In a Tight Place

I shouldn’t be in this situation. I mean, I’m a big girl, doing well at work, mother of two, knows how to plan for the future. I shouldn’t be in this situation. The subway moves into the station, doors open. Unfortunately it’s not my station. Like I said, I’m not the one who gets herself in a predicament like this. I’m used to thinking ahead, both at home and at work, and I know that certain things are to be taken into consideration at an early stage. But now I’m sitting here, staining my muscles, wishing I’d taken the necessary steps. Oh Jesus, I nearly… I was late out of work. You know, just this, that and then something else. Always the one who has to finish things properly. Oh, the time. My train! Better run! Thought I would make it, only ten minutes worth of brisk walking to the station, nine if I’m in a real hurry. Damn the slow clock on the reception wall. I shift on the seat. Pick up my purse, grab my jacket – oh, maybe I’d just describe myself to you. Brown hair to my shoulders, brown eyes, my husband says a nice body but never a model. Today– dressed in white blouse, beige pants (quite tight, with a high waist), and a jacket to go with it. Dark red underwear: Lace bra and thong panties. I prefer not to show panty lines under such close–fitting pants. Shoes with a bit of a heel – don’t help you when catching a train, do they? I feel like unbuttoning to ease the pressure, but I’m a big girl. Anyway, I raced for the station, after deciding there was no time for a visit to the girls’ room. Damn clock. The train left as I reached the platform. A girl like me shouldn’t curse like that. I brushed my hair back and prepared to wait for half an hour. The first fifteen minutes passed without trouble, but then I really regretted not having been to the loo. Excuse me, to the bathroom. I’m a mother; two beautiful girls of seven and five, and frankly, something kind of weakened me after two births, meaning that I have to go when I have to go. And there are no lavatories on the subway stations. I try crossing my legs. Oh shit, that was close. My girls are well out of diapers, they use the bathroom by themselves, and I always make sure they go before we leave the house. So I shouldn’t be in this situation. I tried not to bounce about while waiting, but pressing my knees together seemed to help. The thong sort of rubbed my – I mean, it fits quite closely and moving means that – oh well, I kind of felt it all the time. I tried inserting my thumb in the lining of my pants to pull it off my tummy, but it was too obvious. Should I sit down? I feared I would not be able to get up without consequences. So I hold on, twenty–eight years old, not to go potty in my pants. I put the purse on my lap and risk a little help from my hand. It gives me shivers. The train moves oh so slowly. When Pammie wet her pants at six I was quite cross. Never again, darling, sorry! I never felt such intense pressure before, never been so close to disaster. I tried to walk a bit to take my mind off my bladder, and to keep from clutching myself. Must have been a strange sight, this well–dressed woman wriggling up and down the platform, bottom sticking out, and desperation in her eyes. I began dreaming of the sea, where I admit to enjoying letting go freely when the need comes. It takes only a slight relaxation… I find myself caressing my hips in anticipation. Stop! I won’t ever do it! The train arrived, fifty–three seconds late. I boarded gingerly, and here I am, in a tight place. Ten minutes to go. And I dare not think about the thirty–minute walk home. The train slows down. Next to the last station. Two girls get on, giggling, joking, smiling; sitting down across the aisle. Words drift over: “and I nearly peed myself when…” Little do they know. At last. I dare not get up before the train stands still, afraid of sudden jolts. Slightly bent I stagger out of the train, minding my steps. I head for the exit, one step at a time. Every step a poke in my bladder. I breathe deeply, concentrating on holding. Pain eases. I walk on– chest high, bottom out. Up the stairs, down to the left, and across the street, praying for green lights all the way. Then the waves hit again, and I have to stop. Oh, what bliss to let go! But I’m a big girl; I don’t wee in my clothes. I fight the urge and move on. Two blocks. Three. I can make it. Suddenly, I feel a warm sensation in my crotch. God, I peed myself! Nothing shows, but the wetness in my panties rubs against me as I walk. Another block. And – please! – Another involuntary release. I look around me, nobody close enough to see. There is a small wet patch between my legs. Mommy’s peeing herself! I increase my pace; realizing speed is the essence here. Time is running out. I turn off the main street, heading for the residential areas. Not a caf’ in sight, but lots of tempting bushes and shrubbery. No way. Again the pressure builds; again my aching muscles give in. This time a telltale dribble down my leg, and the dark rose must be obvious to everybody. My sex feels warm, I hold myself to try to hide the pee stain. I don’t care about appearances anymore. I walk with my legs tightly pressed together, hand in crotch, feeling yet another dribble. The warm liquid runs between my fingers. With all my strength I hold back, at last having the familiar gate in sight. While unlatching I twist and wriggle, cross my legs, and then I’m inside. Twenty paces to the door. The joy of being home paralyses me, I stand in the driveway, unable to move, knowing that one movement will release it all. I stand with both hands between my legs, sobbing. What’s the use? I’ll never reach the bathroom anyway. I long to let go. Big girl is going to wee her pants. Yes, I’m going to wet myself right here. I’m painfully conscious of the strange contrasting feelings in my crotch. My nipples are stiff against the lace; my pussy is throbbing. I’m warm all over, all hot and cozy. I look down at the dark patch growing in my groin, enjoying every second of relief, letting go of every drop of my warm pee, crying with shame and pleasure, wetting my pants like a little girl.
Sequel
I didn’t tell my husband, afraid of his reaction to this childish predicament. I put my wet clothes in the washing machine, changing into my favorite faded Levi’s and t–shirt. The jeans were worn to a perfect fit by years of use and the additional couple of pounds I’d put on since I acquired them. After dinner I sat down by the PC in the basement to finish a project (yes, I bring my work home), sipping tea and delving into some interesting ideas. An hour later my bladder gave its first warning signal, but being so absorbed and feeling secure in the short way (two floors up) to the bathroom I ignored it. Even though my experience earlier in the day had made a thorough impression– in many ways. I kept writing, sitting the way I use to when I’m deeply engaged, with legs under the chair, perched on the edge of the seat with my bottom slightly raised. Clicking the SAVE icon for the last time the urge really hit me as my body and mind relaxed and took notice of the outside world. Or, rather, the inside. God, I needed to pee. I had to grab myself as I stumbled up the stairs. It came so quickly! Evidently my muscles were so strained after my long holding they couldn’t take the pressure one more time. Passing through the sitting room where my husband was watching TV I had to stop and cross my legs. He looked up. His eyes widened. I felt the warmth again. He opened his mouth to speak, but I couldn’t hear him, only the soft dripping on the floor. My legs trembled as the stain grew on the front of my jeans, and I managed to stem the flow. With a lump in my throat I looked at him. The shock and surprise had grown into something different. The look of apprehension and compassion gave way to love and desire. The warm smile that originated in the eyes spread to his whole face. I managed a weak smile. Then I let go.
Aquarius next Aquarius story