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jrs1989

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jrs1989 last won the day on September 18 2019

jrs1989 had the most liked content!

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  1. Fuck that guy. Part of living in NYC is understanding that the subways are a force of chaos, and being a human about it — with strangers but even more so with your friends/people you're on dates with! What an ass.
  2. A past girlfriend would jump along to the music at punk shows — her way of dancing. On a few occasions, after a couple beers, she would mention to me that she had to pee and was leaking a little with each jump. These were, apparently, only little spurts, but after two or three hours of jumping without a bathroom she had let enough go in her underwear that it was very noticeable when we got home and undressed.
  3. A recent girlfriend was a friend before we started dating. One time I met up with her at her house after she had just returned from brunch with some other friends. We were chatting in her living room and she was sitting straddling the arm of the sofa. At one point she said, "I think I have to pee worse than I ever have had to pee before," which was a surprise. I hadn't realized she was in such a dire state. She explained that she hadn't peed when she woke up because she was late for brunch, and had spent the last few hours drinking cocktails, coffee and water. And then she had rushed back to her house to meet me. She hadn't had time to go. But after disclosing her situation, she still didn't pee. She just kept talking to me, wriggling on the sofa. At least for awhile. Eventually, she went. But I can't say that that incident wasn't a factor in me deciding to ask her out. Once we were dating, there were a number of little leaks after she put off the bathroom for too long. I often wondered if she fully kept it together that day, on the sofa, or whether she started to go in her pants just a little...
  4. I think there may have been others from her as well?
  5. "Take me home, please," she says. It's a request, but it's also a demand. She's leaning against the outside wall of the bar when I step out, next to the door, legs wrapped tightly together. "I have to pee too much," she says. After squirming for most of the evening, she is still. Her fists are tightly clenched. I don't know what this means, exactly, that she has to pee too much. But I don't need to ask questions. It's only a block back to my place. But as we walk, she keeps having to stop and drop into a crouch, fanning her legs, before springing back up again. She's never not moving. It occurs to me what a good workout her pee-holding sessions must be. She rests her weight on one leg, then the other, then crouches, clamping her legs together, then springs up, raising her right knee up almost even with her hip. I know she's struggling, but I can't help finding it a little amusing. And, of course, terribly arousing. My eyes keep dropping to her legs to see if I can find any evidence of the droplets I glimpsed in the bar, but I can't. Her dance is, apparently, working. She's keeping it in. I wonder for the hundredth time that night about the state of her underwear. We arrive back at my place. I live in a fourth-floor walk-up — not ideal — and climbing the stairs takes forever. Every now and then she emits a slight whine as we clomp upward. With one floor to go I pause and look back. She's on the landing behind me, bent slightly, hand between her legs, looking up at me. "How's it going?" I ask. "I'm having a hard time," she says, smiling at the understatement. "I've almost peed myself so many times tonight," she says. "And I almost did again." "You're almost done," I say. "Almost there." She begins to move forward again. I climb the last flight and unlock the door. I step aside just inside the entranceway, holding the door to let her pass, wondering what's next. She reaches the top of the stairs, and walks, with tiny, stiff steps through the doorway. Then she collapses into me, head on my neck, shimmying pelvis against mine. "What now?" I ask. "Do you know how bad I have to pee?" she asks. "Really, really bad?" I venture. "The worst," she breaths into my neck. The feeling of her breath makes me shiver. I wrap my arms around her, and she wraps hers around me. She draws us tightly together, and clamps her legs around my thigh, rubbing herself against it. I feel some moisture through my pant leg, confirming what already seemed almost certain: her underwear is damp. She makes a low sound in her throat. "I have to pee so bad," she whispers. "I have to pee so, so bad." It's like a mantra, and she continues with it as she grinds herself harder and harder against my leg. "Can I feel?" I ask. She nods. "I have to pee so bad," she murmurs again into my neck. I slide my right hand up her back, tracing it with my fingers — I feel her