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malefemale The Habits of Hartfields


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Happy New Year! I came up with a handful of new scenarios over the holidays, so we'll see how this semester goes in terms of writing productivity. Enjoy!

****

             “Mitch, how far should we string those streamers?”

            “Mitchell, is this enough for the freshman hallways?”

            “Hart, do we turn on these black lights now or wait until Monday?”

            Squaring his shoulders, Mitchell Hartfield put on his most in-control smile, the look that made teachers and students alike feel comforted and placated.

            “Rob, the streamers go all the way to Mr. Harrison’s room. Joey, put a banner across that last set of lockers, and that’ll be good. Brendan, turn them on to check that they’re all working, then turn them off for the weekend. We’ll get them again on Monday.”

            The questioners all nodded, as if Mitch had just offered the sagest advice in history, then turned to finish their assigned tasks.

            Mitch exhaled and looked around, surveying his fellow students and workers as they put the finishing touches on the spirit week decorations. This being one of the most expensive all-male private schools in Chicago, the decorations weren’t the standard paper and cardboard. The “streamers” Rob was hanging were carefully measured strips of silvery satin, and the banners were hand-painted canvas. The overall effect was spirited, yet classy – organized, as opposed to the typical chaos of teen-led spirit weeks.

            “Mr. Hartfield,” Mr. Missoni, the young faculty director of the pep club, interrupted Mitch’s silent appraisal.

            “Yes, sir?”

            “It’s 5:30, Mr. Hartfield. We don’t have access to the school any longer,” Like all of the instructors at the academy, Mr. Missoni referred to his pupils by their last names, as a sign of respect.

            Mitch drew his brows together momentarily. He hadn’t realized how late it was and was a bit stunned that over 2 hours had passed since he’d started working on the decorations.

            “Of course, sir,” Mitch demurred before directing his voice toward the teens in the hall. “Gentlemen!” he called, loud but not grating, “Thank you all for your work! Please finish what you’re working on immediately, collect your materials, and deposit them back in Room 118. Our time is up.”

            The dozen or so remaining pep club members moved in a flurry of obedience – not out of fear or simple deference to authority, but out of genuine respect for Mitch and his leadership.

            Hartfields were leaders. It was something Mitch had heard, both from his family and from teachers, friends, and other adults, throughout his life. His father was a former Senator who was now the board chairman of one of the largest city charities. His mother, the CEO of the fastest-growing advertising agency in the Midwest. His older sister, Veronica, was junior class president at Northwestern and had already completed a prestigious business internship the previous summer.

            So it was wholly expected that Mitch would excel at the academy, which he did. Now, in the first semester of his senior year, he was in charge of planning spirit week in addition to all of the typical coursework and college applications. Mitchell didn’t mind the work; he enjoyed the feeling of accomplishment and the pride that came with earning the respect of his peers and teachers.

            The respect that now had young men trimming the last imaginary frayed edges off of fabric and collecting the remaining materials to take back to the storage room. In less than five minutes, the hallway was completed, and the boys were saying good-bye to Mitch as he surveyed their work.

            “Thank you, Mr. Hartfield,” Mr. Missoni commented as the remaining boys cleared out. “I’ll see you in class on Monday.”

            “Thank you Mr. Missoni.” Normally, faculty members would be the last to leave, but it was late on a Friday, and no one distrusted Mitch to be the last one in the building, so Mr. Missoni had already turned to leave.

            Before he had a chance to enjoy the silence a bit, Mitch grimaced. In the hours he’d been working – and really, since lunch period – he hadn’t used the restroom, and now, his bladder was asserting its need.

            It was another habit of the Hartfields: work took precedence, especially leadership projects. Mitch and his sister had been raised to postpone the fulfillment of their own needs until the least intrusive moment. Over the years, Mitch had grown so proficient at the practice that he could go for hours without even noticing hunger, exhaustion, or, as was currently being demonstrated, the need to use the restroom.

            Mitch knew he was alone, but he still double-checked the hallways before pressing his thighs together. He really was quite full, much to his own dismay. As he reached for his uniform blazer and messenger bag that he’d carefully draped over the back of a chair, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

            Mitch started far more than he would have, had his need not been so urgent, and barely stopped himself from shoving his hand between his thighs. The notification of his phone was a schedule reminder, bright against the dark background.

            “Pick up Mom”

            Cursing internally, Mitch slipped his blazer on. Of course. He’d promised to drive his mother home from work, and he’d set a reminder for what he considered the latest possible time he could leave and still arrive at his mom’s office building on time.

