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Earlier this week i met up with a good friend from here and we decided to have.. some fun! It started out finding a public park in between both of us, He lives near London and I live in Nottingham. We agreed on a spot in Northampton and i fount a great public park! I was getting excited just from the thought! We met later that night, and arrived at the park. It was dark then, around 7-8pm. The park had little lighting but enough on the paths that we could have been spotted. I wore blue jeans and he wore black jeans. We had a good walk around the park talking when i thought it was time to get to business! I went under a street light in the park, and decided to let a little out. I was pretty desperate at this point as i had been driving for an hour and a half or so. I let loose and you could see immediately the wetness starting to show on my blue jeans. It felt amazing! It was then his turn which he also made a nice wet patch on his black jeans. After we walked for a bit more,when i became a little more daring. I decided to do a hugee leak walking down the main street with lots of lighting! (For some reason when i'm with someone whos also doing a wetting or is into it, I get more daring lol) I started walking and opened the flood gates, it came pouring out and my jeans turned dark almost instantly. It was very noticeable. A few cars drove by before i darted back into the park. The thrill was AMAZING. I felt a little bit more left in the tank and at this point i was really turned on and hard. I'm a straight male but get turned on by anything wetting, the member who i was with is gay. I know he would of liked to have seen the bulge so i showed him and i think its safe to say he liked it lol. I let out my last little bit in my jeans and showed him my boxers after. I was wearing grey boxers and they was drenched. After we had both finished, we walked around for a little while before we set off back home! It was such a good experience and something i'd love to do more with others! Hope you guys enjoyed my little story, i didnt manage to get any pics but if it happens again i will definitely take some! 😉

Public Desperation Pee and Masturbation in Mens Grey Boxers View File Peeing and masturbating in her boyfriend's grey boxers without him knowing. 😈 ALL CREDITS GO TO: https://www.pornhub.com/model/robinag45 Submitter WettingMaster Submitted 03/06/2023 Category Female  

Something from the other writing blog... A content warning: this is man writing about his own desires, it has very 'male gaze' tone to it: the acts described have some of a woman's pleasure in them, as a man would imagine it, but much more of a man's and quite explicit in the details. Great, if you're het, and a man; probably *quite* good if you're a het woman, but less so if you're not. You are absolutely free to 'lift' it, shift the pronouns or work in some character names that do the work, shift the gaze to be a bit less male - or a lot less! - and re-gender and up-skill it to match your own sensations, fantasies and memories. Some of you are better at this than I am. It might also be possible to 'Ace' this, but that is so far outside my headspace that I wouldn't know where to begin. Anyway... This is what happens in my head, sometimes, when I get a glimpse of an attractive woman in a pair of shorts... Ever get a glimpse of something, a sudden snapshot in your mind, that wrote a story for itself, on the spot? A Short Shorts Glimpse: Picture a young couple, walking away from you, evening light and long shadows, a leafy street that leads away from the woods and open grassland of The Common, towards a winding street with a cluster of cottages and a public house, far, far older than the suburbia that grew up around them. His hand is around her waist, and she likes it there: then a little further down, cupping the denim of her shorts - a fine sight, she wears them well - and then a little further still, fingertips on the back of her legs: she likes it, she's playful, but she moves his band back up and gets a fine squeeze on the backside for her trouble. That, too, is a game to play, and his hand gets a light little slap... Her body language says that this was not intended to discourage him, at all: and she draws closer to him as they walk. Her hand rests lightly on his as he strokes his way around her backside, well aware that he is welcome to, fingers brushing on her skin again - a sensation she thoroughly enjoys, shimmying into it and turning his hand, so his fingers are between her thighs, fingertips feeling their way into the hem of her shorts and maybe, just maybe, touching and tickling at the skin where it meets the cup of her underwear. She stops and whispers something in his ear - she makes no attempt at all to move his hand - and they walk on, sunlight through the trees dappling them both, golden flashes on her hair and on the perfect, perfect skin of her legs. Surely she will move his hand away before they reach the garden of the pub, and can be seen; that, or they will change their course and find a place where they cannot. A whisper with a wicked smile: And then they are gone from sight: but in my mind's eye, and just beyond the edge of hearing, I hear what she whispered to him. "Don't tickle, I need to wee!" ...And a wider step, stepping around his hand and fingers, before stepping back in, as they walk on: and she is walking just a little bit unsteadily, one hand on his hand, down there, the other around his waist and using him to keep herself steady and supported. A wider step, opening a gap for his fingertips to find their