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The first thing Jungkook felt was the emptiness. A hollowing in his sleep-fogged body, a coolness where there should have been weight. The heavy silicone plug that filled him through the night was gone. Consciousness drifted closer as his pussy fluttered around nothing.
Behind him, the sheets shifted. The bedroom was still dark; there was still time for the sun to rise. Breath, not his own, skimmed the nape of his neck. One large hand settled on his hip, possessive and warm, fingertips gripping the flesh just above the dip of his waist. The plug had been tugged free so gently he hadn’t even stirred; now his hole was empty, slick and ready from the lubricant that still clung to his walls.
“Stay still.”
Namjoon’s voice, low and rough with sleep, pressed against his spine. Jungkook’s lips parted but he didn’t speak. He never needed to. His whole existence in this apartment had narrowed down into a single purpose: receptacle. The blunt head of his master’s soft cock nudged against his entrance.
No buildup. No prep beyond the ghost of the plug’s stretch. Just the insistent push.
His inner walls gave way with a wet, wanting sound. Jungkook’s fingers curled into the pillow, his jaw slackening. The intrusion was thick and familiar. Namjoon’s hips pressed flush to his ass, pubic bone against the swell of his cheeks, and for a long moment neither of them moved.
Then the heat came.
It started as a single point of warmth blooming at his deepest place. Jungkook’s breath caught—a hiccup in his throat—as the sensation radiated outward, a liquid rising inside him. Namjoon was pissing. The stream, slow at first, then gained confidence, flooding into him. A strange, humming pressure that made his thighs tremble and his pussy clench.
This was Jungkook’s morning purpose: to be the vessel that received his master’s first release of the day. The urine pooled in his belly, a living weight. He imagined he could feel the heat of it through his abdominal wall, a phantom sensation that made his eyes roll back. Namjoon’s exhale was a long, shuddering thing against his shoulder blade.
“Good boy,” RM murmured, the words pressed into skin like a brand. “Hold it.”
Jungkook’s inner muscles clenched involuntarily, as if they understood the command better than his brain. The stream finally stopped. RM pulled out with a pop, leaving him empty and dripping, pussy fluttering around the sudden emptiness again. Before a single drop could escape, something cold replaced the cock. The plug. It was different from the night. This one was shorter, with a flared base that sealed him completely. Jungkook whimpered as it sank inside, trapping the liquid warmth inside.
Namjoon’s hand patted his flank once, brisk, almost clinical. “Back to sleep.”
Jungkook felt him leave the bed. Then the bathroom light flicked on across the hall. Water ran. Jungkook curled onto his side, one hand sliding protectively over the swell of his lower belly. The plug made itself known with every tiny shift, a constant pressure against his swollen walls. He let his eyes close, adrift in the weighted, sloshing fullness, and let the world dissolve again.
When he woke the second time, the apartment was empty. Sunlight cut golden rectangles across the bedroom floor. Jungkook moved slowly, hyper-aware of the liquid cargo inside him. The walk to the kitchen was a careful, rolling gait, each step a negotiation with the plug. The pressure had shifted, no longer just warmth but a low, insistent urge. His body wanted to release his own full bladder. He wouldn’t let it.
He prepared lunch with that tension riding shotgun. Kimchi jjigae, the way Namjoon liked it. Extra soft tofu, a generous pour of gochugaru oil pooling crimson on the surface. By the time the door clicked open at half-past noon, the table was set, the rice perfectly steamed, the banchan dish arranged in neat little dishes. Jungkook knelt by the door, forehead to the floor.
“Welcome home, Master.”
Namjoon removed his shoes. A hand drifted down to cup the back of Jungkook’s skull, thumb brushing the short hairs at his nape. “Smells good.”
They ate in silence. Namjoon at the table with Jungkook on his knees beside him, waiting. The stew disappeared along with two bowls of rice. Every slurp, every clink of spoon against stoneware, ratcheted Jungkook’s awareness tighter around the plug. He’d held it for hours now. The constant pressure of carrying his own bladder and his master’s made his toes curl against the hardwood. His hole ached to gape, to expel.
Finally, Namjoon pushed the bowl away and stood. He jerked his chin toward the kitchen island.
“Bend over the counter.”
Jungkook’s heart kicked. He scrambled upright, the movement sloshing the liquid inside him dangerously. Bending over the cool countertop, he presented his ass and pussy, the plug’s jewelled base glinting under the light. His cheek pressed to the stone. He could see their reflection in the dark window glass: his own flushed face, and Master stepping behind him, loosening his belt.
