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Perpetual Desperation

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John put his arm across the bathroom door. “Do you have to go now or can you wait a while to water the rat?”

Water the rat was a euphemism they had adopted after their encounter in the Fleet sewer, but the unexpected question surprised Sherlock. He frowned. “I didn’t think that you were into watersports.”

“I’m not, but it’s all about control and it’s better than the alternative,” mumbled John.

The alternative? Ah, that mysterious something that had thrown John into a flat spin while he was humping his pillow. Sherlock had rolled over almost on the point of orgasm to discover a white faced and disconcerted John. They had skirted around the issue of whatever had upset him so much and now it was business as normal. Only he still couldn’t decide what was wrong with John, which was both irksome and perplexing.

Now he had proposed this new twist on the game, one that Sherlock had never previously considered.

He considered it.

He had woken up horny as hell and pissing had taken second place to wanking, so he hadn’t been since last night. Now that omission and the mug of tea John had given him was making its presence felt, but he could hold off for a little while. The question was did he actually want to play this game?

Sherlock looked at John’s hand clenched around the doorframe and peered into his face. John was impatient for an answer, nervous, edgy and slightly belligerent. It was a thought-provoking combination of emotions. Well, if he couldn’t deduce the problem he might wheedle the truth out of him by playing along. He wasn’t completely adverse to the idea either, like John said it was all about control.

“I don’t have to go immediately,” said Sherlock.

“Right, let’s get downstairs then, it’s sweltering up here.”

The ground floor of Sherlock’s inheritance was indeed much cooler than the upper floor. In the hallway the lower temperature provoked a small shiver that made him want to piss right there, but the east facing kitchen was already sun warmed.

John opened the windows and the back door. “It’s going to be another scorcher.”

Sherlock followed him out onto the terrace at the rear of the house. The long green garden had started to yellow for want of water. His stomach cramped up, he could water it easily enough, a long arc of urine all over the rain deprived lawn. He leant against the house wall next to John. Thankfully there were no neighbours to complain about their nudity, just open countryside all around and the lilt of birdsong in the morning air.

“Are you all right?” asked Sherlock softly.

John nodded. “Yeah, fine, sorry I was a dickhead before and don’t you dare say that you’re used to that.” He stepped away from the mellow brickwork and stood facing Sherlock. “How are you, love?”

There was that endearment again and Sherlock basked in it. He drew his breath in and released it slowly, gaging his bodily responses. “Still horny and dying for a piss.” His fingers glided over his lower abdomen. Was it imagination that made the skin feel a little taut just above the dark curls of his pubic hair?   He gave John a quick lopsided grin. “It’s interesting.”

John’s face relaxed into an answering smile. “We’ll see how interesting you think it is in an hour or two.” He put his arms around Sherlock’s waist and his lips to his ear. “Remember, there’s always the safe word if you need it.”

“I never have yet.” Sherlock kissed John’s sun laced hair. “Do your worse, Captain Watson.”

John hugged him before he stepped back smartly. “There are two things you need to remember, soldier. Number one; don’t touch your penis without my permission. Number two; you’re not allowed to urinate until I order you to do so. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.” Sherlock wasn’t going to quibble because if he did John would realise how badly he needed to go. Act nonchalant and he might possibly win this war of attrition.

“Good. I don’t know about you, but what I need is a cup of coffee.”

Sherlock took a deep breath, trying hard not to react. Only his dismay must have shown on his face because John laughed and slapped him on the back. “Come on, solider, let’s get you something to drink.”

At least John didn’t add insult to injury by telling him to make the coffee, probably because the result would have been undrinkable. He did however insist on brewing proper ground coffee which filled the kitchen with an aroma that made Sherlock’s mouth water in spite of the ache in his bladder. He reminded himself that this was not a good idea, not that John was going to take no for an answer. His eyes went to the wall clock, 08.23, nearly nine hours and one large mug of tea since he had last pissed.

John threw some bread into the toaster. “I forgot to buy any jam yesterday.” He opened a couple of cupboards in the hope of finding a forgotten jar.

“You won’t find any there,” said Sherlock. “Grandmamma always said that only poor people ate jam.”

“Snobby lot aren’t you?” said John cheerfully. “That coffee should be ready. Come and have your breakfast.”

