pickledpidgeon - Tumblr blog

pickledpidgeon · 7 months ago

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The One Where They Pee On Each Other

nsfw, piss kink, unsanitary, light petplay/daddy kink, embarrassment, desperation, really fucking long

Jackie is nineteen years old.

He is trying (and failing) to stop thinking about urination.

Laying in his still twin-sized bed (Mom can’t afford a bigger one, but Jackie understands, he does wish his feet didn’t hang off the end though) he stares at his ceiling.

He’s gotten his GED, so no school. It’s been an unspoken decision between him and Mom that he’s not going to college. He’s unemployed, at the moment, only a little bit left in his account after he left his toxic fast food job. His chest has healed quite well from surgery. The hospital smell on his clothes has faded, the only evidence of his last admittance being adjusted medication on his dresser, next to his T-shot supplies. His desktop computer is off, but still warm from earlier use.

It’s noon, and Jackie is very, very, embarrassingly aroused.

He was told on day one of getting on Testosterone that it would increase his libido, but holy shit, he didn’t think it would be this bad.

When he was a younger teen, sex never appealed to him. Probably a combination of dysphoria making him disgusted at anyone touching him, and the medications he was put on when Dad died and his mind went haywire. It’s almost amusing now that he’s getting himself off every day. Sometimes multiple times a day. He’s not sure if that’s normal, but god, does he need it.

He sighs and flops over to his side. He should probably get some lunch, but the wetness between his legs begs to be taken care of. As does his small, throbbing t-dick. Which is growing in pretty well, thank you very much.

Perhaps his excessive porn watching that morning (thank god for the internet and thank god he has his own desktop) is to blame for being this horny this early in the day. Perhaps it was what he watched.

It was pretty standard fare, at first. He likes watching straight cis people stuff mostly, imagining himself as the guy (with the penis!) fucking the girl. He likes girls quite a bit, but over the years he’s found that boys are pretty hot as well. It used to make him anxious, being a guy and wanting to fuck another guy, but at this point he’s so lost in the horny soup that it stopped bothering him. So what if he likes both? Gay porn is just as hot, sue him.

Scroll, scroll, click, click, save, save. Jackie was sipping away at his Monster as he sat at his desk. Sometimes he watches stuff just for the sake of it, just cause he’s curious. He did find he enjoys BDSM stuff quite a bit through this method, even if he has no clue how to actually do it with someone in real life. Too bad he’s a schizophrenic trangender recluse who never talks to people. Sometimes he wishes he had friends that didn’t exist in his delusions. Or someone to fuck.

He ended up clicking on this watersports video because the girl was really pretty, not thinking much of it.

It seemed pretty unsanitary to him at first, watching her piss all over the guy's dick. But he didn’t click off. He didn’t mean to watch the whole thing, really. He also didn’t intend to replay the video when it was over, because it didn’t seem long enough. Really, he didn’t.

But he did. His energy drink sat unattended, his eyes glued to the screen. He watched the video again. And then again. He felt very hot and weird. He barely noticed he had been squirming in his raggedy old desk chair. He wanted more of this.

He was about to start searching for more videos of erotic urination when he stopped, reality hitting him.

This is gross.

His face had gotten even hotter, this time with shame. Weirdo.

Jackie decided he’d had enough, he’d gone too far down the rabbit hole, time to turn it off and do something productive with his time.

His legs were shaky and his mind was spinning when he stood up. He needed to distract himself somehow. He went to the kitchen and did some dishes he’d been lazily neglecting. He thought about the video. He went back to his room to pick up dirty laundry off the floor. He thought about the video. He debated on playing some Sonic Adventure 2 Battle but decided against it. He thought about the video.

He tried to stop. Really, he did.

But the idea of pissing on someone like that was so fucking hot to him, despite how gross it was, that he could not, for the life of him, stop thinking about it.

Jackie is nineteen. He squirms around in bed. He kinda has to go to the bathroom. He thinks if he does, right now, he would cum from it. It makes him feel anxious and sick and so very, very warm.

What the hell is happening?

Jackie had to take another trip down the street to the sex shop for a better dildo yesterday. The smaller glass one he bought last time with his vibrator was good to start out with, but wasn’t really cutting it anymore. The older guy behind the counter called him ‘sir,’ which felt pretty nice as he paid for the far larger silicone dildo. He didn’t end up using it that evening. Mostly because he hung out with Mom for a bit after dinner. Partly because he wasn’t sure if he would be able to fit the thing in him.

To his credit though, he did take it out of the box and cleaned it so it’d be ready whenever he was. Which was starting to become now.

If I get off by fucking myself like a normal person, I’ll stop thinking about it and I can move on.

He finally gets up off the mattress. Grabs the dildo off his dresser. He’s not thinking straight when he heads to the bathroom.

Jackie is twenty-seven. And he wakes up to the quiet sound of shifting covers.

Still halfway in sleep-world, warm and terribly comfy, he feels a warm hand on his chest. It moves to steady itself on the bed next to Jackie as the man next to him tries to leverage himself gently.

