The house is quiet, but Josszampapollas' bladder is not. He rises, his morning wood tenting his pajama bottoms. In the bathroom, he lets loose a torrent of piss, the golden liquid reflecting the morning light. His cock, half-hard from sleep, grows stiffer as he imagines the sensation of his own piss on his skin, the taboo thrill of it. He strokes himself, the wetness from his piss making his grip perfect. He pictures himself fucking his cock, using his piss as lube, until he's grunting and spilling his load into the toilet, the scent of sex and urine filling the small room.