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Roman usually doesn't wear pants for this type of thing, but Gerri had insisted it would be better if he did. The humiliation of wetting them and whatnot.
It had been her idea. Somehow. He's still reeling at it, at the fact that of all the things Gerri secretly gets off on the answer would be piss. It's not all that out of the norm, considering she doesn't want to piss on him, only wanted him to piss himself, which in his book is only halfway to full watersports. Not that he knows anything about it, except for that one time he absolutely did.
Fun fact: piss tastes horrible. Like a spoiled lemon. So maybe it's good that Gerri's interests don't lean that way, as much as he would lick the floor clean of any bodily fluid she produced.
He's been drinking water, yeah, and he's wearing pants as he leans against Gerri while she watches TV, settled on the floor next to her, all domestic if it wasn't for the kneeling and the collar and the leash firm around her fingers, reminding him that she's in control, not that he needs any reminding.
"You're being such a good puppy right now, Roman," Gerri praises, massaging his scalp with her free hand, making him whine lowly, nosing at her pant leg. "I'm sure you'll tell me when you need to go, right? That's what outside is for."
They're at her apartment. There is no outside to relieve himself in. Only her immaculate apartment, beautiful dark hardwood floors, ready to be soiled with her desires and his desire to fill them, every last one, no matter how disgusting they are. He has always known, logically, that she's just as much of a pervert as he is, I mean, considering she indulged him from the start without breaking a sweat, but he still reels over every discovery, every thing Gerri wants to do to him.
"Yes, mistress," he says breathlessly.
It takes a while for his body to start screaming at him to go to the bathroom. When it does, he starts to shift in his place on the floor, pressing his thighs together, staring at the hardwood and not at Gerri's feet like he usually is.
"Are you alright, pup?" Gerri says, all innocent, but there's a knowing smirk in her voice.
"I'm good, mistress," he replies. "I'm good."
"Are you sure? If I need to take you outside you can just tell me."
He whines. "I don't wanna be a bother."
"You aren't. You're being very good." She stands up and starts to lead him away from the couch, toward the bathroom, tugging at his leash. He squeaks and follows her lead, crawling on his hands and knees, always a dog, a sick little slime puppy. The idea came from her words, but overall it was his—he's always been a sick puppy, and he's happy for Gerri to reinforce it.
They're about to get to the bathroom when Roman feels it trickle down his pant leg, and he stops moving. He lets out a pathetic whine, his face flushing pink. He's never actually done this—yes, he used to wet the bed, but that wasn't because he got off on it, so—and it feels weird. Sticky.
Gerri tugs at his leash, insistent, before she turns to look at him. She gasps.
"Roman!" she exclaims, so cutting one could think they didn't plan this. He lets up completely now that she's aware, moaning out in relief as it trickles down his leg, stains his pants and drips down onto the hardwood floor, starting to create a puddle. His face is flushed crimson, his body trembling as he relieves himself right then and there. "Bad dog. What the fuck is wrong with you?" He flinches as she leans closer and gives him a gentle but firm slap on the cheek. "Very bad puppy. You're disgusting, Roman, god, how am I supposed to keep you if you aren't even house trained?"
Roman makes a pitiful noise, and he's still pissing himself, tears sliding down his cheeks. He chances a look at Gerri and sees the way her face is flushed red, eyes alight with interest, how she's starting to undo her pants, sneaking a hand underneath her panties, touching herself as she watches him lose control. "I'm sorry—" he croaks out.
"Don't start with that now," she snaps, and she lets out a quiet moan. "God, you're pathetic, I should give you right back for someone else to adopt, you're lucky you're cute."
He whimpers, a sob escaping out of his mouth as he finishes, for the most part, only a light drip coming out of his dick now. His pants and boxers are absolutely ruined and he's kneeling on the mess, his hands barely avoiding it as he stares at a point in the wall instead of facing Gerri's wrath.
"You're crying? God, you're not the one that'll have to clean this off. You should be ashamed of yourself, Roman, you're a grown dog and you can't even get to the bathroom in time. Are you going to piss all over my couch next, huh? At least I don't let you sit on it. You don't deserve that."
He whines at that. He's starting to get hard in his mess, now that he's stopped relieving himself, his body alight with arousal and shame, the humiliation of what just happened, he's never felt more alive as tears stream down his face—he knows Gerri likes that too, likes seeing him break, as vulnerable as he'll ever be in presence of someone else.
"What, are you hard now, puppy?" She steps away from him. "You make me sick, no, how can you like this? How can you like making a mess? No one else would put up with you, you know, Roman? Anyone else would take you right back to where they found you. I don't know how I put up with you."
He moans, brokenly. Her words make him dizzy, he's so fucked, he's a mess, he's already completely hard, it straining against his wet, sticky boxers. His head is reeling, he wants to submit completely, he wants her to eat off his back, he wants her to beat him senseless, he wants her to ignore him until he breaks down. He wants anything and everything that will mean she will be mean to him, because that's all he deserves.
"Will you be good after this? Are you going to piss all over my good floors again?"
"I won't, mistress, I promise I won't, I'll be good."
"You need a punishment, don't you? How will I believe you'll be good if you don't get punished?" He chances another look at her—she's jerking off fully now, thumbing her clit, soft breaths leaving her mouth every other word, she looks perfect. Roman would piss himself a thousand times over if it means he gets to see her in the throes of pleasure. "Maybe I should keep you in the cage for the night, really teach you a lesson. No sleeping at my feet."
Roman comes. It's so sudden, and maybe at the mention of the cage (don't ask), but he comes—he gasps and his hips stutter into the air as his boxers get even more ruined. He whimpers through it and then hears Gerri moan lowly.
When they're both back on Earth, Gerri looks down at him and he sees her soften.
"Come on, Roman," she says, and her demeanor changes clear as day, like the director just yelled cut. "Let's get you cleaned up."
"Yeah," he agrees, happy to follow her as he stands up. "You had a good time, little piss freak?"
Gerri rolls her eyes as she starts to run a bath. "You don't have any room to say that. And yes, I did."
"I had a good time too, not that you care," he snarks, although he knows she does care.
She scoffs and pulls him into a quick kiss. "You're lucky I'm keeping you, pup."
He melts at that—he's easy, especially in his post-orgasmic haze. "Yes. So lucky," he agrees.