Pee Stories


I have rules about peeing – I have to ask before doing so. Okay, it’s not actually “just” peeing, although I didn’t realize that until recently. We call it “pee permission,” but that is (apparently) for delicacy’s sake. It’s actually “bathroom permission.” But it’s hard enough to for me to talk about peeing, much less any other bodily function, so pee permission it is.

Yeah, I’m one of those girls: I can’t talk about pooping. Or farting. Or bleeding. It’s just not done.

But that’s beside the point. The point is, there are rules established about this most basic of bodily functions, and have been since the beginning. It was (possibly?) the first rule he established, in fact. Followed quickly by him owning my orgasms, but that is such a natural place for me to be in D/s – and perhaps especially in this D/s relationship, where he can literally command me to orgasm and have my body obey him without me actively deciding to obey – that, somehow, bathroom permission feels…kinkier? More submissive? Something. Because I have to choose it, every time.

It also tripped – and continues to trip – embarrassment triggers for me. Kind of in the way that having to ask to masturbate does, though I can avoid asking to masturbate by simply…choosing not to masturbate (he’s never placed an onus on me having to do it.) I can’t choose not to pee. And so I am faced, daily, many times a day, with the fact of my submission to him. It’s the first thing I acknowledge in the morning, and oftentimes the last thing I think about at night. It becomes a secret line connecting us at parties, stores, restaurants; around his family and mine. Sometimes the permission is asked with a pleading look across the room and granted with a nod of his head. Sometimes it’s a question whispered in his ear. Usually it’s via text during the day. It doesn’t give me a sexual thrill, exactly, but there’s that continual recognition of, “this is what it is to be owned by him.”

But yes, I have forgotten and gone pee without asking. It’s an honor system, and I have honor, so I tell him when it happens. I don’t like to tell him, because there are consequences. They usually involve me having to pee in front of him, which is very hard for my shy bladder (and embarrassing, and humiliating.) Aside from knowing I’ve disappointed him by disobeying. I think he likes an obedient submissive, and it makes me unhappy to fail at that. I tease and play, but I am, for the most part, happily and conscientiously obedient.

(I can’t deny, though, that I desperately wanted a photo one time when I had consequences to pay, of me standing in the shower stall with pee running down my leg and into the drain, while he looked on. Performing that consequence pulled at me in a deeply submissive way, but also, quixotically, aroused me, as he helped me wash after. I don’t use “Daddy” as my term for him much, but it was in my head then. “Thank you, Daddy,” for allowing me to come clean. Literally.)

When this was first established as a rule, I asked him what the parameters were when I was out and about, say, at a friend’s, or out at dinner. They didn’t change. I still had to ask permission. Even when I was on vacation the rule didn’t change (although there were fail-safes in place.) Although that makes things a little difficult at times, I appreciate his consistency. And it also, again, tugs at that place in me that craves submitting to him, even when – maybe especially when – it’s difficult.

Recently I asked for a break from it for a short period, because I knew he would probably not be in a position to answer my request for permission, and I was in a fragile emotional space and knew that not hearing from him when I very much needed and wanted that contact would be triggering. He granted it and I turned off my phone for the night. But when I went to the bathroom that night and the next morning, I felt bereft. Had I so completely internalized the need for his permission? I supposed I had, because I asked for it to be reinstated before the end of the time he had granted me.

Today, he texted me this: “We are playing with a little humiliation today. Every time you pee, you have to strip naked and send me a selfie of you on the toilet, preferably while peeing.”

I realized, after looking at the images, that I had not looked the camera full in the face. It was hard peeing “in front” of him. Almost as hard as if he had been standing in front of me in the flesh. But every time I got his “Good girl,” back, I felt a little squish inside, that little submissive tug; and, after, the warmth and heaviness in my belly and between my thighs that embarrassing myself for him always brings. It’s why I am sharing this image here, actually…I am not ashamed to admit that being ashamed is a pretty strong kink of mine. 😉

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