Honey for Tea

“Is this it, then?”
“Yes,” Andy nodded. “This is Byron’s Pool. You seem disappointed.”
“I am a little,” said Helen. “I’d been expecting something a bit more … well … spectacular.”
She looked around once again while Andy drove the punt pole deep into the riverbed and looped the mooring chain around it. They were hove–to in the middle of a clear, shallow pool with a sand and gravel bottom. It was no more than fifty metres long, and perhaps thirty metres across at its widest point. Long strands of green weed streamed out in the current, and the occasional stickleback darted in and out between them. At the upstream end of the pool was an ugly concrete weir over which the river rushed headlong in an angry, frothing white foam. At the downstream end, by contrast, all was calmness and serenity as the current slowed and the river lazed its way towards Cambridge, beneath the overhanging boughs of trees that clustered down to the river’s edge on the right–hand side. There were no trees on the left–hand side, but from her low seat in the middle of the punt Helen was unable to see what lay beyond the high bank.
“I mean, don’t get me wrong,” she continued. “It’s very pretty and all that. And I’m very glad you brought me all this way to see it.”
That much was true. She was, however, rather less glad that the length of time she had had to spend sitting in the punt to get here meant that her bladder was becoming a little uncomfortable, and she knew that before long she would need to start thinking about finding a toilet. The sound of rushing water pouring over the weir wasn’t helping her, either; and she was painfully, shamefully conscious of the fact that the last time Andy had brought her punting there had been nowhere for her to go to the toilet when she had needed it, and she’d ended up wetting her knickers. Quick thinking on her part had saved the day, and she’d managed to contrive to fall overboard and into the river, thus ensuring that Andy never found out about her accident. But it had been a humiliating experience for her nonetheless, and one that she was anxious not to repeat. However, that very anxiety made her all the more aware of the mounting pressure in her bladder. It might be another two hours before she could get to a toilet, and she would be pretty desperate by then, always assuming that she actually managed to hold on that long. She hoped she would, of course. But was she certain that she could? Truth to tell, she was actually already becoming concerned that she probably couldn’t, and that sooner or later she was going to have a big problem on her hands. But that moment hadn’t arrived yet, so she decided to put off worrying about it for the time being.
“So,” grinned Andy. “What do you want to do now we’ve got here? Are you ready for your first punting lesson?”
“Don’t be daft,” Helen protested. “You know I’m wearing brand new jeans. What’d happen if I fell in again?”
“You’d get wet,” replied Andy with a shrug.
“And my jeans would be ruined. You’ve got to be ever so careful the first few times you wash jeans like these, or they shrink and fade all wrong.”
Andy had, in fact, been admiring Helen’s new jeans all afternoon. He particularly liked the way the dark, dark blue denim molded itself to her hips and thighs, accentuating the lines of her body. Helen was a curvaceous girl. Tending to the chubby, perhaps, but Andy liked her the way she was. Cuddly was the word he used to describe her figure. It was a figure that he had been studying admiringly for the whole of the punt trip to Grantchester, and which he longed to study a little more closely should the opportunity arise. And if Helen didn’t want to risk soaking her jeans, that seemed to present the perfect opportunity.
“You could always take them off,” he suggested brightly.
“What, and show my knickers to any old passer–by? No thanks.”
“That didn’t seem to bother you the last time we came punting.”
“I was more than a little tipsy the last time we came punting. My judgment was impaired. And besides,” she lied, “I was wearing a bikini, wasn’t I?”
“I’d been wondering about that,” said Andy. “I couldn’t make up my mind whether it was really a bikini, or just matching pink knickers and bra.”
“Definitely a bikini.”
Helen blushed a little, as she always did when telling such a bare–faced lie, and made a mental note never to let Andy discover her wearing her coral pink knickers unless she was also wearing the matching bra and the circumstances were such that it would be appropriate to wear a bikini. Always assuming, of course, that she ever wore those coral pink knickers again. She was so upset and embarrassed by the memory of wetting herself the last time she wore them that she hadn’t been able to bring herself to wear them again since, and they were now buried somewhere near the bottom of her underwear drawer with all the other grotty old knickers that she seldom if ever wore.