“Oh,” Jackie sleepily groans, “no you don’t.”

Jackie’s eyes aren’t even open. He drags his arms out from under the covers to wrap around Jameson, who is, for some reason, trying to get up. His darling boy resists (barely) as Jackie pulls him back down to the bed. He huffs out a breath and tries moving again.

“Baby,” Jackie whines, “don’t leave me. So warm and cozy. Stay forever.”

Jameson huffs and bats at his chest in response while he again attempts to crawl over Jackie. Whining dramatically, Jackie grabs Jameson around the waist and tugs him back down against his chest. Jameson tries wriggling out of his grasp, and finally Jackie peeks his eyes open.

It’s dark. Not even morning. What time? Who cares? Jackie just wants to cuddle and sleep.

“Honey, it’s so early,” Jackie complains, releasing his grip on Jameson so he can sit up.

“For your information,” Jameson signs, his hands barely visible, only illuminated by a streetlight outside, “I need to use the bathroom.”

Ugh, really? Jackie should probably let him go, the loss of warmth and comfort a necessary evil. But then he gets an idea.

“Oh, do you now?” Jackie begins to grin, mischievously. His hands come back to grip at Jameson’s lean waist.

“Guess you’ll have to go through me first.”

Jameson blinks. Debating his options on whether or not it’s worth it. And apparently, his bladder wins out, because now he practically leaps off the bed, off Jackie’s chest, hoping to land on the floor. Jackie is faster. He wraps his arms around Jameson’s waist and wrestles him back into bed. Jameson kicks his feet wildly, Jackie easily pinning him back down to the mattress. He squirms and fights it, but Jackie’s size and strength beat out Jameson and there is no escape for him at this point. Resigned to his fate of being bed-bound, Jameson huffs out a breath irritably, and lets himself relax in Jackie’s grip.

Jackie grins, victorious. “Good boy. Now we’re gonna cuddle. And go back to bed.”

Jameson’s hands twitch, signaling Jackie to release his wrists so he can sign.

“So needy,” he says, eyes rolling, but playful. “Aren’t I allowed out of your sight for more than thirty seconds?”

“Eh,” Jackie says, rolling back down to the side, wrapping an arm around Jameson’s waist, “I could. But I don’t want to. I want you right here. All nice and warm. You can go when it’s a reasonable hour.”

“Jackie, I really need to go.”

“Nah, what you need is to let me be big spoon so I can go back to sleep.” Jackie’s eyes slip closed again as he snuggles closer.

Jameson isn’t having any of it. Rolling over, he pokes at Jackie’s cheek so he’ll open his eyes again.

“I’m not staying,” he says, the determined thing, “It’ll take just a minute, and I’ll be back. I promise.

“Nope. Not happening.”

Jameson sighs out his nose, but a hint of a smile tugs at his mouth.

“If you don’t let me go,” Jameson signs, “I’ll have to piss all over you.”

Jackie freezes.

Oh.

He stops breathing.

Oh.

It was a joke. It was meant as a joke. They both know this. They both know Jackie’s fooling around because he’s tired and wants to cuddle, and Jameson will win the argument in the end and go to the bathroom to take a leak and then he’ll come back and everything will be fine.

Jameson is not serious. It was a joke.

And yet. Jackie can’t move. And he knows, without Jameson saying it, that his face has gone very, very red.

“Uh,” Jameson sits up a bit, unsure, “are you okay?”

He’s confused. Jackie’s sweet boy doesn’t know what he said. So Jackie scrambles for an excuse.

“Yeah. Yeah, uh. I’m okay.” It comes out a bit strained. Jackie meant for it to sound more casual.

“Did I say something wrong?” Jameson is sitting up now. Jackie lays next to him, trying to look up at him. He’s finding eye contact difficult all of the sudden.

“No, baby, nothing wrong.”

“Did I take it too far?”

“No.”

Jameson cocks his head slightly to the side. “You’re acting funny. Why?”

Jackie wants to squirm. Jackie doesn’t want to answer the question.

“Just…go ahead. To the bathroom. I’ll survive. Then we can go back to bed.” Jackie tries smiling. It feels fake and tight. He really tries to not think about Jameson’s bladder. He really, really tries to not think about what Jameson just said to him.

And how much it turned him the fuck on.

“Jackie,” Jameson signs gently, still confused. “Why is your face all red? After I said the thing about the urine?”

“Um.” Jackie has no reasonable answer. “Uh. It just reminded me of something. Uh. Yeah. It’s okay, really. Just go.”

“But I want to know,” Jameson says, leaning forward a bit. Oh, great. He’s curious now.

“It’s nothing, baby, really–”

“Did you like the fact that I said I wanted to piss on you?”

Oh.

Jackie suddenly finds his ability to speak greatly hindered. His face is on fire. He feels very hot. He feels his t-dick in his briefs throb.

Oh, shit.

Jameson isn’t stupid. In fact, he’s quite clever when he’s curious. Jackie practically sees the gears turning in his head as he makes the connection. And when he does, oh, Jackie can’t see the red on his face too clearly in the dark, but he assumes it's there.

