The Water Babe

“Punting on the Cam is jolly fun they say,” said Helen, taking the last slice of pizza from the box.
“Jolly fun,” mimicked Andy. “When did you start talking like that?”
“I didn’t,” said Helen. “I was quoting a song. Don’t you know it?”
“No,” said Andy, popping the cork on the bottle of cheap sparkling white wine.
“Garden Party. Marillion,” she prompted.
“Never heard of it, or them. And anyway, we’re not going punting on the Cam. We’re going punting on the Granta.”
“I thought there was only one river in Cambridge,” mumbled Helen through a mouthful of dough, tomato, cheese, pepperoni, mushrooms, and peppers.
“There is,” said Andy, taking a swig of wine and passing the bottle to Helen. “And it changes name at that weir over there. Below the weir is the Cam. Above it is the Granta or Rhee.”
Helen swallowed the last of the pizza and took a mouthful of wine.
“So why aren’t we going on the Cam?”
“Because I want to show you Byron’s Pool,” said Andy. “Still in the lonely midnight waters cool / His ghostly lordship swims the pool / and tries the strokes, essays the tricks / Long learned on Hellespont, or Styx.”
“You what?” said Helen.
“I was quoting a poem,” said Andy. “Don’t you know it?”
“No.” Helen shook her head and took another swig of wine.
“Rupert Brooke,” said Andy.
“Never heard of him.”
“The Old Vicarage, Grantchester.”
“Never heard of it.”
“It’s where Jeffrey Archer lives when he’s not in prison,” said Andy, despairingly.
“Oh, I’ve heard of him.”
“You really are a Philistine, aren’t you?” teased Andy.
“You’re the one who thinks showing a girl a good time means sharing a takeaway pizza and a bottle of cheap wine,” retorted Helen.
“Yeah well,” said Andy, “punt hire ain’t exactly cheap, you know.”
“Yeah well,” mimicked Helen.
Knowing Andy and Helen, this scintillating intellectual discussion could have carried on all afternoon if other events hadn’t intervened. But other events did intervene. They had now arrived at the head of the queue; so Andy paid his deposit and took the ticket round to the landing stage where the boatman offered him a heavy, 16–foot wooden punt pole.
Andy shook his head. “That one’s too furry. Haven’t you got one in better condition?”
The boatman offered a second pole, and again Andy shook his head. Then he cast his eye over the stack of waiting poles and pointed to another.
“I’ll take that one.” The boatman passed Andy the pole he had indicated and Andy walked deftly out along a waiting punt to the platform at the far end of the vessel, where he stood and waited for Helen. The punt rocked gently from side to side as he walked along it.
“It looks a little unstable,” said Helen.
“It’s fine,” said Andy. “Just step onto the platform, walk along the center line, and plonk yourself down on one of the cushions facing me.”
“You have such a way with words, Andy,” said Helen. “Plonk myself down indeed!”
The boatman took Helen’s elbow and steadied her as she stepped hesitantly out onto the platform. The punt rocked alarmingly, and she jumped forward and fell into a tumbled heap on the plastic–covered cushions in the middle of the vessel, narrowly avoiding spilling the wine as she did so. She had just started to sort herself out and sit herself up, when the punt gave another great lurch as the boatman pushed it off and out into the river. Then a third lurch came which toppled her into a flailing heap of arms and legs as Andy skillfully dug the pole deep into the mud at the bottom of the river and brought the motion of the vessel under control.
It was a bright sunny day in mid July, and Helen was wearing one of her short summer dresses. She liked teasing and tantalizing the boys with these dresses, giving them the impression that if they kept watching long enough they might catch a glimpse of her knickers; but she seldom if ever allowed them such a glimpse. As she sorted herself out and sat herself back up, however, she realized that she must have shown just about everything she’d got to just about anyone who was watching, including Andy, so there was little point in playing coy and dignified now. Instead she decided to adopt Plan B: that morning she’d carefully chosen matching coral pink knickers and bra, which could easily pass as a bikini, so she casually took her dress off and lay back on the cushion.
“Lovely day,” she murmured. “I think I’ll soak up a bit of the sun and improve my tan.”
“Be my guest,” said Andy, wondering to himself whether that really was a bikini she was wearing, or whether it was just ordinary knickers and a bra.
