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June 13

I was about to go for my 11 AM pee when I got your message. “Remember, no peeing until 1.” I can't believe you don't trust me to set my own potty timer!

 

June 17

This is easier than I thought.

 

June 20

I should have known you'd be up to some tricks once your vacation came along. I made it from seven until seven just fine. Maybe I was a little desperate when I almost ran headlong into you on the way to the bathroom, but nothing showed on my panties! At this point I was irrationally proud of myself, like a toddler potty training for the first time. When you innocently invited me to the movies, I was excited. It's been so long since we went out to see a film. I've got nothing against Netflix and I am chiller than a cucumber up someone's ass—talk about mixed metaphors—but there's just something about the big screen, the huge surround system, the dark hall filled with seats, the collective gasps that go through the audience when something exciting or scary happens. I didn't expect it to be a midnight screening, though.

I put on a skirt and some lacy lingerie, which I made sure to show you when I bent over to tie my shoelaces. I bet you got a kick out of that. There was a pleasant breeze in the warm summer night. I put out my hand for you to grab. By this point it had been nearly five hours since I almost ran you down like a bull, but I didn't feel much like I had to pee. Just a twinge maybe. But then you bought us that huge box of popcorn, and extra large drinks. I should have been more careful. I should have smelled danger. Instead, I smelled only delicious popcorn and traces of your cologne. I don't remember the last time we had such a nice, pleasant date. I miss that.

Halfway through the film I definitely needed to pee. I soldiered on, reminding myself that I had about six hours left until I could pee. It's like when you're a kid in the back seat and you ask your mom “Are we there yet?” and she says “soon,” and you want to believe her, you really do, especially since your legs are all knotted up and you're bouncing up and down and your bladder is screaming at you, but you know full well that soon means in a long time. Like that. I wanted to believe that I would soon be able to relieve myself, but I knew I'd have to last the night. As we exited the theater, I'd already forgotten the twist ending. All I could do was stare longingly at the ladies headed over to the restrooms. For a midnight screening there were quite a lot of people. I tried to focus on that, how odd it was that so many people were going to the movies at midnight on a weekday—it wasn't the premiere, as far as I knew. But I couldn't focus. You cheerily took my hand and asked me if something was wrong.

I think you know what's wrong,” I hissed. I meant to shrugged, but my acerbic delivery belied my attitude.

I don't know. I'm not a mind reader. I think that's a female thing. You always know when I'm horny, but I'm sorry honey, I can't read your mind just because you can read mine.”

Oh, give it a break,” I spat out.

No seriously,” you said, doing your best impression of the concerned boyfriend. You knew very well that you had orchestrated this situation and were enjoying the hell out of it, and you knew that I knew. “What's the matter? Film too scary for sweetpea?”

I have to piss, now fuck off and let's go home,” I said.

I knew I shouldn't have bought you that large drink so close to bedtime,” you said. You always know how to push my buttons. I said nothing, sulking in the passenger seat the whole way home.

There was another part of me that enjoyed the roleplay, enjoyed the sensation of pee pushing and stretching at my bladder walls. It was hard to reconcile these two views. Imagine a line drawing of a cube, and if you look at it long enough, it switches over to a different cube facing the other direction.

 

necker.jpg
 

That's how I felt. At once hating and loving it.

Time for night-night. Go brush your teeth,” you said. Where did all this infantilizing language come from? You were really going all out trying to humiliate me, weren't you? By now, I was holding myself between the legs to stem the flow. As I put down my toothbrush, you damn near scared the piss out of me when you grabbed me by the waist and hoisted me into the air.

Get off me!” I shrieked.

I forgot how jumpy scary movies make you.”

Despite my best efforts not to let myself be affected by your teasing, I couldn't take it. My fuse it short when my bladder's full. “I get jumpy when people fucking grab me from behind!”

Shhh,” you said, finger to your lips. “Bed time is silent time.”

I decided not to speak another word to you until the morning. Silently, I slipped off my skirt and shirt, and slipped into a pair of pajama pants.

I need to remind you of the rules,” you said just as I began squirming under the covers. “When little sluts watch scary movies, sometimes they have bad dreams and end up wetting the bed. Now, if this happens, which I'm sure it won't, will it?”

I shook my head no, all the while mentally nodding yes, yes, yes it will unless Jesus himself descends from the heavens and turns urine into air.

