Terri

In all my life I had never known anyone who was remotely as androgynous as Terri. Everything about her was just totally ambiguous, and I continued to harbour some residual doubts as to her true sex right up to the moment she began to wet herself. And even then, it was only the obviously “female” pattern of the wet spot spreading across the front of her jeans from a point slightly below the bottom of her zipper which finally convinced me that she had to be a girl, even though the visible fastenings on her clothes all did up on the “boys’ side.”
She boarded my train at Mile End. I had traveled in from Loughton, so naturally I had a seat. By Mile End, however, the train was becoming crowded and several people were already standing. Terri pushed her way into the middle of the carriage, dropped her Adidas sports bag at my feet, and took a firm grip on the upright handhold next to my seat. She stood right in front of me, and I had ample opportunity to study her; yet our eyes never met until after she had had her accident.
She was small, slightly underweight if anything, somewhere in her early to mid twenties at a guess. She wore nondescript trainers, faded blue jeans, and a brown leather bomber jacket with a sheepskin collar, which she had zipped up to her chin. Her face would have looked girlish on a boy, but was boyish on a girl. Her hips were not particularly obvious and her chest and waist were both well concealed by the bomber jacket. She wore no makeup or earrings, and her dark brown hair was an ambiguous in–between sort of length and cut in a style which was neither obviously masculine nor definitely feminine. I was genuinely unable to tell, at first, whether it was a man or a woman standing in front of me, swaying to and fro with the unsteady motion of the train as we made our fitful way westwards under the streets of central London.
Right from the start she had appeared distracted. She wore a look of intense concentration on her face; a couple of tiny beads of perspiration glistened on her furrowed brow; and her eyes stared sightlessly into the middle distance. I wondered whether it might be her bladder that was causing the problem, and my suspicions were confirmed when we reached Bethnal Green. As soon as the train lurched to a stand, she casually moved one foot across the other and squeezed her thighs tightly together, only resuming her feet–apart stability stance when the carriage doors began to close, indicating the train’s imminent departure.
At every station thereafter she repeated this performance, and as our journey progressed she began to add in all the other little movements and gestures which are so characteristic of a woman who is fighting a losing battle with a desperate urge to pee. At first she tried to be discrete, in the evident hope that nobody would notice. But by the time we were pulling away from Holborn subtlety was a luxury she could no longer afford, and she kept her legs tight–crossed as we lurched into the tunnel. She held onto the handrail with one hand, and with the other she now started to hold herself between her legs. All this while standing right in front of me! I thanked my lucky star again and again, as I relished every delightful little wriggle and squirm.
At Oxford Circus a lot of people got off the train, and she could have had a seat if she’d wanted it. But by now she was half–crouching, with her knees permanently bent, bobbing up and down from time to time. She looked wistfully along the carriage at one of the empty seats but obviously decided her chances were better if she kept standing, as she remained where she was.
The train continued to empty, and as we pulled away from Marble Arch there was nobody remaining in our carriage except for Terri and me. She was taking deep breaths now, fighting hard to control them; fidgeting and bobbing; and when she thought I wasn’t looking she even slipped her hand down inside her jeans to hold herself for a moment or two without the impediment that the denim obviously presented. As we were standing at Lancaster Gate she suddenly muttered “Oh dear, oh no, oh dear me no” and began pacing up and down the carriage with little, mincing steps, pausing to squeeze and bob every so often. It was obvious now that she was ever so totally desperate; it was obvious that I must know this; and it was obvious that she must know I knew. So, like the total strangers on the London Underground that we were, I pretended not to be watching her, and she pretended not to be aware that I was watching her.
