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Like an omo doujin gone wrong: 3 holds and a hen


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The past few days have been an utterly omo-filled blissful hell.  Forgive my crudeness, but at the moment I can find no other way to describe it. As I write, my bladder and lower regions are aching from overuse, begging for rest.  Given the events of the story I am about to tell that took place over the course of one day, as well as one story yet untold, I think the best course of action for me would be to listen to the pleading of my body.   For now, I provide for your reading pleasure, three holds and a hen.

 

 Part 1: Too close!

It started out as a typical work day, typing, updating documents, practically inhaling hot tea to try to wake me up as I don't quite have a taste for coffee, and indulging in a certain website  where an entire community shared a deep interest of mine particularly close to my heart. And perhaps some other regions.

 

Such tales with which these people have regaled me inspired me to do similarly, and I must confess I had been especially inspired by a certain kind of abdominal protrusion. Despite my hot tea and hourly hydration promise to myself to make up for missed sleep, I resolved not to use the restroom at work until lunchtime.  (It was 10 AM. I took lunch at 1) Doing so especially without asking would have severe consequences if the phone rang at all during that time and I was not there to pick it up. Three strikes, and you're out, babe. 

 

 That must have happened about once or twice.

 

It's for this reason I'm normally reluctant to use the restroom in the first place, but this time was different. This time, there was resolve. This time,  there was determination.

 

This time, my bladder said, "Nuh-uh, missy!" and seized up scarcely before an hour had passed.  You may have seen some of this in the live-action thread, but strangely enough, while I certainly appreciated it, the encouragement did the opposite for me.

 

Just being on the site was absolute psychological torment, and the encouragement I interpreted as dismissive at the time only made me jam my foot under me tighter. The way I sit at my desk, I usually keep one foot tucked under me out of habit, but this time, I kept it tightly packed against me out of necessity. 

 

This does work for a little while, but it doesn't take long for my foot to hurt or fall asleep, and in this state, with hot tea and water already at their penultimate destination... the foot had long since stopped helping. 

 

I have heard somewhere that memory and concentration are increased when one is in such a state. But I haven't found that to be the case at all.  My brain was in such a fog-filled, addled condition that I thought to myself, "maybe if I just leak a tiny bit into my panties, it'll help me hold on."

 

It was an enormously easy task, barring the mental panic that set in right as the initial droplets were on the verge of egress.

 

BAD. IDEA.

 

The moment I released what I thought was a few drops, I felt a moist patch of warmth spreading between my legs.  I slammed the brakes on myself, using a hand this time to staunch the flow despite the camera on the ceiling of which I'm always paranoid.

 

This wasn't the place to inspect any damage,  but while I clutched myself I could feel the preemptive heat in my pants that serves as the harbinger for desperate moisture. Too close. My pants were safe, and so was my chair. 

 

Now, the chair was off-limits and simply had to stay dry at any cost. You see, this chair is an office chair with fabric on it instead of a flat bottom, so it would have been darn near impossible to clean up. Not to mention somebody else sits here when I'm gone.

 

In order to preserve the fragile state of both my clothing and the chair, I decided to get up, the resulting spasm setting in as I doubled over and battled myself to not clutch myself with my hands in front of the camera.

 

I called for my coworker to watch the phones, but of course, at this time...

 

no one answered.

 

Not another second passed without me wiggling, clamping, gritting my teeth, and jamming my foot in between, doing everything in my power to help except what I desperately needed to do. 

 

Meanwhile I heard her cheerily talking to another co-worker in the hallway. 

 

This spark of indignation ignited my need anew, and I took the risk and bolted to the bathroom, spitefully striding past her in the process.

 

Not much damage there, nothing of note, and the relief  as everything spilled into  plumbing and oblivion was heavily tainted by disappointment. How had I not managed to hold for even an hour? This was truly unacceptable.

 

So what was I to do but try again?

 

Part 2: property damage

My lunchtime is a time of respite.  It is more than food. It is a time to replenish myself and get ready to keep going for four more hours.

 

And I did just that.

