Date: Wed, 16 Jun 2021 05:44:59 +0000 (UTC)
From: Spooblefletzer <spooble@protonmail.com>
Subject: Pool Kids On My Patio (bi/urination/young friends)

(the usual: support nifty, it's all fiction, don't do this in real life,
don't read this if you're a minor, etc)

(my first story. be kind.)

The breakup was abrupt, though a long time coming. He found a folder on my
desktop that I'd foolishly left open, the pics I'd collected over the years
left little to the imagination about where my preferences truly lie, and,
big surprise, it was a dealbreaker. He didn't call the cops on me at least,
but I was out. Most of my friends were his, so I definitely couldn't crash
on their sofas. I spent a few days in a motel looking through apartment
ads.

I found a garden level two-bedroom in a craptastic apartment complex. I
didn't care. I could work from home. The apartments above me had balconies,
I had a patio, of sorts, about 3-4 feet below ground level. The opposite
short side was a wall, the long side was my sliding glass door, the nearer
short side was a bedroom wall with a window, and the far long wall was a
low wall of rail ties with a small set of stairs, topped by a row of
shrubbery that effectively obscured the patio from view. What happened
there stayed there.

I recall when I got the tour that the patio smelled strongly of piss and
both the rail tie wall and the cracked cement floor was caked with
moss. The sliding glass doors were a bit rusty and the vertical blinds were
drawn all the way across and closed, as if the management were trying to
conceal it. With the blinds closed, the apartment was quite dark and
cave-like. I didn't mind, it suited my hermit-like tendencies. I just
needed a place to rebuild my life, and it was in my budget. I would
investigate the piss smell in my own time.

I signed the lease, paid my deposit and first month's rent, and the next
day rolled in my suitcase, duffle, laptop, a few boxes of work files, and
an inflatable mattress. The cable guy installed my wifi, I found a
freecycled desk and moved it into the smaller bedroom overlooking the
patio. It was a warm, sunny summer afternoon, a Wednesday, and I could hear
youthful voices merrily splashing around in the complex's outdoor swimming
pool just around the corner. Something to definitely look into, whispered
the devil on my shoulder.

A little later as I was setting up my laptop and monitors, my ears perked
up as I thought I heard something on my patio. Hushed whispers,
giggles. The window facing the patio also had vertical blinds, drawn
shut. I quietly crept over and slid two slats apart just enough to see
through. My heart rate picked up pretty quickly.

There were three boys, varying in ages from maybe nine to just on the cusp
of puberty climbing down into my patio, wet from swimming, shirtless, in
quite skimpy bathing trunks, giggling mischievously. They were Latino - as
were most of the residents in the complex - dark haired, one with a hint of
pudge, the others lean, all with hairless bodies. Their wet bathing suits
left little to the imagination. My pulse wasn't the only thing rising.

And then, to my utter amazement, they each pulled the front of their suits
down, pulled out their uncut cocks, and started pissing on the patio, just
as casually as if they were at a urinal. They were angled so I could see
all three clearly. All three were uncut, and they had no sense of shame or
embarrassment about having their dicks out and pissing around each other;
they were each watching the others. As their streams started to trickle,
the older one started to tug on his cock to squeeze out the last few drops,
and it started to grow. His two younger comrades watched with interest. But
alas, he popped it back into his shorts, as did the other two, and they
soon scampered up the steps and back toward the pool.

I don't think I had breathed throughout the entire incident. Did that
seriously just happen? My hand was already groping my rigid cock through my
jogging pants, and I quickly decamped to the bathroom where I promptly
spilled my seed into the sink.

Well now.

Long story short, over the course of the afternoon, it became apparent that
my patio was the unofficial toilet for pretty much all the kids old enough
to be at the pool without parental supervision. The pool didn't have a
changing room or a functional bathroom, so the options were to go back to
their apartment, hold their bladders, or find a conveniently private spot,
and for those opting for the latter, my patio was that spot. That
afternoon, no less than a dozen kids - mostly boys, but a few girls -
relieved themselves on my patio. Even with the sliding door closed, the
aroma of urine grew pretty strong as the day progressed; not that I
minded. I had apparently won the craptastic apartment lottery.

