Wells

Helen sat on her rucksack, looking at her watch and tapping her feet. She was irritated. No, worse, she was angry. It was quarter to eleven. Their coach left at five to. “Meet at Drummer Street at half ten.” That was what Andy had said. But where the hell was he? Helen had passed on a second cup of tea at breakfast in order to be here on time. If only she’d known Andy was going to be late, she needn’t have done that. And it wasn’t as if she needed to exercise restraint for the sake of her bladder, either. They’d been assured that the Norwich service always ran the most modern coaches with toilets and everything.
A red Ford Escort clattered to a halt by the kerb in front of her. Its engine didn’t sound at all happy. It had a dented left wing and a buckled bonnet, and its headlight was dangling free, held in place by nothing but its wire. Andy jumped out of the passenger seat.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “Mum had a bit of an accident on the way here.”
“Oh!” gasped Helen. “You’re not hurt or anything?”
“We’re fine,” said Andy. “But dad isn’t half going to make some comments about women drivers when he sees it. You look stunning, by the way.”
Helen was pleased he’d noticed. She’d taken some trouble this morning to make herself look as desirable as possible, whilst nevertheless choosing something that made sense to wear for a long coach journey. In the end she’d settled for some old faded cut off jeans, sandals, and a dark blue cotton T–shirt. The cut offs had been an experiment last summer. She’d had difficulty getting them even, trimming them shorter and shorter until eventually they were practically hot pants. They accentuated the curves of her bum, and showed off the whole of her legs, and she’d never dared wear them until now. But now, the first day of her first holiday together with Andy, with the August sun beating down and a heat haze already rising from the pavement, they seemed the perfect thing to be wearing.
Andy kissed her, and then went round to the boot of the car. He unloaded his own rucksack, which he dropped onto the pavement with a thud, followed by the big canvas bag containing the tent, which would be their home for the next week.
“Thanks mum,” he called as he closed the boot. “You can go and face the music now, if you like.”
“What happened?” asked Helen.
“Oh, you know,” shrugged Andy. “The usual sort of thing: incorrect ratio of stopping space to stopping ability. Shall we go and find our coach?”
They found the Norwich coach and loaded their luggage, then climbed aboard and made their way to a seat somewhere near the back of the coach.
“This is comfy,” said Helen as she snuggled into the seat by the window. “But I bet it’s going to get hot.”
“I’ve brought a couple of bottles of coke,” said Andy. “They should help.”
The coach left soon after, and made its ponderous way out of Cambridge. Traffic was heavy, and they crawled slowly out along the Newmarket Road towards the A14. Andy checked his watch incessantly.
“Relax,” said Helen. “We’re going on holiday. No pressure. No schedules. Just laze on the beach all day. So we’re not going very fast. Okay. So what?”
“So this,” said Andy. “The buses from Norwich to Wells only run every two hours, and the connection is fairly tight. If we don’t make the connection, we’re going to have a long wait at Norwich bus station.”
“I can think of worse places to have to wait,” replied Helen.
“Have you ever been to Norwich bus station?”
“No.”
“That figures,” said Andy. “Have some coke.”
Helen took the bottle, unscrewed the cap, and took a cooling swig.
“Ugh!” she grimaced. “It’s warm already.”
“Sorry,” shrugged Andy. “I guess it’s the weather. But at least it’s wet.”
“Indeed,” agreed Helen. She wished he hadn’t mentioned the word “wet”. It reminded her of the times he’d taken her punting. Both times she’d managed to end up wetting her knickers. Both times she’d managed to hide the fact from Andy. She’d been embarrassed and humiliated, but the second time she’d also felt strangely excited by the whole experience. It had left her confused and bewildered, and she’d tried her best not to think about it again. But now it all came flooding back into her consciousness. She crossed her legs and turned to look out of the window, while she fought to control her racing mind. One part of her mind said “I hope I never wet my knickers again” while the other part said “But it was enjoyable– so enjoyable. I want to do it again some time.” Eventually she reached a compromise. “Okay,” she said to herself. “Maybe I’ll do it again some time– in private. When I’m alone and in control of the situation. But not today; not unless I have an accident. And I’d better NOT have an accident. Not in the knickers I’m wearing today.”
