Sandra's Story

While I sit at my PC I like to keep a big towel on the chair. You don’t want to interrupt anything, right? Let me introduce myself. I’m Sandra, thirty–two years old, and divorced. The reason for the divorce was the old other–girl thing. Well, not for him, for me. He caught me in bed with my friend Tina, and we weren’t exactly sleeping. The wet sheets didn’t make it look better. Describe myself? I’m average height, reddish–brown hair reaching my nipples when wearing a bra, slim waist, round butt, nice legs. All of this is according to Tina. Right now I’m wearing tights and a short t–shirt over simple white underwear. When I put my hand down the front I can feel my freshly shaven pussy. Doing that makes me want to pee. I keep a thermos of tea on the desk. I enjoy the feeling of my bladder filling up. Ever since I learned to hold my pee I’ve loved the sensation of emptying it. My mom spent years fussing: Stop clutching yourself, go to the bathroom, silly girl! Well, I’ve always been a silly girl, walking home from school with curled legs, nearly bursting. The joy of finally going! At times I didn’t make it, though. Mom would shake her head and fill the washing machine again. My best friend Charlotte was a bed wetter. We were fourteen when she let me know. I wanted her to sleep over, but she didn’t dare. Her choice of words made me curious, and finally she told me she sometimes had accidents at night. I guess that’s when my sexuality really awoke. I knew the nice feelings I had when I rubbed myself, and the tingling excitement of holding my pee and then letting go, but hearing Charlotte’s confession connected my pee–feelings to another person – I fell in love with her. I wanted to hold her and comfort her, and help her change the sheets. I touched her cheek and said it was OK, it didn’t matter to me if she wet the bed, and I wouldn’t mind sleeping over at her house if she’d like that better. We sat in our pajamas, talking, giggling, and comparing our breasts. Finally we were ready for bed. She looked a little embarrassed when she put on her diapers, but I thought she was really cute. I said I could wear diapers too, if that made her more comfortable. The feeling of the tight garment around my bottom was incredibly sexy. We shared her bed, lying side by side, and her hand found mine before we fell asleep. (I really have to pee now, but I’m too busy writing.) A sound from Charlotte woke me, like a sigh or moan. I lay still, sensing that she was awake. –Lotty, I whispered. –You asleep? –I just wet myself, she said. I put my arm around her. –It’s all right. She cuddled up to me. I felt the added weight under the plastic, through her pajamas. I was so aroused. Concentrating hard, I finally managed to dribble a little in my diapers, feeling the wonderful warmth around my fanny. –I’m doing it too, I whispered in her ear, suddenly able to just let go. We held each other, and fell asleep again. It felt kind of cold in the morning, so we slipped our pajama pants and diapers off, and embraced again. I felt her soft curls against my thigh. –It was nice, I said, –I’m almost envious. Charlotte spoke softly into my hair. –I know. Sometimes I wet myself when I’m awake and don’t want to get up to go to the bathroom. –Do you ever wear diapers in daytime? –It happens. –Tell me! –You know the khaki pants I’m wearing sometimes? –The baggy ones? –Yes. You can’t see the bulge in those. So I go for a walk, or take the bus into town, and, well, let it happen. (God, I have to pee.) That day we went to the mall, Charlotte in her khaki pants, and me in my denim dress which hid the bulk of the diapers. Charlotte would look at me and giggle, letting me know she was doing it. I stood browsing through a book, releasing my wee in small spurts. Walking home from the bus stop we both let go of everything, walking stiffly from the weight in our pants. We were still a bit shy, so we only watched each other as we removed our diapers, washed, and put on our clothes again. (I’m nearly bursting now. I have trouble hitting the right keys. I curl my toes and rub my knees together.) Somehow we drifted apart some time later. She got a boyfriend, and then we changed schools. At college I met my roommate Maria. She was tiny and dark, wore incredibly tight jeans, and displayed a cute belly under short tops. Walking home from a party, slightly tipsy, she wriggled her little butt and rubbed her tummy: –Sandy, I’m almost weeing myself. –Me too, I said, putting my hand under my short skirt to emphasize. She giggled, crossing her legs. –Don’t make me laugh! I grabbed her waist. –Ticklish? –Sandy! We both laughed, almost bent double, hands in crotches. –Oh God, she said, –I think I wet myself a little. Her words made me relax a little too much, and I felt warm drops down my legs. She looked at me with a serious expression. –You too? I nodded. –I won’t be able to hold it all the way home. Is there nowhere we can go? This was in the middle of the city, with no hedges or bushes, and cars and people were passing all the time. The thought of Maria wetting her jeans didn’t make it any easier for me. –Come here, she said, taking my arm. –Sit on the doorstep there. Don’t sit on your skirt. We’re just resting, right? I sat down, with difficulty. –Go in your panties, she said. –But you – –Go on. I’ll make it. The pee burst through my silk panties, making a trail down the stones. Maria was watching me, while clutching herself, staring at my stream. Her breasts were heaving. She bit her lip, holding on for dear life. I got up, smoothed my skirt, feeling the warm wetness underneath. (Oh my god I can’t wait much longer now its almost coming My