i like wet bikinis

Pre-internet days (remember those?) Nancy Friday wrote a series of books about sexual fantasies. The stories were based on interviews, or pieces that her research subjects had written for her. 'Men in Love' is the book about male fantasies. It has a 'watersports' chapter. There are two stories in it I read, over and over again. One was based on a trip out to the countryside. The girl ('Pam', I think she was) needed to wee. So, knowing it would turn him on, she looked him in the eye, pulled up her denim skirt, then squatted in front of him. She spread her thighs, and wet her cotton knickers, peeing through them into the grass while he watched. In the other, the couple were driving home late at night. She was bursting, absolutely desperate for a toilet, and there was one. Finally they were able to stop at a service station. But she couldn't wait any longer. She never made it to the toilet. She lost control as soon as she got out of the car and pissed where she stood, flooding her knickers. He described seeing the sudden flow from the hem of her denim shorts, pouring down both bare legs, watching her standing, silent, in the middle of a spreading puddle. Another book was 'Dirty Weekend' by Helen Zahavi. Michael Winner made it into a dreadful film a few years later. Avoid. The book is a revenge tale, about a young woman who commits a series of murders, killing men in retribution. One of her victims is a serial killer, and the book describes the world through his eyes. He's on the street, stalking his next victim. He categorises his victims according to how they respond to his attack. The gabbers try to talk their way to escape. He doesn't like them. He also dislikes the screamers. He likes the runners. He's always faster than them, they're athletic and he likes watching their legs and bums as they run away. His favourite are the wetters. They wet themselves, usually out of fear, but sometimes because they think he'll lose interest. He never does. He enjoys seeing the puddle growing under them, the steamy splattering of their sudden loss of control, the shameful expressions on their fresh faces. That scene never made it into the movie. The rest of the book contained nothing else of particular interest to visitors to this website.

I've written about it before. I was with a girl who got increasingly desperate when we were out of doors with nowhere to pee. Several times she told me how badly she needed to go. We joked about it, but each time I told her to hold on a bit longer. Until the last time when, for a laugh, I just said, 'Well, go on then!' Somehow she had been depending on me telling her to go on, to help her hold and when I told her to go, she started to wet herself. Once she had started to leak, she quickly lost control. Standing right in front of me she pissed in the grass, a strong steady stream falling from under her skirt. She thought it was funny, and wet herself again, several more times, until she was completely empty, whenever I said 'go on then' to her.

I found one spot by accident. In a city with a large student population. There was an organised pub crawl one evening. The students bought a t-shirt in advance and that gave them admission to several late night bars and clubs. What actually happened is the students stayed in their digs, drinking cheap beer and wine from the supermarket. Then they got the bus into the city centre, to go to the late night venues as the pubs were shutting. I discovered that lots of them were getting off at one stop. And many of them were bursting for a pee. There was a small alley that led to a car park. I sat in my car, with the lights out. So many girls came running down the alley, hands squeezed into their groins. And as soon as they got into the car park they would tear down their shorts and piss on the wet tarmac. Some would come in mixed groups; boys would go to one wall and girls to another. For other bus arrivals, the men would be the first to use the car park and only after they had finished would the girls then go down the alley. When that happened, the girls would be really desperate and would pee as soon as they got round the corner. They wouldn't try to hide.

FreckledRed on PornHub: https://www.pornhub.com/view_video.php?viewkey=ph5d9514f86fde2 (Outdoor peeing through a one-piece swimsuit. Not the most convincing desperation scenes, but they are short and the wetting is good.) Kitty Moon Caught Me Peeing Outside! (1).mp4

I saw a girl in a romper pee in the grass at a concert. She knelt down, sitting on her heels. With one hand behind her, she tried to pull one leg aside. She couldn't, so just pissed through it, wetting her knickers.

Thank you!

Music festivals are often good opportunities to see girls peeing outside. I remember one where there was a traffic jam outside, from cars queuing to get in. Even there I could see girls getting out of their cars, crossing the road into a field and then pulling down their jeans to pee in front of the hedge. There were bales of hay at the side of the car park (a mowed field) and other girls crouched and pissed behind them. I must have seen a dozen girls weeing before I even got into the festival site that year.

