First Fantasies

Jenny closed the door to her room, her heart beating. She leaned her back against it, knees tightly together, chest heaving. These strange feelings! The image still in her mind: Lizzie wetting herself in class. Eighteen years old, rising from the chair with a sob and a big wet patch on her jeans. Hobbling to the door, hands in crotch, a wet wedge up between her buttocks. The class stunned, silent, all equally embarrassed for the unlucky girl who had laughed so hard that she peed in her pants. Jenny, too. But that sting in her fanny, the instant squeezes to hold, even if she didn’t have to go to the bathroom. As if there were emotions to hold back. On her way home, trying to imagine what it was like, the stream, the sudden warmth, and the helplessness of it all. She wondered if the wee collected in Lizzie’s panties, or if they were instantly soaked, or if the stream sort of continued under her. How completely crazy to even think thoughts like that! To imagine the growing patch in the seconds before Lizzie’s laughter turned to crying. Jenny wished for Lizzie’s sake that it had never happened. But at the same time it was the most exciting incident she had ever witnessed, her legs had turned weak and her fanny throbbed, and she had to keep herself from slipping a hand down her jeans under the desk. No boy had ever brought forward such feelings in her. She slid down to the floor, sitting with her knees up. She brushed her straight, shoulder–length hair back and mouthed the words: Lizzie wet herself in class. She felt the sting in her fanny again. The need to let go and yet to hold at the same time. What would it be like, wetting herself? She thought back to the episode when she was ten, running around the corner, suddenly face to face with the Jones’s dog. She hadn’t noticed her soaked pants until later, and then she felt only shame. But there was Beth on the beach when they were twelve, saying she had to go, and then wading up to her belly, giggling, telling everybody that she was peeing in her swimsuit. Jenny had felt the sting then, wanting to do the same. But she didn’t need to go, and not a drop passed through her bikini bottom. And there was the tipsy woman last year, maybe twenty–something, walking through the park with unsteady steps, stopping on the path, lifting her skirt, not bothering to pull down her panties before squatting. She had winked at Jenny, saying: “sometimes you just have to go, you know!” The sting again. She looked down at herself, imagining a wet spot growing. Lizzie wet herself. Pulse beat in her fanny and she put a hand on herself. What did wet jeans feel like? “Jenny?” She emerged from her dreams and answered her mother. “Yes?” She poked her head in. “Sorry, but I have to work a night shift tonight, starting now. Back for breakfast. Will you be okay?” Jenny nodded. “Dinner on the stove. Sorry again. And could you please, please do the washing? I’ve sorted the clothes, so you just put in one heap at a time. Okay?” “Sure.” “See you, then.” Jenny heard the door close. An idea formed in her head. She was standing in the kitchen, clutching a glass of water, struggling with her reluctant muscles. She had to pee, after drinking four glasses, but it refused to come. She pushed, but still some subconscious inhibitions kept her from wetting her jeans voluntarily. Was it really that difficult? She walked back and forth, trying to think of something else, but the feel of clothes on her body made it totally impossible. She couldn’t bring herself to pee in her jeans. She drained the glass and sat on a chair. Maybe that would be easier. Pretend to sit on the toilet, like this, yes, and… Nothing. And, of course, the chair would get a stain. She went into the bathroom, ready to give up and do it the proper way. She pulled down her jeans and then stopped, looking down at her white cotton panties. She sat on the bowl, trying not to notice the touch of fabric on her ready fanny. Nothing. Relax. Everything is normal. Just having a wee wee. I’m not wearing panties on the loo. I’m… The sting. And a little easing of the muscles, some drops finding their way down, and then a spurt. She felt warm. She blushed. She had wet her panties a little. She relaxed again, this time able to release a bigger stream. Her fanny felt glowing hot, and she touched herself. Warm drops on her fingers, the touch giving her shivers. Peed her panties. With unsteady hands she pulled her jeans back up, then sat down again, fully dressed on the toilet. Some of the wet had seeped through the denim. She concentrated, and suddenly a warm stream flowed freely. The warmth spread. Jenny stopped the flow and stood up. Drops fell on the floor. She stood in front of the mirror, flushed with excitement, and looked at the round stain on her jeans. The sight made her dribble a little, and a dark line grew down her leg. She ran some water and filled her glass, drank it all, and refilled. The sound of the tap