And then, midway between Lancaster Gate and Queensway, the train suddenly ground to a halt with a clunk and a jerk. Terri, who had just turned around at the end of the carriage and was now walking forward up the train towards me, was thrown off her balance. She reached out with both hands to steady herself, and that’s when it happened. Having narrowly stopped herself from falling she just stood there, rooted to the spot, as a little dark patch appeared on the front of her jeans. At first it was just a tiny spot at the top of her legs, but it quickly spread outwards, and then downwards. Two great, long, dark tongues licked down the inside of her thighs to her knees and, not stopping there, continued on down to her ankles. Her pee began to spill out at the bottom of her trouser leg, dribbling down over her trainers to form a puddle, which slowly spread outwards and then began to flow in a long, lazy river along the carriage floor towards me. Instinctively, I lifted my feet off the floor to allow it to flow beneath my shoes – and instantly regretted the action. Too late! For that one, isolated, natural little action had betrayed the fact that I had been watching, and was only too aware of Terri’s predicament. I could no longer pretend that I had not noticed. And therefore she no longer had to pretend to be unaware that I had been watching her, either.
I looked down at the rivulet of pee flowing along the floor; followed it back up to the source – the puddle at Terri’s feet. My gaze then moved steadily up the leg of her pee–stained jeans to her crotch. It didn’t come to rest there, however, but continued up her front until I was looking at her face, her head, which she hung in shame. It was only then that our eyes met. Her eyes were large, wide–open, and green. They were moist with the tears which rolled steadily down her cheeks and nose, before dripping off to land with a splash in the puddle that she had made.
I gazed into her eyes, and she gazed back into mine.
“I’ve wet my knickers,” she said in a weak little voice.
“So I see,” I said. It was all that I could think of.
“What can I do? I can’t go on the ice looking like this.”
“The ice?” I asked.
“I was going skating,” she said. “The rink’s just by Queensway. But I can’t go in there with pee stains all down my jeans. I just can’t.”
I pondered her problem. “Isn’t Whiteley’s just up the road from Queensway station?” I asked. “You must be able to buy some fresh clothes there.”
“I can’t afford to,” she said. “I’ve only enough money with me to pay for the ice rink.”
My heart went out to the poor girl, and on an impulse I said “Don’t worry about that: I’ll buy them for you.”
A look of bewildered surprise crossed her face. Then, realizing that she no longer had to stand, she squelched along the carriage and sat down on the seat opposite mine.
“That’s really sweet of you,” she said. “But I couldn’t possibly let you do that. And besides, loads of my friends shop at Whiteley’s. I might be spotted by someone I know.”
“But I insist,” I said. “And if you tell me what you need, I can go and buy it for you while you wait somewhere discreet like that little pub on the corner just outside Whiteleys.”
The train lurched into action again. We would shortly arrive at Queensway so, to forestall any further argument, I stood up. I took off my long raincoat and handed it to Terri. A look of relief and gratitude crossed her face as she accepted it and stood herself to put it on.
“Thanks,” she said.
“Do you have a name?” I asked.
“Terri.”
We alighted from the train at Queensway and made our way to the pub, where I bought two pints, which we took to a discrete table tucked away in a dark little alcove.
“So,” I said to Terri, “what do you need me to buy you?”
She took a long pull of her pint and furrowed her brow in thought.
“You’d better get me a skirt rather than trousers,” she said at length. “I always have to try so many pairs of trousers before I find one that fits. Size 8. Short. Three or four inches above the knee, shorter if possible. Pleated or loose rather than pencil or A–line, so I can skate freely – but that gets less important as the skirt gets shorter.”
“And knickers?”
“Yes please. Size 8 as well. Cotton midis if you can find some, otherwise bikinis will do. Floral print or plain pastel colours for preference. Oh, and you’d better get me some dry socks, too. Shoe size 3.”
