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Silver Linings


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Driving on a motorway is a relaxing experience, especially if it's at night. Lights turn into a constantly shifting, abstract mosaic, actions become automated and everything but the road ahead becomes perfectly tuned out – including your girlfriend angrily tapping you on the shoulder.

– "Hey, wake up."

– "More awake than you, I think," I said. The vixen had just woken up and looked like it, sitting there rubbing her eyes and trying to stretch in the cramped seat. She'd slept for most of the three-hour drive, exahausted, and looked in need of a brush. Only her muzzle poked out from beneath a veil of ruffled white hair.

– "I gotta pee, stop somewhere," she informed me as if she owned the car, and me too.

– "Why so grumpy?"

– "You try sleeping in this seat and being happy about it," she grunted back, rubbing her eyes and stretching. She gathered the hair out of her face and squinted at the road lights. "And when you got to piss this bad," she said, tossing out a soda cup she'd previously emptied out the window.

– "Trying to get me fined?"

She leaned back and seemed to drift off again. I didn't quite get her response, but it might have been "fuck off".

I looked over and saw her snoozing again, muzzle slightly parted and snow-white fur shining softly in the near-darkness. It was getting late and I'd been thinking about stopping, but her display got me a bit angry. I get that car sleep isn't the most fulfilling rest, but that didn't excuse her acting like that. I didn't feel like stopping for her after that... and I had a little plan hatching for my self-proclaimed princess.

A service area, and the next one went by and past, and she kept sleeping and squirming. Her left paw crept up and settled between her legs, rubbing lightly. Her desperation grew. Legs rubbing together as she tensed and relaxed, bare feet tapping unconciously against each other... I watched in fascination, almost suspecting she was faking, unbelieving that she could sleep like that.

An hour passed and I wondered. I'd expected her to wake up by that point, freak out in the car for a while, beg me for a stop and barely make it to a bathroom. But she was sleeping soundly, her bladder filling up by the minute, and it was getting late enough that restrooms might be closed. I wanted her to have a close call, not an accident. She squirmed again and I gave her a worried glance, and considered just giving up and stopping – but I was still upset at her, and I kept driving. I wanted to see her scared.

I drove and watched her. It was getting late and I was about to stop anyway when I heard her whimper. Monica sat up shaking her head, gave me a dazed stare – and suddenly contorted herself, bending forward, one paw clenching her crotch and the other cradling her belly. She made that desperately urgent sound again and pushed herself into the seat, bent halfway into a ball.

– "Are you okay?" I asked, as if I didn't know.

– "Oh god, I gotta go, please stop–" She was breathless; pain in her voice.

Shit, I thought. It was worse than I'd intended.

– "It's five minutes until the next–"

– "Just stop anywhere, it hurts!" She was twisting herself, switching between jamming her paws in between her legs and crossing them. She'd undone her belt and was sitting on the edge of the seat, grinding against it, her posture screaming urgency and pain, fluffy tail trashing impotently below her knees.

I hit the gas, really regretting my stupidity now. She looked genuinely distraught. I watched her fight against her own body, trying to resist the urge, cradling her painfully bursting bladder with her paws and desperately trying to postpone the inevitable, but she was losing it; in her exhausted sleep she had reached and went past the point of panic. Had she been awake, she would have done something, anything to relieve herself before that, but there she was about to wet herself in the seat and it was my fault.

I wanted to reassure her somehow, but I had no way to; she was locked in a private world of suffering. It hadn't been five minutes since she woke up and she was already sobbing in pain, tugging feebly at the undone waistband of her jeans, trying to shield her tender belly from any more pressure. It was swelling visibly from the unreal amount liquid contained inside and I couldn't even begin to imagine how badly she needed to go. Fur glistened as drops of perspiration formed on the pads of her paws, dampening it as if in anticipation of imminent greater wetness.

– "There's a stop just ahead, can you hold it a couple minutes," I tried to reassure her, but all I got in return were angry expletives.