Helen had chosen her knickers carefully this morning. The tent they would be sharing was a big frame tent with two separate sleeping areas and a communal living area. They’d solemnly told their parents that she’d sleep in one sleeping area and Andy would sleep in the other, but she had this sneaking suspicion that they might just end up sharing the same sleeping area tonight. She also thought that Andy might end up undressing her at some stage in the proceedings. So she had decided to wear the special pair of knickers, which she had bought last week, just for him. They were white with little red love hearts all over them; and she hoped he’d get the message. So the last thing she wanted was to have any sort of accident during the course of the day and have to change into something else. But then, why should she have an accident? On the punt she had been stranded, miles from anywhere, unable to get to a toilet when she needed– this coach had a toilet on board, and relief was only a matter of seconds away any time she needed a wee.
“Helen,” said Andy. “You alright there?”
“Yes,” she replied. “I’m fine. Just thinking, that’s all.”
“A penny for them?”
“Do you know, I’ve not been camping since I was in the guides,” she improvised. “Miss Rowland took us to the Isle of Wight one year, and it rained all week.”
“I bet you looked stunning in your guide uniform,” Andy grinned.
“Really? I hated it. That awful, frumpy, functional skirt.”
“Maybe I’d like you in a frumpy, functional skirt. You never know.”
“I thought you liked me in these cut–offs.”
“That too. More coke?”
The heat was making Helen feel thirsty, so she took another long swig of warm cola, and then fished around in her handbag for her MP3 player.
“What you got there?” Andy asked.
“Rocky Horror soundtrack.”
“I love Rocky Horror,” said Andy, somewhat to Helen’s surprise. She really hadn’t thought it would be his sort of thing. “T–t–t–t–t–t–touch me, I want to get dirty, thrill me chill me fulfil me, creature of the night,” he sort of sang.
“You know the all words? I’m impressed.”
“We did it as the school show one year. I was in it.”
“But not as Janet, surely?”
“Well, no. But I was going out at the time with the girl who played Janet, so we sort of learned our lines together.”
Helen turned to look at Andy and sat, cross–legged, with her back to the window. She briefly wondered whether she was giving him a premature flash of her loveheart knickers up the legs of the cut off hot pants. Oh well, if she was she was. It was a bit late to worry about that now.
“So who were you, then? Were you Frank N Furter?”
“No,” said Andy, blushing slightly. “I was Eddie.”
“Eddie? The Hells Angel?” giggled Helen. “You hardly seem the type.”
“But you think I am the type for Frank N Furter, do you?”
“Well, no, actually, now you come to mention it. But why Eddie?”
“It was sort of default casting,” shrugged Andy. “I was the only one who could ride a motorcycle round the stage without falling into the orchestra pit. And besides, you don’t actually have to be able to sing to belt out Eddy’s one and only number, do you?”
For the rest of the journey they shared the headphones, and sang along to the soundtrack, much to the irritation of the other travellers who glared at them from time to time. But Helen and Andy were in a little world of their own, oblivious to everything that was going on around them, and equally oblivious (in Helen’s case, at any rate) to the fact that they were now crawling through the outskirts of Norwich, and that if she wanted to use the toilet on the coach she would have to do so soon. She was beginning to feel the first faint urges of a need to pee, and began to wonder whether she should just ask Andy to let her out so she could go to the loo. But she was still a little shy of mentioning such things to Andy, and by the time she had plucked up the courage to say something the coach was already pulling in to Norwich bus station. Ah well, never mind, she thought. She wasn’t particularly desperate yet. She could still hold on for quite a while if she had to, and there was bound to be a toilet she could use at the bus station.
Andy looked at his watch.
“Three minutes,” he said.
“What?”
“We’ve got three minutes to get off, get our luggage, find the Wells bus and get aboard. It’s going to be tight.”
