Mortified at the Reception

(Based upon a true story)
The narrow hallway in front of the theater was crowded; families, college students, high school kids, a few teachers, family, friends all crammed around and between each other. The ticket counter was at one end of the hallway, the performance reception, put on by a local arts association was at the other. That’s where I saw Sarah that night. Working behind the reception table, serving punch to the many visitors, all alone, trying her best to keep up with the masses eating the cheap cookies, home baked cakes and drinking the fruit punch (non alcoholic, to my dismay). What made me notice her? I’d love to say she was the most gorgeous girl there but she wasn’t. Oh, she was certainly attractive, quite attractive actually, wearing a black evening dress, slightly above the knees, her bare shoulders elegantly framed by the spaghetti straps of the dress, her young body tightly encased in the fitted fabric, her bare legs perched in heels, but the reason for me noticing her was much more random. I was sitting at a small table handing out flyers for another group directly across from the reception table, sharing the same crowded hallway as she. I wasn’t dressed as nicely; tight, black slacks and a white blouse for me, and a pair of flats, but I was there nonetheless. Occasionally people would stop by my table and pick up a flyer (must love those temporary jobs!) from me as they chewed upon another stale chocolate chip cookie while cradling a cup of fruity punch in their other hand. Sarah was certainly doing more business than I that lovely spring night. Maybe it was her nervousness that I noticed or maybe her youth. She seemed slightly uncomfortable being dressed up, like she had to do it when normally she would be wearing a pair of jeans and a college T–shirt or something. I don’t know for sure but she looked like either a high school senior or college freshman helping out the arts association, and she seemed a little shy and reserved more than anything else. Something caught my eye. Maybe it was the fabric of her dress that I noticed up close when I walked behind her table to the water fountain to get a drink of something not so pink. Maybe it was the way I could faintly see the outline and shape of her panties through the thin dress fabric. Maybe it was because I loved how they hugged her younger body combined with her shyness and uncomfortable nature having to be dressed up like a doll, serving people. Whatever it was, I noticed her, even as more beautiful women walked on by in their high heels, pantyhose and more elegant evening attire. Possibly it was her slightly unbalanced nature, her lack of style while still being unbelievably sexy in an innocent kind of way is what did it. But I could go on. The truth is, my interest in her gained appreciably during intermission, about an hour later.
Sarah ran out of the theater slightly early, as if to get to her table before the crowds left the theater. I had to leave early too, to sit at my lonely table with my flyers for which I was being paid nine bucks an hour to hand out. I caught Sarah glancing at the ladies rest room down around the corner, while at the same time noticing her increased nervousness. I walked up out of my chair and stood behind the first few people in line for the punch she was serving. She looked distraught. When I got there I was, amazingly, the last person in the line. I got my punch and asked her what her name was and if she was enjoying the performance. She mentioned that she did while at the same time fidgeting nervously behind the folding table set up with her punch on it. At this point I began to be excited. It became apparent that the poor girl needed to use the bathroom, but was unable to go while she had to perform her duties at the punch table. I had to know. When you want to know something, you ask. So I did. “Hey, are you alright, you look kind of nervous.” I asked with a smile, knowing all too well what her ‘problem’ might be.
“Oh, uh, it’s nothing,” Sarah nervously stammered back, trying not to look at me.
“Oh, okay, just wondering,” I commented, thinking she wouldn’t admit what was troubling her.
Sarah looked around and with a pensive look on her face blurted out the words I was longing to hear: “Damn, I just really need to go PEE, and I can’t go until I’m done with my table!”
I couldn’t believe my ears. This poor girl was desperate, and stuck alone serving punch while her bladder throbbed inside of her. “Wow, that sucks,” I lied. “Drink too much punch?” I joked.
“No, No, I got here late and had too much water before I got here and I’m dying!!” she pleaded, crossing her legs in obvious desperation. By then a line had started to form and I had to go back to my spot, to my little table with my flyers. I had thought about using the bathroom myself as I had to pee pretty badly, but knowing what this girl was going through, I decided to hold it back myself, thinking I might go later. So I sat back and watched poor Sarah serve customers punch, and by the end of the 20–minute intermission, she became obviously desperate to use the restroom, but the line never ceased. The poor girl must have been dying inside, her pee obviously built up to the point where it demanded her attention, but she was stuck. Trapped– desperate to void her swollen bladder. What would the poor girl do? I stared in awe, looking at her pretty black dress hugging her desperate body, watching her squirm, wondering how her underwear would feel if I touched them right now. I also feared the worst, well, the worst for me. I thought after the intermission was over she would get her long needed break to the bathroom and my joy of watching her desperation would be over. Amazingly, that was not to be the case.
