alliradaye: During the early stages of our interaction, I reflected that “Sometimes, it isn&rs
alliradaye: During the early stages of our interaction, I reflected that “Sometimes, it isn’t fear of the act at hand that makes me hesitate. It’s fear of what might come next.” That still rings so very true. I was scared about his peeing on me because what if the next step was to drink it. I was scared to pee in the tub because what if the next step was to drink that. I was scared to pee myself because what if the next step was diapers. Oh goodness no. But sometimes, the fear of the act at hand is itself real and overwhelming. For instance, I really, really didn’t want to pee myself. I was content and comfortable being a person who had never peed herself beyond the acceptable age. I’m not that person anymore. To be completely honest though, it’s mostly my fault that it happened. Whether I have a pee fetish or not, the fact remains that I went through a brief phase during which it was all I could think about. He made one offhand comment about it recently, and I worried so much that he might follow through on making me pee myself that it became all I could think about. And I kept slipping it back into the conversation. When he asked how I thought I should be punished for forgetting a task: erm, I should pee myself? When he asked what I would do in exchange for permission to take the plug out of my asshole: erm, I should pee myself? “I wonder why I am so fixated on that these days and whether I have always had this fascination with pee or it newly developed because I am that desperate and low and pathetic for any bit of distraction and stimulation and attention,” I told him. He obliged. I often feel conflicted when I have to pee towards the end of the workday. If I ask for permission to pee and he denies it, then the implied expectation is that I wait until he relents. That means I’ve waited around after work just so that I can pee before heading home. (I’m terribly rigid about technicalities, so it took me a long while to realize - ok, I never realized, he nicely told me - that this didn’t mean that I had to stay behind at the office while my coworkers headed out for a drink after work. Now I know, and sometimes I wait there. But that’s difficult too because the last thing I want to do while desperate with the need to pee is drink.) My other option is to dash home and pee into my cup there. My life is a landmine of non-ideal options though, and this also is a risky option; I don’t want to be stuck in transit having to pee right now, right now. I miscalculated just how badly I had to pee one day, thanks to another fun day of peeing in 10 second bursts, and by the time I was on the train home, I was close to tears with desperation. It was a confusing day because I had already asked him for permission to pee before leaving work, which meant that I still needed his permission to pee. I was dyyying. The five minute walk home from the train station felt like it would never end as I frantically begged him for permission along the way. He said I could pee once I got home then changed his mind. “Would you rather squat and piss outside on your way home or piss through your clothes at home,” he asked. I wasn’t wearing a skirt, so the logistical difficulty of peeing outside made me quickly choose the latter option. Home home home, I begged him to let me pee through my work clothes at home. He allowed it. I came home and stood just inside my doorway. He looked over what I was wearing and very considerately allowed me to kick off my shoes first. Oh thank goodness. And then all that was left to do was… pee. There are no words to describe the depths of mortification I felt. It’s entirely unnatural to try to pee while clothed and standing. I’ve spent every moment of my conscious life not doing that. I struggled for a few seconds before the sheer enormity of the pressure in my bladder forced me to push the pee out. And then, oh god, and then. I didn’t feel it at first, the warmth and wetness. But soon enough, I felt it flow down my legs, more on one side than the other, strangely. And then, I almost died of humiliation all over again when I saw that I had had to pee so badly that the pee was flowing freely and visibly out of my pants, rather than just demurely down the legs. I felt twisted and torn between the relief of peeing and the shame of seeing the puddle of pee around my feet grow ever larger. I peed and peed and peed, and a part of me shut down. But another part of me felt… fine. Normal even, like peeing in my hallway not five steps from my bathroom in which the toilet I couldn’t have used anyway given that I pee in the tub into a cup sat neglected was entirely as it should be. My toes squirmed in the pool of pee around my feet, and my legs started to feel uncomfortably clammy as the pee on my pants cooled (so quickly, I marveled). He didn’t make me stay that way for long. I made motions to mop up the pee with my panties before cleaning the floors more thoroughly since clearly my panties weren’t going to cut it through all that pee. And then he let me edge. I was deliriously horny and felt not one iota of hesitation when he told me I had to grind against the toilet rim to do it. With my wet panties in my mouth. “No cleaning the toilet first,” he specified. He knows me so well, and that really is something that would typically bother me. But I didn’t care that day. What did it matter at that point? I humped the toilet rim happily, pee-soaked panties in my mouth, and it felt… really, really good. (Next. No not really please.) Devotional Training. -- source link