THE THIRD OPTION FOR PLEASURE: HOW I PENETRATED MY PEE HOLE FOR THE FIRST TIME

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Explicit

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Published:: 2026-06-26
Words:: 2,135
Chapters:: 1/1
Hits:: 245

Madeleine_Beaucoup_Berry

Summary:

A pretty mess in red, white, and yellow, composed by Catlin Saint-Valery.
Enjoy another contribution to the erotic stimulation of the urethra.
A feast for the mind, body, and eyes all at once.

Work Text:

✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦

Chères Mesdames,

Our lovely friend and tireless reporter Catlin has returned from New York with a little surprise for you.

You remember, dear ladies, don't you? At the end of her sensational report on urethral massage, she mentioned that she had tried the practice herself after her visit to Dr Almond.

Well, in response to your numerous requests, she has also put this extraordinary experience into a short piece.

And we don't want to keep you in limbo (at least not this way, and not right now), so, without further ado, here's the long-awaited post.

With deep love – but, just this once, no foreplay.

MBB

CONVERGENCE

I was sitting on the hotel bed, wrestling with myself over whether I should really do it.

—

Of course, it wasn't like that at all. I’d been horny all day and just wanted to extend the anticipation a little longer. So I picked up the sound and went to the bathroom.

I’d seen the technique being practised at the Almond Sisters’ clinic, step by step: posture, angle, pace. Now I was desperate to try it out for myself.

The empty bathtub was a purely practical choice. It had a firm surface, a defined space and was easy to clean. I sat down in it, leaned back, my feet firmly planted on the enamel, both hands free. For a moment, I just sat there like that. The bath felt cool, but not uncomfortable. It all seemed surprisingly unspectacular. Almost like before at the Westheimer Clinic.

Up until then, I’d ignored my period. Only now did I notice that a bloodstain had formed beneath me on the bottom of the bath – dark red, with blurred edges. I glanced down briefly and shrugged. It didn’t change anything, after all. I put all hesitation aside and carried on.

I opened the packaging and took the instrument. It was smaller than you’d think. French 10. Just 3.3 millimetres in diameter, thinner than a pen. Holding it in my hand, I wondered why I'd imagined it so differently. I opened the gel, warmed it briefly in my hand and applied it — first to the tip, then to the meatus. The gel glistened on the mucous membrane.

The contact was immediate. The tissue reacted straight away to the combination of warmth and gentle pressure. The effect was clearly localised and unmistakable, without becoming painful — an intense sensation that could be felt travelling inwards along the urethra. I waited a moment. There was no pressure. There was no need to rush.

Next, I massaged my vulva and waited until the first wave of relaxation set in. Then I held the instrument in line with my body’s axis, against the tip of the meatus, took a deep breath and pushed it slowly into my urethra.

The movement was not continuous; I proceeded in tiny increments. At first, I felt the tip pass through the opening: a brief resistance, then a sudden yielding. I paused. My entire awareness narrowed to that one spot. After a few breaths, I eased the sound a little further in.

As it moved deeper, the sensation changed. At first, every tiny movement followed a clear, sharply defined line. Then that line dissolved. The awareness spread outward, becoming broader and less directional. It was no longer confined to a single point but seemed to occupy the whole length of the canal.

I began the rotation. Slowly, about thirty degrees in each direction, holding the sound at the same depth, whilst the tip remained in constant contact with the wall. The stretching, which had previously been localised, spread outward. Even my clitoris responded without being touched—a simultaneous pulling and pulsing in my pelvis that could no longer be clearly pinpointed.

Keeping the motion small and steady, I placed my free thumb on my pubic region and increased the pressure slightly. The feeling deepened at once, becoming denser and less distinct. Then I drew the instrument in short strokes.

Suddenly, I felt the urge to urinate. Not strong, but clearly recognisable as a reflex. It came the moment the tip pressed against the back wall. I paused briefly as a small amount of colourless fluid dripped onto the bottom of the bath. Then I continued.

There was no clearly discernible transition to orgasm. It began with a build-up of tension that could no longer be confined to a single area. The urethra remained the starting point, yet it gradually drew in the vaginal walls and the clitoris as well. I closed my eyes.

The first climax came without any obvious trigger. The walls of my vagina contracted as the arousal spread further. I pushed the sound even deeper into the opening. My breath caught. For a moment, I felt nothing. Then the contractions intensified. I let out several short moans and squirted in multiple pulses.

Almost instinctively, my free hand found my clitoris. I still twisted the instrument back and forth. Before long, another climax followed. I moaned loudly and squirted again. Trembling all over, I leaned back.

Once the sensation had subsided, I simply lay there. I was still holding the sound in place, its tip barely protruding from my urethra, while my muscles continued to tremble in short bursts. I remained like that for some time.

Then I slowly withdrew the instrument. Just as it came free, a strong stream of urine began to flow, far more forcefully than before. Only then did the tension in my pelvis finally ease.

I bent forward and looked between my legs.

Several bloodstains had spread out, no longer as clearly defined as at the start. Splashes of urine had mixed in. There were also a few milky drops, and several thick, whitish trails of mucus were visible. Everything beneath me flowed together in uncontrolled streams and smears.

