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  1. 3 points
    So this isn’t really anything to do with this forum, but judging by the reactions to the fanfictions I’ve written I expect some people would be interested in seeing some of my writing outside of omorashi fanfiction. I’ve actually started working on writing a novel after rediscovering my love for writing and I thought I’d link it for here for any of those people. https://www.wattpad.com/story/181439644-the-astounding-adventures-of-catherine-elizabeth
  2. 2 points
    Probably have all the videos needed for my next superheroine compilation. Not sure when I can get down to trimming and compiling though 😕
  3. 2 points
  4. 1 point
    When someone on F-list confuses you for the owner of the site.
  5. 1 point
    Finally a topic I can add some value too! I am a coach driver and ex bus driver in the UK. For buses you can drive 5hours 30 without break and coaches 4 hours 30 driving but 6 hours total (sat in traffic other work etc). most bus terminus have toilets but not all and come night time the ones do close. luckily for me I now work for an operator who has toilets on all their vehicles however despite this I have had passengers come up to me on the motorway who didnt realise and were a bit desperate. Back in my bus days I did have a few near misses and one that become more accident/public peeing. It was the summer of 2014 I was working for the now defunct Ambus doing the 374 from Grays to Basildon via just about everywhere. As a rule I have excellent bladder control though this route had nearly caught me once in the previous weeks. I had been drinking plenty of water being as it was summer and had a mild need to go at Grays but decided I could make it back to Basildon ok! First of all it was ok but as I was getting into the route it become apparent I was going to need relief beforehand! I thought to myself no problem there is a quiet town it served called Horndon on the hill a placce with plenty of space to park and a nice path into a small woods which I had used about a week or 2 before this incident. now coming up to Horndon I was getting to the stage I was close to my point I managed to get to Horndon and thought gees that was close but unfortunately I got to the place I stopped last time there was someone waiting in their car watching so I couldnt exactly abandon the bus while being watched! Now I was in serious danger of having an accident I continued knowing this wasn't going to be easy to get to Basildon as I got through the end of Corringham I leaked a little while trying to let my muscles have a moment off as I turned into Fobbing this happened again.By this stage I only had about a mile left maybe 15 to 20 mins of driving however it was too much I ended up having a spurt escape and I knew then if I didnt stop there and then I was not going to make it any further! so I stopped the bus next to a small patch of grass with only a tree for cover and hopped out and relieved myself behind said tree for what seemed like 4 minutes!! I have had other situations but never one that close! If it is wanted I can write about the other situations but they are not as exciting as this one.
  6. 1 point
    https://www.pornhub.com/view_video.php?viewkey=ph5892d3a4d4935
  7. 1 point
    Wow! That is a great story. I absolutely love the thought of a girl holding my dick while I was extremely desperate to help me. And then slowly leaking into her hand on accident. He is such a lucky guy to have a girl like that. If only he knew....... Great job Mackennamarie! You have given me another fantasy, I want to play out so bad!
  8. 1 point
    Wait, really? You can say "fuck" but not "wetting"? 100 words I knew the moment I walked into the theater that the extra large coke was a mistake. But I couldn't help myself. I had salty popcorn and I was thirsty. By the middle of the movie, all the liquid had migrated to my bladder. I couldn't sit still. I put my hands in my lap. Finally, a little came out. I was teary. But the seats around me were empty. I had an idea: I spread my legs out and lifted my bum. Then I peed, and left the theater with only a small wet spot to show for it. 100 words Dentists terrify me. Their tools are the spawn of satan. Only when the pain exceeds my fear do I go, and not without a valium. This time, I asked for an appointment today, and the only available time was right now. This was a problem, because I hadn't peed in hours. The battle between bladder and toothache was won by the teeth. I went in with a full bladder and left with an empty one. Jesus Christ, he said, you're a grown woman! What do you expect, I tried to say, when you stick a murder weapon in my mouth. 70 words There's nothing better than a warm bed with a human bed warmer by your side. I always feel so safe and protected. I'm ashamed to say that, at twenty-six, I'm still afraid of the dark. I have to wake him up every time I have to pee. He's getting tired of following me to the bathroom like I'm a puppy. Unfortunately for him, this dilemma means I'm not quite housebroken. 20 words Beach. Sun. Rolling waves and surfers and girls peeing through their bikinis. Staples of a childhood. Birthplace of a fetish. 100 words She'd never been as embarrassed as when her brother barged in on her changing out of pee-soaked clothes. Her jeans were piled on the floor, and her panties were halfway see-through. In her haste, she hadn't locked the bathroom door. He stood paralyzed for a moment before turning away. He walked out, and said through the door, Anna, what happened? Anna was even more embarrassed by the fact that she hadn't been stuck in traffic, like last time, or couldn't find the bathroom in a department store, like the time before that. She'd simply been on the computer too long.
