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Amanda is on her knees at Lynn’s feet, again. It’s quickly becoming her favourite place. It’s a casual Saturday, and soft, bright winter light filters through the bay windows of the living room. Lynn is watching some trash sitcom, one hand working through dark, limp hair and the other tapping at her brick phone idly. She’s only half paying attention to the TV and her phone. Amanda fidgets at her feet and presses her chin harder into the flesh of her thigh.
Lynn smiles softly, and puts her phone down to take a sip of steaming tea, and rubs her thumb over the shell of her ear. “Ok, baby?” Soft, calm like she is on these rare lazy days of theirs.
“Yeah,” Amanda replies hoarsely. “Yeah, I’m good.” She is, really. Her mind feels pleasantly empty, fuzzy with affection, the effect of Lynn’s closeness and her own innocent submission. Her knees ache slightly against the hardwood floor, but it’s almost – nice, in a strange way, an ever present and throbbing reminder of the hours she’s spent today simply kneeling by Lynn, enjoying her company. She closes her eyes and stays down, allowing herself the joy of savouring a calm moment.
It’s an hour or so later when she reluctantly peels herself away and stands abruptly. She squeezes her lover’s shoulder, and moves to exit the room without a word.
Lynn glances up, grabs her hand gently to pause her. “Mandy?”
Amanda turns in her grasp and squeezes her hand. “I’ll be back, I just have to pee.”
Something funny flickers over Lynn’s face. She doesn’t let go of her hand. Her lips part and her tongue comes out to wet her bottom lip almost anxiously, and then she appears to make a decision. Her expression settles, morphing into that look she gets when she’s about to exercise control . It brings out an almost immediate, Pavlovian physical reaction in Amanda, goosebumps prickling over her skin excitedly. She waits patiently to see how this will play out this time.
Lynn murmurs, hoarse, as if she’s almost embarrassed , “Stay here? The episode’s almost done.” If Amanda squints, she can almost see a warm flush on her cheeks. Almost. A kind of uncertainty in her eyes even as she feigns coolness.
Oh.
They haven’t talked about this, but it’s not a far leap, for them. Just another means to an end that is degradation and control, submission and trust. Lynn asks, and Amanda gives herself over easily, trusts her and offers her responsibility and power.
“ Lynn,” Amanda whines a little anyway. “I really have to go.”
The doctor doubles down, the uncertainty slipping away, fogging over with a kind of desire instead. That dark, sure look she gets in her eyes and the set of her jaw when she’s in topping mode, when she wants the girl to listen. “You can, if you really want to,” she offers, an out. Go, and we won’t mention this ever again. “But I really want you to stay.”
The air feels thick suddenly, the casual ease of a sunny weekend dissipating. Lynn stares, hungry, and Amanda stares back – debating. Considering. She rolls the idea through her head and is surprised to find herself excited. Without a word, she takes a step back toward the couch, back to Lynn, and returns to her original position on her knees on the floor with her head in the doctor’s lap.
Lynn exhales softly, quietly pleased, and scratches behind her ear. “Good,” she praises. “Good, pup.”
And so, like that, Amanda finds herself on her knees purposefully holding her piss. Because Lynn asked her to, because Lynn wants her to. It’s starting to ache a little, but she can hold out, will hold out. She shifts on the floor to a more comfortable position and nuzzles deeper into soft sweatpants and body heat. She closes her eyes again and slips into a happy, fuzzy haze. Gentle hands work through her hair, soothing, kind, and she allows herself to feel all of it, every ounce of tenderness Lynn gives her.
One shitty sitcom episode and about ten awful, tinny canned laugh tracks later, Lynn glances down, tilts her chin up with a gentle finger to meet her eyes. “How are you holding up, baby?”
“Mhm,” Amanda hums, and fidgets. “Ok. Hurts a little.” Her knee jumps a little, a muscle in her thigh twitching every now and then with the strain.
“Can you keep holding it?” Lynn asks, curious and soft. “Or is the pain too much?” She looks breathless as she asks, affected by the sheer intimacy of this kind of control. It’s nice, to see her equally worked up over this.
The girl says nothing, just nods, eyes wide. Lynn sits back, satisfied, a smile curling the corners of her lips, and Amanda knows she’s going to hold it for as long as she asks, or until she physically can’t. Just to see that contented smile, just to hear her tender praising and coos of reassurance, just so she keeps stroking her hair.
Around the third episode since Lynn had asked her to stay , she starts to get uncomfortable. She feels nauseous with how full she is, her fingers digging into her thigh anxiously. It takes everything in her to not just get up right now and stop all this. Lynn would let her, would respect her decision to back out when she gets antsy, she knows this, and that’s exactly why she stays. She finds a certain comfort knowing that she can stop this whenever she wants, and finds she doesn’t want to cut this short just yet. She stays put, her thigh jumping, her free hand curled into a tight fist against the crotch of her sweatpants. She’s always been good at overcoming pain and discomfort, and she does it now, forces herself to sit through it and breathe and stay calm.
