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Anatomy isn't great but I think the face is cute haha. Might post more drawings if I make more but I'm super inconsistent with art lol.

View File Crossdress jeans wetting and rewettings Wetting with some rewettings in tight jeans and some different socks :> Submitter SpineApple Submitted 03/11/2023 Category Male  

VID_20230214_1555482.mp4 Decided to just let go in my jeans instead of holding. Definitely a good idea.

Decided my first pee of the day would be into my pants and already wet boxers. Hope you all like it 😜 VID_20230211_111033.mp4

Felt like wetting tonight, and even better, decided to record! Hope you all like it (CW I farted about halfway through. It sounds wet, and I'm not into fart or scat, but if you are, you might like it? It was total accident.) VID_20230210_204531.mp4

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sowwy 20230121_022349(1).mp4 20230121_023719(1).mp4

completely losing control >w< View File 20230111_022725.mp4 Submitter luke u u Submitted 01/11/2023 Category Male  

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The following fics are part of the, uh…Impure Thoughts Extended Universe? Previous Two Installments These installments won’t carry the same content warning for weird Catholic BDSM elements as the first two, so I made a separate topic and added a little Clumsy Exposition(TM) The only content that could trouble an omo-happy reader here would be those awkward moments that come with a 1960s period piece, like characters saying “negro” and smoking indoors. I took my time writing due to my interest in developing Chester’s character (he’s much bolder and brasher than Joe, but in some ways just as naive) and my desire to do at least a little justice to New York City in the sixties. _______ CHAPTER 3: THE PERENNIAL NEW YORK PROBLEM Chester and Joe arrive in New York. They get a little lost, and soon Joe is in dire need of safe, clean public facilities that simply do not exist. Construction on the World Trade Center would not begin until 1966, so it is not in the background of this shot of Midtown _______ “Welcome to New York Everybody here was someone else before” - Taylor Swift _______ If you’d been at the Port Authority bus terminal that morning in 1962, you might have seen two young men carrying suitcases: one a lanky, freckled redhead with a foxlike femininity in the face, and the other a broad-shouldered, square-jawed hunk with a determined stride, a fine representation of a 1950s male beauty ideal that would soon be out of style. The redhead wore a grid check dress shirt, a bow tie, and khakis, while the hunk wore green slacks and a short-sleeved madras shirt more appropriate for the warm weather. And if you’d asked their names, as none of the hundreds of people in the bustling station did, you would have learned that the pretty redhead was called Joe and the hunk was called Chester. Their smart haircuts and quality suitcases made them look like upstanding citizens on their way to visit a wealthy auntie, but in fact they were runways. They had spent the night in a Buffalo bus station after escaping from the clutches of a perverted priest at a Catholic college upstate. Joe could scarcely conceal his adoration as he looked at Chester, who was his rescuer, his hero, and the object of his burning infatuation going on two years. Chester was less sure what Joe meant to him; he had delivered his roommate from immediate peril, but upon arrival in New York he had to consider the question, “now what?” In his fantasies he’d always been like a character in a Kerouac novel setting off for the big city alone, but now that he had actually gone through with it he had an innocent in tow, a person who was more than an acquaintance but less than a friend (or a lover), and he didn’t know what his responsibilities to him were. “Bam! Right over the bridge and we’re in Manhattan! What do you think?” Chester asked. “This is the biggest bus station I’ve ever seen,” said Joe, awestruck. “It’s the ugliest bus station I’ve ever seen,” Chester laughed as an angry-looking man side-checked him. “Golly…” “Let’s get out here and see the city.” “Excuse me, I should…um….use the men’s room first,” Joe said, spotting the sign in a shadowy far corner. He’d had a cup of sludgy coffee and a lot of water from the fountain in Buffalo, and he was feeling a twinge. The men’s room was absolutely filthy. The smell made him sick. He could hear noises in the stall furthest from the door: half-stifled moans - male - and obscene sucking sounds that echoed slightly off the tiles. An avuncular bald man wearing a suit and a wedding ring was standing with his ear pressed against the stall door. Another fellow, muscular, about thirty, was leaning against the