shiver — over her shoulder, and then down, over her breast, over her belly, down to her bladder. Gently, I trace it with my fingertips. It is rounded and very firm. I apply an infinitesimal amount of pressure and the response is immediate. "Mmmmm," she groans, burrowing her face into my neck. She bites me a little on my shoulder. I feel my thigh get hot, then cool, right between her legs. She leaked — a short, quick burst, through her underwear and onto my pants. She gasps. "You've gotta pee," I confirm. "I have to pee," she agrees, mumbling again into my neck. "It's really bad," I say. "I have to pee so, so badly," she replies. "Do you want to go?" I ask. I nod down the hall toward the bathroom. She looks up at me, one raised eyebrow. "No fucking way." She turns her head up a bit more, and then kisses me fully on the mouth. Her mouth moves hungrily against mine as she grinds her crotch into my thigh. I respond, first drawing her closer with my one arm and moving my other down from her bladder to her thigh. She breaks the kiss, dismounts my thigh, and takes a half step back. Looking me in the eye, she moves my hand gradually upward to her crotch. It's warm, and the cotton fabric guarding it is quite wet beneath my fingertips. I almost cum. She watches my response, eyes gleaming, and smiles. Then she takes a shaky step back. "This situation," she says, "is too good to waste." She reaches behind her. I hear a zipper unzip. Her skirt falls to the ground. She is standing in a white bodysuit, underwear that reminds me of a leotard. She manages to hold still for a second — ta da! — before she resumes squirming ceaselessly, legs clamped tightly together. A wet circle the size of an outspread hand is between her legs. "You're wet," I observe, somewhat stupidly. "I have to pee," she reminds me. "What now?" I ask. She smiles again, eyes gleaming. "What now?" she asks me.
  6. I open my eyes. Her face is inches from mine, her brown hair splayed on the pillow, a few strands reaching me. She is still sleeping, her even breaths brushing softly against my face. I can't believe what happened last night. If she weren't lying here next to me, I might have assumed it was a dream. An overwhelmingly sexy dream. Her body is mostly hidden by covers. With my hand I trace the contours of her skin, my fingers glancing down her shoulder, over her torso, over her belly, down to her thigh. She's wearing underwear, but nothing else. It's dry. She must have put on the spare pair she carries in her purse at some point during the night. Her eyes open. "Hi," she says, smiling. "Good morning," I reply. She rolls toward me and we kiss, limbs intertwining, arms wrapped around each other, bodies rubbing together. After a minute or so of this we pull apart. "So, last night," I begin, smiling. She looks me in the eye. "Lets make sure we do that again," she whispers. Then she stands up and stretches. I admire her body — her hair falling over her shoulders, her breasts, her slender frame clad only in a pair smallish white panties. I wonder if the slight roundness above their waistband is a full bladder. We did, after all, spend half the night drinking. I felt pretty full myself. "Ooh," she said, curtsying, as if reading my mind. "Gotta pee." She looks me in the eye. "You don't mind if I go, do you?" She's teasing me. She walks out of my room and down the hall. I hear the bathroom door close. I look around. Elements of her outfit from last night — the black jean skirt, Chelsea boots, and white body suit — are strewn about, as are my clothes, discarded in a rush. The body suit looks mostly dry by now, though the yellow tint of the lower half makes it absolutely clear what kind of night it has seen. * * * It was pushing toward 2:30 a.m. in the bar when she demanded we leave. She had just revealed to me her love of a full bladder, and I was reveling in this conversation with a woman who had a decade plus of pee holding stories — sometimes making it, sometimes not quite. She had explained to me that she particularly made a point of holding it when she knew sex was imminent, slipping away to the bathroom just before getting into bed. For her, it was a tricky balance between maximizing enjoyment and exposing her secret. "What was the closest anyone ever came to finding out?" I asked. "Huh," she thought for a minute, flapping her legs rhythmically on the bar stool to contain her bladder. "Oh. I know. I was in college," she said. "I was drinking beers in my friend Sam's dorm room. She was into girls, and I was kind of curious about what it might be like to be with a girl. It seemed like things were headed in that direction so I decided to hold it, knowing that having a full bladder would just make the experience more memorable. "But we were both shy, I guess. It kept not happening. The night kept going. We kept drinking. I think we went through an entire case of PBRs. "And so we got super drunk, and