  9. 1 point
    I haven't been around here much for a long time, as I'm sure a few people noticed at first and then forgot. The main reason is that I haven't been interested in sex for a long time. The case of my missing libido is still an open mystery, but that isn't why I'm writing this. My general ambivalence toward sex has meant that it has been easy for me to push my fetish to the background of life. My partner, while accepting of my fetish, has little personal interest in it. Clean up is a pain. I still masturbate to fetish thoughts and images, but even that seems perfunctory and habitual. Life is certainly a lot simpler when I can ignore my fetish. Compartmentalizing my identity now only causes me a chronic ache, not an acute pain. Maybe that is why I don't really miss my absent sex drive. But an incident happened recently that reminded me why even without a sex drive, my fetish still matters to me. One of my close friends, I'll call her Ben, recently came out as a trans woman. This has led to lots of conversations about her experience of people's reactions, notably her oblivious and ignorant parents. I have done my best to be supportive from my privileged position as a white, cisgendered, straight man. While years ago I came out about my fetish to several of my close friends, Ben was not among them, and at this point I don't feel any particular desire to share my private sexuality with anyone other than my partner. I have therefore been very careful to play up my utterly normal, privileged role and to couch my advice in generalities. For example, instead of sharing with Ben the story of my father telling me to talk to my therapist about my fetish because I was "sexually confused," I simply pointed out that she didn't need and shouldn't seek her parents' approval, because her gender identity is not up for debate. One night, Ben was telling me about how she talked to her father about being trans, and mentioned her father had said something particularly offensive. What was it? I asked. He compared being trans to a fetish, said Ben, with an expression of disgust. My fingers froze above the piano keyboard, the blood drained from my face, and I asked her: Apart from being incorrect, what would be wrong with that? Well, said Ben, a fetish is the sort of thing a person ought to hide, and certainly never talk about, even with close friends. At this point I desperately wished my partner had been still awake to rescue me gracefully, but, since she wasn't, I looked Ben in the eye and told her: That is the most bigoted thing I have ever heard you say. She reacted well. She immediately backtracked and expressed her ignorance of the issue of fetishes, and after an awkward exchange the conversation moved on. But the incident highlighted for me the paradoxical limbo that is the fetish closet. Sexual orientation, gender identity, and even BDSM and AB/DL involve a host of things other than bedroom sexuality, including the choice to form specific kinds of relationships and communities. Members of those sorts of minorities therefore want to be out about their identity, because being out allows them to form the kinds of relationships they desire. To be closeted is to be denied that opportunity. Our constellation of fetishes, however, is more or less concerned only with what goes on in our bedrooms (and bathrooms, I suppose ). I ultimately have no desire to be out about my fetish, any more than I care to publicly announce what sex toys or positions I prefer. But then I am confronted with situations like Ben's comment, and I remember that the only way to create a world in which I don't have to worry about my friends making derogatory comments in front of me is to come out. I remember that if I ever have a religious question about my fetish, I can never ask a rabbi. I remember that if information about my fetish should ever come to light, I could become unemployable, even lose custody of any children I have in the future. I remember that even mentioning my fetish on many ostensibly kink positive websites can get me banned. I remember that my fetish is officially classified as a mental disorder, and that my government uses the same police who hunt child molesters to target sites offering safe spaces for my fetish. I remember that the only way any of that will change is if some of us come out, that the only way we will ever be left alone to practice our fetish privately is if we make our private lives public property. I get especially angry when people dismiss my thoughts because they assume that as an affluent, white, cis, straight man I have no idea what it means to be unprivileged. Or when people act as if their pet cause, gay marriage for example, is a life or death issue while totally dismissing the needs of other unprivileged groups. The least privileged groups are the invisible ones; true tolerance is tolerance of groups you've never heard of. I have long been frustrated that the communities surrounding our fetish rarely seem to rise beyond simple hedonism, and my absent libido has only made that frustration more clear. Even at my most sexual I get only momentary fulfillment from erotica, if that. Sexuality for me is about encountering other selves, not just pleasure, and my fetish has affected far more in my life than sex; I am sure that is true for others as well. That is what originally motivated me to create the symbol that is my avatar. I want to see our community evolve into one that is capable of pushing back against invisibility, of supporting each other, as people, against hardship. Our fetish, essentially private as it is, seems ill suited to bringing people together to do more than fap creatively. But I can dream, and I think the most important thing to do is to have discussions like this and to share as many stories as possible of our personal experiences (not just erotic stories, though I have nothing against those, and much respect for the many talented artists and writers here). Maybe, when we have told enough stories and gotten good enough at telling them, it will give members of our community strength to share their stories to a broader audience. Dehumanization is the root of all prejudice, and by telling stories we humanize ourselves.
