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“Is it something about me?” Pocket asks.
Lash’s heavy brow draws downward. “Huh?”
“You’re not the first guy to ask. Is there something about my face that says I’d love to whip it out and use you as a urinal?”
Lash snickers. “I love when you talk dirty.”
“That wasn’t—” With a grunt of frustration, Pocket cuts themself off. “You didn’t answer the question.”
“Oh my God, babe.” He has no right to sound exasperated with them. He’s the one asking for something disgusting. “No, it’s not you. It’s fine. It’s pretty normal.”
“Normal.”
“Yeah, after your boring vanilla shi— I mean very fun and awesome boinking without the bells and whistles,” Lash quickly course corrects, “there’s, like, a top five things people are into. You’ve got handcuffs, you’ve got spanking.” He’s ticking them off on his fingers. “There’s some feet stuff, I guess. Maybe a little roleplay with a teacher-student or boss-secretary situation, and then, boosh, there’s the golden shower.”
“That cannot be true.”
“Fine. Call the Lash a liar. I see how it is.”
“It’s a pretty self-serving bit of trivia for you to suddenly know.”
“I read things.”
“Please, tell me what you’ve read that tells you what people’s sexual fantasies are. Science, not dirty magazines.”
“That guy with the wasps, he made those charts.” Pocket is lost. Sometimes Lash does know things, even surprising things, but just as often it’s nonsense. They’re not convinced, but wasps are a specific enough detail that they can no longer hold onto their firm belief that they’re right either. With a helpless sound, they cover their face, which seems to spur him on. “Babe, I know how much you love these tits. Just imagine them all wet and dirty, and you can call me names or whatever.”
“Oh, I have your permission now?”
“You know what I mean!”
Lash does make a compelling argument though; he always does. Now that he’s said it, they can’t deny the appeal of thinking of his broad chest glistening with water — only water! — thin rivulets matting the hair down and winding over his stomach and obliques, caught along iliac furrows and redirected down into his pubic hair.
“So you’re obviously not into that,” Lash says with a sigh. Pocket does not argue. “I mean, I could piss myself to assert dominance.”
“You’ll still have pissed yourself,” Pocket says.
“Yeah. To show I’m in charge.”
“Okay. But you’ll be the one wearing clothes covered in urine.”
In response, Lash sighs again, long and loud, then they have perfectly fine sex without any bells or whistles, and Pocket thinks he’ll put this one out of mind.
For a guy who’s so wrapped up in his ego, he handles rejection of certain things pretty well. It probably doesn’t hurt that Pocket has a hard time saying no to most everything else. Besides, Lash has plenty of ideas he forgets a day later. When two weeks pass without him mentioning it again, they should be forgiven for believing he’s dropped it.
Lash, unfortunately, has more patience than he often gets credit for. He knows how to wait for someone to let down their guard.
First, there’s dinner, and then the bar, where he insists they keep hydrated alongside drinking their beers. It doesn’t immediately tip their suspicion; Lash is often trying new nutrition habits to keep up with his physique. Why not this one too?
By the time they realize he’s distracted them any time they tried to go to the bathroom, he’s already ushering them out of the bar. Pocket’s bladder is protesting before they even close the tab, but then there’s the winding walk back to his apartment. It’s fifteen minutes maybe, twenty on a slow day, but Lash stops into a bodega halfway there, taking his sweet time in picking out the same pack of cinnamon candy he gets every week or so.
Pocket resolutely does not squirm. They exit the store, then Lash stops to tie his shoe. He waits politely at every intersection even when there are no vehicles in either direction. He stops to tie his other shoe, and even after a couple drinks, Pocket’s starting to put the pieces together.
Lash drops his keys outside the building and has to find them again. They are blatantly on the cracked sidewalk, but he’s busy looking in the wrong direction. He fumbles them again at the entry to the apartment, unable to decide which of the three hanging on his key ring might actually go to the door to the home he has occupied for two years now.