            Now, using the restroom didn’t even cross Mitch’s mind as a possibility. His mother, Anne Hartfield, did not abide by lateness, and certainly not when it came from her well-trained son.

            Mitch was already walking briskly to his car. As the crow flies, his mother’s office building wasn’t that far away, but Friday night Chicago rush hour meant at least a half-hour trip, and Anne always left the office at 6:30 sharp on Fridays. It would be fine; he’d make the trip as quickly as possible, then use the restroom at his mother’s agency.

            He checked the clock as he started the late-model BMW. 6:42. By his own calculations, he had about 10 minutes of wiggle room to account for traffic that would still allow him time to use the toilet before arriving in his mom’s office. He knew Chicago well enough that any unusual delays – accidents or otherwise blocked streets – shouldn’t be a problem. He’d be able to navigate around obstructions fairly easily.

            If he could control himself, of course. Almost as soon as he pulled onto the street, Mitch felt his urgency return. Fine. It’s fine. Hartfields always take responsibility for their own actions, and Mitch had chosen to forgo using the restroom since lunch, so now it was his responsibility to hold his urine and reach his mother’s office by the expected time.

            If Mitch had been prone to rumination, he would’ve stewed over all of the decisions that had led him to this point; he’d marvel over how desperate felt, when 10 minutes ago, he quite literally didn’t notice any signals from his body. But Mitchell been raised to believe that brooding was useless. Problem solving was the only acceptable reaction to unfortunate situations, and right now, his problem was a dangerously full bladder.

            Mitch clenched his jaw as he tried to keep control by just squeezing his abdominal and thigh muscles. For a few minutes, in the comparatively light traffic around the academy, those methods worked, but by the time he reached the beltway, he couldn’t help but actively press his knees together.

            Traffic slowed, and Mitch was a half-second too slow in his reactions, necessitating a rather more forceful application of the brakes than comfortable. He stopped the car with plenty of space to spare, but felt a thoroughly unnerving spurt of urine dampen his boxer-briefs.

            In an instant, Mitch was gripping himself, frantically, trying to regain a feeling of mastery over his own body. The clutching helped, and as he eased off the brake pedal, he was also able to loosen his hold, but the ease didn’t last long. After less than a minute, he felt another surge from his bladder.

            Mitch glanced around unnecessarily to confirm that no one from other cars was looking at him. Of course, no one was; people rarely pay attention to others during rush hour, but, per another unspoken Hartfield rule, drawing attention to your own body was forbidden, if other people were watching.

            No one was watching. Mitch’s bladder was exceptionally full; he’d actually wet himself a tiny bit already. He was on the highway and didn’t currently have time to stop without risking lateness in picking up his mother.

            The inescapable habits of being a Hatfield and the demands of the current situation both allowed and required, respectively, Mitch to thrust his hand between his legs, grasping his dick tightly.

            Mitch blushed slightly, but Hartfields did what had to be done, especially if no one was around to see the more unsavory methods being employed. And now, Mitch was acting in ways that would surely appall his parents.

            As he drove toward downtown, Mitch no longer harbored any delusions of being able to keep both hands on the wheel. Holding himself definitely felt more secure, but even being reduced to such a state was disconcerting. Still, Mitch focused on the problem solving. In this case, holding himself like a child was necessary, if undesirable.

            The traffic wasn’t too bad, but by the time Mitch reached downtown, he couldn’t stop squirming. He was practically massaging his dick, kneading the flesh under the fabric of his pants in an unconscious attempt to mitigate the feeling of urgency. His thighs were moving in all directions – flapping his knees in and out, bouncing up and down, moving side to side while pressed together. On some level, Mitch acknowledged that this was probably not a safe way to drive, but the movement was barely under his control at this point.

            Just after 6:15, Mitch made it to the parking garage in his mother’s building. Without realizing is, he started fully bouncing in his seat as he navigated the dark loops of parking spaces. Nearly all of the spaces were empty, but his mother would expect him to park next to her parking space (never in it, even if it was unoccupied), which was closest to the elevator on the top level of the garage.

            Mitch’s knuckles were white between his legs as he somehow managed to park straight. He turned the car off but sat for a few moments, using the larger range of motion possible when not driving to squeeze and writhe frenetically in an effort to decrease the feeling of immediacy as much as possible before exiting the car.