  10. 1 point
    Hey, so this is my first story. Sorry if it’s not great. Please give me your feedback and let me know if there’s anything I can improve. Enjoy!   Chapter 1 Janie and I are anything but friends. In fact, I‘d say we‘re about as opposite as we can possibly get. And before you ask, no, I don’t believe in that ‘opposites attract’ myth, or whatever they’re calling love these days. How would a neurotic neat freak possibly be attracted to a vile slob, for example? But enough about that. It’s the beginning of first period, and currently we are sitting in Mrs. Hughes’ seventh grade class engaged in our silent reading. I -- Macy -- am wearing bubblegum eyeshadow and violet lipstick. My medium-length red hair is down and my bangs swept back with a hot pink headband. I’m wearing a red, spaghetti strap dress long enough to not get in trouble, but short enough to show off my sexy, bronzed legs. Underneath my dress my bra is completely stuffed like it is everyday, not that I have small boobs or anything, and I‘m sporting black converse sneakers with no socks. Janie has milky-white skin, and long dark brown, almost black hair that she always pins back in a half-ponytail. Her cheeks are pink like cotton candy, and she has small eyes the same color as her hair. She usually wears a plain blouse and skirt in drab, sombre colours and without texture. Sometimes I hear boys in my class talk about how her clothes don‘t do any justice to her ’scrumptious’ body, but they must have X-ray vision or something cause I don‘t see any curves whatsoever and frankly, I‘m kind of glad. Janie sits in a lonely island by the window, as usual completely detached from the rest of us. Today, she is wearing a bright green shirt and an iris purple skirt that makes room for a good portion of her legs; an unusual choice of clothing for her. Her hair is still in that usual half-down/half-up style, locked in place by a purple ribbon that matches her skirt, and on her feet are shiny black flats. However, as I glance towards her desk, I notice a small look of worry on her face which catches my attention. It’s true she is hopelessly shy and is probably anxious 24/7, but the look seems to be attached to something else. Just as I start to wonder what could possibly rattle her so much, I see her press her knees together and bury her hand into her skirt. She bites her lip, looks around self-consciously and jumps right back into her book. Of course; she has to pee. I wonder why she was foolish enough not to use the bathroom before class started. Mrs. Hughes has a strict rule against going to the bathroom during class -- she told us on the first day of school that she has not once allowed a single bathroom break in her thirty years of teaching, saying they are unnecessary and a waste of time. She also doesn’t trust us leaving the classroom unsupervised. This rule has resulted in a lot of uncomfortable situations and a few embarrassing accidents. However, despite this Mrs. Hughes has not discarded the rule and says it should serve as a reminder for us to be wise and use the bathroom before class begins. I take a look at Janie. She is now wriggling in her seat with her hand still buried in her lap, chewing on the nails of her other hand. She tries to concentrate on her book, but looks like she just can‘t take her mind off her need to pee. I remember my older brother telling me once that he was into girls wetting themselves -- I even saw him going into pee fetish websites. I had no idea how anyone could possibly be into something like that. I thought it was sick and reprehensible, but now that I see Janie squirming and tapping her foot restlessly on the ground, something about seeing it in person makes me unable to ignore her unfortunate situation. For the next hour, I find myself focusing less on the lesson and more on Janie as she becomes increasingly desperate. I see her constantly shift in her chair, uncross and re-cross her legs, bite her lip, and blushing every time she’s forced to slide her hand into her skirt. Then, when first period is finally over and it’s time for PE, I see a look of relief on Janie’s face. I remember that there is a toilet inside the change room, which she obviously plans on using. My shoulders sink in disappointment. While I’m sure the class must have been torture for her, it went by too fast for me, and for some reason I want to see her suffer more. We walk along the narrow hallway towards the change rooms. Even as I chat with my friends Jessie and Micki I still keep my eyes on Janie, who looks even more stiff than usual. She walks in short steps keeping her legs close together and her hands on her crotch. She bites her lip and the eagerness to relieve her bladder is clear in her eyes. We finally reach the change room, and I hear the quietest sigh of relief coming from behind