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This story contains: A transgender man (post-operative chest and pre-operative genitalia), male-to-male sexual relations, and nontechnical language for FtM sex organs. What may be referred to as the “clitoris” will be called a dick, cock, etc., due to the preference for linguistically masculinizing his external sex organ.
*****
Two older roommates were less than comfortably middle-class bachelors, meaning they were stuck pooling rent together in a two-bedroom one-bathroom apartment. Nothing was as bad as it may have seemed, albeit the occasional shared toilet dilemma that caused problems on days their schedules lined up. This was amplified by one of the men’s constant need for the restroom, breaching nigh clinical concern if it were not for the excuse of his caffeine addiction.
Peter, the older and more often desperate of the two, was an active agent in his own sabotage. He knew how badly he would have to piss after two coffees and an entire work shift, so he would test his limits with the thrill of that catastrophic risk looming ahead of one potential misstep. The greatest relief was letting go of a full bladder at the end of the day, feeling it deflate as urine is forced out of him. Nothing excited him more; being single had its perks, as nobody would have to vet his depravity before rendering him [un]worthy of sexual attention. Torturing his own bladder was easy enough without someone else’s hesitance shackling his warped desires, and settling down with someone else was not high on his list of concerns. Having his private play interrupted by uncontrollable forces, however, was always a concern that stayed at the forefront of his mind.
Being the deviant he was, Peter found his roommate Amar to be obstructive to his fun. His scourge was younger at the age of thirty-eight, keeping his prettiness about him despite nearing his forties. With a cloud of thick, curly black hair, deep brown skin, long and slender limbs to match a narrow and hairless face, and a nose somewhat more prominent than Peter’s own, Amar surprised Peter with his persistent evasion of any man or woman he could possibly dream of; perhaps there was some cynicism in old age he had not caught yet, or perhaps there was some other reason he was unaware of. Looks could not excuse the grief Peter experienced under their shared roof.
Sometimes, Amar would come knocking at the most inopportune times, forcing Peter to shut off his vibrator whenever he so much as hallucinated the sound of footsteps on wood floor—a paranoid conditioning over which Peter was left bitter. It was worse when Amar felt the need to linger by his bedroom door, asking him questions that felt useless and utterly inane, when he was too consumed by lust to care, stubbornly giving his dick slow rubs as Amar continued to pester him. The idea of being forced to shift his focus in the moment was frustrating, and that agitation coupled with his determination to keep masturbating on a full bladder had introduced a newly conditioned response; Peter never came harder than when Amar leaned on the other side of his door.
It was midday during the part of their week that synchronized their lack of better plans and no work, so Amar suggested they hang out for lunch. As much as Amar simultaneously annoyed and excited him, Peter was otherwise thankful for Amar cutting through the ennui of an under stimulating day and inviting him along. His roommate was his friend first, rent-contributor second, so there was no incentive to reject him when he was still limp. A miracle that was, for Peter was easy to arouse; he owns more pairs of underwear than any average man would know what to do with, a necessity for someone capable of getting wet enough to swim in his briefs. To get himself ready for the fun he knew he would want to have later, Peter pounded a tall glass of water during the time it took to get himself primped and ready for the outside world.
He trimmed his full salt-and-pepper beard to cleanly accentuate his strong jaw, showered—to the early pangs of his filling bladder—and combed the damp tuft of short hair on his head, receding at the temples and buzzed shorter the closer it was to the back of his neck. One can only expect to thin out and gray after forty-seven years, the usual fare for the aging man that he was at peace with. If there was any symbol of defiance to his imminent balding, it was all over his body in the form of thick hair on his arms, chest, stomach, and legs; that body of his was a self-contradicting product of routine sculpting and aging as well, in the form of a sizable gut weighing down heavily built muscles. Predictably even more dense was the coiling, coarse hair around his escort etiler cock, almost concealing in its entirety at its flaccid state.
