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The black-scaled crocodilian punk could feel the bulge of his full bladder press up against the chain-belt of his pants.

It was just supposed to be a short ride on the subway, truly. Five stops and depart. But here we are: the place is crowded, the smell of people is thick, ventilation poor, and the whole damned system is halted by an electrical problem (at least, one can assume it was something electrical. Who the hell knows what they're saying over the shitty intercoms. Could be ordering Chinese for all we care.)

It was just five stops down. He could've walked, probably. But who wants to walk in this bloody weather? The black-scaled crocodilian couldn't much care for the chill of the morning air. But the aversion to the cold may have been his demise, here.

No, no, these things usually take just a short while to fix. He breathes in a slow, sharp breath through the ring-studded snout, and exhales out through clenching teeth. Just breathe.

Think of something else.

There was a show to practice for. Clawed fingers tap against his leg, reciting string strums and rhythm patterns. Chorus lines, a solo to sort...

He reaches down to grope at his crotch with a furtive glance down the cart. It was just a quick adjustment, no one cares for a quick adjustment. Everyone does it. The heel of his boot thuds against the dirty floor, back to trying to remember rhythms. And entirely not out of impatience and restless need, oh no. Not at all.

At least it was busy. With how many people were bustled close, no one bats an eye at the clack-clacking of a steel-toed boot. He jiggles his leg, crotch and sack brushing and pushing against the thick cargo pants he wears. Just breathe, and think of something else.

It wasn't working. A muttered hiss of "Fuuuuck..." leaves his parted jaws, head tilted up to the ceiling. His hand shoves itself into his pocket, and there he outright gropes himself. That earned an odd glance from a nearby rat -- and the crocodile is quick to remove his hand from his pocket. Nothing going on here.

As soon as they looked away, however, that hand went right back to grip over his cock, thumb pressing down at the tip through his boxers. Spare hand gripped the support railing as he leaned against it, muffled groan under his breath. His slitted eyes fluttered near shut as his gaze fell to the thousand-yard stare.

Wasn't there something about being turned on, helping to hold? Would a public hard-on be worth the risk?

He could just leave the cart. He turns his head to the doors -- and the doors slide shut with the alarming ding of departure.

Shit.

His dark knuckles turned white against his grip on the railing. Looking about, there's a corner in the back of the cart that he could shuffle to. It was difficult, maneuvering around the crowd with the stiff, tip-toed, knee-tight shuffle, but scoots and scoots could just be seen as him shuffling carefully. Sure. No one suspects a thing! Oh, god, please let there no one suspect a thing. His back pressed against the wall of the cart, and there he takes a shuddered moment to pant.

People were, for the most part, facing the door or just looking on their phones. His grip returned to his cock, just as the cart gave its slow lean under the pressure of a turn.

All of the fluid pressing in him shifted with the cart; tilting, rolling like a boulder held back by slowly snapping vines. Trickles of pebbles fell down the cliff -- and he felt the trickles of drips sneak their way past his iron grip, staining the edges of his boxers. "Fuck, fuck, fucking fuck..." He cussed under each sharp breath. He had no choice now; it was getting Bad.

Casting a glance down the cart, he turns away from the others to give his cock a quick shake. One, two, and a few quick feverish pumps to try and get it to harden. Out the sleek, red member filled, pushing out at an uncomfortable angle at his boxers. With another alarmed look, he paused, still... And then tucks the hardened dick between the hem of his pants and his shirt, tucking the hard-on safely from sight.

The ding echoes once again, and the doors slid open. Fuck the four more stops he had to get out of here. He moved, struggling with each step to not reach back down to grip himself in full view of the others...

But the crowds ahead slid out with the speed of molasses, and as soon as the cart found itself relieved -- the impatient hoards pushed right back in before he could make it to the door, "--No!" His cry came more as a whine than a snarl, as the doors near shut on his own fingers. His clawed palms pushed against the windows, body flushed against the graffiti-marked doors, and he could only watch helplessly as the cart inched its way to the next stop, safety fading away to be engulfed by the shadows of claustrophobia.

He could feel the eyes on him now. He didn't have to look, the whispering was suspicious enough. Seeing a seven foot tall punk crocodilian fidget and press against the doors was sure to raise a few eyebrows, "Come on come on come on come on..."

His hips shivered, chain belt jangling under his jerking shudders. Knees knocked, legs bounced, pride fell away as both hands reached down to grip his crotch and cock, past the hem of his pants as he lets out a sudden roar of "Come ON!" to the shock of onlookers. His own eyes fell wide as he looked over -- people were parting away from him, of course, and now he was the mid-center of attention. Heat filled his face, his hands, and sweat speckled his back to seep into his shirt.

The cart lurched, and that waterballoon of a bladder sloshed with it. He stumbled forward against the door, piss squirt striking up against his stomach and staining his white shirt, "AH!" Nonononono-- He shoved his dick back down into his pantleg. If he had to lose it, at least lose it in the dark cloth of his pants and not the bright white tell-all shirt.

But that small spurt was just the crack in the dam. Drips kept escaping, bit by bit, slipping out of his cock tip and through his claws. A shiny, sleek patch of dots filled his pant leg as he bowed forward with a pitiful whine. Just one stop just one more stop, hold it. Hold it. His hand jerked his shaft in full view of the others, desperate to hold. He could live with public indecency but his friends would never let him live this down. Maybe if he outright came it would stop the flow--

"AaAHN-Ahn!" His moan racked itself out of him as the flow burst forth against a too-hard thump of his fist -- spilling even through the thick cloth of his pants to splatter against the doors. Burst after burst of yellow piss jetted in messy streams against his leg, his fingers, into his boots and against the floor in too-loud taps of noise. It was over, and all he could do was unload with a shuddered groan of unwanted relief. Pressure, easing, and the hot stench of urine clung to him in an aura of shame. It felt wonderful, it felt horrible, and he could only surrender to the release.

And the doors parted open, his continuous river-stream raining against the floor before him.

Shocked eyes set on him, people parting away from this nasty beast. This crocodile man with his hand in his pants, eyes glazed over, sharp jaws parted, body slouched, and an utter mess of urine over his shirt, pants, legs, and floor before him. It was still going; a beast like him had a lot to carry. "I... I'm s, sorry, I..." He panted, piss flow still pulsing out at a relaxed trinkle through his own pant-leg, pooling in a golden mess at his feet, the floor, and the dock before him. He was met with shocked silence, no one moving, nothing moving save the audible tap-tappa of urine against cement.

And the doors slid closed again, carrying him and his mess off to the next stop.