I drained my pint and hurried off to Whiteleys, where Marks & Spencer proved an absolute godsend. Reckoning it best to get the most embarrassing bit out of the way first, I started by looking for knickers. They sell them in five–packs, you know. I found size 8 midis, but no floral prints. They had lots of plain bold dark colours, but only one pack of pastel colours– white, primrose yellow, pale pink, sky blue, and light green. I selected that pack, and went next in search of socks. White sports socks seemed the easiest option, and were easily found. That left just a skirt to get. It didn’t take too long to find a denim mini skirt that seemed to fit the bill, so I put that into my basket and headed over to the till to pay. The shop girl looked at my purchases and eyed me suspiciously up and down for a moment or two before shrugging and accepting my money. I hurried out of the store, my purchases safe from prying eyes in a plastic M&S carrier bag, and returned to the pub.
I was half expecting Terri to have disappeared with my raincoat; but she was still there, seated at the table in the alcove, with a half finished pint of beer in front of her. I offered her the carrier bag. She emptied its contents out onto the table and clapped her hands with glee.
“Oh you dear, clever man!” she exclaimed. “They’re just perfect. Excuse me a moment, won’t you, while I just nip to the ladies’ to get changed.”
“Of course,” I said.
She opened the five–pack of knickers and laid them out, one by one, on the wooden tabletop.
“Which ones do you think I should wear?” she asked.
“Whichever,” I shrugged. “They’re your knickers. It’s up to you.”
“No, really,” she persisted. “I hate having to make a decision. Even over a little thing like this.”
“Alright then,” I said, picking up the green knickers and handing them to her, “in that case wear these.”
Terri drained her pint, handed me back my raincoat, and headed off in the direction of the pub toilets with an armful of clothes. As I stood putting the raincoat on, a barmaid, evidently under the impression that I was getting ready to leave, headed over to collect our empty glasses. I cringed at the thought of her arriving and finding four pairs of knickers spread out on the table, but I couldn’t see where Terri had put the carrier bag, so I hurriedly gathered up the knickers with both hands and thrust them down into my raincoat pockets. The barmaid took our glasses and departed, and a moment or two later Terri reappeared from the direction of the toilets. She looked much more relaxed than she had when we arrived and indeed, now that she was wearing a skirt, I might even have described her as pretty. She picked up the carrier bag from somewhere, and stuffed her wet clothes into it.
“I don’t know how to thank you enough,” she said.
“You don’t have to,” I replied. “Just promise me that if, some day, some stranger needs you to lend them a helping hand, you will.”
“But there must be something I can do for you.”
“Really no need.”
“Have you ever ice skated?”
“No”
“Ever wanted to try?”
“Well … I, er … I don’t know.”
“I’ll take that as a yes, then,” said Terri. “Come on – I’ll teach you how. That’s what I can do to thank you for helping me.”
Without waiting for an answer she took me by the hand and led me from the pub, across the road, and down into Queens Ice Bowl.
“You’ll have to pay your own rink admission and skate hire, I’m afraid,” she said, a trifle apologetically. “Like I told you, I’ve only enough money with me to pay for myself.”
I paid my admission and collected my skates, and Terri showed me how to put them on. Then she sat down on the bench opposite me and took her own white–booted skates from her Adidas sports bag. As she sat tying her laces, I could clearly see right up the little denim mini skirt all the way to her crisp, new, dry, light green cotton knickers. I wondered whether this was deliberate on her part, and concluded that it probably was. When she had finished tying her laces, we clumped our way over to the edge of the rink, she easily and confidently, I awkwardly and uncertainly.
“Okay,” she said. “Just watch how it’s done for a bit; then when you feel ready step out onto the ice and see how it goes.”
She stepped onto the ice and glided away from me in a carefree, elegant arc. Half way across the ice she turned effortlessly about and continued, backwards now, on the same easy, swooping curve. This looked easy. So I stepped out onto the rink, and my feet disappeared off in different directions leaving me to fall with a thump onto the ice somewhere between the two. I looked up. There was Terri, standing over me, laughing. She offered me her hand to lift me off the ice. From down here I could see up her skirt again. Those lovely light green knickers I had chosen for her. I wondered if she had intended to give me another flash. I let her help me up but didn’t mention the delightful view from down there on the ice. No point in giving the game away if she hadn’t been aware that she was flashing me, was there now?
