Melina Shuquree meandered aimlessly along the shores of lake Mereh-kooureh, enjoying the warm sun on her body and the feeling of wet, soft sand under her dainty toes, under a decidedly beautiful dawn. This was a good beginning to her vacations, after the disappointment of her friend Cerinza canceling out on her. After the briefest of hesitations, she decided to make the trip alone. She was glad to have come, and he could not help but smile feeling an exhilarating sense of utter freedom at being surrounded by the vast expanse of beach, the blue, limitless sky above her, and the equally boundless flat of the lake to her left, a much welcome change from her usual, cozy and convenient, but narrow haunts in the city of Kharamanta. She uttered a liberating, completely uninhibited whooooop! as loud as she could, hearing it echo in the dunes, twirling around on her toes, arms extended to her sides, pivoting several times until she felt dizzy.
She walked some more, going past a last, large dune and then, setting down her sandals and hat, which she had been carrying on each hand, she turned towards the waves. Despite the lovely setting, loneliness was creeping down again on her. It had been literally years since she had been involved with a man, after she had ended the relationship with her former boyfriend after he hit her. She tried to tell herself that she was OK with being alone, but the truth is she was not, and as the months, and then years passed, the loneliness refused to go away, bringing about feelings of inadequateness, sexual frustration and lingering sadness, which were becoming more and more difficult to ignore.
She was not supposed to wallow in self-pity. She had a successful career as a photographer and writer, had been financially independent for years, had a lot of (female) friends and she enjoyed her life, mostly. But she wanted to share it with someone. Share it with a loving, unquestionably male man. Her life was filled to the brim with female-ness. She worked at a fashion magazine oriented for women. All her coworkers and friends were women. She was the youngest of three sisters (her father had died when she was little, she could barely remember him) and had attended a women-only school, most of her classmates at college were women, her boss was a woman etc., etc. It was like being marooned in woman-island.
Mostly, she did not mind, as she was of course comfortable around women, and she had always been shy around and more than a little afraid of men, a weakness exacerbated after her first and only boyfriend turned out to be a bully and a jerk. But she longed to love and be loved by a man, and she could not deny her sexual urges and increasingly lurid, R-rated dreams in which she did or was done by faceless men, were not going away, despite or perhaps due her unwillingness to masturbate, as she found that she did not enjoy touching herself much… she wanted to be touched. She was young, healthy and, she thought, quite easy on the eyes. She had the right to enjoy life, and her womanly body, didn’t she? How long will I remain alone? Will I ever meet a man, a good man that enjoys being with me? She had the nagging feeling that her cowardice prevented her from meeting new people, especially men, and that made her feel guilty for always retreating to the comfortable depths of her female-only circles.
I feel like running, she realized, suddenly, dispelling with an effort of will the same thoughts that popped into her mind every time she was alone (quite often) and idle (seldom). Melina turned to the flat expanse of gray beach and, looking around, chose a landmark she could aim to: a small, tussocky hill on the foot of a gentle beach dune about 2000 feet away. She started jogging towards it and then picked up the pace, running at full pelt, regaining the stimulating feeling of freedom her loneliness had been about to rob her of.
Soon, she was approaching the edge of the grassy field extending beyond the beach. She stopped, barely winded, and then noticed a familiar pressure on her bladder. I drank too much juice at breakfast, she mused. She looked back where she had come and around her. Not a soul in sight there nor ahead not anywhere. It was at least two miles to the beach-inn where she was lodging, around a bend in the beach and to the other side of a few dunes. She decided not to wait till she was back at the inn and chose an appropriate tussock to relieve herself over. She quickly found one close to her right and strode towards it. Then she briefly deliberated on a side of the tussock where the piss would not pool and drain back towards her feet and slid her bikini bottom down her legs and stepped out of it nimbly, quickly grasping it so it did not gather sand. Bunching her skirt carefully around her waist so it did not get splashed, she went into her tiptoes and crouched over the bunch of grass, and relaxed… finding it more difficult than expected… she had always been bladder shy and of course, being a city girl, was not accustomed to the subtle art of urinating outdoors.
Looking around one last time, and again seeing no one, she slid her hand to her crotch to spread her labia and felt it finally coming loose, and she gave it a strong, bladdery push. Even she was surprised and more than a little startled at the strength with which her stream was loosened, briefly splashing all over the tussock (and annoyingly, she could feel some errant droplets splashing back on her skin). Then she could see, slightly alarmed, the stream clearing over the tussock and landing well beyond it almost six feet away, as the stalks fell back against the relentless jet. At such output, it could not last long and she soon squeezed out the last drops. With a sigh of relief, she fished in one of her blouse’s pocket for a tissue and pulling out several from a wad, she wiped herself carefully. With her left hand, she dug a hole in the sand and buried the tissue there, covering it with sand. She admired the tomb of the wipes for a second and then, still squatting and thinking of rinsing her hands in the lake, and with the idle curiosity everyone sometimes feels on the appearance of one’s droppings, looked at the pissed-on tussock and long trail of wet sand. Frowning, she realized there was something under the grass. Something glinted white there, quite out of place.
Oops! Have I just pissed on a baby bird? She thought, with a stab of pity and more than a little shame. She imagined how horrible it would be to be pissed on by a giant, hairless monster, as doubtless she would appear to a small bird looking up at her, before thinking, shaking her head self-consciously after a brief look at her own slightly unkempt, hairy vulva and thinking she was not exactly hairless. Gotta take care of that after I get back to my room. She wrinkled her nose at the thought of a small bird looking up in awe and disgust at her ugly (so she thought), and reeking, enormous snatch.
After a slight hesitation, and considering her hands were already dirty from gaping her own nether lips so she could pee more freely and from burying the wipes, she put her panties in a pocket and kneeled on the sand being careful not to do so on the spots darkened by her piss and cautiously extended her hands and started spreading the tussock to get at the tiny animal there. She winced with revulsion when she felt the warm drops of piss under her fingers, but she was decided not to leave the tiny thing there, lying in a pee-soaked grass bunch. She did not want to get bit on or pecked, either, so she uncovered warily the fragile little animal and scooped it in her right hand, bringing it close to her eyes.
She gasped with surprise. It was a tiny, lifelike little doll in the shape of a man, only slightly longer than her middle finger.