satyr 1,314 Posted July 10, 2016 Popular Post Share Posted July 10, 2016 It's been a while since I put up a story. This one contains some light BDSM and, of course, omorashi. June 7 I know you'll be turned on by reading this, which is why I'm keeping it from you until all this is over. What can I say? I like teasing you. Being submissive doesn't come easy for me, which is probably why I find it so hot. To understand me, you need to understand my mom. She was a single mother and a rabid feminist. I mean, she was a little behind the times. Her brand of extreme feminism was en vogue in the early seventies, but my mom didn't come of age until the late eighties. She must have been lonely. My mom was a real man-hater. She took the good parts of feminism—equal rights and equal pay for women, the right to choose abortion, the idea that a woman is equally capable as a man in anything that doesn't require hard physical labor—and twisted it into an ideology that didn't just put man and woman on equal footing, but elevated women to a superior species. My mom used to say men were only good for two things: hard labor, which—it wasn't that women couldn't do it, it was just beneath their dignity—and as sperm donors. The best orgasms come when you play with your toys, you don't need no man inside you. Yes, my mom really talked like that, and she started telling me explicitly about sex before I even hit puberty. I'm not talking the birds and the bees here, I'm talking how to apply a vibrator to your G spot for optimal orgasms. I'm talking how God obviously favors women, because why else would he give a refractory period to men, preventing them from experiencing the ultimate pleasure more than once an hour, and none to women? I think she was lonely. Her beliefs separated her from other people. I never knew my father, but I pretty much concluded that he must have been the best guy ever, because by the time I was thirteen I had decided to believe the opposite of whatever my mom said about men, and boy, did she speak ill of him. He probably decided he was better off without her. She never had any boyfriends when I grew up—once or twice she had one night stands, I think, although she quickly shuffled the men out the door before she thought I was awake, as if she were ashamed of herself for stooping so low as to actually sleep with a man. Even though I was a contrarian teen, there was something growing in me, a kind of desire, which made me feel ashamed. It wasn't easy rebelling against my mom. She was a chain smoker and when she caught me sneaking a cig when I was sixteen, she scolded me, not for smoking, but for stealing. If I wanted to smoke, I would have to give her money and she'd go to the store and buy me my own cigarettes. The only things she really scolded me for was if I didn't do my chores—and rebellion via laziness felt utterly petty, not at all what I wanted—or if I happened to say something positive about the Male Race. That's what she called men, as if men and women were different species. I learned to keep my thoughts about men to myself. It must seem like my mom was an utterly horrible parent, and that I hate her, but don't get the wrong idea. Yes, she was an awful parent, but I don't hate her, I pity her. She could be great fun. You should know I've inherited her mental instability—so watch out! That's what the medication bottle in my bathroom cupboard is for. I've got it handled, mostly. But my mom, she would have long periods where she sat staring off into space, not saying a word, and I could hear her crying at night sometimes. But that would alternate with periods where she had all the energy in the world, when she was always laughing and smiling and not even men could make her upset. She would suddenly decide to take me out of school for the day to have an imprompty picnic, and then send me back the next day with a wink and a note that said I had been ill with fever and that's why she thought it best to keep me at home. She had a wonderful humor, too, very dark but outrageously funny. But that's her. This diary is about us, you and me. My mom is just necessary background for what follows. This unspeakable desire I mentioned, it went against everything my mother had taught me. To her, the Male Race was an inferior kind of human, a kind of error in the assembly line of perfect females. Women should run the world, and men should be grateful that they got to live in it. But I started having erotic dreams, dreams that ran a hundred and eighty degrees away from my mother's worldview. Strong men scolding me, spanking me, telling me what to do. For a long time, I was ashamed. I masturbated thinking about bearded men lifting me off my feet, splaying me across their laps and spanking me while telling me what a dirty slut I was. Then I would cry myself to sleep. God, I was such a dramatic teen. It took a long time for me to accept that I'm submissive, and that's okay. It's totally fine to willingly give up power if you get something in return—erotic feelings and feelings of safety and comfort. If a woman is her own master, surely it is within her power to give up power to someone else, someone who respects her and respects her limits, and who is man enough to take on the responsibility for another's safety and happiness that comes with power exchange. As you know, I have another kink. It took me a lot longer before I dared to tell you. Well, I was kind of forced to after I forgot to use incognito mode that one time and you caught my browsing history and just gave me that look. You should know the embarrassment I felt at that moment has become a favored part of my library of sexual fantasies. I had to admit it, and I was so afraid that you'd think I was a freak. It was one thing to be into spanking, to get wet when a strong man tells you to do something you don't want to do, but know you will do anyway. But this? I never told you how I got into