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View File Sexy ginger pees her jeans After she wets herself she gets naked and masturbates. Submitter WettingMaster Submitted 07/25/2023 Category Female  

The artwork was of some girls waiting in a line - all of them desperate. One of them (the one at the end) has red-hair. The art used to be on a subreddit but is now gone. Does anyone have the art?

Lola Kelly had flowing, curly rust colored hair with pale skin and freckles. She had on a tight white one piece, which created a camel toe effect on her crotch and shows off her boobs as she was bra less. She was steadily drinking a glass of coke when her boyfriend knocked on the door. … She was on the road with her boyfriend as her bladder rapidly filled with urine. It had been all that coke. Suddenly her boyfriend pulled into a service station. He shifted around and said to her ”Ima go to the bathroom” She could see an almost imperceptible wet patch glistening on his pants She was still to embarrassed to admit she needed to pre even though she needed to go even worse than he did. He nipped into the mens bathroom fast but to his disappointment he encountered a small line. He crossed his legs and shifted about as the lines freed up (there about 3 people in front of him). He hurriedly pulled down his pants and whipped out his dick and started peeing freely. He found a small wet patch on his pants that was fortunately not very visible. He washed his hands and left, slightly embarrassed. Meanwhile Lola saw him come out and she left the station with him as the ladies line had failed to profresses forward. She sat down in the seat and squirmed discreetly … Her bladder was going to burst. “Can you possibly pull over and let me pee? I can’t hold it!” She was holding herself and squirming. ”You can’t pee in public!”

