She Always Likes to Wait Until the End

She Always Like to Wait Until the End
Helen had devoted her Saturday to watching all three parts of Peter Jackson’s “Lord of the Rings.” I watched most of it with her, especially the third part of the trilogy. The fun began about an hour before the end of the film. Even though we were watching it at home and could pause the DVD at any time, Helen didn’t like to take breaks during movies since, in her view, it killed the atmosphere.
She had been leaning her head on my shoulder for about half an hour when I noticed her rubbing her hand against her stomach. “Eaten too much?” I asked.
“Ssshhh,” she said suppressively, so I didn’t think any more of it for a while. After another ten minutes or so, however, I became aware that her body was jiggling against mine, and looking down at her again, I noticed that she had her legs crossed and that her knees were bobbing up and down. This was a clear indication that Helen needed to go to the loo, but I knew she wouldn’t go unless it became absolutely necessary; she would try to wait until the end of the film.
I’ve always liked to see a girl in a black skirt and black tights, and so it was fortunate that Helen had decided to wear them today. There is something so arousing about black, and for whatever reason, fairly tight skirts turn me on, far more than jeans or even dresses. I have no idea why; I suppose I’m just wired that way.
Anyway, I didn’t say anything to Helen about the situation with her bladder. Instead, I slid carefully away to the kitchen to make some tea, checking every minute or two that she had not succumbed to the need for relief and was still watching the film. Making tea takes a while, so it was a good ten minutes before I re–entered the living room with two mugs of tea and handed on to her. “Oh, thanks,” she said, giving me a smile before turning her attention back to the screen. I sat down and, as I had hoped, she resumed her former position with her head resting against my shoulder.
Rings had about half an hour still to run when Helen, after sipping at her tea, finally announced what I had known for the past twenty minutes. “Oh, I need to go to the loo,” she said, and I felt her move her legs. Her knees were in contact, suggesting that she was squeezing her thighs together.
“Want me to pause it?” I asked, hoping she would refuse.
She shook her head. “No, I can last.”
“Okay,” I agreed, and settled down to watch with her again, flicking regular glances down at her legs to see how she was doing.
As the minutes passed, she crossed her legs first one way and then the other, and every now and again I felt her give in to a brief squirm. Helen didn’t like to make a performance out of needing the loo, however, and tended to move around discretely as if she were in public. I didn’t know why she felt so inhibited in front of me, but I didn’t question it because it gave me a fair amount of pleasure.
I paid attention each time Helen raised the mug to her lips, and I noticed that she drained it without about fifteen minutes of rings still to run. The impact of this additional fluid on her system was evidently accentuating her desperation because she became noticeably more fidgety, not only keeping her legs tightly crossed but also rubbing the palm of her right hand up and down her thigh. I guessed, indeed hoped, that she was longing to thrust her hand up her skirt and press on her crotch, but couldn’t bring herself to relinquish her dignity to that extent.
With just a few minutes left, Helen’s body gave a huge shudder, and she gasped, “Oh! Hurry up and leave, Frodo, before I have an accident.”
“I don’t think he heard you,” I said, hoping to keep the conversation about her condition going.
“Oh!” she gasped again. “I think you’re right. As soon as this ends, I have got to run.”
That was when the idea hit me. We only had one bathroom, and because the house was an older structure, many of the doors still had conventional keys, of which the bathroom door was one. I didn’t know if I actually had the nerve to go and lock it, however, and went on sitting there watching Helen as she uncrossed her legs in readiness to stand up, making do with banging her knees together as she stalled for the last few seconds.
Just as the credits started to roll, she sprang up and I did the same. He looked at me aghast. “You’re not going to the loo as well, are you?” “Could be,” I answered ambiguously.
“Well I have to go first,” she insisted.
“Why should it always be ladies first?” I tossed back playfully, deliberately standing in the doorway and blocking her progress. She began to dance unashamedly, her desire much more urgent now that she was standing.
“Because we get more desperate than men. Oh, please Tim. I’m in a hurry.”
She came right up to me and then started trying to push me out of the way, but I held on to her arms and made her stand there. “Oh, oh! What are you doing?”
“I want you to wait,” I answered boldly, trying to ignore the warmth of embarrassment climbing up my face.
“I can’t,” she said with sudden urgency. “I’ve been holding on for the past hour. Please Tim, let me through.”
I suddenly released her and made a dash along the corridor to the bathroom door. I plucked the key from the inside keyhole and got the door closed before she caught up with me. “What are you doing?” she asked, her voice tense, almost alarmed.
“Making you wait,” I said as I inserted the key in the lock and turned it.
“What’s got into you?” she demanded, sounding cross for the first time.
“Give me that key. Please, Tim, I’m dying to go to the loo.”