way into the cup of her pants and slide along the slick of her lips: a gasp, and they open up, and his fingertip is *in*, deeper as she steps back in and her labia come down, squeezing his fingers with her thighs and squeezing herself onto him, his fingertip, and a wonderful, wonderful gentleness. She walks on, and she is suckling his fingertip with her labia, slicker and hotter and wetter with every step; and she keeps on walking, trusting him, and giving herself over to the pleasure of it. She's done this before, and she will let it take them wherever it will, be it a a giggle at what he has surely done - how embarrassing! - in his own underwear, and a silent promise that their lively social evening in the pub will move onto a second round in her bed; or maybe they will carry right on doing what they do, wandering back into the common and the woods until they cannot bear it any longer, kiss *that* kiss and fumble at each others belts, and buttons, and zippers, and fall into animal lust, fucking, and fucking, and fucking. And then, ever such a little bit embarrassed, getting-up and brushing-off the leaf litter: and off to her bed for a somewhat gentler second round, and maybe a good night's sleep. But there's that other need... Whispered, and not spoken. So she whispered in his ear again: "No, really, I'll wet myself!" But not "Stop". And her companion replied, gently, but clearly, with a hint of playfulness: "I'm fine with it, if you're fine with it." And as she sets her feet a little apart, not quite sure of what she's doing, his index finger reaches in, tracing a feather-gentle line up through the slick in her lips, and finds her clitoris, the gentlest of tickles with a fingertip. She breathes in, a trembling "Aahhhhh" and it lifts her, up, and up, and up; and catches, halting... A moment, and a hot spurt wets his fingertips. ...Still breathing in, up, up, even further, until she can't breathe any more: up, as high as she'll get, a roller coaster at the very peak, and she, the passenger, looking down the precipice and trying not to scream. Another spurt, and it doesn't stop; and she knows she's done it this time, as it goes on, and on, and on, a hot little dribble, sharp and insistent, that pools in the palm of his hand and trickles through his knuckles, dripping steadily onto her ankle and the strap of her sandal. She shifts a little, closing her eyes and kissing the air in a silent whisper, as the movement pushes his fingertip into her; and the dribble patters off his knuckles onto pavement, spitting little flecks of foam onto her sandals. She has wet his hand, she has wet her pants, and she has wet her shorts, and there's a little puddle on the ground between her sandals. She has wet herself, and there's no going back. Aaannd... BREATHE. All of it, all the way out, one long gasp that becomes a sigh: down, and down, and down, as the dribble becomes a flood. And she pisses, and pisses, and pisses; legs back together again to try and stop it splashing, thighs pressed together to stop him being so wickedly, wickedly *nice* with his fingertips. And even as she wees, and knows damn well that she is wetting herself and she mustn't, she can't help liking what he's doing; and her hand is still there, and she absolutely will not ask him to stop. He doesn't, and she doesn't, and it's a long, long piss, wet legs and a pool around her sandals, running into the gutter as she goes, and goes, and goes; and finally starts to falter. Okayyyy. No, she really, really, shouldn't have done that: but it's real, she did it, she's still doing it, and it's way too late to say sorry. She can breathe. Shallow breaths, and she's moving on his finger - both his fingers! - and she doesn't quite know what to feel about that, as she realises that she has relieved herself - and yes it's a relief, there's that - and she's still pissing in that thin little dribble that stops when you pull up, and bloody well comes back again, and you've just got to wait it out. Good to the last drop... Except that she can't pull up, with his fingers doing *that*. Except that she can pull up, and pull up and let go, pull up and let go again; and his fingertips ride with it, slick and skilful and wickedly gentle. She knows exactly what to feel about that, and feels it to the full, over and over in dribbles and spurts and sudden little streams, wetting his knuckles and tickling her legs with rolling rivulets and trickling drips, until she is quite, quite empty. And then a little more, until she realises that her pelvis and her hips are riding it - in daylight in the street, Oh My God - and it could not be clearer that she's masturbating on his fingers, in her shorts, all the way to climax. What? How? Yeah, she's that kind of girl, fine, but... "Shall we take a walk the long way 'round, and maybe dry out a little?" Bless him, there's a reason why she trusts him, and his middle finger is gently disengaging, letting her come down from up on high and calm down just a little; but his index finger's doing something utterly, utterly wonderful. She lets him, for a long, long minute: then holds her breath, relaxes, relaxes, relaxes, and finds she has a little bit of wee to do, if she can only let it go; a hot little squirt that lasts for a heartbeat, then two, then three, wetting his fingers, then cupped in his palm, and tipping-out onto the skin of her thigh, a tickle than makes her shiver, shocking her enough to spurt again. Pull-up, and squirt, and she's done: she's finished. Aftermath She's wet herself. Now what? Walk away from the puddle, right now... So they walk: and she draws his hand down, twisting