 

Within reason, of course. I didn't drink any more than I normally would, and I could freely use the bathroom at this time.  I decided to use this time to give my body a bit of rest,  but somewhere around the 2 or 3 o'clock mark,  I started to feel brave again. 

 

At that time, I decided that I wouldn't go again until I got home. Work lets out at 5, and it usually takes me a half an hour to get home unless I have other tasks, like filling up my car.  It wasn't a long time, and I had been excusing myself as often as I needed, whenever the need came up, so it should have been a fairly easy task.

 

But fate had other plans. 

 

An aside: I kept my boyfriend updated on all of this. Technically he actually doesn't share this particular interest, but he's so incredibly supportive that it almost feels like he does.

 

It was at the tail end of his lunch break and he asked me if I was okay. I told him yes, and although I don't usually like to use this notation, I told him I was at a solid 2. Off he went. 

 

NOT TEN MINUTES LATER I was back to withholding a flood, trembling and scarcely able to focus on my tasks at work.  I couldn't write without feeling the pressure of several cinderblocks on my lower abdomen, and, although this might not have been true, it felt as though the foot tightly jammed in my crotch was the only barrier between the veritable ocean inside of me and its flooding.

 

 I really couldn't understand why. I knew my bladder was tiny, but I didn't expect it to be that tiny.  How on Earth could I achieve a bulge when I went from a normal, working girl, to a shattered, desperate mess in the span of a few minutes?!

 

Later I would learn that what I had been doing was actually a tactic known as rapid desperation. Apparently, if you go as often as you need to, and then stop all of a sudden, a merciless wave would strike with less warning than a snake in hiding. 

 

 But that would be later. Now, I was in quite a predicament, and struggled to do some work.

 

Sweat crawled down my face as I panted with the effort to keep it all in, making a mental change in the rules I had set. Just two more documents to finish, and one flash card for later. Then I could go.

 

The words on my computer screen swam before my eyes and ceased to provide meaning. I briefly wondered how I looked on camera, and I desperately knew I needed to escape sometime soon.

 

Since the only possible out lay in my work, I redoubled my efforts to concentrate. I leaned forward toward the computer, make my hips rise ever-so-slightly off of my tightly wedged foot. 

 

Big mistake. 

 

My body took my learning forward as a green light to release all it had in full force and in as little time as possible.

 

I'm not going to lie, I actually yelped as I slammed myself back down onto my foot. The pained protests from that poor foot were nothing compared to the sheer panic and question of how much damage I caused raging around in my head.

 

Screw my own stupid rules. Screw the camera. I needed to get out of there right that second!

 

My shaky hand shot out toward the phone, and I dialed my co-worker's extension for help. I opened my mouth to express that I needed to step away from the desk, but the tinkling of a bell, and the door opening stopped me in my tracks.

 

I froze and looked up to see two repairmen, who had been scheduled to fix a leak. I wish I was joking. I really, REALLY wish I was joking.

 

While I talked to get them to the right place, I was extremely aware of everything I did. My pained facial expressions, the sweat gently sliding down my face, my hips wiggling across my foot in lieu of using my hands, my shaking voice, and especially the soaked state of my panties.  The presence of people around seemed to make my skin that much more receptive, and every layer, wet and dry, my foot...I could practically feel it in every skin cell in the area as I squirmed and continued to struggle not to lose control in front of perfect strangers-- and in a professional setting, no less!

 

As I spoke to them to get them on their way, all I could think was, "Please.... please no."

 

After contacting the person they needed to speak to, I frantically dialed my co-worker and again struggled to keep my voice steady. It took every ounce of strength I had and more to hobble to the bathroom and meet with absolutely glorious relief. 

 

Calling the stream a stream would not do it justice in the slightest. No sooner had my panties dropped than I gracelessly spurted, the waterfall splashing every which way as I grew weak from the deed and the sweat on my face and neck dried cold. 

 

When I got back to my desk, the repairmen were long gone.  Instead, what I saw was the chair, swiveled toward the door, in full view of anybody who would pass by. 