“You could always pretend that the knickers you’re wearing today are a bikini, too,” suggested Andy. “Nobody would ever know except the two of us, would they?”
Did he suspect, she wondered? Had he rumbled her?
“No I couldn’t. I’m not wearing a matching bra today.”
“That doesn’t matter if it’s only your jeans that you’ve taken off, does it? If you leave your T–shirt on, how will anybody know whether you’re wearing a matching bra or not?”
Helen crossed her legs and considered Andy’s suggestion for a moment or two; and all at once a mental image of Miss Rowland, her guide mistress, came shoving and elbowing its way forwards from the farthest recesses of her memory. “The Imp” they used to call her, on account of her cheery and oft–repeated catch phrase, deployed whenever something went wrong and they didn’t have the appropriate piece of equipment to deal with the problem. “Never mind, girls,” she would say: “we’ll improvise.” One by one, just about every girl in the guide troop had developed a passionate crush on The Imp. Helen certainly had. It had started one fine summer Sunday in the year that Helen had turned fourteen. Miss Rowland had taken her guides swimming at a local school pool. They had splashed and played and shrieked with joy all afternoon, while Miss Rowland watched them enjoying themselves from the grass at the side of the pool. Eventually Rachel had swum across to her and asked “Aren’t you going to come and join us in the pool, Miss Rowland?” and all the other girls had cried out “Yes, do please come and join us.” The Imp had begun to protest that she hadn’t brought her swimming costume with her; then she had paused for a moment or two and continued “but never mind, girls: we’ll improvise.”
Miss Rowland had been wearing white trainers, no socks, a knee–length denim skirt, which was so worn and faded as to be almost white, and a sky blue sleeveless cotton top. She now kicked off her trainers, deftly reached inside her top to remove her bra, and felt behind her back to unfasten her skirt. The skirt dropped to the ground around her ankles, revealing a pair of sky blue cotton knickers, which were an almost perfect match for the top. After folding her skirt and placing it neatly on the grass with her shoes and bra, The Imp had tucked the hem of her top into the waistband of her knickers and grinned at the girls in the pool. “There!” she announced. “Just like a blue one–piece swimsuit.” And with that she had dived into the pool and joined the girls in their games.
Helen had been besotted with Miss Rowland from the moment she had seen her skirt fall to the ground, revealing the forbidden sight of the knickers beneath. One look at those long, slender, shapely legs had been enough to set her adolescent pulse racing; and she had been lost in admiration for the cool, calm confidence with which Miss Rowland had simply stepped out of her skirt, allowing the girls to see her in nothing but her knickers and top– completely unabashed and unembarrassed. And oh! Those milky white thighs, stretching up from her chunky, dimpled knees all the way to the crisp, clearly defined leg bands of those beautiful light blue cotton knickers – which appeared to her as a triangular arrowhead pointing provocatively down between Miss Rowland’s gorgeous legs, and encouraging her hormonally–charged teenage mind to fevered speculation about what lay beneath.
Helen’s crush had lasted seven months: until the day of the school Valentine’s disco, to be exact, when she had “discovered” boys. But the memory of how it started, of Miss Rowland stripping to her knickers the day they went swimming, still made her tingle with a pleasant little buzz of sexual anticipation. It also suggested a possible solution to her current dilemma, and she briefly considered doing as Miss Rowland had done and improvising a swimsuit; but she quickly realized that it wouldn’t work for her. Not today, anyway. Not in these clothes. She was wearing a T–shirt rather than a sleeveless top; she doubted it was long enough to stay tucked into her knickers all the way round once she started lifting the punt pole; and in any case, whereas her T–shirt was white, her knickers were dark blue. It simply wasn’t going to work.
“You’re just trying to get me to show you my knickers, aren’t you?” she said accusingly, in mock protest.
Helen made a pretence of pulling at the waistband of her jeans and peering down inside to see what colour knickers she was wearing, as she’d used to do at primary school when playing “Please Mr. Crocodile” if the crocodile had said they could only cross the river if they were wearing some obscure colour like mauve or light green.
“They’re blue,” she announced in a matter–of–fact sort of voice. “Happy now?”
“Show me?”
“No,” she protested, playfully.
