When Nature Calls Ch. 01

Despite the small medical anomaly, Hector thought of himself as an ordinary guy. He had a job he loved as the Deputy Parks Ranger for Toeheekee Forest and lived in a little cottage he had built just outside the State Park lines.

His truck was paid off. He made good money, ate good food, and lived a good life — active, full of simple pleasures, giving back to the community.

If there was anything missing in Hector's life, it perhaps was the company of a special woman.

Ever since his accident a few years ago and subsequent rehabilitation — healing quickly but learning how to live with himself as a changed man — he hadn't made any attempts to get back into the dating world.

His self-confidence has waned, he had to admit. He was no longer ashamed of his condition, as he was in the early months (in fact these days he was finding a new kind of pleasure in it), but it was hard to think of a case where it wouldn't cause difficulties.

Any potential sexual partners had to be forewarned, and ... who's to say he wouldn't scare those off who stuck around long enough to find out what was "wrong" with him? He may have come to terms with it, but not everyone would be so understanding.

So for now, he lived alone, rising just before the sun each day. He was a tidy man — liked to make his bed neat in the morning, the first in many small steps of his typical routine. In the winter months he often went outside to chop wood at this hour, but in summer he was able to go straight from his bedroom to the kitchen to brew a strong pot of coffee. While he waited, he poured a glass of water for himself and chugged it before he stepped into the boots by the door and walked outside, around the back.

Hector's was the only home for miles — his property abutted the state park, and he had no neighbors until you reached the DuPonts about three miles down the road. If he walked behind his house and into the forest, he disappeared from sight — no chance even of being seen if someone were to pass on the main road.

Hector listened to the soft crunch and rustle of plant matter under his feet as he walked further, taking in a deep breath of that morning air that remains crisp and cool before the sun warms up the earth. The sound of life — birds and small animals — chimed in from all directions.

When the urge struck, it was always unexpected, and always accompanied by various gradations of pleasurable sensations. Hector didn't even position himself in front of a nearby tree. He just stopped in the middle of the trail, unzipped his pants, and took his cock in his hand. Not a moment too soon.

The urge racked him, from midsection to the tip of his penis. He felt himself a hose, with some joint inside his body suddenly reconnected to the main source. He couldn't have stopped the flow if he tried.

With a groan, he released a stream of piss that arced forward from the head of his stiffening cock. "Christ," he murmured, watering the ground in front of him.

The dry, thirsty dirt soaked up his urine, leaving only a foamy head of bubbles on the ground. The pool kept growing as he released all the pent-up liquid in his bladder from overnight. He created a sodden area in the middle of the walking trail.

Finally spent, he shook the drops off his dick, tucked himself back into his pants, and completed his walk, circling back around to the cabin. The air smelled like coffee when he entered.

A little frisson of pleasure made him shiver around the ears and for a moment he thought he might wet himself — even after the enormous unloading of his bladder on the forest trail — but after a moment it passed.

Hector poured himself a cup of the hot, dark brew and inhaled deeply. God, that smell. The glass of water he'd consumed upon first waking up had barely had time to move through him yet, so he took his time sipping his coffee as he opened up his major news sites and caught up on the headlines. But once he stood up to refill his mug, he felt a familiar pang in his bladder.

Hector had a system. The first cup of coffee was for the news. The second was for porn. So now he opened up an incognito window and maneuvered to one of his favorite sites, reaching for the bucket under the desk as he clicked on a video that he knew would be effective.

Carefully, Hector seated himself on the front edge of the chair, placing the bucket on the ground between his feet. He unzipped, drew out his heavy cock (now pointed in a distinctly upward direction), and checked that he was clear of any fabrics or items he didn't want splashed.

Lazily, he stroked himself, wishing that the cute girl in the video had her mouth wrapped around his own cock, licking the head with the tip of her small pink tongue. A tremor wracked him, but he persisted in jerking his hand around himself. His breath came in short puffs.