“Oh,” said Helen, wondering whether there would be a toilet on the Wells bus.
There wasn’t. It was just a standard, elderly, Leyland single–decker. Red. Eastern Counties. They heaved their luggage aboard, put it in the luggage rack by the doors, and Andy paid the fare to Wells–next–the–sea.
“How long is the journey?” asked Helen.
“About an hour and a half,” replied the driver.
“Oh,” said Helen. This, she realised with a start, was going to be difficult.
As she settled into her seat, Andy fetched something from the pocket of his rucksack.
“Here,” he said, thrusting a little polythene bag at her. “Lunch. Sorry it’s a bit late, but I couldn’t get to it on the coach.”
“What is it?” she asked.
“Sandwiches.”
“I can see that, silly. What’s in them?”
“Cheese and cucumber,” he grinned. “Lots of cucumber. Cool and refreshing was my thought.”
Great, thought Helen. Lots of cucumber: lots more fluid. But she ate them anyway, and just hoped she’d be able to hold on. She didn’t think she could afford even the slightest little leak in her knickers today, since any wet spot on these faded denim cut offs would show up a mile off. So she sat tight and crossed her legs, and hoped she’d be able to last the whole journey.
They hadn’t been going for long when Andy put his arm around her shoulders and began gently stroking her upper arm.
“Mmmm,” she sighed, turning slightly and leaning back into his shoulder.
The combination of Helen’s full bladder and Andy’s caresses had a peculiarly arousing effect on Helen, and she began to start thinking sexy thoughts, which made her squirm excitedly in her seat. Andy, feeling this, brought his free hand up to hug Helen and gently teased one of her nipples through her T–shirt.
“Helen,” he murmured in her ear. “You wearing a bra?”
“No,” she whispered back, and immediately felt his penis harden against her lower back. She also felt his hand drop from her breast and start to fumble with the hem of her T–shirt, trying to pull it out of the waistband of her shorts. As he did so, he pressed inadvertently against her swollen bladder.
“Don’t,” she yelped. “You’ll make me wet myself doing that, if you’re not careful.”
Oh good grief. She’d actually said it. Actually admitted to him that she was struggling with a full bladder. She blushed furiously, and crossed her legs tightly together.
“I do believe you mean it,” said Andy.
“I wouldn’t make something like that up.”
“You are going to be alright though, aren’t you?” Andy sounded concerned. “I mean; nineteen year olds never really wet their knickers do they? When they say things like I pissed myself laughing, that’s just a figure of speech, isn’t it? It doesn’t really happen.”
“It does sometimes,” replied Helen. “And if this particular nineteen year old isn’t careful, there’s a very real danger it might happen to her today. But I really hope it won’t.”
“So do I,” said Andy. “You’re wearing such cute knickers today, it would be such a shame if they got wet.”
“You’ve seen them?” gasped Helen, nearly losing it there and then out of sheer surprise.
“Oh yes,” said Andy. “Anybody who’s followed you today has seen them. There’s about half an inch of white knickers with little red hearts on them peeping out below your shorts on your left bum.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” protested Helen.
“I just did.”
“I mean, why didn’t you say anything sooner?”
“What, and encourage you to sort it out so your knickers weren’t on display? I was enjoying the view.”
“Humph!” said Helen, turning her back on him and concentrating all her attention and energy on saving herself from having an embarrassing accident before they got to Wells. Andy showed concern, asking from time to time if there was anything he could do to help, but really there wasn’t. She crossed her legs one way, then the other. Leaned forwards and pressed her hands into her crotch; scissored her legs, jiggled her legs, sat on her heel, did anything and everything that might help. Once she had a sudden urge so strong that she thought she was about to lose control and wet herself helplessly, but then the urge subsided just when she was resigning herself to the thought that Andy was finally going to see her wet knickers. Another time she could have sworn she felt a little jet of pee spurting uncontrollably into her knickers before she could clamp it off, but when she looked down at her crotch there was no visible wet spot, and when she discretely slipped a finger up the leg of her shorts and felt between her legs, her knickers still felt dry to the touch. They were still dry when the bus stopped and the driver called out “Wells next the sea! All change,” but only just, and Helen was concerned that she might have to change in more ways than one.