Jackie needs to pivot. Now. Jackie needs Jameson to go across the hall and piss in a toilet like a normal fucking person so Jackie can stop thinking about it and go back to sleep. Jameson lifts his hands to sign.

“Jamie, honey, uh,” Jackie tries cutting him off, desperately, “it’s not like that, uh, I’m not–it’s just–uh–”

Jackie has nothing. Jameson just looks at him. And then he moves his knees and now he’s sitting on Jackie’s lap. Jackie feels Jameson’s bulge through their boxers. He really, really tries to ignore it.

“Jackie,” Jameson signs, gentle, “It’s okay if you are into…that sort of thing. I like things that I think other people think are weird too.”

Jackie swallows. He wants to agree–there’s a dog crate and a leash for Jameson next to his bed for fuck’s sake– but finds it difficult. He doesn’t know why this is so hard for him. Every single one of his fantasies and kinks he’s thoroughly put thought and research into. He’s okay with them all.

Except this one.

Years of fantasizing, hiding it, trying not to think about it by indulging in other kinks, pretending like it’s not a big deal, like it’s something he’s not into, it’s all going out the window. Someone knows about it now.

“It’s not–I mean, I’m not super into watersports or anything,” he starts nervously, realizing at this point there is no getting out of having this conversation. Jameson looks down at him, listening politely.

“Uh, it’s, uh, just something I…think about sometimes, ya know? It’s not like I’m into it for real, I just–it’s fun to think about weird stuff occasionally, like–you know when you see something online and you entertain the idea, but you’d never really do it cause it’s gross, and weird, and–and so when you said you wanted to–to piss on me, I thought about that for just a second, not really a lot and it–I–”

Jackie hates this. He doesn’t want to be talking about this one fucking fantasy he’s never shared with anybody. Jameson is different, he supposes, but this is…too much.

Jameson looks down at Jackie. Jackie babbles and fumbles with his words. It would be almost amusing to an outsider, to see the ever-so-dominant and in control Jackie beneath his boy, embarrassed out of his mind.

When Jackie finally trails off, they sit in silence for a moment. And then Jameson rocks forward, ever so slightly, his bulge lightly rubbing against Jackie’s dick.

He doesn’t mean to whine. He really didn’t expect to be so hard and sensitive, either. The whine that escapes his mouth is so quiet, but easily heard in the silent morning. Jameson’s eyes go a bit wide.

“Jackie,” Jameson finally signs, a bit nervous, “Do you want me to…go on your lap?”

He’s unsure. He doesn’t know what to say to indulge Jackie’s disgusting ass fantasy. Jackie doesn’t want to indulge at all. A voice in his head screams to push Jameson off his lap right now and pretend like none of this happened.

And then, there’s that stupid, horny part of himself that is so fucking turned on by the idea of his puppy pissing in his lap like a good little mutt that he doesn’t. He doesn’t push Jameson away. He might be shaking. He’s embarrassed. He’s ashamed that this is turning him on at all.

And yet. Jameson doesn’t seem…too bothered by any of this. He experimentally rocks his hips again. Jackie whimpers again, despite his best efforts to silence himself.

“I really have to go, Jackie.”

Jackie’s breath comes out shaky. He swallows. Tries evening out his breathing. Jameson won’t stop grinding on him. He fails.

Jameson’s hands come to press into the mattress on either side of Jackie. He arches his back, closes his eyes, and grinds down, sighing as he presses harder against Jackie. He rocks, back and forth.

And now Jackie finds himself at the crossroads. He can tell Jameson he doesn’t want this, and Jameson will be obedient and lay off. But that would be a lie. That would be the biggest lie Jackie ever told.

He knows he’s wet without even needing to look. He can feel it. He can feel his opening growing slick as he throbs against Jameson, beginning to soak through his briefs. This is ridiculous. It’s disgusting how much he wants Jameson to empty his bladder on him.

But at this point, it’s too late. He wants this. Jameson wants to provide for him.

“It’s starting to hurt,” Jameson’s hands come up to sign, his eyes beginning to droop, that sweet puppy look coming over his face. “I really want to go.”

It’s dirty. And gross. Yet Jackie hangs onto Jameson’s words almost desperately. He never imagined anyone would want to do this to him, with him.

And finally, Jackie makes a decision.

He sits up. Shoves Jameson harshly against the bed, pushing him off his lap (oh, how he misses his hardness already) and pinning him again against the covers with hands around his throat.

Jameson’s eyes are blown out wide, his breaths speeding up. Jackie snarls down at him, hungry, desperate, so scared but so exhilarated that this is happening.

“Poor pup,” he growls out. He presses his hips down, desperate to feel Jameson against him again. He’s gotten harder.

“Puppy has to go?” Jackie pants out, “He needs to piss?”

Jameson nods enthusiastically, hands wrapping around the bigger ones grasping his neck. Jackie is rubbing himself all over Jameson’s still clothed cock.