The man onscreen shot his load into the cute girl's open, waiting mouth and as if by power of suggestion, Hector followed suit, gasping as he spurted several distinct streams into the bucket below him. The thick, milky drops stood out on the blue plastic as they dripped down the side.

And as if someone in his brain was working a switch, the whatever-it-was activated in his head and a desperate urge filled him — the sudden feeling of an overfull bladder and a wild need to relieve himself, even if he had to piss all over the floor to do it. That's what the bucket was for.

Hector didn't try to resist the urge, didn't hold it in, but let it pass right through him. With barely any buildup, his bladder felt tight and ready to explode, dangerous, capable of spilling over at any moment. So he leaned into it and let the pressure expel itself forcefully through his cock.

Hector pissed wildly, his stream thick as it pinged inside the plastic bucket until soon it was making the sound of water-on-water, which was drowned out by Hector's deep groans of pleasure.

Once the piss slowed and trickled away to nothing, he sat back and dabbed himself with a tissue. It soaked up yellow as soon as he threw it in the bucket. After dumping its contents outside, he took a shower, poured himself a travel mug of coffee, and grabbed his car keys. Time to head into work.

--

Hector suffered from an unusual affliction, although these days he wouldn't call it "suffering." An accident while working on the park department maintenance crew had required sudden surgery, leaving him with a pelvic scar, several months of rehabilitation, and his current condition. The guys at work joked about how lucky he was to have missed his dick, but none of them realized the extent of the internal injury, which required grafting other parts of his flesh into tubing that might never function the same way again.

In essence, whatever network of nerves connected his brain to his pelvis was screwed up, twisted and entangled: certain signals of his body were misread by his brain. Sometimes pleasure felt like the need to urinate; sometimes the need to urinate felt like pleasure.

Almost every day, if not several times a day, the need to piss crept upon him so suddenly that he didn't realize it was present until he was already urinating inside his own pants. It was a good thing that he had several months of rest at home to discover this; there was less shame in it to wet himself inside his own house, able to creep to the bathroom to clean up. If he was at work where the guys might witness his lack of control over his bladder, there would only be laughter and pity.

But although the other symptoms were unpredictable, there was one constant effect that the accident had wrought. Every time he orgasmed — every single time he ejaculated — he voided his bladder immediately after. The piss would hold back while he came, since his tubes weren't so crossed as to permit them both to flow simultaneously, but as soon as his pelvic muscles relaxed and his cock started to go limp, he would gush out the contents of his bladder.

Since he was in the habit of masturbating during his morning shower (and since, during his recovery period, he started to take long, leisurely baths), it was not an inconvenience when it started happening, though it was a bit of a surprise.

The doctors said that things might be wonky down there for a bit, so he assumed that the side effect would eventually lapse. He enjoyed it a bit, to be honest: the feeling of relief, followed by an immediate feeling of further release, leaving him totally spent, drained of all he could possibly emit.

It was a deep, abiding relief, an orgasm commingling with animal pleasure, with a little thrill for the sheer novelty, the taboo aspect of his satisfaction.

Soaking in the tub during those months, he'd build himself up, postponing his climax as long as possible, the tip of his cock rising out of the tub water, his fist displacing water as he pumped slowly.

And then the ejaculation, accompanied by a primal male satisfaction to watch his own spurting; he always felt a little silly and pleased when it struck the tiled wall in front of him, as if the force of its propulsion was equivalent to his own masculine strength, and implied a certain territorial claim in its holding. This was his bath; his room; his house; when he orgasmed, he felt he could lay claim to the world itself.

And then the erection subsided, his cock lowered itself again into the warm bath water, and he watched the spot between his legs bloom with yellow as he relaxed, pissing what he had left to piss.

That too satisfied a primal itch; it was compelling to sit during urination whereas before he had always stood, and it felt good to relieve himself in the moment, where he was, as soon as the urge struck, instead of hastening to find a secure, permissible spot where one could urinate.