Looking at himself in the mirror—clean and toweled off—Peter ignored his better judgment and pulled his pubes and skin up to fully expose his dick, compelled to get a good look at his prized possession before being forced to feign innocence in front of another man. It was a soft inch and a half, thickened considerably by over a decade of hormone replacement therapy and surrounded by darkened plump folds. Peeling back the hood, Peter inspected it before reluctantly letting go. The sight of his own cock was enticing enough, made obvious by a twitch of blood rushing into it just as he looked away. Restraining himself was difficult. He put a tightly fitted white tee shirt and black jeans on over white briefs, tying the laces of his tan work boots just as Amar came knocking.
“Are you done getting pretty in there?”
“I’m ready,” Peter replied, pushing himself up with a quiet grunt. He twisted his back to earn a few satisfying cracks before opening the door. “You look like you’re trying to get me to fuck for my grade, professor.”
“Sorry, is the jacket turning you off?” Amar snorted just as dryly, shouldering off his blazer to go hang it up again. Underneath was a simple geometrically patterned buttoned shirt in warm colors, which could also be ambiguously referred to by the fashion industry as tribal. Neither of the men could ever hope to guess what fantastically vague tribe this design was supposedly based on, but it was flashy enough in Peter’s eyes to be a worthwhile signature for his roommate. Skinny jeans always went with those visually challenging tops of his—something to appreciate in how they emphasize Amar’s round ass—and instead of boots, he was wearing strapped leather sandals. After hanging his blazer up, Amar rolled his sleeves up above the elbows, showing more of his thin arms and drawing attention to his vein-tracked, almost bony hands and long fingers. He dropped the sarcastic act and cheered, “Let’s go! There’s this new coffee shop I’ve been needing an excuse to try.”
“Roping me into enabling you?” Peter tutted wryly, “Fuck me for assuming this had anything to do with bonding.” Amar always talked about kicking his own caffeine obsession, but he always came running back to overly sweetened medium roasts with cream.
“You can multitask, I believe in you!” With that, Amar snatched his keys and wallet off the table, leading the way out the door.
It would have been a shorter drive without the traffic, but even then, it only took about ten minutes. During that time, they listened to a jazz station on the radio under all their catching up—whoever is having their midlife crisis this week, which little sister is having babies, how terribly work had been going, and so on. Moments like these to get updated on Amar’s life were good distractions from Peter’s own stress, almost as therapeutic as unloading his own grievances when it came to his turn. Unfortunately for him, Peter was starting to become too distracted by something beyond the trivialities of drama between acquaintances and depressing baby showers; his bladder had been neglected. It was entirely on purpose as usual, meaning Peter could not be any more confident than he already was. Still, it also meant that his engagement with Amar would be strained at best. All he could do was focus on worsening his situation for his future benefit in the bedroom.
When they arrived at the coffeehouse, it resonated with a sleek hipster vibe that is most revered by people that live in a very specific social bracket of carefully calculated pompousness. Peter found it swanky enough, down to the music, but he and Amar were alone among a sea of more freely scheduled college students. It was to be expected. Nothing to scoff at, surely, as the young people behaved themselves, keeping to revising their essay drafts and stressing silently over studying formulas that Peter had never seen in his life. Conscious of his predicament, Peter offered to grab a booth in the far corner after asking Amar to grab him a mochaccino and a large iced water.
He sat down, closest to the corner of two walls, and waited impatiently until his friend returned with drinks. “You know, it slipped my mind you’d be carting more drinks than two hands can hold.”
“Is that your way of apologizing?” Amar asked, amused, setting down the four-cup tray. “It’s fine. What was I saying earlier?” As soon as Peter offered up a suggestion, Amar was running that mouth again.
