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To preface this, I am female. When I was younger, and living at home, I hit a point where masturbation was pretty much my past time. I had little friends in school, was constantly grounded, and I lived in a house with an alcoholic psychopath for a stepfather (although that is not a story for here, it is relevant) and two step-siblings that were gone during the week and whom I wished were gone during the weekend. Like previously mentioned, I had no friends and was on lock down most of the time, so reading books and masturbation became my go-to for when I was bored and home alone. Which was often. So beyond just playing with myself in my room I'd recently figured out that wetting was kind of hot, and was exploring that. Well, asshole announced one day that I "flushed too loud" in the upstairs bathroom, nevermind everyone else in the house or the absurdity of the claim, and my punishment was banishment from the nice upstairs abode to the not so nice one in the basement. It had older tiles, a handmade door with a half-broken lock, a toilet form the seventies and a spider problem, so at first I hated it but I soon began to see the... appeal of a bathroom all to myself, far away from my family. If people were home and I wanted private time, I'd go down there. I could read, masturbate, or heck even shower for an hour and a half if I wanted to. It also became the place to experiment a bit. My first diaper experience was while sitting on the sink (found out it wasn't for me), I tried standing up "like a boy" over that eighties toilet (Harder than you'd think when you're trying to figure it out for yourself,) and I also came the closest to being found out by my family down there. One day, my mom went out shopping stupidly early and asshole stumbled home drunk shortly after and passed out in the basement family room, locking the door. it was on the other side of the basement from my bathroom, and I was rarely allowed in, but it was close enough that it made me sit around in my room for an extra hour after waking up because I didn't want to go down there to pee with him in the other room. So instead I sat upstairs in my room, trying to hold it until my mom made it back and I could use the one upstairs. There was a, uh, problem though. First off, I hadn't gone to the bathroom before going to bed the night before, so I woke up with that full overnight bladder to begin with, on top of sitting in my room for an hour. It slowly became apparent by my inability to read the page I was on in my book and the almost constant rocking onto my hand, jammed down into my crotch, that I was probably not going to make it the next hour until mom showed back up. On top of that, the constant rocking (and a decisively steamy scene in the book I'd nabbed from my mom's shelves) I was... pretty wet already, if you know what I mean. My groin was almost on fire I became so desperate, a combination of holding in my aching bladder and desperately needing the release my normal morning masturbation gave. I wasn't going to make it. A single spurt ran down my hand, instantly soaking my cotton underwear. Suddenly I had slid off of my bed, not caring that I was only in a long t-shirt with no bra and panties and sprinted down the hall, every third or so step letting out another spurt onto my panties and my vagina practically dripping wetness as well. I made it down the stairs, to the left, and had just thrown the lock to my bathroom when I couldn't hold it anymore. It all came out, the warmth of my own piss instantly covering my panties and soaking the leg hole bands around my thighs and ass, the piss audibly slapping down onto the hard off-white tiles beneath my feet. Caving in, I kneeled down on the floor with my butt hovering only a few inches above it, braced my left hand against the tiles in front of me and shoved my fingers on top of my panties, rotating them around my clit while I kept up what felt like an eternal stream. My legs acted like a dam for the stream, (I was kneeling not squatting), pushing it forward and back instead of out, and only two seconds after finishing and sitting in my own puddle of piss, I was rocked by an orgasm so intense my toes curled, my ass clenched, and I doubled over more , shoving my fingers into my vagina to feel it throbbing around me. I felt so warm. After a few seconds of after shocks, my body calmed down and relaxed enough for me to suddenly realize that there I was, sitting in my own urine on the floor, my panties soaked completely through, and there was a giant puddle of evidence beneath me. Oh shit, what do I do?! I panicked. I'd never pissed on the floor before-- I usually did it in showers, or sinks, or places where I could, you know, flush or wash away the evidence with water. But the floor? I had no game plan for that. So what do I do, fess up to my mom that I peed on the floor at this age? Embarrassment flooded through me. She'd tell my step dad, who'd tell his kids, and I'd never live it down... so frantically, I looked around the room. Telling the truth wasn't I had to clean this up. My first train of thought was "you know what wipes up pee?" and I reached for the toilet paper. I know, I know. It only took thirty seconds of going through the roll and a mushy mess of pissy paper wads to figure out I'd just made it worse. So what next? My shirt? But then I'd have to run through the house naked... yeah no thanks. So i grabbed the thin pink beach towel in there and tossed it on the mess, slopping the puddle around more than soaking it up before finally giving up. I had no idea what to do with all this, so I just took care of the panties the same way I did all my wet ones... I tossed it over the back fence into the neighbor's empty lot. I never found out what happened to them after that. I was clean, embarrassed, and panicked when my mother came home. I listened to her unload the groceries from the safety of my room, heard her bring out the new toilet paper and drop some off in the upstairs bathroom, then go downstairs to mine. There was a moment, then she came upstairs, calling my name. I met her in the hallway. "(My name), did you... make a mess downstairs?" She asked, looking like she didn't know how to approach this. I blinked, my face as impassive as an embarrassed teen could be. "No? I picked up my backpack last night..." She shook her head. "No, I mean in the bathroom." "What's in the bathroom?" I asked and I don't quite remember her reply, but it opened the conversation up for me to slide in "I haven't been down there yet, but (step father) came home from (the bar) a little bit after you left? I think he's downstairs in the family room." She blinked. "I see." Then she abandoned me in the hallway and went downstairs, calling for him. When he didn't reply, she unlocked the door form the outside using her credit card (terrible lock and gap in the door) and went in to yell at him. He was still so drunk and couldn't remember anything besides the fact that he HAD used the bathroom down there, so in the end my mom put together that he'd been so drunk he'd pissed on the floor and tried to cover it up, with the mindset of a drunk, but failed. So in the end, I got to hide in my room while my asshole stepfather cleaned up my masturbation piss downstairs with a wicked hangover thinking he'd done it. My mom told his kids about it, who never let him live it down, and to this day I've never fessed to anyone besides a group of friends earlier this year. I didn't do another floor piss until I'd moved into my second apartment and could wash my own towels. I got off to the memory of it for months, though.