Terri carefully explained and showed how to keep my feet underneath me and my weight centered over my feet. Then she showed me how to bend my knees and push off with one skate, glide a short way on the other and bring my feet back together again. It was hideously difficult, but I got the hang of it in the end.
“Good,” she smiled. “Now just skate round the rink like that a few times.” And, with that, she disappeared off into a spinning, twirling, pirouetting haze of breath–taking elegance on ice. I let her go (as if I could have stopped her!) and tried just to concentrate on my own skating; but every so often she would suddenly reappear in front of me. Balancing on one skate, the other leg straight out behind her, turning this way and that with no apparent effort. And every time, her posture would be such that I could see up her skirt and admire those light green knickers again. The distraction got me every time! I’d lose my balance or tangle my blades together, and down I’d go. And there she’d be, standing over me again, flashing her knickers again. Laughing. Helping me up. Giving me more instruction, and disappearing off in another flash of light green knickers. She never appeared to show her knickers to anybody else besides me. It had to be deliberate, hadn’t it?
After perhaps an hour of her coaching and my falling I was tired, bruised and sore; but I reckoned I could skate tolerably well in a straight line and round the ends of the rink. They called time on the skating session and we had to leave the ice. As we sat opposite one another taking our skates off – she giving me yet another flash of those light green knickers – she smiled at me and asked “Do you have time to come for a quick walk in Kensington Gardens?”
I looked at my watch. Time was getting on. I really had to be going. But those great, wide, green eyes of hers pleaded with me, and I weakened.
“Okay,” I said. So she took my hand once more, and led the way. It was not far, and soon we were walking arm–in–arm through the delightfully tended park. She regarded me thoughtfully for a moment or two; appeared as if she were going to speak; thought better of it and said nothing instead.
“A penny for them?”
“I was just wondering … “ she began. Hesitated. Then blurted it out. “Are you attached? Married? Girlfriend or anything?”
“Yes,” I said.
“That’s a shame.”
“Why?”
“Well, it’s just, you’ve been so kind to me. Compassionate. Caring. And there don’t seem to be many men like that. Most men I know would have been totally grossed out if a total stranger had wet her knickers in front of them. It wouldn’t have occurred to them to offer their sympathy and support, let alone any practical help. But you were such a gentleman about it all.”
I swallowed hard, and decided that it was probably best to level with Terri straight away.
“Can I tell you something, Terri?”
“Of course.”
“Something about me,” I said. “Something that might cause you to get totally grossed out.”
“What’s that?”
“Well,” I began, and nearly lost my nerve. But no, I told myself. This was a Magnus Magnussen moment. I’ve started so I’ll finish. “I actually find the sight – and even the thought – of a woman wetting herself sexually stimulating. For me, wetting yourself in front of me like that was just about the most erotic thing you could possibly have done. Far better than if you’d done a striptease in the carriage for me. I guess it may seem odd to you, but that’s just the way I am. So of course I was going to be kind to you afterwards. You’d just – albeit unwittingly – done something really, really special for me. The least I could do was to help you out of the predicament it had got you into.”
There! I’d said it. But had I goofed? Should I have just stayed quiet?
Terri stopped walking, and stood a while in thoughtful silence. This didn’t look too good, I told myself. I’d probably freaked her out with my honest confession of my little fetish. But then, suddenly, she jumped up and down like an over–excited six years old and clapped her hands together in glee.
“I know what!” she cried, her face cracking into the broadest grin I’d ever seen. “Come with me!”
Taking my hand once more she led me, at a run, to a little hidden glade, which contained a solitary park bench. Trees clustered close around us, and at that time of year their foliage provided a complete all–round sightscreen. Despite being in the middle of Kensington Gardens it was a completely secluded spot. Private. We were alone.
Terri gathered up the little mini skirt until it was all right up around her waist and her knickers in plain view, then sat down on the bench with her knees about six inches apart.
