Property Under Pressure

Not quite watersports.

It’s somewhere between 3 and 4 pm. He slips out into the narrow hall that connects his office and the bathroom to the main area of our apartment. When we moved in together, one room became his space, while I sprawl out in an organic extension of hobby clutter across the rest. 

Thus, with his office, I feel like I need to ask to go in, even when it is not in use. Not in a forbidden blue beard’s secret room sort of way, but a matter of consent. The irony is not lost on me that at any moment I can stick my fingers in his mouth, maul his testicles or shove him into the wall and pin his arms over his head, but heaven forfend I retrieve something from his desk without checking first. Or go into the office closet and get some item like the tool box or our winter coats. 

He didn’t request this rule, it’s a rigid cultural thing raised into me like fruit tree branches growing bound to a wire. Shoes off indoors, don’t start eating until the cook does, respect the room of another. Do not listen to music without headphones. Space. Quiet. Privacy.

But he’s out now, and I swoop in for a kiss even as he does lean to me for the same. I do that a lot, pitter-patter fast feet down the long hall when he is back from the gym in the morning to engulf him in a tackling embrace. Crane in when he’s brought back something from an errand outside (don’t leave people to put a load of groceries away alone, another Rule). Right now he can feel the edge of my desire and we are starting to cocoon ourselves in the erotic. I ask him if he is done work for the day. Unspoken that means: “is this a quickie before a last meeting or room for something else, more?”

A quickie means he will masturbate just to the edge of orgasm in front of me. Maybe once, maybe three times. Otherwise I will draw him into the bedroom a few steps more behind us, into the bed and more will happen 

“Yes he is done,” but, getting my meaning, he says he will “visit the washroom first”.

Practicals, of course.

Have to respect them. The pull apart will happen and then he will come back to pick up where we left off. Probably in the bedroom, on top of the covers, or me on the bed and him beside it, stripping off his clothes.

Imp of the perverse, my hand snakes out, to his stomach, low, where his belly becomes his groin. When it is empty it’s hard to find, full and the muscle there feels tense. I press the absence of softness. 

I have done it before a little bit. It’s the sort of half gross half playful thing you do to tease in the comfort of a relationship. We’ve never had an interest in piss play in the regular sense. No champagne coupe glasses of golden nectar, no human toilets. Just another kind of discomfort to play with. It’s like another game, my hand over his mouth and nose, taking his breath away. I always let it linger for a few seconds longer than when the involuntary struggling kicks in. Just enough to produce the illusion “you don’t know I won’t smother you”, so hind brain juices him with adrenaline while forebrain knows I absolutely wouldn’t go that far. 

The unspoken threat in the press on his bladder, that I might leave him in discomfort until he pisses himself. There’s also the point of the moment: That he doesn’t get the dignified little pretend ritual where we both don’t openly acknowledge our bodies do taboo things. Humans are weird, we half self train not to mess in a coached operation of little plastic chairs and picture books, and then an elaborate ritual develops of accommodation. It’s not a room to piss and shit in, it’s the bathroom. The washroom. Even toilet, shamelessly borrowed from the french for washing oneself, is a minor impoliteness such that the word is navigated around. And used in a juvenile act of daring for a meme that only works because we think it’s dirty.

What I am doing now, pressing on his bladder is not really comfortable, but the nerve endings that control urination do double duty. That’s how you learn to do a kegel, stopping the flow of urine. The whole groin to ass area uses the same nerves and muscles to contain, eject and come. It’s a simple system too, normally the bladder, filled up, pushes internally to tell you to tend to it. When it’s full and you poke it the body demands attention, mistaking the intrusion for more urgency.

He winces, as I press. Just a little, over and over. His reaction nudges me on. I am drawn to that vulnerability, the slight extra hesitation of the extra taboo. Press. Press. I think that perhaps I will need to let him go soon. I think the game can only go so far. But, there’s pleasure there in holding him to the wait. 

I want it to last. I reach into my own discomfort, a game of chicken. I nudge him towards our washroom door, almost next to the office he just left. Again, a threat. My presence prevents the polite rite of privacy. He is waiting on that urgency with a now incredibly hard cock. Now, with him in front of the toilet, I am alternating stroking up and down its length and pressing on his bladder again. He is making shy, squirmy twitches of his shoulders, sidelong glances, speaking in incomplete sentences, trapped in embarrassment.

I whisper, “Do you want me to leave?”

He doesn’t say anything, maybe a little noise, more wriggling. That’s an affirmation, for us. He usually will never ask for more, maintaining the head space of cnc. He almost never asks to come, vocalizes most things in service to the idea that nothing that happens to him is with his enthusiasm.

More touching, kisses. There’s a black wire shelf over the back of the toilet, holding miscellaneous overflow. He is bent so his forehead almost touches the top shelf, occasionally bracing with one hand on the far side of it. Squirm. His body is at once turning away from and towards me, like a pinned animal involuntarily moving against what has seized in. I am standing to his left, and half behind him, looming and trapping him in the corner of the room.

“It’s going to be so hard to pee with an erection,” I murmur. Any acknowledgment on his part lacks coherent words.

This whole time I can feel my face is a bit hot, embarrassed by myself, daring, probing. It’s that act of dominant masochism. I am not frank, either. Even as I am charge, the taboos about this are as active in me as they are him. Rationally, I know this isn’t a big deal. I have seen friends sit on the mouth of another to piss. I’ve explored squatting on the floor of the shower with a past partner to see if that gave any sort of interesting charge (it didn’t, probably as much a factor of them as what I was doing).

My foot kicks, with my hands full to try to flip the toilet seat up. I can see the bowl, with its pooled water, the slight discolouration. I cleaned the damn thing literally the day before. The mold in the pacific northwest, unlike back east, grows fast in vibrant orange, like a rust stain. I can’t quite get the seat up that way and he finishes the gesture. He’s immersed in his own torment, participating.

I encourage, depriving him of even the least ability to hide, to have even this secret, or a whiff of the courtesy of a secret. I feel like I am holding him over a precipice, threatening to let go.

His cock is so velvety in my palm, his face a little rough, his touches, of me, in increasing desperation. His eyes are frightened but glassy with desire. I alternate between stroking and roaming his body, viciously pinching his nipples like I could pull them off. In one moment of that tussle I realize his right shoulder had dipped. He is pulling at his own cock, a spiral turning in on itself, pumping.

I press on his bladder again, crooning, “go on.”

He tries now, trying to compose himself to let a stream of urine out. Holding his cock to point it in the right place. It’s not going to happen. The muscles inside have spasmed, shunting one function to another.

“I can’t…” To call it a whine implies a crawling nails on a chalkboard wheedle that’s not in his tone, but it’s a whine of helpless admission.

I press on his bladder again, and pinch at his nipple, up under his shirt. “Go on.”

Again, more trying. He cannot. Squirm. Squirm. A single drop at the head of his cock that might well be pre-cum.

“I can’t.” He says in a whisper. Another long silent moment of my torment upon him. One more try, but I know he’s pushed as far as he can go. Not shyness or disobedience, but a wall he cannot walk through.

“Alright,” I say, beginning to pull back from him. “I’ll let you finish.”

As I walk out of the bathroom and close the door, I can hear the bang of the toilet seat dropping so he can sit down. It’s a last note of amusement. The same thing that makes me keep accidentally picking partners who are a little larger than average in the cock department seems through no effort on mine, to choose men who prefer to sit to pee.

Later business done, he will come to the bedroom and we will continue. But it is this scrap of the game we play together that will linger with me.