me; it’s pretty obvious who it’s from. I frown in disappointment. I’m about to open the door, when I suddenly develop a brilliant plan, and a wicked smile forms on my face. Maybe I will get to watch her suffer more. We scatter inside the large change room and I immediately diverge from my friends and head straight for the stall in the corner. Janie is heading that way too, almost running, but I get there first. When I’m inside the stall and I’ve locked the door, I hear a soft gasp and then a sigh. I smirk to myself. Looks like poor little Janie is going to have to hold it. I’d always assumed Janie is one of those pee-shy people and normally wouldn’t feel comfortable going to the bathroom where everybody can hear, but I guess she’s just that desperate. I sling my bag off my shoulder, lay it on the toilet, and remove a skintight grey T-shirt, some white socks, and red short-shorts. I take my sweet time untying and removing my sneakers, stripping my dress off over my shoulders, putting on my shorts, changing into the top, slipping my socks on, and finally putting my sneakers back on my feet. I occasionally glance down at the small opening between the floor and the stall door and can see the bottom of Janie’s crossed legs. I can only imagine the look of sheer panic she must have on her face, biting her lip, praying for me to hurry up. I guess this is what is known as schadenfraude. I look at my watch. There’s still a minute left before we have to meet out in the hall. I frown. Janie is still waiting outside the stall, and when I peek through the tiny space in the door, I see she is slightly bent over with her legs crossed tightly and her hands pressing lightly on her peehole. I really don’t want to give her the satisfaction and relief she’s so desperately craving. Suddenly, I have a ruthless idea -- I remember I have some of my own pee to let out from the soda I drank on the way to school. It can wait; it’s still a long time before it becomes anything close to urgent, but what the hell, I’m already in a stall, why waste the opportunity? I grab my bag from the toilet and set it on the floor. I then lay a few sheets of toilet paper on the seat, pull down my shorts and panties, sit on the toilet and use it for what it was made for. I make sure to pee forcefully into the water so it’s nice and loud, and I let out a huge, exaggerated sigh of relief, smiling as I realize how deliciously cruel I can be. I get exactly the reaction I want -- a soft moan comes from the other side of the stall. I try to make the pee last as long as I can, knowing the sound is making Janie more desperate by the second. When I finish peeing, I hear the footsteps of girls leaving the change room; Jessie calls after me: “Macy, come on, we have to go!” “I’ll be right there!” I shout. Smugly, I wipe, flush the toilet, pick up my bag and exit the stall. Janie is still there, of course, crossed legs and all. There are beads of sweat running down her neck, and she’s having trouble just standing still. She really must be about to explode. I realize she hasn‘t even brought her gym clothes. What a bimbo. “Oh, were you waiting for the stall?” I ask her innocently. She nods, and then with a gasp, frantically shoves her hand into her skirt. I‘m guessing she must have leaked in her panties. “Sorry, I guess I kind of lost track of time. Silly me!” I tip my head back slightly as I laugh. “Well, it looks like there’s no time to use the bathroom, Mrs. Hughes is gonna come and lock up the change room, and we have to go. You’ll just have to hope you’ll be lucky and she won’t notice you’re not wearing your gym clothes. But it’s not that bad, right?” I ask, now referring to her other, more important problem. “Surely, you can make it.” She nods slowly, looking devastated that she‘s going to have to wait another whole hour before she‘ll have a chance to relieve herself. Jessie is leaning against the door, impatiently playing with one of her braids. “Let’s go,” she mouths. I smile and hold up a finger. “One minute,” I mouth back to her. Jessie sighs. I walk over to the sink and turn on the tap, letting the cool water pour onto my hands. I can see Janie in the mirror above the sink and it gives me a great view of her increasingly dooming desperation. I decide to torture her a little more and splash some water onto my face. She hurriedly looks away, and almost doubles over with overpowering desperation. “Macy, I am leaving in two seconds if you don’t get your ass over here-” “I’m here!” I say cheerfully, running up to Jessie with a water bottle in my hand. “See, I’m right here, and I’m all fresh and ready to go.” Jessie grins, and rolls her eyes. “It’s about time.” I toss my gym bag off to an adjacent bench as Jessie opens the door to leave. I whisper to her about Janie’s dilemma and she giggles. Then, while we’re walking out