“Okay then,” Andy deadpanned her. “You’ve seen Byron’s Pool now, so let’s head straight on back to Cambridge, shall we?”
From the point of view of Helen’s already–straining bladder that was actually a very good suggestion. Indeed, if truth were known it was probably the only available course of action, which might have enabled her to get home that day with dry knickers. But Helen wasn’t thinking about the pressure in her bladder. She wasn’t doing the calculations as to how long she could hold on now and how soon she’d need to get to a toilet. She’d been thinking sexy thoughts, initially about Miss Rowland and then about Andy, and now she was in a decidedly playful mood. The mild discomfort in her bladder was merely an inconvenience, best ignored for the time being. So she ignored it.
She uncrossed her legs and sat up primly, putting her hands in her lap and secretly pressing against her crotch, which helped to ease the growing need she felt to go for a pee. She cocked her head to one side and fluttered her eyelashes.
“You’re no fun,” she pouted. “You bring me all this way, and then you can’t even be bothered to kiss me!”
“You must be the most demanding girl I’ve ever known in my entire life!” Andy teased in return. “As if it isn’t enough that I break my back bringing you to the most romantic place on the entire planet, you actually want me to kiss you as well?”
Helen grinned and nodded. “It’s a hard life, you know, dating the most desirable girl on the planet.”
Andy flopped down onto the cushion beside her. Helen turned her face to him, pursed her lips, and closed her eyes, ready for Andy’s kiss. He was a very good kisser. One touch of his warm, sensual lips on hers was usually all it took to send little pulses of excitement zinging up and down her body, and she began to squirm a little in anticipation. She may also have squirmed a little on account of her uncomfortably full bladder. Either way, however, a squirm is a squirm is a squirm, and it helped her to feel slightly less desperate. That was good. It meant that she could switch the focus of her attention away from her bladder and back to Andy. Which was where the focus of her attention ought to be at a time like this.
But Andy didn’t kiss her on the lips. Instead, he kissed her very gently on the back of her hand. Then, turning her hand over, he kissed the soft flesh on the underside of her wrist. He then kissed his way slowly up her forearm from wrist to elbow, and back down to her wrist once again. The effect was electrifyingly exciting and so completely unexpected that Helen very nearly wet herself right there and then. She only just managed to hold back her pee by squeezing her thighs tightly together and squirming some more. Meanwhile Andy reached across her body and began gently caressing her other arm, from the elbow up over the bicep and to the cuff of her T–shirt sleeve, then back down again, in long, languid, sensuous strokes. His arm rested lazily across her chest, its very proximity making her nipples turn hard in an instant, and her lips now desperately sought his. But Andy, tease that he was, pulled away. He was no longer stroking her arm. Instead, he was gently tugging her T–shirt up until its hem was clear of the waist band of her new jeans, exposing a little of her midriff. It was a warm day, but this act of exposure still chilled her bladder and caused a little shiver to pass through it, increasing the sense of urgency that she felt.
Now was undoubtedly the time, if Helen wanted to get home with dry knickers, to tell Andy that she really needed him to find her a toilet. She’d fluffed it last time, and look what had happened! It was only by the greatest good fortune, and quick thinking on her part, that Andy remained blissfully unaware of his girlfriend’s shameful accident. She’d have absolutely died if he’d found out about it; and she most certainly wouldn’t be happy if she had another accident and he found out about that. She really didn’t like talking to Andy about bodily functions and going to the toilet and things; but she was just going to have to overcome her shyness about raising the subject.
She was about to say something when Andy began to kiss her again. Quick, light, teasing kisses which darted this way and that across her exposed midriff. Down to the waistband of her jeans and back up; across the firm flesh of her tummy. Right up to her breasts. (She didn’t recall him lifting her T–shirt that far; but never mind. She was enjoying it.) Back down over her uncomfortable bladder to the waistband of her jeans. His hands were now fiddling with the button of her jeans– undoing the zip. One hand either side of her belly slipping down inside the waistband of her jeans. His fingertips were easing their way sensuously down across the hard, bony projections of her pelvis. Encountering the waistband of her dark blue cotton knickers. Gently riding over the outside of the fabric and on to the warm flesh of her thighs beyond. Her body was on fire, screaming for more. Her pulse was racing– her breath coming in short, rapid, shallow, panting breaths.