it. I've always had a strong bladder. I remember I was curious, perhaps conspiciously so, in hindsight, when I was young and there were rumors in kindergarten that some kid wet themselves. I never got to witness it, but I heard that it happened and I remember thinking, wouldn't that be cool to see? One time, when I was thirteen or fourteen, I wet the bed. It's the only time I've ever done it since I got out of diapers. I don't know why it happened, but I must have had too much to drink before bed, and then skipped my usual bedtime pee because I was tired. It was only a little bit. My butt and panties were wet, and there was a little spot on the sheets, but I woke up and I was still bursting. My cheeks burned with the fire of a thousand suns when I realized what happened. I still really needed to pee, and I knew I could probably make it—I put the odds at two to one, meaning I was on the edge of having an accident. Another one. I had never been that desperate in living memory. I knew the wet spot was small enough that I could probably hide it from my mom. But the damage was done. I had undeniably wet the bed. That's when I had a naughty idea. I felt defeated already, so why not go all out? I was sitting up in bed, hands in my crotch to stem the tide, but at that moment I laid back down and carefully removed my hands. I closed my eyes and waited. My stellar potty training was yelling at me, telling me to hold it, this is no place to pee, you are not going to have an accident! But it was early morning and like any teen, I would keep it going until two in the morning and then zonk out until at least ten—this was a Sunday, or Saturday, I don't recall but it was definitely not a school day. Sleep began creeping into my consciousness, and I faintly registered that a trickle had began leaking out, re-warming my butt, but then I was off to dream land again. I woke up a little while later, and this time, I had really wet the bed. I no longer had to pee, but there was a me-sized puddle underneath me. The sheets were ruined. The mattress, possibly. There was no way I could hide this from my mom. I gingerly got out of bed. I was wearing panties and an oversized t-shirt which I liked to imagine really belonged to a strong man, a man who would surely spank me for touching his stuff without permission. My legs were wet. The front of the shirt was dripping. I made my way through the house—it was early morning, and the light leaking in through the blinders gave the whole house an eerie look, like some witch had cast a spell over everything. I could see dust motes spinning around in a crack of light. I remember thinking my mom would make me vacuum later. I knocked once on the door to my mom's room, and then I stepped in. “What…?” She said, still half asleep. There was only a tiny crack of light coming from the door, so my accident wasn't immediately apparent. My mom opened her eyes, sought out mine in the darkness. I stood there silent for a minute while she adjusted to the darkness, began waking up. I think I've inherited that from my mom, too: it takes me a while to wake up, and when I'm in that state halfway between sleep and waking, there is no speaking to me. You might as well speak to your closet. Finally she looked down and saw the spot on my shirt. “Honey, did you hurt yourself?” She asked. I guess I must have been misty eyed. You try waking up your mom to tell her you wet the bed at fourteen. I know I've been trying and failing to get you embarrassed, but I don't think even you could do that with a straight face. She sought some kind of explanation in my eyes, and then she zoned in on the wet spot. “Oh,” she said. “Oh, oh, oh my.” This was the moment of judgment. I knew she would think I was a baby, would scold me for being such a bad girl, would probably demote me to diapers right then and there. Catastrophic scenarios played out in my head. Worst cases were the only cases. I imagined her forcing me to give my teacher a slip of paper that said to let me go to the bathroom whenever I wanted, because I was having “potty issues,” and I imagined my teacher accidentally holding the slip the wrong way so my entire class would see it, and everyone would laugh, and I would be called pissy pants for the rest of my life. None of that happened. “Oh, honey, I'm sorry that happened to you,” was all my mom said. I think I was full of crying now, because I remember she held my face and wiped off my tears. “I'm not mad,” she said. “Don't you think I'm a big baby?” I sniffled. “Of course not,” she said. “It could happen to the best of us. Did you forget to go before bed?” “Uh-huh,” I said. My face felt like it was on fire. “Is it bad?” “I think you may need to buy a new mattress. A new bed, even!” I said. She laughed at that. My mom was in one of her “up” moods, so she laughed at everything. I think she must have been up until four in the morning—which wasn't unusual for her when she got like that—and had only just fallen asleep when I came to wake her. Everything is either upsetting or hilarious when you're that tired, there's no middle ground. She got out of bed and told me to take a shower. And you know what I did? I was genuinely upset, but for some reason I was also terribly aroused. I directed the shower head to my crotch and began humping it until I came. When I got out of the shower, my bed was magically restored. My mother insisted that I must be ill and told me to sleep in her bed. I felt like a child, more so than I ever had. I was just starting to develop physically and naturally, having a B cup made me feel like a woman, not a little girl, but sleeping in my mom's bed after I peed in mine made me feel very small, and, confusingly, I liked it. Very much so. To add to my embarrassment, my mom insisted that I sleep on top of a towel, “Just in case there are any more leaks. I think you may have caught a UTI. We'll see about getting you to the doctor.” The