That doesn’t mean she can’t complain a little.
“ Lynn,” she groans weakly. “Hurts,” she whines, and pushes her face into the doctor’s cotton thigh, sinks her front teeth into soft fabric and the angles of her knee.
“I know, baby,” Lynn soothes, and cups the back of her head, blessedly saying nothing about her biting. She scratches absently at the nape of her neck, eases through soft baby hairs. Gentle, as if she doesn’t want to do anything that might cause the girl to lose it or just get up and say fuck it all. “But you look so good down there, holding it because I asked.”
Amanda mewls, nodding, drinks up the praise greedily. She squirms a little, for Lynn’s benefit, shows off a little and then immediately regrets it when the movement causes her stomach to twinge sharply.
“So pretty on your knees like a good dog,” the older woman continues, sounding significantly more breathless. “Potty-trained and everything, huh?”
“ Fuck,” the girl whines, and nods quickly, pressing her face into Lynn’s lap again. “Are you really into this?” she asks, muffled.
The doctor swallows loudly, and Amanda glances upwards just in time to see her nod once. “I like having you – desperate. In any and all ways,” she murmurs. “I like you on your knees obediently doing what I ask.”
Amanda grows hot all over. “I – I like it too,” she mumbles. “I didn’t think I would, but I do. Your dog, your puppy.”
Lynn exhales shakily and tangles her fist into the back of dark hair possessively. “Mine, my cute pup.” The weirdness of unfamiliar words has long since passed, since they started doing all this. It feels as natural as breathing, when they’re both in this headspace. “How much longer? How much longer can you – hold it?”
The girl trembles. “Not long, probably,” she whispers. Her cheeks feel hot, and she knows she must be flushing pink. Lynn rubs a thumb along her cheek, practically confirming it for her. She always likes to see her blush, to Amanda’s chagrin, loves her pink and shy and desperate.
“You’re doing so well,” she praises again. She’s feeding her kind words, tender touches, more so than she usually would when they do this, and Amanda is grateful for it. It’s humiliating enough as it is, and the praise takes the edge off, dulls the blade of the sheer degradation of it all. She absorbs every word of it eagerly, and wraps an arm around Lynn’s thigh to settle in for the wait.
“Lynn, fuck, I can’t – I have to go piss,” she shudders a while later. Irritation is forcing its way up her throat, making her back molars itch. She feels nauseous with it. She digs her fingernails into the vulnerability of the back of Lynn’s knee, shuddering in place, and grinds her teeth hard enough to hurt. She considers, again, just getting up and leaving, disobeying.
“Wait,” Lynn says firmly, her eyes firmly on the TV but not really paying attention, hazed over and shining. “Sit. Wait.” She speaks to her all in one-syllables, firm and sharp as if she really were training a disobedient puppy.
“I can’t , Lynn! Fucking hell,” the girl bites out from between her teeth. “I hope this is doing it for you, god.” She feels so full, anxious with the pain of it and the unfamiliarity of waiting longer than she ever would herself. She’s starting to feel like she might really fucking lose it, and it has fear surging up quickly. She remembers, abruptly, being stuck in a dark closet, the abject humiliation seeping through her when she would inevitably piss herself after being locked away for too long, the disgust on her father’s face when he’d finally remember to let her out and smell the stench of her humanness. She wants to fucking vomit. She wants to bite down on something.
She wrenches herself free from the gentle hand in her hair and bites down on the fleshiness of Lynn’s palm, the base of her thumb. She bites hard enough to ease the fear and self-loathing, hard enough to leave rosy indents of every single one of her teeth in soft brown skin. She clamps her thighs shut against a wave of desperation, and bites down even harder until she tastes copper.
“Shit,” the doctor hisses, but doesn’t pull away. “It is. Doing it for me. You’re obeying so well, baby. Not long now. Just the rest of this episode, ok?”
Fucking bitch, Amanda thinks, and says so under her breath. The episode has only just started, the guest star credits still flickering across the bottom of the opening sequence. She can’t wait that long, she knows this in her gut. Another surge of desperation washes through her and she squeezes her thighs together tighter, moaning weakly against Lynn’s palm. She trembles against Lynn’s calves and palms roughly at her crotch, as if she can physically hold it all in.
She’s fighting a losing battle. Even as she tries to hold it back, tells herself mind over matter , she can feel herself leak into her underwear, the smallest trickle of piss soaking into cotton. She gasps, clenches quickly to stop the stream before she can lose control completely, and keens sharply against Lynn’s hand. “Oh god–”
Lynn stares, cheeks pink, eyes transfixed on where Amanda’s fist is twitching and grabbing at her sweatpants. “Are you leaking?” she asks hoarsely, and swallows. “ Hold it.”