Certain areas were sanctioned, were approved as places where one could relieve oneself. Even if he was only in the bathtub, just next to the toilet, he felt an illicit thrill to go where he did not usually.

So he expected that the side effect would diminish at some point, but it did not; and he found that as time went on, he prized this ability more, not less. If he had been active with a woman in the last couple years, maybe it would have been a different story. But on his own, with the time and privacy and loneliness to revel in his self, it seemed a sudden and rare gift.

It required conditions, of course, and remedies to offset the inconvenience. There was a week when he hadn't masturbated at all, wondering if a break would help him heal, and woke up several times in the night with an erotic dream fading rapidly in his mind, lying in soaked sheets.

He learned to keep a bucket and a towel handy at all times, to buy a water-resistant bed pad, to limit his masturbatory sessions to places where he could control the environment, and to protect the furniture.

The first few months recuperating at home were essential to help him figure out what was required for a transition back to normal life. He wet himself a lot, in the early days, still confused by the mixed signals from his brain: he thought he was aroused when he really needed to pee; sometimes he was gripped by an urgent need to relieve himself, but could only produce a few drops; and sometimes he inexplicably thundered down a torrent of piss in the middle of the grocery store when he didn't think he had to go at all.

Hector avoided embarrassment on many of the early accidents: he wasn't up for huge crowds anyway, so he tended to drive out of his way to visit smaller towns, places where he wouldn't be recognized, with stores empty enough in the middle of the day that he could sneak out unnoticed, without buying anything, in a place he'd had an accident. He left more than a few guilty puddles behind him.

After relieving himself in his truck for the third time, however, he invested in some heavy-duty floor mats for the car, kept an empty thermos in the cup holder that he could use in a pinch, and invested in a carton of adult diapers. He didn't wear these often, but it gave him an extra feeling of security on certain occasions when he went out in public.

He learned to recognize the signs a little better; sometimes there were subtle distinctions that indicated when his bladder was truly full instead of just pretending, and his arousal began to distinguish itself better from the need to piss. But by the time this happened, he had already inextricably linked the two: pissing had become its own erotic release.

He experimented with it more and more as time went on, growing bolder with the comfort and understanding of his new condition. That's when he started to go out for more walks in the woods on his own, because if the urge hit him, he was free to relieve himself on the spot. In the bathtub, he started practicing his aim, splattering the tile walls with satisfaction.

One day, drawn by some compulsion, he knelt in the warm water with his cock pointing towards the rest of the bathroom as he masturbated: he came all over the bathroom floor and pissed immediately after with his cock hanging over the side of the tub. After that, he discovered the pleasure of pissing in more taboo places.

Hector started slowly, with the bathroom, trying something new each time he used it: he pissed on the edge of the tub; he faced the mirror and pissed on his own liquid reflection; he let loose over the sink and vanity; he opened the drawers of towels, rested his cock on the top of the stack, and pissed over them, watching the fabric soak up his stream; he opened the back hatch of the toilet and peed into those waters instead; he sat on the toilet seat and sent his stream over the floor in front of him; he aimed at the towels on the towel rack; he pissed forcefully and deliberately upon the thick roll of toilet paper hanging next to him, watching the liquid seep through the layers until it dampened the cardboard tube at its center.

Then Hector got bolder. He would guzzle a bottle of water, stash another in his cup holder, and take long drives along deserted back roads to make himself deliberately desperate — so desperate that he would whip out his cock as he drove, groaning as he found sweet relief, gushing piss all over the new floor mats.

They were easy to clean after; he only had to drag them out and hose them off in the yard when he got home. But oh, the feeling of pissing with abandon, the fact of his relieving himself where he sat, his upper half visible to other drivers while none of them knew what was happening lower; and in his car, no less, where he might accidentally splatter his seat or ruin the interior fabric.

To piss even while he was speeding, hurtling along back roads. On a couple of occasions, the urge had crept upon him too suddenly to even pull his cock from his pants, and those times he had just sat back and groaned, letting the piss wash the inside of his pants and soak him in his own fluids.