Fingers found the plug. Twisted it just to hear Jungkook’s broken moan. Then, with agonising slowness, they drew it out.
The release was immediate. Jungkook’s hole spasmed, the morning’s collected piss surging to the threshold. A single hot bead welled up, began to spill when Namjoon’s cock, still soft, thick as a wrist, pushed in and plugged him completely.
Jungkook cried out, a ragged sound muffled by his own forearm. The pressure was immense, the head of Namjoon’s cock ramming past his desperate sphincter, sealing the flood back inside. He grunted, hips flush, and then the second heat began. Fresh urine, hotter than the load he’d held, poured directly into his hole. It gushed for what felt like minutes, a steady, merciless flood that distended his belly and made his vision swim. His pussy was a cauldron now, brimming.
Namjoon leaned over, chest plastering to Jungkook’s sweat-damp spine. “You held it so well. Now you get more.”
The stream finally trickled to a stop. Namjoon pulled out and quickly stuffed the plug back in before he started leaking all over the kitchen floor. Master then spun Jungkook around by the hips, pushing him down to his knees. Jungkook’s knees hit the tile with a thud. Master’s cock was half hard now, glistening with their combined fluid—bobbed inches from his parted lips. A bead of amber-tinted liquid gathered at the slit.
“Open.”
Jungkook’s mouth was already stretching wide, tongue extended to catch that trembling bead. It landed: warm, bitter, thick with the salt of Namjoon’s body. Then the stream resumed, a thin, controlled arc that splashed against his tongue and flooded his cheeks. Jungkook sealed his lips around the shaft just in time, swallowing in desperate, rhythmic gulps. Each mouthful tasted of ammonia and home. He sucked like a human drainpipe, not letting a single drop escape the corners of his stretched smile.
The stream slowed down. Namjoon’s hand fisted in Jungkook’s hair, tilting his head back to catch the final drips. When nothing more came, Jungkook opened his mouth, pink and empty, tongue lolling in proof.
Namjoon smiled down at him. “Perfect.”
“But you know there’s still the afternoon to get through. You’ll be wearing the plug until dinner.”
The evening moved slower than usual. Every clock in the apartment seemed to mock him. The microwave, the stove, the digital display on the cable box; all ticking forward with malicious slowness. Jungkook moved through the rooms on autopilot, dusting shelves that didn’t need dusting, refolding hand towels until the creases could cut. The plug sat deep inside him, a stopper on a dam that had been accumulating pressure since dawn.
His bladder, neglected since the morning, now screamed for a release that he wasn’t in control of.
He’d sipped water to stay hydrated despite the full bladder. Namjoon liked his piss not too concentrated when he was finally allowed a release, and every drop added to the ballooning urgency low in his abdomen. By four o’clock, Jungkook had developed a tremor in his hands. The urge to squat and release, to let his own piss gush down his thighs, was a constant, gnawing presence. But the rule was iron: no relief until bedtime. Everything he made, everything his master deposited inside him, stayed until the nightly ritual. He clenched his thighs together, paced in small circles, and breathed through his nose.
The plug’s base pressed against the swollen tissue of his rim, a reminder that the liquid load from the morning and lunch. Namjoon’s warm, yellow-tinged offering churned inside him with every step. His boypussy felt like a waterskin stretched to bursting.
At 7:30, the front door lock clicked.
Jungkook’s heart stuttered. He dropped the feather duster and scurried to the entryway, dropping into his greeting kneel, forehead to the cool floorboards. The door swung open. Master’s large frame filled the threshold, backlit by the hallway fluorescents.
“Master. Welcome home.”
Namjoon removed his shoes. A moment of silence, then a hand tangled in Jungkook’s hair, tilting his head back. His gaze was dark, assessing. “You look full.”
A whimper slipped out before Jungkook could stop it. “Yes, Master.”
“Bedroom. Now. On your knees, facing the door.”
Jungkook scrambled, the plug shifting dangerously inside him with the abrupt motion. The walk down the short hallway was a series of careful, rolling steps, his inner walls clamping down on the silicone intrusion. He made it to the bedroom and sank to his knees in the centre of the rug, the hardwood beneath it pressing hard into his kneecaps. The plug’s jewelled end winked under the dim light. He faced the door as instructed, hands resting open on his thighs.
Five minutes passed.
The ache in his bladder was constant. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple. He could hear Namjoon in the kitchen. The tap running, the refrigerator opening, the soft clink of a glass. It was like Master was intentionally making such noises that made Jungkook more desperate as his own need to void became a howling thing in his gut. His pussy leaking from the lack of stimulation and the fullness.
The bedroom door swung inward.
