Our Date (For the Gals)

Our Date (For the Gals)
I’m twirling around, somewhat slowly, finishing a decidedly amateur version of a camel back spin, the announcer blaring that “open ice is over”. The other skaters begin to clear the ice, the overprotective mothers hovering over their next superstar wunderkind child, the harried parents yelling at their hopefully NHL destined little boy, the romantic couples skating a few extra laps lazily around the rink, arm in arm, seemingly oblivious to the announcers call. The dusk sky slowly rolls in, yet it’s still somewhat warm out. The rink, a public outdoors facility, shuts down early on Fridays for maintenance. I’m still amazed they kept it running today. While the ice was a little slippery, it held up fairly well given the moderate temperatures we sometimes get this time of the year. It’s a pretty day, and it seems to be a pleasant early evening too. I skate over to the boards, where I see you standing there, for the third week in a row, smiling. You’re dressed simply, nice blue jeans, a white camisole, no bra, and a button sweater, open. I’ve apparently caught your eye. You apparently have caught mine. I walk over to the little wooden benches near the edge of the rink, trying to find a place to sit where the splinters from the rotten wood don’t stab me. The rink is run down, but the county seat runs it anyway, and it’s free, so as long as one doesn’t expect a lot of luxury and amenities, it’s okay. It wasn’t the place where I’d expect to have met someone.
I say “Hi” as I sit down, reaching for my backpack I left under the bench. You smile at me and come over, very casual, very calm. I take the empty water bottle out from my backpack and toss it into the nearest garbage can. I make the shot; maybe next I can play in the WNBA. Well, at 5’6, probably not. You say “Hi” back, kind of shyly. I see you look at me. There’s that look. It’s not the kind of leering look a guy gives you when he’s checking you out, but it’s not the kind of look another girl gives you when they’re admiring your clothes either. It’s a special kind of look. Some of you know what I’m talking about. I begin to take off my skates, sitting there on the faded bench, the chipped paint chafing my thighs, and sitting down, my very short blue ice skating practice dress covering barely anything, I notice how badly I need to pee. It’s always that way. Drink a lot before I go on the ice, and then when I get off I’m about to burst, my bladder seemingly taking a vacation from its regular duty when I’m skating, but then letting me know what it thinks when I stop. So you’re talking to me and I have to pee pretty badly. I’m not saying anything, and it’s not like an emergency, nothing like when I wet myself in gymnastics class as a young teen, in front of everyone, but I do have to go. Pretty bad. Maybe concentrating on my bladder makes me less talkative, and I am a little shy anyway, and I don’t say much until I get my skates off, thinking how nice it feel to relieve myself.
“Hi,” I say back, shyly. You ask if I had a good skate. I reply that I did. You ask if I’m freezing. “Why?” I look, not understanding. “You’re not wearing tights today. You were last week. Kinda cold out there on the ice, isn’t it?” I laugh. I have to explain. “Oh, No, it wasn’t that bad. I ripped them pretty bad on the way over here, got them caught in the door. So I took them off.” I giggle. “You should have seen me, trying to get out of my skating dress and change in the backseat of my car, these boys running around playing basketball, trying to get a peek at me naked.” You laugh, your eyes light up as you replay the scene in your mind. I can tell. I can see the look in your eyes. You understand. And I notice your pert nipples through your camisole, harder than they were a few minutes ago. “And it wasn’t cold?” you ask. “No, not bad. Although I’m probably in the mood for some coffee or something.” I drop the hint. We’ll see if you follow. You do. You’re not as shy as I thought. You mention there’s a nice little shop down a block, around the corner we could go to, and would I like to swing by with you and chat some. I smile, again noticing how bad I have to pee, and then I remember: I’m wearing what I’m wearing. Drove to the rink in my skating dress, wasn’t planning on doing anything else. And I really, really need to find a