Disclaimer: All content is fictional, consensual, and intended only for mature audiences. All characters depicted are adults aged 18+
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I want to slowly unpotty train you. I’d start by having you wear pull-ups at night beneath your jammies. You’d be so comfy, snuggled up beneath the covers with Daddy’s arms wrapped around you. I’d give you soft pats on your padded bottom and make you feel so at ease. I’d gently encourage you to wet them. That's what they're for, after all. And before too long you’d be wetting then every night.
I’d convince you to wear them during long car rides, just in case you fall asleep or can’t hold it quite long enough to make it to the potty on time. But then I’d make sure not to stop until after you’d had an accident. Then I’d gradually have you start wearing them more and more often during the day, like when we’re out shopping. I’d make sure to keep us busy so there’s no time for bathroom breaks. Besides, you don’t really want to use those nasty public bathrooms, do you? Using the protection under your pants is a much better option.
You’d be wearing pull-ups almost all the time. And most mornings, you’d wake up unsure whether or not you had wet during your sleep. Until over time, more and more often you’d wake up with a leaky pull-up and soaking wet sheets beneath your bottom. I’d put you back in thick, crinkly diapers, because the pull-ups just aren’t enough to hold your accidents anymore.
You’d be in diapers every night and pull-ups during the day, until I pointed out how much you love your diapers. How safe and swaddled they make you feel. I’d tell you Daddy loves you in diapers too, and I’d start putting you in then during the day as well. You’d let little leaks out here and there until you barely noticed when you were wetting anymore.
Soon enough, you wouldn’t have any control left at all. You’d helplessly fill your diapers wherever we are, even in public and in front of friends, family, and strangers. And you’d just grow more and more embarrassed, and more and more dependent on Daddy’s kindness and care. You’d grow to love your diapers until you were nothing more than the helpless, thumb-sucking little diaper baby you’d always secretly wanted to be.
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The initial desperation and wetting is great but I love it when a character’s bladder fills up quickly after a long hold. They don’t know how to admit they have to go again so soon after they just went, and their bladder is so tired from the first hold they have even less time before they have a second accident…
A/N: I never knew how much I loved the name Ilya until I had to write it a dozen times.
Mornings were hard for Ilya.
It's not that he had trouble waking up. It's that his small bladder lead to desperate mornings upon waking. No matter how tired he felt, his bladder got him out of bed faster than any alarm could.
For the most part, this wasn’t a problem, Ilya having memorized his way to the toilet and what to avoid along the way. But, like many good things in life, not everything remains the same, and for this particular morning, that change would determine his fate.
Ilya’s eyes weren't even open when his hands clasped around his cock, his legs clamping together. A few blinks revealed a large damp spot upon his boxers, an indication to the premeditated wetting his bursting bladder intended to carry out. Taking a shaky breath, Ilya straightened his back and sat upon the edge of the couch, only for a single question to settle on his mind.
Whwre the fuck was he?
Next to him, his ears picked up snoring, reminding him what happened last night. Having just moved into the house that day, he and Kolya hadn’t found the time to properly assemble their beds, leading to them snuggling on the couch. Alcohol joined the mix as the two celebrated their first home together before the two passed out, Ilya tucked deep against Kolya’s chest where he felt the safest.
Not once did Ilya consider using the bathroom before sleeping.
And now he was reaping the consequences as his bladder throbbed. Ilya whimpered, leaning forward slightly before rocking from hip to hip. He had no idea where the bathroom was. He used it some time earlier, but that had been when there was enough light for the randomized colored blur before his eyes to warn him of an oncoming wall, and even then sometimes the warnings weren’t soon enough. Not to mention the various boxes scattered across the floor. Kolya had planned to spend the next day finishing as much unpacking as possible and helping Ilya navigate the house. But that was the next day. This was now, and he had to pee bad.
Briefly, he considered waking Kolya up. As embarrassing as it was, he often relied on his husband to guide him to a bathroom if he was anywhere but their home. Kolya never complained about it despite Ilya's mind believing otherwise, and shut down any apologies Ilya sent his way. However, hearing Kolya snore like so, guilt kept him from waking his husband and he let the man sleep. After all, Kolya deserved it.
