``Four students built them.'' It was a stuffy afternoon in a junk shopon the cobbled crescent that led downhill from the engineeringdepartment. The shopkeeper and I stood at the counter, looking at aplastic waterpistol of the kind that can be bought in any newsagent forfifty pence or so. He cleaned his half-glasses on his handkerchief andcontinued his tale. ``Three men and a woman, all brilliant students. The woman was a neurologist. There was a tall American who specialisedin micro circuitry, a sonar physicist and a radio engineer.'' He pickedup the plastic pistol and held it in the palm of one hand. ``The fourof them met in the Students' Union bar one evening in June, discoveredeach others' creative talent, and as none of them had a job for thesummer, they spent their three months vacation in the effort ofrealising their common ambition. I lent them the money unsecured tosurvive and buy components, knowing that if their project worked theprofits 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, Ishouldn'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 forthe autumn term dances, when all the fresh eighteen year olds come upfrom school virgo intacta. It was the neurologist, the woman, whoexplained the idea to me: you would only have to point this gun at thegirl or boy of your choice and squeeze the trigger, and it would producea 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 neverthought 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 didthink they could produce a sort of fake sexual arousal in other peoplewithout their consent. They thought they could deflower a fresh virgineach 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, aimat the pants and shoot at the lowest fly-button.'' He showed me theworkings of the pistol. There was a recognizable battery and a tightlypacked assortment of electronic components, of which I recognised a fewas coming from sonar applications. Other parts looked as though theyhad military specification, or were custom fabricated. ``It looks likea toy, but it isn't. If it's fired at you, you feel a sudden firmpressure at the crotch. They thought it would produce sexual arousal,like a girlfriend stroking you there. It isn't painful at all. It justnever worked as expected, although it does produce a pang and mostpeople respond to it -- after a fashion. The students just never saw ause for it. After the summer the neurologist had exams to work for andthe American had to go back to California, and the sonar guy joined theNavy, I think, so nothing else ever came of it. They gave me theprototypes because I'd financed them. I sold the one to a young lady afew 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 girlshome, 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 anoutsider 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 orso walking up the cobbles towards me, carrying a week's groceries in aplastic 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: plainbra, probably, and cotton panties. I must have looked a real clownaiming a water pistol at her. I aimed the barrel at where I imaginedthe gusset of her panties to be and squeezed the trigger. There was asoft whistling note from the gun: a quick, falling tone, as from anelectronic flashgun.
Either I was a crack shot or the weapon did not need to be aimed withgreat accuracy: the shock to the woman's toilet parts was obvious. Shestopped in her tracks and looked about herself desperately. She felt asthough her panties had been filled with melting ice, as though handswere pressing it into her soft and hidden openings, and her bladderbegan to empty itself uncontrollably. It was obvious that the ray,however it worked, had given her an overpowering urge that neededimmediate attention. She pressed her thighs together vainly, but themounting pressure drove her to part her legs and a small puddle formedon the pavement beneath her feet. As the flow stopped, I saw her hidein a side alley and there peel off her tights, her raised skirt giving abrief flash of wet white cotton panties taut across her slim, palebottom. She screwed the tights up into a wet ball and pushed themdistastefully into a litter bin. Presumably she intended to put up withthe 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 useit.''
I walked down the high street to the park, where two women, possiblynurses, were sitting eating lunch together on a bench. The younger wasshapely, blonde and carefully made up, and her long legs were adornedwith black and gold patterned tights. Her tiny skirt, perhaps eight orten inches above the knee, had ridden up until it just concealed hercrotch. I could hardly wait. I sat on the ground across the lawn fromher, 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 tendertoilet tissue. She squealed and, rushing to beat the irresistible tide,she pulled her skirt up at the back and screwed her tights and yellowpanties down to her knees. I saw a brief glimpse of dark pubic hair andpink labia as she squirmed in her seat and her urine squirted over theplanks of the bench and dripped onto the ground. I heard her friendenquire after her, and she gave a reassuring reply. My hand went to myown crotch and rubbed gently as my victim composed herself, replaced thepanties and smoothed out the tights over her slim thighs.