made her pee again. Now she was doing it! Jenny was wetting her pants! She crossed her legs and stopped the flow. Gingerly she turned round, looking at the wet circle on her bottom, and the stripes down her legs. She undressed, putting jeans and panties in the correct heaps. The black triangle in the mirror was moist, drops hanging from the curly hairs. She wiped herself with a towel: Ready again. White cotton panties with flowers, light brown tights, short denim dress; Jenny pulled up a stool and sat down, knees to the mirror. Smoothing the dress down to mid–thigh. I can’t leave yet, she thought. But I’ve got to pee really badly, and class isn’t over. I think I’m going to wet myself. She felt her bladder fill up again. Staring at herself she spread her legs, watching her crotch as a dark stain grew, warming her butt. She pressed her knees together, pretending nothing had happened. Nothing showed, but she knew the back of her dress was soaked. Oh God, she had to let go a little again. This time dark stains grew down her thighs. “Miss, I have wet my panties!” She imagined her teacher’s voice: “Jennifer darling, it’s okay. We all have accidents sometimes. Even grown–up women pee ourselves occasionally. Just go in your panties if you have to, dear.” Jenny let out a big flow, soaking herself completely. Discarding dress, tights and panties, rummaging the heaps again, she came up with a pair of gray running shorts and matching top. “I’m almost finished with the race,” she thought, running in place, ponytail wagging, “but I’ve got to go! And if I stop, I won’t win!” She didn’t know if she could pee while running. She relaxed, feeling the pressure, and then small spurts came with each step. She saw a dark patch grow, and drops flew from her moving legs. She speeded up, pictured the finishing line, and came in first, sinking down to the ground, wetting herself uncontrollably. But she had won. Jenny changed out of the sodden shorts, dried herself, and filled the washing machine. From another heap she picked the black pants she had worn last Saturday at Beth’s party, and the short black blouse that went with them. Underneath she wore the same dark red bra and thong panties as then, still carrying her faint smell. She turned in front of the mirror, liking the unbroken roundness of her butt and the way the pants hugged her crotch. The low cut revealed a hint of dark red lace. She went to the kitchen to get a Coke or something, and then put on some music and dimmed the lights in the living room. She was back at the party. Drinking Coke she moved around the room, recalling. She had danced, getting praising looks from the boys, and had talked to Beth outside, even though she needed to go to the bathroom. Beth had noticed her squirming. She always was so open about these things. “Looks like you’re about to sprinkle your undies,” she had said. “Come to the loo with me.” They had locked the door, giggling, Jenny crossing her legs; afraid she’d lose control. Beth pointed to the toilet: “Go pee, then, before you wet your pants!” Jenny had pulled her pants down; noticing Beth’s look; and had felt incredibly relieved when the flood came. She had taken her time wiping, rising and dressing, feeling the sting again. “My turn,” Beth had said, suddenly looking serious. She had lifted her short dress, slipped her blue panties down, giving Jenny a glimpse of a large wet spot in the gusset. “Peed a bit dancing,” she said. “Happens all the time.” The sting. Jenny had touched Beth’s arm: “Won’t tell anybody.” Beth had given her a hug before they rejoined the party. Jenny opened another Coke and rocked a little on her feet. With closed eyes she pictured Beth lifting her dress again. Peed a bit dancing. Jenny was full to the brim; she had to hold herself to ease the pressure. Peed a bit dancing. She had told Jenny. Happens all the time. Beth leaking into her panties. Jenny tried to move to the music, but had to keep her knees firmly together to keep from flooding. She took a couple of steps, spun round, and felt warm pee around her pussy. Peed a bit dancing. “Come to the bathroom,” she whispered to an imaginary Beth. “I just peed in my pants.” “Me too,” the voice in her head said. Hands between her legs she stepped along the hall, seeing Beth beside her, holding herself under the dress. No, holding with one hand from the front and one from the back. Jenny dribbled as she walked, not caring about the drops on the floor. In the bathroom she pictured Beth going first, not having time to remove her panties, just sitting down and flooding herself. Jenny turned to the mirror. “I can’t wait,” she whispered. “Beth sweetie, I’ll just let go in my pants.” She removed her hands. “Look, Beth. I’m wetting myself!” Naked, Jenny filled the machine again. Time for bed, and with a warm hand working busily beneath her nightdress. Next Friday, she’d ask Beth to sleep over. Who knows…
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