There was a bee on the urinal, and Scott couldn't take a piss.


He dried up instantly.  All the way to the bathroom he'd been willing his bladder to hold just a moment longer, just another second or two.  He'd even unzipped his jeans and whipped his thing out as soon as he was through the bathroom door--


And saw the bee.


It was crawling around the top of the urinal, aimless, lazy.  It stopped momentarily, noticing his presence.  In that brief moment of hesitation, Scott could see the bee flying at his face, or worse his dick, stinger ready, eminent death be damned.  He could feel the stinger going in, just like the last time he was stung, the pain and swelling and crying.  He'd only been eight at the time, and it had been four full years, but the sensation came back in a flash, his fist clenched around his dick, and for a moment he didn't need the bee to sting him, he was doing a damn good job of hurting himself.


Then he saw that the bee had resumed its wandering, but he didn't relax.


It wasn't a big bee; small, slightly larger than your average sweat bee.  He'd seen several others like it around the school playground; there was probably a nest somewhere, a colony or whatever you called it.  They generally weren't hard to avoid, and weren't very aggressive either; you stayed out of their way, and they stayed out of yours, and if your paths ever crossed then you just stopped what you were doing.  It was about respect, Scott's father had said once, but Scott knew the truth: it was about fear.  Respect didn't have a thing to do with it.


They weren't aggressive on the playgrounds, but Scott had never seen one in the bathroom before.  Especially not just a few inches away from his exposed dick.  There was no respect there, either.  That was pure, unadulterated terror.


He could've wondered what would compel a bee to crawl across an elementary school urinal; he could've wondered how long the bee had been there, if it had been in the room that morning when he was in there.  He could've wondered a whole bunch of things, all of them worth pondering, but his mind froze like his bladder.  All he could think of was a memory—a little boy in the backyard, curious and oblivious, poking his hand into a patch of flowers and feeling the worst pain of his young life.


Slowly, Scott backed away from the urinal.  He poked his dick back in his pants and zipped up, not watching and not caring if he caught himself in his zipper.  He only turned around at the bathroom door, and then it was just for a second—to kick the door open and dart out of the bathroom, a quick glance over the shoulder to ensure that the bee wasn't following him.

He went back to class and sat down at his desk.  About halfway through the algebra lecture he wet him himself, and casually crossed his legs so no one would notice until later.