She stood up hesitantly, and hobbled uncertainly along the bus. Boy did her bladder ache, and how she longed just to relax and let it all flood out. But no! She must hold on until, until…
“You jump off, Helen. There are some public toilets on the left in a couple of hundred yards. I’ll follow with the bags.”
“But you can’t carry three bags all by yourself!” protested Helen.
“And look as though you can’t lift a single bag without making a puddle on the floor,” replied Andy. “So run along. I’ll manage.” He patted her on the bum, and she felt a tiny spurt of warm pee leak into her knickers as he did so. More wanted to follow, but she managed to hold it back. Oh goodness, she thought, that was close. And my knickers are definitely wet now, no doubt about that. I just hope it doesn’t show on my shorts, and that I can make it to the toilets without wetting any more.
So she didn’t argue with Andy, but climbed gingerly off the bus and hobbled awkwardly along the street, cheeks burning red, hand pressed hard into her crotch, not caring who saw. It was agony, but she reached the toilets without any more leaks in her knickers. To her dismay, however, there was a queue of three people waiting. One of the toilets flushed, and the tinkling sound of water tumbling from the cistern into the toilet bowl was almost more than she could bear.
“Oh no,” she muttered to herself. “I don’t think I can wait any longer.”
She obviously spoke louder than she had intended, because the lady at the front of the queue turned and looked at her. Seeing her standing there, legs knitted together, bobbing up and down and hopping from foot to foot, she took pity on Helen. “You take the next one, love,” she said, “before you have an accident.”
“Thanks,” gasped Helen, and hobbled into the cubicle the moment the door opened and its previous occupant was out of the way. She pushed the door closed with her elbow as she passed, without pausing to lock it, and fumbled quickly with the button and zip of her cut offs. They dropped to the floor, leaving just her knickers to take down. Her cute white loveheart knickers. She didn’t want to wet them. Really she didn’t. Well, they were a little damp already, of course, but she didn’t want to wet them any more. She certainly didn’t want to give them a thorough soaking that Andy would have to find out about. If she did wet them, she couldn’t just leave them behind and change into another pair. She didn’t have another pair like them, and Andy had already seen them today. If he was going to undress her later this evening, she was going to have to be wearing them, and they were going to have to be dry. Otherwise he’d know she had wet herself. And she didn’t want that. Yet, even as she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her knickers and them pulled down, she could feel herself losing control. She couldn’t hold on any longer. An uncontrollable, unstoppable stream of pee was leaving her bladder. Shooting along her short urethra. She could feel it. And she managed to sit just as it came hissing out. She heard it splashing into the toilet bowl. But had all of it gone into the toilet, or had she been just that fraction too slow? She looked down, dreading what she might see. Would there be little puddle at her feet? Would her knickers be wet or dry? She couldn’t see over her knees so, still pissing forcefully, she leaned forward and felt gingerly down her legs to her knickers. Ran her fingers carefully around the waistband, down inside the front to the crotch, then up the back to the waistband again.
There was absolutely no mistaking that sensation.
There was nothing in the world that felt quite like it.
What her fingers encountered was crisp, dry cotton. Just the one tiny damp spot caused by the one little leak she’d had when Andy patted her bum; and that would soon dry out.
She breathed a sigh of relief, just as a matronly voice outside said, “Look, this one’s not locked,” and the door burst open. A large, matronly woman was pushing a little girl of about six with tears in her eyes through the door. The woman looked up and saw Helen sitting on the toilet. She turned beetroot red. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” she gasped, grabbing the little girl’s shoulders and trying to pull her back out again.
“No, no, it’s my fault,” said Helen. She had finished weeing now, and she hurriedly stood and pulled her knickers and shorts back up. “I didn’t lock the door and I should have done. But I was about to wet myself.”