And it being early July, this had evidently been going on long enough that
it had evolved from what might've been a private naughty thing to
essentially an open secret, and as such boundaries were constantly
expanding. They were very comfortable pissing around each other, making a
game of it, showing themselves off to each other, and for the ones who were
nearer to puberty, exploring the more overtly sexual aspects of their
newfound fetish.

Through the course of the day my cock was spent from all the activity. Some
came by, did their business, and left, but others made more of a show. One
highlight came when that older boy came back with the pudgy kid, and dared
him to piss his swimsuit, he seemed a bit reluctant but eventually
obliged. Another was a girl, by herself, wearing a one-piece suit; she
pulled the fabric that covered her crotch aside, leaned back, and unleashed
a torrent into the air almost as high as her head. Before finishing, she
glanced over her shoulder to make sure she was unseen, and started
furiously rubbing her hairless clit for a moment, splashing pee everywhere
before her stream subsided, after which she covered herself back up and
dashed off. That was quite a show. I prefer the boys, truth be told, but
that display definitely drove me to further self-abuse.

That evening the action was clearly over as dinnertime came and night fell,
but lying on my inflatable mattress, replaying the highlights in my head en
route to orgasm number... oh hell by then I lost count...  it struck me:
they only came to my patio because this apartment had been vacant for so
long. Once it became clear that someone was living here, the show would be
over. This cavalcade of adolescent pissplay would not be permanent.

I realized I'd have to lay low for a while. Blinds shut, no audio from
music or streaming during the day, no lights until dark when the pool was
closed. What would I do about my work meetings?

I checked my weather app, and tomorrow would be another warm and sunny day,
and surely the pool would be well trafficked. I'd taken these few days off
and had a lot of errands, but I didn't want to miss the show. What to do?
Ahhh, then I remembered my webcam. No Zoom meetings for you tomorrow,
little fella. You will have other duties.

That night I got everything set up. I placed the cam on the windowsill,
positioned as unobtrusively as possible, and downloaded some video editing
shareware. Thursday morning, I double-checked my connections, took some
test videos, and started recording just before I left for the day around
10-ish. On the way to the car, I took a detour past the pool, where some
kids were already splashing around. I recognized a few faces. Hopefully
they'd return.

I loaded up at Target, Ikea, and the supermarket, trying not to focus on
what might be happening on my patio lest I get too visibly boned. But
nonetheless, my cock ached for something other than my hand. Sex with my ex
was... fine, I guess. I realized he wasn't my sexual ideal, but usually I
was able to get through it, even if occasionally I had to rely on my spank
bank - usually involving Boy Scout camp. Eventually he noticed that I
wasn't particularly turned on by him; tears and recriminations and long
arguments into the night followed. Then eventually things flagged and not
even Scout camp could save me. That was the beginning of the end, and
shortly afterwards he found the folder. Maybe on some level I left it there
intentionally. But things had to change, and that was the catalyst. By now,
it had been months since we'd had sex. He'd found other lovers. I hadn't.

Back to the present. I stalled as long as I could, hit the McDrive-Thru
etc, then got back to the apartment around sunset. I brought in my bags and
boxes, shelved the groceries, and then went to see what I'd recorded.

Jackpot.

By and large, most of the same cast of characters from the day before. Most
arrived, pissed, and left, but there were ample highlights. Some came in
pairs. Two girls, maybe aged nine or ten, faced each other and pissed
through their bathing suits. One boy, maybe eleven, pissed on his own chest
while his buddy pissed on his feet. That older girl did a repeat
performance of diddling herself while she pissed.