wall opposite the urinals in tight jeans and a white T-shirt, smoking. Both of them turned to look at Joe with undisguised lust. Joe panicked. He turned and fled, shocked, scandalized, and shaken to the depths of his soul. He walked out to rejoin Chester, trying to look relieved. The last thing he wanted to do was describe what he had just seen. “Now we need to walk abreast like so and carry our suitcases on the inside so they don’t get snatched. New York is full of criminals,” said Chester. Joe looked at him in alarm. “I mean suitcase-snatching criminals, not shoot-em-up criminals, scaredy-cat.” “I’m not scared, I just - “ “It’s okay, it’s okay. I didn’t mean it that way. This is going to be great. No more classes, no more homework, no more curfew, no more banned books and music, no more priests trying to kidnap people...” “Golly.” _______ The sights, sounds, and smells of the city overwhelmed them as soon as they stepped into the street. Within a few blocks, Times Square opened up, with its vast billboards for Coca-Cola and Canadian Club whiskey. They bought some lemonade from a vendor and set off to the northeast, the direction the map Chester bought at the Port Authority seemed to indicate. They walked through a forest of skyscrapers and Joe nearly tripped over a curb because he couldn’t stop looking up at them, wondering what it was like to live or work so close to the heavens. They passed Radio City Music Hall and Rockefeller Center, places they had only heard of, and then bumped into Central Park. “Look, they have carriage rides through the park!” Joe said, “maybe we could come back here tomorrow!” The awfulness of the day before was fading away into the racket of the crowds and traffic; he was getting into the spirit of the occasion. They walked up Fifth Avenue, gawking at the decorated storefronts and the women dolled up like Jackie Kennedy in Chanel suits. They went into one of the stores just to see what it was like, and discovered an upscale display room filled with expensively simple home furnishings in the sleek, space-age style they had hitherto only seen in magazines. Joe was enchanted, while Chester privately mused that J.D. Salinger had warned him about these rich phonies. Joe attempted to greet the old men feeding pigeons around the edge of Central Park, who looked at him like he was an alien. It was early afternoon and getting hot. Their suitcases felt heavy in their hands; Joe had loosened his bow tie. They cleared the Park and noticed that their surroundings were getting shabbier, which Chester took as an indication that they were getting close to Greenwich Village. They walked past a group of black children playing in a fire hydrant someone had opened for them. The sight and sound of the water pouring into the street made Joe’s bladder wince, but it didn’t show on his face. “I’ve never seen so many colored children in one place,” Joe remarked. “Shh! In New York, you have to be hip. The modern term is ‘negroes,’” Chester corrected. He’d been reading about the battles over segregation down South in his contraband political pamphlets, and knew all the modern terms. “I’ve never seen so many negro children in one place.” “Better. You’re getting the hang of it.” They encountered a block full of old men in black coats with beards and curled sidelocks. “They’re Jews,” Chester said knowingly. “Golly!” Joe exclaimed. His immigrant grandfather, who had lived in New York in his youth before moving upstate, once told him there were all kinds of people there, including Jews, but seeing them with one’s own eyes was something else. They went to a greasy spoon called Larry’s Diner for cheap hamburgers and French fries. The food tasted like manna from heaven after a night and morning on the run. Chester took the opportunity to covertly pool and count out their meager cash savings, which would last them four to nine days depending on the frugality of their accommodations. They would have to get jobs fast to afford an apartment, much less two apartments. Joe drank three fountain sodas. He was thirsty from walking for blocks and blocks in the heat. Chester unfolded the map and furrowed his brow at it. He intercepted a man walking past their booth: “Excuse me, sir, we’re looking for Greenwich Village. Can you point us in the right direction?” “Greenwich Village!” the man said, “That’s all the way Downtown. You gotta go down to 14th Street. Maybe 13th Street.” Chester glanced out the window. They were on West 122nd Street. “Well, looks like we got a little lost,” he said. Joe put a hand to his belt buckle and glanced around. The soda was running through him with distressing speed. “Chester, do you think you can ask that man if there’s, um, a men’s room here?” he asked, looking down at his plate. Chester went