bathroom, because when I stand up I notice how full my bladder is and I squeeze my legs together. I see you look down, your gaze noticing my fairly white complexion, the little goose bumps on my skin, my muscular legs showcased in that very short skating dress. Have I mentioned I need to find a bathroom? I guess the quart of water I drank before my skate and the iced tea earlier are going through me. What else is new, I always need to pee. “You know, I’d feel kind of silly going to the shop right now,” I muster. You ask why. “Well, this is all I’m wearing. I left my clothes back at my apartment.” I really want to go with you though. Something tells me so. You convince me. “Oh, don’t worry about it, it’s not like a Starbucks or anything, they won’t care if you come in wearing a skating outfit,” you say, laughing. I look down at myself. My practice outfit is a light frosty blue colored very short dress, with a small textured feel to the fabric. The top cut is a scoop neck, a good look for me, and the “skirt” portion of my dress barely covers my ass and trunks. My matching blue trunks underneath are about a size too small and hug my body tightly. I’m not wearing anything underneath; I love the feel of the tight Lycra against me, but it does make it seem like I have to pee worse than maybe I do. My tummy, usually flat, bulges out a little from the fullness of my bladder. I untie my long dark brown hair and let it fall down to my shoulders. Why not, I think, I wouldn’t mind spending some time with you for sure. Plus, it’s shorter than the drive home and I really need to find a bathroom before I pee all over myself anyway, so why not. “Sure,” I say, realizing as I walk that my bladder is really talking to me. I feel the beginnings of those tell tale waves of pressure that always seem to mean “desperate girl who needs to pee.” I need to find a bathroom pretty soon. I’m not wearing much, and if I have an accident in this everybody is going to see it. I follow you to your car, and you give me directions. We decide to walk it instead, since parking is a hassle in this part of town. It’s only a block and a half, not too bad, not too far away. We walk silently, our mutual shyness coming back.
As we walk, I get a few stares. Businessmen, leaving their work are staring at me. Or probably my butt, I think. I mention that I’m attracting attention, and you laugh, saying I had a nice ass. I liked the way you said that. We walk some more, each step reminding me of how badly I need to urinate. I’m wishing the rink had better facilities. They used to have public restrooms, but vandalism closed them, so if you have to go while you’re out there, it is either hold it or go in your clothes. I remember one of the other skaters, one of the serious ones in training, this really cute blonde, crying once when she wet herself on the rink, her skating tights suddenly soaked, a huge stain spreading quickly, and a little puddle on the ice, melting it a little where she stood. Her coach made her keep on practicing anyway. She must have been dedicated. Maybe she’ll be in an ice show or something. She was too old for the Olympics, I thought. Too old to be peeing her pants too, I thought. I wondered what would happen if she had to pee really bad in an ice show. Would they let her stop, or would 10,000 people in some arena somewhere watch her wet on herself during the show. Thinking of that made me REALLY want to use the bathroom before I wet in this very revealing dress. Damn, I really want to go find a place to PEE!! I look around, a desperate glaze in my eyes, my bladder screaming at me, wanting attention, like a young toddler wanting it’s mommy. I need to go so badly I can’t believe it.
We get to the coffee shop. It’s small, but cute. I’ve passed it by a few times, but never stopped in before. It’s kind of narrow and long, and you pick a table in the back, putting your purse down while I drop my backpack on the floor. Two chairs and a table, a couple of napkins left from the last customers, a trendy young man and a very attractive dark haired girl with short cropped hair worked the counter. I looked for the restroom, but didn’t see one immediately. Why is it whenever I’m about to burst, they don’t have a freaking restroom I can easily find? I’m about to pee in my Lycra trunks I have to go so bad. My legs press together, tightly.
