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"What did I say about sharing?" River asks, her arms crossed, one toe tapping on the glass floor of the TARDIS. The Doctor can feel the flush starting to heat his face. He may be the Oncoming Storm to aliens and monsters, but faced with River's disapproval he feels like… well, like he's back to age two hundred, if he's honest with himself. He stares at the floor and tries not to fidget; she's his wife, not his mother, but somehow the sheer disappointment feels the same.
"I had to pee!" he protests. "It just.. happened…"
"Right," River says. "When you were done peeing, you 'accidentally' stroked yourself to orgasm. Masturbation doesn't happen by chance, you know. Not even to you, Doctor."
The Doctor sighs and risks a glance at her. She's uncrossed her arms and she has a distinct expression on her face… oh crap. She's plotting. He's learned to be afraid of that look in her eyes. And sure enough…
"Why don't you have a drink of water, sweetie," she says. It would be saccharine except for the sting in the tone of her voice. The Doctor swallows, hard.
"Why?" he asks, though really, he knows the answer; he just wants her to admit to her deviousness.
Of course, River isn't a coward. She has no trouble at all expressing herself, or admitting to her plots. The only time she won't say anything is when the only possible answer is "spoilers," and he knows better to press her then.
"Because I want you desperate," she says simply. "You deserve punishment for excluding me, and I am going to exact it." Long pause. "I am cross with you, my love."
The Doctor flops down into one of the chairs surrounding the console. But River isn't going to be dissuaded that easily. She heaves a long sigh of her own and disappears.
When she returns, she has a pitcher of water and a glass. The Doctor gazes at it in trepidation. If she makes him drink all that… well, then he'll definitely need to pee, and it won't be easy to restrain that part of himself that just wants to let go. That he's trained to let go.
Oh, River knows exactly what she's doing: she knows if he has to pee badly enough it will be more difficult for him to hold it, just because he's been conditioning his body for so long. Hundreds of years long, in fact, and he's certain River knows. River always knows.
"Hope you're thirsty," River says, and there's a threat inherent in those words. The Doctor holds out a hand, and River pours him a glass of water. He drinks it—quickly. Perhaps too quickly, because the faster he drinks it, the worse the urge to pee will be.
She pours him another.
The Doctor paces himself this time, but it's almost impossible to meet River's eyes. He'd just begun needing to pee when she got here, and already the feeling's getting worse.
"Drink up," River says sweetly, and hands him a third glass.
The Doctor drinks what she gives him, and begins to squirm in the chair as his bladder fills. And River—oh, his wife is definitely evil, because she takes the glass, and the pitcher, and the Doctor feels the first spark of relief when she exits the room.
Until she comes back with a full pitcher.
And the Doctor drinks glass after glass, his bladder swelling into a hard ball in his belly, aching pleasantly—but also in a worrisome fashion.
He puts up a hand. "Stop, River, please," he begs, and she sets down the near-empty pitcher.
"Full?" she asks him, and he knows exactly what she means. He nods, cheeks steaming hot, body tight with every last restraint he can impose on it. But it's not going to be long.
"Now." She takes his hand and tugs him to his feet, down corridors, into their room. This time it's a bathroom, with a shower and tiled floor. "You're not going to get to have as much fun as you usually do. Take off your clothes."
Now he's disappointed; she's right, he likes wetting his trousers in particular. But he obeys because he did, after all, partake in this without her after promising she could be a part of it. He rather knew at the time that she meant always, not just the once. He sheds his clothes and stands there naked, in front of a mirror. The TARDIS has a sense of humor.
The flush on his face stains him all the way to his nipples, which are sharp little peaks on his chest. His cock is at half-mast only; he's desperately turned on—as desperately as he needs the toilet—but because of how badly he needs to go, he's not getting all the way hard. Normally he could manage that, even with a bladder as full as it is now, but there's part of him strung out with apprehension—and his body is working against him. The less stiff his cock is, the easier it will be to pee.
River, fully dressed, a beautiful smile on her face, steps up behind him and reaches around to stroke his cock ever-so-lightly. Her fingernails are a tantalizing tease against his hard flesh and the Doctor's breath shudders out of him.
"You can't pee until I say so," she says, and then, just when he thinks he might be getting off lightly, she adds the clincher: "and you can't come until I say so, either." So maybe he won't be getting off for awhile.
She touches him lightly, circles his slit with a fingertip, and the Doctor hardens a little more. She plasters herself to him, her breasts compressed against his back, and her lower body—he can feel the heat of her through her trousers, and realizes with a sinking feeling that she's enjoying her power over him way too much. He suspects these power games are going to resurface from time to time. He resolves not to leave her out of things from now on, to avoid punishment, but… his cock fills a little more and he comes to the conclusion that he might like her power plays.
The Doctor hisses in a breath, though, when her hand leaves his cock and insinuates itself between his hard on and his belly. She flattens her palm against him—directly over his bladder—and presses down. Hard.
