English Sex Stories
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She's trying to fuck my mouth with her foot is the closest description
#1
I've previously shared something extraordinary I witnessed during a charity gala held at the museum at which I hold a very high position of authority. One of the gala attendees, who happens to be one of the most glamorous, lovely, and famous women in America, upon encountering a long queue at the ladies room, slipped out of the party and into an area of the museum that had been designated off limits. I followed her, and still can't believe what I saw. This elegant beauty, believing herself to be completely alone, deliberately urinated on the floor of the institution, in a gallery filled with priceless paintings and antiquities.

I caught up with her as she made her way back to the party. While subtly implying that I had seen what she did, I offered to give her a private tour of the museum. I had found something deeply exciting in what I witnessed, and wanted to share that excitement with her, while letting her know that her secret was safe. Honestly, I expected that to be the end of things. Although a treasured memory, the incident slipped from the forefront of my mind as time marched on.

Several months later, my office phone rang and I found myself speaking to a woman whose voice I did not recognize. To my surprise, it was the actress herself! She apologized for not reaching out sooner, but explained she had been filming on location out of the country but she wanted an opportunity to take me up on my generous offer.

I told her it was quite all right, and that frankly, I had never expected to hear from her again at all. I was also surprised that she had called me directly as I frequently deal with the wealthy and powerful, and often only ever speak to agents, assistants, or other intermediaries. But with her, there was none of that. She told me that she had enjoyed visiting our museum in the past, and also informed me that she had an intense interest in the arts. Had she not gone into modeling and acting, she would have studied art history in college. She maintained an interest in the subject and read up on it in her downtime.

Not to dwell on the procedural details, but she wanted everything kept low key and informal. We arranged for her to come to museum on a Sunday afternoon because the museum would be closed to the public and few additional staff would be present.

She arrived at the scheduled time wearing a sleeveless dark gray top over a long thin white skirt with black stripes. The skirt was cut with slits that ran from her ankles to a few inches above her knees, offering me a pleasing glimpse of her tan and well-toned legs. She appeared comfortable and fashionable, though I'm sure with her elfin face and curvaceous body she'd appear resplendent no matter what she wore. Her hair, blonde last time I had seen her, was now dark brown. She looked perhaps more lovely as a brunette.

Over the next few hours, I led her on a guided tour of our galleries, showing her the highlights that everyone who visits wants to see, as well as some lesser-known but quite interesting pieces. Near the end of the tour, we found ourselves back in Gallery 15, home to works by 16th century Italian and Spanish masters (as well as a very happy memory).

The last time I had seen her in this place, she had drawn up the hem of her evening gown, squat down, and sent an amber stream of pee cascading down to wood and granite floor. I have no way of knowing what she was thinking, but her demeanor betrayed no malice, mischief, or intoxication. When the need arose, it was as though she simply felt entitled to pee wherever she pleased. Despite standing in the very room she had, depending on one's point of view, desecrated or consecrated with that golden surge from between her legs, I made no mention of the events from that night. If she thought about them at all, her body language betrayed nothing.

As the tour wound toward its conclusion, I mentioned that only a small fraction of the museum's collection was on display. She became excited at the topic of curation, and asked if she could see some of the 'behind the scenes' workings of the museum. Since she was so keenly interested, I agreed to show her more. Who wouldn't want to spend more time with such a delightful woman? We started with the preservation and restoration areas. Now, this story isn't about museum management and operations, so I'll skip the details. But, suffice to say, I was impressed by her knowledge of art and her intellectual curiosity. Having seen the galleries, the workshops, and the back offices, I offered to take her down to the archive, if she wanted to see it.

The archive holds a significant percentage of the collection. Pieces that are not on permanent display rotated are in and out as necessary. Keeping the collection organized, orderly, and safe is important work. Short our educational mission; it is perhaps the institution's most important task. For that reason, access to the warehouse is not granted haphazardly. Few people even know its location.

To get there requires summoning a rather ancient, slow freight elevator with a keycard and entry of a code, then riding down quite a long ways into the subterranean warehouse. Once we arrived, we beheld a vast storeroom full of great artistic and cultural treasures, although you wouldn't necessarily know it by looking at it. Rows and rows of metal shelves full of boxes occupied a great deal of the facility. Dozens of racks of narrow drawers lined one wall. Cases, trunks, chests, and pallets of materials clogged formed corridors through the vast space. Another section of the warehouse is dedicated to 15-foot long metal mesh panels running floor-to-ceiling. Paintings can be mounted on either side of the panels, which rest tightly packed roughly 18 inches apart. The individual panels travel on rails so it can be pulled out away from its neighbors, and a curator can easily access the pieces on it. All of these treasures are meticulously organized, catalogued, and retrievable to those select few who know the system, and know what they are looking for.

I admit to perhaps showing off a bit, as one does around beautiful women who demonstrate interest in your field of expertise. As we walked around the premises, inspecting objects and artifacts I found significant and interesting, she stopped and asked if we could pause so she could use the restroom.

