I didn’t have to work this morning and was looking forward to sleeping in. I woke up at 5am. Apparently, these days, that qualifies as “sleeping in”. My bladder, used to being emptied at least one hour prior to 5am, sat hot and heavy and painfully full in my gut.
I lay still for a while, trying to convince my bladder that it didn’t need to go as badly as it felt like it did. Sometimes that works. My bladder replied by sending me a sharp, shooting cramp. Message received then.
Master was deeply asleep and I rolled over, gently nudging Him with my knee, hoping that would wake Him up because I really hate having to poke Him awake. But all He did was grab my leg and pull it over Him as He often does. He likes to sleep with my leg across His groin area (and typically, I like to sleep that way. Except for when it places unwanted pressure on my bladder by curling me in half!) I settled in to wait. His alarm would be ringing in about a half an hour anyway. Surely I could suffer that long.
When the alarm buzzed, I made a quick move to pull my leg back and He lightly, and for just a second, tightened His grip on it. That means “don’t move” in M/s-ese, in case you were wondering. He tapped the snooze button and mumbled “One more.” One more means 9 more minutes of sleep. Or, in my case, 9 more minutes of my back teeth floating.
Relaxing was out of the question. It wasn’t the type of gotta-pee-urgency that had you thinking you were going to wet the bed at any minute, it was the type that just hurt. Pressure and spearing pain can make 9 minutes seem like 9 hours.
When the alarm buzzed again, I was successful in getting my leg back at least. “Time to get up?” I asked brightly, already shimmying toward the end of the bed as He reached over and smacked at the clock. “I have to pee.”
“No.” He said and wrapped His arms around me, tugging me back against Him, spoon-style. “Not yet. You can wait.” His arm tucked tightly around my midsection and another sharper cramp exploded in my bladder.
“I really have to go.” I whimpered quietly. And I did. I mean I really, REALLY had to go.
“I bet if I stick my dick down your throat and facefuck you for a while, you won’t have to go so bad, will you cunt?” Meaning, of course, that if He DID stick His dick down my throat and facefuck me for awhile, I’d gag uncontrollably and, consequently, piss all over myself in the process, and thusly, not have to get up to use the bathroom. (Oh the wonderous keepsakes of childbirth on a woman’s body, eh?)
“No Sir.” and I settled down for another 9
hour minute wait.
I do not recall if there were just one, or two more snooze-button naps for Him after that. I was lost in concentrating on not (and fantasizing about) pissing the bed. How good it would feel, how my bladder, now sending regular stabs of pain as a reminder of being full to the point of popping, would actually hurt as it emptied, but in that “god that feels good” kinda ouchy way. How warm and wet it would be, flowing over my legs, how vindicitively spitefully justified I would feel in pissing all over Master’s lap as He insisted upon squeezing me so tightly against Him and refusing to let me up to the bathroom, yet, how embarrassingly humiliating that would be and how *angry* He would be and how *awful* the consequences would be…. and telling myself, again and again, that I am 37 years old, for fuckssake, and I haven’t pissed the bed in *at least* 30+ years and no way am I going to NOW. But god damn, I had to GO and when you have to go that badly it is impossible to think of anything but peeing. I think my eyeballs had turned yellow.
Finally, finally, He gave a heavy sigh as the clock nagged Him again and rolled over, releasing His death grip on my abdomen. “Let’s go” He said, prodding me – as if I’d been comfortably resting and was reluctant to get up. I bit back things like “It’s about fucking time” and “I’m just about to explode over here” and “Holy fucking Christ on a cracker Master! My bladder is not an Olympic swimming pool!” and instead said, simply, “May I go to the bathroom please Sir?”
He didn’t answer right away and I had a small moment of panic where I was *sure* He was going to say no. Sure He was going to make me wait through His shower, through making coffee (running water, one of His favorites), through taking the dog out to pee first (because I do not rate above the dog you know!), through breakfast.. and then maybe.. maybe.. He’d let me go.
I think I would have cried.
“Yeah.” He said, and I scurried to the bathroom before He changed His mind. It was as blissfully wonderful as I had been imagining it to be. When I have to go that badly, it doesn’t stream out in a rush, but trickles, slowly and endlessly. Goosebumps rippled down my arms, my eyes crossed and I moaned in absolute pleasure. Heavenly, delectable release. A good orgasm would have paled in comparison.
When I had finished and was leaving the bathroom, still grinning goofily, I ran smack into Master’s form. He gripped my hair and tugged my head back to stare down into my startled eyes.
“Thank you…?” He prompted.
“Thank You Master.” I dutifully recited. Something dark and dangerous danced in His eyes as He looked down at me. More and more often He inches toward controlling, and making as painful and/or humiliating as possible, my bathroom needs. Denying me a toilet, having me use the yard as the dog does, making me lose control of it as He hurts or fucks me beyond the ability to hold it, watching me squirm in agitation with the need to perform such a basic bodily function, smirking at me as I beg permission – I think, had today not been a work day – I’d have not relieved myself in the bathroom at all this morning. I think that I’d be wearing it, both my own and His, right now.
And I’m disappointed that I’m not.
We have GOT to win the lottery. Dammit.