Andy certainly knew how to punt, Helen realized as they made steady progress up the river. During the first twenty minutes or so they passed punt after punt of clueless tourists, screaming and yelling and ramming one another as they struggled to control the unfamiliar and unwieldy craft. Yet never once did they collide with any of these tourists. With a deft flick of his wrists, Andy steered his own punt away from them and around them. She also noticed that the inexperienced punters seemed to shower their passengers with river water every time they lifted the pole; yet in twenty minutes she had not suffered so much as a splash.
“You’re good at this,” she said appreciatively, as she drained the last of the wine.
“I’ve told you,” Andy replied, “I had a misspent youth.”
“Will you teach me?”
“If you like,” he replied. “Come up onto the deck here and stand in front of me.”
Helen stood up, and the punt immediately lurched over to one side. Andy easily absorbed the rolling motion by flexing his knees, but in her slightly drunken state Helen nearly toppled over the side of the punt.
“Oops,” she said, sitting heavily back down again. “Maybe not now. Tell you what – I’ll try again a bit later, when there are fewer people looking.”
And so they continued up the river for another half an hour or so; gradually the number of other vessels they encountered dwindled until it seemed theirs was the only punt on the river, and as they left Cambridge behind them the crowds of people on the riverbanks steadily thinned out too.
When they had been on the river for perhaps an hour, Helen began to be aware that the wine she had been drinking was rapidly making its way into her bladder. And once she’d noticed it, she also began to realize that it was building up there at an alarming rate. She was also feeling somewhat tipsy, having consumed, as she now realized, by far the greater part of the bottle of wine. Perhaps because of this she wasn’t all that concerned about the signals she was receiving from her bladder. After all, she reasoned, Andy must have realized that she’d need to go to the loo at some point, and doubtless he had it all under control.
So she settled back into the cushions and grinned up at Andy. She watched the steady, rhythmic sway of his body as he lifted the pole to its full height, threw it down into the murky waters and shoved against the riverbed to give them forward momentum. She listed to the steady watery slap – slap – slap under the bows of the punt as it fought its way up against the current and the gentle gurgling hiss of the current as it flowed down past the sides of the punt. As she did so she became uncomfortably aware of the building pressure in her bladder again, and no matter how hard she tried to concentrate on other things instead– the sounds of the river kept bringing it back into the forefront of her mind.
She really did need to go to the toilet, she realized, subconsciously crossing her legs.
“Andy,” she said. “How much further is it now?”
“We’re a little over half way there, I reckon.”
“Oh,” she said, a little over half way there? As in, still about an hour of hissing, gurgling, slapping water noises to make her bladder uncomfortable? She’d never make it. She was going to have to find a toilet first. She hated to admit her weakness to Andy; but the choices seemed to be either asking him to find her a toilet or wet herself. And however unthinkable the first one seemed, the second was even more so.
And yet… and yet…
She REALLY didn’t want to ask him. It wasn’t a subject she felt comfortable discussing with him. They’d been going out for about three months now. They’d kissed, they’d indulged in a certain amount of sexual foreplay, but so far as she was aware they were both still virgins (well, she certainly was) and they’d never seen each other naked. She’d teased him by giving him tantalizing glimpses of her knickers or her breasts from time to time; but this was the first time she’d stripped to her underwear for him (and as far as he was aware it was in any event a bikini, which was altogether different). They’d never really discussed going to the toilet and bodily functions; and several times she’d come back from a date absolutely bursting for a wee because she didn’t want to tell him that she needed a toilet during the date.
Another fifteen minutes or so couldn’t hurt, could it? Perhaps the urgency would ease a bit, and she would find that she really could hold on. Perhaps.
She crossed her legs the other way. Then back the first way. Then she turned over to lie on her stomach, alternately bending and straightening her knees. This was a good position in some respects, because she could slip a hand underneath herself and hold her crotch without being noticed; but it was a bad position in other respects because she was lying on her bladder, which was increasing her discomfort. In the end she decided she was better off on her back and turned over again. But she couldn’t get comfortable, and whichever way she crossed her legs she couldn’t ease the pressure in her bladder the way she had before she turned onto her stomach. Indeed, the fact was that she was really bursting. She was going to have to wee soon, whether she wanted to or not. She was not going to be able to hold on until Byron’s Pool. So perhaps she should say something to Andy.