Helen put her feet flat on the slats in the bottom of the punt, pushed up, and arched her back slightly, lifting her hips off the cushion. Andy understood at once and pushed out and down with his hands, slipping her jeans down her legs as far as her knees. He then returned his attention to kissing her tummy while she writhed and wriggled and kicked her jeans off over her feet. How brazen of her! She’d never done anything quite like this before. But the sexual excitement she now felt was like a drug, and she needed more of it. How she needed more! Her heart pounding, throat dry, nipples tingling, and bladder throbbing fit to bust. And Andy. Andy kissing her tenderly on her belly, then moving down. Kissing the warm flesh all the way to the waistband of her knickers. You can take my knickers off too if you want, Andy. I won’t mind. Not now.
But he didn’t. Instead he kissed the cotton fabric of her knickers, continuing down until he was kissing her knickers right on top of her swollen, pulsing labia. At the same time, with his fingers he traced a gentle, teasing path down the inside of her thigh from her crotch to her knee, and that was it! Overwhelmed by the incredible medley of sensations and stimulation that she was feeling for the first time, and unable to conceive that it was possible to be any more intensely aroused than she already was (how much she still had to learn!) her sexually inexperienced body declared that this was the absolute pinnacle of sensation. She exploded in a panting, shuddering, back arching, screaming orgasm then and there.
When she was done, she lay back exhausted on the plastic–coated punt cushion while Andy looked on in awe and wonder at the climactic effect his gentle kisses and caresses had had on his girlfriend’s virgin body. He smiled at her, and she smiled back.
“Home, James!” she commanded.
“Aren’t you going to put your jeans back on first?”
Her jeans! She was still lying there with her white T–shirt pulled up beyond her breasts, exposing her bra for all the world to see, wearing nothing else except her dark blue cotton knickers: so dark blue they were almost black. She tugged the hem of her T–shirt and pulled it down as far as it would go. It just barely covered the waistband of her knickers, leaving a huge expanse of dark blue cotton on show for Andy and anyone else to see. She really ought to cover it up. Put her jeans back on. But her orgasm had increased the sense of urgency in her bladder something like fivefold, and she was beginning to wonder whether she would actually be able to hold on until they got back to Cambridge and she could use the public toilets by the punt station.
No. That wasn’t quite right. The punt station was at least an hour and a half away, even allowing for the fact that they would be going with the current on their way back to Cambridge, and she now realised that there was in fact no way that she could possibly wait another hour and a half. What she was really wondering was whether there was any way she’d be able to go to the toilet somewhere along the way, or whether it was now inevitable that she was going to end up wetting her knickers. Again. She dreaded the thought of it: but she had to face up to the distinct possibility that that was where she was now headed. And if she did end up wetting her knickers again, she really didn’t want to wet her new jeans.
Plus, of course, trying to do up her jeans would only increase the pressure and discomfort that she now felt in her bladder; whereas if she left them off for the time being, she would be much more comfortable (or less uncomfortable, at any rate) AND she could sun her legs for a bit.
She smiled up at Andy. “I thought you might find the view more enjoyable if I left my jeans off for the time being.”
“You wanton little minx!”
“Are you complaining?”
Andy grinned, unhooked the mooring chain, and began to punt back down stream towards Cambridge with an easy, practised swaying motion that Helen, watching with admiration, found quite hypnotic. So hypnotic, in fact, that she was entirely distracted from her bladder and her growing need to pee. As she was dreamily watching Andy’s divine, masculine body she completely failed to notice her state of desperation progressing from “Ooh! I need a wee;” to “if I don’t get to a toilet soon I’m gonna be in trouble;” and finally on to “this is it guys – time for anyone who can’t swim to head for the high ground.” Every time she felt the tell–tale warning throbs in her bladder she pushed them far from her mind by recalling instead the delicious sensation of Andy’s lips and hands wandering all over her body. Finally, however, her bladder jolted her back to reality by sending her a wake–up call she just couldn’t ignore. An involuntary little muscle contraction sent a warm jet of pee spurting out into the absorbent fabric of her knickers. That called her attention to the state of her bladder all right! Slamming her thighs together and squeezing hard she sat bolt upright, and then looked surreptitiously down between her legs. Thank goodness her knickers were such a dark, dark blue! There was no obvious wet spot that she could see; and she knew what she was looking for. Andy would still, mercifully, be totally oblivious to what she had just done. But whilst the colour of her knickers might mean they could absorb a little wet spot and not show, it wasn’t going to be able to disguise a total soaking – which was what it was going to get if she didn’t work out a plan, and fast.