The coffee was rich dark Brazilian, wonderful on the palate and lethal on the bladder. Sherlock munched doggedly through a couple of slices of toast in the hope of padding his stomach out.  He decided that the best tactic was to simply ignore the signals his body was sending him. If he pretended that the urge wasn’t there he ought to be able to function as normal which would annoy the hell out of John. Piss him off in fact, Sherlock sniggered into his cup and a strong ripple of urgency gripped him. His hips shook of their own volition.

“Having a problem, are we?” asked John with a knowing smirk.

“No.” Sherlock made himself sit still. Very still.

“Drink up then.”

Sherlock thought of several words to describe John and none of them were complementary. He‘d show him. There was no way he was going to give in before John got bored and let him go to the loo.

Only he had better hope that John had a low boredom threshold because everything was physical and tactile. The feminine floral pattern on gramdmamma’s china felt silk smooth when he touched the plate. The oak table smelt of lavender beeswax and it had been buffed to a mirror shine, like a gleaming pool, and it smelt of lavender beeswax. While the cold tiles under his bare feet sent a quiver of need through him. He could just breath out his control and piss all over those dark Welsh slates. Sherlock almost reached for his cock and quickly curled his hand into a fist. He wasn’t about to start holding himself like a frantic child.

“Are you finished?” asked John. He gathered up the crockery without waiting for an answer. “Let’s get the washing up done out of the way.”

“I hate you,” said Sherlock slowly and clearly.

John split his sides laughing. He was still chuckling when he turned the tap on full blast. “This comes out like a bloody fountain.”

Sherlock cursed him silently. He had remained seated at the kitchen table, but he didn’t need to see the endless stream of water. The sound of it hitting the stone sink was enough to make his stomach cramp savagely. “Don’t be infantile, John.”

“You sound stressed.” John grinned. “Is it getting difficult to hold it?”

“Not at all,” lied Sherlock.

John threw a tea towel at him. “You can dry up then.”

It was worse when he stood up, but he kept his back straight and walked over to the sink. John had turned the tap off before it overflowed, but the soapy water sloshed about in mini waves. Sherlock bit his lower lip. He needed a piss and he needed it now.   John’s hands plunged into the sink, stirring up the water, making it trickle down his forearms. Sherlock held back a gasp and dried up, clumsy and quick with the tea towel.

“I’ll just rinse the sink, then we might as well go back out into the garden,” said John.

Sherlock steeled himself for the rush of water into the sink. He was not going to react to it. Oh hell… John looked pointedly at him and he uncrossed his legs with as much dignity as he could muster.

John switched the water off and its absence was a blessing to Sherlock who breathed out carefully.

“Two minutes while I gather some stuff up,” said John, “and then we’ll take you outside before you make a puddle on granny’s kitchen floor.”

“I will not,” declared Sherlock, although he had been thinking of doing exactly that five minutes ago.

John laughed disbelievingly and went to get his stuff.  Sherlock wanted to grab his cock the second he left, but he refrained. No cheating was one of the unspoken rules of all their sex games. It was part of the bedrock of trust on which their unlikely relationship was built. So he paced about instead and found himself automatically contemplating options he didn’t have. The sink would be an ideal receptacle for his piss, as would the kitchen bin or the bucket in the cleaning cupboard. Even the wicker log basket was lined with plastic.

Oh god, he wanted to piss.

Sherlock jiggled from one foot to the other. This was ridiculous. Why couldn’t he simply ignore the urge? The human body was a damned nuisance sometimes and even most of his pleasure came from fighting its relentless demands. How often did it try to compel and cajole him into an orgasm he didn’t want when he was teasing his cock? That he could override – had overridden for the last twenty-one days – but he would be lucky to delay this for another twenty-one minutes.

He bent forward grasping the edge of the table and started to count slowly to a hundred. John came back when he got to sixty-eight.

“God, you’re bursting,” said John in a voice that was awed and lusty.

“Nearly.” Sherlock looked across the kitchen and met John’s eyes. “Please, sir, I need to piss.”

“Not yet.” John hefted his burden, a copy of yesterday’s paper, suntan oil and a plaid blanket with something that gleamed silver hidden in its folds. “I want you out on the terrace for inspection.”