Namjoon stepped through, the glass of water now empty. He wore only his unbuttoned shirt and loosened slacks, the belt dangling open. Without preamble, he stopped directly in front of Jungkook. The scent of his sweat, clean soap, a base note of musk enveloped the air. Jungkook’s lips parted on instinct, tongue already reaching for where his master would be.
One large hand worked the zipper. The trousers slid to Namjoon’s thighs. He’d gone commando. His cock, thick even in its soft state, dangled down and from the base was a dark nest of hair. The head was out, pink and unthreatening. For now.
“Open.”
Jungkook’s jaw unhinged, tongue extending flat. Master guided the soft weight of his cock onto that waiting muscle, the spongy flesh settling across his taste buds with familiar saltiness. No thrust. Just the heavy presence, a living pacifier that made Jungkook’s eyes flutter shut. He sealed his lips around the shaft just behind the head, creating a tight suction.
A moment passed. Then the heat bloomed at the back of his throat.
The first swallow was reflexive. A thin, warm stream jetted from the slit, splashing against his soft palate before pooling under his tongue. Jungkook gulped greedily. The taste was milder than the morning’s load, diluted by the water Namjoon had drunk throughout the day, but still unmistakably him—bitter and salty. It was the flavour of ownership, and Jungkook’s entire being thrummed with the rightness of it.
His boypussy throbbed. A slick, involuntary pulse that made the plug seem to grow warmer inside him. He sucked, cheeks hollowing, drawing more of the stream into his mouth. Namjoon’s hand came to rest on the crown of his head, fingers splaying. The piss kept coming, a steady river that demanded he swallow in rhythm: gulp, breathe through the nose, gulp again. He lost count after the seventh swallow.
Master continued for nearly a minute. His sigh above him was one of profound release. “Drink it all, my little piss slut. Every drop.”
Jungkook’s tongue swirled along the underside of the head, tracing the delicate ridge of the slit. He imagined it as a lollipop, a treat to be savoured, and he sucked at the tiny opening with kitten licks between swallows. The bitterness coated his molars. His throat worked convulsively, muscles massaging the shaft as if trying to milk more. The stream began to taper, sputtering into a thin drizzle, and Jungkook chased the last droplets with the tip of his tongue pressed right into the slit.
At last, Namjoon pulled free with a wet pop. A string of mixed saliva and urine bridged the space for a heartbeat before breaking. Jungkook opened his mouth wide, showing the empty, glistening cavern. The taste clung to the roof of his mouth.
Master looked down at him, something like reverence softening the hard lines of his face. Then his expression shifted. A hand fisted in Jungkook’s hair and yanked him upward. “Enough. Get to the bathroom.”
Jungkook stumbled after him, the plug a heavy anchor in his gut. The bathroom tile was shockingly cold under his bare feet. Master kicked the shower curtain aside and positioned Jungkook facing the tub, back to the mirror. It was then, catching his own reflection—lips swollen, cheeks flushed, a sliver of drool on his chin that the reality of his bladder hit him like a freight train.
His stomach was visibly rounder. The skin there stretched taut, glossy with all the fluids in him. His own piss, combined with the copious swallows of Namjoon’s, now screamed for release. The pressure was a living thing, a creature clawing at his urethra, demanding an exit. Jungkook’s hands flew to his lower belly, pressing desperately. A keen rose in his throat.
“Master, I—I need to—please, I can’t—”
Master’s hand clamped over his mouth. Hard. “Shut up.”
With his other hand, he spun Jungkook, bending him forward over the edge of the tub. The plug’s base dug into the rim of his hole, a cruel pressure point. Before Jungkook could beg again, Master’s cock—now fully hard, flushed an angry purple, veins distended—was shoved into his open mouth.
The taste of precome mingled with the residual urine. His hips snapped forward, a brutal, immediate rhythm that left no room for adjustment. The cock hit the back of Jungkook’s throat and kept going, forcing his gag reflex to behave. Breath came in desperate snatches through his nose, but the fullness from the plug, the piss, now the thick intrusion had him floating in a haze of sensation.
Namjoon’s groans echoed off the bathroom tile. “Fuck. That mouth. Take it.”
His large hands grabbed Jungkook’s skull, thumbs pressing hard into the hinge of his jaw. He fucked in earnest, a facefucking that was half punishment, half desperate need. The head of his cock punched past the throat, and Jungkook’s throat rippled around him in a spasm of helpless suction.
Tears streamed down Jungkook’s cheeks, pooling at the corners of his lips. Through the haze, one thought remained: if his master didn’t finish soon, he was going to lose control. The urine inside him and his own bladder were one urgent squeeze away from disaster. His sphincter clenched around the plug, but his urethra was another story—a trembling, exhausted muscle ready to give in.