“Have I ever told you how much it turns me on to watch you struggling to hold it when you’re dying to go to the loo?”
“What are you talking about?” she said, bending double and crossing her legs. “You’ve never said anything about it before.”
“Well, I’m telling you now.”
“Oh, Tim, please,” she pleaded, her tone coaxing now. “I’m in agony. Please let me go to the loo.”
“Sorry. You’ll just have to wait.”
“Oh God,” she moaned, folding her arms into the narrow gap between stomach and thighs. “I can’t believe you’re doing this. Please stop it. I’m nearly wetting myself.”
“If you want this key, you’ll have to do something for me first.”
“What?”
“If you make me cum, I’ll let you go,” I said, feeling I might as well go the whole hog.
“Oh, you’re unbelievable. I can’t think about sex at a time like this. All I can think about is the loo.”
“I don’t mean have sex,” I explained. “Just give me a blow job.”
She tipped back her head and looked up at me from her bent over position, a grin touching her lips for the first time. “You wish,” she said, then pursed her lips as she fought what had to be a spasm in her abdomen. “Oh no,” she squeezed between clenched teeth. “Tim, please, I’m begging you, let me in!”
I almost gave way, watching her features contorting in response to the pain of holding on to a bursting bladder. I prevaricated, just for a few seconds, but that was all it took. She squeezed out a long groan and shuffled, still bent over, to the bathroom door and tried the handle. She turned it and pushed, as she the door might yield in spite of the restraining lock. “Oh no,” she said again, and this time it came out as a frantic little squeal. “Tim, please. I’m…oh no.”
I looked down and saw pee streaming down her crossed legs, falling from her bent knees onto the floor. I stood there watching her with a mixture of shame and excitement as she actually wet herself. “Oooh,” she gasped again, although the sound was more protracted now, more an indication of relief than continuing desperation.
Helen uncrossed her legs and sank down to a squatting position, eyes closed, her back against the bathroom door. Pee streamed from the hem at the back of her skirt, spreading across the floor and embracing her feet. Gradually, the pained expression on her face softened as the pressure on her bladder subsided. She finally opened her eyes and looked up at me, and I could see she was close to tears. I quickly hunkered down beside her and, hoping to forestall anger or unhappiness on her part, I said, “I’m really sorry Helen, but I’ve wanted to tell you about my feelings for some time. I just never worked up the courage.”
“But why?” she said, the question not precisely lucid.
“Why am I interested in seeing you desperate to go to the loo? I don’t know. I’ve always been interested in stuff like that, but I’ve never felt able to tell anyone.”
“You made me wet myself,” she pointed out, both looking and sounding injured.
“I did. I’m sorry about that too. I honestly couldn’t help myself,” I pursued. “Seeing you sitting on the sofa for the last hour trying to hang on till the end of the film just got me so…excited. I didn’t really think.” I paused for a moment to meet her meditative gaze, and then added, “Are you furious with me?”
“Not furious,” she said, making a half–hearted effort to straighten up. As I offered a hand and she accepted it, I also offered her a smile. She reciprocated, albeit tentatively. “I’m just confused,” she went on, staring down at her feet still planted in her own puddle of pee. “I’m…I’m not sure how I’m going to deal with this.”
“You don’t have to deal with it,” I said hurriedly. “Nothing like this will ever happen again. I promise.”
She gave me a quizzical look, and then said softly, “Maybe you’d unlock the door so I can go and have a bath.” She paused to glance at the floor again before adding, “After I’ve cleared up this mess, I suppose.”
“I’ll do that,” I offered.
“Oh no. I couldn’t let you––?”
“It’s my fault, so I’ll clean it up. Besides, I don’t mind.”
She managed a wan smile. “Another one of your interests?” she asked.
I shrugged. “I think I’m about to find out,” I told her.
She nodded, regarded me for a few moments as if she had never really seen me before, then took the key and let herself into the bathroom. She seemed all right, but I was worried that I might have just sabotaged what until now had been a pretty happy marriage.
I decided to turn in and leave her in peace to have her bath, reasoning that any further attention at the moment might not be welcome. When she joined me sometime later, she entered the bedroom without switching on the light and slipped into bed beside me. She immediately snuggled up to me, and I realized that she was not naked, as was her custom. I groped behind me and made contact with a suspender belt, and the feel of her nyloned legs against mine informed me that she was wearing stockings.
I quickly turned over to face her. There wasn’t enough light for me to see her face clearly, but her voice more than made up for any visual signals I might be missing. “So, Timothy,” she whispered, simultaneously caressing my sudden erection, “what other little secrets have you been hiding from me?”
“Let’s find out,” I whispered back.
That was the start of a very interesting night indeed.
By: David North David’s Website: Bound Girls Bursting to Pee