Andy had noticed her sudden movement, and his face was a picture of concern.
“Are you alright, Helen?”
“Yes, I’m fine,” she lied, blushing. “I was just, er, wondering how long until we get back; and how soon I ought to put my jeans back on.”
“You can keep them off for the rest of the day as far as I’m concerned,” Andy grinned at her.
“Surely not!” She pretended to be shocked. “You wouldn’t want the whole world to see your girlfriend’s knickers, would you?”
“The whole world’s seen my girlfriend’s bikini, and I can’t really see what the difference is for these purposes. I mean,” he went on, “how were they to know whether it was a bikini or just matching pink knickers and a bra?”
The mention of her “bikini” brought the memory of her recent accident flooding uncomfortably back into Helen’s mind. And made her even more painfully aware of her straining bladder and already damp knickers. And how similar her predicament had been last time to this. Perhaps the same solution might work, then?
Uh oh! Before she could say anything more, a shuddering spasm of urgency passed through her bladder and she thought for a moment she was about to lose control; but she managed to hold on. For now. Her position wasn’t helping, though. Sat down against the backrest with her legs straight in front of her, she couldn’t do all that much to ease the pressure. So she swung her legs round and brought herself into a kneeling position, where she could lean forward to ease the discomfort, and even slip her hands down between her thighs and push back up without it being too obvious what she was doing.
She looked up at Andy and batted her eyelashes.
“Feel like another go at teaching me to punt?”
“Sure,” said Andy. “But you stay there until I can come and help you with your balance.”
Curses! That wasn’t in the plan.
Andy laid the punt pole down, wrapped a couple of turns of the mooring chain around it to hold it in place, and walked deftly along the punt. He passed Helen then turned and stood directly behind her. Placing his feet either side of her bare feet he slipped a hand under each of her armpits and said “Right Helen, up you get!”
She allowed him to lift her to her feet, and instantly regretted it. Deprived in the same instant of all her means of controlling her bladder, she felt another jet of pee shoot into her knickers and spread its warm, wet way around her crotch and bottom. This leak was much more serious than the first one, and though she managed to stop it after a moment or two, it didn’t merely wet the dark blue cotton of her knickers. She felt a dribble of pee running down the inside of her thigh, too; and though she didn’t dare look down to check, she was convinced that this time she would have made a visible wet spot. She felt her cheeks burning as she blushed furiously with the embarrassment of it all. Thank goodness Andy was behind her and couldn’t see. Yet.
The trickle of pee running down the inside of Helen’s thigh felt curiously like Andy’s hand, caressing and teasing her. She shivered with excitement. Andy moved his hands down from her armpits to her waist, and she squirmed with pleasure as he felt his gentle way down her body. Another little jet of pee escaped into her knickers and ran slowly and sensuously down her thigh, setting her all a–tremble with a renewed sexual tension, which, in turn, prompted her to pee a little more. This time she would have been hard pressed to say whether it had been voluntary or involuntary. It could have been either. And she definitely thrilled to the sensation of it rolling down her leg to her knee.
Andy, sensing her tremble, slipped his hands down from her waist to her hips, to steady her balance. His fingertips were now pressing firmly and reassuringly against the fabric of her knickers. But please don’t slip them any further round and down. I don’t want you to find out I’m wetting my knickers. Just keep your hands where they are, Andy. That feels good. So good, in fact, that I’m just going to have to wet myself a little more. There. Like that. Just relax and release a little bit of wee into my knickers like this. Feel it tumbling down my thigh. Clamp it off before I do too much– if I can. Oh NO! HELP! I can’t stop it. I’M STILL PEEING! I hope it’s not hissing too loudly. I don’t want Andy to hear it. God, my cheeks are burning now! Oh this is embarrassing! But exciting, too, as long as Andy doesn’t discover what I’m doing. Ah! Phew! I’ve managed to stop it now, but I’m still bursting to do some more. And how can I keep it a secret from Andy now? My knickers are sopping wet. If he feels them, or looks down, he’s bound to find out. And any moment I’m going to lose control and wet myself completely. What can I do? HELP!!
