Lucy's Experiment

Lucy drew the bedroom curtains, switched on the answer phone, and placed her new purchase on the bed. Then she guiltily took off her dress and hung it up in the wardrobe. Next she kicked off her shoes. Finally she took off her knickers and bra, and dropped them in the laundry basket in the en–suite. When she was totally naked, she nervously picked up her new purchase. It was a pair of light blue knickers with a floral print pattern.
She stepped into the knickers and quickly pulled them up; then she stood in front of the mirror on her wardrobe door, and studied her reflection intently. She looked much as she remembered looking that dreadful day, 15 years ago, when she had last worn a pair of knickers with a floral pattern. Up until a week ago, she had tried desperately to suppress the memories of that day; and knickers with flowers on them were bound to remind her of it, so she had taken care never to wear flowery knickers ever since.
It had been a bright, sunny Tuesday in late May. The seventeenth, it would have been, because it was Amy’s birthday party that evening, and Amy’s birthday was the seventeenth of May. Amy had been Lucy’s best friend at primary school. Amy had worn her best clothes for Lucy’s 8th birthday party three months earlier, and Lucy was going to repay the compliment by wearing all her best clothes for Amy’s 8th birthday party. And that included her best knickers, which were light blue with a floral print. She’d really loved those knickers when she was 8, in the way that only 8 years olds can and often do.
Now, 15 years later, Lucy could remember it as clearly as though it was yesterday. When she went to get dressed in the morning she couldn’t find her best knickers. She’d searched high and low, eventually pulling all the drawers out of her chest of drawers. Only then did she find that they had fallen down the back of the drawers. She’d hurriedly put them on, then scrambled her way into her school uniform dress, and rushed downstairs for breakfast. Her mother scolded her that she’d be late for school, so rather than take time eating her usual breakfast of toast and marmite, she’d just downed a glass of fruit juice and a cup of tea, then dashed out of the back door. Without going to the toilet first. And without picking up her PE kit, which she needed because they had PE first thing on a Tuesday morning.
The result of all this had been that she’d had to do PE in just her knickers – her best knickers – and that with all that fluid sloshing around inside her she’d ended up wetting herself half way through the lesson. All the rest of the class had stared at her in amazement because it was over two years since anybody else had had an accident at school. And she remembered wishing that the ground would open up and swallow her.
She had been absolutely mortified, and had tried to banish the memory of her embarrassment ever since – until, that is, last week. To help her forget her humiliation, she never again wore the knickers that she had wet; and once she had outgrown them she made sure that she never even owned another pair of knickers with a floral print.
So what happened last week to change all of that? Would you be surprised if I were to tell you that at the age of 23, she had an accident?
It was her very own fault, of course. She was in too much of a hurry, and hadn’t been paying attention closely enough. She’d allowed herself to get too close to the car in front, and when it had to brake sharply, she didn’t react quickly enough. The front end of her lovely VW Beetle was totally stove in, and she knew right away that she was not going to be able to drive it away from the scene of the accident. (She also realized that, when her insurance renewal fell due next month, she wouldn’t now be getting her protected No Claims Bonus after all … but that’s another story.) So she got out her mobile phone, and rang for the RAC.
The other car was not too badly damaged, and was in fact able to be driven away. So, she was left by herself standing on the hard shoulder of the motorway, beside her wrecked car, waiting for the RAC to arrive. She began to feel the urge to go to the toilet. She looked around to see whether there was anywhere that she could duck behind a bush, but bushes are few and far between on the hard shoulder of the M6 in Birmingham. The simple fact of the matter was that there was nowhere at all that she could go for a pee. She was just going to have to wait.
So she waited. And she sat on the crash barrier and crossed her legs. Then she crossed them the other way. Then she got up and paced about a bit, but that only made it worse. So she sat down again. But that made it worse too. So she got up again.
Then she remembered how, when she’d been a little girl and on the point of wetting herself, she’d sometimes managed to delay the inevitable by holding herself between her legs. The inevitable had always happened, of course – such is the nature of inevitability. But she’d been able to postpone it. And if she could postpone it now, then the RAC might turn up, and she might be able to hold on until they got to a toilet. So she discretely put a hand between her legs and held herself. And it did ease the urgency.
But it’s impossible to be that discreet on the hard shoulder of the M6 in Birmingham. A passing minibus sounded its horn; and somebody leered out of a side window at her and made a suggestive gesture. And she decided that maybe holding herself wasn’t such a good idea after all. So she took her hand away. And instantly regretted it, because the moment she released the pressure, a little jet of pee came spurting out, making her knickers ever so slightly damp. She’d managed to contain the rest of her pee, but she desperately wanted to hold herself again. And she would have done, indiscreet or not, were it not for the fact that she feared that if she did, the wet patch in her knickers would transfer itself to her skirt.
So she paced about a little bit more, debating how best to ease the mounting discomfort in her bladder. But before she finally resolved that particular conundrum, the RAC arrived. And to her very great surprise the RAC mechanic was called Jane. And Jane was a woman. So Lucy felt bold enough to explain her predicament.
