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They’ve been dating for five days. Five glorious days.
On the second day, when they finally built up the nerve to leave Baran’s bed and head to work, Baran marched them both up to HR and registered their relationship. Just like that. No warning or anything, just a warm hand on Samira’s back, guiding her up to the third floor to sign the forms.
If this were anyone else, if it weren’t Baran, Samira might feel another kind of way about that move, but this is Baran. And, she’s realizing, she might be hopelessly in love with Baran Al-Hashimi, quirks and all.
They’ve kept it pretty quiet at work so far, aside from the paperwork with HR. So quiet that only Dana has said anything to them, just a quick little ‘good for you two’ and a fond smile while passing them in the hall.
Samira wouldn’t be surprised if nobody else has noticed. They’re professional. They have to be, both women of color in their positions. They have to keep themselves in check or someone else will do it for them. Professional, which means no touching, no flirting, no heavy looks over the nurses’ station.
That’s why she doesn’t think anything of it when Baran hands her a reusable water bottle at the start of their shared shift. Her girlfriend (girlfriend!!) wants her to stay hydrated throughout the day. She’s caring like that.
But when Samira drinks all the water in that bottle, Baran snatches it from the desk she’s charting at and disappears into the breakroom.
Samira tenses.
A minute later, Baran emerges with a clearly refilled bottle. Sets it at Samira’s elbow like it’s nothing. Like she hasn’t lit a fire in Samira’s belly with just one simple move.
After that first night (cough, after Samira pissed herself in Baran’s arms with Baran cooing gentle words into her ear and telling her she’s such a good girl for mama), they hadn’t had time to play more into that particular kink, one they clearly shared. They were busy with relationship conversations and cuddling on Baran’s ridiculously comfy couch. Maybe an orgasm or two shared between talks of how they’d deal with Baran’s son coming back from his dad’s place in a couple of weeks.
There was some kink discussion, don’t get her wrong, just none about this.
This being the look Baran shoots her when she drains her second bottle of water. The sway of her hips as she saunters over to fetch Samira’s bottle, the smirk on her face as she heads back to the breakroom to refill it, the clench in Samira’s gut as she realizes what’s happening.
Every time she empties the water bottle—the one Baran gave her this morning, clearly with this in mind—Baran refills it and returns it to her without a single word of explanation.
Around the third bottle of water, the second refill, Samira starts to squirm. Pressure builds in her abdomen. Her clit twitches every time her abdomen tenses, every time she stands up or sits down.
She shifts from foot to foot, biting her lip when she can get away with it to keep from whimpering. She feels like she’s going to explode by the midway point of her shift. Four bottles. Three refills. All with Baran’s intent eyes on her, scalding her as she squirms.
She does her job. She’s good at her job, even with her bladder getting heavier and heavier. She sutures, diagnoses, tends to wounds, prescribes medicine. She is a good doctor. A good doctor that presses her thighs together when Baran refills her water bottle for the fourth time today.
She holds out for as long as she can. Avoids the bathroom altogether, even halls that have her walking by the bathrooms.
Baran is not helping. She makes a few remarks in passing, things that nobody would think are inappropriate without insider knowledge only the two of them share. ‘Remember to hydrate, Dr. Mohan.’ ‘Feeling okay, Samira?’ ‘Have you taken a break today, Mohan? Why don’t you head to the bathroom and splash some water on your face before your next patient.’
That last one makes Samira shudder.
She gives in around hour seven. Can’t hold it anymore, not without making it obvious to everyone else she’s struggling. Only Baran gets to know that, gets to see her like that. Desperate.
Well, she’s desperate now. And she needs to find Baran before she caves and heads to the bathroom, because Baran started this game and she’s damn sure gonna finish it if Samira has anything to say about it.
Baran is waiting for her in the breakroom. It’s empty, thank everything. Nobody needs to see the pathetic display Samira’s about to give her mommy.
Because that’s who greets her when she pushes into the breakroom, her mommy. The woman who fucked her so gently she almost blacked out. The woman who moaned when Samira called her mama. The woman who held her and didn’t flinch when she let go last time, standing in that bathtub on their first night together.
“Hey, baby,” mommy coos, and Samira fucking melts.
She shuffles into Baran’s arms instantly, her eyes going hooded and her head fuzzy. She tucks her head into the curve of Baran’s neck and whines.
“It hurts, mama.” Only slightly an exaggeration. Her thighs press together roughly, the pressure in her abdomen steadily growing. “Need to go.”
The noise Baran makes almost breaks Samira’s control, this low, rough grunt. Her bladder pulses. Very aware of where they are, despite her lapse in appearances, Samira pulls away from mommy slowly, pouting like she’s been seriously wronged.