 

There, on the fabric seat,  was a darkened splotch about the size of my palm. 

 

My stomach dropped. How was I going to explain anything? How was I going to sit there again?

 

 Luckily, by this point, my work day was about to end. I quickly closed up shop, got as much of the stain out as I could, and sprayed it with Febreze. 

 

It was right then and there in my shame that I decided that that was enough holding for quite some time.

 

That said, it's amazing how quickly some circumstances can change.

 

Part 3: Christmas dinner

Here's a tiny bit of context for you. I live somewhere that just barely toes the line between the suburbs and the country, on an extremely small farm.  That means there's always work to be done after my work day is over.

 

What I had not known was that we were running low on groceries, and my entire family would go as a team effort, but I would have to stay behind and take care of the animals.

 

It was an extremely rare opportunity that comes twice a a year at best. I could do all my tasks, take a little time for myself and render my dress and leggings unsalvageable, then toss it all in the laundry before they came back.

 

I wasn't a fool. I was going to take it.

 

 I wrote a list of all the tasks on a chalkboard, timing myself and my small but rapid water intake, refusing to even look at the small bathroom conveniently located very close to outside.  With my muscles in the area badly weakened from earlier that day, I didn't have long to wait until I started to feel a significant amount of pressure.

 

This particular hold had something that the other holds did not--movement.   Honestly, it really helped. With how busy I was with cooking, cleaning, and taking care of all of our different animals, sometimes I was actually able to forget how badly I needed to go. 

 

Until I bent over to lift the bucket of chicken feed only to have my bladder give me a little surprise party and twist itself, making me shove my knees together in protest.  My eyes flickered toward the entrance of of the house, where I knew there was a bathroom extremely close by. But no. I just had to be strong.

 

The property is somewhat close to two other houses, whose occupants would definitely notice something off about just how fidgety I was as I was feeding the chickens. Okay, most of the chickens. 

 

Some of our chickens have to be kept separate because they're younger, until night falls and then they go in a special little house where they can be safe. They eat a little earlier too.

 

I had finished with most of what I needed to do. The excitement was mounting with my need, and for the third time that day, I felt my poor panties dampen.  Looking back, I honestly couldn't tell you what it was.

 

The voices of my family were still nearby, so I absolutely could not even provide myself a tiny bit of relief.  For the third time that day, I had to internally wrestle with my body, denying myself the release it so badly craved.  

 

All while keeping my cool and doing my chores.

 

At long last, I heard the car pull away, and the sound alone made my muscles contract, with only my garden glove standing in the way of me making a huge mess on the grass in potential full view of my neighbors.  It took several trembling seconds before  I regained enough composure to move my hand and continue. 

 

My glove came away wet. I was running out of time. 

 

Thankfully, only one task stood between me and wetting freedom: Putting the younger chickens in their house for the night.

 

For some reason, all the chickens that are young are skittish, and I tried to calmly talk to them, holding myself with one hand, and each chicken with the other.  It would take longer, but I wanted this last splash of the day to be the biggest one yet. I wasn't going to let myself leak a little by holding two chickens at once.   It was getting dark out, so I didn't think anybody would see me.

 

My heart and nether regions pounded as I returned to take the last chicken home. This was it.

 

 This last chicken, Chickira,  I knew to be especially skittish, so I ended up using both hands to catch her. 

Without a hand to stop myself, each trembling step yielded a few more drops, but I wasn't worried as I was going to soak the darn thing anyway, and it didn't show through my dress.

 

 My family was out on errands, and my neighbors wouldn't notice. Everything was going smoothly.

 

Until Chickira decided enough was enough and beat her wings hard enough to rival a hurricane, slipping out of my grip and making a mad dash for the wild. 

 

My heart stopped. 

 

My bladder started. 

 

I really did not want to lose this precious bird! She was always nervous, but she was a pet. I called out as loud as I could, just barely remembering to hold myself in time.

 

Suddenly I didn't think I was in for a night of wet fun anymore. 