The Doctor almost screams; the intensity of the sensation nearly sends him over the edge. A dribble of piss escapes and River pulls her hand away, returning it to his prick, which she slaps lightly. It hurts a bit, but nothing extreme; still, it gets her point across. The Doctor sucks in his breath and his belly and squeezes his thighs together, as if that might help.
Oh, but he needs to go, and his body knows what it wants to do more than anything. It wants to release, to flood his trousers and down his legs, over his feet, to puddle piss on the floor. Of course, he's not dressed, so he can't even have what he really wants, but the bodily urges don't subside just because conditions aren't ideal.
"My love," River whispers into his ear, and the Doctor shivers. It sends a bolt of lust through his cock and right into his bladder as if she's hotwired a path between her breath and his desperate need to relieve himself.
The lights in the bathroom flicker as if the TARDIS is having sympathy feelings with him. He tries not to think about that.
"River," he moans, his head falling back onto her shoulder, grateful he can't see himself in the mirror anymore. "I don't think I— I mean, I can't—"
"You had better," she says, and bites his earlobe. "I expect you to satisfy me in this."
"How?" he asks plaintively, and River's lips curve against his jaw, where she's placed an open-mouthed kiss.
"Oh, I don't need much," she assures him. "I'll get along just fine if you keep up your end of the bargain. Don't go," she adds sternly, when the Doctor's body begins to relax. This is goddamn torture; he's never had to hold it this way. Or for this long. He's played his own power games with himself, holding it for awhile, releasing a little at a time, varying the speed and strength of the stream. But those times, he had control. And he's taught his body to give up that control, so now, constrained by external forces, he's finding it nearly impossible to hang on.
"River, please," he begs, knowing it's undignified and not caring. "Just a little. Let me go just a little."
"Nope." She rubs against him and the heat of her groin feels scalding against his bare arse. Her breasts are pretty enticing too, though he's well and truly distracted; the more aroused he gets, the worse the urge to pee.
"I can't—"
"Well, you'd better figure out how, sweetie." She licks his jawline. The Doctor's cock is fully engorged now, but still, he rather thinks he's about to lose control all over himself just the same.
"River," he gasps. He just can't do it. Has he ever needed a piss this bad? Has he ever been forced to keep it in when everything in him wants to just let it out?
"How close are you, darling?" she asks. Her breath is sweet against his hot, flushed cheek.
"I'm serious, River, I'm going to lose it. I can't—"
"Five more minutes," she says, and the Doctor groans wildly. There's a slight chance he can manage that, but it might be the most difficult thing he's ever done.
He can't stop himself from checking his watch every few seconds until finally, at last, it's been five minutes. River takes his hand—the one with the watch on his wrist—and kisses his palm. "Five more minutes," she whispers against his skin, and the Doctor arches, body bowing with the terrible struggle to keep from giving in. His bladder is throbbing full, his legs are shaky, and his back teeth are floating, to use a quaint human expression that he's never quite understood.
"I really don't think—"
"Every time you protest, my love, I'm going to add another five minutes."
The Doctor clamps his mouth shut and tries to clamp down on his other urges as well. His eyes shut and he lets River keep time now, and after what feels like an endless eternity, she kisses his palm again.
"If you can get me off with your mouth," she murmurs, "I'll let you go. I'll let you piss all over my hot, throbbing clit."
The Doctor thinks this is a practical impossibility, since if he has to get on his knees, he's going to piss himself, no question. Yet he doesn't know what punishment River might dream up if he fails her here.
As if reading his thoughts—maybe she can, a little—she turns him around and presses on his shoulders. "On your knees, Doctor," she says.
And as he gingerly lowers himself—bladder protesting violently the whole way, body on just the wrong side of disobeying him, she unzips her trousers and kicks them off. She's not wearing underwear, and the smell of her is intoxicating, the sight of her pink softness alluring and arousing and everything he'd want right now if he didn't want to just piss so fucking bad.
But this is what he has to do to get relief, so he tightens his hands on his thighs, crushing them together to try to hang on by the fingernails, and using just his mouth, he licks a stripe from the top of her slit to the bottom.
And then he risks removing one hand from his thigh and pushes a finger into her; she's so tight, and that makes other things besides his bladder throb, an echo to the way her body feels around his finger. With her muscles quivering around his finger, he settles his lips over her clit and goes to work. He laves butterfly touches over her clit with his tongue, circling it, sucking it into his mouth; River is grinding against his face and moaning. She's close, thank fuck, because so's he, but not to the same type of release, and if she doesn't come quick, he's going to lose the battle she's waging against him. The battle he's waging with his own body.