“Ahh-ngnnn.”
Master’s pace faltered. A low, guttural moan tore from his chest. The cock swelled impossibly on Jungkook’s tongue, and then the first hot pulse of come flooded his mouth. Thick, salty, with a bitter undercurrent of the piss he’d just gulped. Jungkook swallowed on instinct, throat milking the shaft through the climax. A second pulse, then a third, until Namjoon’s hips stilled, buried to the hilt.
Still swallowing, Jungkook’s fingers scrabbled at the cold porcelain. The come mixed with the taste of ammonia, slicking his teeth. Master pulled out slowly, dragging the softened head over his bottom lip. A thin trickle of semen followed, and Jungkook sucked it clean.
But the relief was fleeting. The pressure in his bladder was now a blinding white-hot spike. He crumpled to the tile, knees pulled up, hands clamping over his pussy. A single drop of his own urine escaped, warm and damning.
Master watched, breathing hard, a satisfied curl to his mouth. “Look at you. Ready to burst.”
Jungkook’s voice was a raw whisper. “Please… Master, I can’t—”
“You can, and you will.”
Namjoon crouched, tilting Jungkook’s chin up with one finger. “But maybe… I’ll give you what you want.”
“Wouldn’t you like that? To release everything I gave you. Next time I might not let you release for two days. Just keep you plugged up and tied to the bathtub. I might even plug up your piss hole, and keep making you drink my piss all day long after filling your slutty pussy up.”
The promise in those words was a double-edged blade. Jungkook’s body seized, balanced on the razor’s edge between permission and disaster. He wanted to be tied up. He wanted anything his Master would make him do.
Namjoon’s hand found the warm silicone base of the plug and tugged. Not the swift pop of earlier. This was a slow, deliberate extraction that had Jungkook’s rim clinging, reluctant to surrender the seal that had kept him brimming since dawn. The first inch of flared silicone dragged against swollen tissue, and the pressure differential hit like a gut punch.
Liquid heat surged downward, a tidal warning. Jungkook’s entire body locked. Every muscle from his navel to his hole snapped into a panicked clench, a desperate bear-trap grip that choked back the flood before a single drop could betray him. His thighs shook with the effort, cords of tendon standing out.
“That’s it. Hold.” RM’s voice was a thread of amusement above him, the plug now dangling from two fingers, dripping thin strands of slick. “Let’s see how good my little urinal really is.”
The bathroom tile was freezing against Jungkook’s knees. He was still crumpled where Namjoon had left him, one hand braced on the floor and the other fisted against his lower belly. The pressure there was monstrous. His own bladder, ignored for more than twelve hours and watered into dilution, was now a screaming fist inside his pelvis.
And below it, his boypussy had become a sloshing cauldron of everything his Master had poured into him: the morning fill and the lunchtime top-up. Combined, they transformed his insides into a hole of pure, quivering urgency. He could feel the liquid shifting with every ragged breath, lapping against the inner seal of his sphincter.
Namjoon set the plug on the edge of the sink. Then, with the casual strength of someone repositioning furniture, he hooked both hands under Jungkook’s knees and pried his legs apart. Jungkook gasped as his thighs were yanked wide, splaying him open to the cool air. His hole which was puffy, slick and visibly pulsing, was exposed. And his urethra, that tiny betrayed portal, trembled visibly, a pearl of urine already crowning at the slit.
“Look at you,” Namjoon murmured, crouching between those spread legs.
One thumb came up to trace the delicate rim of Jungkook’s rear hole, not pushing in, just skating the wet edge.
“Fighting so hard. But you’re about to lose, aren’t you? No shame in it.” The thumb pressed, not breaching, just dimpling the entrance.
“Let go. Piss yourself like the piss slut you are.”
The command landed like a physical blow. Jungkook’s mind shrieked permission, but his body had already bolted ahead of the thought. The first breach came from his boypussy. A violent gush of amber liquid streaked between his cheeks, hot as a brand, splattering the white porcelain of the tub with a sound like a fistful of pebbles thrown against glass.
The release was so abrupt, so pressurised from hours of building, that it arched in a thin jet before splashing wide. And then the dam of his bladder crumbled right on its heels. His own urine, golden, abundant and slightly too warm from his water intake, shot out in a wild, uncontrolled spray that arced high and pattered down across his own thighs, his stomach, the bathmat.
