I derive sexual pleasure from urination.

Urinating myself, or watching other ponies urinate, they are both equally pleasurable to me. Feeling the tension as one holds it in…and to feel it release in a yellow stream of relief. The eyes roll back. There is a soft sigh, or a soft moan. Nothing is quite so arousing to me.

I could say that this originated from, ironically, an accident. And I do mean “accident” in that sense of the word. Or rather, a series of accidents that plagued my early childhood.

I suffered from bouts of incontinence in my early childhood. Throughout the day, without warning, I would feel the irresistible urge to release the contents of my bladder, wherever I stood. The swimming pool, the rug, or if I was lucky, the marble floor. Of course, I could not be seen with a diaper in public. Naturally, Mother and even Father found it a great embarrassment. So proud they are, they would not let anything come to tarnish the greatest and most respectable honor of our family name.

As unbelievable as it may seem, I enjoyed my days of incontinence. Only in retrospect. Urine is like a fragrant liquid stream that beckons love and kindness. Mother would always turn so lovely after I wet myself. She would walk up to my teary face, and she would stroke my mane and comfort me. Not once did she first gaze down contemptuously at the yellow puddle on the ground.

I recall I was five, and Mother was dressing me to appear at a reception she and Father were hosting. “To appear,” for I would merely appear in a stunning hoof-sewn summer frock as Mother’s showpiece. I was not permitted to speak, I was not to leave Mother’s side. “Why, you may wet yourself, darling, what then? And I wouldn’t be there to care for you, my dearest.” Needless to say, the five-year-old mind is very gullible.

I recall watching in the mirror as Mother finished putting the final accessories on me. Without warning, I began to urinate. I watched as the dark yellow stream trickled onto the priceless rug in my dressing room. A look of morbid fear fell upon my face.

(My urine was always dark yellow, for early on Mother believed that depriving me of all liquids after noon would resolve the issues. Our butler Randolph, thankfully, knew this was absolute nonsense, and would give me precious sips of water or sports drink while Mother was not around. “Tell nopony,” he said. Mother never found out.)

“Not again!!!” I remember saying after I wet myself. “I’m sorry, Mummy!”

“Don’t worry, dear. That was just because you’re nervous, Di,” she said to me.

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“Everypony pees when they’re nervous, Di. Even if they’re not sick. So you don’t need to worry.”

“Everypony does it?”

“Yes, dearie. So you don’t have to worry.”

“But the dress is ruined,” I said.

“Well fortunately, darling, I had the foresight to request that the dressmaker craft the garment in the absorbent and easily washable fabric he has.”

“Oh. Okay.”

She brushed my mane, then placed my namesake headpiece upon my head. “Now, listen, Diamond,” she said softly to me. “I’m your mother. I love you. No matter what. You understand?”

“Yes Mommy,” I said. Those were the only times Mother said I love you and I felt she wasn’t being superficial. When you’re that age, you can tell if somepony’s lying or not. You lose the sense as you grow older.

But you can always regain it.

“Good girl, Diamond.”

Our butler Randolph appeared. “Madam Rich, the first guests have arrived.”

Mother’s words instilled great confidence in my fragile heart. She stroked my cheek lovingly, and said, “Are you ready?” To which I found no logical response but, “Yes! Of course! Let’s go!”

Mother turned to Randolph. “And for heavens sake, help me make sure that Di doesn’t touch any liquids!”

By the time I had turned seven, the bouts of incontinence all but disappeared. That was when I began to hear the arguments. Freed from embarrassing trips to my room or the nearest bathroom, I rejoiced in my newfound freedom. Instead of returning to my room, I would remain after dinner and do my homework on the study desk near the cast-iron mantel in the drawing room. Randolph would serve the customary post-dinner coffee, which was never drank. I was the only one who ate. I enjoyed the milk biscuits that always came with the coffee.

Mother and Father would argue in the drawing room. I am almost certain that Mother and Father have argued since I was born. But in the past, I would always wet myself around dinnertime. And then Mother would escort me upstairs to my room to assuage my embarrassment. But as I grew older and the wetting episodes stopped, I began to hear the arguments. They always seemed to reach their peak shortly after dinner.

They frequently argued about honor. Honor. What honor? (Such a peculiar word, is honor.) It was not just Mother—Father was far from blameless. They both screamed at each other until they grew hoarse, without a hint of poise or restraint. They threw vulgarities at each other. They held childish grudges as they ate dinner in silence served on silver platters and fine china.

