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Fuck Peter Benton. He's a smarmy, arrogant dickhead with the world's largest stick up his ass. He's too goddamn observant for his own good—having figured out exactly what makes Carter tick within mere weeks of knowing him. After two years? Carter's practically made of glass for how clearly Benton sees through him.
He homed in on Carter's… proclivities and sunk his teeth in, refusing to let go. It started with a haphazard "good boy" thrown out in the midst of a trauma. A parting squeeze to his flank on the way out of a room. Standing far too close to be normal for a mentor, but not close enough to satisfy the burning under Carter's skin.
It wasn't his proudest moment, but dragging Benton by the collar of his scrubs into sutures and shoving him up against the wall to kiss him was the hottest thing Carter had ever done. His heart was threatening to burst out of his chest when he pulled back, panting. Benton's face was unreadable, as always, and despite the dizzying glint of John's saliva clinging to his bottom lip, he still managed to look down his nose at him and mutter, "Took you long enough."
Thus began the most torrid and maddening affair John's ever been a part of. He should've expected the amount of control Peter would demand. He has all these stupid rules he expects John to follow; the most frustrating thing is he doesn't even check if his student is following them. He just assumes that John will do whatever he says and he's right; John's never broken a rule. It makes him feel pathetic, chasing after Peter like a puppy to an apathetic owner, but he can't deny how hard it makes him.
This morning, right before rounds, Carter had tried to excuse himself to the restroom when a heavy, familiar hand landed on his shoulder.
"You can wait. It reflects poorly on me to be waiting around for my student," Benton murmured hotly in his ear.
He swallowed thickly, doing his best to ignore the tugging in his bladder. "Yeah, okay."
Then again, before their first scheduled surgery of the day:
"Carter!"
He resisted the urge to roll his eyes when he spun on his heel less than three feet away from the restroom to meet Benton's expectant gaze.
"Let's go. I'm not in the habit of falling behind on my schedule and you will not be the reason I start," he orders.
"Dr. Benton, I just need two minutes and then I will be right there," he tries, edging closer towards the door.
His brow lifts imperiously. "When I give you an order, you listen."
"I know," he groans, annoyed.
"Then why are you being difficult?" He doesn't even sound angry, the bastard.
"I have to piss!" He blurts out before shutting his mouth with an audible click. Benton just studies his face, blankly, and Carter's suddenly embarrassed by his outburst. Before he can try and backtrack or apologize for his crassness, Peter speaks.
"I know." He doesn't elaborate.
"Okay… then I will see you in a minute," Carter says, slowly backing into the men's room.
"I want you to hold it."
He swallows down a shocked squeak. "You what!?"
"You heard me," Benton replies, cool and collected the way Carter could only dream of being.
"Why..?" He can't help but be curious, they've never done anything like this before.
"Either you hold it or you don't. It doesn't matter to me, Carter," he shrugs before turning back towards the surgical suite and leaving Carter standing halfway in the men's room, head reeling and dick stiffening in his scrubs.
Carter holds it. Of course he does, there wasn't even a thought given to disobeying Benton.
It gets easier to ignore. If he's being honest, the pressure building up in his bladder is kind of hot. Knowing that not only is he giving up control over his own body to Peter, but that he's doing it all of his own volition. There are no check ins, no punishments for failure, it all relies on Carter's self control and desire to please. If he's lucky, there'll be some kind of reward at the end of this.
He'd better be getting fucking lucky. Halfway into their shift, Peter started acting weird. He always seemed to be nearby, constantly orbiting around Carter no matter where he was in the hospital.
"Here," he'd prompt, nudging Carter's shoulder with a little paper cup of water while sipping on his own. The gesture made something warm fizzle in his chest, a little touch of care that Benton so rarely lets show.
It got old so fast.
Now, as John sits at the table in the lounge poring over patient charts, his leg bouncing a mile a minute, he sees what kind of sick, twisted game Peter was playing. He knows Carter isn't allowed to relieve himself. He knows Carter's been holding it for the better part of six hours. He knows that Carter will listen to him without a second thought.
Asshole.
He stews in the injustice of the hole he dug himself while trying very hard not to think of the throbbing length currently tucked up into his waistband, poorly hidden by an old sweatshirt tied around his waist. He can't take this much longer, he's close to bursting. Surely Peter has to know that the human body has limits, that if Carter fails, it's not his fault… Right?
"Carter, come."
Speak of the devil.
Carter bounces up to Peter's side, listening to him talk shop about the last surgery on the docket today—an emergency appendectomy that he took on. "—So you'll have to stay past the end of your shift, I already told Anspaugh you were alright with it."
That stops him in his tracks. "Hey, that's not fair!" He knows he sounds petulant, like a child. But his patience is rapidly growing thin and his emotions are all out of whack because all he can think about is how badly he has to pee.
"Being a surgeon isn't fair, Carter," he scoffs. Peter looks him up and down and he can't help but wonder what he sees. Does he recognize the tapping of his foot as a coping strategy? Can he see the way his thighs tense and relax over and over? Is his hard on obvious against the usually smooth line of his hips? Can he make out just the slightest swell of his lower abdomen—physical evidence of the power he holds over his student?
Peter takes a step toward him, placing a feather-light palm below his belly button. Carter feels dizzy.