“Dirty thing, asking to go on my lap.”

Jackie’s mind is beginning to run, trying to decide what he wants and how he wants it. And, oh, where is this happening? Not on the bed, Jackie doesn’t want to ruin the mattress, not on the carpet, it might smell, not in the kitchen on the linoleum floors, Chase could walk in, maybe outside? Maybe–oh. Well. The bathtub would make cleanup way easier, he supposes.

Jameson silently whines, tilting his head back, bringing Jackie out of his thoughts.

“Bet it hurts. Holding it in.” Jackie takes one of his hands back and drags it down, down right above where his cock is, near his belly. He presses down and Jameson gasps, squirming.

“Poor bladder all full,” Jackie says, coming out more as a gasp than words, rubbing his t-dick over Jameson’s own dick, the only thing separating them being very, very slick fabric.

“But you’ll be my good boy and hold it for just a big longer, right?”

Jameson whimpers up at him, eyes squeezing closed. He doesn’t want to wait. But he’s good. He’s obedient. He will hold it.

Jackie grins down at his puppy, so perfect, shivering underneath him. The anticipation is killing him, but he supposes this is what it’s all about.

It’s about a minute of grinding later–a minute of Jackie removing his other hand from his puppy’s neck so he can brace himself on either side of him and grind against him, his sweet thing–when Jackie finally gets up off of him.

Jameson’s collar is one of those things they put on, leave on for a day or two, then take it off when there’s company over. It’s usually not packed away with their other toys considering how much it’s used. Luckily the blue leather collar is sitting right on the nightstand, which Jackie doesn’t hesitate to snatch.

The collar is on in practiced motions, pulling the soft leather through the buckle, Jameson being so good and lifting his head for Jackie. The heart-shaped tag lays against his big t-shirt.

“What a pretty boy you are,” Jackie mumbles, sitting up to tower over him. Jameson lays back and instinctively spreads his legs a little, pulling his knees to his chest. He’s panting. He’s twitching with effort to not go before his master says. It’s probably just for show, Jackie knows, and he doesn’t really have to pee that bad. But oh, it’s absolutely precious.

Jackie’s boxers are so slick he’s a bit sick of wearing them. So he takes them off. Jameson watches hungirly as strings of slick cling to his cunt as he peels off the briefs. Fuck, his t-dick is throbbing.

With everything exposed, Jackie resumes his position against Jameson, more desperate than before, rubbing his folds against his still-clothed cock, hard and starting to leak through his boxers. It feels good, but the anticipation for what Jackie really wants kinda ruins it.

He thinks he’s ready. He didn’t realize he needed to mentally prepare himself for indulging in an embarrassing kink, but here we are.

Jackie leans up. Jameson is panting, thoroughly turned on now, and for a moment, thrusts his hips up, missing Jackie’s touch. Adorable.

“Stupid thing,” Jackie mutters softly, “bet you’re excited to go. Excited to piss all over me like the dirty pet you are, aren’t you?”

Jameson whimpers quietly, his thighs coming together slightly.

Jackie stands. His feet feel almost unsteady on the carpet. “Okay. Come here.”

He slides his left arm around Jameson’s back, and then catches his right beneath his puppy’s knobby knees. Picks him up. And carries him, bridal style to the bathroom. Thank god it’s right across the bedroom. Jackie is going to explode if they don’t get things rolling now.

The light is flicked on. It feels too bright. Jackie thinks he would prefer to do this in the dark, hiding his shame as it were, where no one can see. But he wants to watch it happen, if he were completely honest with himself. Jackie sits Jameson in the bathtub. His face is flushed and he can see the excitement in his eyes, dark hair over his forehead and his bulge prominent through his boxers. Jackie crawls in with him and slides so he's on his back, legs spread, cock and cunt red and angry and dripping.

“Okay,” Jackie breathes out. He’s finding catching his breath hard. “Okay, puppy, come here. I will tell you when you can go. Come here.”

Jameson, obedient, good, climbs on top of Jackie and starts grinding against him again. Jackie can tell he wants to fuck him. He won’t unless Jackie gives him permission.

Here in the tub, Jackie sees the sweat on his brow. He’s nervous. Now that they’re in the bathroom, it seems way more real.

Jackie is nineteen again. He’s riding his huge dildo, finally able to push it in at least halfway. He’s in the shower, having it suctioned to the floor. It feels fucking amazing. His face is red as the video he watched earlier replays in his mind, over and over. He really, really needs to pee.

“Cock out,” Jackie orders Jameson, “Now.”

His puppy wastes no time in pulling down his boxers, his cute dick springing out, hard and flushed and leaking. Jameson is shaking. “Please,” he begs, “please let me go. I want to go so bad…” He pushes his hips forward and presses the head against Jackie’s t-dick. Fuck, that’s good. It makes Jackie make another one of those pathetic whining noises.

Jackie is nineteen again. He wants to go all over this stupid dildo in the shower and make a big mess. His mother isn’t home. He lifts himself off the cock and rubs himself on it. He’s moaning. He’s shaking. He’s embarrassed. But he wants this. Oh, it’s so dirty but he wants it.