Within less than a month, I once again retired to my room immediately following dinner. (Randolph was considerate enough to bring three milk biscuits and an iced Ovaltine to my room around eight o’clock every night.) For many nights, after I had completed my homework, I would pace relentlessly in my large room, afraid to leave and hear the hoarse screams of my parents.

In the quiet of my room, I often heard myself murmur in the likeness of Mother’s voice. (My voice, as a grown mare, is eerily similar to Mother’s. I hate it.) “Oh no, did we have another accident dear? Don’t worry, Di. Mummy’s here. Everything’s all right.”

And for a moment, the walls in my gigantic room grew closer. I felt warm, coddled in love: Mother’s love. “I’m here for you, Di. We’ll clean this up.”

My daydream was broken one night, when Father opened the door. “Diamond, why are you still awake? It’s past your bedtime.”

Mother was also there. She noticed the stain in the rug. Her eyes softened to a loving expression. “Oh, dear, Diamond darling, what happened? I…I thought we had made so much progress, darling.” And she approached me and caressed my mane (taking care to step around the puddle I made).

“I…I was sad when I heard you and Father were arguing,” I said. “It…it just happened, Mother.”

Mother hugged me. She really meant it. “It happens to everypony, darling.”

“You mean other ponies pee themselves after their parents argue?”

Mother chuckled. “No, darling. No darling. Arguments.” Her face turned serious. “Everypony gets into arguments with their husbands and wives. It’s inevitable.”

“Inevitable?” I asked for a definition.

“Impossible to avoid,” Mother said, with a gentle smile.

Father was also there. He remained cold and withdrawn. “Typical, isn’t it?” he complained. “The same week I decide it’s time to replace the rug, she has to have an accident on it.”

“She’s only a child, Filthy,” Mother said.

“A child who casts a dark shadow upon the honor of our family, Spoiled. What if word gets out of our Diamond’s affliction? Just imagine it.”

“Asking her to wear diapers is the greater dishonor,” Mother said.

“How many costly accidents would we have averted if Diamond had simply worn diapers?” Father scoffed. “Your idea of ‘honor’ is costing us thousands of bits a month!”

While they continued arguing outside my bedroom door, I rebelliously urinated some more on the rug. Not one of them turned their gaze to notice what I had done.

I always wondered why Mother never gave me diapers to wear. As Father said, it made more sense that I wear them. There are so many valuable items in the family estate, each obviously worth more than poor me urinating on it in an unfortunate accident. It made logical sense that I wear diapers, even just while at home. (Even though I, as a seven-year-old filly, would never admit to wanting to wear diapers.)

But I never wore diapers after age four. And I would urinate in the open for everypony to see. For Mother to see. And the smile in her eyes, it was loving as it was…sickening. In a dark moment, sometimes I wonder if I inherited this from my mother.

I recall her intonation. “Oh, Diamond! What do we have here!? Mummy’s here to take really good care of you, dear.” And then she would smile. And caress my mane. And kiss me on the cheek. And dab my wet urethra with a small square of toilet paper.

But no, it could not be! I refuse! No! Never! What a horrid thought! Why, even if it were, even if it were hereditary, by no means did I inherit everything from my mother. Not in the least. I inherited her voice and her urination fetish. Nothing more. And that is plenty already.

As I grew older and more curious, my days of haughty snobbery long gone, I began to be more bold in tantalizing my love for urination. In my earlier years, it was a lonely pursuit. At first I was too embarrassed to tell anypony, even my new friends the Cutie Mark Crusaders or my old friend Silver Spoon. (Moreover, Silver and I had drifted apart by that time. She did not seem to accept my changed personality.)

We are wealthy enough to have a projector room in our home. As a young pony I often made clandestine trips into town to purchase pornographic movies and vibrators (I had amassed quite a large collection). I always went shopping without my tiara on. Not in an attempt to conceal my identity, mind you, but simply because I dislike wearing it. It’s absolutely hideous.

“Oh, Diamond, how you have blasphemed the greatest and mostest noblest honor of your family name,” one may say. And one would be correct. That is exactly why I did it. Out of revenge. (And I don’t believe the store clerk told only anypony else about my frequent visits—discretion is only to be expected of a pony with his occupation.)

On the videos, they referred to the urination as “golden showers,” or “watersports.” I dislike the name “golden shower.” It wreaks havoc on my arousal. Why, my family is Rich. We have so many Bits in the vault underneath the family estate that I could quite literally shower myself in metallic gold. And the premise could not disgust me more. Gold. Coins. Money. Old money. “Golden shower” reminds me of my parents arguing. The subject of argument was almost always money. Filthy, disgusting, off-yellow…money.