The older boy, the one who tugged himself that first time, kept popping
up. It became evident that he was the mastermind of my piss patio, or at
least was using it to the fullest advantage. He brought his two amigos,
then later he brought a flat-chested little girl who gazed admiringly at
him, then later he brought a new boy, maybe ten years old?. I was quite
amazed when he stood behind the boy, who seemed quite happy with the
attention, with his chest against his back, reached down and pulled out the
boy's dick, and held it while he pissed. He even whipped it around like an
out-of-control firehose, and the younger boy laughed with surprise. Once
the stream subsided, he gave the uncut dick a few extra tugs, enough for
the boy to start chubbing up, but that apparently was more than he was
comfortable with, and he wriggled away and ran off.

Left alone, the older boy pulled out his own cock, which by then was pretty
much pointing straight up. After a few seconds of concentration, he was
pissing straight up into the air, higher than his head, almost hitting the
balcony above. He got his hand wet with piss and started stroking himself
while his stream continued. He waved his hard cock around, splashing all
over the patio floor as well as himself. The pace of his stroking picked up
as his piss subsided, and a few more seconds later he erupted with a half
dozen bursts of cum. He slumped a bit with exhaustion as he squeezed a few
more drops out, getting some on the end of his finger, which he then licked
clean. Then he pulled up his shorts and left.

I watched and re-watched that escapade a few times, and had been focused on
his perfect young cock, until I finally noticed his face: he'd been staring
right at the cam the entire time. Cue the panic attack.

I scanned back through his other appearances, and realized that he clearly
was positioning his participants so they were facing the cam too. I went
further back and found his very first appearance that day. I could clearly
see the moment just after he finished with his dos amigos the first time
(they appeared twice) that he caught a glimpse. After his buddies left, he
took a few steps toward the cam and leaned in. He gasped. After a moment,
he looked directly into the camera and smiled. Then ran off.

I didn't sleep much that night.

The next day, Friday, it rained, so nobody was at the pool, giving me the
day to process and reflect. I remained in bed, paralyzed with anxiety,
guilt, and shame. Barely 48 hours into my new life, and I was already
putting myself within spitting distance of a sex offender registry, if not
jail, and I'd already been caught.

But then it occurred to me: *had* I though? He didn't know who I was, but I
knew who he was. He knew he was being observed, and not only did he keep
coming back, he brought his pals with him. And as best as I could tell in
re-watching, he didn't let them in on the secret. None of the others
indicated in any way that they knew they were being filmed. If anything,
knowing he was being filmed emboldened him. What was horseplay the day
before had become more overtly sexual. And that jerkoff was unquestionably
for the cam.

I had a few more errands that day, and I gathered that the cops wouldn't be
arriving for me quite yet, so I got myself together, showered, put on fresh
clothes, and went to greet the day around lunchtime. As I reached my
apartment door, however, something caught my eye. Someone had slipped a
crumpled note under the door. With a lump in my throat, I picked it up.

It was a crude drawing, in pencil, of a boy standing on a rectangle
(i.e. my patio) peeing in a high semi-circular arc. And at the bottom, a
message: "YOU LIKE THE SHOW? __ YES __ NO"

I looked both ways, the hallway was empty. I pocketed the note and out the
door I went.

The heavy rain continued into the following day, Saturday, which meant all
the kids who would ordinarily be swimming and watering my patio were cooped
up in their apartments for yet another day, probably quite anxious for a
way to burn off all that pent up piss-fueled sexual energy. I pitied their
parents, who were possibly wondering why their offspring were suddenly very
interested in laundering their own linens.

Now there was a thought. I had quite a pile of laundry, particularly
towels, after all my fevered self-love of the past few days. I tossed them
all, along with a few days of socks, undies, undershirts etc into a laundry
bag.  The laundry room was just down the hall, a large room with a row of
washers facing a row of dryers, alongside a bike rack and a soda machine
and some vending machines for soap and dryer sheets. There was a large
plastic table at the far end for folding laundry, and wouldn't you just
know it, sitting on the table was, you guessed it, the boy, wearing gray
sweats, flip-flops and a sleeveless t-shirt, playing a game on his phone
while a couple of washers near him were entering the rinse cycle. I guess
he too was laundering his own linens. Go figure.