“You need to go potty, sweet girl?” A hand comes up to cup Samira’s face. Baran watches her with big brown eyes she can’t resist.
“Yeah,” she huffs, trying with all her might to keep from throwing herself back into mommy’s arms.
“Then follow me.”
They don’t go to any of the nearby bathrooms. No, instead Baran leads Samira by sheer presence towards the elevator, then up and to the abandoned floor that’s pretty much an open secret in the hospital.
It’s empty, but its bathrooms are still functional. That’s a blessing today.
Baran pulls her into a stall, locking it behind her even though they’re not likely to be walked in on. Heat builds in Samira’s stomach. Her skin crawls. She knows the logical next steps: pull her pants down, sit on the toilet, look up at Baran as she finally lets that knot in her belly loosen.
But Baran moves before she can.
Baran is the one who pulls her pants and underwear down to her ankles. Baran is the one who lowers herself gently onto the toilet seat. Baran is the one who looks up at Samira with big brown eyes, a smile ticking up the corners of her mouth.
Samira’s eyes duck down to linger on the patch of wiry hair between Baran’s thighs. It gleams with arousal. Fuck.
“Are you…” she trails off.
Baran’s eyes are dark. Her lashes flutter as the muscles of her neck constrict, her lips parting, and then Samira—feeling two steps removed from her body—watches as Baran lets go, as she exhales shakily, her shoulders slumping, a low moan escaping her throat, and fuck, fuck, fuck!
The sound… Samira’s stomach clenches, the pressure in her bladder intensifies, and her eyes drop automatically to the open space between Baran’s legs. There.
A clear stream of liquid gushing from Baran’s pretty, swollen labia, her urethra. Fuck, there’s so much of it, and Baran is panting now, her expression so fucking relieved that Samira forces her hand down her pants just to put some pressure on her clit, giving her something to grind against.
Baran looks so pretty as she pisses, as she lets go under Samira’s fawning gaze.
“Mommy,” Samira whimpers unconsciously, the plea slipping out of her lips before she can stop it. Her face flushes.
Pretty brown eyes blink open, and Baran’s mouth curls into a smug, lax smirk. That fucking sound is still going, and Samira’s eyes flick down to see Baran’s stream get thinner, slower.
A calloused palm finds hers, the hand that’s not pressed desperately against her crotch, and Samira blinks as she realizes that she’s holding Baran’s hand as she pisses.
Baran grunts, visibly clenches around nothing, and her stream fades into little spurts. Samira’s head goes completely fuzzy, not a proper thought in the vicinity. She can’t tear her eyes from Baran’s glistening pussy. Arousal and urine both coating her labia.
Samira barely resists the urge to drop to her knees and do something reckless. Instead, she squeezes Baran’s hand, bucks into her own palm and grinds her clit against it as best she can in this position, her back pressed up against the stall door and her neck craned down to watch her girlfriend relieve herself.
“Mmm,” Baran groans. She licks her lips, peers up at Samira through hooded eyes. She sighs this relieved little sigh, and Samira almost loses the plot. “Feels better, baby. Was holding it all day.”
Of-fucking-course Baran planned this. More than just the water bottle too, more than teasing Samira. She had to drink just as much as Samira did throughout the day, refuse to go to the bathroom just like Samira did. Fuck, Baran must have thought about how this would go, who would go potty first.
Samira’s fingers flex against the back of Baran’s hand. Her other hand, the one between her legs, presses into her clit like it’s the only thing holding her together. And it is. Without the sharp spike of pleasure, she’s sure she’d have wet herself by now.
“Fuck,” she murmurs, breathless and whining. Her voice almost breaks in the middle of it.
Baran laughs. “Aw, baby. Are you desperate already? Can’t hold it anymore, little one?”
She clamps her thighs shut tight around her wrist and jerks her head in a hurried nod. Bites her lip, tries with all her might to keep the liquid inside her bladder where it belongs, but it’s getting so hard to resist, so hard to keep from just letting go.
“Mommy,” she says again, mindless, less of a plea and more of a statement.
Her panties are already soaked. It would be so easy to just let go and let mommy take care of the rest. But they’re still at work, even if they’re hiding away on the abandoned floor, and after this, after Samira uses the potty with her mommy watching—fuckfuckfuck—she’ll have to go right back to doing her job. Right back to being a normal person who doesn’t get off on watching her girlfriend piss.
Baran pulls her captive hand back, huffing a laugh when Samira pouts at the loss, and then she’s reaching for the toilet paper roll and pulling a line of squares off of it, looking up to meet Samira’s eyes with mischief in her own.
And Samira watches Baran wipe herself clean, take extra care on the wet folds of her dripping cunt, swipe delicately across her puffy clit, dab at the wetness that splashed onto her thighs.