Which still left him in his predicament. What was he supposed to do? His abused organ convulsed and drew shaky breath from Ilya as he fought to keep himself in control. He couldn't wait for Kolya to wake up naturally. His bladder could never wait that long.
Peeling away from Kolya's arms ever so carefully, Ilya reached out and felt around for his cane. It wasn't within arm reach, drawing a frown from him. Did he put it too far away? Did he leave it in the middle of the kitchen or in the car? Did he knock it over while he slept? Gingerly, Ilya lowered himself to the ground to feel, only to result in nothing. Much to his dismay, crouching encouraged his bladder to twitch and he soon forgot about his search in favor of holding himself.
This isn't good.
Once again, Ilya considered waking Kolya, but only for a second. He became focused on finding his way around, placing one hand outstretched before him and shuffling forward until he found a wall. From there, he followed the wall towards where he assumed the bathroom was, legs shifting back and forth and his other hand never going far from his aching member.
What was probably just a few strides felt like an entire journey before his hand set upon a window pane. The cold glass sparked a shiver down his back and straight between his legs, where his body screamed to empty. Ilya crossed his legs, grunting slightly as a drip of pee slipped from his grasp. Normally, he'd start swearing at this point, but unless he wanted to wake Kolya, the most he could do was bite upon his lip and wait for the pulsing to pass.
In between his extreme concentration on keeping himself dry, he mentally berated himself from for not going last night. Especially after all that beer. If he had just half a brain to go, he wouldn't have to deal with waking up to sharp jabs that required his body to remain tense and always moving, or else succumb to relief right in his pants.
Bouncing from foot to foot, Ilya continued his walk along the wall. Every step hurt, and each twitch in his abdomen threatened to dump his bladder's contents through his underwear and onto the floor. The only thought upon his mind cried for the bathroom, as though it would yell back and guide him to relief.
His foot hit something hard and his balance threw him forward. Ilya forgot about his current need in favor of staying upright. Big mistake. A spurt of urine splashed to the floor and though he didn't lose more than that, it tore down Ilya's hopes in finding a toilet in time as he grabbed himself, twisting his legs about.
Now it was getting serious. Serious enough for Ilya to start walking faster. Whatever time he wasted worrying about his safety and falling over things, he could care less now. A few injuries meant nothing so long as he didn't have an accident.
Except he couldn't find the bathroom.
Maybe he should find the front door and piss outside...
Ilya threw that idea quickly. The most he knew about outside was that they had neighbors. If it was morning, the person with the noisy dog leash would surely be out and about, and the last thing anyone wanted to see was some random neighbor taking a piss.
So now what? He hadn't a single clue which was he was facing, no idea where the bathroom was, and only minutes to spare before all hope was lost. Stubbornness kept him still walking along the wall, determined to at least find something that promised he was headed the right way. How does a one story building feel so big?
Another leak. Ilya couldn't keep from being verbal this time, panting and muttering to himself as he paced in his spot. His mind wandered to the few times times he had an accident in the car or on the doorstep because he refused to use public bathrooms out of fear he'd make the wrong assumption about the layout of the stall. This had to be the first time, however, he was going to have an accident because he couldn't find his way to his own bathroom.
His fingers ran across a door. Could luck be on his side? Ilya fumbled for the door knob, his need worsening tenfold as he tried to remember what the inside of the bathroom looked like. Another leak slipped his grasp and hitting the floor. At least Kolya wasn't awake to see a flustered Ilya as he curled his fingers around the brass knob and opened the door, taking a hurried step inside—
And smacked his forehead against something metal.
Ilya jumped back, hissing through his teeth and massaging his forehead. A quick inspection with his fingers revealed he found a closet. Kolya had said something about this house having a bunch of closets, and apparently here was one of them. Not that it made Ilya feel better in the slightest as he grumbled in frustration, the morning air nipping away at his dampening boxers.
Wait...
