Rosie

Do you believe in psychic powers? You know – mind reading, and stuff like that? I never used to: but that was before I met Rosie. And believe you me, Rosie could read a man’s mind, no doubt about it. Actually, let me amend that statement. Not could, but would. Did. Whether she wished to or not. To her, reading my thoughts – or any other man’s thoughts, for that matter – was as involuntary a process as smelling their scent or hearing their speech. Which was scary– very scary. And because she was so very scary, she was also very lonely. Most psychics are, it seems. So if you should ever meet one, try not to let their powers scare you off. Try instead to be attentive, loving, and true. You see, they make very loyal partners for those who are prepared to make a commitment to them; and because of their powers they seldom fail to please. Just make sure you don’t go making the same mistake I made. Here’s my story: let it serve as a warning to you all.
I first met Rosie one Friday afternoon, on the Central Line of the London Underground, somewhere between Bethnal Green and Mile End. We were the only two people in that particular carriage. She was seated at one end, by the doors. I was seated towards the middle of the carriage, on one of the transverse seats. And I needed a pee. Boy was I desperate! It was only a few more stops to my destination, and I was sure I’d be able to make it if only the train kept on rolling; but as luck would have it we ground to a complete standstill practically as soon as we had pulled away from Bethnal Green. And there we sat, motionless, for minute after agonising, bladder–straining minute.
After about ten minutes of total immobility, with not so much as a word of explanation from the driver, Rosie wandered along the carriage and sat down in the seat opposite me. She was a pretty girl in her mid–twenties, I’d say. Her hair was tied in bunches and she wore a lemon yellow sleeveless top over a very short grey pleated mini–skirt. It was the skirt that claimed most of my attention, naturally. She had somehow – though don’t ask me how – managed to sit down without giving me a flash of her knickers; but the skirt was that short. I felt sure I’d get lucky when she got up again, provided her stop came before mine. That thought alone was enough to give me a comfortable – though not unmanageable – erection, which helped me in my struggle to stay in command of my bladder. For that, at least, I was thankful.
Rosie smiled at me. “Hi,” she said, her deep hazel eyes staring intently into my own. “I hope it’s not getting too uncomfortable for you.”
“Uncomfortable?” I replied. “Whatever makes you think I’m uncomfortable?”
“Most people feel pretty uncomfortable when they’re as desperate as you are.”
“Oh,” I said, feeling the colour rising in my cheeks. “Is it that obvious?”
“It is to me,” she replied. “I can read your mind, you see. And you’re obviously getting pretty distressed by this delay, so I thought I’d come and let you know you’re not alone in your predicament.”
“You mean…” I began.
“That’s right,” she said, her voice tinged with a slight but noticeable anxiety. “I need a wee as well. And soon– or … well, let’s not discuss the alternatives.”
“Good idea,” I said. “In fact, let’s not talk at all. I mean, no offence, but I don’t generally make a habit of sitting on the tube discussing the state of my bladder with total strangers.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I just forget, sometimes. My – er – ability tends to make me a little forward. Prematurely intimate, as it were. I didn’t mean to alarm you.”
“Your what?” I said.
“My ability,” she repeated. “To read minds.”
“Well, that’s a load of baloney, for starters,” I said. “I don’t believe you can read my mind for one moment.”
“People seldom do,” she replied, a little wistfully. “But I’ll prove it to you if you like.”
“Go on then” I said. “Prove it to me. Tell me what I’m thinking right now.”
“You’re actually thinking quite a lot of things,” she replied. She furrowed her brow and pursed her lips, which caused a cute little dimple to form on her right cheek; but not, I noticed, on her left. “For one thing, you’re thinking I can’t actually read minds.”
“No shit, Sherlock.” I shook my head in disbelief.
“But then you’re also wondering whether I’m going to get off this train before you, and if so whether you’re going to get to see my knickers up my skirt. I can answer those queries for you, if you like. I have to change at Mile End, whereas you’re staying on this train until Leyton; so yes, I shall be getting off first. But you’re not going to get a flash of my knickers because this skirt has a dropped waist and is actually nowhere near as short as it looks. You’re also wondering what colour my knickers will turn out to be if you do get to see them, and fantasising that they might be same as the knickers that your first girlfriend Sarah used to wear sometimes – white with little red hearts all over them. Well, I’m sorry, but they’re not. They’re just plain dark blue, I’m afraid. Do you want me to go on?”
