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I will not urinate.
Not here. Not now, with the city rumbling and bustling all around me. A public house on the corner spills forth amber gaslight and a tribe of drunken humanity. My step falters, doubtless they have a latrine of some sort, a dirty privy in the back yard. I cannot afford to be fastidious, but I will be obvious there, a gentleman among dock labourers and navvies. It is a foolish, stubborn kind of pride, but I do not wish my predicament to be apparent to all and sundry.
In these poorly lit streets I can pass virtually unnoticed in my dark clothing. I turn away and the broken pavement jars my full bladder with every step I take. I did not intend to get myself into this situation, but my habit of disregarding my bodily needs has entangled me in a web from which I cannot escape.
Correction, in a web from which I chose not to escape. There are enough rookies and blind alleys in Limehouse, enough black corners where I might pass water undisturbed. No one would see me and no one would care if they did. These people live two families to a ramshackle room without privacy or sanitation. It is pride that holds me back, pride and a determination to prove that I can master my bodily functions.
I resolve to wait until I reach Baker Street.
These streets of smoke blackened terraces might as well be a thousand miles from my salvation. It is a different city in which the poor live, one where the hansom cabs never venture, so I must walk through the cold, crystal clear night. I have taken opium in a den by the docks; a case that was not a case, merely an excuse to leave Watson at home. The icy air has blown the last of it away and it is not that which makes my gait unsteady.
Oh god, I want to urinate. I thrust my hands into my coat pockets. My right hand stains to reach my groin through the thick layers of cloth. My fingers touch my private parts and I press upon myself for an instant through my trousers. It gives me the tiniest modicum of relief and I breathe out shakily. Anger and irritation sweep over me. My hand clenches into a fist in my pocket. This is ridiculous. I am not about to succumb to a simple biological urge. I will relieve myself when I get home,
My mind does the calculation before I can stop it. Another forty minutes at least if I walk, perhaps half an hour if I manage to get a cab part of the way. Panic flutters in my aching stomach and I quell it ruthlessly. I have endured far worse things and I will not be broken by this.
I walk on and try to focus my thoughts on something other than the persistent urge to void. It is a task that proves almost impossible. Every fibre of my being seems to be focused on the weight in my abdomen, on a bladder that has gone unemptied for far longer than nature intended. Yet the sights and sounds of the night are also magnified. I pass a hawker making his way home and the rattle of iron wheels on cobbles vibrates through me. A garish shop sign sways in the gaslight, a roughly painted sunrise of orange and scarlet that seems amazing beautiful. Perhaps the dust of opium does linger in my blood or perhaps it is linked to my urgency, but either way it fascinates me.
And to my shame my phallus has risen. It chaffs against my underclothes as I walk both adding to my discomfort and sending a guilty little fusion of pleasure through my loins. I haven’t indulged in self-gratification for a long time and I uncurl my hand in my pocket for a brief, guilty touch through layers of fabric. Fifteen minutes have passed since my assessment of time and distance and my need has grown even more acute. I’m sweating in the cold night air and I pull feebly at my coat collar. I want to go. I need to pass water.
I try to close my mind to such thoughts. Another five minutes’ walk takes me into a street of warehouses, workshops and a brewery from which the smell of hops and malt emanates. A woman in a flowered bonnet detaches herself from the shadows. She tries to accost me and I evade her outstretched hand. I do not want to stop. In truth I am afraid to stop.
The whore falls behind, back into shadow with a curse on her lips. Then on the corner another figure steps out of the darkness. A boy, not much older than some of my irregulars.
“Evenin’ guv.” He has seen me reject the woman and hopes that what he offers may be more to my liking.
I hesitate and a sharp muscle spasm in my abdomen tells me that I shouldn’t have done so. Instinctively I squeeze my thighs together, scarcely daring to breathe until the spasm abates. A ragged sigh escapes me when the immediate danger passes, but I am still desperate to urinate.
The boy smiles his professional whore’s smile. “Can I do anything for yer, governor?”
In a split second I imagine it all. For a shiny florin he would take me to a secluded spot where he would unfasten my trousers, draw out my member and cradle it in his hand while I urinated. Then he would manipulate me to another ecstasy
Dear god, whatever am I thinking of? I shake my head at him and stumble away, but my phallus remains stubbornly thick.
Civilisation looms and I am both glad that I have come so far and fearful of leaving the shadow lands where dank passageways and damp walls offer the possibility of blessed relief. My stomach hurts and my back aches. A tiny groan escapes me and I take a step towards a gaping alley mouth.
I grasp a rusted iron gate, bending at the waist and crossing my legs. I struggle to resist the urge to urinate there and then. Sweat runs into my eyes. I need to go. Oh god, I want to pass water.
A sudden flash of temper either saves me or damns me. I don’t know which it is, but I’m livid with myself for being so pathetic. I fight down the fear that masquerades as logic and whispers that I cannot possibly hope to reach Baker Street intact. Self-control is all that is required and I am not a whimpering child.
I will not urinate.
After a few moments more I straighten my spine cautiously and walk towards the main road. Once I am among respectable people and busy traffic in streets illuminated by electric light the option of urination will be removed. I will simply have to hold back until I reach home, anything else is unthinkable.
Even at this late hour the streets are thronged with shoppers and theatre goers. The traffic is snarled up and an empty hansom cab stands at the crossing. I don’t dare hail it. The climb up and down and the slow vibrating crawl of the vehicle through along jam-packed roads would be too much for me. I am better on foot; as long as I keep walking I will be perfectly all right. Oh god, I want to go.
I’m alarmed by the intensity of my need. My body is desperate to void. I dare not relax for a moment. If I do I fear that I may well humiliate myself in public. A busy junction forces me to stop and wait at the pavement’s edge. The enforced stillness is almost more than I can bear. I shift impatiently from one foot to the other. Oh, god, please, I need to urinate.
A gap looms in the traffic and somehow I make it across the road, but I can’t endure much longer. Ten minutes. Ten minutes to Baker Street and safety. I can’t, it’s too far…eternity…
I bite my lip. I’m damned if I’ll give in now.
The crowds have thinned out, but the street is still busy and brightly lit. I need to piss…Oh, please, I have to go.