After the last customer picked up the punch and headed back into the theater she ran, but not into the bathroom, but back to the theater. I got up from my table and followed, and met her at the stairs as she tried to find an empty seat again. I ended up sitting next to her a few minutes before the second act began. I had to know. So I asked. “Hey, how’s it going? Did you manage to get to the bathroom yet?” I was so bold, but I had to know.
“No, I really, really like the second act, so I decided to hold it. I’ll go after it’s over before I have to clean up. I’ll be okay,” she replied, then instinctively clutching her dress and pressing her young knees together, obviously still in a pretty serious need to pee.
The second act lasted about forty minutes. Sarah began to struggle about twenty minutes through, wiggling in her seat, squirming continuously, but she stayed put, afraid to cross the many people to get to the aisle and head out to the bathroom. I had to pee pretty badly myself, and the excitement of my bladder throbbing inside of me was getting my attention. I’ve been wetting myself for fun ever since a friend of mine made me pee myself in my bikini at a hotel swimming pool, out on the deck, but my secret passion has been to see others lose control, and Sarah looked like she might be about to. As mean as it sounds, I was hoping she would. I only have seen a few “real” accidents in my life, including an incredible one with a student losing all bladder control in ballet class and peeing in her leotard in front of everyone, and I even made a girl completely wet her shorts once in a fast food place when I locked the bathroom door on her, but real accidents are rare, really rare, so I was getting incredibly excited as Sarah kept squirming in her seat. I was in pretty serious agony myself, my slacks fitting tight against me, my bladder demanding relief, but I could still sit still. Sarah could not. What was going through her mind, I wondered?
Sarah looked at her watch, her bladder unrelenting as it screamed for relief. She was shocked at how much more badly she needed to pee since she walked in to sit down. Perhaps the 3 bottles of water and 2 glasses of punch she had so far were too much. As she sat, trying to enjoy the performance, she felt the amazing, growing pressure inside of her swell as her bladder distended to its complete fullness. 18 years old and she was about to have an accident if she didn’t find a restroom immediately, Sarah squirmed uncontrollably in her seat, repeatedly shifted her weight, moved her feet, and constantly smoothed her dress out with her hands, doing anything and everything to take her mind off the stinging pressure that had built up inside of her. She was on the edge of peeing uncontrollably in her seat, and she knew it. Could she last the remaining ten minutes before she wet herself? She knew she had to hold it in. She loved the ending of the piece, and by nature she was shy, and couldn’t bear the thought of crossing in front of all these people with only ten minutes left just to use the bathroom. She’d just have to hold it, no matter what. Every minute was agony. Her body could barely contain the pressure. Her pee seemingly flowed to the very edge of her urethra, seemingly on the bare edge of her tortured pee hole, desiring so badly to escape, wanting to flow freely out of her body. But she clenched her muscles, and her screaming tortured body had no choice but to hold in her hot pee, all three bottles of water and two glasses of punch worth, trapped inside her, with no way to escape for the moment. Sarah almost cried from the massive pain within her, from the torture of having to hold back SO much pee, but somehow, someway, she managed to hold it back. The production ended, and Sarah (and I) stood up quickly. Sarah almost collapsed on the spot; her bladder’s weight suddenly becoming so apparent when she shifted from a sitting position to standing, and I thought the girl was going to pee in her dress right there. But she managed to control it, and fidgeting and squirming, she headed out of the door into the hallway. But instead of escaping off to the restroom to relieve her swollen bladder, this older woman accosted her immediately. I almost peed my slacks when I heard the conversation.
“Sarah. Sarah. Where have you been? We need you at the reception table right away, people are waiting, dear!”
Sarah almost cried in response to the old woman. “BBut I didn’t know I had to work it after the performance?” She mumbled in question, half bent over from her violently throbbing bladder, about to pee herself in front of everyone. “Can I just please use the bathroom first, I really, uh, really need to go kind of bad,” she begged, her eyes wide with pain.
“After you’re done. Shouldn’t take but 10 minutes dear. I counted on you, you know, and you’ve let me down,” the old woman scoffed, walking away. Sarah, shy and polite, somehow managed to stumble to the reception table, and started serving punch. I had to get closer. I had to see how she was doing. I was on the verge of peeing right then and there myself, my bladder now totally desperate and my panties snug against my bulging tummy, but I had to know. I got in line behind about six or seven people at the table. I looked. Sarah had tears in her eyes, and she could barely stand still as she served the punch. Her body was shaking and her hands shook as she served the punch, spilling some on the white tablecloth. She obviously had to pee extremely badly, and I wondered how long she could manage.