“Jane,” she said, “I’m absolutely bursting for a pee. So can you get my car onto the back of the truck as quickly as possible, and pull in at the first services so that I can go to the toilet?”
“I’ll do what I can, duck,” Jane had replied, “but I’ve got to do this safely. It’ll take about 15 minutes to get the car loaded and secured and all the mess cleared from the road; then the first services are about half an hour away. Do you think you can wait for three quarters of an hour longer?”
“I’m not sure I can, you know,” replied Lucy. Then, as another spasm shot through her bladder, and another little jet of pee leaked out into her knickers, she went on “in fact, I’m pretty sure I can’t.”
This had her really worried now. What was she going to do?
“In that case,” said Jane, doing a quick survey of the damage to Lucy’s car and marking it all down on a sheet of paper which she had on a clipboard, “it looks as though you’re going to end up wetting yourself, and the only question is where and when.”
“Noo,” wailed Lucy, “there must be another alternative?”
“What alternative?” asked Jane in a matter–of–fact sort of voice, passing Lucy her survey sheet and indicating where she should sign to agree that her car had been damaged as shown before the RAC put it on their recovery truck. “Either you can wait three quarters of an hour, in which case I can get you to a loo before you wet yourself; or you can’t, in which case you’re going to wet yourself before I can get you to a loo.”
Another spasm brought with it another jet of warm pee. The gusset of her knickers was already saturated, and this one began to trickle down the inside of Lucy’s thigh. It felt ever so slightly erotic; and Lucy found herself wishing that she could find a boyfriend who knew how to make her tingle all over in quite the same way that this little trickle of pee was doing. She bit her lip and focused on her straining bladder. Three quarters of an hour? Was it possible?
Not in a month of Sundays, she realized, as another little leak took her completely by surprise, and another little trickle of pee ran down her leg.
“No – there’s no way I can wait three quarters of an hour,” said Lucy.
“In that case,” said Jane, “I think it’s probably best that you don’t wet yourself in the cab of my truck, so can you do it here please?”
“What?” asked Lucy.
“It’s quite simple, really,” said Jane. “You’re wearing a skirt, so if you’re careful you should be able to wet your knickers and not mark the rest of your clothing. I used to do that all the time when I was little. Still do sometimes, if I’m taken short with no loos in sight. I’m sure you must have done too. You don’t even need to leave a tell–tale puddle on the edge of the road if you stand here, in the pool of water that your broken radiator has dumped.”
Lucy was reluctant – but she realized that Jane was right, and she really didn’t have any option. Her knickers were going to end up wet no matter what. It was only a question of where, and when, and how. And of course, minimizing the damage. Which was best done, as Jane had pointed out, by wetting standing up, which would not mark her skirt.
So, while Jane loaded the damaged Beetle onto the truck, Lucy stood in the pool of radiator water, with her feet slightly apart, and tried to wet her knickers. Only to find that she couldn’t. Which was a little ridiculous, she thought, as it was only a moment before that she had been trying desperately not to wet her knickers, and finding that she couldn’t do that either. It was a toilet training thing, she realized: so deeply ingrained was the desire not to wet her knickers that, even though she knew it was going to happen soon anyway, still she couldn’t find a way to make it happen sooner rather than later.
She was still standing there, dry but for the few leaks and dribbles that had happened against her will before she started trying to wet her knickers, when Jane came and said “OK – I’m ready to go. Are you?”
“I’m afraid not,” replied Lucy, somewhat sheepishly. “I still haven’t wet myself, I’m afraid.”
(“Afraid??? What a peculiar reaction to the fact that I haven’t wet myself,” she thought and giggled a little, nervous, self–conscious giggle.)
“Hmmm,” said Jane. “And you’re really sure you can’t hold on for another half an hour?”
“Positive,” said Lucy. “Once I’m in that cab, I reckon I’ll be wet within five minutes.”
“Common enough problem, I’m afraid, the first few times you try to wet on purpose,” said Jane. “I guess I’d better see what I can do to help you.”
“How?” said Lucy, a little alarmed.
“Well,” said Jane, “when did you last wet your knickers?”
“When I was eight,” replied Lucy, cringing inwardly at the memory, her cheeks turning a fiery hot red as the embarrassment and humiliation of that day returned to her once again.
“Fine,” said Jane. “And can you remember the occasion clearly?”
“Like it was yesterday,” said Lucy.
“Good,” said Jane. “And can you remember how it felt just when you finally found you couldn’t hold on any longer.”
“I think so,” said Lucy. “I’d been holding it back and holding it back, and it was really hurting. And I didn’t want it to hurt any more so I just sort of … gave up, and let it happen. I stopped trying to stop it happen, and just gave in to it.”
“Then just give in to it again. Now. Stop trying to stop it happening, Lucy.”