A shop locked and dark with a wide porch is an irresistible temptation. My bladder cramps sending a wave of pain through my stomach. I stumble into the recess and stand with my back to the street staring blindly at the shutters. Oh, Christ, I’m going to wet myself. I pray that my thick black clothes will absorb and conceal some of the torrent. And that no one will hear the hissing rush of urine or see the humiliating puddle forming around my feet. My prick jerks in anticipation of relief. No, oh please, no...
I grab my groin and squeeze until tears fill my eyes.
I will NOT urinate.
I moan and rest my throbbing forehead on the cold shutter. A long shiver runs up my spine. I’ve made my lip bleed and I taste the metallic tang of blood. I feel strange. My half-hard prick jerks again. The pleasure is tiny and perverse, yet it is there, buried under my compelling, desperate need to void. I give myself another hard squeeze. Then I step out of the doorway.
If I go through the back streets I can be home in a few minutes. It isn’t that far, not really, just a stone’s throw away. I can make it. I’ve held it all this time, haven’t I? Oh, god, I need to go. I need to go. What difference will a few more minutes make? I have to piss. I’m bursting, dying… I’m almost there, almost home, just a couple of streets away. I push past people, nothing matters but getting home with my dignity intact.
I’ve reached the corner of Baker Street when the brown dog races across the road.
Oh god, no…
It stops under a lamppost and cocks its leg.
Yellow urine runs across the pavement.
My bladder contracts violently.
Urine spurts into my underwear. Make it stop… I bend forward, twisting my legs together. Oh, Christ, please, please make it stop.
Somehow I manage to halt the flow, but it hurts dreadfully and I know that the reprieve is only temporary. I straighten up carefully. It’s only a hundred and fifty yards to the front door, but Baker Street seems interminably long. I can’t…god help me, I can’t…
Of course I can. I must. There is no alternative.
I WILL NOT URINATE.
Every step is torture and I dare not rush for fear of unleashing a flood. The pressure is almost unbearable and I’m shaking by the time I reach the front door. My hand’s trembling so badly I can’t get the key in the lock. Cursing under my breath I try again. I can’t stand still and I jiggle about as I struggle with the wretched door. Come on, come on…please, I’m almost doing it. I whimper and thrust my free hand between my legs. Oh, god…
No.
I refuse to wet myself on the front step. I won’t go. I won’t…
The door finally opens and I stagger into the hallway. I just have enough presence of mind left not to slam it. The last thing I want to do is wake Mrs Hudson or worse still Watson. I double over clutching my genitals. I’ve made it. I’m home and the knowledge that I am safe nearly destroys my fragile control. No, not yet, please god, not yet. I grab the bannister and begin the painful climb to the lavatory. Please let me hold it. Oh, god, please, just a little longer… My urine spurts out and I moan in despair, still struggling to prevent the inevitable. For a few seconds I’m sure that my frantic efforts are doomed to failure and then it stops. It’s excruciating, but I drag myself stubbornly up the rest of the stairs.
The ceaseless litany pounds through my head. I need to go. Oh, god, I need to urinate. I have to piss. Oh Christ, please I have to go.
Another squirt escapes when I reach the first floor landing, but the lavatory is only a few feet away.
I stagger into my bedroom and throw the bolt on the inside. I slump against the door. Home. Safe. The embers of the fire are burning in the grate. I hobble over to the lamp and turn it up fully, so that its golden light fills the room. I’ve got to go. I’ve got to go. I shrug my overcoat off, shifting about restlessly as I do so. Oh, god, please… I groan and catch my torn lip between my teeth.
I will not - I am urinating.
I’ve been urinating in drips and dribbles for the past five minutes.
There’s a wet circle the size of a half-crown on the front of my trousers and when I rip the buttons open there’s a sodden patch the size of my hand on my undergarments. Two minutes, please just two more minutes… I undress as quickly as I can, ripping and tugging at my clothes in my agitation. I’m shocked by the swelling in my abdomen. I stroke the bulge and it trembles under my hand. I’m inordinately, foolishly proud that I have managed to hold so much for so long. Not many people could walk halfway across London with a bladder the size of a football.
A thin trickle of urine runs down my leg. I grab my half-hard prick and squeeze it tightly. The sharp pleasure is overlaid by pain. I gasp and squeeze myself again. So perverse. So decadent.
My swollen bladder spasms, trying to force its contents out and urine drips through my fingers. I have to go. I groan aloud. “Oh, sweet god, I have to go.”
It’s impossible for me to keep still and the pressure on my abdomen when I bend to drag the chamber pot out from under the bed triggers another flow of urine. I can’t hold it… oh god please, I can’t hold it. I clamp down with the last of my strength and the flow peters out, but I know that another spurt will finish me.
“Hush, it’s all right.” I rub my bursting bladder and push my sweat soaked hair out of my eyes. “Soon, soon, I promise.”
Griping the side of the bed for support and with infinite care I lower myself to my knees in front of the chamber pot. The expectation of relief sends a fierce surge of need through me. I tense every weary muscle I have, biting the inside of my cheek in my distress and nothing escapes. But I have to go. I’m desperate. Gentle Jesus, please, I have to piss.
Something stirs in me, a masochistic defiance. I am in agony, but I cling stubbornly to the last visages of my control.
I grind the words out from between clenched teeth. “I-will-not-urinate.”
My hips rock forward and back again. I’m desperate. Oh, sweet god, I’m so desperate.
I pound my fist on the bed frame. “Damn it all to hell! I will not urinate!”
Please, god, please, just one more minute…
I’m shaking like a leaf in a thunderstorm. Battered and broken by my terrible desperation. I reach down in the death throes of my torment. My prick is hot and heavy in my hand. A moan shudders through me and I begin to pull on it. Molten fire curls in my swollen stomach and lances down into my thighs. My poor prick is so sensitive, so tortured that it takes almost no simulation at all to bring me to convulsive orgasm.
I slump in the aftermath, but the pressure in my bladder is unbearable. I’ve got to urinate. Oh, god please let me piss…”
I crawl into position over the chamber pot. “Oh god, I’ve got to piss. I must go. I must…” I don’t know if I’m pleading for permission or begging for forgiveness. “Oh, Christ, please, I have to piss.”
