Holding the Pose (Patreon)

I just had to marry an artist, thought Cora, as the muscles in her thighs involuntarily tightened.  The pressure in her bladder was growing by the minute – by the instant – and her hand trembled against the counter.  The thin stream from the tap beside her was barely audible.  Henri said the sound helped him concentrate.

“Hold still, Cora,” said Henri, and Cora squeezed her eyes shut for just a moment before opening them and trying to resume her position.  Henri sighed and set down the paintbrush.  “Cora.  Really?  You know I wanted a classical contrapposto for this painting.”

“I know,” Cora managed, her voice thin and breathy.  Her abdomen fluttered as the muscles lower down continued to weaken.

“Just … try, okay?  You said you wanted to support my work.”

Cora barely nodded, hardly breathed.  She held still.  And she didn’t think she relaxed the knot of muscles in her belly and pelvis, either, but she felt a hot trickle sneak into the butterfly-patterned training panties her husband had insisted she wear.

Something in her gave up.  The trickle became a flood, adding a sudden weight to the embarrassing training panties’ crotch.

“Oh!” said Henri, his eyes suddenly sparkling.  “That’s much better!  Your posture is much looser and more natural now – what changed?”

Cora felt herself blush.  Henri knew exactly what had changed, and the cadmium yellow he squeezed onto his paint palette showed it very clearly indeed.

This had started out so innocently.  Cora was delighted to be asked to pose for her talented husband.  For his part, Henri called Cora his muse.  He’d ask her to sit for him as he painted old-world odalisques, and she’d lie on a chaise lounge and gaze at a plate of fruit.  He’d ask her to pose for a flirtier, slightly cheeky painting as his work developed, and she’d put on the short dress and the apron and pick up a feather duster.  It had been fun.

But Henri told Cora that it broke his concentration when she had to leave her pose.  He would grow despondent when she had to go to the bathroom.  She’d come back to find his brush dropped, his gaze despairing on the canvas.

When he’d first suggested she pose for him in training pants, she’d agreed with an embarrassed laugh.  She’d thought Henri was making a self-aware joke.  But then he came home with an enormous selection of the silly things, And there was a plastic potty, too – he said he could place it under her for seated poses, if she didn’t want to wear the panties all the time, or if he needed a fully nude reference.

Cora could only agree.  After all, it was so important to her to support Henri’s work, and he seemed so sure that she really should have been able to hold it …

So she held her position and her middle-distance gaze, cringing internally as the sopping training panties grew colder around her.

“This seems to be working out very well,” Henri said, obviously delighted, painting in a flurry of swift strokes.  “I’m so proud of you for being such a good model, Cora.  And hey, as long as you don’t poop your training panties, we won’t have to go to a full-on diaper, will we?”

Cora blushed instantly and deeply.  She’d thought the complaints of her stomach were inaudible.  But she did need to go, she did, and Henri looked like he’d be painting for hours yet.  Oh, no …

As Cora’s cheeks flooded with rosy color, Henri smiled to himself, added more pink to his palette, and waited for the inevitable to happen.  He did so love having married his favorite artist’s model.  

This caption was written by Helplesslyregressed  
You can find more of her content here :  http://helplesslyregressed.tumblr.com/   
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