"Hey," Shiv says loudly to one of the men with guns. "I need to piss. Can I go to the bathroom?"
"Oh, Jesus," Karl says weakly. "Siobhan, please."
The terrorist grins at her. "No one leaves," he says. "You need to piss, you do it here."
She rolls her eyes. "Come on."
Another man joins him, and now no one is smiling. They stare down at her as she shifts in her chair. "No one leaves," the taller man repeats.
Shiv tries to think. The need is made more urgent by the sudden rush of real fear. "So... give me a bucket? Or something?" God, doesn't anyone else in this room need to pee? Is she the only one?
Laired clears his throat. "Some of the, uh, gentlemen have been using the, uh." He gestures at a potted palm in the corner. "You could. Uh."
The thought of squatting in front of a room full of people and trying to aim into the piss-soaked dirt is horrifying. How do men live with themselves? "I'd rather wet myself," she says flatly.
The two terrorists laugh. "Dirty American bitch," the shorter one says. "I heard you're all filthy whores. Now I know it's true."
Shiv snorts. She's been called so much worse, including by her father and brothers. "Yeah, well, I heard your mom sucks donkey dick in back alleys."
Suddenly the gun is in the man's hand and pointed at her as he snaps, "Shut the fuck up!"
Shiv has never had a gun pointed at her, and it turns out, it's terrifying. She feels dizzy, and only stubborn pride keeps her from fainting. But as she clutches at the seat of her chair, her treacherous bladder lets go.
Embarrassment sends blood rushing to her face as warm wetness soaks her panties and the front of her white cotton skirt, the stain clearly visible and the smell of piss rising into the air. Shit, she thinks, why did I have to wear white? It's an inane thought, but in this disorienting moment, it's the only coherent thing her mind can come up with.
Karl and Laird turn their backs, parodies of gentlemanliness. She despises them with every fiber of her being. On the other side of the room, Edouard Asgarov stares at her, and she should hate that more, but she doesn't. These assholes are making a spectacle of her, so fine, let people see. It's their fault, not hers.
The armed men stare in surprise, and then they start to laugh. "It's true!" the shorter one says, cackling. As Shiv sits, frozen, feeling the wet upholstery begin to cool beneath her, he sticks his hand under her skirt and finds her sodden thong. One good yank is enough to snap the thin straps. "Ow," Shiv starts to say, and then her mouth is full of reeking wet silk.
She gags, trying to spit it out, but the man holds his hand over her mouth, grinning at her as she tries not to throw up. To her horror, tears leak out of the corners of her eyes. I'm not crying! she yells in her mind. It's just, it's just my gag reflex! That's all!
But soon she can't deny that she's crying, choking back her sobs around her piss-soaked underwear, as the other man's thick fingers shove into her bared cunt, her piss burning inside her and horribly slicking his palm as it brushes incidentally, maddeningly, over her clit. And of all the things she's furious about, the worst is that they made her cry where Asgarov could see. She could have still found a way to negotiate with him after being humiliated and assaulted, and he would have only been impressed by her chutzpah. But once men see tears, a woman becomes nothing at all.
As the shorter man saws his fingers in and out of her and the taller one begins to grope her breasts, Shiv finds herself sort of hoping they kill her when they've had their fun. At least then she wouldn't have to go back to her father and admit she couldn't seal the deal.
Succession AU where Shiv, not Roman, goes to Turkey in S2E09; forced wetting + panty gag
"Oh, Jesus," Karl says weakly. "Siobhan, please."
The terrorist grins at her. "No one leaves," he says. "You need to piss, you do it here."
She rolls her eyes. "Come on."
Another man joins him, and now no one is smiling. They stare down at her as she shifts in her chair. "No one leaves," the taller man repeats.
Shiv tries to think. The need is made more urgent by the sudden rush of real fear. "So... give me a bucket? Or something?" God, doesn't anyone else in this room need to pee? Is she the only one?
Laired clears his throat. "Some of the, uh, gentlemen have been using the, uh." He gestures at a potted palm in the corner. "You could. Uh."
The thought of squatting in front of a room full of people and trying to aim into the piss-soaked dirt is horrifying. How do men live with themselves? "I'd rather wet myself," she says flatly.
The two terrorists laugh. "Dirty American bitch," the shorter one says. "I heard you're all filthy whores. Now I know it's true."
Shiv snorts. She's been called so much worse, including by her father and brothers. "Yeah, well, I heard your mom sucks donkey dick in back alleys."
Suddenly the gun is in the man's hand and pointed at her as he snaps, "Shut the fuck up!"
Shiv has never had a gun pointed at her, and it turns out, it's terrifying. She feels dizzy, and only stubborn pride keeps her from fainting. But as she clutches at the seat of her chair, her treacherous bladder lets go.
Embarrassment sends blood rushing to her face as warm wetness soaks her panties and the front of her white cotton skirt, the stain clearly visible and the smell of piss rising into the air. Shit, she thinks, why did I have to wear white? It's an inane thought, but in this disorienting moment, it's the only coherent thing her mind can come up with.
Karl and Laird turn their backs, parodies of gentlemanliness. She despises them with every fiber of her being. On the other side of the room, Edouard Asgarov stares at her, and she should hate that more, but she doesn't. These assholes are making a spectacle of her, so fine, let people see. It's their fault, not hers.
The armed men stare in surprise, and then they start to laugh. "It's true!" the shorter one says, cackling. As Shiv sits, frozen, feeling the wet upholstery begin to cool beneath her, he sticks his hand under her skirt and finds her sodden thong. One good yank is enough to snap the thin straps. "Ow," Shiv starts to say, and then her mouth is full of reeking wet silk.
She gags, trying to spit it out, but the man holds his hand over her mouth, grinning at her as she tries not to throw up. To her horror, tears leak out of the corners of her eyes. I'm not crying! she yells in her mind. It's just, it's just my gag reflex! That's all!
But soon she can't deny that she's crying, choking back her sobs around her piss-soaked underwear, as the other man's thick fingers shove into her bared cunt, her piss burning inside her and horribly slicking his palm as it brushes incidentally, maddeningly, over her clit. And of all the things she's furious about, the worst is that they made her cry where Asgarov could see. She could have still found a way to negotiate with him after being humiliated and assaulted, and he would have only been impressed by her chutzpah. But once men see tears, a woman becomes nothing at all.
As the shorter man saws his fingers in and out of her and the taller one begins to grope her breasts, Shiv finds herself sort of hoping they kill her when they've had their fun. At least then she wouldn't have to go back to her father and admit she couldn't seal the deal.