            While he wriggled, Mitch went over the logistics in his head. His mother’s agency occupied the top 5 floors of the 20-story building, with his mother’s office naturally on top. He had the code to the private elevator that he’d parked by, so he could go straight up. The 16th floor, where all the interns and new employees worked, was almost certain to be empty at this time on a Friday, but he’d have to be careful. The bathroom was down the hall and to the left from the parking elevator, if he remembered correctly…

            His need feeling quite a bit less dire, Mitch grabbed his keys, opened the door, and exited the car.

            And lost all control.

            The gravity of standing, the change of position was the death knell for Mitch’s bladder. Liquid gushed out past his still-clutched hand, soaking down the front of his uniform khakis.

            A small “Oh!” escaped Mitch’s mouth. For a few moments, he was more stunned than anything. It genuinely hadn’t occurred to him that he wouldn’t make it to a toilet. Yes, his need had been spectacular, but he hadn’t actually wet himself since he was a toddler, and he’d had no intention of doing so now.

            Yet wet himself, he did. Streams of urine poured down both legs of his pants, with rivulets bursting from the fabric in multiple spots. The sheer volume was far too much for the cloth to absorb.

            In seconds, hot fluid started dripping heavily onto the concrete floor, the pattering sound deafening in the empty garage. The noise made Mitch’s stomach contract with guilt, but he could do nothing to stem the miserable flow.

            Panting with overwhelming physical reliefs, Mitch tried to get ahold of his racing thoughts, but he was too overwhelmed to make a plan. The sensation of peeing uncontrollably in his school uniform was too devastating to get past.

            At some point, Mitch realized that he was no longer going, though the sound of liquid trickling off the cuffs of his pants still echoed through the garage. Exhaling shakily, he started to stand up straight.

            He took a step forward, not quite sure where he was going yet, but stopped abruptly as a final spurt of urine fell from his bladder, streaming directly down his right leg.

            This, more than anything, nearly broke Mitch. His legs almost gave out, and he stumbled against the still-open driver’s side door. The idea that he not only wet himself, but had so little awareness of his own body that he didn’t know he wasn’t done, went against everything Mitch had been raised to believe about himself.

            Mitch realized that his lower lip was trembling and quickly bit down to stop the shaking. His Hartfield habits were kicking in; crying was unacceptable. He had to be responsible for his own actions.

            Though his insides still writhed with shame, Mitch started moving. First, he checked his watch; he still had 7 minutes to reach his mother’s office. Her secretary was almost certainly gone by now, so if he went straight to his mother’s floor, no one would see him.

            Except his mother.

            Mitch closed his eyes for a moment, mentally preparing for the inevitable confrontation. This was his fault; he would have to accept whatever reaction his mother deemed appropriate.

            Looking down, Mitch’s stomach twisted anew upon seeing the glistening wetness all down the front of his pants. Grimacing, he started to grab sections of material, squeezing out the excess liquid, so as not to drip in the elevator. He had to suppress his gag reflex when he saw the amount of piss being wrung from the material. When he finally finished, he grudgingly wiped his hands on the still-dry hips of his pants.

            Mitch checked his watch again as he entered the elevator – he was right on time. He straightened his shoulders, readying to enter his mother’s domain.

            Thankfully, the secretary was gone for the night, so Mitch was able to cross the waiting area unseen. He gently knocked on the tall, sleek doors to Anne’s office, sliding in at his mother’s distracted invitation.

            Mitch stood just inside the door, painfully aware of the heaviness of his pants hanging from his belt. His mother was arranging papers in a filing cabinet, her back to him.

            “Thank you for coming, dear,” she said formally. “I hope traffic wasn’t too ba-“

            Anne cut herself off as she turned around and saw her 18-year-old son standing in front of her, pants utterly drenched.

            “Mitchell,” Anne raised an eyebrow coolly. “What is this?”

            “I hhhad an accident,” Mitch responded, then instantly hated himself for allowing his voice to stick on the second word.

            Anne’s eyebrow remained arched. “Why didn’t you use the bathroom on the interns’ floor?”

            With great effort, Mitch managed not to flinch. He’d known that he’d have to explain himself. “I didn’t make it.”

            Anne’s lips were pressed into a thin line. “Do I need to alert the janitorial staff?”

            “No, ma’am,” Mitch raised his chin slightly to counteract the natural droop of humiliation.

            Anne’s upper lip curled ever so slightly. “Then does your car require cleaning?”

            “No, ma’am,” Mitch repeated, keeping his voice steady. This was all the consequence of his own actions, after all.