Jameson is rubbing and sliding his dick over Jackie’s little one, grasping it in a shaking hand, running it all over his lips and his hole and Jackie’s dripping so bad slick is sliding down his ass and this is so embarrassing but he wants it, he wants it, he wants it.

Jackie sits up a bit. He wants to watch. His legs are shaking. He grabs Jameson by the thighs and positions him where he wants him. This is happening. Oh, god, this is happening.

“Don’t get it in my hole,” he gasps out, “don’t want an infection.”

Jameson’s eyes are wide. Jackie can tell he’s nervous too.

“Go on,” Jackie practically whispers, “I want it. I want it. Go ahead. You can let go now.”

Jackie is nineteen. Jackie presses his cunt against the dildo. Jackie imagines a man, a real one, a cis one, beneath him. He lets go.

Jackie is twenty-seven. And Jameson is pissing on him.

It’s loud. Jameson is whimpering pathetically, eyes squeezed shut, face red in embarrassment. It’s warm. It doesn’t stop. It sprays from Jameson’s cock onto Jackie’s stomach and inner thighs and on his t-dick. It’s absolutely disgusting. Jackie is shaking in ecstasy.

Oh, god.

Jackie becomes aware of the sounds he’s making. It’s a high pitched warbling moan of sorts. He spreads his legs further, the stream hitting his cunt. Fuck, fuck fuck fuck.

“Dirty, fucking mutt, going all over me, such a nasty thing you are, oh, oh, that’s it, good boy, oh–”

Jackie is shaking so fucking bad. He can’t stop looking, eyes glued to his puppy’s spraying cock. It is single-handedly the hottest thing he’s ever experienced. As well as the least sanitary. He might have to talk to Henrik about this one. He’s not thinking of that right now. Jameson’s head is back, pretty throat and collar on display as he empties his bladder all over Jackie.

Jameson’s stream slows, then finally stops. He’s shuddering. Jackie is trembling. They both breathe, loud and ragged.

“Puppy.”

Jameson looks up, a bit nervous. Jackie licks his dry lips, voice ragged. Shaking, shaking.

“That was amazing.”

Jameson smiles a bit in relief, happy to have done this for Jackie.

Trembling hands make their way down. Jackie’s entire lower body is covered in piss. He feels dirty and disgusting. He feels like when he was nineteen, shaking in the shower, watching his own piss go down the drain, pussy still dripping, his t-dick small but throbbing. He didn’t stop shaking for a while, and told himself he probably wouldn’t do something so gross with a partner. It’ll just be his own private little fantasy.

But now. Now it’s far past a fantasy.

Jameson is looking at him. His eyes are wanting. And Jackie’s cunt is aching.

“Daddy wants your cock, now.”

It comes out desperate. Jackie is finding it hard to care.

It’s heaven when the head of Jameson’s cock breaches his sopping wet hole. He’s getting some kind of infection from this, he knows, but he needs to cum so badly he doesn’t think he minds.

Jameson’s mouth drops open, his eyes closing, pressing his cock in deeper. He’s not particularly big, Jackie has dildos bigger by several inches, but it’s the fact that it’s him, the fact that it's his sweet boy’s cock fucking into him that makes it satisfying.

Jackie wraps his legs around his pet, bringing him closer. Jameson tries easing into it, but both of them are so ready to get off his hips start thrusting faster and faster, deeper and deeper until both of them are panting and shaking, Jameson bracing himself on the sides of the tub, chests almost touching.

Jackie pushes their foreheads together and goes in for a messy kiss. Jameson easily reciprocates, letting Jackie press his tongue against his own.

Jackie feels himself getting close quicker than he thought. Jameson pulls out, seemingly the same way, grasping his cock and rubbing the head against Jackie’s swollen t-dick, side to side, faster and faster, the sounds loud and lewd.

“Oh, fuck,” Jackie gasps out, “yes, oh, fuck me, make me cum puppy, be a good boy, cum all over me, oh, oh–”

He cums first. He doesn’t recognize the sound he makes. Long, whiny, trill, ending in a gasp, Jackie gasping for air, legs shaking, and he desperately tries to watch Jameson while he rides out his orgasm, he wants to see him cum, and he does, oh, it’s thick and drips all over Jackie’s cunt and stomach, hot and white, Jameson trembling through it, eyes squeezed closed and neck exposed, the metal of his pretty collar glinting off the light.

The gasps are ragged. They are both shaking. Jackie spreads his legs as far as they’ll go, everything on display.

“Puppy,” he whimpers, because he doesn’t know what to say, because he wants to go too, he wants to release on Jameson’s dick, return the favor as it were, just like in his fantasies of having a man beneath him and releasing. He knows how good it’ll feel. He knows. He wants it.

He licks his lips. His mouth is dry. He’s still shaking. “Puppy, daddy wants to go too. Real bad.”

