Glamorous Abby Pulls opens her pussy to pee
The Glamorous Abby Show: A Peeing Pink Poser Meets Her Pussy Match
Abigail “Abby” Pissley, the 18-year-old petite brunette, was just your average, ordinary teenage girl… with the exception of one tiny, liquid-infused quirk. Abby had an insatiable fascination – no, an all-consuming fetish for watersports. Every private dance, every lewd twirl, every striptease at her club job The Gargoyle Hut was choreographed around her “special” pissing performances. Whistles, cheers, applause and shouting compliments like “Piss Princess!!” were the tipping point for Abby to pull open her puffy cunt lips and let gravity do its work in guiding a warm stream of her golden nectar into beer glasses, ashtrays, whiskey bottles – or the faces of her most generous patrons.
Some girls had paints and easels as their artistic outlet; Abby’s canvas was the polished floor and rowdy crowd down on the main stage. She’d practiced her specific skillset over many a Tooheys guestcheon in secret, waiting for the perfect moment to wow her occult audience. “The watersports act will install itself as your signature move,” she’d predicted to the mirror before each shift, “just like an epic poolside hobby or a thirst-quenching party trick.”Spontaneous? Most certainly not. Abby’s solo performance piece, a masterClass course in deep squats and aim control, even had a protagonist’s persona: the Peeing Pink Poser.
Opening night with her lewdly labeled number was a flipping success. In a reveal of her fluffy crotch, the charismatic bartenders’ daughter trailed her amber fluid from one end of the bar to the other, eyes locked in rapturous position and ready for the tip. Once her bladder was empty, Abby returned to her corner booth, hyper-ventilating and grinning like the cat that caught her rat. She’d become known as “The Gargoyle’s Golden Girl”, sparking curious whispers and horny gawks from both customers and fellow dancers. Each night her routine would escalate, perhaps by holding her pussy centimeters closer to a man’s mouth, or any time he wore a condom attached to his leg like a hands-free crotch-card. Rule number one in watersports, after all, is detect and target anything shiny and round.
The effect of her ribald routine was a heady, dizzying mix: she felt powerful, sexy, alive, and just ever so slightly eliminated (in every sense of the word). The wetness and puffy warmth of her cunt the minutes after peeing was an extension of her blown mind and flush cheeks – it was as if she was always a bit wet and on display. Even after everyone else had called it a night, Abby would practice at home while Ivfpoted her camera to capture its magic. The next day’s self-edited video was always full of giggles behind toke clouds and off-color winks, replete with wry commentary on her “PR (piss receptacle) count” or “fluid volumes”. Sex in the City, this was not – it was raw, boozy power-play pride at its best and most gratuitous.
Yet anyone could see Abby’s scat-filled shtick was served with a sauce of insecurity and identity-smoothing. She was anxious to be “water” in strange male gazes, a feeling of unnamed significance, consequential. As if each power-fueled piss had a transfixing and unmistakable effect – it made her feel notorious. Separate from her absent hippie parents’ eternally pointers and heart-breaking verbzalism over the dinner table.
But her greatest wish was to find a true piss pansy – a private lover devoted to licking each drop on her pink puffy pussy post-pee. Someone who knew the wetness of her shaved cunt was no mortal vulnerability or vulnerability of willpower… but rather the peak of her powers. She would be their guiding waterway to the land of liquid, moist love. And if her suitors, from The Gargoyle Hut’s male employees to a smattering of local cougars, were minus aquatic appetites?
Well then Abby would simply re-angle the camera from her hobo socks to the elongated cheeks and lip- puckering tongue of her new partner in pee. “Smell free, baby! Just like mother’s milk” she’d whisper-croon between arousing giggles. “The greatest gift of all…” Abby would coax demurely as she placed the condescending dick in her palm, “will be when they realize ‘lick or fuck me’ is not a choice, but my requirements.”Oh but the cruel trick of the eye! Abby would further philosophize to camera, after sipping on her rectal microphone voice. “How it wants to believe, to be b e l i e v e d…” After all, shouldn’t cum taste like pee coming out of the other hole? Her hair would swing from her cocked head as she delivered her punchline with a sly smile. “The judgmental tongue!”
But never did Abby’s wild experimentations feel hopeless or nihilistic in nature. In fact, part of her liked the challenge of turning men, women and pubescent voyeurs into loyal piss spots. Like, whether they were conscious of it or not, they would find their own unique logic and/or reasoning to carry out their natural duty as trained upon her urinal assail. Even if all that was needed to sustain them was the hypnotic glisten of her vagina, Keep Pissa as if inwardly carved upon her headstone. “By proving yourself to be the son of ambush I desire…”
So the Peeing Pink Poser is, in her own way, an archetype for this generation and beyond. The dainty brunette with the cute pussy smirk: an icon of our leaking misogyny, if you will. In Abby Pissley, of Australian watersports infamy, we have a real, relatable girl-next-door type who made peeing in public a test of loyalty for anyone who entered the crosshairs of her hazy, dissolve- ting vision. And that, whenyou entail, is worth a badge of the pink P-stream. Even if it’s just Abby’s puckered purse lips pouring all over tin cups and your lap at The Gargoyle Hut.