“I’m about to wet myself too,” sniffed the little girl, looking as if she certainly meant it.
“Well, you’ve made it to the toilet now,” said Helen, scooting quickly through the door. “Just got to hold on a moment longer and you’ll be fine.”
Helen had just finished washing her hands when mother and daughter emerged from the cubicle. The little girl was no longer crying, and the mother had a relieved look on her face. “Thank you,” she said to Helen. “That was close, but she made it. Good job you hadn’t locked the door, though. Two seconds more and I think we’d have had a puddle on the floor.”
“I know how that feels,” said Helen. And she really meant it.
When she emerged into the daylight, Helen was amazed to see that Andy had somehow carried both rucksacks and the tent bag all the way from the bus stop, and was no waiting on the corner just across the road.
“Come on,” he grinned, “we’ve a train to catch.”
She crossed the road, and together they carried the luggage down to a little miniature gauge railway where a steam train waited, its engine hissing gently in the sun.
“I’m glad I didn’t hear that before I reached the toilet,” said Helen.
“Why?” asked Andy, playfully. “Would it have made you lose control?”
“It might,” Helen giggled. “Hissing sounds and desperation don’t mix, you know.”
Andy raised his eyebrows knowingly, and Helen punched him playfully on the arm. She was happy and relaxed now. Her bladder was empty, and but for the one little damp spot her knickers were still dry. The only thing she’d forgotten to do was check whether they were still on display behind or not. But oh well. You couldn’t have everything.
The steam train puffed along at a sedate pace – about a brisk walking speed, or a little faster. The tracks ran for about a mile along a causeway, beside a narrow road. Off to their left was some low–lying marshland. Beyond the road was a tall dyke, where people strolled with children and dogs, the dogs generally behaving themselves, the children generally not. At the end of the line the train came hissing to a standstill, and Helen saw a huge campsite, crammed with caravans.
“This is it,” said Andy. “Pinewoods campsite.”
They paid for their pitch for the week, and pitched their tent. Or rather, Helen pitched the tent. Andy was singularly useless when it came to practical skills, and pitching tents was a practical skill par excellence. Eventually, Helen told him to leave it to her, so he sat cross–legged on the grass and tried to look up her shorts every time she passed. When the tent was up, Helen came out and stood with her hands on her hips: “Right,” she said. “That’s my job done for the evening. Your job is supper, okay?”
“Fine,” said Andy. He got out the little primus stove, and started straight away on what turned out to be an absolutely mouth–watering mushroom risotto. He also produced a six–pack of lager from somewhere, and they drank three cans apiece. When they were finished, he looked at his watch.
“Seven thirty,” he said. “We’ve still got plenty of light. How about an evening walk along the beach?”
“Sounds fun,” said Helen. “Does it have some nice dunes?”
“Oh yes,” said Andy. “Lovely big dunes here. I’ll just go and wash up. Why don’t you change into your swimming things?”
So Helen went into the tent while Andy headed off to the washing up point. She’d brought a swimming costume with her – an emerald green one piece – but she had a suspicion that Andy might want to head off into the dunes for a kiss and a cuddle and … well, if she wore the one piece swimsuit, that’d be all they did get. Because he couldn’t exactly slip a hand down inside the waist band of a one–piece swimsuit, could he? And she certainly wouldn’t take it off for him, because it would be far too fiddly to put back on if they heard anybody approaching. So she emptied out her rucksack and considered her options. Fortunately she had packed some matching purple knickers and bra which could pass muster as a bikini if she wore them with sufficient confidence, as she had with the matching coral pink knickers and bra the first time they’d gone punting. So she changed into these and waited for Andy’s return.
Andy ducked into the tent, blinked, and said, “I thought your bikini was pink.”
“I’ve got two bikinis,” Helen lied, blushing slightly as she did so. “I left the pink one at home.”
“Blimey,” said Andy. “How many bikinis does a girl need?”
“I’ve got a one–piece as well,” said Helen.
“I prefer you in a bikini.”