We go to the counter, my eyes scanning the shop for a bathroom. Damn, they must have one, I thought. Isn’t it some kind of health violation or something? We wait in line, my legs pressed together, a few people looking at my skating dress, a few college guys giggling, probably checking out my ass. If they only knew, I thought, if they only knew. I’m too busy thinking about how badly I need to pee for them to bother me. It’s really hurting now. We wait in line, I’m dying inside, and finally it’s our turn to order, and for some reason I’m in the mood for something different. I remember a friend telling me about the iced tea here, and breaking all tradition, I order it instead of the espresso I usually order. You order a Danish and a large bottle of water. I’m shocked. We both decided to come here and neither of us orders coffee. Whatever. I am worrying about finding a stupid bathroom before I pee into my skating dress much more than ordering what I’m supposed to be ordering in a coffee shop anyway. God, I really need to pee. We walk back to the table and sit down, and for a minute I’m too shy to ask if there’s a bathroom. But I really need to go so badly– I just have to ask. My legs are squirming under the table; I really need to pee before I have an accident right there in my chair. “Wow. Is there, like, a bathroom here?” I ask, giggling, “because like I really need to use one now!” You look at me and smile as you tell me there’s one over near where we came in. I excuse myself, standing up very quickly, so quickly I bang my knee on the post of the table, swearing, my body so anxious to release what’s inside of me that I rush. I walk over to the bathroom, each step somewhat delicate because I need to pee SO badly all of a sudden. A few more glances at my ass as I walk by, but I’m so concentrating on not peeing on myself that I don’t really notice– like the boys are going to get any part of me today anyway. God, I feel like I’m about to have an accident and I’m only a few steps away from the door. It’s a unisex bathroom. I’m almost there. I can feel a little pee just barely slip out, my body desperate and in anticipation. I can barely detect the slightest wetness in the Lycra. GOD, I MUST PEE!!! A few seconds more, I realize, and a hot stream of pee will be escaping my body, relief at last. A few more seconds. An older guy leaves the bathroom, maybe a professor or something, meaning I’m next. I’m about to explode in my dress, dying inside, burning, and I head towards the door. I’m about to go inside when I feel a hand on my shoulder. I turn around, almost shaking from having to go, and you’re standing there, a smile on your face. “Come back to the table for a few minutes,” you say. I look at you, the screaming pressure building inside of me, and think you’re nuts. “What? I really need to go pee, I’ve been holding it while I was skating,” I say, pressing my legs together, squeezing my muscles, feeling that miniscule drop of pee escape, not even enough to cause a big stain but enough to know I’m on the edge, about to bust. I’m burning inside, my bladder rippling with tension. “I know,” you reply, smiling. “Just come on back. Just for a few minutes. Please?” I look at you, your nipples fully erect now under your white camisole. I’m excited, and for some strange reason, even though my bladder is yelling at me loudly, I follow you back to the table, as desperate as I’ve ever been to take a pee. I’m curious what you want so badly that I ignore all common sense and follow you back to the table– my bladder agonized at having to hold back a little while longer. It really, really stings now.
I pull the chair out from the table and sit down. My legs are pressed together and I adjust my dress so the few inches of fabric that can cover my crotch cover it a little. I really need to pee. “What?” I ask, trembling inside, my bladder violently throbbing. “Did you ever play hold it?” you ask. “Hold it? Like trying to see who can hold their pee the longest before they rush to the bathroom?” I reply. You answer that is exactly what you meant. I’m interested. You seem to be interested in seeing me very desperate. I’m very interested in wondering if I can have wild sex with you this evening, since I have nothing planned, but I’m not going to tell you that yet. I’m sitting here, totally about to pee all over everything, but for some reason the look on your face makes me decide to play along. I don’t know why. Maybe the thrill of trying to hold back the ocean inside my bladder is exciting me, I don’t know. But wow, I really, really, really need to pee. I’m not sure why I’m doing this, I think, so I squeeze my legs together, tightly, trying to make the tension go away.
“Ok, but I have to go like really, really badly. What about you?”
“I have to pee, but not as bad as you. But maybe after I drink some water,” you laugh; drinking from the bottle you bought. You continue. “I want to see how long you can hold it. I find it interesting. Some woman can hold their pee for days, others get into situations.” “Yea, I’m probably like the last,” I reply, interested. “I don’t know how long I can play your game,” I giggle, “because I almost had an accident when you touched me!”
“I know– I saw you squirming when you walked over here. How much did you drink?” you ask. “Hmmm, a quart of water right before I got on the ice, I think, and then probably some other stuff before.”
