Archive-name: Control/toilzone.txt

Archive-author: 

Archive-title: Toilet Zone, The





``Four students built them.'' It was a stuffy afternoon in a junk shop

on the cobbled crescent that led downhill from the engineering

department.  The shopkeeper and I stood at the counter, looking at a

plastic waterpistol of the kind that can be bought in any newsagent for

fifty pence or so.  He cleaned his half-glasses on his handkerchief and

continued his tale.  ``Three men and a woman, all brilliant students. 

The woman was a neurologist.  There was a tall American who specialised

in micro circuitry, a sonar physicist and a radio engineer.'' He picked

up the plastic pistol and held it in the palm of one hand.  ``The four

of them met in the Students' Union bar one evening in June, discovered

each others' creative talent, and as none of them had a job for the

summer, they spent their three months vacation in the effort of

realising their common ambition.  I lent them the money unsecured to

survive and buy components, knowing that if their project worked the

profits would be so vast that I'd never worry over an unpaid bill again. 

But they built two prototypes and then abandoned the attempt.''



``What were they trying to do, exactly?'', I asked. 



``Mankind's eternal dream: an effective aphrodisiac.  Womankind's too, I

shouldn't be at all surprised.  This was going to be it.  The fun gun,

the sex pistol, I suppose you could call it.  They wanted it in time for

the autumn term dances, when all the fresh eighteen year olds come up

from school virgo intacta.  It was the neurologist, the woman, who

explained the idea to me: you would only have to point this gun at the

girl or boy of your choice and squeeze the trigger, and it would produce

a pang of desire, a twinge, deep in the...  in the seat of her emotions. 

Or his emotions, if you wanted.  It wasn't a love potion.  They never

thought you could make a girl fall in love with you against her will --

it would take more than a plastic gadget to do that -- but they did

think they could produce a sort of fake sexual arousal in other people

without their consent.  They thought they could deflower a fresh virgin

each evening, for as long as the supply lasted.''



``A delicious thought.  You just aim it at the head and shoot?''



``Good Lord, no.  Stand in front of the person or directly behind, aim

at the pants and shoot at the lowest fly-button.'' He showed me the

workings of the pistol.  There was a recognizable battery and a tightly

packed assortment of electronic components, of which I recognised a few

as coming from sonar applications.  Other parts looked as though they

had military specification, or were custom fabricated.  ``It looks like

a toy, but it isn't.  If it's fired at you, you feel a sudden firm

pressure at the crotch.  They thought it would produce sexual arousal,

like a girlfriend stroking you there.  It isn't painful at all.  It just

never worked as expected, although it does produce a pang and most

people respond to it -- after a fashion.  The students just never saw a

use for it.  After the summer the neurologist had exams to work for and

the American had to go back to California, and the sonar guy joined the

Navy, I think, so nothing else ever came of it.  They gave me the

prototypes because I'd financed them.  I sold the one to a young lady a

few days ago, so this is the last one.''



``You must have been disappointed when the gun didn't work.''



``Well, yes, I wanted to go to those dances and take the same girls

home, but it was no great loss when they gave up.  I could afford it,

and most new enterprises fail.  It was like placing a heavy bet on an

outsider and losing.  In any case, it does work, in a messy sort of way. 

Just not as expected.''



He put the pistol back together again and held it out to me to hold. 



``I can try it out?''



``Not in the shop unless you mop up afterwards.''



I took the gun to the doorway and picked out a woman of thirty years or

so walking up the cobbles towards me, carrying a week's groceries in a

plastic bag.  She was pretty in her way, fair haired, slightly built,

and looking away from me.  Still uncertain whether the thing would work,

I watched her walk and imagined the underwear beneath her coat: plain

bra, probably, and cotton panties.  I must have looked a real clown

aiming a water pistol at her.  I aimed the barrel at where I imagined

the gusset of her panties to be and squeezed the trigger.  There was a

soft whistling note from the gun: a quick, falling tone, as from an

electronic flashgun. 



Either I was a crack shot or the weapon did not need to be aimed with

great accuracy: the shock to the woman's toilet parts was obvious.  She

stopped in her tracks and looked about herself desperately.  She felt as

though her panties had been filled with melting ice, as though hands

were pressing it into her soft and hidden openings, and her bladder

began to empty itself uncontrollably.  It was obvious that the ray,

however it worked, had given her an overpowering urge that needed

immediate attention.  She pressed her thighs together vainly, but the

mounting pressure drove her to part her legs and a small puddle formed

on the pavement beneath her feet.  As the flow stopped, I saw her hide

in a side alley and there peel off her tights, her raised skirt giving a

brief flash of wet white cotton panties taut across her slim, pale

bottom.  She screwed the tights up into a wet ball and pushed them

distastefully into a litter bin.  Presumably she intended to put up with

the wetness in her panties rather than remove them in a public place. 



I paid the price demanded for the gun.  ``Don't wrap it, I want to use

it.''



I walked down the high street to the park, where two women, possibly

nurses, were sitting eating lunch together on a bench.  The younger was

shapely, blonde and carefully made up, and her long legs were adorned

with black and gold patterned tights.  Her tiny skirt, perhaps eight or

ten inches above the knee, had ridden up until it just concealed her

crotch.  I could hardly wait.  I sat on the ground across the lawn from

her, breathless with anticipation.  The blonde was sitting facing me,

gossiping and eating, and momentarily she parted those tempting legs. 