Late at night, whilst everypony was asleep, I would creep downstairs to the projector room to watch my watersports video collection. I switched on the projector and sat on the beanbags in the front. And the instant the fragrant urine escaped from the mare’s body on the screen, I snuggled against the waterproof sides of the beanbag. It was late, and the house was devoid of the sounds of the arguments of Mother and Father. Nothing in the way of the sound of love: the sound of a liquid stream escaping from my urethra and hitting the surface of the projector screen.

“Don’t worry Di,” I mumbled to myself. “Don’t worry. Mummy’s here to take care real good care of you.”

The first pony I confided in was my friend, Scootaloo. Or rather, by a series of unfortunate events, I inadvertently revealed my secret to her. I recall she had invited me over for lunch one weekend with her mentor Rainbow Dash. We ate at a restaurant on the ground, since as an earth pony I was naturally unable to visit Rainbow Dash’s home.

I don’t recall much of what was spoken during lunch—Scootaloo was preoccupied with talking with Rainbow Dash and her recent promotion to officer in the Wonderbolts.

“Nice job, Rainbow Dash,” I interjected.

“Aww, thanks Diamond.” And the two pegasi resumed their previous conversation. At the time, Scootaloo and I hadn’t been friends for very long, and she perhaps didn’t know how to incorporate me into the conversation.

“What’s that book in your saddlebag?” Scootaloo asked, noticing my Coco Pommel designer saddlebag lying on the floor. (Mother gave it to me. I have no attachment to it whatsoever.)

Our family estate has one of the most extensive book collections in all of Ponyville. Second only to Twilight’s castle library of course. I grew up reading the classics: Prancing and Prejudice by Mane Austen, Foalkenstein by Mare-y Shelley. (Mother and Father never read them. They only purchased them for décor.) And although I can confidently say my days of snobbery are over, to this day I only find true pleasure in reading the eloquently written classics of yesteryear. Scootaloo frequently teased me about this.

“‘Mane Eyre,’ huh?” Scootaloo examined the book. “Course you’d read something snooty like that,” she teased.

“C’mon Scootaloo, I’m not that stuck up,” I said. My writing style is not due to my family background, but from reading for long periods of time in my bedroom. Books were my refuge when Mother and Father were arguing. As I grew older, the books naturally increased in complexity, and my current style of writing reflects this. I dare say I wrote more eloquently as a twelve-year-old filly than Mother or Father ever did as grown ponies.

“Nah, I’m just teasing you,” Scootaloo said. “I’ve been wanting to read this book. Is it good?”

I was naturally most excited when Scootaloo asked me to read some of Mane Eyre out loud to her and Rainbow Dash after lunch. Although Scootaloo may be embarrassed to admit it, she herself takes a liking to the finer things in life. Her taste for haute cuisine—or toffee nose grub, a much more descriptive name—rivals that of Mother’s.

After lunch, I opened up the book and began reading out loud. I had already read it once, so the intonations of the language were no issue to me. I had only planned to read one chapter that afternoon. But Scootaloo interjected occasionally to ask questions and to discuss the various nuances in the text. And the two of us must have lost track of time, for we continued page after page, well into the third chapter. Reading it for the second time, reading it aloud—it electrified my spirit.

But I speak of all this because Rainbow Dash was about to lulled into one of her afternoon naps. Scootaloo, not wanting to see her idol embarrass herself, made a desperate attempt to, as it will, “revive” her.

Scootaloo proceeded to tell us some of the most funny jokes I have ever heard in my life. By then I had learned to restrain my laughter. (Not because of my upbringing, but because my laughter has a natural evil-sounding tone to it, and it reminds me too much of my years as a selfish, conceited bully.)

Rainbow Dash laughed the hardest. Moreover, she had consumed a large volume of carrot and watermelon juice at lunch, and she had sat in her chair for over two hours whilst I read the book. Suddenly, Rainbow Dash’s laughter vanished, and her smile was replaced by a look of horror.

I could smell it before I saw it. I could smell the fragrant liquid as it formed a puddle on Rainbow Dash’s chair. If I listened closely, I could hear the trickling. I watched the tension in Rainbow Dash’s face release in a liquid stream of pleasure. And…a soft moan as she urinated. It was a heavenly sight.

And I had a most inappropriate response.

“Diamond…are you blushing?” Scootaloo said.

“Yes…Scootaloo…I…erm…” I found myself unable to complete a sentence, every word interspersed with a soft moan.

