An intense urge struck him, bending him at the waist, almost throwing him off balance, which was a feat for Clint who practically lived up high like this. He was sure he was going to wet his pants if he stayed here any longer. And S.H.I.E.L.D. agents did not have accidents. S.H.I.E.L.D. agents were clever. They improvised. “I’m getting down.”
“Negative, Barton.”
“But I’ve really got to piss. You don’t understand how bad.”
“I understand that we’re going to have a talk about this later. But until then, you’re holding your position just like you’re holding your bladder. That’s an order.”
“I’m not going to make it,” it sounded so close to a whimper. Barton’s hands felt moist with sweat and he was sure the one shoved down the front of his pants might already be moist with something else. He could imagine the piss coming out, drop by drop, from the tip into his shorts.
“Then just stop complaining and go.”
Barton knew that command meant he should whip it out and piss. But he didn’t want to leave a trace of himself there for the patrolmen to find or slip in. DNA tests wouldn’t be beyond this Vince Cloves’ abilities, and he didn’t need proof that someone was onto him. That would put the entire operation, not to mention Natasha, at risk. So Barton heard the words, and purposefully misinterpreted it.
With his bow strapped onto his back, he began climbing down the tree. When he got to the bottom, he threw off his equipment and took off his vest. Shirtless and with his hand at his crotch because if he didn’t squeeze, he’d lose it in his pants, he headed for the gate.
The guard on duty recognized him from earlier, when the party had been in full swing and when Clint had purposefully asked him for a light. It had been Clint’s plan to be memorable, which was hard to do when most men only had eyes for Natasha. Clint slid into his false identity at once, claiming his car had broken down and that he’d walked back, drunk, because he needed to pee.
“Barton!” Coulson scolded. “You are not authorized to—”
“Thanks,” Clint said, as the guard let him past the gate and Clint hurried up the walk toward the house. For Coulson’s benefit, he said, “I just need a quick piss. He’ll never suspect.”
“If he slipped you a diuretic, he already suspects.”
But Clint wasn’t sure that was true. And, even if it were, it would be better to play his part and figure out what the man was up to. So he walked up to the front door, rang the bell, and took his hand off his crotch just as the door opened. The butler was not pleased to see him. But Clint begged and rambled for long enough for Mr. Cloves to see what the matter was.
“Vince, hey buddy,” Clint’s undercover persona spoke slowly, and he was trying to keep his desperation from ruining that. “My car broke down a couple blocks from here. My driver called a garage, but I’ve really got to go and there’s no way in hell I’m doing it on the side of the road where anyone could see when I know someone with a perfectly good toilet. So, can I…?”
Vince gestured toward the guest bathroom and Clint made his way there in haste. He caught a glimpse of Natasha in one of the rooms and she flashed him a quick sign that was her fiddling with her left earring to let him know she was all right. She probably thought he’d made up an excuse to come in and rescue her when, in reality, all he could truthfully think about was the toilet.
Once he was inside, it was almost impossible to not piss his pants. He had to squeeze his dick as he put up the toilet seat. The need intensified so much at the prospect of being so damn close to peeing that he whimpered and danced on one foot then the other as he unbuttoned and unzipped his pants.
“Calm down, Barton,” Coulson’s voice said suddenly in his ear. “You’re going to make it.” He sounded so reassuring, easy for him to be calm when it wasn’t his bladder flailing about, desperate to empty.
no subject
An intense urge struck him, bending him at the waist, almost throwing him off balance, which was a feat for Clint who practically lived up high like this. He was sure he was going to wet his pants if he stayed here any longer. And S.H.I.E.L.D. agents did not have accidents. S.H.I.E.L.D. agents were clever. They improvised. “I’m getting down.”
“Negative, Barton.”
“But I’ve really got to piss. You don’t understand how bad.”
“I understand that we’re going to have a talk about this later. But until then, you’re holding your position just like you’re holding your bladder. That’s an order.”
“I’m not going to make it,” it sounded so close to a whimper. Barton’s hands felt moist with sweat and he was sure the one shoved down the front of his pants might already be moist with something else. He could imagine the piss coming out, drop by drop, from the tip into his shorts.
“Then just stop complaining and go.”
Barton knew that command meant he should whip it out and piss. But he didn’t want to leave a trace of himself there for the patrolmen to find or slip in. DNA tests wouldn’t be beyond this Vince Cloves’ abilities, and he didn’t need proof that someone was onto him. That would put the entire operation, not to mention Natasha, at risk. So Barton heard the words, and purposefully misinterpreted it.
With his bow strapped onto his back, he began climbing down the tree. When he got to the bottom, he threw off his equipment and took off his vest. Shirtless and with his hand at his crotch because if he didn’t squeeze, he’d lose it in his pants, he headed for the gate.
The guard on duty recognized him from earlier, when the party had been in full swing and when Clint had purposefully asked him for a light. It had been Clint’s plan to be memorable, which was hard to do when most men only had eyes for Natasha. Clint slid into his false identity at once, claiming his car had broken down and that he’d walked back, drunk, because he needed to pee.
“Barton!” Coulson scolded. “You are not authorized to—”
“Thanks,” Clint said, as the guard let him past the gate and Clint hurried up the walk toward the house. For Coulson’s benefit, he said, “I just need a quick piss. He’ll never suspect.”
“If he slipped you a diuretic, he already suspects.”
But Clint wasn’t sure that was true. And, even if it were, it would be better to play his part and figure out what the man was up to. So he walked up to the front door, rang the bell, and took his hand off his crotch just as the door opened. The butler was not pleased to see him. But Clint begged and rambled for long enough for Mr. Cloves to see what the matter was.
“Vince, hey buddy,” Clint’s undercover persona spoke slowly, and he was trying to keep his desperation from ruining that. “My car broke down a couple blocks from here. My driver called a garage, but I’ve really got to go and there’s no way in hell I’m doing it on the side of the road where anyone could see when I know someone with a perfectly good toilet. So, can I…?”
Vince gestured toward the guest bathroom and Clint made his way there in haste. He caught a glimpse of Natasha in one of the rooms and she flashed him a quick sign that was her fiddling with her left earring to let him know she was all right. She probably thought he’d made up an excuse to come in and rescue her when, in reality, all he could truthfully think about was the toilet.
Once he was inside, it was almost impossible to not piss his pants. He had to squeeze his dick as he put up the toilet seat. The need intensified so much at the prospect of being so damn close to peeing that he whimpered and danced on one foot then the other as he unbuttoned and unzipped his pants.
“Calm down, Barton,” Coulson’s voice said suddenly in his ear. “You’re going to make it.” He sounded so reassuring, easy for him to be calm when it wasn’t his bladder flailing about, desperate to empty.