I was already convinced, of course. She’d been spot on in every detail – right down to Sarah’s “lovehearts,” as I used to call them. She could only have found that out by reading my mind, because even Sarah hadn’t known that I’d managed to see her lovehearts on a number of occasions – and I’d never told anybody else about them, either. But I nodded all the same, and began to blush ever more furiously as Rosie described, with unerring accuracy, my lusts, fantasies and fetishes.
“You’re also wondering,” she continued, “whether I’m really as desperate as you are; and whether, if I am, I might end up wetting myself before I get home. Well, I’m probably slightly more desperate than you are right now; and as I’ve got to hold on all the way back to Upminster, there must be a very real risk that I’m not going to make it without an accident. Then you’re wondering when I last had an accident, and fantasising about a number of wetting scenarios, most of which seem to involve me going on a date with you, drinking too much, forgetting to go to the toilet when I am able and then finding that it’s too late and there’s nothing I can do about it. You try to find me a toilet but fail, and then I end up taking off all my clothes except for my knickers and bra, so they don’t get wet, and peeing in my knickers right there in front of you.”
“I’m sorry,” I mumbled. “I don’t really mean it, honest. They’re just fantasies, that’s all.”
“I know,” she said. “And they’re giving you a massive hard–on, which will probably help you to keep your pants dry even if it’s no use to me.”
“Not necessarily,” I mumbled. It was hideously embarrassing the amount she was able to tell me about myself; and she was doubtless already aware that my latest struggle was to avoid getting so excited by my fantasies of her wetting herself that I lost all control of myself and came in my pants; which would doubtless lead to loss of erection and probably to my wetting myself shortly after.
“Well, maybe not,” she agreed. “But that’s your problem, not mine. You’ll just have to try to think a few chaste thoughts for a bit, won’t you. Oh, and by the way, I was eleven.”
“Eleven?” I queried, as the train finally jerked into life.
“Yes. I was eleven the last time I wet my knickers.” Now she was the one who blushed. “It was on a school trip, and I did the misjudging the length of the coach journey thing.”
“We all do that sometimes,” I tried to reassure her.
“You never did,” she countered.
“Well, maybe not,” I conceded.
“In fact,” she continued, “you never wet yourself at school, did you? Not once. Whereas some of us had three or four accidents that everyone got to know about, and a number of others that we managed to keep secret.”
“And you don’t mind talking about it to a complete stranger on the tube?”
“Of course I’d mind,” she said. “But you’re not a stranger now, are you? I’ve had plenty of time to get to know you by listening to your thoughts. Like I said, it does tend to make me a bit – well – forward.”
“It’s a bit spooky,” I said.
“I know,” she replied. “It scares people off most of the time. But I think you might be different. And I know you’re thinking about asking me out but not sure how to go about it. So I’ll make life easy for you: yes, I’d love to go out for a date together. But we’re coming in to Mile End now and I’ve got to change trains, so I’ll call at your place about six thirty tomorrow, okay?” She got up and stepped out onto the platform.
“Wait,” I called after her. “You don’t even know where I live.”
“Yes I do,” she called back over her shoulder.
“How?” The doors were starting to close now, and she’d be unable to jump back into the carriage to get directions from me even if she’d wanted to. But she just tapped the side of her head with her forefinger, and smiled; and I understood at once that she must have found that out, too, by reading my mind.
Next evening, at exactly six thirty, there was a ring on my doorbell and there stood Rosie looking sexy and sassy and smart all at the same time in a stunning, floaty crimson off–the–shoulder dress which looked fairly conservative, but nevertheless managed to show one heck of a lot of leg. And what legs! Rosie smiled as I ran my eyes admiringly up and down them, a few more times, perhaps, than was strictly necessary.
“It’s the opposite trick,” she said. “High waist. It makes the dress look fairly modest; but in fact, were I to drop something you’d know what knickers I’m wearing today for sure, irrespective of whether I was the one who stooped to pick it up or you were. And, speaking of my knickers, did you make it home alright yesterday?”
“Make it home alright?” I asked, puzzled.
“You know,” she explained, “without an accident.”