“Wow, you’re not even full then. I think you should drink your iced tea now,” you laugh, pushing over the tall glass over to me. You’re obviously very much excited to see me at a point where I’m about to burst. I don’t know why you are doing this, but I go along. I drink the iced tea, slowly, while you talk. You ask why I’m ice–skating. I’m not 15, I’m not training for the Olympics, and I’m not a pro. You wonder. “I just like doing it. I used to take ballet when I was younger, and gymnastics too, but I never got to take skating. I know like I’m not going to be a pro or be in competition, but it’s fun.” You admire me for the courage. Not many girls take up ice–skating at age 22, you say. I ask how you knew my age, and you mention you just guessed. I really, really, really need to pee, but you’re so obviously flirting with me I hold on. Somehow. My legs are pressed together, tight. I can see you look down when we’re talking and you glance at my legs, at my ice skating dress barely covering me, as I sit totally desperate in the chair, in the back of this coffee house where you won’t let me use the stupid bathroom. I’m so close to wetting my pants it’s not funny. I don’t even think you realize how badly I need to go, how incredibly hard it is to sit there, my bladder sending waves of pressure through me, the familiar stinging pain from having to pee so incredibly, the torture of having to clench my muscles to keep from spraying my pee all over the chair I’m sitting in. I need to pee. GOD I need to pee. But I sit there and have a few more sips of iced tea. I’m almost done with the glass, and it’s not helping my situation any. You notice my desperation, and a smile never leaves your face. You’re drinking water too, but I don’t think you need to use the bathroom anywhere as badly as I do. I clutch myself as I fight back a huge wave of pee pressure, barely able to contain the waterfall inside. I relax after the wave passes, the stinging sensation within my crotch stronger now than ever before. “I really need to go!” I plead, starting to beg. “You can hold it. Just a little while longer. You can always hold it more than you need to,” you tell me. I moan, trying to keep from peeing in the chair. It would feel so good to let it out, to relax my muscles; that I almost think about just doing it in the chair. I have to pee so badly I almost don’t care if someone sees me do it. “I don’t know. I’m not sure.” I squeal. Your nipples get excited again. You’ve taken your sweater off and you look nice in your camisole– especially with no bra. I’m excited but I’m angry. I want to make YOU feel this desperate, I want to see YOU squirm in your seat, but you’re relaxed and I’m like a little girl whose teacher told her she had to hold it for a test. I’m dying, about to burst, and you’re comfortable. But I’m feeling like a horny little tomboy now, the pressure from my bladder down below driving me crazy and my eyes wandering as I wonder what you’d be like in my bedroom, hugging me and holding me after we explore each other. I’m lonely, and I like the attention. And I NEED TO USE A BATHROOM NOW!!!!
“Have you ever peed yourself?” you get up the courage to ask bluntly. I giggle, almost releasing a spray into the Lycra trunks hugging my mound. “Um, yea, a couple of times,” I reply nervously, my bladder violently throbbing again, my pee on the edge of my urethra, about to explode outward into the world, trapped inside. “Really, what happened?” you ask, very curious. “Um,” I pause, trying to hold back the wave of pressure. I almost explode into my trunks, almost soak the seat, but somehow I hold back the intense rush of pain that overcame me. The iced tea may have added to my discomfort. “Um, I had to go real bad in gymnastics once, and I ended up peeing all over myself in front of everyone, made a big puddle on the mat.” I giggle, remembering that day. “Wow,” you say, shifting your weight. I wonder if you have to pee badly too. I ask you the same question. “Have you ever peed YOUR pants?” You reply that you had, you were in a meeting at work once, and next thing you knew you were scrambling in your chair and soaked your business suit, pee running all over your skirt, rushing to the floor, and everybody could hear the sizzling noise as you wet on yourself. I’m amazed at how hot that sounds, and I stand up in panic. Your story and my insane bladder have brought me to the very edge. I really can’t hold it any longer and need to go pee. Immediately. “I