to the counter and called to the cook: “excuse me, sir, does this restaurant have a men’s room?” “No,” the cook said definitively, then turned back to the grill. “Do you need to find a bathroom?” Chester asked Joe in a low voice. “Yes. I haven’t had the, um, opportunity since we were in Buffalo,” It was embarrassing to admit, after the events of the day before. The last thing he wanted to talk about was peeing. The memory of the wet spots on Chester’s sweater vest in the church basement resurfaced like a nightmare. “I thought you went at the Port Authority.” “I couldn’t go at the Port Authority,” he whispered, “there were people having relations in there. Men. It wasn’t decent.” “I thought you liked that sort of thing.” Joe froze and blushed scarlet to the tips of his ears, as only red-haired people can blush. “Sorry,” Chester said with genuine contrition. He kicked himself; he should have known that Joe was not ready to be teased about this topic, especially by a fellow he’d had it bad for for two whole years. “It’s not important. I can hold it,” Joe announced, suddenly unhappy and fearful. He’d run away from the Church, his scholarship, his family, everything he had known, and he didn’t know exactly why, or whether the person he was with actually wanted to help him. Golly, I’m such a stupid little Poindexter fairy, he thought, crossing his ankles and squeezing his thighs together under the table. He really did need to go. “Time for a bit of course correction. 14th Street. I should have been paying more attention to the grid,” said Chester, frowning. ______ The sun was dropping in the sky, reflecting off of the windows of the tall, tall buildings. They set out across Midtown and down its length again, this time in the right direction down Second Avenue. Chester poked his head into several storefronts. There were no public bathrooms anywhere. He’d heard New Yorkers were a tough breed, but he’s never thought about it from this angle. No wonder the cab drivers were so cranky and perpetually blowing their horns. They were able to stop a middle-aged woman in a green suit with fake pearl buttons, but when they asked her where they could find a public bathroom, she leaned her head back, let out a loud “ha!” and kept walking. They checked the map. Joe shifted from foot to foot. They were now south of the Empire State Building again, and getting closer to the Village, in a roundabout way. They walked and walked. If Chester had to be honest, he also wanted a piss at this point, but he obviously couldn’t match Joe’s discomfort. Joe was in front of Chester, walking as fast as a real New Yorker, his pelvis held perfectly upright and the muscles of his small, high buttocks pulled taut. "Why am I staring at his ass?" Chester asked himself. It was too hot and the city smelled like garbage. They passed more and more abandoned or near-abandoned buildings on their journey down Second Avenue. A vagrant ambled past, swigging from a bottle of gin. A young woman, dressed scandalously, had fallen asleep on the curb. An enormous rat stared at them insolently from beneath a car. They clutched their suitcases tight. The anxiety about criminals made Joe need to pee that much more. Chester spotted a crumbling building with a deep, recessed portico. Checking to see if the coast was clear, he yanked Joe inside. “Put down your suitcase. We can have a nice piss here,” he said. Judging by the smell, they were not the first people to have this idea. Joe gave him a worried look. There were fewer people on the street than in the other places they’d been, but not no one. There were cars and cabs driving past. “It’s okay, see?” Chester said, turning his back, unzipping, and pissing confidently into the corner. The pattering sound made Joe’s bladder contract and he was suddenly dying for relief, as he had been during Father MacLeary’s terrible purgation. This wasn’t decent, but it didn’t matter; it was an emergency. Chester zipped up. “Now you go. I won’t look. I’ll keep watch.” Joe turned into the corner himself, hopping up and down a bit as he fumbled with his belt. Hurry, hurry. He was starting to panic. If he didn’t get himself in hand fast enough, he might start piddling in his underwear. Oh, oh, oh. I must, I must. He took out his pecker and aimed at the corner of the portico where Chester had just peed… …and he couldn’t go. Something had seized up. He stood straining, but nothing came. He felt the leaden heaviness of all the liquid that had accumulated since Buffalo pound against some iron wall he had inside him. “I can’t go,” he whimpered. “Why not?” “I just can’t. Not here.” “Seems like you really need it, though.” He jiggled his knees. “It’s - it’s an emergency, but I can’t go. Not in public.” Chester sensed that saying “you had no