“Oh,” I said, blushing in spite of myself because she was making my fetish the subject of conversation again already. “Well … “
“Ah,” she interrupted before I could say anything more. “I see you did. That’s good. I’m glad one of us did.”
“You mean, you didn’t?” I asked.
“Afraid not,” she giggled. “The District Line was on a go slow as well, and I just couldn’t hold on all the way to Upminster. You know, I really thought I’d had my last ever accident when I was eleven, but you never can tell, can you?”
“I guess not,” I agreed.
“This is exciting you, isn’t it?” she said.
“Well,” I began, and then stopped. My cheeks were burning with embarrassment that she should be taking such a close interest in my fetish, which had previously been my closely guarded, guilty little secret. I really didn’t know what to say.
“Look,” she said, “you may as well be honest with me, because I can read your thoughts anyway.
“So why should I bother saying anything?”
“Well, you don’t have to if you don’t want to,” she conceded, “but it can feel pretty freaky if you don’t.”
“It feels pretty freaky having you know what I’m going to say before I say it, full stop.”
“I know,” she said. “But there’s nothing I can do about that, so you’re just going to have to decide if you can hack it or not. If you can’t, I may as well walk away now and never come back. But if you’re prepared to make the effort for me, then I’ll certainly make an effort for you, too. I mean, don’t you think it’s pretty freaky for me, too, telling you all about how I wet myself yesterday for the first time in fifteen years, knowing you’re getting a sexual thrill out of hearing all the humiliating little details?”
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” I said.
“I know,” she replied. “But that’s the whole point, don’t you see? I do want to, but only because I know you’ll like it. I get nothing out of it myself; but I’m prepared to make an effort for you and put up with all the freaky stuff that comes with being your girlfriend. So, are you prepared to make an effort for me, and put up with all the freaky stuff that comes with being my boyfriend?”
I smiled, but said nothing.
“Thanks,” she said. “A cup of coffee sounds lovely; and while we’re drinking it we can plan our date.”
I may not have mentioned coffee – but I’d definitely thought it. I’d also thought about the probability that I’d be able to get a good glimpse of her knickers if I took her through to the sitting room and offered her the tired old sofa which had lost half its stuffing: but she obviously read this thought, too, and brushed past me and into the kitchen where she perched herself on one of the stools at the breakfast counter. Ah well…
“Sorry,” she smiled apologetically, “but I never get too intimate on a first date: and if I let you investigate my knickers too soon there’ll be nothing left for later, will there?”
“You could give me a sneak preview,” I suggested as I made the coffee. “Or at least tell me what colour they are as a sort of trailer for the main feature.”
“Or you could try to acquire some psychic powers for yourself,” she countered. “Go on – it’s not all that difficult, you know. See if you can read my mind and tell what knickers I’m wearing. I’ll think of nothing else for a moment or two.”
“Okay,” I said, furrowing my brow in mock concentration. I wasn’t aware of Rosie’s thoughts, so I just said the first thing that came into my head in the vain hope that it had come from her. “Dark blue.”
“What makes you say that?”
“It’s what you had on yesterday.”
“The knickers I had on yesterday are in the wash, silly. I wet them, remember.”
“I thought you might have more than one pair.”
“I do, but I’ve gone off dark blue since yesterday. I wasn’t excited by my accident in the same way that you are, you know.”
“How was I supposed to know that?” I protested.
“You were meant to read my mind.”
“I can’t do that!”
“You can,” she insisted. “Anyone can. You’ve just got to know how.”
We sat in the kitchen with our coffee, and we planned our date. It was nothing sensational – but then neither of us had much money in the bank. So we went for a pizza, then downed a couple of pints in a pub and headed up West to see what was on at the pictures. Seated by ourselves in the very back row of a cinema just off Leicester Square, I don’t think either of us saw much of the film. After about five minutes I began to wonder whether Rosie would let me hold her hand; but before I could do anything about it, I felt her hand reaching for mine in the darkness. She pressed her fingertips against mine, and I caressed her knuckles. Then I began to wonder whether “footsie” might be allowed; and again, before I could do anything, there were her unshod toes gently playing against the back of my calf. Again I reciprocated. Finally, I began to wonder whether I might be allowed a kiss.