But on this day, heading into work, there was no need to piss in his truck; he only had to drive five minutes down the road to the info center to drop off his lunch and sign in before he was grabbing his water bottle and heading out again to walk the trails.

Hector's job was satisfying: he drove around in his truck to outlying areas, making sure hikers stayed on the trail, looking for spots that might require maintenance, examining certain trees that were showing the possibility of rot or dangerous overhanging limbs.

He encountered a few people throughout his day, but not many: it had never been a problem for him to take a few steps off the trail and relieve himself against a tree when the urge struck. In his line of work, the world really was his toilet.

So he walked, and hummed to himself, and sometimes he couldn't help but imagine the companionable presence of a woman — it would be nice to share these hikes, he thought. He didn't have a lot of opportunities for easy conversation outside of the lunchroom banter between the Parks Department staff, and none of the female employees that were his age were single. If he were ready to admit it to himself, which he wasn't, Hector would have realized that he was lonely.

Sometimes he even imagined a woman with him. He was alone for a great part of the day, and it wasn't like he deliberately concocted an imaginary friend — he didn't even speak to her — but he thought of her idly, this fantasy woman, adding her to the margins of his life as he daydreamed.

He thought about the companionship of having her walking alongside him in the woods, and he thought about how nice it might be if she held his dick while he pissed for once, instead of always having to do it himself.

So he was walking along the trail in one particularly vacant stretch, a small corner of the park where hardly anyone ventured, when he started thinking about his fantasy woman and the way she might undress for him. His cock got harder as he walked, necessitating a slight stop for adjustment.

But the brush of his hand over his junk sent him into a full-body shiver which sent him onto his tip-toes for a moment, his heels lifting up as he crouched with the sudden, desperate need to pee.

He didn't have a moment to lose; he couldn't even afford the time to walk off the trail.

Hector fumbled with his pants, unzipping and yanking out his stiff cock in the middle of the path, and then — he squirted out a couple of drops and stopped. False alarm. It happened sometimes, too.

He sighed, tucked himself back into his pants, and kept walking.

His fantasy woman stayed with him, but now she was naked, and slithering up and down the trunks of towering red cedar as if they were stripper poles. She thrust her naked breasts at him; she turned around and presented herself, looking so luscious with those wide hips, all the warm parts of herself he wanted to grab and pull closer...

Hector stopped. He was pretty close to a part of the trail that he had used before — just around the next bend, there was a small copse of maple trees. If he ducked under their branches, he'd arrive at a little clearing, closed off from view of the main trail.

Resolute, cock straining, he marched over to it, picking his way over the ground with cracking and crunching noises under his boot. Making up part of the perimeter of this clearing was the trunk of a red cedar; he leaned against it and unzipped his pants.

The girl from the porn video this morning entered his mind at that moment; he imagined her mouth on his cock as he stroked himself, even while the fantasy woman continued her gyrations in his field of vision. There were two women: one dancing for him; the other touching him, licking him, jerking him off.

He groaned, and spasmed, and shot his load: and immediately after, the hot flood of piss followed. He didn't want to stand anymore, so he squatted abruptly, his penis still casting a torrent forward onto the ground in front of him while he rubbed at his eyes tiredly.

And then his eyes found the face of a woman, who also squatted at the edge of the clearing, her skirt half-up and her underwear pushed around her knees, with a frozen look in her eyes that indicated she had been there, attempting to find her own privacy, since before he had arrived on the scene. And she had seen everything.

There was a moment when he was confused to find a third woman in this place, as if she cropped up in his mind unbidden after he had sent away the first two. But then he understood.

Hector scrambled to his feet before he finished pissing; the woman's eyes followed his cock as he stood. He wanted to run, but he couldn't flee while urinating, and he was having a hard time cutting off that flow; but nor could he say a word to her. His flow ebbed, and trickled away to nothing.

(to be continued)