of the change room, I ‘accidentally’ let the door slam in Janie’s face. I hear a soft, “Oh!” and a dripping sound coming from behind us, and Jessie and I burst into giggles again. We wait outside for Mrs. Hughes to come so we can head for the gym, eager and a little nervous to find out what activity is planned for today. I just hope it’s not running. I hate running. I watch Janie trying to hide her greatly uncomfortable need for the bathroom, but still giving a small squirm every now and then. I smile, knowing how much she’s dreading PE. Now that she missed her chance to use the bathroom, she’ll have to wait until the period’s over, and the change rooms are locked up after we change to avoid theft, so she can’t sneak out and use the toilet during PE. Finally, Mrs. Hughes shows up, with her whistle draped across her neck like a necklace. She locks the change rooms and leads us into the gymnasium. We are all lined up in alphabetical order in the large, air-conditioned gym as Mrs. Hughes walks by, performing her routine gym strip inspection. She nods at each person she passes until she stops in front of Janie, not looking too happy. “Janie, where is your gym strip?” Everyone turns to look at the timid brunette girl who is now blushing. “I … I forgot,” she whispers, looking down at the ground. “SPEAK UP!” Mrs. Hughes roars. Janie flinches and instantly looks up, her face becoming redder and redder. I notice a small wet spot forming on her skirt. “I forgot it,” she says, a bit louder this time, though still barely audible. “You forgot, your gym strip?!” Mrs. Hughes bellows, practically steaming. I notice Janie fidgeting with her skirt and how she‘s slightly bouncing up and down, and I can only imagine the force she must be using to refrain herself from crossing her legs or jamming her hands into her crotch. “I‘m waiting!” “Y-yes,” Janie squeaks, then does her trademark lip bite. I suddenly, to my shock and amusement spot a few yellow drops on the back of her legs. I stifle a giggle. Mrs. Hughes’ expression of absolute fury turns to a less intimidating, but still degrading look of disappointment. “Well, what a shame. Our quiet, forgetful Janie forgets her gym strip … the simplest thing. A shame indeed. But certainly not an excuse. It looks like you’ll have to participate this class in your street clothes. And you’ll be very lonely for the rest of the day, as nobody’s going to want to hang around a forgetful, sweaty girl.” Several students laugh, including me. I see tears in Janie‘s eyes. “And this had better not happen again!” Mrs. Hughes turns back to the other students. “Well, now that we’ve wasted the first five minutes of class, hopefully we‘ll still have enough time to play a good ol’ game of dodge ball.“ The class erupts into numerous cheers and a few groans. I don’t have to be a mind reader to know that Janie is not happy about this. A vigorous, fast-paced game like dodge ball is not a good idea when you’re dealing with a very full bladder. Mrs. Hughes and a couple of other kids walk into the storage closet and fetch several colourful balls. They lay them on an imaginary line separating the gym into two halves, and then we form our teams. I volunteer to be a captain. My first choice for team-mates is Jessie. Next is Micki. After that, I pick Quinn because he just looks so f*cking hot in that a-shirt. When there are only two kids left -- Drake and Janie -- I think about picking Janie for my team so I’ll get a closer view of her humiliation, but I quickly decide no because first of all, I am pretty popular and I have an image to maintain. Of the two last choices I have, Drake is at least somewhat less of an outcast. Besides, I already have another plan. After the teams are formed and standing on opposite sides of the small gym, Mrs. Hughes blows her whistle and the game begins. I run over to where the balls are scattered and pick up a ball. I scan the opposite team looking for a good target. Aha. I toss the ball towards Jocelyn, and she yelps when it hits her arm and her glasses get nudged. “You’re out!” I yell. With a sad look on her face, Jocelyn walks over to the bench and sits down. I smile and pick up another ball. Let’s see, who‘s next? Connor… Narrowing my eyes and focusing on my prey -- while at the same time avoiding getting hit myself -- I throw back my arm and viciously throw the green ball at the chubby boy, hitting him square in the shin. He cries out painfully. “You’re out!” I shout again. “Nice!” Micki and Jessie cheer me on. I smile arrogantly. They do tell me I have good aim. Quinn comes and gives me a high five; my heart flutters. “Great job, keep it up,” he says, and then runs over to grab a ball. “Um… thanks,” I stammer, and I feel myself begin to blush. Horrified, I pull myself out of this dreamy state and get back into the game. Five minutes