The jet of burning urine is so forceful that it strikes the bottom of the ceramic pot and sprays up over my quivering thighs. It splatters over the hearthrug and I groan, but I can’t slow it down. All I do is to hunker lower over the pot that is my salvation. My urine gushes out of me in a vast stream and I’ve no more control over it than an infant has. That realisation is strangely liberating. I’m urinating and it’s heavenly. And it isn’t my fault.
I moan in sheer, blessed relief. “Oh god, I’m going. I’m doing it at last. I’m pissing myself.”
Urine floods into the chamber pot. I stuff my fist into my mouth to stifle my scream of ecstasy. My whimpers became unintelligible. I’m still making little sounds of pleasure when the stream turns into a narrow trickle. I don’t think that it’ll ever stop, but the last drops eventually seep out. My throbbing bladder has deflated and the chamber pot is two-thirds full.
It’s over. I’ve urinated.
An unexpected sadness engulfs me. Tears fall and I quickly wipe my hands across my face, smudging away the damming evidence. I scoot across the floor until I’m sitting Indian fashion with my back to the bed. My soft prick nestles on the dark tangle of my pubic hair. I stroke it lovingly and the sensitive flesh quivers under my hand. It is a sweet thrill, much gentler than all that has gone before. I continue to pet it and my phallus lifts its weary head a fraction. Nevertheless I do not expect it to stiffen so soon after my last orgasm and I reluctantly withdrawn my hand. My prick jerks up as if seeking my touch. It jerks again, half-rising from my groin and I enfold it tenderly in my hand. I keep my grip lax and undemanding, and I stroke my sore abdomen with my other hand. It takes me several minutes to coax to a second burst of semen from my semi-hard prick, but the orgasm is blissful.
I doze for a few minutes and then drag on my nightshirt, falling into bed without bothering to clean or tidy the room. The chamber pot stands unemptied on the rug and I can smell my own urine. I feel a little shiver of gratification. I touch my prick very lightly and smooth my hands over my abdomen, caressing the bladder that lies beneath my skin. I’m debauched, wicked and perverse, but I cannot believe how much agonising pleasure it has given me.
I drift off to sleep with only one thought in my mind. Again. I want to do it all again.
Eight months later
Grunts, sighs and the gush of urine into white porcelain.
My eyes close and I savour the tantalising sounds of sweet, forbidden relief. The air is ripe with the smell of urine overlaid with carbolic. I stand with my back to the door of the lavatory cubicle and open my trousers. I have dispensed with undergarments for the night and my phallus springs free instantly. I smooth one hand over my stomach and wrap the other around my shaft. This is going to have to be quick. Watson is waiting in the theatre foyer and he won’t be pleased if we miss the start of his wretched Mikado. My hand moves rapidly on my prick and a long shudder of delight goes through me. God, I want this. The sensations build quickly and I luxuriate in the increasing pleasure.
I’m perilously close to orgasm within a couple of minutes, so I force myself to desist, but it’s very difficult to stop masturbating. My fingers dig into my thigh and my prick throbs, oozing transparent fluid. It jerks wildly, seeking further simulation and I yearn to touch it, but I refrain. It is not the first time today that I have teased myself to almost to the point of gratification. The final release will be all the satisfying for the delay and if I orgasm now I won’t be able to control my bladder.
I am never able to stop myself voiding in the lax aftermath of ecstasy. And there is temptation enough all around me. There is a lavatory just a couple of paces away from me. As I gaze at it I feel a hopeful quiver in the pit of my stomach. I stroke my abdomen. There is a slight bulge under my hand and my bladder tries to contract. I control the urge, even though I need to go quite badly. Later on I will be in torment; that thought causes dread and anticipation to mingle in my breast. The game is always uncertain and Watson’s involvement makes it more so.
Watson. Dear god, he will be furious if I don’t hurry. I ease my prick back into my trousers and I enjoy the little scratch of wool on my tender flesh. Then I quickly flush the lavatory to avoid suspicion, though I cannot resist standing for a moment to watch the swirling water.
The operetta is about to begin and there are only a couple of men left in the convenience. One of them moves closer to the urinal as I walk past. Nevertheless, I manage to catch a glimpse of falling urine and I hear it splash on the porcelain. I wash my hands hastily, trying not to dwell on the ache in my bladder or on what I would like to do with that shy young man.
Watson waits, like a faithful dog, where I have left him, but his expression is surly. “You took your time, Holmes, we’ll miss the first act if don’t hurry.”
We can miss the whole thing as far as I’m concerned. I plaster a contrite smile onto my face. “I’m sorry, old fellow.”
Watson moves closer to me and lowers his voice. “Did you relieve yourself?”
“No, I did not.” Hasn’t he listened to a blessed thing that I’ve told him or were all my explanations quite wasted?
“Then you damn well should have.”
There is so much more that Watson wants to say, but he dare not launch into his tirade of recriminations in the foyer of the Savoy Theatre. I’ve heard them all before anyway. He has warned me that I will rupture my bladder or contact a fatal kidney infection. That my degenerate indulgences will lead to the failure of my great mind, to moral corruption and ultimately to the insane asylum.
It is on the tip of his tongue to ask what I was doing in the gentleman’s lavatory for all that time, but he doesn’t want to hear the answer. “We had better go in,” he says instead.
I let Watson lead the way into the gilt and scarlet auditorium. Our seats are in the middle of a row and we reach them with many muttered apologies just as the curtain rises. It is not a position from which I could easily escape even if I wished to do so. I wonder if Watson knew that when he booked the tickets.
Whether he did or not I am inclined to see tonight’s performance as punishment for my sins. As far as I am concerned arsenic is preferable to Gilbert & Sullivan. Ironically it only the distraction provided by the pressure in my bladder that makes the whole thing bearable, otherwise I would die of terminal boredom halfway through the first act. I shift in my seat. It’s already mid-evening and the last time I urinated was just before luncheon. I shall be bursting by the time this interminable rubbish finishes. Oh god, I want to go now. What nonsense, I’m nowhere near full. The bulge in my abdomen was hardly visible when I was in the lavatory. I’m perfectly capable of holding it.