He was pissing himself.
Oh god, he was pissing himself.
Panic threw him into overdrive, and by a miracle he managed to stop the stream, even if he didn't want to. Ilya wanted to scream or cry, maybe both, maybe dissolve into the ground. Any option would be better than this horrendous midnight escapade he had ever been on for god knows how long. His stomach tumbled as his his bladder ached violently. And yet he's too scared to move. He's so full that any sudden movement might start a stream he’d never stop until empty.
He needed Koyla's help.
Tentatively, Ilya tried to picture how he made his way around the house to draw the shortest line to where Kolya was. The moment of silence allowed him to listen for his husband's snores, yet he could only hear his own jagged breathing and his occasional leaking pattering to the floor. Was he in a different room?
In a last ditch effort, Ilya took a guess where Kolya was and abandoned the wall. He made a beeline to his destination, one hand out before him and the other buried between his legs, though it did little as each step caused him to spurt. Once again, luck dropped a counterweight on his head and he found another wall first, which he used to support himself. His spurting has turned to streams, his abdomen stabbing away at his body until tears formed at the corners of his eyes. His logical side figured he might as well let go since he was soaked anyway, but a shrapnel of pride said no and he continued to hold, longing for an answer to his problem.
"Kolya?" Ilya finally called, voice still heavy with the usual morning rasp. No answer. No surprise, considering the cry was hardly louder that a squeak. Ilya cursed himself for his quieter voice, and tried again, this time putting more effort in. "Kolya!"
Still nothing. Another wave a desperation washed across him, and there's nothing he can do to stop the jet of hot piss gushing from his tip despite his weak effort to stop it by crossing his legs. Wet warmth wrapped down one leg and trickled to the next as it cascaded to the floor. Ilya sank into the wall, short breaths mixing with quiet moaning as euphoria swirled through his mind. He'd never get tired of this feeling, no matter how many times he'd experienced it. Something about intense relief reminded him all that pain he went through was worth it.
Well, up until his ears picked up on someone walking. And Ilya's heart stopped. He completely forgot Kolya existed in his moment of relief. Heat crawled up his neck and he made another attempt to stop the flow before Kolya reached him, then gave up. His body had become too attached to the idea of relief, and it refused to let Ilya have a say otherwise. Well, maybe Kolya wouldn't find him.
"Ilya?"
Shit.
Footsteps approached him from behind. The man didn't even sound like he was awake the way his tongue hardly made a distinction between each sound, and yet here he was responding to one of Ilya's calls.
"Ilya what's wro—oh."
Ilya’s head fell, the tears that had sat in his eyes for so long finally slipping down his cheeks. The last of his stream continued to splash into the puddle surrounding his feet. And when he finished, he remained silent, the only sign he was still alive being his trembling.
"Feel better?" Kolya finally asked. Normally, Ilya would nod or said something, but today's been too long of a day for him already. His first reaction is to cry, and Kolya responded to his sobs by hugging him. Briefly, Ilya tried to escape Kolya’s arms, feeling too disgusting to be touched intimately by anything and anyone. But his efforts soon fell away, Kolya holding him in such a way that lured Ilya into falling against his husband instead.
"Sorry," Ilya managed between his tears.
"No, no, no, don't be sorry," Kolya assured. "It was just an accident. You did everything you could."
"Not enough..."
"Ilya, it's not your fault. Everyone has accidents."
“Not at my age. And not multiple times in a year.”
“That’s not true.”
“How would you know?”
“You’re not the only person with a small bladder, you know.
Ilya could only nod, although embarrassment still held strong in him. His entire life might as well have become one accident after another with the tiny capacity he has. Worst of all, they hadn't even been in this new house for 24 hours yet, let alone finished unpacking yet, and he'd already wet the floor.
It's a while before Ilya decided he'd been nurtured enough, his tears finally drained and sobs nothing but the occasional sniff. The warmth has died away, leaving his underwear cold and stuck to his body. Kolya took note of his wiggling and finally lead Ilya through the house and to the bathroom. "Take a shower," Kolya suggested. "I'll clean up."