Conversation went on as it did in the car, aside from their escort taksim more hushed tones out of respect for the atmosphere. Amar was waiting to hear back on an interview, dying to replace his current job, and he was enthusiastic enough for the both of them about how well he thought he did. Peter believed him; he was charismatic, out-going, and terribly convincing in all manners of professing skill, whether he really had them or not. Gaming the system for so long, hopping from job to job in different fields, Amar had to have nailed it down to an exact science at this point. That alone gave Peter confidence in this flighty man’s reliability with finances.
It was not long into their hang, however, before Peter felt his bladder filling to a degree that was impossible to ignore. The caffeine was hitting him hard, making the water he was adding to his system quick to add to his discomfort. He shifted his legs every few moments and pressed himself down in his seat, trying to discretely dam the waterworks while sipping his water. At some point, Amar tired of the water he fetched for himself and let Peter have it, presuming aloud that Peter must have been thirstier than he was. ‘You could put it that way,’ Peter thought with a masochistic air.
When Amar excused himself to use the restroom, Peter crossed one leg over the other and flexed his thighs, squeezing tightly around his erection; that movement alerted him to the wetness collecting in his underwear, despite not having let go yet. There was something undeniably good about orchestrating his own desperation with an unwitting friend right in front of him, something that was coming dangerously close to infringing on his don’t-need-anybody-else doctrine.
He was loving it.
Anguishing over at least forty-eight ounces of water in his system at this point—not including the diuretic bomb of a hot drink he had over it all—it was only a matter of time before Peter was beyond capacity. He caught Amar leaving the restroom, proposing, “Let’s head out.”
“Alright,” Amar concurred, picking up his trash. “What do you want to do next? I’m itching for a walk.”
“Why don’t we drive home and walk around the block? A bit congested out here,” Peter suggested, noting the lunch break rush that every white-collar cog in the area was contributing to. It was nothing compared to rush hour on the streets, but corporate offices lined that part of the neighborhood and meant a distasteful amount of foot traffic for someone with a steadily filling bladder.
“Sounds good. Man, that place was nice. I’d come here more often, if it weren’t so expensive…” Amar kept talking as they left.
The ride home was torturous. Random chance rendered it some insignificant time over the original ten minutes in length, the kind of difference that meant the world to a bladder about to burst. Instead of chatting, Peter turned the radio up to a point that signaled for Amar to leave him alone. He hoped it looked as if he was just being deeply contemplative while staring out the window, but he also more daringly wished Amar could tell what all his fidgeting was for. Fanning his thighs every few moments, clenching his pelvic floor muscles, and loosening his seat belt—all he could do to prevent a premature wetting in his friend’s car. Amar occasionally glanced at Peter without comment, paying more attention to the road than to Peter’s debauched shenanigans. Whether he was aware of it or not was beyond Peter; all critical thought was beyond him as he focused on trying not to piss himself.
Once they were parked, they got out of the car for what Amar said would be a quick walk outside. Distress perverted the notion of a quick anything for Peter to an exasperating degree; time seemed so agonizingly slow. He walked fast with his hands in his pockets, his fingernails digging slightly against the thin cloth between them and his outer thighs. To make it easier to hold, Peter walked with less of a wide gait, keeping his legs closer together to crush his dick. It was just barely making a difference, not to mention making him harder and nearly panicking him with the fresh flow of cum slicking his underwear again. For a moment, he was terrified that he had pissed himself, but he realized it was not urine and was only more thrilled to be ruining his briefs near unsuspecting Amar.
During the walk, Amar tried to engage him in small talk, but Peter’s responses were lacking while Amar was carrying the conversation the entire time. He seemed to take a hint and stop, looking around silently at the autumn leaves hanging over fences and scattered on the sidewalk. Once they had gone as far as escort pendik he cared to and turned back, Amar asserted, “When we get back, I really need the bathroom.”
“Again?” Peter inwardly winced at how incredulous he must have sounded.
“Goes right through me, the caffeine, ” Amar chuckled. “Don’t act so concerned for me.”
Peter insisted tersely, “I’m not,” and slowed down a bit so Amar could not watch his struggle on their way back.