The audience rocks with laughter at some feeble jest. Watson’s gaze is fixed on the stage and he is chuckling away to himself. I smile fondly. He is so easily amused and sadly he is equally as quick to condemn. I wince to remember the look of shock and disgust in his eyes when I felt obliged to reveal my secret to him.
My semi-regular nocturnal absences had convinced that I had a paramour. One evening, just as I was about to leave Baker Street, Watson suddenly asked me whether I had a lady friend or something similar. The latter was his euphemism for a gentleman companion, strictly illegal and morally reprehensible to most of society.
“No lady,” I tell him, “nor anything similar.”
He looks relieved for a moment and then he demands to know what the deuce I am up to. Having leapt to one wrong conclusion Watson promptly reaches another. I have assured him that it is not a case from which he has been excluded. Therefore, I must be visiting a dockside opium den or polluting my body with another foul substance.
“I haven’t been near an opium den for months.” I tell him truthfully. Then the very devil comes and sits upon my shoulder. “Not since the night I discovered the pleasure of holding my urine.”
Watson is at first nonplussed and then outraged. He does not spare my feelings nor I his. By the time we are done I have spelt out in graphic detail the nature of my fetish and he has laid out in no less bold a fashion the dire consequences that will result from my unnatural practices.
The air between us grows frosty and cold. I tell him wearily that I did not intend for him to know. That I have even rented a modest house in Kensal Green where I may indulge myself without fear of discovery. I have only poured oil on troubled waters. Watson is shocked to discover that I have taken a house just so that I may torment and abuse myself in private. The conversation ends with bitter words and no resolution.
How then did we come to this evening?
After avoiding the subject for weeks Watson suddenly announced that he wished to better understand my bizarre passion. His pompous little speech was obviously well rehearsed, but even so he could not quite bring himself to meet my eye. The upshot of it was that he wished to accompany me on one of those nights even I ventured forth with a full bladder. I agreed. I even said that he might choose the evenings entertainment, although I did not foresee Gilbert & Sullivan. I will not be so hasty in future.
The first act finally ends after an hour and a half of tedium. Watson returns from the land of the operetta. He looks at me sheepishly. “I…er…I just need to use the facilities.”
I stand up to let him out of the row of narrow seats and the movement intensifies my own need to urinate. Watson hesitates and I know that he is debating whether to ask me to go and relieve myself. I stare him out and he reads the wilful refusal in my eyes.
When he’s gone I sink back into my seat with a sigh and watch enviously as Watson disappears into the throng of theatre goers. He is going to use those lovely porcelain and marble urinals. Underlying my envy is the knowledge that I would dearly love to see Watson urinate. I imagine him standing at the urinal with his fine prick gushing fluid. Oh god, I want to pass water. I place the flat of my hand discreetly on my stomach to console my bladder for the relief it’s being denied. It cramps up, insisting that it needs to be emptied far more than Watson’s bladder does. Well, it will just have to wait.
Yet I feel uneasy. There is the whole of the second act to get through yet, to say nothing of the journey out to Kensal Green. Hours yet and it’s been hours already, for the first time I doubt my ability to endure for so long.
I shall be fine, of course I shall be, heavens knows I’ve had enough practise over the past few months. I’m used to holding my urine for extended periods of time. And so far I have managed to avoid humiliating myself in public. Though on one occasion I was forced to stand shivering in Kensal Green cemetery while my bladder emptied completely just a quarter of a mile from my destination. Fortunately it was a dark night and there were no witnesses to my shame.
Watson returns and the second act begins. It is as tedious as the first, but I try to take an interest in the proceedings. If nothing else it may serve to take my mind off the ache in my abdomen. It’s getting worse. God, I really want to go. I start rhythmically tensing and relaxing my thigh muscles. That helps a little, but my desire to urinate is growing ever stronger. Previously it was coming in waves, now the pressure is almost constant. I tell myself sharply to ignore it. Yet the operetta seems to drag on forever and I find myself growing increasingly impatience. I sit back as far I can in my seat and there is just enough room for me to cross my legs. That makes me feel a bit better, but I’m still anxious to leave the theatre.
That proves to be easier said than done. The auditorium is packed and progress towards the exits is painfully slow. Halfway up the stairs we are forced to wait whilst the crowd sorts its self out. I really don’t want to stand still for too long at this stage and I squeeze my thighs together. My foot twitches and I almost cross my legs instinctively. No, I don’t want to make my predicament to be obvious to those around me. I stand straight with both feet planted firmly on the floor. Watson’s just in front of me and I’m annoyed with him for not pushing more forcefully through the crowd. Does he want me to wet myself in the middle of the theatre?
Not that I have any intention of doing that. Finally we’re able to climb another few steps and then the crowd stops again. Come on, damn you, I’m getting desperate. That is an understatement. I am desperate and I have been for some time.
Eventually we reach the foyer where the crowd thins out and we are at least able to move without getting jostled and jolted.
“Are you all right?” Watson asks quietly.
“Yes, I am.” I snap, although I’m far from all right. We’ve nearly reached the mahogany door that leads to the gentleman’s conveniences and relief. I need to go. My step slows as the longing to pass water nearly overwhelms me. Then the door is behind me and I stubbornly refuse to turn back.
I will not urinate.
Not until we reach my bolthole in Kensal Green. “Let’s find a hansom,” I say the moment we get outside.
“I thought that you always walked,” Watson replies. “Isn’t that part of this…game of yours?”
My heart sinks. Even at a brisk pace it will take an hour to walk that distance. My commonsense tells me that it’s too much of a risk, that I only have a tiny chance of getting there without losing control on the way. Yet I am reluctant to lose face in front of Watson and then there is the challenge. Ah, the challenge…my prick twitches in anticipation and I decide to take the gamble.
“Let’s walk then,” I say recklessly.
Now I have agreed Watson looks as he is about to argue. I turn away, so that he must either follow or be left behind. Watson falls into step beside me and we walk in silence for several minutes.
The streets are far from silent. London’s heart beats with the rattle of wheels and the strike of iron-shod hooves, with the shouts of the newspaper vendors and the laughter of revellers. There is nowhere that’s quiet. Nowhere to relieve myself without being seen. I search in vain for a dark, secluded spot. Then at last I see a shadowy passageway between two old buildings.