He was too intent on his game to notice me at first as I came in and bought
a laundry card from a machine near the door, but by the time the card
popped out, he was eyeing me. As a white guy, I guess I stood out from the
others in the complex, and I was new. I gave him a casual nod as I started
loading the washer nearest me. I could sense him staring, wondering, but I
didn't stare back. I added my soap powder and started the washer. His
washers started the spin cycle and started their slow acceleration. I
gathered my courage and walked down the row of washers, meeting his
stare. I pulled a crumpled note out of my pocket and handed it to him. Then
I walked back to my machine and grabbed my stuff. I met his eyes again as I
reached the doorway. He gave me a half-grin and adjusted his crotch. I
half-grinned in return and walked out. It was his own note, I had made one
addition:

"YOU LIKE THE SHOW? _x_ YES __ NO"

I figured ten minutes for the spin cycle to finish, and, say, another two
or three minutes to load the dryer. I tidied up a bit, put the laptop on my
breakfast bar, gargled some mouthwash, etc.

On cue, twelve minutes later, there was a quiet knock on the door.

I looked through the peephole. Sure enough.

What will be, will be, I thought. I unlocked and opened the door.

"Hi."

"Hello."

"Come in."

He was bold, but not reckless. He pondered for a moment and stepped in. I
sized him up. He was 12, maybe 13. A hint of peach fuzz on his upper lip
and a mildly oily face. Quite athletic, more soccer than football. Tall,
maybe 5'7. As for the rest, I'd already seen it, though not close up. Yet.

Tension hung in the air. We had each other at several disadvantages; I'd
been filming several of his urine-soaked adventures with younger boys (in
the eyes of the law he held all the cards, but I'm not sure he understood
that). He knew who I was, I knew who he was, and yet he was here. Obviously
not because he needed help with his math homework.

English wasn't his first language, nor was Spanish mine. "How long you been
here?" His voice was still in its youthful register, but evidently about to
drop.

"Miercoles," I replied. Wednesday.

"How much you filming?"

"Solo jueves." Only Thursday. "Miércoles yo miro." On Wednesday I
watched.

He processed this. After a moment, he gestured to my laptop. "You show me?"

"What's your name?"

"Miguel," he lied. "You?"

"Ben," I lied.

I was already damned when I gave him the note, so what the fuck? I opened
the laptop, where the video was already up. I moved it back to the
beginning, to his first appearance of the day, with his two friends. As he
watched, Miguel leaned against the end of the breakfast bar, evidently
finding watching himself and his friends exciting. He idly grinded his hips
against the counter, and I admired his firm buttocks.

In the video, when the others finished, Miguel's cock was almost full mast,
and he pulsed a few bursts of piss like a water fountain. They all laughed,
and his two friends ran off. While fitting his cock back into his swim
trunks, his eye landed on the cam. Watching, Miguel laughed. "Ah, this is
where I see!," he sang, teasingly. "Is still there?"

Actually, with the two days of rain, I hadn't even thought to take it
down. I nodded, and gestured into the smaller bedroom that served as my
office.

"Did you tell them about the camera?"

He smiled. "No. Is more fun to have secrets."

I smiled. "I agree."

"So why you film us?" he asked, with a dare in his voice.

"Probably the same reason you kept coming back" I replied, returning the
dare.

He laughed. "Show me more," he said, running back to the bar.

We scrolled through the various patio pissers. Miguel identified the two
girls who pissed themselves. "Twins," he said, "They live next door to
me. I babysit them when they were little." And with a grin, he added, "Very
naughty."

When he got to the solo girl who fingered herself while she pissed, though,
Miguel's demeanor changed; he clearly looked uncomfortable. "What's wrong?"
I asked.