He couldn’t stop. He wouldn’t have been able to even if his Master had ordered him to. The streams blurred into one continuous flood, his two holes gushing in frantic, uncoordinated harmony. His boypussy pulsed in rhythmic, squeezing contractions, each pulse ejecting another rope of held piss, while his urethra kept up its steady, shuddering trickle. The noise filled the bathroom. A loud, wet, organic sound, accompanied by his own ragged, sobbing moans.
Namjoon didn’t move. He stayed crouched, those large hands still holding Jungkook’s thighs apart, watching the torrent with something close to inspection. Then the condescension slipped back into his voice, honeyed and mock-sympathetic.
“Oh, sweetheart. Look at that. You couldn’t even make it to the toilet, could you? Just let go right there in the tub like a helpless little thing.”
He clicked his tongue.
“Can’t control your own bladder. So desperate you forgot you were a person and just became a sprinkler. Is my little urinal actually trembling?”
Jungkook was. The release was more than physical. It was a full-body unclenching that started in his pelvis and radiated outward, loosening his spine, his shoulder blades, the hinge of his jaw. A moan tore from his throat, raw and guttural, the sound of a long-held breath finally exhaled. The streams began to taper, his boypussy now producing only weak, involuntary spurts, his urethra dribbling a thin, warm trickle down his thigh. The combined puddle in the tub was a shallow, steaming lake that smelled of ammonia and his own body’s salt.
“There you go. All done.”
RM waited until the last spasm had subsided, until Jungkook was just a trembling, emptied shell sagging between his hands. Then those hands moved. One thumb, still slick from the plug’s removal, found the pearl of Jungkook’s clit and flicked.
A single, precise, relentless flick.
Jungkook’s spine arched off the tile. The contact was a lightning strike on tissues pulled taut by hours of pressure, now suddenly hollow and hypersensitive. Namjoon’s thumb began a steady, flick-flick-flick rhythm, not slowing, not letting up, the pad of his finger dragging across the stiff little nub with the casual precision of someone who knew exactly how to dismantle him. The sensation was enormous, so enormous Jungkook couldn’t parse it—only feel it as a rising, blinding crest that had no peak in sight, just an ever-tightening ascent.
His thighs, already trembling, began to vibrate. His abs seized, then released, then seized again in shallow, involuntary pulses. His vision narrowed to a single point of white light. The orgasm built. He heard himself scream, a high, cracked and almost desperate sound that bounced off the bathroom tiles before his brain registered he’d made it.
His pussy clenched and unclenched around nothing, a rhythmic, milking pulse that squelched with leftover wetness, and his clit throbbed so hard he could feel the beat of his own heart in it. The pleasure was so acute it was nearly pain, a razor’s edge that held him suspended, jerking, for five, ten, fifteen seconds while RM’s thumb never stopped.
When it finally ebbed, he was crying. Not sobbing, just tears streaming silently down his cheeks, mingling with the mess. RM removed his thumb slowly, studying the glistening pad. Then he leaned in and pressed a soft, dry kiss to Jungkook’s quivering inner thigh.
“So good for me. Now let’s get you clean.”
The showerhead detached with a click. Namjoon adjusted the temperature to warm, then knelt in the wet mess without any sign of distaste. A gentle spray began, first rinsing the urine from Jungkook’s stomach and thighs. Then he parted his folds with two careful fingers, the spray angled precisely to clean the delicate inner tissues. He worked with methodical tenderness, spreading the lips, letting the water run through every crevice.
His fingers followed, not scrubbing but fondling, a lazy, possessive exploration that was clearly meant more for Jungkook’s wellbeing than anything else.
“Can’t let you get an infection,” he murmured, his middle finger circling Jungkook’s entrance and dipping just inside to rinse the last traces.
“My slut too precious for that.”
Jungkook floated. The warm water, the gentle touches, the aftermath of an orgasm that had hollowed him out completely. It all blended into a fog of physical contentment. He let his Master handle him like a doll, lifting one leg, then the other, towelling him dry with a plush bath sheet that smelled of lavender.
When Namjoon scooped him up, one arm under his knees and the other cradling his back, Jungkook’s head lolled against a broad shoulder. He was carried through the darkening apartment, the streetlights through the window casting long orange rectangles on the floor. The bedroom smelled of clean cotton and the faint musk of their bodies.
Namjoon laid him on the bed with care. The sheets were cool. A duvet was pulled to his chin. As his eyes drooped, Jungkook felt a familiar, blunt pressure settling between his legs—not the plug, but RM’s palm, resting there under the covers. Possessive. Warm. A seal to hold his emptiness until morning.
“Sleep,” his Master said. No command this time, just low affection.
“I’ll fill you up again in the morning.”