I think replies to other posts count. But they have to be sensible and useful. You'll get chucked out if you just type 'awesome' at the end of 15 random posts. A couple of short paragraphs that add to the conversation is all it takes.

I have one. It's about the size of a matchbox. It's just a black box with a small tube at one end, and a display screen on top. With one control I can quickly fill her bladder. It takes 15-30 minutes normally to get her to the point where she's desperate. A second control affects the messages she is getting about how full she is. When I turn that right down, she barely thinks about needing to pee. When I turn it right up, she suddenly feels an intense need to let go. That's what the Doctor did to Clara as they walked back. He'd quietly filled her up again, and made sure she didn't realise. Then he flicked the switch to full sensitivity. Clara just had to stop walking, bend her legs and piss in her knickers where she stood. The screen confirms the gun's target, how full they are, how fast they are filling, and how full they feel they are. My gun is not for sale. Sorry. Thank you!

Clara watched the door to the outside world close. The Doctor had just left, in a hurry, on some sort of mission of his own. He clearly hadn’t wanted her with him. She sighed, standing, hands on hips, glaring at the door. Briefly she considered waiting a few minutes and then following him from a distance. She decided against it. He must have had his own reasons for going out on his own. Whatever those reasons might have been. She waited there for a few moments, then decided she might as well make good use of her time. She made herself a mug of tea, then settled down on a comfortable leather sofa with a book. After a while, she realised that her concentration was being interrupted by her body suggesting that she should go for a pee. She had been ignoring it, but now perhaps the moment had come. At least she wouldn’t be disturbed while on the toilet on this occasion. She put her book down. She swung her feet on to the floor, and stood up. The nearest toilet was not normally her first choice. The en-suite was a short walk away. The ‘operational facilities’, as the Doctor called them were right next to the control room. But they consisted of just an alcove – no door – with a urinal and a continental-style squat pan. The Doctor insisted that they were useful for acclimatising to visiting places with primitive toilets or none. At first, Clara had been annoyed how the Doctor would often follow her there and continue their conversation from the door, but now she was used to it. She now took it for granted that he might watch her pee and it didn’t bother her. After all, she so often had to relieve herself in improvised ways in his company that there was no point being prudish about it. However, it was quite nice for a girl to have a bit of privacy occasionally, particularly when weeing. First step, knickers off. Hands up under her short skirt, a tug and a wriggle and her lacy black panties were sliding down past her knees. She stepped out of them and put them on the side of the sink. Feet on the two little islands on the pan, flick up the short dress and squat. Lean forward to point yourself down at the hole and, relax. Thank goodness for crotchless tights; another essential piece of equipment for an adventurous girl. She had so often been glad of them when she’d had to pee alfresco, sometimes weeing through her knickers when there had been no better alternative. Conventional tights would have been inconvenient to remove, and messy to pee through. Her pee thundered, on target, straight down the drain and into the water. Clara looked down, watching herself as she emptied and making sure her aim was true. She felt a sense of satisfaction that the stream was flowing freely. Sometimes a sideways dribble would wet her bum or thighs and that was just annoying. Her stream weakened as her comfort increased. As it dribbled to nothing she squeezed a couple of final squirts out. She reached for the paper, wiped herself dry (front to back; Clara was an educated and careful young woman) and pulled up her knickers as she stood up. After a few adjustments to underwear and dress she was done. She