“Of course you are, silly,” she whispered in my ear, and gave me a quick peck on the cheek to demonstrate the point. So I lifted her hand to my lips; then I kissed her lightly all the way up her arm, over her shoulder, up her neck, and finally planted a gently kiss on her lips which rapidly developed into a full–on snog. I had a spare hand, and I began to wonder whether I might get away with slipping it up her dress. She broke off the kiss.
“You might,” she whispered, “provided you don’t try too much all at once.”
“How much is too much?” I asked. Better safe than sorry.
“Well,” she replied, “if you stay on the outside of my leg, you’re allowed as far as my knickers; but if you want to go between my legs then half way up my thigh is as far as you’re allowed.”
“Oh,” I said.
“For now,” she added with a teasing little giggle, and resumed snogging me.
I gently slipped my hand up past her knee and felt the outside of her smooth, warm leg until I came to a little band of elasticised lace.
“Mmm,” she murmured. “That’s nice.”
I began idly wondering how far round towards the front of her knickers I could run my fingers and still claim I thought it counted as being “on the outside of her leg” when Rosie broke off the kiss again.
“Don’t even think about it,” she whispered in mock indignation.
I took the hint. She’d read the thought already, and clearly the answer was that I wasn’t going to get away with it at all– simple as that. Which was a shame, really, because in my (admittedly limited) experience, it was only once my hand had found its way to the front of a girl’s knickers and down between her legs that she’d start fumbling with the front of my trousers and try to get her hand down inside my pants. And that, of course, was the point at which I really started to enjoy things. But if Rosie wasn’t going to let my hand stray to the front of her knickers, then it looked as though I may be in for a frustrating evening.
The only thing is, I was wrong about that. No sooner had I resigned myself to giving pleasure but receiving none in return, and resumed my gentle stroking of the lace below Rosie’s hip, than I felt her hand making its way to the front of my trousers, stroking, caressing, then reaching up to my waist band and slipping down inside. At first she stayed outside my pants, teasing, playing, exciting. And then at last, when I thought I could take no more and would simply burst if she didn’t do more, she deftly slipped her fingers inside my pants and took a direct hold of my hot, erect penis. I was in heaven. Well, almost. All I needed to make my ecstasy complete was to be asked to reciprocate: to be invited to take my hand to the front of her knickers and, preferably, inside.
“Go on, then,” she purred in my ear, settling down into her seat and parting her legs slightly. “But be very gentle, won’t you.”
My finger traced its way along the lace leg band and down between her legs. I cupped her mound with my hand; slipped a finger carefully under the lace and up to her clitoris; stroked it lovingly, circled it gently, rubbed it softly. And as I did so, Rosie set up a firm, rhythmic, stroking of my cock which would have brought me to the point of coming in next to no time if she hadn’t suddenly stopped, withdrawn her hand, and kissed me gently on the lips.
“I think,” she whispered, “it’s probably better if neither of us has an orgasm in here, don’t you?”
Reluctantly, I was forced to agree. So I withdrew my hand and she straightened her dress; and five minutes later the lights came up for the intermission.
“Well,” she giggled, “I’m not really getting into this film, are you?”
“No,” I agreed.
“I can think of better things to do with the rest of the evening than sit through the second half. How about you?”
“I certainly can,” I said. “And I’ll bet you know what they are.”
“I do,” she said. “And most of them seem to start with a pint; so let’s go find a pub.”
We did; but we didn’t stop at one pint. She had three, and I had four, and we were both decidedly tiddly as we clambered onto the tube for our homeward journey. The train was curiously empty for a Saturday night, and we had a carriage entirely to ourselves.
“Oh look,” I said. “It’s just like yesterday.”
“In more ways than you know,” she replied.
“What do you mean?”
“Didn’t you notice?” she said. “I forgot to go to the toilet before we left the pub.”
“Forget?” I asked, raising my eyebrows and giving her waist a quick squeeze.
“It might have been deliberate,” she conceded. “After all, you’re getting really excited just thinking about the possible consequences, aren’t you?”
“I am,” I confessed, wholly unnecessarily.
“And you’ll be even more excited when you discover what knickers I’m wearing,” she continued. “You’ll think your dreams have all come true at once.”
“Will I?”
“Oh yes,” she said.
“Why’s that then? What are you wearing?”
“Uh uh,” she chided. “I told you, you’ve got to read my mind.”
“I can’t.”
