Copyright (c) Naked Persimmon 2010-11. All Rights Reserved.
Home
Fanfiction
Fan Art
Gallery
Inspiration Station
Rugulator Room
Tumblr
Links
Contact Us
Feedback for the author...
DISCLAIMER: This site is in no way affiliated with the Monkees or personal relations thereof. All fan fiction and fan art is intended for entertainment purposes only and no defamation of character is intended whatsoever. To break it down one more time: It's all just for fun, folks.
"Housebroken"
Title: Housebroken
Author: Daytona Demon
Rating: NC-17
Genre: Slash
Pairing: Mike/Peter
Summary:
Peter needs to pee. Badly. He's not prepared for the circumstances under which Mike
will allow him to do so.
Warnings: Explicit sexual language and situations, humiliation,
piss play, domination/submission
Disclaimer: This story is about the characters, not
the guys who played them, no implication is meant about the men who played the characters,
I don't own the characters, and I get no profit from this (except a case of the jollies).
So there.
Peter sat at the dining table, annoyed and bored. He’d repeatedly screwed up during the band’s gig the previous night – off rhythm, off key, just an off night – and Mike was enforcing another one of his creative punishments to keep Peter in line.
Mike sat across the table from Peter, his face serene and almost masklike. He had ordered Peter to sit at the table, doing nothing, for two hours. Peter’s behavior during those two hours would dictate whether Mike would release him to do as he pleased, keep him in the chair, or choose a harsher punishment.
Peter sighed and shifted, growing uncomfortable. After two hours of sitting, he needed to pee. “Mike, I have to go to the bathroom,” he blurted out. Mike raised an eyebrow.
“Michael. I’m sorry. Michael,” Peter said, realizing he’d broken the rules of protocol, rules devised by Mike for this side of their relationship.
“Michael, I need to go to the bathroom.”
“That’s nice,” Mike said, sounding as bored as he suddenly looked. “Thanks for sharing.”
Peter realized he’d broken yet another rule of protocol. “Michael, may I please go to the bathroom?” he asked.
“No, you may not,” Mike said, standing up and taking off his suit jacket. When he and Peter assumed these roles, Mike always wore a suit and tie; it was one of his ways of establishing to Peter exactly who was the boss.
Mike went to the kitchen and filled a drinking glass with water. “You broke two rules,” he said. “You didn’t address me by my full first name. Furthermore, you made a demand, rather than asking for permission. So, no, Peter, you may not go to the bathroom, and you’ll drink this glass of water, too.”
Peter sat still and obedient as Mike walked over to him, carrying the glass. Mike raised the glass to Peter’s lips, making him drink quickly. Mike pulled the empty glass away, leaving a trickle of water running from the corner of Peter’s mouth. “Don’t wipe your mouth,” Mike said. “Just sit there and be messy and think about doing better next time.”
Mike took his seat across from Peter, resting his head in one hand. Peter looked down at the table, angry and embarrassed and not daring to look Mike in the eyes.
Minutes passed. Mike sat utterly still, watching Peter the entire time. Peter fidgeted, the need to urinate growing more urgent. He made himself look at Mike.
“Michael? Please…sir…may I use the bathroom?”
“That’s better,” Mike said. “But, no. You may not use the bathroom. If you ask me again, I just might make you drink another glass of water. You’ll wait fifteen more minutes, and when I say so, then you can use the bathroom.”
“Thank you, sir,” Peter said, trying not to sound irritated and desperate.
“Oh, you’re so welcome,” Mike responded, smiling the slight, sarcastic smile that made even peaceful Peter want to punch him at times.
Peter shifted and fidgeted more in his chair, his bladder nagging for release. He put his head in his hands, clenched and unclenched his fists, and tried to think of anything other than how badly he needed to pee. He looked up at Mike, using his most pleading puppy-eyed expression, only to get Mike’s tilted head and amused smile in return.
The clock ticked. Seconds crawled into minutes, which oozed by so slowly that Peter was sure they could have been measured with a calendar. He fought the increasing urge to defy Mike, to tell him to go fuck himself and his stupid, petty, power-tripping games.
If Peter did that, the games would stop, but so would this special relationship he had with Mike, the roles they played fulfilling needs neither one of them could explain and forging a bond neither wanted to break.
Peter put his head in his hands. He looked up at the clock, biting his lip. One more minute. Counting…counting…
“All right, Peter,” Mike said. “You can go to the bathroom now.”
Peter stood up so fast, he nearly toppled his chair. He felt Mike’s hand on his back.
“I’ll walk with you,” Mike said. “You’ll keep my pace. If you move quickly enough to get ahead of me, to where my hand doesn’t touch your back any more? You’ll sit right back down in that chair and drink another glass of water, and it’ll be another 15 minutes. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Peter said, clenching his fists. The need to urinate had become so overwhelming that it was nearly painful for him to stand up straight and walk. He forced himself to match Mike’s leisurely stride, feeling a mixture of pride and anger when Mike smiled at him and stroked his back.
“You’re doing good,” Mike said, following Peter into the bathroom. “Now, stop right there.”
“WHAT?” Peter yelled. Mike clamped his hand down hard on Peter’s shoulder.
“Turn around,” Mike said, his voice harsh.
Peter turned around, his eyes wide and fearful. Mike saw how afraid Peter looked, and he relaxed his grip on Peter’s shoulder.
“We’ll let that one pass, this time,” Mike said. “Take off your moccasins and give me your belt.”
Peter complied, not wanting to think about what Mike had in mind, or about anything other than finally being allowed to use the toilet.