bladder is so full, I’m rocking from side too side, squeezing my ohno its – its… Sorry about that, I just peed myself sitting at my computer; letting go a long stream in my tights, making me all warm and wet. I touch myself, feeling my swollen lips through the wet clothes, wanting to let go again.) Maria walked on, both hands between her legs, her cute little butt swaying with each step. Two blocks further on she stopped, looked around, and stepped between two parked cars. –Sandy, I’m going to wee in my jeans. Will you hold my hand? She squatted, knees apart, and watched herself as the dark rose blossomed in her crotch and the stream created a pool under her. She rose, brushed her dark hair back, and smiled at me, keeping hold of my hand as we walked home. After closing our door, she looked up at me, reached out to my hip, and, getting no negative reaction, slid her hand down under my skirt, and touched my wet crotch. I nearly peed myself again. I kissed her, and we went to bed, stroking each other through the wet clothes before undressing slowly. We were lovers for a year, drinking as much water as we could, before going to bed fully clothed, stroking, caressing, kissing, waiting for the stains to appear as our muscles gave up. After that, I made the mistake of believing this thing with girls and pee was a passing phase. I had a couple of boyfriends (in series, mind you!) before marrying Ralph. (I need something stronger, and fetch a couple of beers from the kitchen. I have to hold myself when I walk, squeezing my wet tights against my peehole. I think I dribbled a little.) Things were OK for a while, he even thought me funny when I bit my lip, curled my legs, and raced for the loo. But when I decided to give him full insight, it wasn’t that funny after all. Walking home from the pub I was nearly bursting, wearing low–cut tan pants and bare belly. I was quite drunk and decided it was time to tell him my secret. I pulled him into a dark street, put his hand between my legs, and let go. Short version: He was furious. The next day we (he) blamed it on childish, drunken folly, and made me promise to never be as careless again. I kept my promise, never being as careless as to let him witness my wettings again. But the urge remained. When he was away I went around the house bursting before sitting on the toilet with my clothes on. I had to keep solace by peeing in my bikini in the water, and in the shower. I took long walks, releasing tiny spurts, maintaining the coin–sized stain, which didn’t show. He made sure I went to the bathroom before we had sex. Of course we had a good time together in other respects, and then we had a baby– a wonderful experience. In the maternity ward I became acquainted with Tina, who had had her second child. The day I went home I rose, dressed, and begun to pack. I decided I’d better go to the toilet before leaving, and with that thought I peed myself, hot urine running down my legs under the skirt, with no chance of stopping it. Embarrassing as it was in front of the nurse, it struck up a spark in me again. Tina and I used to meet, walking our prams, exchanging baby stories. She had dark brown hair, covering her ears and most of her face when the wind blew. Even after two pregnancies she retained her narrow waist, the only evidence being a rounder lower belly and a beautiful curve in the small of her back, making her butt even more inviting. I told her that my bladder occasionally played tricks on me, and she admitted to the same problem. –We could wear diapers as well, and change each other, she laughed. (I pause, touch myself, and pee again. I’m wet down to mid–thigh and almost to the waistband of my tights. I drink more.) When our babies were about six months old, we had a day off, with a license to party until the next evening. Ralph was at his mother’s with Karen, and Tina was going to sleep over at our place. Like girls again, we tried on clothes, appreciating each other, showing off. We were the same size, and even though Tina had her brought a couple of outfits, I made her try on some of mine as well. Giggling like little girls we curled our legs, afraid of dribbling. She settled for a deep red blouse over a tiny black miniskirt and dark brown tights, and a short black jacket. I wore white jeans with no pockets, Tina claiming my butt and belly looked great without disturbing seams. My breasts were still swollen, they almost fit in my black lace bra, and the tight halter–top took care of the excess flesh. We went easy on the make–up. –I’d better pee before we go, she said, lifting her skirt right in front of me. I felt the old tingle in my sex watching her. We went to a club; meeting friends we hadn’t seen for a long time. We both danced carefully to avoid sudden jolts to our bladders, heading for the bathroom at the slightest hint of need. Cider went to our heads; we had a really good time, feeling like girls and not just mothers. We sat in a corner between friends, laughing, telling stories, and sipping our drinks– ignoring the obvious. Suddenly Tina stiffened. Her eyes opened wide, filling with tears. She pushed her hands in her lap, bending forward. I understood immediately. I leaned over: –Tina, are you okay? She shook her head, grabbed me, and whispered: –Sandra, I just wet myself completely! I couldn’t stop it! I looked in her lap where an inch of skirt covered her thighs, noticing the small dark spot in her crotch. –Come on, I said, –let’s go. She wriggled out from behind the table, trying to cover her bottom with her hands. I made some feeble excuses, and we rushed out, making for the back. Tina stood, clutching her purse, crying silently. I