“Helen? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Helen yelped.
“You don’t sound it. And you don’t feel it, either. You’re all tense and shivering, as though you’re terrified.”
“I am terrified,” she confessed, and burst into tears. Terrified that Andy would discover she’d just started to wet her knickers like a little girl. Again. She’d managed to hide it last time, but how could she possibly conceal it this time? Terrified, also, as she realised that she was actually enjoying the sensation of losing control and wetting herself. And uncertain what that meant.
“You don’t have to go through with it if you don’t want to, you know. I mean, if you find standing up in the punt so terrifying, there’s no point in scaring yourself silly, is there? We don’t want to push this ‘til you wet yourself from fear, after all.”
Andy kissed her neck lightly. A new buzz of tingling sexual excitement shot down her spine. Her nipples hardened, and her thighs longed to be caressed again. Her bladder, sensing that longing, duly obliged; and Helen groaned aloud as she felt herself start to pee again and realised that this time there would be no stopping it. And– no stopping Andy from discovering that his girlfriend had wet her knickers like a little girl, either. She could think of nothing more awful, even if Andy did put it down to fear rather than folly.
“I’m sorry,” she sobbed, and sank back down to her knees. Andy released his hold and let her go.
As Helen knelt back her pee now began to flow round and under her bottom, where it pooled for a moment until the fabric at the back of her knickers became saturated. Then the warm flow cascaded down over her heels, ankles, and feet and began to form a big, warm, steaming puddle on the plastic–coated cushion. Helen’s body shook as she sobbed with the shame of it all. She had never felt so dejected. And yet, her innards were ablaze and all her sexual organs throbbed with a burning desire. She had never felt so excited, either. Or so confused.
Andy, meanwhile, had stepped past her and was walking up the punt with his back to her. For the time being he was completely unaware of Helen’s predicament. Completely unaware that his girlfriend was kneeling behind him pissing uncontrollably in her knickers. He thought the sobs he heard were her battling to overcome a perfectly understandable fear that she would overbalance and fall out of the punt and into the river again. But any moment now he must turn, and when he did he would see Helen kneeling in the middle of a puddle that had not been there a moment ago. Then, surely, he would understand that Helen had wet her knickers.
He was bound to.
Unless, of course that is, that Helen could come up with some other convincing explanation for the puddle. And fast.
And then it came to her. Leaning quickly from one side to the other, and back again, she started to rock the punt.
“Hey!” cried Andy over his shoulder. “Cut it out. You’ll tip me in the river!”
“Ahhh diddums,” cooed Helen. “Whassa matter? Is diddums afraid of a little bit of water? Doesn’t diddums want to get wet?”
She stopped rocking and scooped up a handful of river water, which she hurled at Andy.
“Aargh!” he screamed, as it splashed across the back of his head and ran down his neck. “That’s cold!”
Helen hurled another handful of water at Andy, then a third, and a fourth.
“Right!” he cried, dipping his own hands into the cold river. “That does it!” And he scooped up a handful of water himself, and hurled it back towards Helen.
The water flinging now became general, and didn’t stop until they were both completely soaked to the skin and exhausted. Helen had long since finished wetting herself, and by the time Andy took in the fact that her knickers were completely sodden and she was sitting in a big puddle of water, he had thrown so much water in her direction that he would have expected nothing else. So it never occurred to him to consider the possibility that if he were to run his hands over Helen’s knickers he might find that they were warm and wet rather than cold and wet.
When they finally got back to the punt station, Helen pulled her new jeans on over her still wet knickers. By the time they had walked to the bus station, there were distinct wet patches showing front and back, where the denim had come into contact with the sodden fabric underneath. As they rode back home together on the bus, Andy pointed out the patch on the front of Helen’s jeans.
“It makes you look as though you’ve wet yourself,” he chuckled.
“It does rather, doesn’t it,” she agreed with a little giggle. “How embarrassing.”
By: Indigo