            “Mmmm,” Anne trusted her son, despite her disappointment. He’d kept his word in arriving on time, at least. Still, failure to make it to the toilet wasn’t acceptable. Anne strode to her closet and smoothly pulled the plastic casing off her dry-cleaned spare suit.

            “Here,” she held out the plastic to her son. “No sense in spreading the mess to your car seat, then.”

            “Yes, ma’am,” Sitting on the dry-cleaning plastic was actually a great plan, and Mitch was oddly grateful for his mother’s logic.

            “Come along, then,” Anne’s voice was clipped. “No sense in dawdling.”

            Mother and son remained silent in the elevator, though Mitch saw his mother sneer when she saw the size of the puddle he’d made in the garage. His stomach clenched guiltily; there was something about his mother seeing the full evidence of his accident that made Mitch feel doubly ashamed. 

            He unlocked to car doors and carefully placed the plastic on the driver’s seat as Anne situated herself on the passenger side.

            The drive home took 20 painfully long minutes. Mitch kept his posture straight and his eyes clear, though, internally, he was contorted with humiliation and anxiety.

            Anne turned to her son before they entered the house. “Dinner is at 7:30. I trust that’s enough time to make yourself presentable.” She didn’t wait for an answer leaving Mitch to follow her slowly inside.

            Up in his room, Mitch took a much quicker shower than he would have liked. Given his current mental state, he could have stayed under the hot water for hours, but Hartfields don’t mope.

            Instead, Mitch toweled off his hair, dressed in appropriate evening clothes, then reluctantly gathered his soiled pants, underwear, and socks to take to the laundry Realistically, he could have left it for the housekeeper over the weekend, but the desires to avoid a smell and, more powerfully, to avoid sharing his accident with anyone else, propelled him to do his own washing.

            In the laundry room, Mitch was just opening the washing machine when he heard soft footsteps behind him.

            “Hey.”

            For the first time that day, Mitch blushed. “Please don’t look at me,” he murmured.

            Obligingly, his sister turned around, leaning her back against the doorjamb. “Alright. I’m not looking.” Home for the weekend, a usual practice for the local student, Veronica had heard her mom and brother arrived, noticed the tension, and had gotten a brief, somewhat incredulous explanation from Anne.

            “Thank you,” Mitch said, though he shuddered at the unexpected interruption.

            After a moment, Veronica spoke again. “Are you OK?”

            Irritatingly, Mitch felt his eyes fill with tears, and he took a deep breath before responding. “I’ll be fine. It was my fault.”

            “It was an accident, Mitch,” Veronica said gently, still not looking into the laundry room.

            Mitch’s stomach flipped at the word. Most people wouldn’t have heard his breath hitch, but Veronica had more experience than anyone at growing up a Hartfield and all of the emotion-suppression techniques that came with it. When she heard the washing machine lid close and the cycle start, she took the chance to step into the room, placing a hand on her younger brother’s arm.

            “Mitch,” she insisted softly. “It’s OK.”

            Mitch crumbled, unable to respond right away. Veronica stepped closer, wrapping her arm around the teen. More to his own dismay than to his sister’s, who was intimately familiar with the feelings of disgrace that accompanied personal failures in the Hartfield family, perceived or otherwise.

            “Mitch,” Veronica repeated. “It was just mom. She knows you handled it as well as you could have, and no one else knows.”

            Mitch sniffed slightly, the twisty feeling in his abdomen unabated. “But…” he mumbled.

            Veronica looked up. “What? What is it?”

            Mitch’s entire ribcage seemed to tighten. There was no one else in the world he’d confess this to, but the magnitude of his indiscretion was enough to weaken his well-honed resolve.

            “But…” he stammered, feeling much younger than his 18 years. He thought of his final leak, the one he didn’t even feel coming. “What if it happens again?”

            Veronica hugged her brother, resting her head on the taller sibling’s shoulder. “Bud, I know it seems scary, but this was a fluke thing. I promise.”

            Mitch leaned into his sister. He appreciated the show of comfort – he and Veronica had always shared more hugs with each other than they did with their parents – but he really didn’t feel any better.  

            Veronica smiled weakly; she knew that Mitch was unlikely to forgive himself so quickly. She didn’t have anything else to say, so she settled for “Dinner’s almost ready.”

            Mitch nodded, blinking the tears out of his eyes. He’d have to stop by the bathroom to throw water on his face before he made his way to the dining room. Despite his lingering humiliation, he couldn’t just show up for dinner with red eyes.

            He was a Hartfield, after all.

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