Inside the apartment, Amar made good on his claim and took the bathroom. Peter did not expect as much, having planned to lock it down for his own relief and pleasure. His hands clamped down on the front of his jeans, bringing more friction to his aching dick and fighting off the demands of his swollen bladder. There was only so much more he could take in this state, crossing his legs together and bending his body with each warning throb for an impending emergency. When Amar took the toilet, Peter made a point to camp by the door; he heard a pathetic trickle of a piss, a flush, and water running, but nothing that warranted staying much longer. It was hard to tolerate what he immediately perceived as some sort of sick game, so Peter knocked on the door.
“What?” Amar asked.
“Are you done yet?” The jig was up, and it was pointless to conceal his desperation. “I need to piss.”
“Hold on.”
“Hold on what? I can’t wait for you to quit fucking tugging off in there,” he protested, leaning with one palm on the wall and the other holding. Not that he could hold much longer, but he would still try.
“I’m not tugging off! Arguing isn’t getting us anywhere.”
No chance to be infuriated was afforded to him as a small spurt forced itself out into his pants, displacing his irritation with visceral panic. The bedrooms were both at opposite sides of the bathroom door, the only door open then being the one to Amar’s bedroom; the ease of immediate access led his panic to take him there, twisting and squeezing his muscles in every which way he possibly could to try and hold it all in. Even his almost painful erection stood no chance of preventing the inevitable, no matter how furiously he rubbed and held his clothed crotch with the vaguest of excuses that it certainly was not masturbatory at all. A second spurt was all he needed to shift gears into the most warped form of damage control possible in this situation…
Peter found his vengeful nerve.
Without time to spare, he hastily unbuttoned and shoved his jeans down with his briefs, hurrying up to the edge of Amar’s unmade bed and pulling the glistening wet folds of his cunt up and apart. He unleashed a torrent of piss on the sheets, groaning loudly with sweet relief as the heavy stream gushed out in an arc to soak the mattress. His cock, a fat three inches hard, throbbed intensely with the high from wetting his friend’s bed on purpose, pissing all over it like his personal toilet and knowing, distantly, that Amar will be smelling it later. Holding his stream for a few seconds, Peter staggered to turn himself around on trembling legs and plant his ass on the large wet spot, letting go again to pee with his dripping cunt and pulsating cock nestled against the soft, drenched sheets. He hummed at the heavenly sensation. It was an ecstasy like nothing else to piss where he sat on a soft surface, gyrating his hips to grind his dick against the bed.
Feeling another opportunity to hold and switch positions, Peter pushed himself up and paused his stream with a twinge of pain, before unloading more on the bedroom floor by the bed frame. Turning slowly, he covered a broader part of the floor from the bed to the office chair, marking it all with the heavy scent of his urine as the smell of hot sweat and cum tainted the cool air. As his stream waned, trickling into his bunched-up jeans and underwear around his knees, Peter’s hand flew furiously over his cock, smearing piss and cum with rapid side-to-side motions. He huffed with heavy pants and guttural moans, not thinking about the possible consequences any more. Anxiety over being caught and the erotic buzz from retaliating against his friend morphed into pure adrenaline, driving his lust over the edge into wave after crashing wave of the fiercest orgasm he has had in months.
Bucking his hips with each jolt of the nerves, Peter kept stroking his cock with great speed, gritting his teeth and expelling the last big squirts of his piss between his legs and onto the floor. Cum drooled from his cunt as he slowed down, a thick string of it swinging from the motion onto his thigh and sticking there, the rest pooling in his underwear. With the last feverish urge he had in him, Peter yanked the sodden top sheet off the bed and wiped his cunt with it—drying it of the piss, sweat, and cum—before tossing it back onto the bed. Pulling his wet pants back up, Peter walked uncomfortably around the mess and slunk back to his bedroom, not wanting to confront what he just did.
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32