(We're continuing from here.)
The bathroom was Charles' next focus.
I've written myself into a bit of a corner with regard to my urolagnic interests, because I confess in the Prophettown books that real-Charles isn't into watersports. I do say there, though, that he'll do it on special occasions; there's also a scene in Emily and the Shameful Customs of Prophettown where it seems like he really does come around, at least for the moment.
So, perhaps it's not entirely implausible that thinking later about that very satisfactory experience, real-Charles decided he wanted to experiment more with that sort of thing, and added it to my training regime as much to train himself to bend me to his will in this erotic area that's so important to me as to train me to be bent that way.
"Miss Tilton," he said one Saturday morning. "You will report to the bathroom at 3pm today for training. You will drink five glasses of water at 2:45pm. You will wear only white panties."
I could hardly believe that I had heard him correctly. I broke character to run over and hug him. "Oh, Sweetie," I said. "You're the best. Thank you!"
"Don't thank me yet, Miss Tilton," he said sternly, though not without the upward twitch of his lips that always indicates that he's suppressing laughter. "You may feel differently when you're covered in piss."
"Yes, sir," I said, submissively. "Diapers, too?"
"No, Miss Tilton. No diapers today." I pouted. "You must earn your diapers."
I melted. My hand seemed to find its way somehow into my jeans. Charles ripped it out again and held it in his vise-like grip, in front of me. "And you're not going to do it that way."
Uh-oh. I watched him get an idea. "In fact, you are going to earn your diapers by not playing with yourself." Cruel, cruel man.
As the day wore on (would 3 never arrive?), I noticed that Charles himself was drinking a great deal of water throughout the day. I'll admit that I probably masturbate more than the average person, but I don't usually have a problem keeping myself from doing it from minute to minute, in situations, like daily life, where I have other things to do and there's no immediate stimulus. But every time I saw Charles take a sip of water that day, I had to grip the nearest surface hard to stop myself from putting my hands where they weren't allowed to go, and more often than not I couldn't keep from making one of those "little girl has to go to the bathroom" movements with my legs just to try to get the slightest bit of friction that might ease the ache down there.
Charles caught me at it more than once; the second time he told me to pull down my jeans and panties and get over the kitchen-table, and I got twelve with a wooden spoon for immodesty. After that I literally begged him (actually said "Sir, I'm begging you!") just to edge me, but he refused. It was only 1pm, at that point.
Finally it was 2:45, and I was standing at the sink, drinking my water. By 3, I was doing the "little girl has to go to the bathroom" dance for real, waiting for him in the bathroom in nothing but my white cotton panties. "Sir?" I called. "Are you coming?"
He entered the bathroom wearing his bathing suit. "Ow!" I said as I started to laugh. "Ow! Don't make me laugh! I need to pee!"
Charles grinned and stripped his bathing suit off, revealing his wonderful, pleasingly rigid cock. I had to resist an urge to drop to my knees and blow him right there despite the fullness of my bladder (oh, lord, the thought of peeing my panties while blowing my husband was nearly too hot for me. . .), so grateful was I that he was trying urolagnia with me with such sincerity and good humor.
But I wanted to follow his script, and it wasn't long in getting started.
"Face the mirror," he said softly, but with authority. I did, and saw the auburn-haired girl with green eyes in only her panties, crossing and uncrossing her legs.
"I'm starting to see what you mean about this stuff," Charles said. "I have this urge not to give you permission at all, and just watch you have to hold it in."
I looked into his gaze in the mirror, with a pleading expression. It wasn't ageplay yet, I thought, but it was definitely headed in that direction.
He came to stand behind me as we both faced the mirror, and put his right hand on my right hip and his left hand between my thighs, atop my panties. I yelped.
"You're going to pee in your pants, now, Miss Tilton."
"But your hand, Charles. . ."
"I thought you liked this kind of thing."
"I do; it's just. . . I never thought of that. I don't pee on you, because you're my Master."
He rubbed, firmly, with his fingers, and I had no choice: I let go, groaning with the unbearable pleasure of releasing my bladder. The warm liquid went everywhere, soaking my panties, running down my thighs, streaming into Charles' hand and rushing from there onto the floor.
I saw what he meant--it was like Victorian Emily having to pee on the Persian rug in Mrs. Smith's punishment room. Girls don't pee on their Masters, but mine was making me pee on him. The force of the pleasure from the release, and the arousal from his hand being there was so great I had to reach out and steady myself on the counter, but then the hand deserted me.
(If you like this mode of narrative, buy the Companion to EXPLORATIONS, which is chock-full of it!)
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