doctor! Please no. I couldn't bear the embarrassment of having my mom cart me off to my GP to tell him about my bedwetting, and I said so. I begged her, please don't do this to me. That changed her mind. “Oh, honey, you're right. I wouldn't want to embarrass you in front of a man unless it's absolutely necessary. But if there are any more accidents, I'm afraid we'll have no choice.” There were no more accidents. I've never once peed my bed, or my pants, or anywhere else that isn't a toilet—or once in some bushes while camping—since that day. I didn't tell you this story the day you found my porn history, even though I know you'd have gotten a kick out of it. But as you know, I did confess that I find women peeing themselves hot. And the next day, when we had our big “kink talk,” I told you what's more, I have a fantasy where a man punishes me for having an accident. I don't know when you came up with your little plan, but man, the way you presented it to me, I could have melted right there. I was just absentmindedly walking to the bathroom before we were about to head out, when you said, “Stop right there, little miss.” “Huh?” I said. I had no idea. “Where do you think you're going?” “Just going to the bathroom?” “It's two PM. That's not one of your designated bathroom allowances.” “My what?” “You heard me, little miss.” And then you laid out the schedule. The schedule designed to break me. Week one, that is to say this week, my bathroom allowance is four times per day, at exactly these times and no other times: 7 AM, 11 AM, 3 PM, 7 PM. Week two, which is to say next week, my allowance is only three: 7 AM, 1 PM, 7 PM. Week three, my allowance is only twice per day: seven in the morning and seven in the evening. “I don't think there will be any need for a week four. By then, you will be broken.” “What do you mean?” I said. I didn't even bother arguing about the schedule. It wasn't a specific fantasy I'd ever had, but it combined all my kinks: relinquishing control, the prospect of peeing my pants and being powerless to stop it. “I mean you will have peed your pants at least once, probably more than once by then, and I will ruthlessly ridicule you for it. That's when you break. But don't worry, I'll be there to pick up the pieces. I love you, you know that.” “I've never peed my pants!” I said. I didn't mention that incident when I was fourteen. It almost didn't count—I mean it was basically on purpose, right? I only had a tiny real accident. “I've never met a girl I couldn't break.” You said, confident as ever. “You mean you've done this… bathroom schedule thing before?” “No, not exactly. Peeing isn't my thing. I'm not disgusted by it, or by you getting off on it. It just doesn't do anything for me per se. But the prospect of controlling and humiliating you, now that gets me hard as a rock. I just chose a way that combines my kinks with yours.” “So...” “So I've met your type before. You want to be broken, humiliated, crushed, but you think you're unbreakable. Deep down you're afraid of the prospect that it's just a comfortable fantasy. That you really will break and that you won't be able to handle the fallout. You like to be in control, which is why it turns you on to be denied that control. Fear and excitement are the same emotion with different feelings attached. Your heart beats faster, you feel the anxiety in your throat. For some, they panic. You find the idea arousing, but you're afraid that if the fantasy becomes real, you'll panic. Well, I've broken girls before. None of them panicked. All of them—both, don't think I'm such a big player—handled it really well. It was fun and different and exciting.” I stuck my tongue out. “I am not going to pee my pants!” “Well, you better not in my car. I recommend you set a potty timer on your phone, because if you forget, if you're not headed to the bathroom by five minutes past, you forfeit that break and have to wait until the next one.” “Potty timer? Really?” “Yes, really.” Well, it's Tuesday. Day two. I already forgot my three PM pee, and when four rolled around, I was squirming a bit in my seat at work. When it neared seven, I was bent over, trying not to think about Niagara Falls. I ran to the toilet at seven sharp and peed for over a minute, full force. Grudgingly, I've set a “potty timer” on my phone. But I refuse to call it that. If I ever catch you using that term, I'll whoop your ass, I mean it. Wish me luck. I think week one will be fine, but next week could pose a challenge. Thankfully my vacation's coming up, so I don't have to be around people all desperate. We can do our little game in private. I just hope you don't have any nasty plans... Flush, cruiser79, leakmaker and 9 others 12 Quote Link to comment
Garrus 181 Posted July 11, 2016 Share Posted July 11, 2016 Excellent story as always, Satyr. I'll be eagerly awaiting the next installment. Quote Link to comment
azrea 16 Posted July 11, 2016 Share Posted July 11, 2016 I thoroughly enjoyed reading that, but is this fiction or reality? Quote Link to comment
Rinatro 190 Posted July 11, 2016 Share Posted July 11, 2016 I'm intrigued. Can't wait for the next chapter Quote Link to comment
satyr 1,314 Posted July 11, 2016 Author Share Posted July 11, 2016 4 hours ago, azor said: I thoroughly enjoyed reading that, but is this fiction or reality? It's posted in the fiction section for a reason. Perhaps the first person narrative threw you off. Quote Link to comment
Ranpalan 496 Posted July 13, 2016 Share Posted July 13, 2016 Amazing as always Satyr. Looking forward to seeing where this goes. :) Quote Link to comment
satyr 1,314 Posted September 8, 2016 Author Share Posted September 8, 2016 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. 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. WaityKaty, Dead because I killed it, cruiser79 and 3 others 6 Quote Link to comment
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