Samira’s jaw drops. A pathetic whine escapes her open mouth.
The toilet flushes, Baran getting to her feet and pulling her pants and panties up in one smooth motion, and then she’s pressing a quick little kiss to Samira’s lips, pulling back before Samira can really lean into it, lick up her spit and taste her.
“Your turn, baby.”
She swallows. Her bladder pulses in time with the heartbeat in her clit.
With Baran’s hands on her waist, guiding her, she shuffles into place, tugging her pants and underwear down and tying her feet together. Her balance off, she drops onto the toilet and blinks, bewildered, up at a way-too-composed Baran.
The seat is warm. That’s what sticks in her head as her overtaxed mind processes the scene. The seat is warm because Baran had just been sitting on it, her thighs had been pressed to the same porcelain.
Samira’s cunt clenches around nothing. Arousal slowly drips from her folds in a line of fluid that has her fighting not to press her thighs closed again, keep the sight from Baran in embarrassment.
“That’s it,” Baran coos, a sigh in her voice. She leans in, her knees knocking against Samira’s, and rests a warm hand on her shoulder. It’s grounding. “You can let go now, baby. You did so well holding it for mommy all day.”
Samira chews on her bottom lip. Can’t help it. Her abdominal muscles clench and loosen in waves. She flexes her fingers. Looks away from Baran’s intense gaze and tries to follow mommy’s directions.
But, even as the pressure in her bladder builds, nothing happens. Her muscles don’t relax that last inch. The dam doesn’t break. She’s stuck on the edge of that precipice, so close to letting go that she can practically taste the relief but caught on a snag that keeps her dangling precariously.
She whimpers. Looks up through her lashes to see Baran’s face soften, go warm and maternal like chocolate chips right out of the oven.
“Are you having trouble, baby?” The hand on her shoulder squeezes then moves to skim up the soft skin of her neck. Baran leans in even more, presses a kiss to Samira’s forehead, whispers into her skin, “Your little bladder can’t let go with mommy watching, hmm, baby? Is it shy?”
A shiver wracks through her body.
M’hm, she hums, blinking hazily through the sudden rush of brain fog that Baran's particular tone fills her head with. She wants more than anything to go, to piss, but her skin prickles under Baran’s watchful eyes, and her muscles start to tense the longer this goes on.
She just can’t go. Her bladder pulses, she works her pelvic muscles, but she gets no relief. Grunting frustratedly, she clenches her cunt around nothing and tries to force something out, but her body just won’t let go.
Tears build behind her eyes, a whine in her throat, and she looks up at Baran with big, wet eyes, murmurs softly in a voice that cracks, “Mama, help.”
And Baran’s eyes go fully dark. She licks her lips, uncaring of the tension building in Samira’s frame, and in a messy move tugs her bottoms all the way off, leaving them to puddle at the floor near the stall door.
Bare from the waist down, Baran settles astride Samira’s lap in a straddle, her warm thighs pressing against the tops of hers. She leaves enough space that they can both peer down and see what they’ve been building towards, just enough that Mira can see her clit twitch with the new contact.
“Fuck,” she breathes. “Mama.”
Baran’s feet are hovering off the floor with the way she’s positioned herself, so all her weight rests on Samira’s legs. She leans back onto her butt and puts pressure against Samira’s knees, looks down at her like a queen perched on a throne. The wiry hair between her legs brushes the inside of Samira’s thighs.
For balance, Baran brings her hands up to rest firmly on Samira’s shoulders. A hand wraps around the back of her neck like a collar, scruffing her. Baran’s fingers dig in loosely.
Samira whimpers.
“It’s okay,” Baran soothes. She leans in closer, presses a kiss to Mira’s cheek. “You can do it for me, little one. Do it for mama.”
Grunting, squirming beneath the heavy weight of her mommy, she tries, she really does. She relaxes best she can, untenses her abdominal muscles, takes a big breath in and prepares to push out on the exhale.
“Let go for me, baby,” Baran says practically into her mouth, and then they’re both looking down as the dam breaks, as the pressure in Samira’s bladder finally, finally, loosens.
Liquid rushes out of her in a loud, noisy stream that has her skin flushing with embarrassment. The sound that comes out of her throat makes her want to die, honestly, this absolutely vulgar groan of relief that sounds more like a moan than anything else. It’s debauched. Shameless.
“Fuck,” Baran huffs a disbelieving laugh. Her pupils are blown wide as she looks down, takes in the gush of piss still coming from Samira’s body. “You really had to go, baby. That’s a lot of liquid for such a little girl.”
Samira whimpers, melts, sinks into mommy’s tone in a way she probably shouldn’t while still in the building where she works. Her tummy warms. Her pussy clenches, and her stream fades for a second as her body fights between arousal and relieving itself, but then Baran is gently squeezing the back of her neck and her stream picks right back up, emptying her bladder with a force that embarrasses her.