I stood up and, as I looked down, I realised the full extent of it.

Red stains, white streaks and yellow splashes covered almost the entire floor. It was everywhere – much more than I’d first thought.

I felt briefly dizzy, but I couldn’t tear my gaze away from this mess. Fascinated, I traced the marks I’d left behind.

And suddenly, for a split second, the liquids seemed to refuse being liquids. For a blink of an eye, there was no blood, no squirt, no urine – I saw something different. Something in between them. But I wasn't able to capture it. I was confused. For minutes on end, I stared at the field in front of my feet.

—

Later, I sat on the sofa and watched an episode of Dead Ringers. But I couldn’t concentrate. Even masturbation failed this time. With a finger inside my vagina, I lost Rachel Weisz to something deeper in my mind. I had to get some sleep.

✦ ✦ ✦

The next morning, I knew where I needed to go. After breakfast, I went to the train station and made my way to Buffalo.

The Albright-Knox Art Museum. I’d been here before—during a high school exchange years ago. And I remembered exactly the right direction—which hallways to take, which corners to turn— until I found myself in that specific room.

There it was.

It was still hanging in the same spot as back then. Jackson Pollock’s Convergence. 238 × 394 cm, Oil on canvas.

I walked up to it and took a closer look.

Not the same colours. Not the same situation. But the same kind of order amidst chaos, the same logic behind a coincidence that isn't really one, the same question of how much control there is in something that looks completely random.

And everything was here simultaneously.

Lines that crossed, overlapped, then vanished again. Nothing offered itself as a starting point. My gaze glided over them, finding no foothold, until it finally lingered on a darker trace — not because it was central, but because it was the clearest at that very moment.

From there, I let myself drift, following it for a while. The line thickened, became heavier, then lost substance again, as if the movement that had created it had briefly subsided. A few centimetres further on, it broke off completely — or was obscured. It was hard to tell. Beneath it lay something lighter, finer, barely recognisable as a continuous curve.

Then it continued. Almost inevitably. Another stroke crossed the first. Then another. Black ran beneath red. White appeared, then vanished again. What had just moments before seemed like a single gesture now dissolved into fragments.

There was no pattern I could have identified. No geometry. No systematic order. The colours flowed in different directions without ever coalescing into anything definitive. And yet nothing appeared arbitrary. The density shifted across the canvas, gathering in some places and thinning out in others. Yet neither seemed to overpower the other.

I stepped closer.

This did not make the composition any easier to read. On the contrary. From a distance, it had looked like a structure. Now it consisted of individual elements: thickened areas, drips, places where the paint had suddenly slowed down, and others where it had run more quickly.

At some point, it occurred to me that Pollock had never worked on an easel. The canvas lay on the floor. Of course it lay on the floor.

Some of these movements made little sense otherwise. One streak came from the left, another from above, a third cut across both of them. The painting did not emerge from one perspective. It emerged from movement.

Here, the gesture must have been faster. There, it slowed and the paint became heavier. Some drops hadn’t landed where one might have expected them to. Other streaks looked as though they had been crossed at the last moment. The painting seemed spontaneous, but spontaneity only partly explained what I saw before me.

I leaned forward.

Only then did I notice that the canvas wasn’t entirely flat. Some traces lay visibly atop others. Where several streaks had met, material had accumulated: small ridges, lumps, thickened patches. Other lines were so thin that they looked more like cracks than paint.

What had appeared to belong together from a distance now revealed itself as the accumulation of many separate layers. In one place, black disappeared beneath white and reappeared a few centimetres further on. In another, a red arc ran across several earlier marks. Next to it lay fine dark splashes that looked as though they’d been added right at the very end.

Sometimes I could tell which line had been there first. Sometimes I couldn’t. In some places, the image had almost completely concealed the story of its own creation. Too many movements. Too many overlaps. Too many decisions.

Here, black condensed into a heavy mass. There, it dissolved again into loops and threads. A red sweep ran diagonally through the centre, disappearing behind other traces and reappearing further back. In between, white opened up. Not much. Always just enough.

The longer I stood in front of it, the less any single colour acted as a background. The black held the composition together and fragmented it at the same time. The red connected areas that at first appeared unrelated. The white kept spaces open, allowing the remaining traces to become visible in the first place.

Finally, I focused on the yellow.

At first it didn’t impose itself; it was almost restrained. It seemed like a patch of light amidst the other colours. Up close, it almost vanished. Only when viewed from a distance did it emerge again.

Then I realised it was everywhere. Not dominant. But strikingly often in the places where a cluster of marks was beginning to tighten. Where a movement threatened to become the main focus. The yellow would push its way in between or over it, drawing the gaze further along before disappearing again. It was too bright for its surroundings. Too precisely placed to be a coincidence. Too sparingly used to take centre stage. And yet, in the end, it determined how my eye moved across the canvas.

I stood in front of the painting for a long time.

Pollock knew it.

Then I took a big step back.

For the first time, I saw everything as a whole.

And smiled.