Jump to content
Search In
  • More options...
Find results that contain...
Find results in...
Existing user? Sign In

Sign In



Or sign in with one of these services

Sign Up

Recommended Posts

 

Into the flow of the working day:

 

Day Twenty of the sort-of-quarantine that we call 'Social Distancing', and Ursula is working from home: bored in some ways, and keeping herself amused in others. 

She 'went' for a wee, half an hour ago, and it was surely the most satisfying thing she's done since she started work today. 

 

How's she managing? 

 

Mostly, she's a bit frightened - news footage from the hospitals is clearly depicting a national disaster, only it's going on much, much longer and the daily death toll's still going up - and the fear is coming out as irritable dissatisfaction at small things, and at larger ones; and, most of  all, at the closure of the nightclubs where she can let off steam, be herself, and let loose the outrageous side of her nature. 

She's resigned to the prospect that most of them won't reopen. 

Better pay attention to the Team Call at work: rows of boxes on-screen, each containing a familiar face, each awaiting their turn to recite their progress on the project task list, same as yesterday. 

Whatever. Stay professional, stay interested. 

Keep the microphone on mute, because she's just a little bit breathless, for some or other reason. 

Pay some attention, anyway: but she'd rather be out running. 

The worst of all this, for Ursula, is the loss of the spring's athletics meets. Not that she's *quite* good enough to qualify for the European Championships, this year, but she could have hoped. 

Oh well. 

She shifts in her seat, careful not to make it the kind of fidget that looks like boredom: and if the microphone wasn't muted, the soft  hiss and ripple would pass unnoticed as just another noise on the line. 

There, that's helping her look interested: there's a lovely warmth and a sinful sense of satisfaction as she relaxes into a far nicer seat than the one at work. 

Work is... Dull. There's a lot of it, and she's getting a look at projects with the kind of profile that'll get her closer to Partnership; but all the face-to-face work is gone, replaced by this unending back-and-forth of documents and contractual quibbling, specifications and revisions.

Her turn in the meeting - unmute the mike! - and lean forward as the centre box becomes a mirror, reflecting herself as others see her in the office...

...And they see her dressed not-so-casually, a  'she could wear a jacket with that'  top and the waistband of a smart skirt; or maybe trousers if you could see more of her. 

If you could, but that would be unprofessional. In fact, it would get her fired, if they could see what she's got in her lap. 

She might pass it off as her cordless phone charger, if she were the only woman on the call. 

Behind her, the background is calculated to present an Ursula she wants them to see: she's seated in a spacious home office setup a in sunlit room: bookshelves, a low table and architecture prints on the walls; stylish, tasteful, understated. 

A warm "Hi" and she starts to speak, confident, animated, making the points clearly and pausing to get the participants engaged and asking questions. 

She shifts the microphone deftly, to stop it picking up some 'line noise': a long rushing hiss, with a frothy little chortle to it as if something was foaming and bubbling like a miniature fountain trapped in...

Yes, that. 

Those. 

She really is Doing That: and you wouldn't know it, as she speaks on camera to the office meeting. 

The sound is exactly like a miniature fountain, and that's exactly what it is. 

...A little fountain, trapped in a loose pair of silky underpants, rippling the surface of a triangular pool in her lap, trickling around her waistband, and over her thigh, down into the seat of her skirt. 

Into the pool of piss she's been sitting in since the last time she 'went' nowhere for a wee, and wet herself where she sat.

Ursula's contribution to the call signs off with a bright "Any questions?" and thanks from Ursula's Project Leader: and she mutes the mike at the very moment when the faint sound of piss dripping off the hem of her skirt becomes a pattering stream, splashing onto the mattress protector beneath her chair and the footrest. 

She turns away from the camera, refills her glass of iced lemon water from the last of the four jugs that she brought to her desk, and sips at it politely while her boss, and then her Director, is speaking. 

Her knees are up above her lap - she likes the footrest high - allowing a deep pool to stay in her skirt, trapped by the waterproof lining she sewed-in when she remade it. 

The sea she made for herself swirls around her as she moves in her seat, hot and heavy and sinful; given time, it will seep away, tippety-tapping off the chair in droplets if she moves too suddenly: but, for now, she's sitting still and it's trickling silently down the stem of her swivel chair, and pooling under the castors.