 

My hope slipped away with that chicken, and with it, a large chunk of my resolve as fear took over.  My leggings were instantly soaked, but thankfully not enough to seep into my favorite boots.  I continued to hold, barely, still fighting to contain myself even with the host of uncertainties thrown into the plan. 

 

But that did not matter in the slightest. "Chickira!" I called out again, following her into a patch of very tall bushes which I knew to be infested with all sorts of bugs and spiders. 

Remember when I said movement helped with the hold? Let me clarify a little bit. Slow, deliberate movement, meant to keep the area busy-- that's why it's more doable when you're walking.

 

But when you're running, bending, bursting, and desperate to save a life that is absolutely terrified of you-- Every erratic movement is a punch in the gut. Every spurt was unasked for, and unexpected.

I kept circling and plowing through the bushes, begging the frightened bird, "please...you have to come home..."

Many questions swarmed my mind while I was chasing Chickira and steadily flooding my dress--dark stains were evident on the front and back already--Would a neighbor hear me and come out and help me? What would they think about seeing me in such a terrible state? Would I have to call my parents and get them home faster? How could I avoid them seeing me like this? I need help... How can I get it? I really can't hold it anymore...

With that last thought, the two holds earlier that day, the numerous tiny cups of water and tea that I had a drunk while doing my other chores, the fear of people I knew sticking their heads out the window and seeing me so utterly drenched, the fear of losing the bird, and worst of all, the fear of my family coming back early...it was all, suddenly, too much. 

 

My trembling muscles finally gave out and I stood there, staring, like a small child, at school, at the streams cascading down my leggings, the wet patches creeping further and further outward,  and my clothing becoming dark and shiny with new, rapid moisture, with my hands and skirt receiving no mercy from the torrent as I made one final futile effort to keep everything inside.  

 

Forgetting about the chicken for a moment, I was transfixed by the scene unfolding not before me, but on me.  Panting with the borderline-orgasmic sensations seeping into my innermost being, I sank to the grass and threw my head back in simultaneous bliss and horror, wanting to cry for losing control in such a shameful manner outside and not in the privacy and safety of the shower like I'd wanted.

 

When my body finished racking itself with pulses of relief, I looked down at the puddle around me that would make a flash flood flash yellow with envy.

 

I did end up calling my parents, and I did end up chasing the chicken around in prickling wet leggings and soggy, squishy boots, and utilized my family's idea of using a pool net to catch her.

 

After crawling and running through the mud and bushes and lunging and doing all sorts of things one normally doesn't do when wet clothes begin to dry and chafe...Chickira was in the net, and safely home. 

 

And then the car pulled in. 

 

A jackrabbit could not have sprinted into the house, up the stairs, and to the laundry room as fast as I did, where I stripped every bit of wet clothing off, toweled myself dry, threw on an old house dress and went down to greet my family.

 

I told them I needed time to be alone and they understood. I don't think they found out unless they looked in the direction of the coop and saw an unusually dark patch of dirt. Maybe...maybe a very large stray dog wandered through the area. Yes. That would be a good alibi.

 

I spent the rest of the evening holed up in my room, too aroused to face my family again, too ashamed to do anything about it. 

 

Now, you may be wondering, the thread title is "Omorashi Doujin Gone Wrong," but this is all standard stuff! Where does it go wrong?" 

 

It goes wrong in that the story does have a happy ending with a Boyfriend ex Machina. The fact that I completely and mercilessly soaked myself when I didn't intend to--it didn't faze him in the slightest. 

 

All in all, it was a pretty lovely night. 

 

And that chicken's name has officially been changed to Christmas Dinner.

 

Afterword:

I have one picture from these stories. The one from part 2. I'd have loved to have taken a picture from Part 3 just to show how much and how MUCH I went, but circumstances did not permit this. 

 

Bonus: the blue ones were taken today, over the course of writing this. I suppose despite the recency of the occurrence, my body knows just how to react to it.

 

NOTE: My phone is not allowing me to upload them now, but I will keep trying!

 

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Edited by Pistachio (see edit history)
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