“I’m fucking trying,” the girl spits, and convulses at Lynn’s feet. “Are you really gonna make me fucking piss myself here in front of you? Jesus.”
“No, you can hold it, I know you can,” the doctor says. “The end of the episode, remember? That’s all. Be a good, house-trained puppy for me.”
“That’s – so long,” Amanda chokes. “You’re a fucking sadist.”
Lynn frowns. “I’m not stopping you going anywhere, if you really want to, but I know you want to be good for me. Yeah?”
She almost makes a run for it. She twitches, and then stays on her knees and nods. “Yeah.” She does want to be good, for Lynn, for her. “Yeah, I do. I’ll – I’ll hold it.” Even as she says it, promises to submit, she feels another rush of hot warmth spurt out into her underwear. She whimpers, grabs at herself roughly, tears welling up and threatening to spill over. She’s so fucking embarrassed.
Lynn stares at the tiny, dark wet spot soaking through her grey sweatpants. She shudders an exhale, slides her hand up into dark hair again. “It’s ok, you’re ok, baby,” she breathes. “You can do it.”
Amanda shakes her head quickly, and feels a tear slip down her cheek. “I can’t, I can’t, Lynn,” she whines wetly. “I’m going to fucking piss myself.” She says it, barely audible, a shaky whisper.
The doctor looks genuinely concerned. She shakes her head minutely, dark eyes soft. She’s not angry, not telling her, just gentle, encouraging. “No, baby,” she murmurs, and brushes her thumb over the shell of her ear. “Mandy, hold it, ok? You can.”
It’s too late. She twitches, shakes her head and rubs roughly at her cheek with the hand that isn’t trying to hold herself together. “I can’t,” she says again, and feels warmth spill down her thigh, a leak that she can’t stop or control this time. It soaks humiliatingly into the cotton of her sweatpants, an obnoxiously visible, traitorous stain. Her bladder spasms uncomfortably and releases of its own volition, and she whimpers, “ Lynn,” and shoves her tearful face into her soft thigh.
“Oh,” the older woman says softly, and cradles the back of her head. “It’s ok, baby. It’s ok, let it go,” she coos, feeling hot, shameful tears soak through and dampen her skin.
Amanda trembles as she voids herself, feeling every bit that pathetic girl in the closet, feeling disgusting and lewd and degraded. She can’t stop at this point. All she can do is sit and hide in Lynn’s lap as she soaks her underwear, pissing down her thighs and onto Lynn’s nice hardwood floor. Her urine trickles out noisily, seeps through her pants, splashes against wood and pools around her knees. The relief is immense, and she sighs shakily through her tears, tries to focus on that rather than the humiliation.
Lynn soothes her through it, murmurs soft encouragement, “That’s it, good girl, doesn’t that feel good? You’re ok, it’s ok .” She’s everywhere, her laundry detergent–fresh cotton scent pressing against her face, her hands running through her hair and down her neck, whispering in her ear softly, breath spilling against her cheek. She’s not mad.
She’s not mad. Amanda feels like a scared, bad, untrained mutt pissing in the house, and Lynn is not mad. She feels like a disgusting young girl again, and Lynn is kind, reassuring, solid against her. When she’s finally empty, sitting pathetically in a puddle of her own piss, she shakes, gasping for breath through her tears. Her sweatpants are soaked, sticking to her skin, dark with wetness, and all she can do is try to fucking breathe. She half-sobs, half-wheezes against Lynn’s knee.
“Feeling better?” the older woman asks quietly, in her ear.
“No,” Amanda whimpers. “I’m all wet.” She doesn’t even know how to begin putting into words all the thoughts running circles around her brain. She doesn't even try.
Lynn chuckles softly. “I know, baby. C’mon, look at me.”
A shudder runs through her shoulders, down her spine, and then she dares to lift her head, gazing up with blotchy red cheeks and watery eyes. She’s drenched with shame, but Lynn just looks down at her warmly, kind and a little apologetic.
“Are you ok?” she asks. “I – I shouldn’t have pushed you so far. I didn’t think you’d actually–” She half expected that Amanda would jump up at the last minute, pull herself away when it really got too much. She hadn’t expected her to sit and stay until she lost all control of herself. It’s touching, really, the extent of her trust, her submission. Lynn feels guilty for pushing so hard, making her wait so long.
“I did tell you,” the girl grits out with a tinge of irritation. She softens imperceptibly, huffing a slow breath as she attempts to calm herself down. “I’m ok. Sorry about your, uh, floor.”
“I don’t care about my floor, Mandy,” Lynn sighs, one corner of her mouth curling upwards. “I just care about you. Want me to run you a hot bath?”
