I don't want you to just ask me for permission to use the bathroom. I want you begging, pleading, telling me every little detail of how badly you have to go, how you don't think you can hold it much longer. Persuade me. Tell me how much you've had to drink and how long it's been since your bladder has last had relief. Tell me how good you've been, staying nice and hydrated, not even thinking about asking for the restroom until you're squirming and your bladder is heavy in your abdomen. Let me feel it. Let me run my hand over it and test how firm it is, pressing down on it, poking and prodding it to make sure it's full enough to warrant mercy.
Cross your legs and shove your hands between your thighs if you need to, but don't you dare complain. You know that I get to do what I want. You, you wouldn't know what to do with that kind of control. You're better like this: a submissive little thing who knows your place, who knows that you couldn't possibly tell what your body really needs, who knows that you need someone else to tell you what you deserve and when.
You're going to have an accident? It has been an awfully long time since you last went. And you have had so much to drink. I can see you trembling, your eyes welling up with tears from how badly you think you need it, the way you're holding yourself like the pressure is the only thing keeping it all from coming out. Wow, you do feel pretty full. All that liquid making your bladder nice and firm under my touch, making it swell out, bulging as it tries to make room to hold more. Tell me how much you need it, again? Enough that it aches? Enough that you feel like you're going to explode?
Hmm. Well, your bladder seems to have been able to fit it all so far. Have another glass of water and come back to me in 20 minutes. Maybe you'll deserve some relief then.
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