Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 86432 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86432 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Air hit my lips coldly. I made a broken little sound of protest before I could catch it.
“Stand up,” he said.
I did, though my knees shook so badly I nearly stumbled.
He stepped back and looked at me with complete composure while I fought to breathe.
“Put your clothes back on.”
For a second I just stared at him, too dazed to understand.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
The ache between my legs felt almost painful now, sharp with interruption. Worse, with the loss of that overwhelming focus, another need rushed brutally into prominence. My bladder, which I had apparently ignored through some miracle of arousal and panic, made itself known all at once with a desperate urgency that nearly folded me in half.
“Oh,” I whispered, then louder, “I need to pee.”
He looked entirely unmoved. “Yes.”
I stared at him.
“Please,” I said. “Just… just go outside for a minute.”
“No.”
The word hit me like cold water.
I laughed once, a tiny unbelieving sound. “Porter… um, sir… I’m serious.”
“So am I.” He nodded toward my clothes. “Get dressed. You’ll pee at my apartment.”
I blinked at him. “What?”
“It’s five minutes away. You can hold it.”
The humiliating thing was that I wasn’t entirely sure I could. Or rather, I could, obviously, because women did, but the need had gone from abstract to acute so fast that panic rose with it.
“Please.” My voice came out breathless and thin. “I really have to go.”
“And I’m telling you that you do not have permission yet.”
My mouth parted. Everything inside me seemed to tilt.
Permission.
That word, applied to peeing, should have broken whatever spell remained. It should have made the whole thing so absurd, so insulting, that I snatched up my things and told him to go to hell.
Instead I stood there in my damp panties, still trembling from being denied an orgasm, my bladder throbbing, my thoughts fraying at the edges, and felt another shiver of helpless arousal at the fact that he meant even this.
“Dress,” he said again.
CHAPTER 10
Alex
I obeyed.
I pulled on my blouse with clumsy fingers. My skirt. Each movement seemed to make the pressure in my bladder more distinct. I could hardly think straight. My body felt divided against itself in too many ways to count—aching and wet and unfinished and now painfully full. By the time I stepped into my shoes, I felt as if the room had become slightly unreal around the edges.
He unlocked the bathroom door and looked back at me once.
“Come.”
I followed him out.
The café seemed impossibly normal. A spoon clinked against porcelain somewhere. Someone laughed softly near the window. A woman in a camel coat stood waiting for her order. I walked behind him through all of it with my face hot, my muscles clenched, and the terrible awareness that under my careful clothes my panties were soaked with my need and I had not been allowed to relieve myself.
Outside, the cooler air struck my skin and almost made me gasp. I almost expected Porter to take my arm, as if to march me to his apartment where he could teach me the lesson I really needed, but he didn’t. He only set an unhurried pace along the sidewalk, and I kept up beside him because I was too rattled to do anything else.
Every step jarred me. My need to pee ebbed and flowed with the movement. I tried to walk normally and failed. I could feel myself becoming more and more conscious of my own body in the lowest, most humiliating way.
After half a block, I said, too quickly and too pleadingly, “How far?”
“About four minutes now.”
My eyes widened. “And then what?”
He glanced at me, not unkindly, but with that same terrible steadiness. “First, I’ll decide whether you’ve earned the toilet.”
The words made me stop walking for half a second. That, in turn, made the problem worse. To my horror, I started shifting from foot to foot, unable to stop myself.
He stopped too, turned, and looked at me on the crowded sidewalk as if there were nothing unusual in our conversation.
“You can still leave,” he said.
There it was again, the fact I kept trying to bury. I could leave. I could turn around right now and go back to my apartment and keep my pride, or what remained of it.
But beneath that clear possibility lay another truth, just as clear now and much uglier: I didn’t want to leave badly enough.
I found that knowledge highly distressing. I wanted to hate him for making me face it. I despised myself though, instead, for standing there on a public street, desperate to pee and half mad with arousal, and not walking away.
But, I told myself, I couldn’t really leave, could I? His apartment obviously had the closest toilet. I bit my lip, my forehead creasing hard. I shifted my weight again, exactly like a little girl who needed the potty.
Then, to my abject humiliation, the pressure down there became too much. I felt myself let go, just a little.