But if it should happen, my little slut will stay in bed, in her wet clothes, and inform me in the morning. She will not attempt to go to the bathroom at night unescorted, because the house is dark and scary. Because she knows how much I enjoy making her suffer when she disobeys. Is that clear?”

I nodded and turned my back to you. I was in something close to a fetal position with both hands squeezed into my crotch. It was 2:30. Four and a half hours of full bladder torture. Honestly I contemplated just giving up and pissing right then, but I didn't want to give you the satisfaction. However, I knew you would be even more satisfied if I cheated, snuck out while you were asleep. Because I knew I'd have to tell you, and then you'd know I was “broken,” and pissing the bed was far better than that.

You were asleep in fifteen. I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep before I peed. I can't remember the last time I needed to pee so much. It was a tsunami of wave after wave pushing against my poor outlet, insisting on release. I twisted my legs into various acrobatic positions in an attempt to find the one that provided the most relief, but in the end one of my legs began falling asleep and I had to loosen up, and as I did, I leaked. It was only a little, not enough to reach the bedding yet, but my crotch was definitely wet.

I looked at the clock on the bedside table. It was only 2:55. Barely ten minutes since I heard the rhythm of your breathing change and knew you were asleep. More than four hours until I could pee in a toilet. No. Don't think of a toilet. Just… don't! That thought proved to be my undoing. I imagined myself seated on the toilet and as I did, my body simply relaxed. It was the strangest feeling. I was straining my muscles with all my might, yet all I felt was all the tension leaving, and then I felt my crotch getting warmer. It spread out, slightly pooling in my crotch—the way I lay was like a pee cradle, gently rocking my urine to sleep—and then it began dripping over the edge and down my legs, and at the same time, my butt and lower back was getting wet. I was glad I hadn't worn a shirt. Although it signaled defeat, letting go felt so good that I let myself luxuriate in the feeling, stopped fighting it and embraced it. Soon it was over, and then I was lying there panting in a puddle of piss. It felt so good, and so bad, so wrong. Had I just ruined our bed? Oh, well. If that were the case, you would have to buy a new mattress. It was all your fault.

I was embarrassed, of course. But more than anything I was relieved, and once I no longer had to pee, I realized how tired I was. Knowing I wasn't allowed to change before morning anyway, I rolled over to my back and fell asleep.

 

Good morning!” You said. In your hands was a tray, and on it, a plate of eggs and steaming bacon. “I'm so proud of you!”

What?” I said, rubbing my eyes. I was acutely aware of how uncomfortable the cold wet sheets were clinging to my back.

I knew you'd be a big girl and not wet the bed.”

There was no way you could have failed to notice my spectacular accident. I knew you were just winding me up, breaking me down. I didn't want to give you the immediate satisfaction, and that bacon smelled too good, so I decided to put off the inevitable embarrassment. Ignoring the icky piss-pants sticking to my lower half, I sat up and began devouring breakfast.

Slow down there, cowgirl,” you said. “You look like you haven't eaten in days. Here, have some orange juice. That bacon is salty.”

I downed the OJ and forked the last piece of bacon. Then the plate was empty. An eerie silence descended on the room. I could cut the tension with a knife and use the shard to break diamonds. We were both waiting for me to admit it, to be done with the charade, but suddenly I felt very small and pathetic. I felt my eyes getting moist from the embarrassment, and then wetter still from frustration. I knew it was going to be embarrassed, but I didn't want to make it worse by crying over it, and that frustration made me cry. If you ever wonder how women's emotions are wound up, this is it. Privileged information straight from the horse's mouth.

You waited.

I waited.

You waited some more.

I suppressed a sob.

You looked concerned, but waited.

I failed to suppress a sob.

You sat down on the bed and put a supportive hand on my shoulder.

I whispered it. “I wet the bed.”

You leaned in and asked me to repeat it.

I wet the bed,” I whispered, even fainter than the first time.

Oh, sweetpea,” you said. “I knew I shouldn't have taken you to an R rated movie.”

I ignored the jab and simply lifted the covers. It was even worse than I thought. There was a me-shaped stain covering almost my entire side of the bed. I must have rolled around in sleep because it had gotten everywhere. I realized even my bra was wet, although thankfully my hair was dry.

You really had to go, didn't you?” You said.

I nodded.

You seemed to realize that you were on the brink of going too far, because your tone had shifted from Master mocking his dirty slut to something more paternal and caring. “Nothing you do can make me not love you,” you whispered in my ear. It helped, a little. Then you picked me up and didn't set me down until I was in the shower. “Clean yourself up and I'll take care of the bed,” you said.