Lucy closed her eyes and tried to recall the moment. Standing there on the rounders field, waiting her turn to go in to bat, wearing nothing but her knickers – light blue with floral print. Finally giving in– stopping holding back. The girl behind her suddenly giggling and saying “Please Miss, I think Lucy’s piddling herself.” The hot flush of shame. All these memories came back to her. And something else came, too. She wasn’t just imagining, remembering, the feeling of the warm pee washing around her bottom. That was real. She was finally, really, peeing in her knickers. Aged 23. And she just stood there and let it happen.
“Finished?”
She looked up and saw Jane. She blushed even more furiously than before; as she realized that this total stranger had just witnessed her wet herself, standing on the hard shoulder of the M6. It was something that only little girls ought to do … but she’d just done it at the age of 23. She felt … actually, now she came to think about it, she didn’t feel ashamed and humiliated. She scarcely felt embarrassed. She actually felt … well, a little bit thrilled. Excited. Her warm, wet bottom actually felt … nice!
“I’ve put a towel down on the passenger seat,” said Jane. “Just be sure you lift your skirt right up round your waist so it doesn’t get wet.”
“Or I could take it off altogether,” suggested Lucy. “It’s a wrap–around, and it’d only be the work of a moment to unwrap it.”
“Good idea,” said Jane.
So Lucy climbed into the cab of the RAC truck and took off her skirt, then sat down on the towel–covered passenger seat. Her wet knickers would be clearly visible to anybody with a high vantage point – that is to say, the drivers of any lorries they overtook – so she put both hands in her lap and draped her skirt over the top of them, carefully making sure that her hands held the skirt fabric clear of the wet fabric of her knickers.
As they drove, from time to time a jolt would cause one of her hands to brush ever so lightly against the front of her knickers, between her legs. And every time this happened she felt a little buzz of excitement – sexual excitement – pass through her body. It wasn’t long before she was silently willing Jane to drive through potholes in order to provide extra jolts. And soon after that she allowed one hand to rest lightly but permanently against the front of her wet knickers.
This was followed by a little light stroking; then firmer stroking; until finally she put her hand down inside the front of her knickers, and experimentally slipped first one finger, then another, inside herself. It felt so good that she was soon totally absorbed in what she was doing. Aware of nothing but the intensity of her own sexual needs.
She didn’t notice that the skirt had slipped from her lap to the floor– or that they had arrived outside her house. Nor that Jane had stopped the engine of the truck, and was now watching her masturbating with one hand thrust down the front of the sodden knickers in which she had had her most recent accident less than an hour before. She was aware of nothing but the intensity of the orgasm that now wracked her body. Then she collapsed back, panting, into the passenger seat’s warm embrace.
After a moment or two, Jane spoke. “Come on, Lucy. Time to put your skirt back on duck, you’re home.”
“Mmmmm.”
“I know, I know. They’re always much more intense when you’re wet. But you’ve got to get out of the truck now. I’ve another accident to attend to.”
Well, that had been last week. And ever since, Jane’s words had played on her mind: “They’re always much more intense when you’re wet.” And every day she’d tried to wet herself again. And every day she’d failed. Overcome by the deeply ingrained instinct to avoid wetting her knickers, and the fact that she’d always been trying at home, where it was never far to a toilet.
But she’d also remembered Jane’s method of getting her to wet her knickers by encouraging her to recall the last occasion she’d done so. And she’d promised herself that, come the weekend, she’d re–enact her entire childhood accident– right from beginning to humiliating end. All the other characters would have to be supplied by her imagination, of course. And her garden would have to stand in for the school playground. But that apart, the re–enactment would be as nearly perfect as she could make it.
She’d spent ages trying to find a pair of light blue floral print knickers, which looked almost identical to her favorite pair, back then when she was eight. And she’d spent the morning filling herself up with fruit juice and tea, and remembering not to go to the toilet. So now she felt desperate enough to play the game she had been planning all week. In her imagination, the conversation began.
Teacher: Now everybody, hurry up and get changed for PE.
Lucy: Please Miss– I’ve forgotten to bring my PE kit with me.
Teacher: Then you’ll just have to do it in your knickers, won’t you Lucy?
Lucy: Do I have to, Miss?
Teacher: You know the rules, Lucy. If you forget your PE kit, you do PE in your knickers. If you don’t want the boys to see your knickers, you have to remember to bring your kit.
Fifteen years ago, of course, Lucy had skulked off to the cloakrooms and tried to hide, hoping the teacher wouldn’t notice she was missing. But the teacher had noticed; and had come and fetched her, standing over her while she took her dress off, and leading her reluctantly out into the playground. Now, however, the whole idea of the game was to go out in just her knickers and to wet herself. She had to relive the event– and then … well, who knew where it might lead?
So Lucy picked up the rounders bat she had bought that morning at Toys R Us and headed out into her garden with an aching bladder, wearing nothing but her new light blue floral–print knickers and smiling with anticipated lust.
By: Indigo