later, there are three people left on the other side of the gym, but only half of my team is out. Let’s see… there’s Carla, no, she always jumps out of the way. Richard, nah, he‘ll just start whining. Janie. An evil grin spreads all over my face. That’s right, the little mouse is still in the game, and now is the perfect time to carry out my plan. I tell Jessie and Micki, and they love it. I run back to grab my water bottle and take several long drinks, glancing over to see if Janie is watching. Apparently so, because I see her cross her legs and bury her hands into her skirt, blushing heavily. I seal the water bottle, swipe a hand across my lips, and run back to where Jessie and Micki are standing. “Quick, get a ball,” I say to them. “And bring me one too!” While I’m waiting for them to return, I look over to where Janie is standing. She’s biting her lip, I might have guessed, and keeping her legs firmly crossed. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a subtle look of suffering before. Jessie and Micki come back, practically giggling from excitement. They hand me a ball. “Okay, on three,” I say. “One, two, THREE!” Immediately, we all hurl our balls violently towards the desperate brown-haired girl. She gasps, but somehow manages to avoid getting hit. As she jumps out of the way, her skirt flies up and I catch a glimpse of her white, lace-trimmed panties. It’s hard to tell from here, but I can almost swear I saw a growing wet patch on the material. A few drops fall underneath her, creating a small puddle. “Crap, we missed her,” says Jessie irritated. Micki grunts. “Don’t worry, I’ll get her,” I say. “I think I just need more room. You guys stand back.” I don’t need to repeat myself, as they eagerly step back and give me some space. I lick my lips and grip on to the ball as tightly as I can. It was easy to knock out all the other kids cause I wasn’t aiming for any specific part of their body, but this time it’s different -- I have to hit that spot. I take a deep breath and with all my might, hurl the ball straight towards Janie. It hits her right in her stomach. She squeals in pain, and then covers her mouth with one hand as she gasps and looks down. I do the same and notice a dark, glistening wet spot forming on her skirt. She shoves her hands in between her legs, but her effort to stop the flow is now futile. A river of urine escapes from her and starts flowing down her leg. I am about to announce the arrival of her anticipated accident, but Jessie notices as well and beats me to the punch, shouting: “Look, Janie’s wetting herself!” Immediately, the room which had previously been so noisy and out of control becomes so silent that -- forgive the cliché -- you can hear a pin drop. Every single person turns their attention to the shrinking violet that Jessie is pointing at standing in the corner. Janie’s face turns the colour of cherries, and she takes her hands away from her legs. She closes her eyes in shame as her bursting bladder erupts and hot pee starts trickling down her legs and splashing on the floor. Her pee pools into her shoes, and forms a large puddle underneath her feet. The girls look in complete shock and disgust, and I try to savour the moment, enjoying every second of her dismaying humiliation. Some boys start hooting and whistling bawdily. Janie looks like she wants the ceiling to cave in and crush her as she continues to let her bladder empty itself for what seems like an eternity. Finally, after about two minutes, the waterfall dies down and the last trickles of pee exit Janie’s exhausted bladder. I inspect the damage. Her skirt is completely ruined, almost fully soaked front and back. Her legs are shimmering with streaks of pee, and her shoes are drenched. The room is now silent again, except for the occasional drop that hits the puddle surrounding Janie measuring about 5 feet in diameter. Mrs. Hughes is the first to break the silence: “Oh, Janie, this is beyond disappointing! Look at you, wetting yourself like a little girl. Unbelievable.” Soon people start whispering and pointing at the soaked girl. Gradually the chatter gets louder and louder until the room is filled with so much noise you can barely hear your own thoughts. I manage to catch small bits of conversation, like “She f*cking pissed herself!”, “Thank god it’s not me” and “Is it me or was that kinda hot?” The plethora of conversations are shattered by the deafening, shrill sound of Mrs. Hughes‘ whistle. Everybody shushes and turns to look at our teacher, except for Janie who is too mortified to look anywhere but her wet feet. “Enough!” yells Mrs. Hughes. “What a disaster,” she sighs, placing a hand on her forehead. She ponders about what she is going to do, and everybody waits anxiously. Finally, Mrs. Hughes says, “I’ll have to call the janitor to come and clean this