"Nothing. Go to the next one," he said, sharply. Fair enough, I thought. My
guess was this was his sister, but I wasn't going to push him.

Then came the one with Miguel and the younger boy, and the cloud over his
mood passed. "Ah, Carlos, I like him. He's timid. This the first time I
touch his pee-pee. I try to do more, but he is shy."

Then after Carlos ran off, we got to Miguel's solo show. "Pretty good,
huh?"

What could I say? "You have a great cock for your age."

That emboldened him further. "What you want to do with it?" he said, while
groping himself.

Were we really going to do this? "Many things," I said, moving in on him. I
put my hand on top of his, over his crotch. He started panting as we rubbed
together.

And his phone rang, popping the bubble on our little escapade. I caught a
glimpse of the caller ID: "mama." Instantly his Little Papi demeanor
evaporated and he reverted back to a pre-teen. He looked at me a bit
helplessly, innocently, "I gotta go."

And out he went.

Probably for the best.

He wasn't in the laundry room later when I moved my clothes to the dryer,
nor when I came back to remove them. But once I was in the hallway opening
my door, a young girl was walking past with a laundry basket. She stopped
when she saw me, and when I saw her face, I recognized her instantly: the
solo piss girl. She saw what apartment I was going into, did the mental
gymnastics, and then it clicked, and she darted past me toward the laundry
room, blushing.

So if she was going back for the other clothes in the dryer, that clinched
it: that was indeed Miguel's sister. And if so, that probably wrecked
everything. Well shit.

Sunday was sunny again. I was out most of the day and had the cam going
just in case, but evidently word had gotten around, and nobody came by,
even though there was a crowd at the pool.

Also probably for the best.

So Monday arrived, and I accepted that the show was over. I opened the
blinds, took down the camera, and logged into my work system. The video was
still open. I closed it. I pondered for a moment, sighed, then and moved
all the videos into the recycling bin. I sighed again, with my finger
hovering over my mouse button, then ultimately deleted them, permanently,
along with the editing shareware. I cracked open the sliding glass door,
and the piss smell after two days of rain was almost gone. I called the
building manager to request my patio be power-washed. Was it wrong that I
felt... loss?

I had a normal work day that day, and I accepted with some sadness that
this chapter had closed. As usual, I hardly moved from my desk except to
eat or pee (which I did in the toilet like a good boy) until dinnertime. I
decided I'd get some takeout, found a decent Indian place not far away, put
in an online order, and got ready to leave to go pick it up.

Under my front door was a slip of paper. I picked it up. The same slip as
before. With a phone number.

Seriously, world, seriously?

"Don't do it, you fool," I said, entering it into my phone. I wasn't very
convincing. I saved it as "Miguel, probably."

Off I went and back I came. The food was very tasty, and I had a pile of
leftovers. I stared at the phone for an hour or so, then... fuck it.

I took a final swig of my cheapo beer and sent a text to that number. "Hi"

The response came quickly. "ben?"

"yes"

"u good at math?"

I replied, condensing my MS in software engineering down to two words:
"very good"

Barely a minute later there was a knock on the door. It of course was
Miguel, with a notebook, pencil, and a 7th grade math textbook. I let him
in. This time, I reflected ironically, he *was* here for help with his math
homework.

"I gotta take summer classes cuz my grades are bad, and I wanna stay on the
soccer team next year. You help me, ok? I tell nobody about the camera. My
sister..." He realized he gave it away. "She tell her friends at the pool
you live here, so now everybody know, and they don't come here to pee no
more. I hate her, she's a bitch."

We both giggled at this. "But nobody knows about the videos?" I asked.

Miguel shook his head. "Nobody. You help with my math, and I never
tell. OK?"

"And when we turn your math grades around, what'll you do for *me*?"

He leaned in. "Then we make more videos."

A shrewd negotiator. This kid would go far.

"Deal."

**The End**