#choscar

Oscar thinks he should probably be angrier about it – annoyed at the very least. Being manipulated like that, and so easily, too. It’s difficult, though, to remember to be upset with Charles when he’s rubbing the entire length of his naked body against Oscar’s like a cat seeking affection.

Affection that Oscar is only too happy to provide.

“Did you do it?” Charles murmurs into his ear.

Oscar knows what he’s asking, what he means, but even if he didn’t, the way Charles smooths the flat palm of his hand along the swell of Oscar’s abdomen would be enough to confirm his assumptions.

He feels himself flush to his roots, squirming when Charles presses down. There’s no real pressure behind it, but Oscar feels the kick in his gut anyway, the way his stomach rolls with fear-pleasure.

“Yeah,” he clears his throat, nodding hurriedly. “Yeah, of course. You told me to.”

It’s embarrassing, how he can’t seem to control his tongue around Charles; how his mind seems disconnected, the parts of it that are meant to stop him saying dumb and mortifying things offline the moment Charles gets anywhere near him. 

The sting of it is soothed partially by the look on Charles’s face when Oscar’s words land; the way his mouth drops open slightly, eyes darkening in real time, something delighted flickering behind the cool blue. He curls one hand around Oscar’s bare thigh, pushing, pressing until it won’t go any further, Oscar wincing at the stretch along his quad. He feels too exposed like this, the air hitting his hole as he involuntarily clenches around nothing. Dick twitching where it brushes the lowest ridge of his abs, white heat everywhere when Charles leans back to get a good look between Oscar’s legs, gaze pregnant with desire.

“Good boy,” Charles smirks at the way Oscar jolts, the words hitting the pleasure center of his brain. “How many?”

It takes Oscar a moment to find his voice again, still stuck on the good boy like a record on repeat. “Um,” he swallows. “A litre?”

Charles hums appreciatively. He curls his fingers into the downy hair on Oscar’s thigh, tugging at it roughly. Oscar’s back arches at the keening pain of it, the pulse of his cock giving him away more than anything else.

“That should be fine,” Charles continues calmly, like nothing’s happened. Like he isn’t tormenting Oscar already. “Should be enough… how do you feel?”

His eyes are sharper, laden with intent where they catch Oscar’s. It’s funny – like he’s expecting to catch Oscar out in a lie.

As if Oscar would be stupid enough to lie to Charles.

“Full,” he admits, lips twisting. If he moves too quickly he can feel the water sloshing around inside of him, and it should be gross – it still is, a little. But most it feels like a promise, anticipation tingling every one of his nerve endings, fingers and toes itching with the relief he knows will come eventually.

Charles presses down on his stomach again, tone conversational as he ignores the hissing sound Oscar emits. 

“Want you to come first. Can you do that for me?”

Oscar swallows, the sound of it obvious. It’s hard to think with Charles touching him like this, the hand on his stomach so dangerously close to his weeping cock, pads of his fingers denting the flesh of his thigh. Harder still when he focuses on the feeling of his full bladder, the way it aches, heavy and already desperate for release.

They’ve only done this a couple of times. The first time, he’d been so mortified that he hadn’t been able to recognise the heat in Charles’s eyes for anything other than disgust – had thought he’d blown it, cursing himself for drinking too much at the bar, for being too nervous to ask Charles if he could use his bathroom when they’d gotten back to his hotel room. He’d felt – dirty. Pathetic. Like a child, unable to control himself.

He’d left in a hurry and hadn’t expected to speak to Charles again, in truth.

When Charles had text him, Oscar had been sure it was going to be some variation of a let down, gentler than he would’ve deserved. But Charles had wanted to see him again.

He’d seemed disappointed when Oscar hadn’t wet himself. Asked him to come full and needy next time. And Oscar still doesn’t understand it, not really, but he knows it feels good and that Charles seems to agree.

“Yeah,” he breathes finally. “Whatever you want.”

Charles looks at him for a moment, long and hard. Then he smiles.

“You mean that too, don’t you?”

There isn’t any judgement in it but Oscar still cringes against the sheets, his cheeks hot. Has to avert his gaze, shrugging his shoulders in a way that he hopes seems relaxed but knows doesn’t. He’s too obvious when it comes to Charles – and how could he not be?

He’s wanted him for years. Not – not like this, but… he can’t imagine any other way now.

“Charles,” he whines instead of answering, trying to get Charles’s hand to move lower without actually grabbing it. “C’mon.”

The pressure is already building in his stomach, dense and sending alarm bells ringing. He has to force himself to ignore them, fighting against every instinct his body has to put a stop to this. Even after having done this a few times, his body wants to resist – second nature, the way his muscles tense, aching to keep everything inside.

It feels worse when Charles does get a hand around him, these slow, tight jerks that have heat sinking at the base of Oscar’s spine, his legs straining and taut, toes curling into the sheets already. He’s always been sensitive, but doing it like this, with a full bladder; it’s unlike anything he’s experienced before, this weird push and pull that he doesn’t think should feel as good as it does.

“There you go,” Charles coos above him, grip tightening almost painfully around Oscar’s cock. “You’re always so responsive, aren’t you? Always so easy for me.”

The words send a thrill down Oscar’s spine, even as blood blooms beneath the milky skin of his chest, a sure fire sign of his embarrassment. He wants to hide away from it, bury his face into the pillow; wants to tell Charles to stop and beg him to keep going, all at the same time. 

He’s never really considered himself to be easy, but. This is Charles.

Who wouldn’t be easy for Charles?

