the same region, but they’re pretty different otherwise.
She gets up gracefully, wipes her thighs on a piece of bedding, and goes to the adjoined bathroom to have a shower. She doesn’t turn it up hot enough to singe, not this time; instead she chooses a nice, warm flow.
Like being pissed on by a group of kindly angels!
She lathers herself up in lavender and milk, feeling like a princess.
She hears him enter the bathroom, banging the door. She closes the shower booth’s latch and finishes in her own good time, ignoring his fists on the glass.
“LET ME IN I’M COVERED IN PEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE“
He’s gone by the time she emerges. The bed is still a mess.
And the maid’s resignation letter is on the dresser.
She packs her phone and laptop and a few outfits to get her through the weekend, until she has time to go shopping for more, and leaves everything else – her car, her books, her grandmother’s piano, the house, the pool, the magnificent view, and most irrevocably of all, her husband.
All of them completely covered in pee. The house was admittedly difficult, but a ladder and several gallons of Crystal Light seemed to do the trick.
The night air feels fresh and chill on her clean-washed cheek.
THE END. See? I told you it was short, but again, it was this or nothing. I’m just as miserable as I normally am at this point on Friday. Feel free to complain, though, because I will take any excuse I can not to have to hunt through the annals of shitty fan fic-dom next week. Seriously, go ahead. Tell me it’s not worth it. I won’t mind in the slightest.