Soaking My Tights [Mf] [D/s] [Watersports]

Hey everyone! First story, let me know what you think. This a true story about my [23f] time as a submissive, and there is more where this came from ;)

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“Go to the bathroom and take a picture,” I read. I’m already dripping. I’ve been dripping. He knows that I’m dripping, even the barista must know that I’m dripping. I sit up straighter, uncross my legs, and try not to let it show how good the cool air feels against my barely covered clit. I need to get up and take this picture—coming from Sir, it’s not a request.

But first, I have to drink a glass of water.

It’s our first time playing this little game I invented: I have to hold my pee as long as I possibly can, as long as he wants me to. I’d hold my breath as long as he wanted me to. The basic premise was a co-discovery, but I added one masochistic detail. Every time I got even more unbelievably turned on, I had to drink a glass of water, sending proof if possible. This was my eighth glass of water in the last hour. My heart always races when I see a new message from him, but now I was hoping against all hope that it wasn’t another video, another elaborate fantasy of his, another order. And, of course, wishing with my whole body that it was.

I walk to the cafe bathroom, stilted and self-conscious, trying not to focus on the way my tights are rubbing against my pussy. It’s December in the South, perfect weather for the sheer black tights Sir loves so much. No panties, of course. I’m not allowed to wear panties under dresses. As I walk the nylon catches every drop of my wetness and spreads it over my thighs and pussy.

“I’m at a 7,” I text him, followed by a picture of my ass in the reflection of the bathroom mirror. The one to ten scale is not the most elegant solution, but it’s effective. I wonder if he made me go to the restroom just to take the picture or to taunt me, knowing full well I wouldn’t be allowed to use it.

*“7.5,”* I correct myself.

“Getting up there.” His ability to remain completely calm while I’m on the brink of insanity with want is one of the sexiest and most infuriating things about him. I drink more water without telling him. He doesn’t need to know that even that simple message has made my pussy ache. At this point we’ve only been talking for a couple of months, but he’s owned me since day one.

I need to pee, badly. I can feel the pressure building below my belly button. It’s not painful, exactly, at least not in any way I don’t crave.

“What are you thinking about?” He’s at work, it being just before noon on a Monday. I’m horrible for his productivity.

“Having you under my desk all day like a good pet.” I gulp down another glass, and make sure to send him a video this time. “I think it’s time for you to head home.” Thank God–I’ve blown right past the eighth point in our scale.

I send him a picture of my soaked tights from my car, embarrassed by how easy it is to see each and every drop trapped in the fine mesh of the fabric. The seat belt is digging into my slightly distended tummy. This time it is painful. I speed the five or six miles home, musing to myself about being pulled over and having to explain my predicament to the officer. *Sorry, sir, I’m racing my slutty ass home so that I can piss myself for a man twice my age.* Maybe he’d understand. It would not be the first time I used a flirty smile and a silly excuse to get out of a ticket.

“9,” I text from a red light.

“Desperate?”

“Beyond.”

“Good girl.” I make a mental note that I owe him yet another glass when I get home.

Ten minutes and a very wet car seat later I sprint up the two flights of stairs to my apartment, fumbling with the key in the lock before swinging the front door open and running to the bathroom.

“10,” I tell him. “10, 10, 10, 10, 10.” It feel every glass of water hit me at once. I feel so full and agonized and unbelievably submissive. “Can I please pee? Please.” I beg shamelessly.

“Not yet.” I whine, loudly and involuntarily.

“Sir please? I’ll do anything.” He likes it when I’m more specific with my bargaining but I can’t think about anything but release. At this moment, there is absolutely nothing I wouldn’t do for him.

“Patience, baby.” He knows I melt when he calls me that. He’s too good at this. “Stand in the tub, dress off, tights on.”

I immediately do as I’m told, hastily unbuttoning the dress and sliding it off my shoulders. My nipples are painfully hard in my chilly apartment. “Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease.” Tears are forming in my eyes, it hurts so much. It’s a feeling I want to drown in.

“This is our first watersports game, you don’t want it to be over so quickly, do you?”

My knees are wobbling.

“Yes, please, I need to pee.” I stare down at my toes in my tights, wiggling them, trying to focus on anything but the burning in my stomach.

“Okay, baby.”

“Get ready.”

“Pee.”

Somehow, despite the overwhelming fullness and tortuous past hour, it doesn’t come right away. It starts with a thin trickle down my inner thigh, as I beg my body to let this be over. And then it hits hard. A strong stream coats my legs and soaks my already wet tights, pooling around my feet momentarily before slipping down the drain. It’s so warm. The build, climax, and release are so akin to an orgasm I can’t help but bite my lip and moan. I must pee for thirty seconds, a minute maybe, shaking uncontrollably from the pleasure. I’d never felt anything like this. I’d never felt relief like this, I’d never felt devotion like this, I’d never felt such a desperate need to please like this.

I feel dizzy and weak and completely owned. I peel my tights off and wrap a towel around me, choosing to leave the remnants of my sluttiness on me as I toddle off to bed.

Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/dwtuty/soaking_my_tights_mf_ds_watersports