my bladder got super full. We were cuddling in her bed, having one of those drunk college talks about capitalism, the patriarchy, the meaning of life, all that. And it seemed at any moment we might kiss. We kept locking eyes expectantly. "But I had to pee so, so, so bad. I remember that I kept discretely trying to hold myself, and that I kept leaking. But also, the whole situation was making me incredibly turned on. My extremely full bladder was a big part of that. This was pretty early in my sexual discovery and I hadn't really figured out how to balance the pee thing with the need to not embarrass myself by revealing it to people. "I remember at one point I felt like I leaked for a solid second, and I reached down and felt my crotch. I remember I was wearing these black athletic shorts and I figured it wouldn't show, so I was allowing myself to be a little careless. But I was definitely wet. Not just in my underwear but the shorts themselves. I rubbed my crotch and it felt soaked. And somehow the combination of the drunkenness and feeling the wetness made me pee again, for, like, another second, and then again, and I was like, 'holy fuck, I'm about to pee my pants for real in Sam's bed.' "And so I sort of casually excused myself, slipped out the door, and then dashed down the hallway to the bathroom. Pee was basically shooting out of me with ever other step. I remember thinking 'I am a pee grenade.' A good, drunken analogy. I remember when I got to the toilet I peed for like a minute, and the whole time I was looking down at my underwear, which was soaked." "What kind of underwear was it?" I asked. I kind of have an underwear thing, especially when it comes to pee. I couldn't not ask. "I have this image, like, frozen in my head: me peeing on the toilet, looking down at my underwear around my ankles," she said. "They were these lacy blue things. Might have been a thong. Not really the kind of thing you want to wear if you're planning on holding your pee. Which I hadn't been. I was going more for 'sexy,' probably. I remember being impressed by how thoroughly wet it was, I guess as a result of leaking just a little bit at a time for like the whole fucking night while rolling around on her bed and then sprinting down the hallway squirting pee. There was barely a dry part." My eyes must have been bulging out of my head at that description. She just smiled and kept telling her story. "And so I was like, 'what the fuck am I going to do?' Most people in this situation might just bail, Irish exit, go home, come up with an excuse in the morning. But I wasn't just drunk in pee-soaked underwear, I was drunk and extremely turned on because of the bursting-bladder situation that had led to that pee-soaked underwear. And so I came up with a plan: I was in my dorm bathroom, where I showered, and so I had a towel hanging on the wall. I stripped naked, rolled my wet underwear up in my other clothes, wrapped myself in the towel, and walked back to Sam's room." "What did she do?" I asked. "She, fortunately, saw my naked arrival as a signal that it was time for what we had been putting off all night. Sam, like, launched herself at me." I snorted with laughter. "She basically tackled me." Now we both laughed, and we kept laughing. "The actually funny thing is," she continued through her laughter, "I guess I somehow still had some pee in me, because when Sam's body, like, plowed into mine, I peed a little more. I was surprised that after peeing for forever, I still wasn't empty. But I don't think she noticed. I think the towel absorbed it, and Sam was focused on getting that towel off." We kept laughing. She clamped her legs together. "This is bad, I gotta stop laughing," she said. But we didn't. It was one of those weird things that can happen late at night, maybe after a few drinks. I was pounding the bar, tears were streaming down her face. We were laughing at her story, but also at this night, this situation, the two of us finding each other, the absurdity of this absurd fetish, the relief of sharing it with someone. The bartender cast a glance our way. I hoped we didn't look too nuts. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," she whispered. She unwrapped her legs, shoved her hand into her crotch. I caught a glimpse of white beneath her black jean skirt. She slid off the barstool and stood up, pretzeling her legs. She leaned over to me, and whispered in my ear: "I've got to get out of here." "Pay the bill," she continued. "I'll meet you outside. Let's go to your place." Though a moment ago she was frantic, she now walked calmly toward the door with a practiced composure. If you hadn't been looking closely, you wouldn't have noticed her tightly clenched fists. But I was looking closely. And though It was dark, I could have sworn that in the red neon light I saw a single drop run from beneath her skirt, down her leg, into her boot. ...more to come...