“What would you like me to be wearing? What do I wear in all your fantasies?”
I thought about it. My fantasies, she said. Well, most of my fantasies involved Sarah, rather than Rosie. And though Rosie said she’d been wearing dark blue knickers when she wet herself yesterday, my fantasies had not yet had time to assimilate this new information, No, in my fantasies, it was still Sarah’s loveheart knickers that ruled the roost.
“That’s right,” Rosie prompted me.
“Lovehearts?” I asked, incredulously.
“Why so surprised?” Rosie asked, flopping down onto a seat with her legs spread wide, so I got a grandstand view of her knickers. White with little red hearts, as near as I could remember identical to the knickers Sarah had used to wear, right down to the single band of pink lace round the legs. “Do you like them?”
“You know I do,” I said.
“I’d still like to hear you say it.”
“I like what I see,” I replied. “They’re just like Sarah’s loveheart knickers, which used to drive me wild all those years ago.”
“I’m glad,” she replied. “I spent most of the day trying to find a pair that was an exact match for the memories I’d read. I wanted to do something really special for you, you see.”
“But why?” I asked, sitting down beside her and gently caressing her thigh, slowly pushing up her dress until I could see her knickers again. She did nothing to stop me.
“You’re special,” she said, simply, “so I wanted to do something special for you.”
“Special?” I was mystified.
“You forget – I can read minds– everyone’s mind, not just yours. I know what men are like. And I know what they think when they look at me.”
“And what do they think?”
“For the most part,” she said, “they think of sex. With me– but not gentle, loving, consensual sex. Not sex that tries to satisfy and fulfil both of us. All they think about it their own gratification. They just see me as an object, rather than a woman– a potential shag– nothing besides. What I want – what I might need from sex – is no concern of theirs.”
“And am I so very different?”
“Yes,” she said. “When you first saw me, you didn’t think about sex at all.”
“I did in a way,” I said. “I thought of you wetting your knickers, which got me sexually aroused. Which amounts to the same thing really, doesn’t it?” There was no point in lying – she knew it all anyway.
“Actually, no,” she corrected me. “You didn’t think that at all. Not until I told you I was as desperate as you. You didn’t start off thinking about me in a sexual way at all. And when you did, even though you thought it, you didn’t wish it, did you? You were concerned for me. And however much sexual pleasure you would have got out of me wetting myself, you were hoping for my sake that I wouldn’t.”
This was all true, I realised. “So that makes me special?”
“Yes,” she said. “It makes you special – because you’re different. And that makes it worth making an effort for you, if you’ll make an effort for me. Which is why I’ve got myself in this state again.”
“This state?” I queried.
“I drank lots of beer; I didn’t go to the toilet; do you really think I’ll still be wearing dry knickers by the time we get back to Upminster.”
The very suggestion was enough to drive me wild. My loins were on fire. My pulse was racing. I couldn’t believe that she might be about to wet her knickers for the second time in two days– and all because she wanted to please me. And yet I couldn’t allow it to happen.
“Can you hold on until we get to Leyton?”
“Probably,” she said. “But we’re not going to Leyton, are we. We’re going to Upminster.”
I tried to protest, really I did. But it’s difficult to argue with somebody who knows exactly what you’re thinking, and hears your every word before you ever speak it. So we went to Upminster; and Rosie fidgeted and wriggled and writhed the whole way; and she regularly flashed her loveheart knickers as she unselfconsciously fought to control her overfilled bladder; not just to me, either, but to anybody else who happened to have boarded our carriage of the train. And the whole way my pulse was racing and my cock stiff and throbbing, and I was practically delirious with sexual anticipation. I had never been so aroused in all my life; and what made it even better was the knowledge that Rosie knew it, and was doing this all for me, simply so that I would get so aroused. Incredibly, Rosie made it all the way to Upminster without wetting herself; but the short walk from the station to her flat proved just too much and she finally lost control standing on her own doorstep, fumbling to get her key into the lock.
“How do you like my sense of timing?” she asked, with a mischievous grin.