“I need to piss,” repeated Sherlock sulkily.

“No back chat.” John pointed at the open doorway. “Outside now.”

The sun had risen high over the roof, slicing out sharp shadows under the trees, but there was no shade on the terrace and the stone was already hot under Sherlock’s feet.   He obeyed John’s command to stand to attention with a scornful glare, but every time his bladder pulsed he had to strain to stay still and the signals were persistent.

John circled him and Sherlock was sure that he noticed the tremor in his muscles and his next order confirmed it. “At ease, soldier.”

It couldn’t have been less easy. Sherlock twisted his hands together behind his back and spread his legs a little.

“Wider.” John kicked him lightly on the ankle. “You know how it’s done.”

“It’ll serve you right if I piss all over you,” growled Sherlock. That seemed a very real possibility. “Oh fuck, I can’t stand still and not go.”

“You’ll go when I tell you to and not before.” John’s strictness was belied by the hand that trailed gently over his chest. “Easy, love, and I’ll let you move in a minute.” He stepped behind him and the sudden shock of cold metal snapping shut around his wrists nearly made Sherlock lose control. “But I didn’t say I’d let you touch yourself.”

“You bastard!” Sherlock crossed his legs at the thigh and pulled uselessly on the handcuffs. “I’m dying for a piss.”

John shrugged. “So die.” He was faking casual and unconcerned. John was really getting into this. His face was flushed and his cock was doing a better job of standing to attention than Sherlock had.  

Sherlock moaned. This was making him horny as well, not that it took much nowadays.   His wrists jerked in the handcuffs, trying in vain to reach his cock. He knew from past experience that they wouldn’t yield. They were the real article, 1940’s army issue, not cheap sex shop rubbish. Only he had never before been held captive by them with his bladder full to capacity. “I’ve got to go.”

“Hold it.” John was as immoveable as the Great Wall of China.

“Fuck off.” He could simply relax his muscles and it would all stream out over the stone terrace. No harm done, nothing damaged and sun dried before noon. So why the hell didn’t he? For a start he was damned if he would give in to the cramping weight in the pit of his stomach. John would never let him hear the last of it if he wet himself like a helpless child. No, John would be kind, gentle, as he was only with him – so he could let go without worrying about the recriminations.

His bladder contracted in anticipation.

“Wait.” Sherlock ground the word out from between clenched teeth. Wait. How many times had he told himself that when he was desperate to orgasm? This feeling was similar in many ways; everything was focused on nether regions, on a substantial erection and a tense ache in his abdomen. Everything was tight and needy, tricking him into craving the very thing he wanted to avoid. “Oh god, wait.”

“You can hold it,” whispered John. He stood at the top of the steps that led down to the lawn.

“I can’t.” That diuretic coffee was hitting home now. “I’m bursting.” He moved, trying to outpace the pressure. “I’m going to piss myself.”

“No, you’re not,” said his evil genie, “not until I say that you can.”

Sherlock crossed the terrace to him. His gait was uneven and he couldn’t keep still once he and John were toe to toe. “I can’t wait much longer.” He shuddered in desperation. “Oh John, I have to go.”

“I know. I know, love.” Compassion and doubt gentled John’s expression. “There’s a word if you need to use it.”

End game. The safe word would allow him to finally let go and piss like a racehorse. All it would take was one little word, one tiny admission of defeat, and all this strangely erotic agony would be over. Sherlock shook his head, obstinately keeping his mouth and his sphincter closed. “Make me wait.”

John searched his face and nodded slowly. “Ten minutes.”

“Oh…” Sherlock tried not to whimper. He had been given what he asked for, but ten minutes seemed an impossible span of time, which was nonsense because it was nothing at all.   Surely he could force his bladder to hold its burden for another ten mniutes? No, he couldn’t. He had to let go now, the compulsion to do so was overwhelming. “I need to piss!”

“No,” said John.

“I must go. Oh god, I have to…” Sherlock stumbled away from John. Unable to touch himself he could only jiggle crazily on the spot. The impulse peaked relentlessly and he clenched his muscles. “Wait. Wait. Ah…I need a fucking piss!”

“Not yet, soldier.”