“That’s it,” Baran soothes.
A strain to her voice as she pisses, Samira murmurs, low and wrecked, “Mommy.”
The hand on her shoulder migrates down to press soothingly against Mira’s tummy. Even through the thin fabric of her scrub top, Samira can feel the warmth of her, and she whimpers, presses into it by arching her back slightly.
Baran chuckles. “That’s it, pretty girl. Being such a good girl for mommy, aren’t you?”
Slowly, Samira’s bladder empties, and her abdominal muscles clench around nothing. A few last drops dribble out of her with the action. Her cheeks are warm, her belly feeling empty in a weird way, and her clit fucking throbs.
“Mommy,” she murmurs again. Absently. Her mind not quite there.
“Atta girl, Mira. Did so well for me, so well for mama. Just breathe, baby.”
She breathes. When did her eyes close?
Blinking and clearing her throat, she tentatively meets Baran’s big brown eyes. The care she finds there is overwhelming. Mama, she thinks automatically. That’s her mommy.
Her thoughts are hazy. Too hazy. Baran must see that, because her features soften, a little furrow in her brow appearing to show her concern, and then she’s sliding off of Samira’s lap to kneel on the cold tile floor between Mira’s knees.
She blinks down at her, uncomprehending.
“Mama’s gonna clean you up, baby girl.”
The way she says it, almost like… Flashes flick through Samira’s mind, images and sensations of Baran’s skilled tongue against her cunt, cleaning her up properly. But that’s wrong. Unsanitary. Now is not the time for that, if the way Baran reaches for the roll of toilet paper tells her anything.
No, Baran doesn’t use her tongue, doesn’t lick up the glistening wetness between Mira’s thighs. Instead, she carefully folds the paper and dabs lightly at the wet skin of Samira’s thighs. She’s careful too, stroking gently when she gets to Mira’s sensitive labia, her swollen clit. The tip of Baran’s finger nudges the hood of her clit, and she whimpers.
“Breathe, baby,” Baran soothes.
Breathe. Samira does as told.
She uses the sensation of toilet paper against her skin as a grounding tool, and slowly, slowly, she pulls herself back into her body in a way that will allow her to go back to work after this. Not little anymore, not small. Just a bit vulnerable from the comedown of such an intense encounter.
She blinks. Inhales more smoothly than before and lets the breath out in an exhale that ruffles Baran’s curls.
Brown eyes meet brown eyes. Baran’s lips curl up into a gentle smirk.
“Feeling bigger, baby?”
She is feeling bigger, but that is not helping. Samira faux-scowls down at her, but her heart isn’t in it. She nods instead, flexes her fingers against her bare thighs to haul the last bit of her drifting mind back into her bones.
She hadn’t even cum, just pissed after a long day of drinking water and refusing to let it go, but she feels like she did. The comedown feels the same. All sleepy and hazy, her muscles almost sore from the strain, the tension of a body building up to its release.
Grunting with exertion, Baran hauls herself to her feet and pulls on her clothes again. Her knees click, which is adorable. Honestly, Samira’s do the same when she musters up the energy to stand with the help of Baran’s steady hands.
Baran helps her pull her panties back up her thighs, nestles them up against her cunt in a way that feels more teasing than helpful—they both ignore the wet spot at the front of Mira’s underwear—then she’s doing the same with her scrub pants.
They’re both almost back to their normal selves. Baran’s eyes are still hooded, her gaze reverent as she looks at Samira in the fluorescent lighting, and her hair is a little wild even though Samira hasn’t touched it. Looking at her boss, her mommy, like this, Samira can’t help but laugh.
“Did we really just do that?” she asks. She kind of can’t believe they just did that in an empty hospital bathroom.
“And we were being so professional too,” Baran agrees with a forlorn hum. Her eyes sparkle with humor. Her lips tip up like she’s trying to keep from smiling. “Guess we’ll have to learn how to better restrain ourselves.”
Samira pouts. “Do we have to?”
It doesn’t take long to clean up after themselves. By the time Baran’s pager goes off, Santos calling for a consult, they’ve put themselves back enough to normal that no one should notice their little dalliance.
Baran pauses just outside the elevator on the abandoned floor.
“We should probably stagger our entrances. But don’t worry, baby, mama will take care of you properly tonight,” she promises, her breath hot on Samira’s neck, and then she’s disappearing into the elevator and winking before the doors close.
Samira lets out a long sigh. Yeah. That sounds good. She smiles.
Dana eyes her knowingly when she finally makes her way back down to the E.D., alone in the opening elevator exactly five minutes after Baran came down, and she can’t help but blush, duck her head. Dana knows everything.