Out loud.
No. Jesus, please, no.
He read story after story about old-timey people doing boring things. Lessons on humility laced each passage, but I didn’t need that shit. My damn lips were attached to a sculpture. I’d removed my underwear in front of a priest. Exhaustion beat against me on all sides, and I couldn’t stop bouncing because my bladder…
Oh fuck, don’t think about it.
I stood as motionless as possible, perspiring. I didn’t know there were sweat glands between my fingers, in my elbows, and under my barely there boobs. But I discovered them while listening to his sensual voice and trying not to pee down my legs.
He turned the page and lifted his head, his attention riveted on me.
Unbearable pressure squeezed inside me, burning, throbbing, threatening to burst. I clenched my thighs together, squirming with desperation, growing frantic by the second.
How many minutes had passed? Thirty? Forty? I wasn’t going to make it.
My lips clung to the row of carved toes as I bobbed and twisted on restless legs. I felt him watching me. He knew exactly what I needed.
The time. Just tell me the time, you fucking bastard.
Without lifting my mouth from its post, I hummed urgently and pointed to my bare wrist.
He turned another page without taking his eyes off me.
I felt the seal breaking between my legs and knew I only had seconds before all the muscles down there gave out.
Please. I whimpered incoherently. He heard my goddamn call for help and did nothing.
Except turn another page.
For a fraction of a moment, I considered taking a doubled punishment and sprinting to the bathroom. But before my brain sent that message to my muscles, I lost the fight with my bladder.
The dam broke in a hot rush of wetness down my legs. Urine sprayed my bare feet and splashed on the wood floors, forming a radius of yellow splatter and errant droplets that reached his chair.
As the trickle continued, it was the most pleasurable, most mortifying sensation I’d ever experienced. A complete loss of control mixed with sublime relief and blistering embarrassment.
My cheeks caught fire. My joints locked up, and every muscle and organ in my body became paralyzed. I couldn’t look him in the eye, but I saw him.
At the edge of my vision, he lowered his head, turned the page in his Bible, and resumed reading aloud.
I didn’t hear a word from his lips. I heard nothing but the thrashing pulse in my ears. As the minutes passed, my entire world narrowed to the pool beneath my feet, the cooling urine along my legs, and the wooden toes against my mouth.
The blow to my pride cut deep. Deeper than a strap or a cane or any other corporal punishment he could’ve inflicted.
He’d planned this.
My eyes closed as the realization hit. The shoes, socks, underwear—all of it would’ve been ruined if I hadn’t removed it. He’d counted on me pissing myself.
What a fucking prick.
I kept my eyes shut and my lips planted on Jesus, simmering in a puddle of shame and vitriol. Fatigue strained my muscles and fucked with my balance. My shoulders and neck ached from craning to hold my mouth in place. But I knew I’d lasted the full ninety-nine minutes when I heard the Bible shut and the chair creak.
“You can step back.” His voice came from behind me, making me shiver.
I didn’t want to move or open my eyes. I was standing in my own piss, for Christ’s sake. But my lips rejoiced in the freedom when I leaned away and worked my jaw.
My eyes opened, locking on the mess on the floor. A fresh wave of humiliation burned through me. And rage.
“What’s next?” My voice shook, thick with resentment. “Are you going to rub my nose in it?”
“No.”
“Because you wanted me to do this.”
“I wanted you to learn a lesson.” He stepped around me, giving the splatter a wide berth on his way to the closet.
“Do you humiliate all your students like this?”
“No.” He removed a bucket, cleaning supplies, and paper towels and set it all beside the puddle.
“Right. So how many students would you say, on average, pee themselves in your classroom every year?” Please, say all of them.
“You’re the first.”
Well, fuck. That just made me feel like a thousand times worse. My gaze fell to my soggy feet, my eyes achy with tears.
His shoes appeared at the edge of my blurry vision, the shiny black leather stopping just outside of the mess. Then a knuckle touched my chin, lifting it until my eyes locked on to his.
“Saint John had it right. If pride made demons out of angels, humility can make angels out of demons.” His thumb ghosted along the curve of my bottom lip, his gaze following the movement. Then he withdrew his hand and strode toward the door. “I’ll see you at Mass in the morning.”