Watson follows the direction of my gaze. “Why don’t you just-“
“No. I can hold it.”
“Do you know how much damage you’re doing to yourself by even trying?”
“Do you know…” I leave the sentence unfinished. There are things that can’t be said in a public street, things like do you know how exquisite my orgasms are?
“You’re going to injure yourself. Listen to your body if you won’t listen to me, you must be in pain by now.”
“I like the pain.”
Watson is shocked into momentary silence and I walk on before he can find his tongue. He must not know how tempted I was by that dark alley. I want to go. I need to urinate. The house in Kensal Green has an outside privy, but there’s a fine chamber pot in the bedroom. In just over half an hour I will be able to use it, to let my pent up urine gush out in a long, hard stream. I bite back a moan. How on earth am I supposed to wait another half an hour? Oh god, I can’t – Yes, I can. I can hold it.
“Is it much further?” asks Watson. It is the first time he has spoken since we resumed our walk.
“No,” I say without looking at him. “Just…it isn’t far.”
“I think it’s too far,” he says quietly. “You’re not going to make it, are you, Holmes?”
That is a red rag to a bull. I am abruptly furious with him. All the seething resentment of the past few weeks bursts forth. Who the devil is he to judge, patronise and condemn? My life and my body are my own to do with as I please.
“Believe me I shall,” I respond in acid tones. “If you were hoping to see me piss myself in the gutter then I’m afraid that you’re going to be sadly disappointed.”
Even in the lamplight I can see Watson blush to the roots of his hair and I suddenly realise that was exactly what he intended. What a fool I’ve been to be blinded by all his bluff and bluster.
My expression tells Watson that I have his measure at last. “It’s not what you think, I’m not degenerate. I just thought that it would teach you a lesson, that if you were…humiliated it would put an end to this sordid game of yours.”
I turn on him, even the intense ache in my abdomen is sublimated to my rage. “And where did you intend that I learn this lesson in humility? In the foyer of the Savoy theatre? On the Charing Cross Road or in the middle of Piccadilly?”
“I don’t know, just somewhere were people would see you…I hoped that you would see sense and use the facilities at the theatre or go in that alley, but you wouldn’t…and all my arguments have failed. I thought-“
“No, you did not.” Our raised voices have drawn unwanted attention. I note the covert, curious glances of passersby and I silently damn both them and Watson. “We’ll discuss this later and in private.”
He’s grateful for the reprieve and glad that I haven’t sent him packing. I might have done so, but I know that he would not leave me without a fight. I don’t have time for a protracted quarrel or even for a short one. If I keep still for too long I’ll urinate where I stand.
So I keep moving. The streets became narrower and there are less people about. A grocer is putting up the shutters for the night and the ironmonger’s next door is already locked and dark. I want to go. Oh god, I need to piss. A church clock strikes midnight and I bite down on my lip to keep myself from moaning. I haven’t been for such a long time… I try not to count the hours, not to think about how good it felt to go.
There’s a fog forming in the damp air, not the worse of London’s old peculiar’s, just a gauze like veil of white. Watson turns his coat collar up and I shiver. The chill only adds to my intense need. Every step sends a quiver of pain through my lower back and the weight in my abdomen is nearly unbearable. God, please, I have to piss. I want to go so much.
I stumble on. The empty roads fill with a grey, dank fog.
Then a shape looms out of the darkness, a solid square box of ornate black iron.
A public urinal.
My breath catches in my throat and I choke back a sob.
Watson looks at me with concern. “For heaven’s sake, man, go in and relieve-“
“No! I have to hold it.” My bladder spasms and I shove my right hand between my legs crossing them tightly in the same instant.
“You can’t! You’re practically wetting yourself now.”
Oh, god, Watson’s right, I’m almost going. Even with my back bowed and my hand jammed into my crotch I feel as if I’m about to lose control any second.
“I want to use the urinal,” I whisper brokenly, “but I can’t…”
“Of course you can, there’s no shame in it.” Watson takes my arm. “Come on, old chap.”
I pull away from him and the movement almost costs me everything. He’s a bloody fool. Does he really think that I could walk in there and see that row of white urinals and not drench myself? I’ll never get my trousers undone in time. Does it matter? Just this once… “Oh god, please…” I lean on the side of the icy iron urinal. “Please let me do it.” But my god is a dark god of retribution, a merciless patriarch who will punish me severely if I yield to my unrelenting need and urinate.
I massage my prick through my trousers and in spite of my anguish it lengthens a little. I rub it again, trying to make it bigger, harder and strong enough to hold back the flood.
“Holmes!” Watson is shocked by this blatant self-abuse, but I don’t care.
“I have to touch myself. It helps and I’m so desperate, but I can’t go…I’m not allowed to go.”
“What the devil are you talking about? Of course you’re allowed to go.”
I turn my head to look at him. “No, I’m not. There are dark forces in the universe, ancient gods of blood and fire, and I am forbidden to urinate.”
“You’re babbling, this is addling your brain.” Watson places his hand gently on my shoulder. “Come on now, Holmes, it’s time to relieve yourself.” He speaks in the soothing tone one would use to a lunatic.
In truth I hardly know what I’m saying, but that falsely calm voice raises my hackles. “Don’t speak to me as if I were an infant or an imbecile.” My breath shudders in my lungs and my poor bladder feels as if it’s about to burst. “Understand this, Watson, even if you’re too stupid to understand anything else. I will not urinate.”
“Do you really think that you have a choice?” Watson says contemptuously. His gaze drops to my groin. I’m still holding my half-hard prick. I can feel the tip of it poking against my trousers and I can’t resist rubbing it through the cloth. Watson makes a little noise and I see the lust flare in his hazel eyes. A second he turns away with a muttered oath and I know that he could be torn limb from limb before he would admit to it.
Yet, it is that which saves me. It is Watson’s unexpected arousal that makes my phallus rear up against my painfully swollen bladder. Despite the terrible pressure at its base it’s far too hard for me to be able to pass water. I literally can’t go and that realisation is both terrifying and exhilarating. I know that I have to take full advantage of this unexpected respite, but my legs feel like lead when I try to walk. My erection wilts in the face of my terrible need and my poor tortured bladder doesn’t understand why I’m stumbling away from the urinal. A sharp contraction cuts through me, followed quickly by another. I gasp, clenching all my muscles, desperately fighting to stay dry. I will not urinate. I will not urinate.
