Not Allowed to Touch

First picture a man kneeling directly upon your face. Rather, it is my face. We are naked, the man and I. He rocks back and forth. His anus moves across my cheeks. Sometimes while he rocks, my nose brushes against it and I can feel it tighten.

His legs fold under him on either side of my head, his knees touch my shoulders. The hairs of his legs tickle my skin. He leans forward, hovering over my chest and stomach. He is a tall man, hirsute. He is older, but fit. The loose skin of age collects at his midriff and hips. The hair on his head is grey, but along his body it has already turned chalk white.

His genitals hang just past my chin. The slack weight of his testicles droop and brush against my throat as I patiently wait. He leans slightly to one side as he moves one hand to his penis, limp but heavy. He lifts and points it down my body, directing a strong, hot stream of urine across my torso.

The piss sprays in a wild cloud as it strikes me. The man gasps in relief. He had been holding back for some time. As the initial pressure of release recedes, the man can direct the stream with more purposeful control. He paints the length of my body. The fluids collect in puddles along the creases of my limbs. They form rivulets as they seek to escape and soak into the beige carpetting of the recently remodeled town hall lobby.

The urine flows over me, but my own erection remains dry. The man takes care to direct his stream away. Still, the urine rolling down my stomach soaks into my pubic hair. I can feel the heat and wetness collect, and my penis slowly grows turgid. My hands rest at my side, sweating. The man tells me I am not allowed to touch. Not allowed to touch anything.

The man's streams dies to a dribble, then ceases. The warmth of the wet on my body turns to a chill as the urine starts to dry on my skin. Again he tells me not to touch. My erect phallus twitches, now dark and swollen, curved starkly up and back, pointed directly at the man leaning over me. My hands itch and shake by my side, not from the cold, but from a consuming desire to touch. I must not touch, though. I am not allowed.

That's why I don't vote.