The gun whistled and the shock must have hit her full on the tender

toilet tissue.  She squealed and, rushing to beat the irresistible tide,

she pulled her skirt up at the back and screwed her tights and yellow

panties down to her knees.  I saw a brief glimpse of dark pubic hair and

pink labia as she squirmed in her seat and her urine squirted over the

planks of the bench and dripped onto the ground.  I heard her friend

enquire after her, and she gave a reassuring reply.  My hand went to my

own crotch and rubbed gently as my victim composed herself, replaced the

panties and smoothed out the tights over her slim thighs. 



Where were the prettiest girls, I asked myself, reluctantly ruling out

for the moment the sweet sitting ducks in a dozen school playgrounds. 

The art college.  I took a bus.  Upstairs, I saw two young men in jeans

sitting together.  Both were slim and muscular and sexy; the taller one

wore a leather jacket and the other a denim top, open far enough to show

a fuzzy, tanned chest.  They were talking in subdued voices.  As I took

a seat across the aisle from them, I guessed that perhaps these two were

as attracted to each other as I was to both of them.  I decided to break

the ice: I fired twice.  The stopping and starting of the bus must

already have had an effect on the pair, for in an instant both men were

standing, holding the grab-rails with one hand and tugging their fly

zips with the other, desperate to free their dicks and keep their urine

off their clothes. 



``What's up with us?'' laughed the lad in leather, and suddenly instinct

and desire overwhelmed both of them.  I watched them pull down each

other's pants and hold each other's penis lightly, directing one

another's flow of urine onto the floor.  The only other upstairs

passenger, an elderly woman, looked away in disgust.  Both men were

generously endowed, and as their urine ceased to flow a leather clad arm

slipped into the open denim top and held its owner by the waist.  Their

lips touched lightly.  ``Don't leave go'', breathed the shorter lad,

holding his friend's other hand onto his own tool.  Their hands brought

each other's dicks to erection.  ``Christ - this is good.'' ``More

later,'' promised the other.  They fastened their jeans again and for

the rest of the journey each had a lump the size of an orange in his

lap.  They sat, arms around one another's waists, caressing each other's

crotches with light, long strokes, enjoying the paradise of petting. 



It was evening now.  I had been waiting on a seat outside the art

college hoping to catch one of the specially beautiful girls who seemed

to form their main intake.  I had been sitting still so long that I was

beginning to wonder whether to give up my vigil for the moment and find

a toilet myself when my ideal target swayed down the steps carrying an

artist's portfolio and a folder of notes.  Very tall, with long brown

hair, she wore a tight sweater over a firm bosom.  Shiny spray-on

trousers, high heels, a loosely fastened leather belt that hung low over

her hips and showed off her pencil slim waist.  There was nobody else on

the street.  My idol walked to a car parked at the roadside and fumbled

in her bag for the key.  Her back was to me as I fired.  Strong mens'

hands seemed to empty an ice-tray into her jeans, rubbing pellets of ice

over her mons, along her groins, across the tops of her thighs, between

her buttocks, around her labia.  She stood upright suddenly with shock,

breathed in sharply through her teeth, and pressed her legs together

tightly.  She was going to get into the car before the flow began, I

thought, and I wanted to see the urine pour from her.  I fired again. 

The effect of the second jolt was immediate: a second set of hands began

to force the freezing pellets into urethra, anus and vagina.  She had

lost control before the sound of the pistol had died away.  A dark stain

spread outward from her crotch and down her legs.  Shock gave way to

relief in her pretty face.  The spray-ons clung to her body, showing

clearly that she was wearing nothing underneath them.  On her way to a

special date, I surmised. 



She saw me across the road from her and she asked me cheerfully: ``Were

you watching me just then?'' I wasn't expecting the question; I blushed

and nodded.  She was an exhibitionist, she suspected nothing.  ``I don't

mind.  I have to get these jeans off, so stay and watch the show.''. 

She turned her back to me, took off the high heels, and removed the

spray-ons, tossing the lot onto the back seat of the car, baring her

bottom.  She turned around with her hands covering her crotch.  I gasped

at her beauty: she exhibited her long bare legs and then slowly parted

her hands, resting them on her thighs, displaying pink, clean shaven

panty parts.  Legs wide apart, she fingered her labia gently, letting me

admire all the folds and crevices of her vulva.  My penis swelled, keen

to take up the invitation of those moist lips and the tight canal

beyond.  She pulled the sweater upwards a little, revealing a taut

waistline.  ``Want to see a bit more? It's OK, my boyfriend won't mind

if I turn up nude.  Would you?'' No, I wouldn't mind a girl like you

arriving at my door naked, especially if you admitted to having wet

yourself on the journey.  She opened the car door, pulling the sweater

up, over the nipples and then completely off as she settled into the

driving seat, then closed the door.  Except for the skimpy, white, lacy

bra which clung to her generous curves, she was quite bare. 



She turned towards me and wound her window down.  ``Kiss me.'' I walked

over to her and kissed her lips.  Her mouth was fragrant and sweet.  She

wrapped an arm around my neck and snuggled towards me, deliberately and

invitingly bringing the bra clip into my reach.  I had it half

unfastened when I heard a switch click and a familiar electronic whistle

coming from inside the car.  Something urgent invaded my genitals, as

though a torrent of cold water and snowballs had landed on my dick and

testicles and bottom.  A set of strong, icy fingers held the snowballs

in place.  Other fingers seemed to grasp my penis from base to tip and

force urine along it; it was as though a water-main had burst in my

pants.  I would have had a couple of seconds to get my zip undone, but

the girl held my arms firmly.  Hot urine poured into my pants.  My

jeans, shoes and socks were all drenched in a moment, and the

sweet-smelling flood went on until my jeans clung to my legs and my

shirt was soaking too.  It was this young lady who had bought that other

prototype sex pistol. 





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