He doesn’t know what he’s asking for in particular. But Jameson seems to understand. He pulls Jackie up. He shifts around so when he leans back he doesn’t hit his head on the faucet. Jackie positions himself so he’s sitting on Jameson’s cock, trying to not sit right on his balls, but enough to feel his length between his lips. Oh god. Oh, fuck, this is happening.

Jackie closes his eyes. He lets his bladder go. All over Jameson’s cock.

It’s a noisy spraying sound, but the moan he lets out is louder. He could cum again, just from this. Jameson rubs soothing patterns into his hips with his thumbs. It feels good. It feels so, so fucking good, especially when he wiggles a bit and rubs his oversensitive t-dick against the head of Jameson’s cock, his stream of fluid spraying all over it.

You’re disgusting. Dirty. This is filthy. You should be ashamed.

Jameson’s thumb comes down to play with Jackie’s dick, barely rubbing it, and it’s too much, too much, Jackie cums again, he didn’t think he actually would be able to, but he does, the last streams of piss spraying out, all over Jameson, his dirty puppy, his face is so red, but he’s being such a good boy, oh god, it feels so good, so good, Jackie riding out his orgasm with shaking thighs and pathetic moans leaving his mouth.

They stay that way for a moment. Panting. Jackie hears fluid going down the drain. He thinks he’s crying. He doesn’t know why he’s crying.

Jackie lowers himself down. On top of Jameson. He couldn’t imagine doing this with anyone else on the planet. He doesn’t realize he’s praising him out loud. He kisses Jameson, gentle, thankful.

“--so good for me, so perfect, my filthy piss slut, such a good boy, it felt so good, I’ve been wanting to do this for so, so long, such a good puppy for daddy, so good–”

Jackie kisses and praises and Jameson shivers beneath him for god knows how long. Maybe until they’ve stopped shaking. At some point they stand up and peel off their remaining soggy clothes. They start the shower. Jameson is washed up well with Jackie’s soapy hands, cleaning himself as well as he can.

They get out. Dry off. Jackie holds his puppy’s hand when they go back to the bedroom, piss-covered clothes left behind. They’ll deal with that later. The collar is taken off and placed back on the nightstand. They get dressed. The sun is beginning to make itself known, the bedroom ever so slightly lit blue. They crawl into bed.

Jameson falls asleep quick. The mindless patterns being traced on Jackie’s chest slow to a stop, fingers flattening, Jameson’s breaths even out.

Jackie, on the other hand, is exhausted, yet absolutely wired.

He never thought he would do this. It felt so good. It was so dirty. But so good.

He falls asleep wondering exactly how he’s going to ask Henrik about urine-related infections. He falls asleep wondering how in the hell he managed to land with someone willing to do this with him. He falls asleep content. He falls asleep.

#jackie #jameson #im not putting this in main tags. SORRY #unsanitary tw #omorashi #daddy kink tw #my writing

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pickledpidgeon · 7 months ago

Text

drugged

tw drugs/pills, non consensual touching, implied and referenced rape/sa, abusive relationship, forced alcohol consumption, panic attacks, trauma

Jameson can’t move.

There are hands on him, and he can’t move.

He probably could, if he tried hard enough. If he really, really tries. Oh, but his limbs are so heavy. His hands only manage to twitch as he tries to sign. The world feels far away, his vision blurry. His head is spinning.

Anti put something in his food.

“Well, now,” his husband purrs. Jameson lays across his lap, stomach pressed against his thighs. At some point, Anti must’ve moved him to the couch. He is afraid.

“Isn’t this nice.”

Anti’s voice is very, very gentle. Quiet. Jameson can hear the grin on his lips, stretching across his teeth. His calloused hands, hands that have spilled blood, hands that have ripped Jameson apart over and over, more times than he can count, stroke his back. Up and down. Fingers bumping over each vertebrae. Calculated. Thoughtful.

“You’re always so spooked,” he says, gentle, far too gentle, “always on edge. Tensed up. I like it sometimes. How you tremble when you get scared. How you shake. But sometimes…”

Anti rests his hand on the small of his back with one hand. His other comes to run up the back of Jameson’s thigh, slow, slow.

“Sometimes, I think you would do well to relax.”

The soup. The ridiculous canned soup Anti made. He can’t cook, Jameson has always, always done that for him. So wild rice and chicken soup Anti made. Jameson was suspicious. He didn’t want to eat it. He didn’t know why Anti had insisted on cooking tonight. But he had to. He had to eat it, because Anti told him to. The whole bowl. Anti watched him the whole time he ate. He was smiling. Jameson didn’t know why. But now he did.

Jameson’s hands twitch. The thin muscle in his arms spasm with effort. He wants to ask what Anti drugged him with. He wants to ask him to stop touching him. He’s afraid. He’s afraid of what Anti is going to do with him. But it’s not up to Jameson, what happens to him in Anti’s hands. It never has been.

He is humming. Rubbing Jameson’s back. Other hand rubbing the back of his thigh. Jameson is still clothed, giving him a buffer between Anti’s too-warm hands. For now.