River's hands are in his hair, pulling at the thick strands, and her aroma is filling his nostrils like an aphrodisiac. He taps his tongue against her clit, varying the pressure of his licks with the way her body twists and arches against his face. The lower half of his face, the chin that everyone mocks, is soaked with her fluids and it's the sexiest damn thing. Or it would be if he still wasn't about ninety-per cent focused on his need to pee.
Just when he thinks he's going to lose the war, River clamps down on his finger and screams, her fingers yanking at his hair as she comes. Her muscles clench and release around him and her clit throbs in his mouth until, at last, she goes limp and pulls away, letting go her deathgrip on his hair.
The Doctor jerks away and surges to his feet. "Now, River," he says urgently. "Please."
"Yes," she says, and spreads her legs wider. "Yes."
The Doctor reaches for his cock, softening now as he forces himself to relax, but River bats his hand out of the way and holds him gently. She directs his cockhead at her lower body and nods, a sublime smile on her face, and the Doctor, with a heartfelt sigh of relief, is finally allowed to let go.
And go he does. It's a torrent, fast like the current of a river, and powerful, like a firehose. River moans and her legs wobble underneath her as he soaks her sex and his legs and the floor.
And it goes on and on and on, and the Doctor feels like he's never pissed before in his life, he has to go so much. It's a damn miracle he held on; he's not sure he could ever do this again, though he suspects River's secretly hoping to get him to.
After what feels like hours of pissing, of literally feeling his bladder deflate like a football with the air taken out of it, it slows to a mere trickle. It stops. River and the Doctor breathe out at the same time and fall agonist each other, holding each other up. The room smells astringent, of ammonia and sex, and now—
River grasps his cock, wrapping her fingers around it, tight, and tugs fervently until the Doctor's cock swells against her fist—about to come—he's reaching for that pinnacle, so ready, and River slides her fist down and squeezes the base of his shaft. Orgasm recedes and the Doctor grunts in protest.
"Sorry, my love, not yet," she says, and it sounds apologetic, but the Doctor knows she isn't, that that's just for his benefit. And after the extreme relief of pissing, his body knows what it wants: it wants the other release.
And River won't give it to him. He groans and surges against her, trying to loosen her grip; in reply, River pulls her hand off him completely. The loss of sensation almost hurts, and his own hand is sliding down his belly without conscious instruction from his brain—and River grabs it and yanks it away.
"Oh, no you don't," she admonishes him. "It's my hand or nothing. If you disobey, I'm not going to let you come until the next time I see you."
The Doctor wonders, at the back of his brain, whether her diary says if she lets him come this time or not.
"River, come on," he pleads, but she just smiles a crooked smile at him and winks.
"How long you can hold out, darling?" she ask, and he bites down on his lower lip. It feels like his whole lower body is on fire with desire.
"N-not long," he stammers, and she reaches down between them again and caresses him lightly. It's almost enough to trigger his orgasm, because he's that close; River can feel the way his body responds and she knows all too well how to play him like an instrument. She tightens a fist at the base of his cock again, staving off orgasm for the second time.
"Oh, River," he says on a sigh. "Please let me come."
"You beg so prettily," she says. "But no, not yet."
"River!"
She grins mischievously. "Five more minutes."
Oh God, not again. He picked up that human phrase even though gods, to him, are multitudes.
For the next five minutes, she alternates stroking him almost to the breaking point, till he's teetering on the edge, and squeezing him until the edge recedes and he can no longer see over to the pleasure he's so intensely reaching for. If he could just go over, feeling the pulse, the throb, the—
"Okay," she says, and lets go of the base of his shaft. "You can come now, sweetie."
The Doctor, overwhelmed by sensation, by the delay, simply loses it: he spurts all over his belly, her shirt; it's a lucky thing River keeps clothes in the TARDIS wardrobe, because she can't go back to Stormcage like that. It's a splattering mess, added to his most recent mess, and the Doctor would worry about cleaning it up, but his brain has been emptied of every thought, much like his bladder has been emptied all over the floor and his balls have been emptied all over their stomachs.
All at once everything is too much, too sensitive, and the Doctor hisses in a breath of what's almost pain and pulls away from her.
A tiny chime rings in his ears. "Oh," River says. "I think they finally noticed I'm missing. Time for a quick shower, I think."
The Doctor cannot currently bear to be touched by anything, he's that oversensitive, but he waves her limply towards the shower. There is piss running down her legs in rivulets—piss that he put there, and there's a strange, almost-human feeling of claiming her. As if he's marked her as his forever.
But that's nonsense, of course; he marked her as his when he married her. After all, who else was he going to marry but her?
He closes his eyes and sags against the wall, drenched from belly to toes, leg hairs plastered to his skin with piss, and just breathes until at last his hearts cease their galloping pace. He hears the shower turn off, then a few minutes later hot lips are on his own.
"Until next time, my love."
Okay, she's definitely got a point. These power plays can also be like the sweetest and tenderest of kisses, and the Doctor can't wait to see her again.
END.