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Sean had been aching to meet her.
Ms. Braganza.
To some, she was a rumor. To others, a late-night fantasy wrapped in silk and self-control. But to Sean, she was something else entirely. A force. A hunger he'd never been able to quiet. She was the kind of woman you didn't just want--you ached for her. Men didn't chase her with flowers or dinner dates. They earned her through obedience, suffering, denial.
And tonight... he might finally touch her.
She was exactly how he'd imagined her: long, olive-toned legs crossed with elegance, her full breasts pressing softly beneath a tight silk blouse, and that hair--dark and glossy, cascading like a curtain of temptation down her back. But it was her eyes that undid him. Steel-gray and sharp, like she could read every filthy thought he'd ever had... and approve of them.
After weeks of trials--endless hours of tormenting bladder control tests, humiliating challenges, ruthless eliminations--Sean was the last one left. The final man standing.
All he had to do now... was hold it.
Not his breath. Not his nerve.
His piss.
There had been only one rule.
Light-colored, slim-fit formalwear -- crisp shirt, pale slacks, no jeans, no dark tones to mask failure.
It was part of the contract, scrawled in fine print at the bottom of the competition rules: "To be considered for final rounds, attire must include fitted, professional clothing in light hues. Visibility of struggle is part of the test."
Sean had signed without blinking.
He'd wanted this too badly.
And now, hours later, the pale gray slacks clung to his thighs like a second skin, the front of them visibly strained from the pressure of his painfully swollen bladder -- and the ache of arousal. Any hint of wetness would show in an instant. There was no hiding it.
That was the point.
Ms. Braganza wanted her men seen in desperation.
This wasn't just some sleazy fetish game. It was a selection process. A psychological test. Each phase more punishing than the last, each step crafted not just to test endurance -- but to break the illusion of control, piece by piece.
Sean had survived them all.
Round One had seemed simple enough. The Water Gauntlet. A full bladder, then six full glasses of ice-cold water in succession. The moment the final glass hit the table, the timer began. Ten minutes. No crossing legs. No grabbing. No expression. One strike and you were out. The room was silent save for the sound of men breathing through clenched teeth, sweat beading on brows as their pants grew tighter by the minute. Sean had walked out dry, jaw set, cock aching.
Round Two was the Stimulation Chamber. Each contestant seated in a private booth while erotic audio played -- whispers, breathy moans, the sound of running water, dripping faucets layered with the gentle echo of a woman sighing into a microphone, whispering "Don't you want to let it go? I know you're full..." Speakers amplified every squirm. Sean lasted fifteen minutes. When he emerged, his slacks were visibly tented, the fabric tight around his groin, but still dry.
Round Three was the Tease Line. Contestants stood in front of Braganza's female assistants, women trained in the art of suggestion. One leaned in and asked Sean what it felt like, knowing he could ruin those nice pants at any second. Another slid her hand down his thigh -- slowly, not touching his crotch, just skimming the muscle above his knee, as she whispered, "Bet you're dripping already."
He wasn't.
But he wanted to.
Round Four was the worst. The Motion Test. Contestants were made to do slow squats, lunges, and toe-touches -- all with a bladder stretched to the limit. Each movement pressed Sean's abdomen tighter, his internal organs rearranging around the solid, throbbing weight in his belly. Every bend threatened disaster. By the tenth lunge, he'd started to feel warm at the tip. By the fifteenth, a single drop had leaked into his briefs.
But no one saw. The pants were still clean. Barely.
He made it to the final round.
Only one other contestant remained at that point. A redhead with thighs clenched like a vice and a spot forming in the crotch of his beige trousers. He was escorted out.
And Sean was told to wait.
"Final evaluation will be in one hour," the receptionist said. "Make sure you're still full. She doesn't like quitters."
And then she'd handed him the citrus drink. That cursed, bubbling concoction designed to force every remaining ounce of fluid into his system.
Now, seated alone in the sterile white waiting room, Sean's legs jittered, sweat staining the back of his pressed white shirt. His bladder was no longer just full -- it was screaming. Each minute was its own eternity.
The fabric of his pants clung tighter than ever, the pale material leaving nothing to the imagination. He could see the faint outline of his cock, the wet spot forming at the tip of it, where another leak had just escaped. Just a dime-sized stain... for now.
His thighs squeezed together. His teeth dug into his lip. His thoughts raced.
Don't piss yourself. Don't fuck this up. Don't blow your chance.
He imagined her watching through hidden cameras. Watching him suffer. Maybe touching herself. The thought made his cock throb again, which only made everything worse. He had to pee so badly it hurt, and his arousal only made the pressure more unbearable.
He bent over, hissing softly, clutching himself as discreetly as he could. His heart was pounding.
"Please..." he whispered, but he didn't even know who he was begging. Her? His own body?
There was nothing left to do but endure.
Another spasm tore through him, and he let out a quiet, desperate sound. He clamped a hand between his legs. It was humiliating -- and thrilling. Part of him liked that he was trapped. That he was being watched. Judged.
He shuffled toward the far corner, pulse racing. No cameras. No bottles. No trash can. Nothing. He glanced at the locked door one more time. Still no sound. He was going to break.
Then, finally--
Click.
He froze, every muscle in his body tightening like a pulled wire.
And then--she walked in.
Ms. Braganza.
And she looked pleased.
Her eyes scanned him slowly, hungrily, like she was devouring every inch of his wrecked body--the sweat, the trembling, the bulge in his pants, the wet stain beginning to spread. He was ruined, undone, leaking... and somehow, she made it feel like that was perfect.
But before he could speak--another figure stepped through the door behind her.
Sean's stomach turned to ice.
"... Richie?" he croaked.
His boyfriend stood calmly. Not shocked. Not angry. Just... watching. Eyes flicking over Sean's desperate form with something that looked a lot like curiosity. Like approval.
Sean's hand was still frozen on his zipper. His face burned with shame and heat and guilt and need.
Ms. Braganza stepped forward, voice like silk dragged across bare skin.
"Well," she said, closing the door behind her with a quiet click, "looks like the real test is just beginning."
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