"C'mon, don't you want to be good for once? To impress me?" He croons into the space between them. Carter nods, shakily, eyes locked on Peter's. He presses against Carter's overfull bladder ever so slightly, just to hear him squeal.
"Please—!" Carter doesn't know if he wants him to stop or press even harder.
To his dismay, Peter steps away. "You've been doing so well, don't disappoint me now," he tuts.
Carter is going to explode. He's going to piss all over the stupid OR and get kicked out of the program and he's going to kiss the past seven years of his life goodbye and it's all going to be his own fucking fault.
He follows after Peter anyway.
Carter is dead on his feet. The effort of controlling his bladder well past the point of comfort has exhausted him. Luckily, the locker room is empty when shuffles his way in. A sharp pang in his gut forces him to sit heavily on the bench and breathe through the pain.
He hears the door creak open. "Jesus Christ, not now," he grumbles under his breath.
Footsteps come to a stop in front of him—he recognizes the sneakers.
"Carter, get up," Peter barks.
"I can't, I really really can't," he whines, panting.
"You can," he states simply. Without warning, he hauls Carter up with his hands under his arms.
"Wait—Peter—!" He protests, squeezing his thighs as tight as he can as he's all but dragged into the nearest shower stall. Peter stands him up, steps out of the stall, and gives the boy a once over. Carter's almost certain he leaked a tiny bit on the way over, but he can't stand the embarrassment of knowing, so he doesn't look.
"Okay," Peter says expectantly.
"Huh?"
"Go on. Let go, you're allowed." He gestures towards Carter's crotch.
"Wh—here??"
"Yes."
Peter isn't going to budge on this.
"…can I at least close the curtain?" He can't believe he's entertaining this… yes he can.
"No. I want to watch."
Carter tries to meet his eye, get a sense of how serious he's being, but Peter's focus is zeroed in on the near-permanent half chub pressing against the thin material of his scrubs. He glances down and sure enough, the green fabric has a small dark spot where he couldn't clench fast enough.
He squirms in discomfort, embarrassed at being on display like this. The thought of… wetting himself in front of his superior, his mentor, his Peter feels like an insurmountable task.
"Carter…" Peter admonishes, tapping his foot impatiently.
He squeezes his eyes shut, tears flooding his lash line. "I can't! It's… dirty…" he whines.
"Just try, I know you want to. Won't it feel so good to finally let go? You've spent the whole day trying so hard to control yourself—to make me happy—this is your reward."
Carter heaves in a stuttering breath, tears slipping down his cheeks, and tries to focus on relaxing. His bladder screams at him and his knees shake—every fiber in his body sending signals that this is wrong. He can't do it. He lets out a pathetic sob, "Peter…"
"You need my help? You can't even do this on your own? Poor baby," Peter coos as he steps into the stall and crowds Carter against the cool tile. Carter knows, vaguely, that he's being demeaned, but his senses are quickly overwhelmed by the close proximity and he whines wordlessly, pressing his face into the warmth of Peter's neck.
"That's alright, you can hide, just let me help you." That terrible awful perfect incredible hand is back, tugging his scrub top up and coming to rest against his throbbing bladder. "How much do you think this is?" He muses, jostling Carter a bit so he can feel the ache even more intensely. "500 milliliters? 650? It's incredible; you're so full it almost looks like you're in the second trimester."
Carter doesn't even try to stifle the whimper that comes out at that. He knows Peter saw his cock twitch, anyway.
Peter chuckles lowly. "We'll revisit that. Right now, all I want you to do is relax and let me help." He presses against his straining bladder, gradually applying more and more pressure. Carter cries out and begs nonsensically for Peter to stop, to keep going, to help him, he doesn't know anymore.
"I can't—I don't wanna—it hurts—"
"You can. You can and you will, because I want you to," Peter says simply, like it's a matter of fact.
With one final, firm jab, the dam breaks and Carter shakes with heaving sobs as he wets himself. His scrubs darken in rapidly spreading trails down both legs and the acrid scent fills the room. He moans softly at the relief that's been just out of reach all day. It feels like he pisses forever, he didn't think it was possible to store this much urine, but he's not complaining. It's almost as good as an orgasm, this extended release after hours of torture.
Peter is oddly quiet, hand still resting against Carter's stomach. When the stream slows to a trickle, he presses down firmly yet again—ignoring Carter's alarmed cry—and forces several more spurts out of him.
The boy is shaking, letting out little whimpers amidst his sobs. Peter's other hand rubs across the back of his shoulders, soothing him. "That's it, let it all out, you're okay," he murmurs into Carter's hair.
When he comes back down to Earth, Carter croaks, "Did I do it?"
Peter pulls back to look him in the eye, a warm smile on his face. "You made me very proud."
Carter's eyes slide shut and his mouth slowly spreads in a lazy grin. "Thank you, sir."
Peter hums and pats Carter's cheek with his wet, soiled hand. "Good boy, Carter," he praises before stepping out of the stall, washing his hands at the sink, and leaving locker room without another word.
Carter feels humiliated and wrung out, but he's never been so achingly hard. Left alone in an empty locker room, covered in his own mess, abandoned as soon as Peter got what he wanted—like he was nothing but a toy.
He can't wait to do this again.