Ilya shook his head. “Kolya, don't, I can do it—"
"Ilya, go wash up. I got it. Where's your cane anyway?"
"I...don't... know..."
"I'll find it. Shower's 9 o'clock. Sink's at 12. I'll get you a new set of clothes and put them on the edge of the sink with your towel."
No use fighting Kolya. He doesn’t have the energy to anyway. Ilya sighed, agreeing to the deal with a simple, "Thanks." He listened to Kolya leave before removing his boxers, wondering if he should just throw them out. Not that he could remember where the trash can was but searching a bathroom would be far faster than searching a house.
He chose to leave them in the sink until he figured out what to do. Right now, the morning air ran its fingers over his body, drawing shudders. The shower countered that after he hopped in. At some point, Kolya entered and shuffled around for a minute before heading out again.
In the safety of the shower, Ilya let himself cry a little longer before stabilizing his head. He washed himself off then spent the next ten minutes just standing there, no thoughts going through his head except the usual "why?" Yes, Kolya was his husband, and he promised and repeatedly proved he'd take care of Ilya in his low points, but it didn't matter. Why wasn’t he grossed out by it all? Better yet, why was he still here when Ilya required so much care to even function like an actual adult?
Eventually, the water began to run cold, marking the end of his 15 minute shower. Ilya shut the water off and soon dressed in whatever clothes Kolya brought him. Kolya also found his cane, which he took gratefully, his navigational confidence restored by quite a bit. At least he wouldn't trip over random boxes anymore.
Kolya was in the kitchen making tea by the time Ilya left the bathroom. Ilya wandered to the kitchen, using the sound the kettle to find his way through the house. He stopped when Kolya cleared his throat, which was either the man wrongly inhaling his food or warning him not to go any closer. Either way, Ilya would rather not risk the latter.
"You still look tired," Kolya commented.
'I am tired,' Ilya thought, though he didn't say so, opting for a question instead. "What time is it?"
"It's 6, so we're not up much earlier than we'd have to be. You okay?"
"I'm fine," Ilya assured, even if he wasn't sure fine was the right answer for the mix of emotions churning in his mind. Embarrassment and insecurity didn’t make for a pretty pair, that he discovered as he stood awkwardly, unsure where to go so he was out of the way or what he could help with.
Something must have tripped Kolya’s Ilya-senses, for no sooner had Ilya thought another “why” question, Kolya was before him and letting him know he was on the right before he set a hand upon the raven's shoulder. "You don't sound like you’re okay."
"You didn't have to clean up after me,” Ilya said.
“Someone's gotta take care of you."
"I can do it, Kolya."
“I know you’re an adult.
“You don’t have to watch over me.”
"Ilya," Kolya pulled the other into a second hug, cradling him the same way he did when they fell asleep last night. Which Ilya wouldn't usually mind, but after this morning, he wasn't ready to sleep. Not when his body was still tired from his long hold and probably filling up as they stood there. And yet, Ilya couldn't stop himself from leaning into Kolya's touch, his ears warmed by Kolya's rolling voice. "I want to take care of you.”
Fine. He'd let Kolya get his little victory. Ilya returned the hug, then followed up with a brief kiss upon Kolya’s cheek. The pair found their way back to the couch they slept on last night, Kolya encouraging his lover to crawl into his arms and snuggle against his chest, where his eyes finally fall shut. If he let his mind wander back to his accident, the tingling upon the back of his neck returned and part of him worried Kolya didn't feel the same way about him as before. But when he wasn't worrying about his image and reminded himself they're married for a reason, Ilya practically forgot what happened that morning.
Kolya was right: someone had to take care of him. And Ilya couldn't be happier to have found someone who would do just that.
In a town where few bathrooms for men exist, it's become a custom for men to have full bladders
Warnings: Bladder control, really weird AU.
A/N: Anxiety is biting me fit posting this lol. Hope you enjoy my first omo fic on Tumblr! A little feedback on the story would be great, if any, but please be gentle?
A drop seeps into my boxers.
