Just one more glass of water

This week, there’s nothing hotter than the idea a cute girl convincing me to drink just one more glass of water so she can make me squirm for her. I had fun writing this one, exploring the hotness of power dynamics when it comes to piss play…

Content note for pee holding and piss play. 

“Just one more glass.”

There’s a challenge in her words, and I drop my eyes to avoid her gaze.

“C’mon pretty girl. You’re going to do this for me, aren’t you?”

This, I reflected as she stepped closer, jerking my chin up so I had to look at her, was at least a little my fault. I’d been very bad yesterday, mocking her and calling her predictable, and this is her way of reminding me that she could still surprise me. It hadn’t been explicitly said, of course. Last night she had let me dig a substantial hole for myself before she had told me to bend over and had slipped her belt from the loops of her jeans. I’d cried, later, as I came clenching around the toy inside me, though we’d both taken great delight in poking at the marks she’d left on me through the rest of the evening.

This, however, was a different game. A reminder that not only is she in charge, but she has the power to control me in ways I don’t expect at all.

It had begun this morning. She had brought me a cup of tea in bed, and I drank it while watching her do clever things with numbers and codes on her laptop. Somehow, a lazy Sunday morning in bed turned into an energetic fuck, with chasing and clawing and hard spanks to my cunt, and her coming over and over again in my mouth. I was still lying exhausted when she slipped away, appearing back upstairs with some water for us to rehydrate.

Do you see where this is going yet? I didn’t. It was a warm morning, and I accepted the glass as the innocent gift I thought it was. I wasn’t even suspicious that she followed me into the bathroom and finger-fucked me hard against the tiled shower wall. When you’re relaxed and not thinking about it, it’s quite easy to forget that you’d meant to pee after you cleaned your teeth, but had instead been sent to get dressed – minus panties, and with butt plug.

Our destination was our favourite tea house, and the best place for vegan food. I thought the slight discomfort of the butt plug while in public was the extent of her plan, but half-way through our second pot of tea I excused myself to the bathroom. She said no.

At first, I didn’t understand. She leaned in to whisper to me, in that slow, utterly in control voice that makes arousal drip into my knickers – if I’m wearing any.

“You thought I couldn’t surprise you, little one. You forget that I know all the filthy thoughts you get off to.”

I have a feeling that at this moment in time, my case was not helped my correcting her grammar.

“You mean ‘to which I get off’ surely? You should always –”

She silenced me with a look, and this time her whisper was a hiss, and her hand was tight around my arm, securing me in place.

“You know exactly what I mean, little slut. You also know how this game works. If I catch you using the bathroom until I tell you to, you will regret it. I want to fuck my pretty girl later, when she’s squirming and desperate and disgusted by how aroused she is at my control over her.”

It is about the control. It’s also about the fact it turns me on. She delights in how denying my requests to go to the toilet, I get more and more turned aroused by what she’s doing. It’s something we’d played with a few times, but nothing like today. She’s pushing me to my very limits today. I’m ashamed of how hot I find it – but the truly wonderful thing is that with her, no fantasy seems to filthy to share.

By the time we got home, I was getting fidgety. Nothing makes you want to pee more, I’d decided, than being told you aren’t allowed to. I actually considered dashing past her into the house and up to the bathroom, but a glance from her quelled any idea of that. Nevertheless, she seemed to have caught wind of my ideas, and marched me into the house and sitting room. A few minutes later I was bound to a chair, and being instructed to tip my head back so she could pour a nice cold glass of water down my throat.

Now I missed those binds, because it was only my sheer force of will keeping me there, kneeling on the carpet in front of her. I’m squirming. The thoughts in my head are becoming less and less coherent, consumed by my twin desires of peeing and being fucked.

“One more glass, my little fuck toy.”

This time the voice is an order, and I obey.

“Now let’s see if you can control yourself while I use your vibrator on you…”

Quinn Rhodes

Quinn Rhodes (he/him) is a freelance journalist, sex writer, and professional transsexual. His work focuses on dismantling shame and queering sex.