problem peeing in front of me yesterday” would make things worse. Maybe that was the problem, after all - the poor guy was still mortally embarrassed and couldn’t relax. Now he felt awful for having emptied his own bladder so casually right in front of him. And for getting them lost. Joe stood for two miserable minutes trying to pee and couldn’t pass a drop. When he buttoned his pants, he groaned with the renewed pressure on his bladder, which felt to him like it was stretched to watermelon proportions. He would just have to hold it longer. He had an awful flashback to Father MacLeary’s claim that the ache of a full bladder is meant to educate rebellious humans about Purgatory. You must hold your water until we have concluded. He shivered in the warm, still air. They went back to the street and Chester observed him visibly cringe as they set off, the kind of misstep and shifty movement that, however momentary, indicated that the situation was serious. “I’m sure that when we get to Greenwich Village, you’ll be allowed to use any bathroom you want. You’re a poet, after all.” “Oh, I sure hope so!” _______ They started walking westward on East 4th Street, toward what appeared to be beatnik civilization. Long-haired young men in jeans and their beanpole girlfriends were milling around newsstands, appearing to have nothing better to do. Chester felt out of place with his crew cut, and had no way to explain to these hip strangers that it had been one of only three haircuts allowed on the Saint Sebastian campus. One of the fellows, shirtless and hairy as a muskrat, hung out of a window smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. He blew smoke with a strong, unfamiliar odor right at the boys. “Sir, do you know where we might find a restroom?” Joe asked, and for the second time they were simply laughed at. After a few more blocks, Joe stopped in front of an automat to bend over at the waist and press his slender thighs together. He felt tremendous pressure at the base of his pecker and needed to squeeze himself, needed it desperately, but knew it wasn’t decent. He crossed his legs like a girl and touched his lower abdomen gingerly. Oh, how his poor, tired, overfull bladder hurt! Here he was again, for the second time in as many days, on the verge of wetting himself in front of Chester, who was so strong and handsome and generous! “Aw Jeez,” Chester said, and placed a comforting hand on his arm, looking around to see if anyone was watching and judging. Chester could feel him shaking. “I have to go really, really bad, Chester. Why doesn’t this city have normal bathrooms?” Chester pondered. A hotel. They needed a hotel room for the night anyway; hunting for apartments and jobs was an overwhelming task and could start tomorrow. Based on Chester’s finances, it would have to be a fleabag hotel, but Joe could have a pee and they could both get some sleep. “Here, I’ll take your suitcase,” Chester said, “I’ll get a hotel room real quick and you can pee there.” “Please, can you…hurry?” Joe said, straightening up with a pained expression. The first hotel they came to was hideous, somehow in business despite having two conspicuous broken windows, and even this was out of their very short financial reach due to charging only hourly rates. Joe could hardly stand still at the counter of that horrible place. He was sweating more than the heat called for. His hair was disheveled and his cheeks were red from a sunburn that would hurt in the morning. Of course their restrooms were for customers only. And just like that, they were back on the march. Joe may have been a poet, but he knew no words in English to describe how badly he needed to pee. He had to try again, he had to. There were no alleys or cul-de-sacs that he could see, and he knew he could never tolerate the guilt and ignominy of sullying a phone booth, so when they came to another abandoned storefront, he ducked into the doorway. The doorway was shallower than the portico had been, and there were more people around, but all Joe could think about was how it hurt to hold it in after walking for miles and miles. The pressure was blinding. He was about to wet his pants in the middle of a strange city. I have to, I have to. He unbuckled and unzipped again, with Chester rushing to stand guard. “Stop, Joe! There’s a cop!” Joe did up his pants again in a flash. If there was one thing that terrified him, it was Authority. And sure enough, a bearish middle-aged New York City cop, the first cop they’d seen in awhile, was walking right by them. “Hey!” the cop hailed, “you boys. Were you pissing in that doorway?” Joe and Chester glanced at each other. What if they were wanted men upstate? What if they were already on posters? Were they going to go to prison? “The law has a