her hand into his - wincing at the wet palm on the back of her hand, but she knows damn' well what it is and where it came from - and lets her hand be led around her backside, between her legs, and around herself again; to her front, touching and pinching fabric with her fingertips to feel her way around the wet patch and the damp. Somehow it isn't a visible performance of "I've wet myself and I'm checking the damage" when she's being fondled where her lover shouldn't, out of doors; or so she plays it, and so does he. And actually, she's finding a lot more dry denim than wet, or even damp: the boy's done well, cupping it onto her leg and away from her shorts. So: decision time. "You know, I think I've got away with it; should we have a quick one at The Star?" They're in amongst the trees, and she's given her legs and her sandals a quick wipe-down with a wet-wipe from her bag: not much daylight, but there's really only just a little wet spot, and the damp patch doesn't have a stain around the edges. "Well, if you're okay with it..." He sounds a little dubious, perhaps because of the wet streak on his trouser leg, where the wee ran off her knee: she bends down and gives it a brisk rub-down with a wet-wipe, sees it fading-out, and remembers that he has another reason to be just a little bit embarrassed. She stands up straight and looks at him, looking straight into his eyes, while a quick movement of her hand unzips him, reaches in, stroking him and wiping off a long, long dribble of semen, all the way to very tip of him, to be rewarded with a hot little spurt onto her fingertip. Slowly, carefully, gaze locked and eye-to-eye, she licks her finger clean and swallows. It has a terrible effect on him. Down goes her hand and she zips him up, as deftly as before, delicately - politely! - licking her lips with e flicker of her tongue that hints, just a little, that she could be doing rather more. "Oh no... I.. I..." "Oh yes", with a bright and sunny smile, delighted that he's coming in his trousers - and still coming, and coming, struggling to breathe - "It's fine, I'm okay with it if you're okay with it", as if she had invented the word 'mischief', on this very day. And then she offers to wipe him clean with 'a damp cotton cloth'. "Er, what?" He's a bit slow on the uptake, until he sees her unbuttoning her shorts and pushing them down, intending to take off her wet cotton knickers and... Time stops for him. If he hadn't come in his pants - and one last squirt, slow and heavy and warm, nearly puts him 'on the deck' like a knockout - he would already be fucking her up against a tree trunk: that's a once-in-a-lifetime offer and she's so wickedly happy with it... "Er, no, that won't be necessary... Yes, the, the er, the, the... The Star". She hands him a wadge of wet-wipes and unbuckles his belt. He watches, frozen to the spot, as she squeezes out the cup of her pants into her upturned palm, shaking away the little pool of piss that wrings and trickles out. Once, twice, a third time: then she draws her underwear back up, pats the cup with her fingertips to tease him, pulls up her shorts again, and shimmies her way into smoothing-into that last two inches, closes-up the zip... Buttoned-up and businesslike and good to go. He, however, is a little bit dazed. She grabs the wet-wipes and takes charge, rummaging in his trousers and catching the splats and dribbles and sticky patches, wiping him clean, finishing off with tissues and moisturiser on his penis, a labour of love that has him murmuring with pleasure: he is almost, almost able to come again, right then and there. And she zips him up, and buttons him up, belts him up and tucks him in; time to go. ...And as they walk, she has guided his hand down there there again. By the time they reach The Star, she is enjoying herself - enjoying him, his fingertips, slick lips and to Hell with an uncomfortable dampness that she can damn' well live with, if the payoff is the pleasure he is giving her - enjoying herself enough that she forgets to take his hand away until a glance from a woman she knows, who sees them in the pub quite often, reminds her that they shouldn't. Plans for the evening, and so be it... They walk into the Lounge Bar, sweetly hand in hand. She finds a corner nook to sit in, out of view, and sends him to the bar - she's not quite certain that she's visibly dry, and she worries that she smells of wee; she's worried, too, that she'll have a touch of cystitis in the morning. Well, she knows what to do about that: and there is something about that, normally a bit of a nuisance and sometimes quite embarrassing, that isn't going to be a bother. Not this time. At all. So the boy will bring a tray of drinks over to the table: his pint of bitter, her glass of vodka, plus a pint of cranberry-on-ice, plus a pint of water: he's a bit puzzled but the barmaids will understand. And they's chat, and swap jokes, and natter and hold hands, and laugh at anything or nothing, oblivious; he'll bring a second round, and then they'll take an evening stroll around the common. What's different, isn't something that she plans to do: it's what she <i>isn't</i> going to do. She isn't going to the loo. At all. She plans to let nature take it's course again, as they walk along: hand-in-hand, or hand in somewhere altogether more exciting, as many times as she can and she dares to. And if he comes in his trousers, so be it; and if he fucks her up against a tree, or in the bracken or the grass, then so be it. And if she can't contain herself before they finish off that second tray - or even, God help her, the first - then so be it.