washed and dried her hands and returned to the control room. There was still no sign of the Doctor. Clara checked the time. No hurry. She made herself a large pot of tea and settled down with a book. She woke up. Nearly three hours had passed. She checked the teapot; it was empty and cool. She must have drunk the whole lot before she dozed off. Still no sign of the Doctor. She called out for him. Silence. She rose to her feet, yawned and stretched. She looked around, and decided she would step outside and see for herself where they were. She got to the door, and realised she badly needed to pee. She paused, thought for a moment and decided not to relieve herself before stepping outside. She was not going far. Perhaps she might find a toilet. And if not, well, if she had to squat in the grass, or behind a bush, it would hardly be the first time. She had tissues and hand sanitiser with her. She opened the door and looked out. She was looking across an empty courtyard. No sign of life, just large, shabby brick buildings. They looked derelict. Now she cast her eyes around them, some of the windows were broken. A few hung open. All the buildings were dark inside. She closed the door behind her and walked across the courtyard. A door was open, inviting her in to explore. She looked around. All was still, all was silent. She felt nervous, tense, and realised she really had to pee. She wondered whether to go back, but her curiosity overcame her. Anyway, she thought, there is probably a toilet somewhere in this building. And, if it really is abandoned, nobody will care if I pee under the stairs or in an empty room. She suddenly realised she had put her hand between her thighs and her fingers were squeezing her coochie through her dress. She stepped inside. She shivered. ‘I’m nervous’, she thought, pulling her jacket around her. She wasn’t really cold. Her dress was short, reaching only half-way to her knees, but her black tights were keeping her legs warm. There was a long corridor ahead of her. It was gloomy, with no artificial light. She saw a light switch on the wall and flicked it. No power. As her eyes adjusted, she saw closed doors at infrequent intervals. She tried the first two. Both were locked. She crossed her legs and squeezed her thighs together. She looked down at the dusty wooden floor and imagined the messy puddle she would make if she relieved herself there. No, it was too close to the front door. Wondering what the building had been used for, and why it might now be empty, she walked down the corridor, going slowly, to keep the noise down. All she could hear was the sound of her own breathing. All the doors were shut. She tried a few more, but they too were locked. She reached a staircase, but it opened directly on the corridor. A locked door – probably to a store cupboard – was next to it. She wondered whether to go up to the turning point. She imagined herself squatting, skirt up, tights and knickers down, bum and thighs exposed, and pissing on the floor just there. It was tempting. But then she thought about the noise she would make, splashing down the stairs, and how visible her growing puddle would be at the bottom. She wasn’t sure yet that the building was empty, and that would be a bad way to meet an unfriendly resident. Gosh, she was desperate. She only just stopped herself from trickling some dampness from her yoni. She continued down the corridor, thinking that her first priority now was to find somewhere to wee, while she could still hold it in. She worried that she might accidentally lose control and piss in her knickers if she left it much longer. Ahead she saw another corridor off to the right and, to her left, a wide recess to a wide doorway. ‘Thank heavens,’ she thought, ‘as long as the doors are locked, I can pee there, with my back to them, and keep a watch down the corridors. If I’m disturbed, I’ve a choice of escape routes’. The doors were locked. She checked. She turned, pulling up her dress to her waist. Hooking her thumbs over the top of her black tights, ready quickly to pull them down with her knickers, she peered right and left, checking the corridors were still dark and empty. They were. She had just tugged down her underwear to bare her punani when she heard a familiar voice call her name. ‘Doctor?’ she shouted back, struggling to pull up her tights and straighten her dress. She barely managed to stop herself peeing. She had been just about to use the floor of the doorway as her personal toilet. She was sure she had leaked a little squirt, wet her knickers and, looking down, saw a few dark, damp spots on the dusty wooden floor. ‘Clara!’ she heard again, ‘Over here!’ It came from her left, further down the corridor and deeper into the darkness. She hurried off. ‘I’m coming!’, she shouted. ‘You’ve got to see this!’ came the reply. ‘Where are you?’ she called, as she got to an intersection of corridors. ‘Over here’ she heard, from the left turning. She ran towards the Doctor’s voice. She stopped. The corridor had ended in a wide doorway. The double doors were open. Beyond was a large, gloomy room, the size of a college sports hall. It was empty. ‘Doctor?’ she said, in a normal tone. Silence. She felt her muscles tense. She was alone. ‘Doctor?’ she said again. No reply. She walked through the doors. The room opened up either side of her. She looked around, saw nothing. Cautiously, she tiptoed across towards the far stage. ‘Doctor?’ she said, quietly. With a slam, the doors behind shut suddenly. There was a sound of a powered machine driving itself down the corridor, getting louder and nearer. ‘Doctor!’ she yelled. With a bang, the doors burst open. The lights were now on in the corridor behind, dazzling her, but she saw a fearsome domed shape silhouetted in the entrance. ‘EXTERMINATE!’ came the harsh, loud, metallic command. Time seemed to freeze for Clara. She realised there was no escape for her. She was standing in the middle of a large, empty room, with a killing machine blocking the only exit. Her legs felt weak. Her stomach muscles tightened up. She felt her bladder contract and she just had to piss as hard as she possibly could. She could not resist the urge to pee. Clara answered the call of nature where she stood. She felt she ought to run, but didn’t know where she could run to. She thought she’d be shot down as soon as she moved. She heard a loud splattering noise and realised it was the sound she was making by pissing on the floor. Something nagged at the back of her mind. The order had been ‘URINATE!’, not ‘EXTERMINATE’. She could hear another sound. It was the Doctor’s laughter. He also appeared in the doorway. ‘Your face!’, he exclaimed. ‘You thought this thing was real!’ And he laughed again. Clara realised it was another of his elaborate practical jokes. It wasn’t funny. She was furious. He’d terrified her. And made her wet herself. She suddenly realised that she was still urinating, standing in front of him, wetting her knickers. She could feel the hot liquid buzzing out from her lips, swirling inside her underwear , snaking down the back of her legs. Her tights were wet and her boots full of warm piss. She looked down at the stream splashing on the ground between her feet, the splash marks sprayed over the floor in front of her and behind (she realised that her legs and feet were getting splashed too). She wasn’t just draining her bladder, she was so stressed that she was physically pissing as forcefully as she could. She tried to stop weeing but couldn’t. She still needed to go so badly that she had no choice but to go to the toilet where she stood. She looked up and saw the Doctor staring at her, his pretty young assistant, wetting her knickers right in front of him. She still couldn’t regain control. Although she didn’t want to, she had to piss more through her panties. She parted her thighs and bent her knees, so less ran down her legs. The splattering sound got louder. She kept peeing, looking at the Doctor staring at her. After a while she tried again to stop, and found that she could make the flow stop. The stream from between her legs faded and then became a line of slowing drips. It took a long time for her to forgive the Doctor. Particularly when he showed the fake gun he had made. It had allowed him to control her bladder. He demonstrated that as they walked back together, when he pointed it at her, pulled the trigger, and made her pee in her knickers again immediately he did so.