“Stand in the tub,” Mike said, placing Peter’s belt and moccasins on the floor.
Peter opened his mouth to protest, thought better of it, and climbed into the tub, flattening himself against the cool tile behind him. He awaited the next command, hoping he’d finally be allowed to do what he needed to do.
“Now you can go,” Mike said.
Peter turned to climb out of the tub and stand by the toilet, unbuttoning his pants. “Stop,” Mike ordered him. Peter looked at Mike, confused and upset.
“Get back into the tub,” Mike said. “Once you’re in there, you can go.”
“Here?” Peter asked, his voice cracking. He couldn’t believe he was being asked to pee in the tub.
“There,” Mike said. “Just like you are. With your pants on.”
Peter’s jaw dropped. “M-Michael, you can’t be serious. You want me to..wet myself?”
“Dead serious,” Mike said, leaning against the door and looking Peter up and down. “You said you had to go, so go. Right there. Right now.”
“But why?” Peter asked, his voice breaking.
Mike chuckled. “Why? Because it turns me on. That’s all the reason I need. It’s all the reason you need. Now piss your pants.”
Peter leaned on the tile, trying to relax enough to grant Mike his wish. He couldn’t. “Please, please just let me use the toilet. Please. Anything else you want. Just don’t make me do this. It hurts…I need to go.”
Mike saw Peter’s distress, and his expression softened. “I’ll help you,” he said, stepping into the tub and standing next to Peter.
Peter closed his eyes, feeling Mike’s lips brush lightly against his face, Mike’s hand on his chest, moving lower and lower. Despite the agony and embarrassment, Peter still felt painful arousal flare within him at Mike’s touch.
Mike rested his hand just above Peter’s crotch, pressing gently. “Come on, Peter,”
he whispered. “You’ll feel better once you do this.” Mike pressed harder, and Peter
turned his head away, his face hot with shame as he felt his bladder let go.
Mike stepped out of the tub and moved back to the doorway for a better view. He unzipped his pants and slid his hand inside, playing with his hard-on as he watched Peter piss all over himself, soaking his pants. The sound of the drops hitting the tub floor echoed in the bathroom.
Peter exhaled sharply, the embarrassment giving way to relief. He looked down at his wet pants and the warm puddle around his feet. He looked up and saw Mike stroking himself, took in Mike’s predatory stare and the way he ran his tongue over his lower lip, and felt himself growing hard in response.
“You made a big mess,” Mike said, stripping off his clothes. “Now we’ll have to hose you down.” He turned on the faucets, tested the water temperature, and adjusted the spray to hit Peter directly. Peter jumped at the sudden sting of hot water drenching him.
Mike stepped into the tub and began unbuttoning Peter’s shirt, then unfastening his pants. As Peter slipped out of his pants, Mike tossed the wet shirt onto the bathroom floor. Peter tossed his soaked pants on top of his shirt.
Peter saw that Mike’s cock had gone nearly limp and reached for him, surprised when his hand was brushed away. Mike moved close to Peter, shielding Peter from the shower spray, and breathed deeply and slowly, relaxing himself. Peter felt a warm stream trickling down his leg. He looked up at Mike, shocked to realize what was happening.
Mike grinned at him. “Yeah, I just pissed on you,” he said, his mischievous look finally producing a smile from Peter. “I think you liked that,” Mike said, wrapping his fingers around Peter’s stiffening cock. “Now you can put your hands on me and make me hard again.”
Peter wrapped his arms around Mike, grabbing Mike’s ass and pulling him close, pressing their bodies together. Mike licked Peter’s lips and forced his tongue inside, kissing Peter with nearly enough force to bruise him. Peter suddenly pushed Mike backward into the shower spray.
“You’re not the only one who likes the wet look,” Peter said, enjoying the sight of water drenching Mike’s hair and cascading over his lean body.
Mike pulled Peter toward him, the spray dousing them both as they groped each other, alternating kisses, bites, and moans. Mike came as he rubbed against Peter’s hip, growling and digging his fingernails into Peter’s shoulders.
The sudden pain brought Peter to the edge of orgasm. He clutched at Mike and heard a drawling whisper in his ear: “Did you like being my piss whore?” As Mike’s hand closed around his cock, Peter spurted his load, nearly losing his balance. He slumped down, his cries of ecstasy muffled against Mike’s chest.
Mike helped Peter stand up again, and they stood in the warm spray, still embracing each other.
“After what we just did, but we did it in the shower…I can’t figure out whether we’re dirty or clean,” Peter said. “Do we need a shower? We’re already taking one. But…”
Mike laughed and shook his head, tossing a bar of soap to Peter. “Don’t think, just wash,” he said. Peter washed himself and handed the soap back, taking in the view of Mike lathering himself up and rinsing himself off. “Voyeur,” Mike said, winking at Peter.
Just as Peter considered pouncing on Mike for a second round in the shower, the water turned cold. “Shit!” Mike yelled, turning off the spray. He handed Peter a towel, wrapping himself up in another towel. Peter picked up his wet clothing to throw into a nearby laundry hamper.
“Well, if you want another warm shower, I guess I could drink a couple more glasses of water,” Peter said.
Mike looked at Peter, a smile spreading slowly across his face. “In fact, I think I’m going to order you to drink a couple more glasses of water,” Mike said, the mischievous look back in full force. “To the kitchen. Match my pace. At the table, sit down and don’t move. I’ll fill the glass for you.”
“Yes, sir,” Peter replied, taking Mike's hand as they walked back to the kitchen.