The warm, clean water washed away the ickiness I felt on the outside, but not the one on the inside.

After a while you came in with clean clothes for me—black panties, matching bra, skinny white jeans and a tank top.

I didn't like your smile.

Cheer up, sunshine! It's almost ten and we have a big adventure ahead of us.” Almost ten. Surely not…

Just let me do my morning pee—”

Remind me,” you said. “When is your bathroom allowance?”

Seven,” I said.

What time is it now?”

Almost ten.”

And that means?”

You've got to be fucking shitting me!” I had been so tired I slept through seven, and now, after pissing the bed, I wouldn't be able to pee in an actual toilet until twenty-four hours since my last… deliberate pee.

I need to poop,” I said.

Tough luck.”

I didn't need to poop, and sincerely hoped I wouldn't for the next nine hours, but it was worth a shot.

What are your sadistic plans for the day, then?” I asked.

“What do you take me for, a sadist who loves to torture his girlfriend? We're going to have a picnic in the park, then we're going for a trip on the river—I rented a boat, like we always talked about—and then we're going for a romantic dinner at the waterfront to cap it off. Doesn't that sound lovely, sweetpea?”

“Why can't you be like this when you're not doing it just to torture me,” I said, as I wriggled my ass into those jeans you love so much. I noted that the slightest leak would be very visible on them. No doubt part of your grand design.

“Have you forgotten what day it is?”

“Tuesday?”

“It's your birthday.”

“My birthday was on the seventeenth, you goof. You gave me a gift.” Perfume and chocolate. Ever the gentleman, my sadist.

“I gave you a gift, but I didn't give you an experience. I made reservations at L'esprit d'escalier weeks ago.” L'esprit was a fancy French restaurant I had been wanting to go to since forever, and also the French phrase for staircase wit, that thing where you always come up with the perfect reply after the moment has passed. That described my situation well in that moment. The witty reply which I ought to have said, by the way, was thank you and possibly—no definitely—also I love you.

 

The picnic was lovely. We sat on a blanket in the park, you popped a bottle of white wine, the sun was shining, and the biscuits and cheese were amazing. I started to think that being with a sadist wasn't so bad. “God, you're not going to put a ring in my glass, are you,” I joked.

I'd rather let you go to a public bathroom right now,” you said. I regretted the joke immediately. I knew that meant Not in a million years, and I hated knowing that I would be spending the whole day helpless in public, and a small pang tugged at my heart and wondered whether I also didn't regret your nonchalant no-go on ever marrying, too. Knowing you'll read this I must stress that it was only a fleeting thought.

Then we packed up and headed down to the river. The boat you'd gotten us had a small engine, but you took the oars like a champ, and we floated down the river at a leisurely pace. Summer was here and the trees along the riverside were all green, filtering sunlight in pretty patterns across the ground. We talked for a while, and then I closed my eyes and just felt everything, the sun, the birds chirping, the gentle breeze, the good company. It was a pretty good not-birthday so far.

By the time we passed four, I was in trouble. We had consumed a bottle of wine each, and some water, and I needed to pee. Thankfully I didn't need to go number two, but I was still stuck on a boat, in jeans so tight they cut into my bladder like a knife, and I could feel my weakened pelvic muscles straining. I casually put my hands in my lap and you gave me a look that told me you knew.

I began singing. It's something I do, sometimes, when I'm nervous. You always tell me I would be a hit at karaoke night, which is a backhanded compliment if I ever saw one. Nevertheless, I sang, and hoped that it would put my mind off my bladder.

The water wasn't helping. It occurred to me that you must have planned this. Surrounded by water and desperate for a pee; there was nowhere I could look that didn't remind me of my need. I began squeezing myself openly.

You rowed us back to shore, and by now, it was almost six. I couldn't stand still as you tied up the boat. I was twisting my legs, squeezing my crotch, jumping in place, looking for all the world like a toddler.

You asked me to help pick up our things from the boat. I leaned down. I shouldn't have. My jeans dug into my bladder, and it gave a push. Before I knew it, I was peeing, and by the time I was able to stop, it was halfway down to my knees. All hope was lost anyway, so I crouched down and let nature take its course, through my panties and jeans. It splashed down into the mud and recoiled up toward my butt.