Frantically, I grab myself and cut off whatever flow threatens to follow. The chair beneath me squeaks as I rock back and forth before I'm hit with another wave of desperation. Groaning does little to make me feel better and I look to the bathroom, my leg bouncing. She's been in her bathroom for an hour.
Sweat beads my brow as another sharp pang leads me to lean forward. With great difficulty, I stand up and hobble to the bathroom, my knees knocking together as gravity takes its toll on my abused bladder. My knuckles rap against the door as my voice cracks. "Honey, please hurry."
My wife opens the door, worried a little. “Is something wrong?”
“I have to pee,” I admit, a little ashamed.
“Oh. You can go across town then.”
"I waited too long." More like I skipped my morning pee and spent the first half of the day working so I could spend the afternoon with her. “Can you just drive me across town? I haven’t gone since last night.”
She sighs. "Let’s go shopping first, then I'll bring you to the bathrooms.
My bladder spasms upon hearing those words and I have to twist my legs to keep myself dry. Briefly, I consider begging her for relief, but what good would that do when she has control over my bladder anyway? I can only nod before shuffling towards the car upon her demands, where I wait for her to come drive.
In this city, men aren't allowed to pee anywhere except at a few designated bathrooms scatted about the city. Even home bathrooms are restricted, although men who are single, underage, elderly or have a severe medical condition are exempt from this rule. Often, this leads to long days of holding, and it’s common to see men bouncing from foot to foot, dying for a piss. As for women, they can go anywhere they want: in their own designated bathrooms, at home, or even in an alleyway if need-be without penalty. They also get to determine when their husbands get to use the bathroom.
My wife takes the driver's seat a few minutes later, seemingly ignorant to my shaking and bouncing on the passenger’s side. I’ve held my pee longer than this, but I’ll never become fully accustomed to the discomfort and pain of desperation. Not to mention my bladder bulge is just barely noticeable when I pull my shirt up.
"You know," my wife says. "If you put on a sexy pee dance for me, I may let you use my bathroom tomorrow."
"What counts as sexy?" I ask. "I'm always dancing around when I need to go.”
"You'll know." She winks. I don't think I do know, my brain useless on all other topics except holding myself.
When we reach the store, I can't get out of the car without worrying I might leak. My wife eases me out, then stays in stride with me as we walk into the store. She offers me a job requiring only one day: push the cart.
Wonderful.
We enter the store. I try and keep my hands away from my crotch as much as possible, though my full bladder doesn't allow for many moments. My legs refuse to be more than a few inches apart, but even that is sometimes too much. Walking hurts, but standing makes me feel worse when my wife browses the shelves.
At least I can tell my wife likes it when I whimper and squeeze myself, unable to stop moving. She’s also quite tuned on as I coax myself to keep holding under my breath. I know she likes it when I beg for a bathroom as I'm starting to leak and I think she’s waiting for that moment to become a reality since I’ve never done it before. One problem: my bladder doesn’t know what leaking is. If I lose control over one spurt, the floodgates open and it’s nearly impossible to stop them until I’m almost empty or completely empty.
The stabbing throbs are becoming just one string of pain. I caress my bladder, trying to ease the raging liquids inside me. It does nothing but encourage the urge to go to worsen. I suppose it’s a good thing on a social scale. A desperate husband is a sign of dominance among women. As far as I’n aware, foreigners often see dominance as tall and muscular. Here we measure by bladder control. A husband with a strong bladder meant a woman married well and the marriage would be a powerful one.
We pass another wife and her husband in the middle of the store. The husband has a small patch of wetness at his crotch which only continues to steadily grow the longer they stay in their spot. The wife looks a little embarrassed. She starts dragging him along since he can barely stand, never looking back at the pee trail her husband is leaving. I feel bad for him as much as I want to curse him for making me have to fight my need harder. Just seeing his damp pants fills me more and I’m tempted to just let go.