Sarah stood there, trying to stop her pee from exploding out of her, her body uncontrollably shaking. Her insides were throbbing, wave after wave of immense pressure rushing through her abdomen, every wave of pent up pee being harder to hold back. Her legs pressed together, her muscles clenched, she was sweating visibly and a tear flowed down her cheek. Sarah, 18 years old, shy and in an evening dress that fit too tightly around her young body was on the verge of an accident, and she knew it. She could barely control her impending accident. She saw the dark haired girl from the table across from her back in line, and wished the people would just go away. Just let her go use the bathroom before she wet herself in front of everybody. But the line of people grew. At least 14 people waited for punch. Sarah could not stand the pain, the discomfort, and the screaming intensity between her legs. She tried to contain herself, but could not stand still. Her hands shook more and more punch was spilled. Her bladder screamed violently again, and a few drops of pee escaped her clenched lips, lightly soaking the crotch of her black panties. She panicked, trying to hold back the flow with every muscle. The dark haired girl was two back, looking, staring strangely at her. Why did this girl look at her so much, Sarah thought. Sarah cried out, her body unable to control her urges anymore, and suddenly, after over an hour and a half of torture, Sarah’s bladder exploded. The poor girl dropped the punch ladle on the table and her mouth fell open right at the very second that her steaming pee thrashed and jetted out of her clenched pee hole. The explosiveness of her built up pee surprised her, and the screaming, hot stream of pee gushed from her crotch, quickly soaking her panties and flowing rapidly down her legs, pee splashing on the bare floor, her inner thighs warm and wet as she violently peed herself. 18 years old and she was having a major accident. Sarah starting sobbing and was unable to stop the flow. The dark haired girl stared, noticing the pee streaming between the younger girls legs, piddling on the floor. Sarah, in embarrassment, crouched down behind the table and squatted, and pee shot out of her like a fire hydrant. She didn’t see the dark haired girl stoop down and watch. The dark haired girl had a clear view between Sarah’s young legs, pee flooding through her black panties, gushing onto the floor, her inner thighs wet with urine, glistening in the florescent lights of the hallway. The puddle underneath Sarah grew, almost two feet wide. Sarah tried to stand up, in shame, mortified of her accident, crying uncontrollably, still peeing, and she slipped, falling backwards into her own pee puddle, her legs spread wide, the entire line of people seeing her soaked underwear clinging to her young womanhood, pee stains in her lovely dress, her wet thighs open for all to see, her butt sitting in the huge puddle of warm pee that had, just seconds ago, flowed out of her young body. Sarah was aghast with embarrassment, attempted to stand up, and sheepishly headed to the ladies room, dripping pee between her legs and from her now soaked dress, crying and sobbing as she ran to hide.
She never saw the quickly darkening inner thigh of the dark haired girl’s black slacks.
I peed my slacks completely while the entire hallway stared at the young woman who had just wet herself in front of everybody. My bladder emptied itself in about a minute into my expensive, tight slacks, my own legs wet and tingling with the excitement of warm pee running down them. I touched myself and felt my nipples grow firm under my blouse. I walked outside to my car and drove home, replaying the moments of that evening over and over in my mind, dreaming of how Sarah’s life would be from that moment on, from the moment she rushed into the ladies room, pee dripping from her, people staring at the wet girl, many giggling, some shocked. I only wish she somehow would know that I peed my own pants in front of her in enjoyment. But she most likely never knew. I kept thinking how her life might go on from then: I’d invent what happened to her and fantasize about her. One variation was such:
Sarah spent 15 minutes sobbing in the bathroom, then sheepishly left and drove her car home where her parents were shocked to see their 18 year old daughter, about to be a freshman in college, standing there at the door with a soaked dress because she had peed on herself in front of everyone. Sarah never volunteered to serve punch at any reception again and became incredibly shy and introverted through college, having few friends and occasionally having an embarrassing wet bed accident when she overslept. Her life was miserable, all because of a few too many bottles of water one night in the spring.
I never forgot her. I so wanted to touch her legs, feel her panties, explore her while she urinated on herself that she provided many a night of fantasy for me.
Real accidents are all too rare, but this one was special.
By: Gillian