A Lesson in Restraint

"Mr. Hayes, if you can't keep your eyes on your own paper, I'll have to ask you to stay after class."

The words come out sharper than I intend, but you don't flinch. You just lean back in that infuriating way you have, arms folded, that cocky half-grin pulling at your mouth. My fingers grip the edge of my desk so hard my knuckles ache — but not because of you. Not entirely.

It's because I've been holding a full bladder for the last forty minutes, and I'm not sure how much longer I can stand here without doing something humiliating.

"You okay, Miss Bennett? You look a little... tense."

You draw the word out, slow and deliberate, and I want to slap that handsome smirk right off your face. Or kiss it. One or the other.

"I'm fine," I snap. "Now, if we could return to chapter seven—"

I shift my weight from one foot to the other, and the movement sends a fresh wave of pressure through my lower abdomen. God. I'd drunk two large coffees before this roleplay started, and the liquid has worked its way through my system with merciless timing. My bladder feels hot and swollen, pushing against the waistband of my pencil skirt, and every small movement reminds me exactly how much I need to relieve myself.

I cross my ankles. Uncross them. Press my thighs together when I think you aren't looking.

You're always looking.

"Miss Bennett?" You raise your hand, and I clench my jaw.

"Yes, Mr. Hayes?"

"Can I be excused to use the restroom?"

The question is so perfectly timed, so deliberately cruel, that I almost laugh. Almost. Instead, I feel a fresh spasm of urgency grip my core, and I squeeze my legs together harder.

"No. You may not. Class is almost over."

"But I really have to go." You prop your chin on your hand, watching me with those dark, knowing eyes. "What about you? You don't look so great either."

"I said I'm fine."

But I'm not fine. I'm so far from fine that when I take a step toward the whiteboard, my knees almost buckle. I can feel every drop of liquid shifting inside me, and the waistband of my panties is pressing right against my urethra, making it worse. I want to grab myself. I want to press my hand between my legs like a child and squeeze until the feeling passes. But I'm supposed to be the teacher here, and you're supposed to be the student, and—

"Where are you going?" you ask, as I start edging toward the door.

"I need to step out for a moment."

"No, you don't."

Your voice changes. It's still playful, still part of the game, but there's a new edge to it — a command wrapped in velvet. You stand up from your chair and move to block the door, your tall frame filling the space completely.

"Mr. Hayes, move."

"Make me."

I stare at you, and for a moment, the roleplay and reality blur together. My heart is hammering. My bladder is screaming. And you're standing there, gorgeous and impossible, with that look in your eyes that says you know exactly what you're doing to me.

"David," I whisper, breaking character just slightly. "I really have to go. Like, really."

"I know." You take a step closer. "That's the point."

You reach out and brush a curl back from my face, and the tenderness of the gesture almost undoes me. Almost makes me lose control right there. I clench every muscle I have and feel a hot trickle of sweat run down my spine.

"Stay," you murmur. "Hold it. Just a little longer. For me."

"David—"

"Tell me about chapter seven." Your hand slides to my hip, warm through the fabric of my dress. "Teach me."

I'm trembling. My thighs are pressed so tightly together that the muscles ache, and I can feel my pulse hammering in my bladder, each beat a fresh wave of agony. I try to focus on the lesson, on the words coming out of my mouth, but they're disjointed, breathless, punctuated by tiny gasps I can't suppress.

"The—the French Revolution began in... in seventeen eighty-nine..."

"Good. Keep going."

Your hand moves to the small of my back, and I whimper. I actually whimper. I'm doing a little dance now, shifting from foot to foot, my hands gripping the edge of the nearest desk so hard the wood creaks.

"David, please. I can't—"

"You can."

"I'm going to—"

"Hold it."

I squeeze my eyes shut. A single tear leaks out, not from sadness but from the sheer effort of clenching. I'm bouncing on my toes now, my body moving in small, desperate rhythms, and I can feel the first warm drop escape into my underwear.

"No," I gasp. "No, no, no—"

But it's too late. The dam breaks.

It starts as a trickle, a warm wetness spreading through the cotton of my panties, and then it becomes a flood. I cry out as my body releases, urine soaking through my underwear and streaming down my thighs, darkening the fabric of my dress. It puddles on the floor beneath me, warm and golden, and I can't stop it. I can only stand there, shaking, as I pee myself completely.

"Oh god," I moan. "Oh god, David, I'm—"

"I know." Your voice is rough now, thick with arousal. "I see it."

You pull me against you, and I feel the hot wetness of my dress pressing against your slacks. I'm soaked from waist to knee, my panties clinging to my pussy, and the relief is so overwhelming that I almost go limp in your arms.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, but you shake your head.

"Don't be. That was the hottest fucking thing I've ever seen."

You lift me — actually lift me — and carry me to the teacher's desk at the front of the room. You set me on the edge, and I feel the wet fabric of my dress squelching against the wood. My thighs are slick with pee, and my soaked panties are plastered against my skin, and I've never felt so exposed or so turned on in my entire life.

"Look at you," you breathe, standing between my spread legs. "Soaking wet. Desperate. Fucking beautiful."

Your hand slides up my thigh, pushing the wet dress higher, and I shiver as your fingers find the drenched cotton of my underwear. You don't remove them. You press your palm against the wet fabric, and the pressure sends a jolt of pleasure straight to my core.

"David—"

"You've been such a good teacher," you murmur, rubbing me through the soggy panties. "Holding it for me. Performing for me. Now let me return the favor."

Your fingers find my clit through the wet cotton, and I gasp. The fabric is slick with pee and my own arousal, and every stroke of your fingers sends a shuddering wave of pleasure through my body. You move in slow circles, pressing just hard enough, and I arch into your touch.

"Oh fuck. Oh fuck, that feels—"

"Tell me."

"It feels so good. I'm so wet, I'm so—"

"You're soaking," you agree, and I can hear the smile in your voice. "Warm and wet and mine."

Your fingers dip lower, pushing the wet fabric into my entrance, and I moan. I can feel my own wetness mixing with the pee, creating a slick mess that coats your fingers as you work them against me. You find a rhythm — slow, deliberate, devastating — and I grip the edge of the desk and hold on.

"Don't stop," I gasp. "Please don't stop."

"I won't."

You increase the pressure, rubbing my clit in tight circles through the soaked panties, and I feel the orgasm building. It starts low in my belly, a tight coil of heat that spreads outward, and my thighs begin to tremble.

"David, I'm going to—"

"Do it. Come for me."

I come so hard my vision whites out. My body convulses against your hand, and I feel a fresh gush of wetness soaking through my already-ruined panties. You work me through it, fingers relentless, drawing every last shudder out of me until I collapse against your chest, panting.

"Good girl," you murmur into my hair.

I laugh, breathless and wrecked. "I think I need to be excused from class."

You grin, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "Denied. We've got three more chapters to cover."