gotta go, I’m serious, I can’t hold it any longer,” I yell impatiently. I need to pee so bad I can feel it starting to slip. You giggle. “I’m serious,” I beg, standing there. The skating dress doesn’t completely cover my crotch, my light blue frost colored trunks hug my body tightly, my pubic mound clearly defined by the tight Lycra fabric. My legs are pacing up and down, my body at the very edge of desperation, my face scrunched up, my forehead sweating, the pulsating pressure inside me about to release. I stand there, tapping my feet, asking permission to go. You’re immensely excited. You laugh and tell me I can hold it for another minute. You look at your watch. I’m dying inside. “No, I really can’t. Please, please, please I gotta go pee!!!” I beg, totally like a child, whiny and crying, about to have an accident. I feel a huge wave of pressure overcome me. “Pl uh please…” I beg, my bladder SCREAMS at me. “Oh GOD. I gotta, got gotta PEEEE”, I beg, totally desperate, on the absolute edge of insanity now. You giggle. A few people in the coffee shop look over at me, very obviously totally desperate now. The pressure increases, my urethra feels swollen, and my trunks press tightly against my swollen womanhood, my body puffy from the water. An immense wave starts to build. “Oh no. Please, please…” I beg. You look at your watch, put your hand up, like to say, “stop.” I try to hold it. I’m clutching the edges of my skating skirt, tense with agony. The wave reaches me, I can’t control. I squawk like an injured bird, a little shriek leaves me mouth, high pitched. A small burst of pee escapes my clenched lips– a small wet mark appears on my trunks. You notice. You see the wet mark spread as I pee for barely a second into my clothes. I’m totally desperate, still standing there, waiting for your permission to use the bathroom. I’m starting to lose control, I NEED you to let me use the bathroom. “Ooh GOD. PLEASE let me use the bathroom!!” I beg. Another spurt. The wet mark grows. It’s two inches now, and it’s obvious to you that I’m starting to pee in my trunks. I’m not wearing any panties underneath. It’s the tight Lycra fabric hugging my bare swollen crotch, and I’m losing the battle. The wetness is obvious. I can barely hold on. I rush both my hands between my legs, one finger pressing hard against my pee hole through the wet fabric, the pressure building even further. I’m sweating, my long dark hair feels sticky against my shoulders, my size 5 body is trembling in fright, I’m slowly peeing myself and you’re NOT letting me go to the restroom!! “OH no…” I squeal, pushing against my pee hole even harder. You move your chair; you’re closer to me. I can’t hold on. The next wave of pressure overtakes me. I pee uncontrollably into my pants for three seconds; a strong jet of hot pee rushes out, flooding my fingers, soaking through the thin Lycra fabric, soaking my hands. I somehow manage to stop. I take my hands away and you see a large wet area on my crotch. I pee again and you see a little spurt come through the shiny fabric, the pee darkening the light blue color. I instinctively rush my hands between my legs again, pressing hard. I somehow hold it back, but another wave comes by. I can’t hold it again. I pee into my hands again; this time pee drips down. I let go, and two small trickles of my pee roll down my legs, the insides of my thighs tremble as I feel the warm droplets roll slowly down my legs. I’m dying inside. I look at you. I know I can’t make it. “I. I. um I can’t hold it. I can’t make it to the bathroom! What can I do?” I ask, pleading, whining, BEGGING in fear. My hands relax, moving away, exposing my wet crotch to you, and everyone in the store. I take my hands and move my hair away from my sweaty forehead. I’m trembling in fear, in pain, in absolute desperation. My body can no longer control my bladder. I stand there, hands in my hair, looking down at my crotch, my body shaking, the pressure VIOLENT, intense pain shooting through me, my urethra burning, and I slowly start to pee, but I manage to stop the flow again. I look up, unable to move, frozen in desperation. The empty bathroom is a short walk away, but it’s too late. I look at you, tears in my eyes, completely desperate. I look down. A wave overtakes me and I shake violently. I can’t hold it. “No, NOOO. Oh GODDD,” I squeal, wailing like a little girl. I have to pee so much more than I did when I wet myself in gymnastics I can’t believe it.