Rainbow Dash, as it were, "dashed" from the restaurant (and the puddle in the chair) to assuage her own embarrassment, leaving Scootaloo and me behind to face our own embarrassment. (And the bill—not that that mattered, everypony knew that I was going to pay the bill. Because well, I’m Rich.)

Scootaloo, I admired her for trying not to laugh. But she could not hold back a slight giggle, which I heard as she whispered in my ear. “Wait a sec…heehee…is this what think it is…?”

“I have…no…idea…what you…are…implying…Scootaloo!” I was still softly moaning.

“You got a pee fetish, don’t ya, Diamond?” she said at normal volume.

“Not so loud!”

“So you do…!” Scootaloo said, smirking, nudging my flank.

I had expected it to be the end. A sad, unfortunate ending to what could have been a long-lasting friendship. “You must think I’m a freak,” I said.

I expected her to reply with a bad joke or laughter, but all she said was, “No I don’t. It’s fine, Diamond.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Everypony’s got their quirks. Sorry if I seemed insensitive.”

“Oh.” I was surprised at her apology. “It’s all right, Scootaloo.”

As I gazed into her eyes, my reflection visible, I felt warmth in my body. It was not the warmth of urine. It was the warmth of…love. Nurturing love. We hugged, and it felt warmer than all the hugs Mother had ever given me. Mother would always hug me after I had an accident.

“Don’t worry, darling. Mummy’s here. It’s okay. It’s okay.”

I despised Mother’s hugs. I despised the feeling of her cold metal jewelry against my fur.

As time passed and Scootaloo and I grew closer, I began to personally invite her to my house. I recall the first time I invited her over. We were both fourteen. I took her to the projector room. I was anxious to at last share my treasured watersports videos with somepony else.

But it was a vulnerable time for Scootaloo. She had recently discovered her hermaphroditism, and it was clear to me that she desired to seek clarity and understanding as to her sexuality. So I let her choose what she wished to watch. She chose the video of gay stallions. Which were recommended to me by the video store clerk as a “favorite among teenage fillies.”

Although Scootaloo enjoyed it, I was not aroused one bit by it. (I asked the store clerk for a refund, but I was laughed out of the store. It was a most unpleasant—and puzzling—experience.) The only way I was able to orgasm that afternoon was with a vibrator, looking away from the screen, whilst drinking salted apple juice through a straw. And pretending it was urine.

Scootaloo probably didn’t notice that I had looked away from the screen. “They were smoking hot stallions,” according to her.

She noticed my unmoved expression. After a moment of silence, she said, “You’re gay, aren’t you?”

She took my silent blushing as a “yes.”

About four years later, Scootaloo and I took a vacation to Manehattan. I booked one room with one king bed for the both of us to share. In order to save money. In retrospect, it was a pathetic excuse. I had booked a five-star hotel that was named three years in a row as the “most romantic hotel” in Manehattan. Scootaloo chose soft pillows for her side of the bed, and the staff said, looking towards me, “And would your marefriend like the same as well?”

We were nearly grown mares, just out of school, and our friendship had strengthened. Although we did not speak of it to each other, we each knew what the other sought out of the trip. I could see it in the snarky grin on Scootaloo’s face when we found condoms in the minibar. Or when Scootaloo and I were queueing for the log flume ride at Pon-ey Island (the one with the placard advising “you may get soaked”), and I was afraid, and she said, “What’s the matter? You were never afraid of wetting yourself, Diamond.”

Scootaloo and I never talked much regarding my sexual orientation, but it did not take her very long to realize I was “gayer than Rainbow Dash’s mane,” as I liked to put it. (Scootaloo naturally did not appreciate the joke I made at her idol’s expense.) My homosexuality was always overshadowed by my fetish for urination.

I don’t think Scootaloo was ever infatuated with me. I think that vacation was merely Scootaloo’s way of thanking me, for the support I had given her over the years. She had an understandably difficult time coming to terms with her being a hermaphrodite, and I was not oblivious to the fact that I was her primary support pony.

“To getting laid,” as Scootaloo put it later that night at the bar. We clinked our cider mugs together, and gulped the entire contents within a few minutes.

The purpose of the cider was of course, not just to calm our nerves. They were very large mugs, and filled both our bladders adequately. We returned to our hotel room. Scootaloo had brought some plastic sheeting to cover the bed, but nothing dampens the romance more than a massive condom for the bed. I apologize—I have a crude sense of humor too, you know. “You’re too considerate sometimes,” I said to Scootaloo.