Or perhaps not– perhaps she could still hold on. Perhaps the sweat that was beading on her brow was there because it was a hot, sunny day and she was ever so slightly tipsy. Perhaps it had nothing to do with the fact that she needed to pee. Soon. VERY soon.
“You aren’t half jiffling,” said Andy. “Anybody would think you were trying to upset the punt and tip me into the river.”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Is everything alright, Helen?” he asked.
Now was the time to tell him. Now was the time to confess that she was fidgeting like a nine year old that was about to wet her knickers because she was … well … a nineteen year old that was about to wet her knickers. Only she felt too shy to say it. And whereas a nine year old who was this desperate probably would wet her knickers if she didn’t get to a toilet soon, she felt sure that if she tried she really COULD hold on. She just had to try.
“I’m fine,” she mumbled, and crossed her legs the other way, and tried to sit still for Andy.
And sitting still made it worse. The pressure in her bladder was all she could think about. And the hiss and gurgle of the current and the slap – slap – slap of the bows kept making her think of going to the toilet, and what a blessed relief it would be if she could.
But she couldn’t.
Not here.
And she couldn’t say anything to Andy. Could she?
Well, perhaps she could. Perhaps she should. Perhaps …
WAAAK WAAAK WAAAK WAAAK WAAAK WAAAK!
With a clattering splash of wings on water, a startled duck fled from under the bows of the punt. It startled Helen, too. So much so that she very nearly lost control of herself. She so very nearly started to pee there and then. She just managed to keep in control, but it was a close run thing. And it made up her mind for her, because another surprise like that and she was sure she would be in trouble.
“Andy,” she said falteringly.
“Yes?” he said.
But her nerve deserted her, just as a sudden spasm ripped through her bladder forcing a short jet of warm pee out into her knickers. Her face burned as it turned crimson with embarrassment, and she sat rigid while she fought to control her tortured bladder. She managed to hold it at that, and prayed that Andy hadn’t seen anything. But she couldn’t mention her need to go to the toilet. She really couldn’t. And she certainly couldn’t tell him that she had already started to wet herself. What would he think?
And then inspiration struck.
“Andy,” she said. “Do you think I could have another go at punting now?”
Andy smiled.
“Of course you can,” he said. “Now, stand up very carefully, and don’t try moving until you have found your balance.”
Helen stood up, very VERY carefully. She was being so very careful because she still needed to hold back her pee for a few moments longer, but even standing up might be more than her tortured bladder could take. Andy, of course, thought that she was just being very careful to keep her balance.
She made it upright with no more leaks.
“Good,” said Andy. “Now walk back here to me, carefully, one step at a time.”
Helen took a faltering step. As she did so, another short jet of pee escaped into her damp knickers. Still Andy would be unable to see this, as he was standing somewhat higher than her up on the deck. But Helen felt sure that any more leaks would send a trickle of pee running down her legs, and Andy would surely see that. So now was the time to put her desperate plan into action.
“Oh Andy!” she yelped, and leaned abruptly over to one side. The punt rocked with her, and she let its motion carry her with it and topple her over the vessel’s low side and into the river with a mighty splash.
The river water was cold. Far colder than she had imagined, and as it closed around her she lost all semblance of bladder control. The warm pee flowed out into her knickers, warming her crotch and her thighs. But she was safe. Nobody could see it. Nobody else need ever know about her accident. It would be her secret. Blessed relief!
She surfaced and looked about her, treading water, still peeing. There was the punt. There was Andy, looking worriedly in her direction. She raised an arm and waved to him.
“Oops!” she said. “I just don’t seem to have the balance for this punting lark, do I?”
As soon as she had finished peeing, she struck out for the punt. She was a strong swimmer, and in no time Andy’s well–muscled arms were helping her back aboard the punt.
Andy decided to turn back and show her Byron’s Pool another day. And it was just as well he did, because by the time they got back to the punt station and the public toilets next to it, the sun had dried Helen’s clothes out and she was getting pretty close to wetting herself for a second time. She didn’t, however, and Andy never discovered that his girlfriend had wet her knickers before his very eyes without his even noticing.
By: Indigo