With that mantra running through my head I make into the next street and then into the one beyond. Tall new buildings, model tenements for the deserving poor rise up all around me. Most of them are in darkness and I’m thankful that these respectable artisans are all in bed. I don’t want anyone to see me like this.
Watson is, of course, a silent witness to my suffering, but he has demons on his own to battle. He is shame –faced and his eyes are haunted. His leg has begun to hurt him as well and I am not the only one whose gait is uneven.
These streets seem to go on eternally. I feel as if I’m trapped in a nightmarish maze of high buildings that appear out of the fog adorned with high turrets and leering gargoyles. Perhaps this is an everlasting hell that I am doomed to walk forever with my bladder stretched to bursting point.
Then there is a space to my left, black and wild beyond the iron fence that has been built to contain the dead. Kensal Green with its marble angels and moon bleached flowers. The house backs onto it. We’re almost there, just another couple of streets, so near and yet so far. I can’t wait much longer. I just can’t… I try to tell myself that that we’re so close to our destination now, that the house is only two doors from the street corner. I must urinate. Oh god, I’m desperate…so very desperate.
My whole body jerks as my bladder convulses. I cry out helplessly and double-over.
“For Christ’s sake, let go!”
I don’t dare unclench my jaw long enough to respond to Watson’s anguished demand. I’m wet. I know that I’m wet even before I shove my hand inside my trousers.I’m afraid to move in case any more comes out. Oh god, Christ…
“Holmes, what can I…”
Watson sounds lost and bewildered. He didn’t expect me to endure so much torment. His assumption was that I would capitulate long before this. Well, I won’t. I won’t go…not in the street. Oh god, please, please don’t let me piss in the street. It’s just fifty yards to salvation. I take one staggering step and then a second one with my prick held firmly in my hand. If I relax my grip now I’m finished, but as long as I can keep it squeezed closed - Oh, god, it’s running down my leg, I compress my prick in my fist and the agony of it makes me dizzy, but I manage to stop my urine trickling out. Almost there. Almost there.
There’s a cold metal gate under my hand and I’m barely aware of Watson taking the front door keys from me.
Then we’re inside. At the bottom of the stairs which are an excruciating impossible climb. Oh god, my chamber pot’s up there. I double over again with my legs twisted together. “I can’t hold it. I can’t hold it anymore!” I’m nearly weeping in my anguish.
I’ve failed.
I know that I’ve failed, but I still don’t want to make a huge, shameful puddle in the hall. I need something to go in…a container… There’s nothing in the bare hallway. I shake off Watson’s helping hand with a snarl and stagger towards the front parlour. There’s a tremor in my right leg that I can’t control. Oh god, please, just a few more seconds… The parlour door’s open, but once I cross the threshold I simply can’t take another step.
I sink down onto the end of the horsehair sofa with a great groan. I’m whimpering in distress and rocking back and forth. I can’t move…Oh god, I can’t…
Watson must have lit the gas mantle because a mellow glow fills the little room. He stands by the window, watching me in appalled fascination.
“Oh, Christ, Watson, it won’t stop. I’m doing it. I’m going.” I’m still holding my prick in a death-grip, but it’s no use. A wide wet strain spreads rapidly over the front of my trousers. “Oh god, forgive me, I can’t help it. I’m wetting myself.”
I yank my prick out of my trousers and urine sprays in a wide arc across the floor.
It’s an avalanche. A torrential hissing torrent of urine.
“Oh god, you’re pissing on the floor.” Watson lustful whisper makes me shiver. There’s a massive ridge in his trousers.
I moan and give myself over to the sheer hedonist pleasure of it all. The feel of my urine finally leaving my body creates a wonderful orgasmic sensation. I arch my spine and thrust my hips up. “Oh god, yes, yes, yes!”
Watson’s hand is moving rapidly over his groin. His gaze meets mine and I see how torn he is between lust and shame.
“Look at me.” I leant back on the sofa and point my prick upwards so that the copious stream becomes a fountain that cascades over my hips and thighs.
Watson grunts. He’s griping the window sill with his other hand and his knuckles gleam white. His eyes close and his body convulses as he spends his seed in his trousers.
I’m still pissing, but his release excites me unbearably. I start to masturbate my gushing prick. My joyful cry fills the room. This is like nothing I’ve ever felt before. The last of my urine runs over my hand and I’m close…so close.
“Stop!” Watson barks.
The authoritarian crack of his voice stays my hand for a second. Then I jerk on my prick again, harder than before. My muscles tense. I’m on the very brink of ecstasy.
“Stop it now!” Watson looms over me.
And I hesitate. There’s a steely lustful look on his face and I’m caught in the web of my own curiosity. I look up at him with a question in my eyes.
“You know that self-abuse is wrong.” He’s trying to sound stern, but his breath’s hitching in his throat. Watson holds his hand out, palm uppermost.” Give it to me.”
I shuffle forward. Urine has pooled underneath me and my soaked trousers cling to the saturated sofa. I lay my stiff, wet prick on Watson’s outstretched palm. He stares down at it as if he can’t believe that he’s actually holding my erect phallus.
“Hard and fast,” I tell him firmly. I’m aching with the desire to spend myself and my prick jerks impatiently in his hand.
Watson tears his eyes away from it. He watches my piss drip down from the sofa onto the floorboards. “You urinated,” he says softly and there’s a note in his voice that I’ve never heard before.
“Obviously.” I wait for his response, but I can’t resist canting my hips so that the tip of my erection nudges his palm. “Get on with it, will you, old chap?”
“I don’t think that you deserve it.” Watson raises his eyes to mine. “You told me that you weren’t allowed to urinate, that it was forbidden, but then you went and did it anyway.”
We both know that I couldn’t have lasted for another second, but I’m willing to see where this unexpected road leads us.
“I wanted to go,” I reply purposefully putting an edge of defiance into my voice.
Watson snorts. “What you wanted doesn’t matter, Holmes. You know that you’re not allowed to pass water, that you have to hold it and what do you do? You piss all over the parlour.” He indicates the room with a sweep of his free hand. “Just look at the dreadful mess you’ve made.”