The shopping trip is surprisingly quick by my wife’s standards, and we’re out the door shortly, even if it doesn’t feel like it. By now, I’m practically in tears as I help her load the car with the groceries, my eyes scanning for a distraction but only seeing other desperate men walking he parking lot. Somewhere behind us, two women are chatting and bragging about their husband’s capacities, both which are bigger than mine.
What I would do to have a bigger bladder right now.
I attempt keep my mind off everything as we drive towards the toilets, my wife occasionally asking which way to go and I having to provide directions on the spot. The tip of my dick hurts, piss gathered behind it and ready to go should I relax for one second. I’m fairly sure I’m going to burst any second. I consider suggesting we head home and I use her toilet for one time only since the distance is far shorter than reaching the men’s bathroom. But the thought is quickly discarded.
When we finally arrive at the toilets, I jump out and practically skip across the parking lot to the stalls. My heart stops as I see a line of desperate man dancing about in front of the one stall. Of the 20 bathroom stations set up around the city, she happened to bring me to the busiest.
Reluctantly, I fall in line and join the others in dancing. Every muscle in my body screams. Fatigue has set in long ago, but I'm not losing this battle against my bladder. Not when I have so much at stake. All I have to do is wait until I’m at the bathroom and then I can go and feel better.
Why is the line taking so long?
A few minutes pass before the like turns to chaos. One guy tries to cut in line and gets into a fight. Two other men lose control. A third grabs the current guy on the toilet and shoves him away to take over. Those that aren’t involved isn’t he fight eventually become involved when they try to sneak past to use the stall. Someone even jams the door shut, since it doesn’t have a lock. As for the rest of us, all we can do is struggle and do our best to ignore the sounds of piss cascading to the ground as the men fighting lose both their fist fight and the contents inside them.
After what felt like an hour, I'm the second in line to finally having a turn. I haven't leaked still, and I'm sure I'll jinx myself, but I'm kind of impressed I haven't. Not that that will last long. If the current guy on the toilet doesn't hurry up so the guy before me can go, I might just flood myself.
The guy before me is still verbally announcing how full he is, partially through bragging and partially out of desperation. He's getting on my nerves and many other guys behind me. No one wants to hear a retelling of how they feel, thank you very much.
"My god, I'm probably the fullest guy around here!" He says. "I've been holding it for 30 hours without a break and now another 23 minutes just waiting in line—"
"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" I snap so loudly it startles him and he leaks. And then horror follows. The leak has given his body the perfect excuse to let go, and I watch him soak his pants before me. He's mortified for a moment before glaring at me with the most menacing green eyes I've ever seen. "This is all your fault, you fucking asshole!" He screams before slapping me across the cheek. I spurt.
Oh no.
My own urine starts drizzling from me as I double over in hopes of stopping it. Nothing. Crossing my legs, pinching myself, begging to stop, none of it actually works against my body, and I’m left hunched over as urine spoils my pants and the ground below me. The guy before me is still insulting me, but his voice is drowned out by my noisy steam.
My senses come back briefly and I shove him out of the way to reach the stall, hoping to finish emptying in the toilet. Naturally, the door is still jammed from the other guy who is still going. By the time I’ve undone my pants, I realize my efforts are fruitless. I’m already so soaked it wouldn’t matter if I made it to the toilet or not. Everyone will know I’ve pissed myself no matter how much I try and hide it. I do still stand inside the stall once the other man has exited.
My poor wife must be dying inside, knowing her husband can’t hold himself.
Relief finally kicks in, earning less groans from my throat. After 20 hours of holding, I can finally let my body be. The sharp pain that once overtook my mind slowly decreases in intensity until it’s just a dull ache as my stream trickles out, causing me to shiver. The sound of urine hitting the ground is music to my ears, the stream adding to the giant puddle that grows at my feet and mixes with the other unlucky folks who also lost control.
I don’t know how long I’ve been going, but I do know someone is pissed. I’m shoved aside by someone who is swearing up a storm. “Don’t block the fucking stall if you’re not gonna use it, asshole.” Another man makes his way to the toilet while I stumble from my spot, suddenly aware of just how much I lost. Now I’m embarrassed to continue peeing and clamp down upon my body, wincing as I manage to stop the flow, or reduce it enough that it’s not completely noticeable. I consider shoving him back, but give up and make my way towards the car, still leaking.