It’s too much for me to handle. I look down. My hands are in my hair still. It’s too late. I start peeing into my skating dress. Jet after jet of hot streaming pee gushes from my pee hole– the pee flowing in torrents through the tight blue Lycra fabric of my trunks. Pee explodes out of me, running down both legs, my inner thigh soaked, my Nikes soaked, a puddle on the floor. I stand there and pee for almost a minute, pee rushing out of me like a hose, the feeling of relief coming over me. I can’t believe how badly I needed to use the bathroom, and I’m at once both mortified by my embarrassment and excited over the incredible feeling I’m experiencing. I sit back down in the chair. You look at me. I sit with my legs apart a little, and I finish peeing into my dress, my pee exploding out once again, a puddle forming in the chair between my legs, pee streaming off the edge of the chair, my butt soaked I sit in a puddle. It’s warm, and very wet. I giggle as I stand up again. Pee runs down me and off my skating dress. The small portion that actually almost covers my body is now dark with pee wetness. I finish peeing, the last thirty seconds I do standing up, my trunks now completely soaked, my legs shiny with my hot pee, the floor a mess. Pee streams straight out of me, through my trunks to the floor, streams running down my legs, the insides of my legs shiny in the sunset light streaming in the shop windows.
I’ve just totally wet myself in a short skating dress in a popular coffee shop!!! You giggle, obviously excited about what just happened. I’m in a faint of sorts. I’m dizzy. I’m SO embarrassed but the feeling of peeing in those tight trunks was incredibly exciting. I feel embarrassed and silly for even thinking it. It felt so good to just PEE– that release after I was unable to hold it any longer. I want you badly. I want to feel you, to touch you, to hold and hug you. I want you to explore my wetness. I want to make YOU pee. I’m going crazy.
You want to pee in your jeans too, but I tell YOU to hold on. We walk out of the shop, people staring at me as I walk by, legs shiny with my pee, my dress dark and soaking wet, pee droplets still dripping from it. My butt is soaked where I sat in my own pee puddle, and pee spots mark our footsteps as we leave. I give you directions to my apartment, and tell you it’s YOUR turn to hold it. You can– NOT pee yourself. You whine, your bladder is getting full, and you need to go. But you comply. You follow me to my apartment. Luckily no other tenant sees us dash up the stairs into my place. I’m not wearing much clothing and I’ve peed in it, and I’m sure at least twenty people have seen me soaking pee wet. But I don’t care. I’m so excited I can’t stand it. I want to feel you, to touch you, to hold you. My mind is crazed. We dash inside. You have to pee so badly I can tell you want to go immediately to the bathroom. But it’s my turn to make you wait. I run to the refrigerator; grab two quarts of water and give one to you. I guzzle one while you guzzle the other. You’re dying to pee, squirming. I can tell you want to just go. By this time my second pee has arrived. I’m dying inside, and you’re about to explode in your jeans. I take you to the bed. I take a pair of scarves and tie you up to the bedposts, just your hands. You’re dying to pee, and I take your jeans off for you. I’m still in my skating dress, too excited to take it off. You’re wearing white panties, bikinis, and you have to go really badly. I’m dying inside too, but not as badly as you. I touch your nipples through your camisole, and while you moan I run my fingers down your belly, suddenly pressing hard against your bladder. You scream, and you almost pee. I trace the edges of your panties with my fingers, playfully putting my fingers inside of the top edge, stroking your soft skin, and then I press down HARD again. You scream and start peeing. I watch for a second as you uncontrollably have an accident while tied up in my bed. You pee into your panties and I watch the dampness spread, but then I can’t take it any longer. I touch where you are peeing, feeling your hot stream as it comes out of you, your underwear flooding with hot urine. I kiss your underwear, first up where you’re dry, feeling your pubic hair through the soft cotton fabric. You let loose a long stream of pee, and I caress your mound and then take my tongue and explore you, through your wet panties, forcing your soaked underwear inside of you with my tongue, pee streaming out, and I start sucking your wet pee as you urinate into your panties. I can’t take it, so I move your panties to the side. I’m in a rush, I should be slower but I’m so hot it’s driving me crazy watching you pee on yourself. I rapidly kiss your mound, working slowly down until I’m over your pee hole. You