Whining high in his throat, his hips buck into Charles’s touch, a sharp stabbing in his stomach as the movement jostles the liquid around inside of him. His stomach is slightly distended, the swell of it softening the muscles of his abdomen, and Charles can’t seem to look away; Oscar’s skin burns where Charles’s eyes land, flickering between Oscar’s face, his cock, his stomach, where the evidence of his desperation is most clear.

He wants to close his legs, press his thighs together. Cross them at the knees to try and keep the mounting pressure at bay. It’s why, he realises, Charles even has that grip on one of his legs, punishing and relentless – keeping Oscar open, refusing to let him give into the instincts his body has, the automatic natural defence against the inevitable.

If he wasn’t so rock hard, Oscar knows he would have let go by now. He can practically feel the wet of it, his mind catching on the memory, eyes rolling back in his head when Charles thumbs across the leaking head of his cock.

“Aw, do you need to go?” Charles coos. He leans down and licks a path up Oscar’s chest, between the dip of his pectorals, lips pressed into a smile when Oscar gasps beneath him. “But you can’t like this, can you? Gotta come first, mon lapin.”

“Fuck,” Oscar feels overwhelmed already, struggling against Charles grip, legs thrashing. “Fuck, Charles –”

Charles takes the opportunity to press down on his stomach again, the meaty part of his palm digging beneath the muscle and Oscar’s back bows. He practically folds in half, one hand flying to try and push Charles’s hand away — ineffective, already too far gone to be able to put any real force behind it.

Charles tuts at him, applying more weight. “None of that, come on. You know what you need to do.”

And Oscar does – he does. He can feel the way his dick is leaking, so wet it feels like he might’ve already pissed himself, the tension in his stomach an awful mix of arousal and desperation, the urge to let loose the only thing he can think about. It’s at odds with his inherent need to listen to Charles, to do as Charles says. Panic enters his mind when he realises he doesn’t know if he can control it; he can feel the relief coming, the way his body tenses, dick pulsing into Charles’s hand, and he can’t do anything but sob.

He doesn’t know if he came or if he – he can’t tell, the pleasure blurring into one, mind blacking out for a moment as something releases in his stomach.

“Good boy,” Charles is saying, hand still jerking Oscar through it, the other petting more gently at his thigh now. “There you go, look at you.”

Oscar could almost sob with relief at the praise, the only sign that he’s done the right thing; done as Charles asked. But the relaxation of his muscles that follows his orgasm has his dick spurting again, this time hot and wet and messy, a pulse of urine landing on his stomach. He gasps, clenching down in his pelvis to try and stop it, eyes locking with Charles’s wide and horrified.

“Not yet,” Charles says and Oscar thinks he could cry, but he’s good. He’s so good. He squeezes down, one hand coming to grip the base of his slowly deflating cock, anything to try and keep the rest of it in.

He feels awful, suddenly, knowing that he couldn’t do it. Wasn’t able to stop completely, already having lessened some of the weight on his bladder. But Charles seems to know instantly, one hand brushing back through Oscar’s sweaty hair, lips pressing against Oscar’s far gentler than anything else they’ve done tonight.

“It’s okay,” Charles promises. “You did so well. Just a little longer, okay?”

Before Oscar can even nod his affirmation, Charles is slinking down the bed, folding himself into the space between Oscar’s legs. He doesn’t even look at Oscar before he ducks his head down, licking up the streaks of come painted across Oscar’s stomach; working his way down lower until he’s suckling at Oscar’s spent and overstimulated dick, ignoring the high, wounded sound Oscar makes above.

He wonders what it tastes like, the bitter mix of it, and feels mildly fucked up at the heat that thought sends licking down his spine.

“Charles,” he moans, legs twitching with the overstimulation, the pressure in his bladder back and impossible to ignore now, without the arousal keeping him hard and leaking. “Please, I need – need to go, please,”

Charles doesn’t answer initially, taking his time as he continues his cleaning process, slurping emphatically at the head of Oscar’s cock before licking a keen stripe up the length of it, his smile dangerous when Oscar shouts.

“Go, then,” he presses up to his knees, eyes intent on Oscar’s dick; tongue peeking out over the plush cushion of his lower lip. “Go on, mon lapin, now.”

It’s all Oscar needs as he finally lets go properly, a steady stream of piss erupting from his dick, coating his thighs and stomach and lap, wetting the waterproof sheet laid out beneath him. He can’t help but moan through it, the satisfaction somehow better than any orgasm he’s ever had, body feeling lax as he sinks into the mattress. Distantly, he recognises that this should feel far more embarrassing than it does – his mind is buzzing with a low hum, vision feeling blurry, but he can see Charles through it all, the way his fingers dig harder into Oscar’s thigh, the guttural groan he makes as he watches Oscar wet himself.

“Good boy, fuck, fuck, you’re so good,” he stumbles over his words, the most affected Oscar has ever seen Charles, and then he’s gripping himself in his hand, stripping his dick rough and fast and fierce. “Merde, you’re so hot, look at you – so fucking dirty, so easy,” he gasps when he comes, aiming his release all over Oscar’s stomach and lap, groaning with the way it mixes in with the liquid already spilled, fingers rubbing absently through the mess of Oscar’s thigh. “You made such a mess, mon lapin, look at this…”

Oscar whimpers, hands flying up to cover his face as it finally hits. Like it has every time, the overwhelming embarrassment that settles in too late. But Charles is already shushing him, hands curling around Oscar’s wrists to pull his hands away.