Where were the prettiest girls, I asked myself, reluctantly ruling outfor 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 jeanssitting together. Both were slim and muscular and sexy; the taller onewore a leather jacket and the other a denim top, open far enough to showa fuzzy, tanned chest. They were talking in subdued voices. As I tooka seat across the aisle from them, I guessed that perhaps these two wereas attracted to each other as I was to both of them. I decided to breakthe ice: I fired twice. The stopping and starting of the bus mustalready have had an effect on the pair, for in an instant both men werestanding, holding the grab-rails with one hand and tugging their flyzips with the other, desperate to free their dicks and keep their urineoff their clothes.
``What's up with us?'' laughed the lad in leather, and suddenly instinctand desire overwhelmed both of them. I watched them pull down eachother's pants and hold each other's penis lightly, directing oneanother's flow of urine onto the floor. The only other upstairspassenger, an elderly woman, looked away in disgust. Both men weregenerously endowed, and as their urine ceased to flow a leather clad armslipped into the open denim top and held its owner by the waist. Theirlips touched lightly. ``Don't leave go'', breathed the shorter lad,holding his friend's other hand onto his own tool. Their hands broughteach other's dicks to erection. ``Christ - this is good.'' ``Morelater,'' promised the other. They fastened their jeans again and forthe rest of the journey each had a lump the size of an orange in hislap. They sat, arms around one another's waists, caressing each other'scrotches with light, long strokes, enjoying the paradise of petting.
It was evening now. I had been waiting on a seat outside the artcollege hoping to catch one of the specially beautiful girls who seemedto form their main intake. I had been sitting still so long that I wasbeginning to wonder whether to give up my vigil for the moment and finda toilet myself when my ideal target swayed down the steps carrying anartist's portfolio and a folder of notes. Very tall, with long brownhair, she wore a tight sweater over a firm bosom. Shiny spray-ontrousers, high heels, a loosely fastened leather belt that hung low overher hips and showed off her pencil slim waist. There was nobody else onthe street. My idol walked to a car parked at the roadside and fumbledin 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 iceover her mons, along her groins, across the tops of her thighs, betweenher buttocks, around her labia. She stood upright suddenly with shock,breathed in sharply through her teeth, and pressed her legs togethertightly. She was going to get into the car before the flow began, Ithought, 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 beganto force the freezing pellets into urethra, anus and vagina. She hadlost control before the sound of the pistol had died away. A dark stainspread outward from her crotch and down her legs. Shock gave way torelief in her pretty face. The spray-ons clung to her body, showingclearly that she was wearing nothing underneath them. On her way to aspecial date, I surmised.
She saw me across the road from her and she asked me cheerfully: ``Wereyou watching me just then?'' I wasn't expecting the question; I blushedand nodded. She was an exhibitionist, she suspected nothing. ``I don'tmind. 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 thespray-ons, tossing the lot onto the back seat of the car, baring herbottom. She turned around with her hands covering her crotch. I gaspedat her beauty: she exhibited her long bare legs and then slowly partedher hands, resting them on her thighs, displaying pink, clean shavenpanty parts. Legs wide apart, she fingered her labia gently, letting meadmire all the folds and crevices of her vulva. My penis swelled, keento take up the invitation of those moist lips and the tight canalbeyond. She pulled the sweater upwards a little, revealing a tautwaistline. ``Want to see a bit more? It's OK, my boyfriend won't mindif I turn up nude. Would you?'' No, I wouldn't mind a girl like youarriving at my door naked, especially if you admitted to having wetyourself on the journey. She opened the car door, pulling the sweaterup, over the nipples and then completely off as she settled into thedriving seat, then closed the door. Except for the skimpy, white, lacybra which clung to her generous curves, she was quite bare.
She turned towards me and wound her window down. ``Kiss me.'' I walkedover to her and kissed her lips. Her mouth was fragrant and sweet. Shewrapped an arm around my neck and snuggled towards me, deliberately andinvitingly bringing the bra clip into my reach. I had it halfunfastened when I heard a switch click and a familiar electronic whistlecoming from inside the car. Something urgent invaded my genitals, asthough a torrent of cold water and snowballs had landed on my dick andtesticles and bottom. A set of strong, icy fingers held the snowballsin place. Other fingers seemed to grasp my penis from base to tip andforce urine along it; it was as though a water-main had burst in mypants. I would have had a couple of seconds to get my zip undone, butthe girl held my arms firmly. Hot urine poured into my pants. Myjeans, shoes and socks were all drenched in a moment, and thesweet-smelling flood went on until my jeans clung to my legs and myshirt was soaking too. It was this young lady who had bought that otherprototype sex pistol.
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