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The first thing Michael notices as he begins to gain consciousness is the persistent pressure in his bladder. The second is Amanda's arm wrapped around his middle, trapping his sleep-heavy body in bed and preventing him from relieving said pressure. As surprisingly nice as it is to have her close to him again, he really needs to get up.
He groans, still mostly asleep. "Mmh, Mandy, lemme up," he slurs, "gotta piss." Michael tries to pull away as gently as he can, but the arm tightens around him, inadvertently squeezing his bladder and making him whimper softly under his breath. He reaches down to pry it off of him, but instead of feeling his wife's soft skin and manicured hands, he feels a leanly muscled forearm covered in wiry hair.
Michael jolts awake as his memories of the last few days catch up to him. Trevor deciding to piss off one of the most powerful men in San Andreas by kidnapping his fucking wife and stashing her in his shitty trailer, Michael being effectively exiled from Los Santos under pain of death, Trevor not-so-subtley suggesting he 'lay low' at his place until the heat dies down, Trevor and Patricia's unnervingly sappy romance, Michael trying to avoid them as much as possible - it all comes crashing down at once, bringing him to the unpleasant realization that Trevor fucking Philips is the one currently spooning him, not his wife. He tries to pull away again - less gently this time - but Trevor is a deceptively strong man when he wants to be. His arm locks around Michael like an iron bar, pulling him back against his body and putting more pressure on his abdomen. He groans, making Trevor stir behind him.
"Mmm, morning, porkchop. Where you goin'? I thought you'd like early morning cuddles." Trevor's voice is raspy with sleep, and Michael can feel his breath on the back of his neck as he speaks. He shivers involuntarily.
"C'mon, let me up, T, I gotta take a piss." He shoves at Trevor's arm again.
Trevor hums, tightening his hold further, "And you need to leave the bed for that, why?"
Michael freezes, "Fuck you mean, why?" His voice raises in alarm and Trevor shushes him. "Don't fuckin' shush me, T, just let me up so I can -"
"So you can go stomping around the bathroom and wake Patricia up? That's awful rude of you, Mikey, you should have more respect for your elders."
Michael opens his mouth to respond, but Trevor continues, "Besides," he shifts his arms slightly, "it would be a shame to let it go to waste, wouldn't it?" Trevor flattens one of his palms against Michael's lower stomach and pushes gently.
Michael bites off a pathetic noise as a wave of tingly heat spreads through his abdomen and the pressure in his bladder intensifies. The feeling is far more pleasurable than it probably should be, and he struggles not to let it show.
"C'mon, T, it's not funny anymore, just let me up -" Michael starts, trying to wiggle free, but Trevor cuts him off once more.
"Who said anything about this being funny," He presses down harder on Michael's bladder. Michael makes a little pained noise and stops struggling, tensing up. Trevor sits up a little bit behind him, leaning over Michael and resting his chin on his shoulder. "I'm dead serious, Mikey."
At this angle, Michael can crane his neck back and see Trevor's face, just barely. His eyes are dark and hungry, gaze flitting between Michael's face and his lower stomach. "Come on, don't try to hold it in, sugar. Haven't you heard that's bad for you? Causes allllll kindsa problems later in life, trust me. Don't be stubborn, Mikey, just let go." Trevor's voice is low and disturbingly gentle, and he massages Michael's abdomen lightly as he speaks.
Michael shakes his head wordlessly, burying his flushed face in the pillow. His body is wracked with little shivers now, tensing and untensing uncontrollably as he struggles not to piss himself. His bladder is starting to ache from the unrelenting pressure, and the pain mixes with the pleasure from Trevor's hand, kneading gentle circles over his lower stomach. The feeling is entirely too much for Michael's tired brain to process, but it's more than enough for his traitorous dick to start responding to the onslaught of sensation. Shamefully, suddenly, Michael realizes that he's more aroused than he's been in months.
Christ, what the fuck is wrong with him? He could escape Trevor's hold now if he wanted to, if he tried. He knows he should try. But instead he's practically submitting to it. To Trevor. Trevor, who's currently trying to make him piss himself in his bed. Trevor, who's looking at him like he wants to lick it off of him when he does. Dr. Friedlander's gonna have a fucking field day with him at their next session.
Trevor, of course, picks up on his arousal immediately. "Oh, you like that, huh?" Trevor's expression turns predatory. "You like it when I do this?" He stops massaging Michael's stomach and moves his hand lower, squeezing his half-hard cock over his boxers. Michael makes a punched-out groan, thrusting into Trevor's hand involuntarily.
"Fuck, god, T, just let me up, please. I can't - I can't -"
"Yes, you can, sweetheart. Come on, let go." Trevor's voice is firmer now. He moves his hand back upwards and presses down hard on Michael's bladder, making him hiss sharply.
"C'mon, T, it hurts, please just-"
"Wouldn't hurt anymore if you just listened to me and let go." Michael opens his mouth to respond, but Trevor dips under his waistband and wraps his hand around him. Michael's own hand shoots down and grabs Trevor's wrist, but he makes no move to pull Trevor away. He simply holds onto him as Trevor starts to move his hand in slow, purposeful strokes.