“Had to give you a bit of Xanax, darling,” he explains, sweet, too sweet, “Just a few. Just a little. Just enough to keep you calm, just for a little while.”

Jameson does not believe Anti when he says “a little”. He thinks of Anti in the kitchen, reaching into the cupboard to grab something that he now knows was a pill bottle. He was humming as he prepared Jameson’s bowl. Dumping half the bottle into it.

And then the hand on the back of his thigh goes far too high and gently grips his ass. Jameson would have shuddered, if he could. Anti’s thumb rubs the fat through his pants, almost absentmindedly.

“That display last night made me realize you might have some issues, sweetheart.”

Oh. Last night. That’s what this is about? Jameson mentally kicks himself. Why did he have to freak out last night? Why is he so scared, all the time? Why couldn’t he have just stayed still and made it nice? This wouldn’t be happening if he was good. If he was quiet and calm. This wouldn’t be happening.

“You had a panic attack,” Anti explains, his voice still gentle, quiet. Jameson wonders if this is how he talks to his patients at the office. “You were hyperventilating. I thought you were going to vomit all over the kitchen tile.”

He won’t stop squeezing Jameson’s ass. His fingers have resumed running up and down his spine, as if memorizing each and every vertebrae. Jameson wishes he would stop touching him. He can practically hear the heavy, frightened breaths coming out of his nose.

“Poor thing.”

He almost sounds sympathetic. Maybe he is, a little bit. Maybe he’s mocking him.

“I only wanted to fuck you so hard you couldn’t walk.”

Jameson would shake, if the drugs in his system weren’t so strong. How much did he give him? How long would it last?

Anti sighs above him. “But you just had to start crying. I thought we talked about that. The crying. I don’t like it when you cry. You know this. It makes me feel bad.”

I didn’t mean to, Jameson wants to beg. I was so frightened. I don’t know why. You were being really scary. You shoved me against the wall when you came home. You threw me on the floor. I wish you were kinder to me. I wish I wasn’t afraid of you.

“I was so horny all goddamn day in my office, all day, thinking of you,” Anti drabbles on. Jameson feels him lean back, and finally, he stops squeezing at his ass, instead wrapping it around his hip. The hand at his spine goes to start petting his hair.

“I was so pissed. My stupid whore secretary fucked up my scheduling and I had to deal with two patients who were expecting to see me at the same time. Fuck that bitch. I’m going to kill her soon, I swear. There’s plenty others waiting to take her position. I think I’ll peel her face off so she can’t be identified for a week until dental records come back. Stab her stomach until she stops moving…leave her in a ditch…hm…”

Jameson doesn’t like it when Anti talks about violence like that. It scares him. Anti doesn’t seem to care.

Anti trails off, lost in his thoughts for a moment. Then his attention turns back to his husband.

“I think I like you, like this,” he muses. He ruffles Jameson’s hair, and Jameson is powerless to stop him. “Still and quiet. I should keep you like this. All drugged up. Maybe I’ll write a prescription for you. Throw in some Prozac maybe, keep that pesky anxiety at bay. So nervous, all the time…”

Jameson hates this. He hates this. He wants to go to bed and sleep off the meds, and he wants Anti in his office, too busy jerking off to videos of people being murdered on the internet to bother him.

But that’s not what’s going to happen. Jameson is Anti’s toy. His beloved birthday present. His thing to play with. It’s always been this way. Always.

So when Anti grabs either side of his waist and starts maneuvering him around, Jameson feels a pit in his stomach. He knows Anti is going to do to him whatever he pleases. And Jameson is powerless, always so powerless, to stop him.

The world spins. Jameson can’t move. He feels so foggy headed and scared. He is sitting on Anti’s lap now. He tries to lift his head. Keep his eyes open. It’s impossible. Anti is giggling.

“Aren’t you precious like this,” he grins. Jameson can see it. Blurry, but he can see his husband’s face. His mouth stretched wide, almost, almost reaching his soft eyes. His teeth are showing. “So soft and calm and pliant. I like you quite a bit like this.”

And then Anti is moving forward, and Jameson feels the brush of their noses, and then, so, so gentle, sweet, loving, Anti is pressing his lips to Jameson’s.

Anti kisses him. Jameson can’t kiss back. Anti pecks at his lips, trying to keep his weak head steady, hands gently grasping his thin waist so he doesn’t fall over. Anti kisses his mouth. Then the corner of his lips. Then his cheek, then his temple, then the tip of his nose. Then down, to his chin, down to his throat.

Jameson can’t stop him. He can’t. He tries to squirm. Anti tightens his grip around Jameson so he can’t. He is utterly and completely at his partner’s mercy.

It hurts a little when Anti kisses at fading hickeys. He even sucks at one of them. He likes seeing Jameson marked up. He doesn’t like when his marks fade.

Jameson is scared. And of what? Sex? A beating? Torture? He doesn’t know. He just knows he doesn’t like this. Being drugged. Being touched when he doesn’t want to be touched. Being completely helpless at Anti’s hands. Unable to run. Unable to beg. Anti can be so terrifyingly cruel sometimes.