She always wore trousers when I knew her. I don't remember ever seeing her in a dress or skirt. Mind you, that might be because Emily in a snug pair of jeans was always a sight to brighten my day. Particularly when viewed from the rear (did I mention her bum?). No, she said she pulled down her jeans when she crouched down, peeing. Part of the fun was imagining the blue denim, and her cute knickers, sliding down her thighs, exposing her so she could pee in public.

At college I was talking to a girl - Emily - who had been to Reading festival in the summer a few weeks earlier. She was a pretty little thing, with slim legs and a cute, rounded bum. She told me that the thing she most disliked at the festival had been the toilets. She said she had looked inside, but not used them. So, what did you do, I asked? She told me that she had just squatted down to wee when she needed to, and hoped that there weren't too many people watching. After a while she had just got used to peeing in public.

I have seen a few women wetting themselves at music festivals in the last couple of years. The first was one who was wearing a short jumpsuit, very much like this (and the same colour). There was a very long line for the portaloos and she must have worried that she would publicly wet herself standing in the queue. So instead she and her friend went to a corner of the fence. She knelt on the grass and pissed through her clothes. I was lucky to spot her and realised what she was doing. When she stood up, the dampness on the shorts between her legs was very visible, until she wrapped her jumper round her waist to hide it. The second was a very drunk woman, at a different festival. Again, it was close to a very long queue for the toilets. She wore a pale blue denim miniskirt. She was on her own and simply sat on the grass in front of a fence, with her legs out in front of her. I guessed she was peeing in her knickers and through her skirt, sitting in her own warm puddle, from the way she sat very still, with her legs straight in front of her. When she finished, she stood up and the pee pooled in her skirt spilled out. I saw another the same evening. She also wore a blue denim miniskirt. She went with her boyfriend to another fence. She squatted very low to pee, but was too shy to pull her knickers down. So instead, she pissed through them. She managed to keep her skirt dry. Another night, another festival. A couple went to a chain link fence to pee in the grass. She stood next to him and watched him pee through the fence. She helped him aim. Then it was his turn. She stood in front of him, back to the fence, pulled up her dress to her waist, parted her legs and pissed through her knickers, standing in front of him. She wore black and white knickers a bit like these: Same festival, very close place. Four girls went to the fence together. Two pulled down their shorts and squatted low in the grass to pee. They finished. The other two took their turn. One lifted her skirt, pulled down her knickers and squatted to piss. The other pulled up her skirt to uncover her bum and leaned back against a fence post for support. She wet her knickers like that, preferring to keep them on and pee through them, rather than undress in public. I don't know what has changed; I have seen many girls peeing in public at music festivals, but these are the first I have seen wetting themselves. I might just have been in the right place at the right time. Or perhaps for some reason some girls now choose to wet. Or perhaps I might just have got better at noticing women wetting themselves in public Actually, there was one more I remember, from a few years earlier. It was at the end of the day, and the crowd was leaving. Ahead of me were a couple walking hand-in-hand. She was slim, blonde, very cute, wearing a pale t-shirt and very brief, well-fitting faded denim shorts. My gaze dropped to her peachy bum, swaying with her stride. And then I realised that her shorts were damp around the bottom at the back, with the dark, damp patch rising up between her buttocks. It exactly matched the wet patch I had seen on numerous photos of girls who had peed in their shorts.

When I was in my early teens on holiday I became friends with a boy who was slightly younger than me, and his older sister, Pam (who was a year or two older than me). She and I were chatting on the beach one day and she got up and said she was going to paddle in the sea. I got up too, and said I would join her. Her mum called across and said it was too soon to swim (they had a strict rule of not swimming in the first hour after eating). She replied that she was not going to swim, just paddle. Her mum said that she still should wait. She called back that she couldn't wait and she really needed a quick paddle. She wouldn't go far and wouldn't be long. Her mum realised the true reason why she wanted to get in the sea. Pam said that I didn't have to come with her, but I said I wanted to. The sea was cold, but very calm, with waves that were only an inch or two in height. I went only about knee-deep, and didn't want to go any further as I was getting chilled. We got to a patch where the downward slope started to get steeper and I stopped there. Pam went a little further out, but quite slowly. The water was now about half-way up her thighs. She slowly bobbed down, holding her elbows out and her arms in front of her, as if to balance, and to keep them clear of the cold sea. She froze in position with the bottom of her swimsuit just above the surface of the water. She looked down. I saw a stream of liquid running from her and realised she had started to pee through her swimsuit. She started gently to splash water on her crotch. I think she was trying to wash away the pee, and perhaps make it less obvious what she was doing. I could still clearly see her pissing despite that, particularly in the pauses between the splashes she was throwing on herself. When she had finished she bobbed down quickly and wriggled her bum in the sea, just wetting the bottom of her swimsuit. She was just washing off the pee. She stood up, said that felt better, and we walked back to the warm, dry sand. I had been intending to pee too, but the water had been too cold for me to dip into and I'd decided I'd prefer to wait. So, although I was busting for a pee, I went back and sat down. Somehow, I managed to hold it until we got home later that afternoon.

Thank you. Yes, it's inspired by classical Roman culture, as are my 'slave market' series. The Romans were sexually liberated. Theirs was also a slave culture. I am sure that wealthy men would have abused the girls they owned. It's fantasy. I make no excuses. Please don't treat it as a moral or ethical story. It's not. And thank you for your kind words. Encouragement and appreciation is very welcome.