Sherlock looked at John through a curtain of sweat soaked hair. The red flush can spread all over his chest and his eyes were luminous with lust.   His hand, knuckles uppermost, was clasped around his cock. If this was what he could do to John simply by being desperate for a piss, then what other power did he hold over him? Not that he would ever hurt John because John was everything, life and love.

Another upsurge gripped him and he fought it, determined not to crumble before the onslaught. “Ah, wait. Oh, please wait.” Sherlock doubled over with his legs crossed. This was stupid. How on earth could having a full bladder reduce him to a gasping, squirming wreck?

“Kneel down,” said John and his voice shook.

Sherlock groaned. The manoeuvre seemed beyond him. Firstly he had to straighten his spine, drawing his stomach muscles tight and putting more strain on his bladder. Then he had to uncross his legs, sacrificing what modicum of pressure his compressed thighs had provided. He heard a blackbird in the lilac trees and its song was intersected by his helpless whimpers. Heat rose from the terrace, it radiated along his calves and made him frantic. “I can’t wait. Please, John, please let me go.”

“Shush, it’s okay.” John knelt behind him and warm, strong hands clasped his shoulders. “Everything’s going to all right.” He kissed Sherlock’s hair and right temple, and when Sherlock tilted his head back their lips met in an affectionate affirmation. “Just a tiny bit longer,” whispered John.

“I can’t hold it!”

“Yes, you can, you’re Sherlock Holmes and you can do anything.” John ran his hand down Sherlock’s flank and across his twitching stomach. “Hold it, love, don’t let a drop out until I give you the word.”

Sherlock moaned. “I’m going to piss.” He fought to obey John’s command, but his control was slipping. “I’m going to wet myself!”

“Hush, I know you need to go” John’s fingertips brushed over Sherlock’s lower abdomen. “Your bladder’s bulging, tighter than a drum.” He kissed the nape of Sherlock’s neck. “You are so beautiful, so fucking sexy.” John encircled his waist with both arms and pulled Sherlock back against his chest. “Go on then, wet yourself.”

The piss exploded out of him instantly in a hot, painful, torrent. His cries of agonised relief mingled with John’s gasps and the hiss of his urine. Sherlock saw it strike the terrace and splinter up from the stones in a sun gold fountain. “Oh, god, John, I can’t control it.”

“Don’t even try.” John rocked his hips, compressing his erection between their bodies. “Oh, fuck…”

Sherlock felt the handcuffs and his knuckles dig into John’s stomach. He tried to wriggle forward, but John held him securely. John’s cock slid over the nodules of his spine with every erratic thrust of his hips. “Oh god, you’re still pissing,” John groaned in his ear.

“It won’t stop.” Sherlock lifted his pelvis creating an arc of piss that cascaded over the edge of the terrace. He tensed his muscles and the flow stuttered. A few seconds later it burst forth again despite his hopeless efforts to stem the flood. “Ah, fuck…”   He abandoned any attempt to control it with a moan of relief. “There’s more…”

Another strong steam shot out of his cock before it finally ebbed to a rapid drip. Sherlock sagged back and John’s orgasmic moans bruised his eardrums. He reached back to grip John’s thigh; smooth skin flecked with wiry hairs, muscles trembling in reaction. Sherlock felt semen drip wetly down his spine and was suddenly massively erect.   He whimpered, griped by another sort of urgency. John’s orgasms always nearly sent him over the edge. Now the heightened sensitivity caused by his desperation combined with weeks of denial had brought him perilously close to ejaculation.   He breathed in sharp little pants and clenched his hands. The piss wet stone terrace scraped his knuckles and his penis jerked wildly. “No. Wait. Wait!”

“Shush, calm down.” John dragged himself into a sitting position. “Sorry, I think I got carried away.” He fumbled at Sherlock’s wrists and a second later the handcuffs clicked open. “Christ, you’re too much.”

Unsteady hands soothed him, stroking his hair and rubbing his shoulders, and John whispered sweet nonsense in his ear until the crisis eventually passed. Sherlock interlaced his fingers with John’s. There was only one thought in his mind. “I want another cup of coffee,” he said with a shaky grin.

John laughed and cuffed him around the ear. Then they kissed and no lover’s kisses could have been more tender.