“Baby,” Anti mutters against his throat, lips at his adam’s apple. “I love you. I really do. I’m sorry for being so rough yesterday. You were so scared. But I’ll send in a prescription for more Xan tomorrow, okay? Gonna keep you calm. No more panic attacks, yeah? That way you won’t make me angry when you have freak-outs. That way I don’t have to hurt you.”

Jameson doesn’t want pills. Jameson doesn’t want to be drugged up all the time. He doesn’t, he’s scared, he hates the way he feels right now, so helpless, like a few months ago when Anti brought home a case of beer, and he had one, and Jameson had one, and then Anti made him drink another, and then after that another, and Jameson doesn’t like beer, it’s gross and makes him feel bad, but Anti made him drink another one, watching him swallow the whole thing, eyes boring into him, and by that point Jameson was very, very drunk, so Anti had to basically pour the last beer down his throat and forced him to swallow every last drop, and then they were on the floor, and then Anti was rubbing his bulge against Jameson’s ass, and Jameson couldn’t stop him, he was so piss drunk he couldn’t move, he can’t remember, he can’t remember what Anti did to him, he thinks he passed out, he woke up the next morning on the carpet with a pounding headache and vomit and piss all over him and he wasn’t wearing pants anymore, oh, what happened, he knows, he knows what happened, there’s a little dried blood on the inside of his thigh, oh, oh–

“Hey, hey, come on now, what’s wrong? Your heart’s gonna pound out of your chest. Come now, let’s breathe, okay? It’s just me. No more panic attacks, now.”

Anti has pulled his lips away, rubbing at Jameson’s upper arms, trying to comfort him, looking at him so sweetly, almost concerned.

Panic is clawing at Jameson’s chest. He doesn’t want Anti to fuck him. He doesn’t want it. He’s scared. He thinks he feels wetness on his face.

Anti’s thumb comes to wipe away a tear. “Angel,” he says, voice dripping with honey, lies, fake sympathy, he’s getting a kick out of this, Jameson just knows, “I’m not going to hurt you. I love you so much. My pretty angel from heaven. All for me. Sometimes I have to hurt you because you’re bad. Sometimes I have to hurt you so I don’t hurt anyone else. Pretty thing. Stop crying. Too precious to cry. I love you. Sometimes I feel like I love you so much I want to kill you. I just want to hold you, okay? Just going to hold you, while you’re calm, while you’re not so tense, gonna watch something on TV for a bit, here in my arms, then we can go to bed, yeah? Just calm down. Lay against me. Let’s watch some Friends. Shh, shh. Be good. Relax. Stop crying.”

Jameson wants to stop. He does. He tries blinking away tears, he doesn’t want to make Anti angry, he doesn’t like when he cries. He’s so weak. He can’t move. Anti is stroking his face. His eyes are soft and concerned. He thumbs at his cheeks. And then leans forward, planting a kiss on his forehead.

“My baby,” he mutters, breath hot against his skin. “My darling angel. Sweet, precious thing. My treasure. Love you so much.”

And then Anti is pulling away. He moves Jameson’s weak, drugged body easily until they are both laying down on the couch, Jameson resting against Anti’s chest. He grabs the remote off the floor and turns on the TV. He flicks over to Netflix, and once the intro of Friends plays, he sets the remote back down on the side table with a clack.

Anti shifts. Rubs Jameson’s back soothingly. Jameson can’t move his head. He feels Anti’s bulge through his jeans against his stomach. He feels sick. There’s nothing he can do. He knows what’s going to happen when Anti inevitably carries him up to the bedroom and lays him down on the covers. Jameson shouldn’t have had a panic attack yesterday. He should’ve just laid there and let Anti take him. This wouldn’t be happening if he was good. He shouldn’t have panicked like that. Anti had smacked him several times in anger, hard. He wouldn’t have been hit and Anti wouldn’t have left in a fit of rage, leaving him hyperventilating on the kitchen floor. He should be able to handle it. Anti has done worse to him. Maybe he’s right. Maybe he does have issues.

The thought of Anti made me this way. Anti hurts me and now I’m afraid pops into his head, not for the first time. He pushes it away.

There’s nothing he can do. This is the way things are.

Anti’s fingers rub up and down Jameson’s spine. They watch television. They pretend like everything is normal, because that’s what they do, what they both do. Jameson’s throat is bruised. He is too drugged to move. Eventually, he stops thinking. He pulls himself out of his body. He pretends like they are a happy couple in a 50’s movie, like he does when things are so unbearable he needs to leave reality; Jameson the doting housewife and Anti the providing lover.

He imagines it clearly, like when they were young, and Anti was so loving and charming and funny and kind it felt too good to be true, to be so in love with someone so wonderful. He pretends like none of the things Anti has done to him ever happened, like it’s far away, and he’s an actor in a film where everything is perfect and happy.

Jameson dissociates and Anti rubs his back.

There’s nothing he can do.

#jameson jackson #antisepticeye #sa tw #abuse tw #trauma tw #tw drugging #my writing

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