Amanda shudders, and nods. She’s starting to feel cold, her urine drying cool and unpleasant against her skin. A bath with Lynn sounds fucking heavenly. “God, yes.”
Lynn helps her undress while the water is running, lavender-scented steam floating up into the air and filling the bathroom. She’s gentle, cautious as she helps peel layers of soaked cotton away and deposits them in the laundry basket to be tomorrow’s problem. She trails her fingertips over pale skin as she works, over raised scars and clumsy bruises and a smattering of freckles. She presses a kiss to the nape of the girl’s neck, the top of her spinal column, and then eases her down into the warm water.
Amanda sighs happily, stretches out beneath the water and watches as the older woman sheds her own clothes and slides in behind her without a word. Lynn curls tightly around her, her breasts squishing against the girl’s shoulder blades and her arms gentle around her shoulders, draped over her and dangling against her collarbones. She can practically feel all her humiliation wash away into the soapy water, replaced with a sleepy kind of comfort.
“Ok?” Lynn whispers against her ear, and reaches for the soap. She slowly, delicately soaps her up with a soft washcloth, massaging her shoulders and neck first, brushing over and around her breasts before slipping down between her thighs. She works gently, dragging the cloth over her thighs, the joint of her hips, back down to her knees.
“Mhm,” Amanda mumbles. She closes her eyes and leans back against Lynn, dropping her head against the woman’s shoulder and allowing herself to be cared for in a way she never has been, pre-Lynn. “Yeah, I’m ok. A little embarrassed, but – yeah.”
“You don’t need to be embarrassed,” Lynn breathes. “Ever, but not about this either. I told you to hold it, and you did, so well.”
The girl mewls a little, flushing at the odd compliment. “I know, it’s just–” She trails off, shakes her head. From this angle, Lynn can only just about make out the crinkle of her brow. She’s thinking about something. The doctor stays quiet, lets her figure it out herself, waits for her to come out with it when she’s ready. She dips into the back of the girl’s knee with the washcloth and smiles when she jerks, ticklish.
“When I was young, my dad – he’d lock me away. You – you know this, I’ve told you before,” Amanda reveals quietly. She has, Lynn knows already. It’s why she can’t stand the dark, why she’s always careful to never leave her alone when she’s tied up lest the feeling of being stuck and powerless transform from pleasant submission to fearful panic. “Sometimes,” Amanda swallows, her throat bobbing. “Sometimes he’d leave me in there so long that I’d – y’know.”
Lynn nods, and clenches her fist around the washcloth. She tries very hard to keep her body still and relaxed, tries not to let the tension and anger at Amanda’s poor excuse for a father show too obviously. She stays quiet.
“He’d be so disgusted when he came to find me. As if he wasn’t the bastard that put me there and made me piss myself,” she grits out between clenched teeth. Her fingers twitch and curl against her other knee, the one that Lynn hasn’t got around to washing yet. “The shame, afterwards – jesus.” She shakes her head, sniffles wetly the remnants of her earlier crying bout. “I can almost still feel it now.” It’s a slow kind of dread, a bottomless pit hollow in her stomach and crawling over her skin. It makes her want to hang her head, sob, throw things.
The older woman abandons the washcloth, letting it float off to the other end of the tub. She tugs Amanda’s head back against her, massaging her scalp. “He sounds like a fucking piece of work,” she says tersely. “You never have to feel ashamed about anything we do, Mandy. You know that, right?”
“I know,” the girl whispers, wet, as if she’s about to cry again. “I know, I do. I just struggle to believe it sometimes.”
Lynn nods, quiet. She reaches out to hook the washcloth with her fingers, but it’s out of reach, and she gives up, soaping her hands instead and switching to wash her other leg. “Was it too much?”
Amanda is hesitant. “A little,” she murmurs. “I liked you telling me what to do, praising me, but – I don’t think I want to do it again.” She sniffs, scrunches her nose cutely. “Hit a nerve, kinda. I didn’t expect it to.”
“That’s ok, Mandy,” Lynn whispers. “You’re not always going to like everything. Just relax, ok? Let me take care of you.” She drops her head to kiss her neck again, tender, and then her shoulder, her bicep, her temple, her ear. She trails lazy kisses everywhere she can reach, soaping and rinsing as she does, until Amanda finally relaxes against her fully, practically purring with comfort. By the time she finishes washing her body, moves onto her hair and finishes that too, she’s almost asleep despite it only being late afternoon.
“Don’t fall asleep on me,” the doctor chuckles, easing herself up and helping Amanda up with her, shaking her out of her doze. “Not in the tub, c’mon,” she says, and helps her step out onto the bathmat, swallowing her up with a soft fluffy towel before the air can chill her damp skin. She towels the girl off, and then herself, and feels warm with affection.