It was all in all a most pleasant sexual encounter. Over a quarter of an hour, I orgasmed twice, Scootaloo ejaculated once, and we both moaned for an unspecified number of times. We both released the entire contents of our bladders.

All was well until, like a total fool, as I urinated into her mouth, I screamed, “MOTHER! OH, MOTHER!”

Scootaloo pulled away in an instant. She spit out the urine. “Mother!?”

“I…I mean…Scootaloo. No. I mean…Scootaloo…you're not my mother. Quite obviously.” I corrected myself as quickly as I could. The fragrance of her urine in my fur had turned me delirious.

After we both regained our composure, Scootaloo sat next to me on the bed. “Look, Diamond…I don’t think this ‘more than friends’ thing is gonna work out,” she said.

“It was an accident. I won’t call you ‘mother’ anymore. I promise, Scootaloo.”

“Nah, that’s not the point. It’s just…I’m not really that into you.”

“You sure didn’t seem like that in bed just now,” I objected.

“I think that was just the cider,” she said back.

“I don’t think so.”

“Or…it was the watermelon juice we drank at Pon-ey Island,” she said. Watermelon, of course, is a diuretic.

“I disagree.”

“Or…the coffee we had at breakfast.” Another diuretic.

I relented. “Okay. Fine, Scootaloo. You win. Friends it is.”

It was silent for a moment.

“I’m sorry, Diamond.”

Scootaloo had no objection to us taking a shower together. We were both covered in urine, which we wanted to clean from ourselves as fast as possible before the smell “lingered” the next evening at our dinner reservation at L’Petit Poney. (Scootaloo’s favorite restaurant. They serve typical toffee-nose grub.)

After we showered, I visited the front desk and complained to the front desk that the sheets “smell like a pigsty.” I complained whilst wearing my old tiara—they would not refuse the request of a member of the Rich family. (Although I don’t wear that gaudy tiara on a daily basis anymore, I do find use for it on occasion.)

After I was profusely apologized to, we were transferred to a larger suite with two bedrooms. However, Scootaloo wanted us to share a bed that night.

“I didn’t know ‘friends’ could do that?” I teased.

“Sure they can.” She winked. “Just don’t touch anything.”

And I would like to state quite clearly, I didn’t touch anything that night.

Scootaloo and I are still good friends to this day. We study at the same university in Manehattan. Although the dorm is less than satisfactory compared to my bedroom in the family estate, I don’t wish to return home more than is necessary. Mother has become absolutely insufferable as she gets older. Every word from her mouth at the dinner table is critique and disparaging remarks, directed at me or Father. Last Hearth’s Warming Eve, she blamed Father for Randolph’s death (entirely untrue), and did not cease to hurl expletives at me after I broached the fact I threw away my old diamond tiara. (Well, at least I didn’t pawn the hideous thing.)

Father and I suspect dementia. She’s remarkably frail for somepony in her late fifties. Ironically, it is now her who has regular accidents in the hallway. And nopony comes to her assistance. She stands there. Alone. With a puddle of urine below her.

I rightfully should visit her more often in view of her health. But if I am to hear her shouts and insults echo in the halls of the family estate for even a few minutes…I don’t think I shall be able to retain my sanity.

Scootaloo is gracious enough to listen to my complaints. She always brews a pot of tea with her dorm room electric kettle. I omit no detail from her. She once told me, from her own experiences, “Sometimes the ponies who’re supposed to be your parents don’t feel like your parents. At all.”

After I tell her everything, she wipes my tears and says, “Don’t worry, Di. I’m here. It’s okay.” She removes her metal jewelry before she hugs me tightly. Scootaloo’s hugs are the warmest. The loveliest. They last for close to a minute. I can’t help but giggle like a little foal.

I am sure Scootaloo is aware of the effect she has on me. She humors me on occasion. Rather, she tantalizes me. Sharing the bed that night is a good example.

At university parties, she’ll come close to me and remark in an exaggerated manner: “Oh no! I’ve drank so much punch! And I can’t hold it in anymore! Aaaah! Aaaah! The bathroom! Oooh! Oooh!”

She usually makes it in time. Although one time she did accidentally wet herself on the carpet. Whilst everypony at the party laughed drunkedly at her, I remained seated in a dark corner. Slipping a blanket over my hind legs…and enjoying the moment.

“Don’t worry, Scootaloo. Your daughter’s coming to take real good care of you,” I muttered, as I imagined myself approaching her.

Something about watching that orange pegasus wet herself just drives me mad.

Author's Note

END. Thanks for reading, and I would appreciate your feedback. See y'all next time!