pretty damned clear perspective when it comes to pissing in doorways,” the cop muttered, wiping his nose, looking behind them to see if there was a puddle in the doorway, which there wasn’t. The cop looked Joe in the eyes, scrutinizing him. Joe almost flooded his pants in his own defense. He would have been in danger of wetting himself from fear even if he hadn’t already been at the limits of his endurance. It was all he could do to clench his muscles as hard as humanly possible to hold it in against the squeezing downward pressure of terror. “Alright then,” the cop said with a tone of minor disappointment, “you seem like some nice law-abiding young men. Have a good afternoon.” They watched him walk away. When he turned the corner, Joe doubled over again, teeth clenched, legs together, hands on his knees, whimpering as he battled for enough control to keep walking. He felt dizzy and disoriented. He pictured his bladder as a lead balloon expanding inside him, massive and heavy and hot and pushing hard against his belt. Oh, Mother Mary, help me. On the next block, they spotted another hotel. The Mitchell Hotel, according to its theater-style marquee, which had seen better days. Joe started jogging toward it, and Chester took off after him. They opened the heavy Victorian front door. Behind the front desk, a tremendously fat, sweaty man in a wifebeater sat on a small metal stool, reading a newspaper and smoking. His bald head looked like a big red egg. A blackboard proclaimed that rooms were available for the night, and well within their budget. “Hello, sir. We’d like to rent a hotel room and we thought this establishment looked so lovely - “ Chester began. “Ayse, youse wants hourly rates or to stay the night?” harrumphed the man, without looking up. “We’d like to stay the night, sir.” “What are ya, queers?” “No, brothers,” Chester said, “Don and Pat Frasier. We’re traveling on business. We work in advertising - “ “Aye, misters Frasier. We gots a room for the night, if two brothers’ll be willing to share a bed,” he said, winking, as he stubbed out his cigarette in a huge metal ashtray. Chester glanced at Joe, who was gazing toward some unmarked distant horizon and shaking his right leg rapidly. “Yes, that’s fine with us. When we were little we - “ “Aye, I don’t need youse whole life story. Gimme the cash, write youse names in the guestbook and get lost. Room 18 is up on the third floor. Don’t be making any messes my old lady has to clean up, alright?” He threw his weight off the stool gruntingly and went to grab a key from the rack “Edna! Just gave room 18 to some queers!” they heard the man yell as they got on the ancient elevator. The elevator creaked alarmingly as it rose. Joe leaned back against the metal grate with his legs crossed and his eyes closed, breathing hard. He folded his arms tight over his chest so he would not grab himself in front of Chester. A horrendous sloshing shudder went through his bladder as the elevator bounced sullenly to a halt. He bent his knees and keened in his agony - “nnnmmmnnnhhhh!” - as gravity itself cruelly compressed him internally when he was so close to getting relief. When the elevator opened, he ran out into the gloomy hallway, looking for room 18. “Here it is! Here it is! Ohhhhh! Ohhhhh, please hurry up.” Joe bounced on his heels and Chester scurried to his side. Chester inserted the key into the latch of room 18 - or at least he tried to, but it wouldn’t go in. “Please hurry,” Joe groaned as he fumbled. Chester withdrew the key and looked at the fob. “This key says it’s for room 17.” Chester went across the hall and knocked on the dark oak door of Room 17. “Who there?! Not cleaning time! I pay! Go away!” a woman with an unplaceable accent yelled from inside. “Goddamnit, they gave me the wrong key,” said Chester. “Nnnnnnmmmmmmhhhh!” It did not even occur to Joe to be bothered by Chester’s blasphemy. “Shhh, it’s okay, just wait here. You can hold it another minute,” Chester said. “Please hurry!” Chester jogged back down the hallway, glancing back with a hopeful smile as he waited for the elevator to creep back up from the ground floor. So kind. He hadn’t meant anything by the off-color comment at Larry’s, surely not. Please hurry, Chester. Please, please, please. The ancient damask wallpaper in the hallway was water-stained and peeling. The dim light fixture on the ceiling was big and yellow and round enough that Joe couldn’t stand to look at it. Knowing that there must be a toilet or an old-fashioned chamber pot or even a random decorative receptacle in the locked room was maddening. He marched in place in front of the door, grabbing himself hard in Chester’s absence. The feeling of his urethra being squashed down helped, it numbed the pins-and-needles torment of his