As sorry as I felt for her, I couldn't help but admire certain things her desperation was doing to her body. Perching on the edge of her seat, with back straight as an arrow and shirt stretched and pushed down into her crotch made her chest a sight to behold, her perky breasts straining against the fabric. Seeing her nipples poke through layers of fur and cloth made me think just how hard they must be underneatch, and suddenly I had to resist the urge to reach over and check. She had her head thrown back, mess of hair cascading down, panting loud and quick thorugh a barely parted muzzle, from which a drop of saliva dripped on her chest, unnoticed. Her brush made its way behind her, its tip raised high and twitching madly just like it did when we made love. I knew what kind of urge was behind all that, but it helped little; soon my underwear was getting as tight as hers, even if my swelling was on the account of blood, not urine.

After what felt like an age for me and an eternity for her, but just a couple more minutes to the clock, we reached a petrol station and I took the exit. Monica was at the absolute wit's end, with a paw shamelessly down her panties, rubbing furiously at her privates to stave off the urge just a moment longer. I could only hope it was working; every few moments, with every spasm of her overfilled bladder, she yelped and whined and I wondered if anything was making its way into her panties already. Either way, her actions weren't helping my situation at all.

I rolled into the station praying to see a restrooms sign and was relieved to spot one – fifty metres off the nearest parking spot.

– "There's a bathroom. Can you walk?"

– "I don't know," she replied, not even bothering to look up.

I got out while dared not to move and went to her door. There was an embarassingly sizable bulge in the front of my pants, but there was nothing to be done about that; I just had to hope she wouldn't notice in her state. I certainly didn't want to explain that.

I opened her door. There was no chance she'd be able to walk on her own; a catastrophic loss of control seemed just a single jolt away. I'd have to help her to make it to the bathroom.

I put my left arm around her and pulled her out of her seat, holding her right paw in mine. It was slightly damp, I tried not to think what that meant. She managed to stand, but barely, bent forward in an almost right angle. I tried to make her straighten up a bit, but she gave a pained whimper as it pulled on her bladder; I gave up.

There was only one obstacle left in making our way forward: the paw in her unzipped pants, working restlessly at the inside of her panties. It wasn't an issue of embarassment, it was late, dark, and deserted, and we were both beyond caring. But I couldn't have her pants fall down in two steps.

– "You'll have to zip up your pants, Mon," I said softly

– "I can't, I'll pee," she cried. Quite literally: by this point, there were tears soaking into the fur on her face.

– "Come, you can do it, two more minutes and you can pee," I reassured her.

That seemed to give her some strength, and she let me remove her paw. She was completely passive, all her energies concentrated on holding back the contents of her screaming, spasming bladder. As soon as I took her left paw out of her pants – that one was more than damp – her squirming, clenching movements redoubled. She was down to her absolute limits; disaster was imminent.

Acutally buckling her jeans proved impossible. Her normally flat belly was sticking out in a curve that reached all the way to her navel and across her hips. The sheer size of her bladder surprised me, the hardness of it that I could easily feel beneath her fur shocked me. It did not feel like a springy ballon, it was an unyielding rocky surface just beneath hear skin that made it absolutely clear that there was no more space to be had there. It was as if she had a small watermelon inside her body, one that actively wanted out and wasn't going to wait.

I settled for pulling up the zipper a bit, but even that was met with a cry of anguish as I applied the tiniest pressure to her bladder. As soon as I finished my maniplations, her left paw shot straight to her crotch. Pressure through the pants was a meager substitute, but she needed all she could have. We made our way towards the toilets in an awkward, bent waddle, accompanied by whimpers of pain and frequent stops as Monica had to concentrate on fighting another spasm. I couldn't be sure in the darkness, but I thought there was a dark patch growing in the crotch of her jeans, I urged her to go faster, to get there before any more damage occured.

We finally got to the door and I yanked the handle – to no result. I pushed, nothing. Then I actually looked at the door, and saw a sign:

"After 10 p.m., the bathrooms are locked. Keys with the staff."