up. Until then, PE is suspended.” The room fills with loud groans and complaints; some people glare at the dripping Janie for interrupting the dodgeball game that most of us were enjoying. Mrs. Hughes blows her whistle again. “I am not finished!” As instant as the flame of a candle being blown out, we are all silent again. “Janie, you’ll have to go to the nurse’s office so they can give you some clean clothes. Macy, please accompany her.” I freeze. What? Me? Why does she want me to go? Mrs. Hughes says, “If a twelve year old girl can’t control her own bladder, I am not going to trust her wandering around the school all by herself. Go immediately.” She points to the door, and I reluctantly walk towards it with Janie trailing behind me, still looking at the ground. We walk along the hallway of the large school towards the stairs to walk down to the office. Janie’s shoes make a squelching sound with every step, and her sopping wet skirt is still dripping every few seconds. Then all of a sudden, Janie starts crying. My eyes shoot wide open, not expecting the usually withdrawn Janie to express herself so openly. “I-I hate my life,” she says through her sobs. What a whiny bitch. I’m already regretting she wet herself. “It’s bad enough I don’t fit in here,” she continues. “But n-now …” She can’t finish her sentence and buries her face into her hands as she starts sobbing again. When she regains composure, she sniffles and starts talking again, “And now, everybody’s going to find out what happened, and I’ll never make any friends.“ She is right about that. Stories like this spread like a forest fire in this school. Still, I‘m surprised she‘s even talking this much. Usually, she won‘t say a word unless someone asks her something, and even then it‘s usually a mumble. I guess this really must have got to her. “Why didn’t you just go?” I ask, even though I already know the answer. “I was too scared to ask,” she says and dabs at her eyes. “Besides, it would be pointless. Mrs. Hughes never lets anyone go to the bathroom, and she was already angry at me, so there was even less of a chance. I tried to hold it in, but … ” Her eyes well up again and she cries miserably. For a second I almost feel sorry for her, and a little bit guilty, but I quickly shake those feelings away. After all, it’s not my fault she was too stupid not to go to the bathroom before school started. She cries for almost a minute before she can get a hold of herself and go on talking: “A-and, this morning, I was reading my horoscope, a-a-and it said today would be my lucky day. I was so happy, and that’s why I wore these clothes.” So that explains the colourful outfit. But seriously, she reads the horoscopes? How naïve is she? “I guess I was so excited that I forgot to use the bathroom.” She sniffles. Excuses, excuses. And can’t she just say pee? Is she that insufferably shy that she can’t say the word ‘pee‘? “I can’t believe I peed myself.” There. Was that so hard? “Well, if it makes you feel better, at least half the guys in the class seemed to enjoy it,” I say dryly, rolling my eyes. This doesn’t help -- more tears stream down her face and she looks like she is going to start crying again. Fortunately, she doesn’t. “And now,” she starts saying. “the worst part is, when I get home, my dad is going to yell at me and probably spank me, and my mom won’t even look at me-” “Wait. Did you just say, spank you?” She nods. “Yes, my dad does that when he’s angry at me. Sometimes he uses a paddle. That’s the most painful.” I am completely in shock. Spanking? Her dad spanks her? My own parents have spoiled me rotten since the day I was born. I’ve received some light grounding before, but never a spanking. Jesus Christ. We keep walking until we arrive at the summit of the staircase and begin going downstairs to the office. Suddenly, I trip over my shoelace which must have got untied, and next thing I know I’m crashing all the way down the twenty-six stairs of our school. I hardly have time to blink as my body tumbles down and down until finally, after I hit my head on the rigid surface of the stairs, I collapse face first on the ground. Janie gasps. “Macy!” she cries, and I hear her footsteps running down the stairs. “Macy?” I can’t talk. I can’t feel anything now. Only sleepiness. My eyes slowly begin to shut on their own, and every breath is longer than the last. “Macy?” The sound seems so distant now… so … distant …. … and slowly everything begins to fade away.   So, how was it? Good? Bad? Please let me know! I realize this was more or less a ‘traditional’ wetting scenario, but the next chapter will be a lot different. And yes, Macy is a huge bitch, I know, but she is also very insecure. I don’t want to give away too much, but I promise you she will change throughout the story. I’ll be sure to post the next chapter ASAP :)