Trevor takes a moment to lean back and appreciate the sight; the great Michael de Santa laid out under him, flushed and panting and completely at Trevor's mercy. His eyes are screwed shut and his face is half-shoved into his (Trevor's) pillow, scrunched up in a way that Trevor might call cute if he was talking about anybody else. His breathing is loud and shaky and each exhale ends in a soft almost-whine. It's clearly taking all his effort not to release his bladder, and Trevor wishes he would just give in and succumb to the inevitable. "S'gonna feel so good when you let those muscles relax, sweetheart," He croons. "Must be so sensitive now, huh?" He swipes his thumb over the head of Michael's cock, pressing down on his slit just slightly. Michael's grip on Trevor's wrist tightens and he kicks his legs, making a high strangled sound that goes straight to Trevor's cock.
Trevor hums and leans forward, pressing his lips to a sensitive spot behind Michael's ear. Michael shivers and squirms. "So desperate now, huh? Look at yourself, Mikey. This is where you're meant to be. With me, under me, at my mercy." Trevor's own breathing is growing shakier, and quickens the pace of his hand as he speaks. The pressure in Michael's bladder somehow grows more intense, alongside the pooling heat in his gut.
It dawns on him that this is actually happening. He feels himself nearing the edge, and he knows when he falls over it that the floodgates will open and he won't be able to hold it in anymore. Michael feels a hot flush of shame wash over him at the knowledge of what's about to happen, and feels even more when it only adds to his pleasure. He hears Trevor talking to him still, rambling low in his ear about how good Michael looks, how pretty he is like this. How good he's going to feel when he reaches his peak and lets himself go.
"Fuck T, I-I can't, oh fuck, I can't, please-" Michael's not even sure he knows what he's begging for anymore.
Trevor groans, dipping his head down to rest his forehead on Michael's shoulder. "You sound so fuckin' good, Mikey, you have no fuckin' idea. Fuck, come on, let it happen sweetheart, come on," Trevor is rambling against Michael's sweaty skin, and Michael feels him press his hips up against his ass. Feels his cock, hot and solid, through the thin layers of fabric separating them.
The force of his hips rocks Michael forwards into Trevor's frantic strokes, and he grinds back onto Trevor's cock without even realizing. Trevor groans again, low and throaty, and his hips push Michael forwards again, harder this time. Michael whines into the pillow, shame giving way to pure desperation.
"Fuck, you like that, don't you? You like getting pushed around a little? You wanna get the piss fucked outta you, huh? Just like this, porkchop?" He rolls his hips again, properly slotting his clothed cock against the cleft of Michael's ass. He rocks against him, hard and deep, and Michael chokes on a sob, shaking his head, "This how you want me to fuck you? Or you wanna roll over on your stomach, so you can grind into the bed? Maybe I'll put you face down, ass up, like the slut you are. Make you take me nice and deep while I drink in the view from behind. How's that sound, sweetheart?"
That's what finally sends Michael over the edge, his whole body drawing taut as he comes hard over Trevor's fist, biting down on the pillow to muffle his shout as he shakes through what is, shamefully, one of the best orgasms of his life.
The release of his bladder immediately after feels almost like an extension of it, one release blending into another. Michael shudders and groans softly as warmth spreads across his crotch and thighs, the sheer relief so intense it almost hurts. His mind goes blank for a few blissful seconds, ears ringing in the aftermath.
When he comes back to himself, he hears Trevor speaking almost frantically, "God, fuck, look at you, Mikey. I wanna eat you alive, you know that? Wanna tear into you 'til there's nothing left but the stringy, gristly bits stuck in my teeth. Wanna feel your blood drip down my neck, wanna crack your bones open and suck the marrow out. Wanna lick you clean and swallow every bit of you, wanna taste you." He feels Trevor shudder behind him, hips jerking hard into him one final time as he reaches his own release, grunting and breathing harshly into Michael's ear.
Fucking Christ.
As they lay together, panting heavily and trying to recover their wits, Michael realizes that Trevor's hand is still wrapped around his softening cock, his own still clutching his wrist. He looks down at himself, sees the large wet patch spreading across his boxers and on the sheets underneath him. Feels the rapidly cooling fabric clinging uncomfortably to his skin. He looks at Trevor's hand on his dick. It's wet.
The abrupt realization of everything that's just happened comes crashing down like a ton of bricks. He yanks Trevor's hand away and rolls clumsily off the bed, ignoring Trevor's griping about 'post-coital cuddles'.
Stumbling to the tiny, filthy bathroom and turning to the grimy shower stall, he curses himself for allowing Trevor to take advantage of him like this. Curses Trevor for not being able to help himself, for pushing and pushing until Michael broke and let him have his way, for making something so depraved feel so fucking good. Curses him for not putting a fucking door on his bathroom.
Shivering in his cold, wet boxers, Michael reaches out to turn on the shower. The water comes out cold. Michael waits. He half expects Trevor to come up behind him and try something again, but nothing happens. The trailer is still in the early morning, and a quick glance into the main room confirms that Patricia is still asleep, despite the noise he knows he was making. Small blessings.
After a several minutes, the water temperature has risen to just above tepid. Sighing heavily, Michael strips, glancing over his shoulder to make sure nobody's getting an eyeful. He steps under the weak spray - thanking God for the miracle that is Trevor actually owning a bottle of soap - and scrubs himself clean of the morning's activities as quickly as possible, hoping that Trevor will allow him to pretend it never happened.
Wishful fucking thinking.