We tumbled into the hall, and Rosie was still peeing uncontrollably into her knickers as I shut the door behind us and we started tearing at each other’s clothes. I stayed the night and moved in next morning; and we lived together in absolute bliss for the next eight months. The sex was simply mind–blowing. You’ve simply no idea what it’s like being with a woman who responds immediately and unerringly to your every little desire without your having to say a word; and who guides you at the same time into giving her the most exquisite pleasure, by letting you know whether you’re thinking of doing the right thing or not before you even try to put in into effect. If I thought of moving my attention from her tits to her clitoris, for instance, she’d know right away that that was what I was thinking. And she’d either say “Yes – go ahead” or “not quite yet,” or “you can if you like, but be very gently to begin with”. She always knew exactly how to please me; and I let her guide me into pleasing her. It was simply awesome. Sometimes, too, she’d wet herself for me: but I didn’t ask her to do that often because she got no direct pleasure out of it. The only reason she did it for me was that she knew how much I enjoyed it; so I decided to consider it a rare treat, and enjoyed it all the more for that. She knew and appreciated this.
Over time, too, I learned how to avoid “thinking obtrusively”; and she tried her hardest to ignore my thoughts when they weren’t intended for her, really she did. Life just got better and better. We were gloriously happy together; and I think we would probably still be together if I hadn’t blown it. But blow it I did, and I only have myself to blame. It happened like this:
Rosie had been sent on a two–week course in a residential training centre somewhere near Skegness, and by the end of the first week I was beginning to feel a bit lonely. So on the Friday night I decided to go out clubbing and, out of a misplaced sense of nostalgia, I decided to return to the club I used to frequent in my youth. Well, fate can play some cruel tricks, and who should I happen to meet there but Sarah, my first true love. I hadn’t seen her in nine years, and she was as beautiful and radiant as ever. Well, we had a drink together, and a dance, and another drink, and we ended up back at her flat rather too drunk for our own good. Sarah lit the gas fire in her little sitting room and sat cross–legged on the floor in front of it. I sat down opposite her and was surprised (but delighted – not to mention more than a little aroused) to see that she still wore loveheart knickers.
“Sarah,” I said. “I can see your knickers, you know.”
“Just like old times then, isn’t it,” she grinned.
“How do you mean?”
“Don’t tell me you never noticed.”
“Noticed what?”
“I used to flash my knickers at you whenever I wore the ones with little red hearts on them, in the hope that you’d notice them and get the message. But you never did.”
“I noticed,” I said. “But I didn’t know you were doing it deliberately. I thought it just meant you were a bit careless about keeping your knickers hidden from sight; and I didn’t want to mention it to you for fear you’d be more careful in future.”
“Oh,” she said. She sounded disappointed.
“So what was the message I was supposed to get?”
“It was my way of telling you that I really loved you and that I was up for it. You only had to ask, you know, and I’d have done anything at all. But you never did.”
How I could have used Rosie’s ability back then. What had she called it? A curse? Scarcely!
“You sure chose a funny way of communicating that to me,” I said.
“I was shy,” she explained. “I wanted you to make the first move. So I tried to give you an invitation. I hoped you’d understand.” She shrugged. “We were young then.”
“We were,” I agreed. “But we’re older now.”
Well, I suppose you can guess the rest. Sarah was still up for it, and we ended up having sex. It wasn’t very good. She enjoyed herself, but without the help of a telepathic prompter, I wasn’t able to lift her to that higher plane of ecstasy that Rosie reached whenever she had sex with me. And nor was Sarah able to have that same effect on me that Rosie always had, since she was unable to read my thoughts and desires and respond to them in the way that Rosie would have done. It just felt so perfunctory, when compared to the mind–blowing sex I was used to. In the morning I woke before Sarah, and left without a word.
When Rosie got back from Skegness we hugged and kissed. “How was it?” I asked.
“Great,” she said. “How have you been?”
“Fine,” I said.
“Except?”
“What?”
“You said you were fine,” Rosie replied. “But your thoughts added except for one thing. What one thing was that?”
Well, I thought, except for being unfaithful to Rosie, obviously. But I could hardly say that, could I?
“No,” said Rosie. “You certainly couldn’t. You shouldn’t have thought it, though, either.”
Well, what hope had I of retrieving that situation? I returned to Leyton, alone, and I’ve not seen Rosie since. I do wonder, sometimes, whether she ever wears the loveheart knickers, and whether she’s had any more accidents since we split up. Somehow, though, I just know that the answer is going to be “no” to both questions. It doesn’t take psychic powers to work that one out.
By: Indigo