pecker tingling with the need to pee from root to tip, it let him hold it just a little bit longer. Please, please, please come back, Chester. I can’t wait, I’m going to wet myself again, hurry, hurry, hurry. After several eternities, the elevator creaked open and Chester ran down the hallway holding the correct key aloft like the Olympic Torch. Joe gasped. His heart leapt. He doubled over as his bladder spasmed violently, a wave of anguish crashing into him. “Ohhhhh, hurry!” he cried. Chester put the key into the lock. Joe was standing beside him with his thighs pressed together, one hand on the grimy wall and the other rubbing against his lower belly, teeth bared from the strain of clenching muscles that were fluttering with exhaustion. “Ohhh, please hurry, Chester. Please, please hurry,” His buckled knees were shaking. “Just a few more seconds, Joe.” “Oh Mother Mary help me, oh no - nnnnnnnnhhhhhhhgghhmmm!” He was wetting his pants. It was like a geyser: abrupt and unstoppable. He was pissing at full force, so hard that it made a swishing noise as it gushed out of him and ran down his trouser legs in a hot torrent. It went on for almost a minute. He didn’t have the strength to fight it; all he could do was look down and watch in horror as it happened. A huge puddle formed on the threadbare carpet. “Ohhhhhh, oh golly, oh no, I wet my pants,” he moaned pitifully. He turned the toes of his wet shoes inward and covered his face with his hands. He was fully prepared to die in that moment, even if he was certain he was going to Hell. “Jesus,” said Chester. “This keeps happening,” he lamented, touching his soaked left thigh with the tips of his fingers, “I’m so sorry.” Chester got the door unlocked and ushered Joe inside with a friendly hand on the back. The liquid in Joe’s shoes made a squelching noise. “It’s not your fault. The towering behemoth down there gave me the wrong key. When you’ve got to go, you’ve got to go. Judging from the um, odor and the stains on the carpet out there, you’re not the first.” He smiled reassuringly, looking into Joe’s teary eyes as he pulled the suitcases inside and locked the door. He liked the way Joe’s wet khakis clung to his lithe boyish body, although he couldn’t explain why or imagine admitting it. The room was as bad as Chester had anticipated. Most of it was taken up with a full-sized bed, which looked sunken in the middle. There was no telephone. The ashtrays on the nightstands hadn’t been emptied after the last guests, and there were cigarette burns on the bedspread. A number of insects had met their demise in the twin light fixtures on the wall. But there was, miraculously, a private bathroom where Joe could clean himself up and try to wash his clothes in the sink with some old soap flakes. Chester could hear him crying over the sound of the sink running. Poor Joe. Joe was primarily concerned about the puddle outside: “there aren’t any towels in here we can use to clean it up! The man downstairs said we shouldn’t make a mess,” he sobbed from behind the bathroom door. “The man downstairs is a piece of work,” Chester retorted as he opened Joe’s suitcase to retrieve some dry clothes for him. He realized that he hadn’t packed Joe’s pajamas. Goddamnit. He had to show up at the door with only white briefs and an undershirt. “Here you go, buddy. Please…don’t cry. You having an accident, it’s…nothing I haven’t seen before.” Joe looked at what Chester had handed him. “What about pants?” “You’re thinking about being presentable for dinner? I’ve never been so exhausted in my life. We should get some sleep.” “We…?” “It’s not a problem. We can sleep back-to-back like people in the old days.” It wasn’t until they were both dressed for bed that they realized just how fatigued they were. They had been on the move for over 24 straight hours. Their feet and backs hurt from walking all day, and their eyelids drooped of their own accord. Chester, who had remembered his own pajama pants at least, climbed into bed on the far side. The sheets felt grainy and the smell of the pillow left something to be desired. He turned to the wall for Joe’s modesty as he felt his lean body settle beside him. Here I am in New York City, sharing a bed with a homosexual with bladder problems who’s sweet on me, Chester thought. He didn’t have the energy to fret over the implications. They both fell into a dreamless sleep as the sun set over Greenwich Village, delaying until the next day the proper beginnings of their lives. TO BE CONTINUED

Just pics of me in crossdress, wetting myself pretty much :s

Just a bunch of pics from recent-ish wetting experiences :s hope you enjoy dem.

I exploded as soon as it filmed man- Might post a femboy pic lv_0_20220923165434.mp4 lv_0_20220923165434.mp4 of me in a skirt later~