You gave me a condescending smile as you finished with the boat. “It's okay, honey, you tried. I should have been more sensitive, knowing you've been struggling to keep dry lately.” And you offered me a hand. We walked like that, me wet down my entire backside and halfway down the front. It was exceedingly obvious what had happened, given that my jeans were white except in long dark gray streaks radiating from my crotch. There were a few people out and about. Most looked politely away. A group of teenage boys stared, and when we passed them, one whistled and waved.

You stopped. Walked over. “Are you hitting on my girlfriend?” You asked.

No,” said the boy meekly. He might be sixteen, with a terrible hairy thing on his upper lip which probably passed for a mustache. “Are you mocking her, then? That it?”

No...”

Then shut the fuck up and move along,” you said, and the group of boys dispersed. There were four of them, and at first the three others had taken a step forward as if wanting to gang up on you, but your deep, dark tone scared them off.

What were you doing,” I asked. “Looking to fight a bunch of gangly teenagers?”

No,” you said. “Looking to teach them how to respect women. Now, my pissy little slut, shall we go have dinner and laugh at snobby Frenchmen?”

I nodded, although I dreaded walking in like this.

Can you please let me change?” I asked. “It's my birthday, after all.”

No,” you said. “Not yet. But don't worry. No one will make fun of you for having an accident.”

We arrived at L'esprit around half past six. The maitre d' was a portly man dressed like a butler. He gave me us an odd look.

I have a reservation for two,” you said.

The maitre d' coughed rhetorically. “I'm sorry, sir, I'm afraid I can't let you in.”

What seems to be the problem?”

Ahem, concerning the lady's… attire.”

You won't let us in because my girlfriend had a little accident?”

I blushed like a little girl caught with her hand in the cookie jar. I looked around frantically for any interdimensional holes into which I could disappear.

Sir, we expect from our guests a certain… decorum. We have a dress code.”

Fine. I brought a change. May we use your restroom to change?”

That would be… acceptable.” Jesus. Is this man incapable of speaking without a… dramatic pause in every sentence?

Once we got around the corner toward the restrooms, I punched you, hard.

Ow! What was that for?”

You brought a fucking change and yet you put me through that humiliation anyway? I'm glad you didn't put a ring in my wine.”

Are you done?”

Not even remotely.”

Well, take this and get changed anyway,” you said, shoving something black into my hands.

It was a pair of high-heeled shoes and a dress of some kind. I took some uncertain steps into the ladies', hoping it would be empty. No such luck. The L'esprit is one of those places where they have a bathroom attendant in a nice uniform waiting to hand you a towel, as if you were too posh to get one yourself. “Oh my,” she said when I entered. “Didn't make it?”

Worst date ever,” I said. Which wasn't true. I was enjoying myself, even now, buried beneath the embarrassment. But it was something to say.

Don't feel too down about it. Happens to the best of us. You wouldn't believe what torture it is to see everyone go in and relieve themselves and you have to stand here like a statue, handing out towels.”

Surely not as bad as this,” I said, gesturing towards my lower half.

Tell that to my underwear,” she said.

You mean…?” I noticed, then, that her legs were shaking, although she tried hard to hide it.

Wait a minute,” I said, and entered one of the rooms. They didn't have stalls here, just a room with sinks, leading to other, spacious rooms containing the toilets. I sat on the lid and peeled off my jeans and underwear. After doing my best to dry myself off with towels, I unfurled the dress. It was a satin evening gown, one I'd never seen before. You must have bought it for just this occasion. It made me feel spoiled, but don't tell yourself I told you that.

Once I emerged fully dressed—well, commando underneath—I felt much better. The woman in the mirror looked at home in this place. The little girl who had walked in decidedly did not. I began to understand the maitre d's reluctance.

Hey,” I said to the attendant, “give me your towels for a moment. I look the part now. I can be your statue while you run in quickly.”

She furrowed her brow. “I can't. I mean.” And then: “Oh, fuck it.” She handed me the towels and ran into the bathroom I had just emerged from. While she was gone, a woman in a shiny green dress walked in. I nodded at her. She came out, and I handed her a towel. She gave me a handsome tip.

Attendant Girl emerged shortly afterward, a smile on her face. “You might have just saved my job, although my panties are a lost cause,” said the girl. “I don't know how to thank you.”

I won't tip you and we'll call it even,” I said.

Have a great night!” She said. I turned my head and my eyes snapped for a moment to her crotch. Her pants were too dark to spot anything, if she had leaked through.

 

Dinner was lovely. The tip almost covered my half.

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