My wife meets me outside the car, concern across her face. “Sorry for taking so long," I say. "I went. I'll be okay until tomorrow."
She doesn't say anything but instead waits until I have my stream under control. I maybe have stopped it, but I still feel so desperate, maybe even worse than before. Not in the way it hurts, but in the way that I’ve let my body taste relief, and now it’s locked on achieving it.
My wife fishes a towel out from the back of the car. She wraps me in it and dries me off the best she can. I squirm in my spot, passing my weight between each foot and biting my lip when she accidentally puts pressure on the exhausted organ.
"Do you want to go again?" She asks.
I shake my head as my need rapidly worsens. "I'm empty," I lie. I know she knows I’m fibbing. But I don't want to go to the bathroom. Not here, anyway.
She helps me in the car and drives home. My legs remain pressed together and to my dismay, I’m already reaching the level of need where I was before. It’s getting harder to sit still, my bladder overreacting to the hit of urine still sloshing around inside me.
I regret not saying yes to a second bathroom break.
When we get home, my kidneys dump more pee in and I can’t help but return to pinching myself. I’m quick to let go, but my quick enough to avoid my wife seeing how severe my current state has become.
"Sweetie," me wife says. "Go use my bathroom."
"What??" I stare at her.
"You're losing control. Just go for now before you hurt yourself. I'll take you to the bathrooms later today."
“But what if you get arrested?”
“Oh don’t be silly. I gave you permission so they can’t really charge me. Now go before you have another accident.”
I thank her and kiss her on the cheek before rushing for the bathroom. Her bathroom is very clean and smells nice unlike the men’s restrooms. Even better, I have a little privacy, though I forget to shut the door. Just seeing a toilet and knowing I don't have to rush myself to finish makes me start going right then in my pants. My hands tremble as I free myself from my pants and sloppily aim into the bowl, relief right at the tip of my tongue… or cock.
For the second time that day, my urine gushes out. This time I don't have to sit through the pain before feeling relief. The relief comes immediately. My hand grabs onto the counter and I moan, shivers running up my body once again.
I don't remember when my wife entered the bathroom, but when I finally notice her, my cheeks heat up. I'm still peeing. Men are supposed to be discrete about their bathroom uses to avoid showing weakness to their girls. My eyes can't meet hers and suddenly the floor becomes the most fascinating thing ever.
My wife drops off some UTI pills on the counter then leaves. I remain still embarrassed, even after i finish peeing, hiding in the bathroom for a good ten minutes after finishing and even having a quick third pee before finally deciding to face her.
I pull my pants up and flinch at the cold, hardened urine touching my tip. I flush the toilet and try to sneak to the bedroom where I can change my clothes. My wife stops me on the way there instead. "Feel better?" She asks, kissing my jaw.
"Much better. Thank you." I still feel heat tingling my ears. How is she not disappointed in me?
"Why don't you take a shower? I'll get you new clothes.”
I nod and kiss her on the forehead. "You're the best."
"Well, you were pretty sexy in the store today." She chuckles and I find myself doing the same. We then part ways for a bit and I wash up as she entertains herself with her book. The rest of the day is quite pleasant, the two of us deciding to spend the rest of the day lazily and at home.
After that day, my wife brings me to the men's bathrooms late that night when most men aren't there and again early in he morning before others get up. From that day on, she's more willing to drive me to the men's toilets, and if I absolutely cannot hold myself any longer, she will allow me to use her toilet. She still likes keeping me desperate and multiple days I barely make it, but I wonder why the change of heart. When I ask her why, she responded, "I didn't know how badly men treated each other at the bathrooms. I don't like it when people do that to you."
My wife is going shopping again. I'm pretty desperate but not as bad as before. While she readies for the day, I drink two cups of coffee, knowing that the drink will go straight through me. The least I can do for her in return for her kindness is give her the best bladder control performance of the entire city.