At a single-sex Catholic college in the early 1960s, Father MacLeary chooses unconventional means to teach a femboy student about the torments of Hell and Purgatory. But when he sees the beautiful ginger youth naked, tied up, and bursting, it’s almost more than his own sinful heart can bear. Last time I wrote about consensual kink in a loving relationship. This time I wrote something else entirely. I exorcised some demons with this one. I feel bad that I wrote it. Maybe I should go to confession. Caution! This story features a power imbalance, Catholic guilt, depictions of period-accurate bigotry, blasphemy (contemplated), one seriously perverted priest, and a just desserts plot. If any of these elements are upsetting to you, do yourself a favor and go read something else! _____ “My whole existence is flawed You get me closer to God” - Nine Inch Nails _____ Joe Kelly was a sophomore at Saint Sebastian College, a member of the class of 1964. He was the youngest of ten sons, a pious, soft-voiced boy poet with a scholarship to study literature. His poetry about the saints and angels was unfashionable in the secular world and had been for hundreds of years, but the dean of the college had admired his gifts with language and his unshakeable faith in the doctrines of the Roman Catholic Church. He could be spotted walking around campus with his nose in a book most days. He went to mass more often than most of the other young men. In appearance he was a true Irish-American lad, lean and slight for his twenty years, red-haired, long-limbed, red-lipped, gap-toothed, freckled, and pretty as a girl. For over a year, his Friday confessions with Father MacLeary had been deathly dull and pedestrian (he ate too much at dinner and was a glutton, he ate too little at dinner when there were starving children in India, he forgot to shine his shoes.) Then one day, he asked to be absolved of “impure thoughts,” a phrase that always pricked Father MacLeary’s ears. “What impure thoughts are you having, my son?” After stammering for upwards of 30 seconds, Joe confessed that he wished to be sodomized. He wished to be sodomized by his roommate. He wished to be sodomized by a busboy who worked at the hotel in town - a colored busboy. He wished to be sodomized by Rock Hudson and other manly Hollywood men whom one could simply not imagine having a proclivity for sodomy. He had not only masturbated to the thought of being sodomized by all these men, but had also inserted his fingers into his anus to simulate the act! He even said he longed to grow out his hair like a beatnik and dress like a girl, with lace and satin and bows. He wanted to use ladies’ cosmetics. He even wanted to try ladies’ underthings, because in his words, “we boys have to wear plain white underpants every day, but girls get to have fancy, colorful brassieres and nighties made by real designers in Paris.” He fantasized about being dressed as a beautiful woman and having strange, hairy, burly men from the factories put their callused hands up his skirt to grope his bottom and his pecker through his silky underthings! “I think I’m a fairy,” he whispered through the partition, on the verge of tears. Father MacLeary heard Joe’s confession with great concern. Students often came to him to confess impure thoughts, but they were usually about the big bouncing bosoms and luscious legs of women. These thoughts were sinful, of course, but the impulse would lead these young men to find good Catholic girls with whom to partake in the act of procreation within the bonds of marriage, as our Lord intended. Joe’s sins of the mind were more serious. Father MacLeary grieved for Joe’s sins, and the sins of Joe’s generation. With Kennedy in the White House, he had felt a glimmer of hope for the Church in America, but the forces of secularism had advanced as inexorably as ever in the past year. More and more Catholic sons and daughters were putting their faith in modernity, even though all modernity had to offer was the threat of total nuclear annihilation. Rampant homosexuality and cross-dressing was but the latest manifestation. “Don’t cry, my son.” “What - what should I do? For penance?” “First of all, you need to abstain from self-abuse and pray the rosary 70 times, ten times per day for the next seven days,” said Father MacLeary, “You must dwell on every bead and every word, so that God knows your heart is repentant, and you may be saved.” “Yes, Father.” “At the end of those seven days, noon of Saturday next, you will come to meet me here at the chapel. We will conduct a ritual, a purgation, that may cure you of your sinful urges. But we must do it alone. Due to the strict policies on sexual sin between boys here at Saint Sebastian, I will have to protect you by keeping the purgation a secret, and I trust that you will help me there.” “Do you believe it will cure me, Father? I’ve thought so many evil thoughts that I think I’ll never be cured.” “We can only try.” “Thank you, Father.” “It is my duty as a man of the cloth,” he lied, “Now go, and sin no more.” _____ On Thursday night, while Joe was still up earnestly saying his rosaries, the priest had a dream. He was standing alone at the head of the chapel, which was decorated for Easter. The sun was shining outside the stained-glass windows. A tall woman entered. She was wearing a pastel pink calf-length A-line dress with full petticoats, white kitten heels, white stockings, and a big white hat with a Cala lily adornment. A waterfall of shining red tresses spilled out from under the hat. The only odd note was the white ascot tucked around her neck. She was looking down and he could not see her face, but he knew that she was a beauty. Any of the students in his congregation would be very fortunate to have her to wife. The woman clearly needed to use the restroom. She was standing with her legs crossed, her gloved hands pressing down the front of her skirts as she swayed from side to side. “Father…” She looked lifted her head. She - he - was Joe! Under the makeup, Joe’s features were unmistakable. The ascot was pinned to conceal his Adam’s apple. “I’ve been holding my waters for Lent. I haven’t urinated in 40 days and 40 nights,” Joe - Joan? Jo-Ann? - said. Joe reached down and lifted his skirts, revealing his long legs in white stockings and his garter belt. He was wearing pink panties of the thinnest silk. The outline of his genitals was obscenely apparent. “We’re sodomites, Father.” Joe began to water the green carpet at his feet. The tip of his penis became visible through the wet spot on his panties. The flow went on, and on, beyond what made sense for a human body, until the chapel was flooded with two feet of Joe’s light yellow wee. Joe stood in it with a look of utter happiness on his face, even though he’d ruined his white stockings and lovely Easter dress. “He is risen!” Joe declared. The bells were ringing. Father MacLeary woke up with an erection, the kind of rock-solid morning wood he hadn’t experienced since his youth. He had to lie in bed and wait for it to deflate, despite needing the toilet with the cramping urgency of a 52-year-old man with a bad prostate. It was a holy dream, he thought. To dream of Easter is holy. The Holy Spirit was granting him permission to act in Joe’s case. _____ Joe and Father MacLeary could hear the noon bells of Saint Sebastian College ringing far above them, startling evidence that outside, up there, it was daytime. They were in a small room in the basement of the chapel, where the walls were draped in black and a candelabra the only source of light. The candlelight glimmered off of Father MacLeary’s gold-rimmed eyeglasses as he studied Joe’s nude body splayed out on the smooth, sturdy oak table. His slim wrists and ankles were bound to posts at the corners of the table, leaving him only enough freedom of movement in the knees and elbows to contort and writhe. He was not contorting and writhing now, but Father MacLeary was counting on the fact that he would be. Now father MacLeary could see that God had given Joe freckles even where he was not much exposed to the sun, and that the sweet curls of his pubic hair were coppery red. He could smell Joe’s subtle masculine scent and the hair oil he used to flatten the corresponding red curls on his head. The smell made his mouth water. In the bowl of Joe’s smooth belly, just under his navel, Father MacLeary could spy the swell of the pitcher of iced tea he brought Joe to drink an hour before, up in his office. He had gotten the recipe for sweet iced tea when he visited the diocese in New Orleans. It was astonishing how efficiently the Southern drink filled one’s bladder. He had directed Joe to drink glass after glass in preparation for this special lesson in theology. How his Adam’s apple had bobbed in his handsome pale throat as he drank! “This tastes great, Father. We Yankees could learn something from the chefs down South,” he had said, smiling awkwardly. Now all that liquid was flowing into his bladder. Father MacLeary imagined the growing discomfort. The discomfort would get much worse. It was part of the ritual that Joe needed. The priest had never done this before - the spiritual purgation of another through the denial of the bladder. He had never dared. He realized now that he had been waiting for the right young man, a conscientious one who needed to be purged of a great spiritual corruption, and who was too timid to report him to the bishop. The bishop wouldn’t understand that the denial of the bladder could save a soul from the fires of Hell. _____ TO BE CONTINUED...