Unfortunately, I told her, there were not any bathrooms in the warehouse. We would have to take the elevator back up to the museum and use facilities there. She stopped walking and sighed with frustration.

I apologized again and promised we could come back if she wanted to explore the collection in the warehouse further.

She let out an indignant sigh. "I don't want to have to ride up then ride back down. I can save us a lot of time and just go right here. I don't mind," she said as she pulled her skirt up. I could see the outline of a prominent mons pressing against the fabric of her pale blue panties as she hooked her thumbs into the waistband.

"Wait!" I cried out. "Please, wait. People know I came down here. If anything is found, there will be an investigation."

She raised her eyebrow, smiled and nodded. "Sure. Don't worry, I can be discreet with this." I started scanning the room for something that could serve as a viable receptacle - a bucket, an empty box, even some piece of ancient pottery. She, however, had other ideas.

She coolly walked to the panels holding the archived paintings. In a blur of motion suggesting she was well practiced at the maneuver, she pulled her skirt up, panties down around her knees, and squat low on her haunches. She opened her legs and carefully aligned her pussy with the narrow gap between two of the panel walls. Suddenly, I was aware of the racing of my own heart. I was completely bewitched. I wanted to tell her to stop, but my mouth was dry and the words would not form.

Within seconds, a stream of piss emerged and threaded the gap between panels with laser-like precision. Priceless masterworks and cultural treasures were mounted on the panels inches away liquid danger, but her aim was flawless. The urine landed noisily on the concrete floor a few feet beyond the edge of the panels, puddling out of sight.

Once again, I found myself aghast and aroused. Relieving herself here, I found, had a provocative artistry of its own.

A peeing woman is simultaneously incredibly vulnerable and incredibly powerful. She must expose the most intimate parts of her body to the world. Yet in that vulnerable state, she is exercising a kind of elemental power. To piss somewhere is to leave a mark. That mark can be discreet and ephemeral, or bold and irrevocable. Where, how, and why she chooses to leave that mark conveys a message and meaning. Is the mark made in an act of desperation, of convenience, for amusement, out of contempt, or even as a sign of affection? (Even using the toilet, at least in the West where we deliberately pollute clean water with our urine, then immediately replace it more fresh water could be interpreted as a demonstration of power over nature.) The tension between these elements of vulnerability and power, between intent and meaning, is what I find so compelling.

I moved to get a closer look. Though she expertly targeted her steadily forceful stream between the panels, as the piss impacted with the unyielding concrete floor, it formed spatters that splashed against a painting mounted near the floor. In a panic, I raced to pull that panel forward, to move that priceless work out of the piss corona that threatened to destroy it. In doing so, I disrupted the young woman's concentration. She turned slightly to look at me, resulting in the painting receiving the full brunt of her crystalline deluge. My actions to rescue the artwork had guaranteed the item was now hopelessly vandalized.

"Why did you do that? We're fucked now, aren't we?" she cried. She stood up, still with her skirt bunched up above her hips, panties now around her ankles.

I looked at the painting, confirmed it was utterly ruined, and said "Maybe not."

She looked at me quizzically, and I continued. "This piece is by Erich Dragenbach, who was a briefly a shining star and enfant terrible of the art world in the 1920s and 1930s. His work is rarely displayed anymore as modern audiences find that whatever merits can be found in his work, they no longer outweigh his rather aggressive misogyny and fascist sympathies. Few people think about him anymore. This painting could sit in this warehouse unobserved, the damage undiscovered for years," I said hopefully.

She nodded. "Erich Dragenbach. He was an awful person from everything I've read, and not that great an artist." I nodded in agreement at her assessment. With that, she laughed mockingly as a short clear gush of piss jet out from her vagina and struck a neighboring Dragenbach canvas, which greedily absorbed the liquid. Another burst followed, thoroughly soaking the second canvas, ensuring it too would carry the stain of her wrathful piss. Finally, a weak spurt followed by several drops of pee falling straight down to the floor announced her bladder was thoroughly drained. She exhaled slowly, almost blisfully. "I wasn't quite done, and if what you say is right, what difference does it make now?" More softly she remarked, "Besides, I kind of always wanted to do that." She shrugged and pushed the panel back into its slot, once again hiding the evidence of her misdeed.

"If you ever get tired of acting and modeling, you'll make a fine art critic," I smirked. She flashed a smile in return. I had seen that smile before in magazines and on the big screen, and I would never look at it the same way.

Although a large pool of her urine lay cooling out of sight beneath the panel walls, drips and drops in the aisle needed to be cleaned up. I unbuttoned my collared shirt. "What are you doing?" she asked suspiciously. I explained that I was going to use it to mop up her mess.

As soon as I removed the undershirt, she snatched it from my hand and used it to soak up the piss drops on her thighs, then wipe her vagina dry. She slapped the soiled garment back in my hand, and I finished cleaning up the visible mess.

We returned to the ground floor, and the tour was over. She thanked me for a memorable experience, and I told her she was welcome to schedule another private tour any time she wished.
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