By John Martin
Well, my panties-wetting started at school. I was only 7 when my mum told me I had to wear a brace on my teeth, 'only for a few months', she said. But I had to wear that damn thing for nearly six years. And I've always had problems with my eyes, I can't remember a time when I didn't wear glasses.
So, you can imagine what the other kids did to me. Every day was a nightmare at school. And their bullying made matters worse; I got so stressed out I would wet my panties. I mean, I couldn't help it. One kid was particularly cruel to me: Stephen Taylor he was called. He'd call me all sorts of names, "Speccy FoSo, you can imagine what the other kids did to me. Every day was a nightmare at school. And their bullying made matters worse; I got so stressed out I would wet my panties. I mean, I couldn't help it. One kid was particularly cruel to me: Stephen Taylor he was called. He'd call me all sorts of names, "Speccy Four-Eyes", "Metal Mouth", "Soppy Panties". I just had to stand there and take it until the inevitable trickle started down my legs. But at least they left me alone after that. But he shouldn't have said those things, should he? I mean, he really shouldn't have said them...
Anyway, that was 15 years ago - I'm 22 now - and I have beautiful teeth, long auburn hair, I wear soft contact lenses and I have a fabulous figure, even if I say so myself! Yep, a really beautiful swan from an ugly duckling!
I work as a staff nurse at the General Hospital, which is where I first met up again with Stephen Taylor, the boy from school. I didn't recognise him at first. He'd taken a paracetamol overdose and he'd just come back from theatre. He looked terrible, but the doctors reckoned they'd pumped his stomach in time, and thought he'd recover eventually. And guess who was assigned to look after him on nights? Yep, yours truly! I could hardly believe my luck. At last, my chance to get even with the bastard. But I'd have to be clever.
So for two days he lay there in intensive care, and every night I'd come in and change his saline and plasma drips. Well, last night, I decided, would be his last on this earth. After checking no-one was around, I took his new 'drips' from my own bag and hooked them up to the tubes. Have you guessed yet? Yep, they both contained my own filtered, sterilised piss! The 'saline' drip was actually my afternoon and evening pee, fairly clear you see, and the 'plasma' was really my strong, salty, yellow early-morning pee. For the third night running I was slowly poisoning him with my own piss!
I woke him up and started telling him the story of an ugly schoolgirl who was bullied at school just because of her looks. I asked him how he thought the girl felt? After years of mental torture, what kind of state would she be in now? He looked blank. He obviously hadn't changed, and didn't have a clue what I was talking about. "No, Stephen Taylor, I didn't think you would understand". I stood up and opened the taps on his drips to 'full' and raised the bags to the top of the stand. Full throttle! This shouldn't take long.
He didn't know it, but my piss immediately started gushing into his veins and I told him that bullying was wrong, you should never pick on someone weaker than you, you never know what might happen later. 15 years later, perhaps. "Do you understand what I mean, Stephen?" He looked at my badge and the penny dropped. "You? Is it really you?". He was struggling to stay conscious, he was only seconds away from falling asleep never to wake up again. My strong piss was doing its job. His kidneys had been damaged by the paracetamol and the last thing they needed was more urea to process. They couldn't cope and he soon went into terminal kidney failure.
His breathing was rapid and shallow, so as no-one was around I decided to help him on his way. I stepped onto the bed, lifted my uniform-skirt and stepped over his head. Then I squatted down over his face gripping his head between my knees. "Goodbye Stephen Taylor, maybe now you understand the power of a girl's bladder?" and with that, I sat on his face, pushing my now moist gusset over his nose and mouth. He couldn't breathe, so he didn't stand a chance. In less than a minute his heart stopped, but I kept my fanny firmly pressed over his face for another three, just to be sure.
Well that was last night. The doctors did all the tests, but there was nothing unusual: he just wasn't as fit as they'd thought. All they found in his bloodstream was "High Levels of Urea Consistent with Irreversible Kidney Failure". So that was that. (If they'd bothered to look more closely, they might have found high levels of oestrogen as well, but you wouldn't expect that in a man's body, would you?!)
This morning I went down to the hospital morgue to take one final look at his body. I guess I wanted to be sure that he was dead. I know the attendant well, so he left me the keys and I went in alone. "D17", must be one of the bottom drawers: perfect! I pulled out the drawer fully and gazed down at the bag. I don't know why, but I wanted to see his face, so I opened the bag up. For the first time ever he looked at peace, so maybe I'd done him a favour? "Do you want to see the instrument of your death, Stephen Taylor?" I took off my navy panties and black tights and stepped over the drawer, my cunt lips hovering only inches above his cold, still face.
"It's a pity you can't see my cruel killer cunt, Stephen, it's right in front of your face!". I laughed, then I had an idea. I prised his mouth open, positioned myself, and let a little trickle of pee dribble into his mouth. "And it's a shame you can't taste the instrument of your death; my deadly piss." But to my surprise, my pee just disappeared - into his lungs, I guess! So I pissed some more, and that went down the same way. So I finished off, completely emptying my bladder into his still, dead mouth. A bubble of air gurgled up as the final mouthful filled his lungs.
"Blast!", I thought. I didn't really mean to completely piss into him. What if it leaks out? An idea! I reached into my bag and pulled out my last tampon. I cut the cord off and pushed it into the applicator and then, very skillfully I thought, slowly wedged it down the back of his throat, blocking off his windpipe. Within a couple of seconds it started to expand and formed a very effective piss-plug, stopping any from escaping. Stephen Taylor would go to his grave with my piss rotting his lungs and his veins and arteries! 97 by John Martin. All Rights Reserved
John Martin Stories