The Indian rug’s drenched in my urine and it’s pooled in the cracks between the floorboards. I feel rather pleased with myself, but I try to look contrite.
“Stop smirking,” Watsons says sharply. “You haven’t done anything to be proud of, quite the reverse in fact. I’ve never heard anyone make such a fuss just because they needed to relieve themselves. Then you go, like this, even though you’re not allowed to urinate. Is that really any way for an English gentleman to behave?”
I shake my head. God, my prick loves this. It’s held so smugly in Watson’s hand. I rock forward so that it slides through his fist. Ah, that’s good. I always climax as soon as I’ve urinated and my organ throbs with frustration.
“That’s enough of that.” Watson lets go of my prick and steps back. “We need to get you cleaned up, you’re in a disgusting state.”
He’s uncertain for all his bravado. Watson knows that I may well rebel against his assumed authority; that I may tell him to go to damnation and bring myself swiftly to an intense orgasm. I have never let any man be my master. Yet this is my dear old Watson who has truly crossed the Rubicon tonight. What harm is there in playing his game when the notion of it quickens my blood?
I hang my head. “I’m sorry. I just couldn’t wait.”
Watson tuts disapprovingly. “I don’t see why not. You really have to learn some self-control, Holmes. Now stand up and take those filthy clothes off.”
I strip quickly, leaving my wet clothes in a heap on the floor. Even my shoes have filled with urine and I pad barefoot into the kitchen. I’m shivering in the chill air and my prick starts to soften. There’s kindling and coal and Watson soon has a fire going with the aid of some candle stubs. I wrap my arms around myself and huddle in the rocking chair next to the blaze. Watson puts the big black kettle on to boil so that I can wash myself.
“Do you have any other clothes here?” he asks.
“An old nightshirt in the back bedroom. You’ll need to take a candle, the gas isn’t laid on upstairs.”
Watson comes back with my nightshirt, the basin from the washstand, soap and a towel. He throws my nightshirt over the back of a wooden chair. “That water should be hot enough by now.”
He pours the water and into the basin. Then Watson sits next to the fire and watches me wash myself with Lux soap. In spite of everything that has gone before I feel awkward bathing in a kitchen under his scrutiny. The uncurtained window above the sink makes me more nervous, but only the black branches of the yews and the white graves of the dead lurk beyond the glass. I wash my abdomen, letting the hot water soothe my aching muscles. Then I wash my legs and soap up my hands ready to bathe my genitals.
“Rinse your hands.” Watson stands up. “I’ll do that for you.”
He dips his hands in the water and then decides to top it up from the kettle. I’m sure that it’s only a ploy to make me wait. My prick is already perking up. It’s never had to wait this long to spend its self after I’ve urinated before and it’s desperately eager for his touch.
Watson is a damn tease. He washes me with meticulous care, rubbing soap into my pubic hair and cradling my testicles in his hand while he bathes them gently. I make a tiny noise when he releases them and Watson chuckles. He pats them lightly. “I think you’re enjoying this rather too much.”
“Do my prick,” I say and he grins again.
“Don’t get too excited, Holmes. I’m washing you, not masturbating you.”
He could have fooled me. Yes, there is soap and water involved, but he seems to pay particular attention to the long, heavy vein on the underside of my prick and to that hypersensitive spot just below the head. Needless to say I’m rigid in seconds. Watson rubs a soapy finger around the flared head of my prick and I moan.
“Hush, you’re almost clean. I’ll stop in a minute and your erection will soon subside.”
I don’t want it to subside, not unless it’s in the aftermath of orgasm. Nor it seems does Watson, under the guise of ‘washing’ he repeatedly slides my foreskin slowly up over my prick head and then eases it back down. I want to scream in frustration. I’m sorely tempted to finish the job myself, but then he bows his head and the firelight gives his hair a copper sheen. My Watson really is a magnificent specimen of manhood. Instead of reaching for my engorged member I brush my hand over his hair.
We look at one another for a long moment.
“Are you all right?” Watson asks me.
“Yes.” I wonder what it would be like to kiss him, but I am suddenly, unaccountably shy.
“Good.” A smile plays around his lips. “Let’s get you dried off.”
Watson wraps the towel around my erection, then he pats and strokes with the soft cloth. It feels so delightful that I start to think that I can orgasm from his gentle touches, if only they go on long enough. Only the moment I thrust my pelvis forward with a groan Watson stops.
“That’ll do, you had better put your nightshirt on before you get a chill.”
“Damn my nightshirt!” I grab his wrist and shove his hand back onto my erection. “Jerk me.”
Watson obeys my command. His hand flies over my shaft and twists around the head on every upward stroke. I reach behind me and clutch the edge of the table for support. My legs are shaking and my muscles are tensing for that final climb to release. Oh god, please…
“Harder…oh god…” It’s going to happen any second now.
Watson lets go of my prick.
“Why the hell did you stop?” I demand in an agony of frustration.
Once again I see a flicker of doubt in his lovely eyes. Watson still isn’t sure how far to take this game. He fears to push me too far in case it causes a permanent rift between us. My prick twitches and jerks. Just a few more strokes of his hand would have brought me to orgasm. Yet he has done nothing to me that I haven’t done to myself many times before tonight.
“Where’s your gambler’s spirit?” I whisper.
Watson squares his shoulder and stands smartly to attention, a text book example of military bearing. “I stopped because you were about to ejaculate and I’ve decided that you’re not entitled to an orgasm. “
“Why not?” I know the reason as well as he does.
Watson frowns. “Have you forgotten what happened in the parlour?”
“It was an accident. I couldn’t hold it.”
“That’s a poor excuse. You’re a grown man, not a helpless baby. There’s no reason why you couldn’t keep your sphincter closed, but you just let go without any regard for decency. Quite frankly, you made a shameful exhibition of yourself, you were even doing it in your trousers.” Watson’s gone red in the face. He’s getting hard again. “Oh lord…” he says quietly and then he’s kissing me as if his life depended on it.
He tastes of tobacco and Irish whisky. His moustache scrapes over the tear on my lower lip, an erotic sting that makes me gasp and hold onto him, even though kissing isn’t really my forte. I have indulged before only as a mask, as part of an assumption of a disguise, but this is me that Watson’s kissing with such passion.