He goes in first, and Pocket follows hot on his heels, pressure mounting to the point of pain. Lash doesn’t ask before disappearing into the bathroom, leaving them lingering at the closed door. Through it they can hear the sound of him pissing, followed by a lengthy handwashing where the water runs the whole time. By the time he’s finished, Pocket’s sweating.
The door finally opens, and they scowl up at him. “You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?”
“Doing what?” he asks, bulk taking up the whole door frame. Pocket knows from experience that if they try to push him aside, he won’t budge. They try anyway. He looks amused. “Something wrong, babe?”
“I need to get in there.”
“Oh, in here?” Lash throws a thumb back over his shoulder. “You in a rush?” he asks with unconvincing concern.
Pocket grits through their teeth, “It is bordering on an emergency.”
“What’s the magic word?” he sing-songs.
They close their eyes against the shame and mutter the angriest “please” that’s ever escaped their mouth.
Smirking, Lash stands aside, but he doesn’t go far. “You just want an excuse to squeeze in close to me,” he says as they scoot by, nearly trapped in the doorway by his big body. The bathroom isn’t that small. Everything here is calculated.
Pain spikes low in their abdomen. Pocket’s bladder is going to burst any second now, and Lash is still between them and the toilet. As they try to approach it, he follows, hand catching theirs on their belt as he presses against their back. “You seem stressed, babe. Why don’t I help you out?”
Arousal swirls somewhere in their gut, even if it’s getting crowded out by the pleas of their bladder. Lash’s hand on their fly has that effect. When they try to speed things along, he grabs their other, tangling their fingers together and pressing them tight against Pocket’s stomach. Then his hand plunges into their trousers, outside their briefs, and rubs.
They should stop him. They should say something. If they tell him to stop, he’ll bitch and moan and tease them about it, but he’ll do it. So they don’t know why the words won’t come. They blame the clenching of their jaw as their bladder threatens to explode.
They’re so close. The toilet is right there, and if they just pushed Lash away with any intent, he’d go. Instead they freeze with him plastered against their back, his nose in their hair, and the general sense of overwhelm that comes from being surrounded on all sides by Jacob Lash. Tears prick at their eyes when they realize their hands are shaking. Lash’s hand on their cock is having the opposite effect of helping. Now their bladder feels like it might pop and they don’t know if they’ll even be able to. “You’re such a dick,” they say through clenched teeth.
“You love it,” he answers. “You had your chance to do this on your terms, but I know when you need the Lash to take over.” His grip on their cock is strong; it twitches against his hand. “Let me give you a hand.”
They’re trembling all over now, trapped between two competing urges. If they unclenched their teeth, told him to stop, he would. Damning as it is to admit, they can’t get the word out. Then Lash’s other hand, the one with theirs still tangled up in it, slides flat beneath their belly button and pushes, massaging with increasing pressure right against their bladder. They sob, body pitching forward out of sheer desperation, but Lash has them well in hand. “Come on, baby,” he says. “Just relax.”
He presses, coaxes, taps his fingers into their lower abdomen. It takes them a moment to realize they’re mumbling, “Please, please, please.”
Then, finally, they let go. Their whole body shakes as their bladder finally empties with a force that’s as painful as holding it at first. It goes on and on, flooding out of them, wet and warm as it overflows their underwear and races down their thighs. Relief as powerful as any orgasm shivers through their body as they soak Lash’s hand, their own briefs, and their trousers.
Their cock is undeterred by the discomfort, hardening again as Lash’s hand wraps wet and sticky and disgusting around it. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” he asks. His grip squeezes around them, some reward or apology, maybe both.
They’d tell him to go fuck himself, but then he might stop jerking them off. They’ve already come this far. They yank one hand free to brace against the wall. “You’re doing all my laundry for a month,” they growl, then their other hand joins his around their cock. His only response is a smug laugh. What an asshole.