  7. This is a dizzyingly good story. Can there please be a sequel??
  8. We perched on our bar stools looking into each other's eyes. Or, I perched. She ground herself into it. I was all in. Her short brown hair. Her sideways, mischievous smile. Her probably, almost certainly, overflowing bladder. Her playfulness. I was here for all of it. It was after 2 a.m. in my corner dive; tunes were blaring in the mostly empty bar. We were illuminated by a red neon light. A few drunk college students and a handful of the bartender's buddies made up the clientele at this hour. I knew some of them, but not well enough, thankfully, that any of them was likely to interrupt this weird, erotic adventure I was on. The bartender set down a beer and a shot in front of each of us. We clinked our shot glasses together and drank up. She coughed at the bite of the whiskey, and chased it with a sip of beer. "Ooh. Coughing. Not great right now," she said, giving her crotch a quick grab between her tightly pretzeled, ever-moving legs. "You're driving me crazy," I announced. "Oh, well, that's sweet," she said. "You're amazing," I said. "But I was referring specifically to your... state." "The chair helps," she said. "Sitting helps." "It looks like you're putting it to use," I said, glancing down at her grinding hips. She looked thoughtful. One thing I marveled at with this girl was how she could stay so engaged, so present, while presumably on the verge of wetting her underwear. She moved her lips close to my ear. "I'm going to tell you a secret," she said. "I'm going to tell you why I'm letting what's happening between us right now happen." I held my breath. "It's because what I'm doing right now... with the chair... feels... good." My heart skipped. "When I hold it for a really, really long time — when I hold it until I can barely hold on, until I'm not holding on — it feels really, really, really good." I still wasn't breathing. I just listened. She continued to whisper over the blare of the of the bar tunes: "When you told me you liked when girls held it, I couldn't not think about the possibility of exploring this." She sat upright, looking at me, the mischievous glint shining brighter in her eye. She saw what she was doing to me. "I wasn't planning to tell you tonight," she said, talking at regular volume now. "I wasn't even sure whether to tell you at all. But here we are. I decided just now that I wanted to. I trust you. We're having fun. And the drinks helped." She took another sip of beer. I still wasn't breathing. I had to breathe. I coughed. I started breathing again. Holy shit. "Have you ever shared this with anyone?" I asked. "Well, I've never told anyone," she replied. "With boyfriends I've waited. Because of the thrill. I've held my pee in. But the thing is... for it to feel good, I have to be very, very full." "As you are now," I pointed out, helpfully. "As I am now. And when I'm that full, and I'm doing anything — if I'm out on a date, walking around, doing anything really — there's a chance... I might..." She winced. "Pee a little? Because I'm so full?" "Reasonable," I said. "So, in the past I've held a full bladder, and held it, and held it, if I knew I was going to maybe be getting naked with someone that night. Because it's exciting. It makes it better, to have been holding for hours beforehand. But, it's also complicated. What if I leak? I always bring extra underwear." I was rapt. "So let's say things are getting hot and heavy," she continued. "We're making out, we're touching each other, I'm dying to pee, my bladder is about to overflow, so on and so forth. Before we, uh, get in bed, I have to interrupt things. I have to go empty my bladder. I don't want to pee on anyone who isn't expecting to be peed on. I don't want to take off my pants and show off underwear I've been leaking into. I never reveal that I'm holding. So I go pee. I change my underwear. And then that's that. I come back out of the bathroom. We move forward. But the excitement is — interrupted. "So, no," she concluded. "I've never shared this with anyone. Not really. I've never told anyone, and I've never, erm, held it all the way to bed." She paused, thoughtful, then leaned back in, whispering again. "I mean, I've gotten off while full of piss," she said quickly, clarifying. "So many times. But never with anyone else." She leaned back again. We looked at each other. Even though she knew — she had to know — that I was basically dying from arousal, she seemed a bit nervous about having revealed this secret. We both took a sip of our beers. She was positively vibrating in her rapid bladder-holding chair-dance. I wondered if anyone else was noticing. "I cannot believe how amazing this. I am so fucking happy," I said, "that you are sharing this with me." She was visibly relieved. "I have been waiting for someone to say everything you just said for my whole adult life," I said. "Basically, what this, I think, means, is: you are the woman of my dreams." She smiled, then laughed, then laughed more. "Okay, okay take it easy," she said, still laughing and gripping her crotch for dear life. "Enough compliments." "I'll take it easy," I agreed, also laughing. "Well," she said. She was relaxed again, playful. "If you're game, there are some things I think we should try."
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