I turned to Monica to let her know there'd be just one more little delay, but she'd already grasped the situation: she stared at the door with wide open green eyes, unmoving. And then I felt it: my right paw, holding hers and resting on her thigh, suddenly felt wet. Monica sunk to her knees and I went down with her, hugging her, as her body gave up to its torment and released its burden; streams of wetness spilled out all over her lower body, forming a puddle. It seemed to grow forever as she emptied and emptied, shuddering in release and panting. I could feel the tension flow out of her body alongside the urine as she slumped against me; I struggled to maintain my balance while squatting. Somehow, I managed to get nothing but the soles of my shoes wet.

I stayed still for a moment after it ended, holding her head to my chest and stroking it. She sobbed a little bit, completely exhausted after her battle.

I helped her to her feet and stepped back to asses the damage. She was dripping wet form the waist down and even her tail was soaking wet; normally a wide brush, it looked like a rat's. She looked down at herself and a small laugh burst through her tears.

– "A foot from a bathroom door. Fucking hell. What a mess," she said spreading her arms; drops of urine dripped from her fingers.

– "Aren't you upset?"

She looked at me in exasperation and shrugged.

– "I'm just happy... that it's over."

***

We decided to keep driving through the night and just get home; the accident – and lack of spare clothes – made sleeping in the car an inconcievable rather than just uncomfortable proposition. She sat on a plastic sheed I'd pulled out of the trunk.

We were both recovering from the excitement of her... adventure, although for me that meant more than she could suspect. Or so I hoped, anyway; she hadn't commented on my obvious reaction to her predicament and I wanted to believe she just hadn't noticed. It was not something I really wanted to explain, especially not since it was all, in the end, my fault. That was another thing she seemed to forget, but no doubt I'd yet hear about it.

A series of alarm bells rung in my head as time seemed to repeat itself: Monica squirmed in her seat again and her knees rubbed against each other. Did she need to go again? That seemed impossible, but what did I know.

– "Everything all right?" I asked.

– "I'm just a bit uncomfortable," she said.

– "Are you sure? You..."

– "I'm fine" she said empathically, looking me in the eye.

She went still, but it didn't take long until she started grinding her butt a little bit.

– "Look, if you need to pee again, that's fine, I'll stop, better that than..."

– "I don't need to pee," she cut me off. "Look, I..." She bit her lip. "I haven't sat around in wet underwear since I was six."

That wild non-sequitur startled me. What'd that have to do with anything?

– "And it's doing some things I'd never have expected to me," she continued. "It feels... let me just show you," she blurted suddenly and grabbed my right hand.

I was alarmed to have my hand taken from me while driving, and doubly so when she began to put it down her pants.

– "What are you..."

– "Shh. Gently."

It was wet down there, as expected – but hotter and stickier, too. She pressed her paw down on herself and ground slightly against it. All my progress in calming down my own privates was lost in an instant.

– "You're getting off on this?"

– "You've no fucking idea how much," she said, breathless again. "Or maybe you do, don't think I haven't noticed that." Suddenly her left paw was groping my erection through my pants, and seconds later begun working on undoing my belt.

My mind went blank at the sheer absurdity of the situation, but there was nothing I could do. Even my vague awarness of the risk of horrible death involved in engaging in mutual masturbation on a motorway couldn't make me stop her. I continued to stroke her and she got a good grip on me; the world stopped making sense for a moment. I kept one eye on the road and the other on her, watching her spread out on the seat and enthusiastically hump my right hand, while she used her right to keep it right where she wanted and do wonders to me with her other paw. It didn't take long at all until she gave a shuddering sigh and collapsed, and just the sound of that was enough to make me mess up my shirt.

***

It was four A.M., we were sitting in the shower, and I was rubbing shampoo out of the fur on her back as she sat on my lap.

– "You know," she said, "I was going to be really mad at you for making me piss myself. But... it didn't turn out that bad in the end."

She smiled and leaned forward to kiss me as hot water poured over us.

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