His leg pushes in between my thighs and I press into him, rubbing my prick on his woollen trousers. He grasps my bare buttocks pulling me even closer. I fuck his hip, gasping and whimpering. I’m about to have the orgasm of my life when Watson pulls back.
“Bedroom.” He grabs my nightshirt and throws it to me. “And put this on.”
I do because I can see that he’s almost at breaking point himself and because some perverse, masochistic part of me doesn’t want this to end just yet. Besides Watson is not an invert by nature, not as I am, and in the cold light of day he may regret this aberration. I must enjoy his attentions while I can.
Watson is neither hesitant nor modest now. He strips down to his bare skin and then pulls his dress shirt on over his naked body. It barely covers his modesty at the front and as he leads me up the stairs I am treated to delightful glimpses of his rear.
There are two half burnt down candles on the bedroom mantelpiece. Watson lights them with a not quite steady hand. He looks around the modest room with its bare boards and simple iron bedstead.
“Ah, good,” he says when he spots my chamber pot in the shadows under the bed. He places it on the wide windowsill. “I don’t want you wetting the bed during the night.”
Watson beckons me over. “Come here, stand in front of it and lift your nightshirt up, but don’t go until I tell you.”
I raise my eyebrows and he looks delightfully abashed. “As you wish,” I say before his nerve deserts him.
I’m not sure that I can go again so soon. There’s just a very faint tingle of need inside me, but I do as I’m bid anyway. We haven’t lit the fire and there’s a chill in the air that touches my exposed thighs and buttocks. I realise that I’m exposed in more ways than one, illuminated in the candlelight, standing in front of the uncurtained window naked from the waist down. Yet there is only darkness outside, darkness and death, with the skeletal branches of trees weeping over silhouettes of marble.
Watson takes hold of my turgid prick. He slides my foreskin up over the head, stretches it as far as he can and then pinches it tightly between his thumb and forefinger. It is uncomfortable rather than painful and I guess his game before he utters another word.
“Now go,” he orders. “Urinate, Holmes.”
At first I don’t think that I can, not in this position with a semi-erect prick, and then the flow starts. For a few seconds it stretches my foreskin even further, making it balloon out as it fills with urine. Then it explodes through Watson’s fingers, spraying onto the window.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, can’t you even piss in a pot without making a mess?” Watson directs the stream down into the chamber pot.
“I’m sorry.” Oh, this is glorious. To my surprise I manage about half a pint before the flow peters out.
Watson strokes my shaft gently. “I suppose I’ll have to show you how it’s done,” he says gruffly and my prick leaps in his hand. He chuckles. “Move out of the way.”
I can just see the tip of his organ peeking out before he flips up his shirt and takes himself in hand. There’s a moments pause and then Watson fulfils all my fantasies by releasing a long gush of urine. He gives a little grunt of relief. Oh, god, he must have needed to go… My prick jerks against my stomach and I can’t resist wrapping my hand around it.
“Careful, don’t spend yourself now,” Watson cautions me.
I force myself not to masturbate. “God, Watson, I have to orgasm soon or I’ll go mad.”
“Very soon, I promise, no more games just let me finish off here.” Watson shakes off his lovely prick and the last golden drops fall to mingle with my urine in the pot. “Go and lie on the bed, Holmes.”
It is one command that I am delighted to obey. I lie on my back with a feather pillow under my head and my erection shamelessly tenting out my nightshirt. Watson chuckles when he sees it, but his own prick stands out proudly. The springs creak when he sits on the edge of the bed.
“Lift this up again.” Watson tugs at my nightshirt and I raise my hips immediately.
I whimper with relief when his hot, heavy hand closes around my throbbing prick. Watson lies beside me in the narrow bed and I turn my head so that we can kiss again. His tongue twists around mine as he manipulates me skilfully. I’m grunting and groaning into his mouth. My balls are drawn up tightly against my body and I let my thighs fall open.
Watson scrambles back, up onto his knees and the wonderful masturbation stops.
“Hush, it’s all right.” He puts his finger to my lips. His eyes are glazed and black with lust. “I want to mount you. Oh, lord, please let me mount you.”
Watson throws his leg over my hip and sinks down on top of me with a wordless cry. Our pricks meet and rub between our closely pressed bodies. His hips jerk forward we both whimper. The sore muscles in my abdomen ache and throb with every powerful thrust of his hips. It adds another fusion of pleasure to the pulses of fire I feel every time my erection is squeezed between our stomachs and the underside is stroked by the up-thrust of Watson’s hips.
It is more than I can stand. My long delayed orgasm is swift and merciless. I writhe on the bed, clinging to his biceps, and pulsing out my ecstasy in long white spurts.
I flop back on the bed, utterly spent, but Watson groans, rutting furiously against me. Hiss rigid prick is sliding back and forth in the cease of my thigh. He reaches down, sliding his hands under my buttocks, lifting them so that we are wedged together for his last few frantic thrusts. Watson moans and convulses, and I feel his hot seed spurting over my skin.
He collapses beside me. His chest is heaving and our hands are intertwined. I would be content to lie here forever. Watson wraps his arm around me, drawing me to him until my head rests on his shoulder. I drape my arm across his waist and he takes my hand and raises it to his lips.
“I do love you, you know,” Watson whispers.
And in that moment I do know it with absolute certainty and I am humbled by it. “Thank you, that means everything to me.” I cannot bring myself to say more. Emotion threatens to overwhelm me.
Watson understands. He kisses my lips tenderly and takes me in his arms. We are peaceful and silent. Then Watson laughs quietly. “You got off lightly tonight, Holmes.” He kisses my temple. “I shan’t be so lenient next time you urinate without permission. In future I shall expect you to wait until I allow you to relieve yourself.”
Nest time. In future. Those words are music to my ears. “I’ll hold it. I promise I will.”
“You better had if you know what’s good for you.” There’s no threat in Watson’s voice, only a gentle amusement.
I snuggle into his arms. My bladder’s empty and my prick is lax and sated. Watson enfolds me in his tender embrace. I am utterly content. There is nothing more that I want from the universe.