He sits and watches as she squirms on the floor. He can tell that she is nearing release, that moment when the pressure building insider her is too much to fight any longer and her body reverts to its basic functions. It has been 6 hours since he bound her hands and feet and tied her to the metal loop in the wall. She has 12 feet of rope and can move about almost freely. The room is kept dim, only the few candles on the wall brackets providing just enough illumination to see by. She can't see anything for the blind fold he makes her wear. 6 long hours she has been kept there and all the while he sits, unmoving, just watching from the leather chair in the corner.
He can tell she is nearing release. The way her legs tremble, the rippling of the muscles tensing in her stomach. 6 hours ago she had her first drink of the evening. A large, cool glass of rose wine, not as cold as to bite but just right to quench her thirst. Then every hour on the hour another, brought by the other woman, she wears deep red leather corset and thong. Fishnets wrap her legs and she brings the wine on a silver tray. Gently she places the glass to her lips and she drinks. She is not thirsty but she drinks all the same because she is told to.
Hour 6 passes by, 7 glasses of wine have passed her lips. They are not full like those of the other woman but delicate, almost too fragile to speak, to kiss. She is beginning to lose control. Her legs shake more violently now. She is kneeling, pressing her feet between her legs to try and stop it but her body is taking control. A whimper, the first sign she has lost the battle for control. Then a hiss. The seal is broken, her body has won. She jumps to her feet, a skilful maneuver when your feet are bound together, but a one she is well practiced at doing.
He can see it now. The dark stain that mars the tight blue jeans she wears. He watches as all control is lost and she gives in to the sensation of release. The stain grows, spreading down her left leg. He wonders at that, the way it spreads unevenly like the great asymmetry of the universe. Bigger and bigger the stain becomes. She can feel the warmth spreading with it. The wet material embracing her vulva and spreading down her thighs. She feels shame and pleasure. Disgust and excitement.
She has done this many times before for his enjoyment. At first she only felt shame, shame at pissing herself. Grown women do not piss themselves, especially not for the pleasure of some pervert. But the more he made her do it, the more she came to like it, to be aroused by it. The way the material of her panties absorbs the first few spurts keeping her accident hidden, then the comforting warmth of her pee as it pours out of her and feeling of ultimate release after so long. Holding it until she can no longer physically contain it only makes it better.