“It’s a good job I drank all that beer back in the pub,” she confided with a cheeky little wink. “Now watch.”
I guessed what was coming next, so I fixed my gaze between her legs, on those lovely light green cotton knickers. I didn’t have to wait long. She took two or three deep breaths, and then gave a deep sigh, which quickly turned into a low moan. What did it signify? Pleasure? Embarrassment? Something else altogether? Did it matter? At the same time I heard a slight hissing noise, saw the light green cotton between her legs begin to darken, then heard a gentle pitter–patter as her pee dribbled down between the planks of the bench seat and puddled on the hard ground beneath. She had closed her eyes. Her expression was impossible to read. Concentration? Ecstasy? Embarrassment? Effort? Shame? Pleasure? Could it be a combination of all of the above, and maybe more? The dark stain didn’t spread all that far up the front of her knickers despite the copious amount of pee that passed through them: that’s new cotton for you, I guess. The hissing sound ended, and the pitter–patter of pee dripping to the ground began to slow. She opened her eyes and smiled at me.
“Did you enjoy that?” she asked.
“I did,” I replied simply. “Did you?”
My question obviously caught her unawares, and a puzzled expression crossed her face for a moment or two.
“I think so,” she said, a little hesitantly.
“Shall we make sure?” I enquired.
“How?” She was still puzzled.
“Like this,” I said, sitting beside her and slipping my arm round her slender waist. I felt round the waistband of her knickers, and then spread my fingers out, reaching down between her legs with my little finger. I rubbed her through the sodden fabric, gently at first, and felt her body begin to yield and melt into mine.
“Harder,” she urged, and I needed no further encouragement. I thought briefly about slipping my hand down inside her knickers, but there was no need. She took hold of my hand and guided it to where it would be most effective. Almost immediately she came to a shuddering, earth–moving climax– all this with my hand still on the outside of her sodden knickers.
She looked up at me, a goofy smile playing on her lips.
“Wow!” she croaked. “That was simply amazing. I’ve never had one as intense as that before.”
“I really must be going, you know.”
“I’ll walk back to Queensway with you.”
She stood up and pulled the hem of the denim mini skirt back down where it belonged. We linked arms and walked back to the underground station. She seemed to be in a dazed, intoxicated trance the whole way. We separated at the ticket barriers, and she kissed me gently on the lips.
“Thank you again,” she said. “For everything.”
“My pleasure.” I turned to go.
“Wait,” she pleaded. “I don’t even know your name.”
“I think that’s for the best, don’t you?”
She thought about this for a moment or two. “Yes,” she agreed. “It probably is. Well, it’s been nice getting to know you. And now I’ve really got to be going too: I’ve got to get back on the ice for my own lesson.”
“But you can’t go on the ice like that!” I pointed out. “Your knickers are all wet.”
“No problem,” she beamed, tapping the M&S carrier bag. “I was careful to avoid getting any wet marks on my skirt; and though people are bound to see up it at some point in my lesson, I’ve got four more pairs knickers in here to choose from, remember. I’ll just slip into the ladies’ and get changed into a dry pair before I put my skates on.”
“Doesn’t that involve deciding which ones to wear?” I teased. “I thought you didn’t like taking decisions.”
“I don’t,” she said. “Tell you what though. You can choose which knickers I should change into.”
“Okay,” I said. “Wear the pink ones next.”
“I will,” she said. And with that we went our separate ways – I back to the westbound platform of Queensway station, she back to Queens Ice Bowl. A train pulled in just as I reached the platform, and I boarded it. A ticket inspector boarded behind me.
“Tickets, please!” he announced as the train pulled away from the station.
I delved into my raincoat pockets, and felt around for my ticket. But instead of my ticket I found a pair of primrose yellow knickers. Followed by a pair of white knickers. In the other pocket I found a pair of pale pink knickers and a pair of sky blue knickers.
Poor Terri.
By: Indigo