pee one last spurt for me, and my tongue caresses your pee hole as you pee into my mouth, the hot salty liquid glory to my senses. I explore further, my tongue darting quickly and then slowly inside of you, as you violently shake with pleasure, and within minutes I’m inside of you with my tongue, probing deeper and deeper, my fingers roaming softly through the thatch of your public hair, massaging you as my tongue takes over. You moan, you pee another spurt, and as I explore further, probing deeper and quicker, you climax, orgasm exploding as I probe, as I touch, as I explore. You feel faint, the corners of the room go into a blur, I pleasure you until you nearly see gray. You scream in pleasure, thrashing, still restrained, your back tense as you orgasm violently. Sweat beads are all over you. But now I have to pee. That water hits me. I have to violently pee so badly I’m about to explode. My weakened bladder and muscles have made me so much more desperate than before. I rip off your camisole violently, exposing your nipples and breasts to me. I’ve been fantasizing about your breasts for the past hour, I must play, I must explore. I take off my skating dress but leave my pee soaked trunks on. I move closely to your face. You touch my mound with you tongue– it’s warm with excitement. I start to pee a little onto your tongue, but then stop. You reach out with your tongue; you’re still restrained and can’t move far. I love the feeling as you brush against my soaked womanhood. I move away. I move so my trunks are right over your nipples– your right nipple, my left. I squat down so your nipple, fully erect, barely brushes against the pee soaked trunks. I release, pee explodes through my trunks, and I press my trunks onto your nipple as pee flows through the Lycra and floods your breast. I stop peeing, barely able to do so. You’re moaning with excitement. I take off my trunks, naked now, my bladder screaming at me, wanting to finish, and I place my neatly trimmed public mound over your nipple. I bring myself down, my lips over your nipple. I move, pressing my peehole close to your nipple, you’re pulsating in the bed, arms tied, in excitement. I can’t hold back and I pee as hard as I can, pee gushing out of me, sizzling as it hits your nipple full force, the hot pee running over your breast. I pee on your breast, my pee hole just fractions of an inch away from your nipple as my hard hot stream jets out of me full force onto your erect nipple, and you’re screaming in excitement as my hot pee floods over you. I go for a minute, but save my last streams. You’re moaning. I move down, aiming my mound over yours, and I rip off your panties. I have to still pee very badly. I touch your exposed breasts as you groan in pleasure. I let loose my last streams of pee onto your mound, my pee spraying against your fine pubic hair, then I aim lower and soak your inner most self with my pee, pressing body against body, pee exploding. You have to pee again, and you pee as well, our pees colliding as we touch. We grind, and as we pee on each other you moan, rapidly building excitement again. I finger you this time, probing your wet insides, brushing both your tortured red pee hole and your deepest places. I bring you once again to orgasm, you scream violently, and then I rip your scarves off and you rapidly turn me over onto my back and explore me with your fingers, with your tongue. I pee a little as you explore me. You violently and somewhat roughly force your tongue inside of me. I climax, orgasm to the heights of mountains, and scream loudly as it’s my turn. The lights seem brighter and I pee as you touch me with our tongue, pressing into me, exploring, feeling my wetness. I love being wet, I think as I almost faint.
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We hug. My dark hair, matted with sweat and pee is everywhere. You hold me tightly; the warmth of your body feels so good. I’m not so lonely anymore. I feel loved. You breathe softly. I have to go to the bathroom again, badly. While you hug me I whisper that next time I want to be humiliated more, that peeing on myself in the shop turned me on. You mumble something in reply. I smile. I think, wow, I’m 22 years old, and I just peed myself in public and don’t care because I’ve had the best wet sex I’ve ever had. We lay still, the warmth of your breath against my naked back. Your hands curl under my breasts, holding me. Finally I can’t hold my pee, my body has been through too much. As we drift off into sleep together, I wet the bed, the warmth flowing freely from me, flooding the sheets on the bed, the wet puddle spreading through the sheets as we sleep. My mound tingles as the warm wetness arouses and excites me. We both smile. Sleep overtakes both of us, wet, but satisfied.
By: Gillian