The Question

There comes a time in all relationships when the big question is asked. It may be after sex, or when waking up in the morning, or after a few drinks in the evening. The circumstances seem right when she fidgets, or moves her legs, or pats her belly, or seems to look at the door while mumbling I’m sorry, where’s the – I’ve got to… Then comes the question: –Can I come with you? Some girls just stare at me. Some laugh. Some giggle and shake their heads. Some need to be convinced. Some girls look me in the eyes and nod. Sheila was the shy one. After being asked ten times she finally said OK and blushed. She worked her panties down under her long skirt, covered the bowl with it, and blushed again when she heard the sound. She asked me to turn around while she wiped herself. Annie shook her head and refused to go. She sat on my couch with legs beneath her, stroking her denim legs, biting her lip. Finally she just had to go, and her pleading eyes kept me seated. Coming back, she straddled me, and we had great sex. Emma didn’t care. She lifted her skirt, pulled down, and stared into space as if I wasn’t there. Then we went to see a film. Joanna was a fast and frequent peer, and she always informed me about the status of her bladder, ranging from full to bursting. She wore leggings to ease the pulling down, wriggled her way, laughed at the sound of the stream, and wiped from the front. Jackie had to rush. When the urge came, it was a matter of seconds before the dam burst, so she always played safe by peeing before a meal, after a meal, before the coffee, before the drinks, when she entered the movie theatre, during the film, and immediately afterwards. When we came home, before we went to bed, and once again if she thought there was a chance for sex. And of course, after sex, she just had to rush. Fortunately she always left the door open. Linda preferred going outside. We went on a camping trip, and she stayed clear of every public convenience in order to go behind a bush, water the grass and leave a stain in her tracksuit. The hunt for secluded places made the hikes twice as long, but the view was worth it. I let her go first on uphill tracks to get a glimpse of the dark spot in her shorts. Jenny seldom wore panties. She sat in the reclining chair with legs apart and a clear view up her short skirt. She sat on the bowl in the same way, legs spread, looking down at herself. She let me wipe. Suzi loved showing me. She put my hand on her belly to let me feel her bulging bladder, stood up, squeezed her legs together, and asked me to come. She unbuttoned her tight, low–cut jeans, pulling the zipper down slowly, wriggled the pants down, turned around, then slid her panties down, sat on the toilet and asked for a kiss. We went directly to bed; she didn’t wipe. Kate used to have accidents. When laughing, coughing and dancing, she couldn’t help squirting in her panties. She was extremely embarrassed the first time I had my hand under her skirt, inside her pantyhose, and she helplessly released small spurts while I was stroking her. On seeing my obvious reaction she relaxed, went with the flow and walked home with me, soaked. Kate knew I loved it, so she set out to behave carelessly if she wanted to turn me on. She always succeeded. The quick smile and the bended knees on the dance floor told me the black pants were damp again. One night on the way home she let go completely, stating that she might as well since her pants were wet already. Lynn sat on the terrace, dressed in light brown jeans and short halter–top, sipping white wine and stroking my hand. –I’ve got to wee, she said. Can I go in my pants? We’re still married.
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