brushed her hair back and gave her a hug. –Sweetie, it’s all right. It can happen to anybody. She put her arms around me. –I couldn’t help it, she sobbed. –It just came. My bum’s all wet! I stroked her back, letting my hand slide down to her bottom, feeling the wet against my fingertips. –Sandra, what are you doing? She said, surprised. –Yes, sweetie, just relax. It’s OK. I rubbed her bottom, getting immensely turned on. She came closer, bellies touching. –Careful, she smiled through tears. –I might wet your legs. –Tell you something? If I’m not careful, I’ll wet my legs myself. –Oh Sandra, you’re so nice to me. I kissed her. –Love you, baby. She responded, seeking my tongue, pushing her moist lap against me. I almost wet myself with pleasure. –Want to go home, Sandra? –Sure, sweetie. –Sandra? –Yes? –I have to pee again. I looked at her. –Well, you’re wet already, so why don’t you just… She smiled impishly at me, and squatted, knees apart. The short skirt hugged her hips and bottom. With a sigh she let go. I had to cross my legs. –Ready, she said, taking my arm. Walking made me realize I really needed to go, too. –I don’t know if I’ll make it home, I said, holding my belly. Tina looked at me. –I don’t mind, she said. At that, I felt the first dribble. I stopped, crossing my legs again. I looked at the beautiful girl with the wet stain under her skirt, and released another spurt. My crotch was warm, and dark rivers were running down the front of my jeans. Tina stood beside me, putting a hand on my belly. I kissed her again, and her careful fingers touched my wet crotch. –Just do it, she whispered. –Peeing yourself feels so good. I let it flow, soaking myself completely. (I had to stand up, as I was about to burst. Wriggling my bottom didn’t really help. I walked to the mirror, studying the girl with the big round stain on her tights. Slowly I let out small bursts, enjoying the warmth and the relief, seeing myself getting wet down to my knees. I decided to change, and to get something more to drink. Now I’m back on my PC wearing red Capri pants and dry panties. For the moment.) We had sex when we got home, beginning in the hall, undressing each other, ending up naked in my – our – double bed, lying on big bath towels to protect the sheets. I found that moving my finger in a certain way inside her made her pee, and that Tina’s caresses did more for me than Ralph had ever done. For three years, off and on, we were lovers when we had the chance, sex often triggered by wetting ourselves more or less voluntarily. Eventually we got careless. Karen was at my mother’s, and Ralph was going to London for a big meeting. I invited Tina over, telling her to bring some extra clothes, just in case. I had some wine, and turned off the TV seconds before the weather forecast. She arrived, already squirming, in her black pants and t–shirt. I had put on my Capris and a strapless top. She told me she had a surprise for me. (I look down at the same pants, recalling that night, recalling the squirt that escaped me when we kissed, reliving it. Oh, Tina. I’ve started peeing already.) We brought the wine into the bedroom, sitting cross–legged on the bed. She pointed to the wet spot in my crotch, smiled, and said she’d make me really wet myself. –Sandra, I’ve shaved my fanny. –Oh Tina! –Chris has been asking me to for ages. Then I thought that maybe you would like it, so I said OK. I leaned over and kissed her, holding my crotch to keep myself from peeing. I touched her through the pants, imagining the naked lips under the panties. (Imagining the naked lips under the panties, I release a long, hot stream, feeling the liquid rise between my butt cheeks before bursting through the fabric. I touch my own shaved pussy, peeing again.) –Come on; feel me, she said, tugging at her waistband. I slid my hand under her panties, feeling the soft, smooth skin of her mound and lips, slipped my finger inside her, and touched her sensitive spot. She moaned and peed on my hand. –Show me, I said, motioning her to rise. She stood, stroking her hips, pressing her knees together. Her pants were wet where her thighs met. She bit her lip, smiled at me, and arched her back as she let go a little. Then she unbuttoned, pulled the zipper down slowly, and wriggled her pants over her hips. Her thin blue panties were soaking wet, revealing her naked lips. Turning with her back to me she bent to take her pants off, giving me a good view of her lovely bottom with the pee–stained panties. She turned slowly, hooked her thumbs in the waistband, and inch–by–inch she revealed herself. It was a beautiful sight. I leaned back and deliberately peed in my pants, not caring about the bed. She jumped into bed, straddling me, and let the wonderful golden liquid flow freely from her naked pussy and into my lap. (I can’t hold it any longer. I don’t want to hold it any longer. I spread my legs and soak the towel, smelling my own warm girl pee, remembering the smell of Tina’s golden stream, breaking off the memory before the slam of the door, before the sour voice complaining about the fog and the cancelled flight, before the wrath and the yelling and the end. Before the futile attempt to keep the marriage together by refusing to see you any more, before the inevitable divorce after a year of pretending outwards and glowering inwards. It’s been a year, Tina, and I can’t wait to see you again. When I heard that Chris had left you I peed my pants crying, and I decided to call you. I didn’t. I’ll send this instead.) I put my hand in my panties, feel the smoothness, and decide to finish this letter– in a little while.
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