It isn't going to seep away faster than Ursula keeps wetting herself and refilling it; and sometimes it spills over the hem of her skirt and clatters into the puddle with a splash. 

Back to work, as the meeting ends, and a spurt in her silks as Ursula draws uptight and expels the last of her wee, living in the fantasy of pissing in her chair at the office, in plain view, and thinking nothing of it as she wets herself repeatedly, completely casually, just a normal business day. 

There are some things she can't do at the office - or not, at least, without making clothing choices that require the skills of a discreet and  unconventional seamstress - and there are things that she definitely shouldn't do at work, and does. 

There is A Device in her pants, purring softly, and the induction charger is clipped into the lap of her skirt, keeping the battery at ninety-five percent. 

All of it out of sight, just like the controller app on her phone, safely behind the desk cam: once the video's off and she's flipped the plastic cover over the lens, she's setting the controller to 'pulse' and turning it up. 

Up: much, much higher up, not quite all the way up, but as high as she can have it and keep surfing it all morning, until she takes a break at lunchtime for some 'me time'. 

Pour out the last of the lemon water and drink the glass empty; and lift the first of the three-litre water bottles out of the icebox by the desk. 

A plate of lemon slices, apple slices, and a neatly-quartered bergamot are on a plate beside her monitor, to add a bit of zest to the water. 

So, too, a heated percolater jug of green coffee: stimulating but, Oh My, it does go through her. 

A moment passes.

Ursula puts down an empty glass - a pint glass, no less, and it was full of water a moment ago - and takes a little sip from her coffee cup. 

She fishes out a lemon slice, shipwrecked at the bottom of her glass, and dips it in the hot green coffee, cooling it a little. Her expression is unreadable, as well it might be: some sensations cannot be expressed, as a tickle from her bladder meets a rolling purr from The Device.

Ursula bites into the lemon slice, squeezing out the juice and pushing with her tongue, half-expecting it to be hot, turning slick and sliding aside to let her tongue in for a wickedly invasive kiss. 

All we see is that the tip of her tongue flickers out and licks a drop of lemon juice upon her lip, so quickly that there's not a hint of anything unladylike. 

She bites a little harder, cutting through - lemon zest and pith and flesh - and smiles at the bitter tang, sucking delicately while she drops the rest into the bin beside her. 

The movement, turning in her seat, washes out the slick little lake in her lap, warming her skin beneath the fabric of her skirt and trickling down her calves into her sandals. 

She shifts in her seat again, savouring it, a movement that shifts The Device and makes her very, very aware of what it's doing. 

Tap the mouse with a fingernail, to stop the screen going into standby, and find her place in the document she's working on. 

Her bladder is refilling, and she knows it: sip the coffee, take a deeper draw of it, and feel her bladder twitching. 

Breathe out, relax, let whatever happens, happen, and pretend it's a surprise. 

She smiles, pleased that the lemon and green coffee go together so well, and starts tapping at the keyboard, drowning out a faint electric rumble and the tappity-tap of droplets from her chair. 

 

Back to work indeed. 
 

Edited by betanumeric
Spelling, repeated words, an extra sentence for clarity (see edit history)
Link to post

That's from a writing blog I've been running, on and off, for more than a decade: I'll probably repost more of it. 

Be warned that most of it's a private writing notebook: some it won't make any sense, and most of it is very self-indulgent - very much a thing written for me, me, me, and that heavy-handedness makes much of it a very tedious thing for any wider audience. 

Almost all of what I write for 'Ursula' goes in a direction that won't interest you. 

Other things, however, might. 

Link to post

Join the conversation

You can post now and register later. If you have an account, sign in now to post with your account.
Note: Your post will require moderator approval before it will be visible.

Guest
Reply to this topic...

×   Pasted as rich text.   Paste as plain text instead

  Only 75 emoji are allowed.

×   Your link has been automatically embedded.   Display as a link instead

×   Your previous content has been restored.   Clear editor

×   You cannot paste images directly. Upload or insert images from URL.

  • Recently Browsing   0 members

    No registered users viewing this page.

×
×
  • Create New...