“I thought you might.”
Andy took off his shirt and jeans, and Helen saw he was wearing black swimming trunks underneath. Saw also a pleasing bulge in the front.
“Right,” he said. “Let’s go.”
From the campsite it is a very short distance to the beach at Wells–next–the–sea. There is a public car park with a toilet block and gift shop, then a little concrete ramp up to the top of the dunes, and down the other side. A short wooden footbridge then takes you onto the beach itself, which curves away to the right in a long sandy arc. There’s a row of brightly painted beach huts on your left. Behind and beyond them are the dunes, planted in the nineteenth century with the tall conifers that give the campsite its name. Andy and Helen walked hand in hand, and Helen quickly began to feel uncomfortable. Her bladder had been overworked, holding on in the afternoon; it had little appetite for another hold–it session this evening. But Helen had poured three cans of lager down her throat with her meal, and suddenly her bladder began to send her warning signals that it was getting pretty full. Helen ignored them to begin with. She knew that when it felt like this, she had plenty of time yet before she had to worry about finding a toilet. But as the signals became more and more urgent, she began to feel a little uneasy about it. Then she felt decidedly uneasy about it. She was getting very desperate indeed, very quickly indeed. She had never known anything quite like it.
Then, to her horror, a little spasm sent shock waves through her bladder and she felt a little spurt of pee escape into her knickers. Oops! She blushed furiously. That wasn’t meant to happen. Still, she had finally managed to speak to Andy about her need for the toilet this afternoon, and somehow it was easier second time round.
“Andy?” she said.
“That’s me.”
“Are there any toilets on this beach?”
“Not on the beach, no,” he replied. “But there are some back in the car park, and there are some behind the dunes up those steps there.”
Andy pointed to some steps up to the top of the dunes. They were much closer than the car park; and Helen realised with something akin to panic that her bladder was filling so quickly and her tired abdominal muscles were so unwilling to assist her in holding on that it was touch and go whether she could make it back to the car park dry in any event. Oh God, this was not meant to happen! She was not meant to wet her knickers on their first evening together on the beach. Thank goodness for the toilets in the dunes.
“Okay then,” she said, turning and heading for the steps up the dunes. “Back in a mo.”
As she hurried up the steps, she realised with alarm that she was actually in a worse state than she’d thought– or even thought possible. Each time she stepped up it was a struggle not to start peeing in her knickers. How embarrassing would that be if she actually did? But now she was at the top of the dunes, and there at the bottom on the other side was a little brick building that could only be the toilets. Oh joy! She was going to be all right. She wasn’t going to have an accident and wet her knickers after all. She was at the bottom of the steps in no time and, mincing slightly so as to keep her thighs pressed firmly together, she made her way across to the door marked “Ladies”. Turned the handle and pushed. The door didn’t budge. Pulled instead– still no joy. Turned the handle the other way. Rattled the door. Tried the other door, marked “Gentlemen”. It was all locked! Then she saw the sign, which read “Open 8 am – 8 pm”.
“Oh!” she exclaimed in frustration.
“There’s another block in the car park, half a mile that way,” said a passing dog walker, pointing up the dunes back the way Helen and Andy had come. “They’re unlocked twenty four hours.”
Helen thought about it. Could she make it back to the car park? Maybe– if she was very lucky. But what if she couldn’t? There were lots of people back there, some of them staying on the campsite, no doubt. Knowing her luck she’d hold on until she was half way across the car park, and then wet her knickers in front of the family from the tent next to theirs. Which would include the mother and little girl from the toilets this afternoon. And the little girl would shout “Look mummy, it’s the woman who wets her knickers. This time she’s wetting her knickers in the car park.”
Helen closed her eyes and shuddered, mortified at the mere thought of it. Maybe it wouldn’t come to that, though. Maybe she could make it back to the car park. But it would take time. She’d told Andy she’d be right back. If she went all the way back to the car park it would take ages. Absolutely ages. And Andy would wonder where she had gone. He might come looking for her. Get confused when he couldn’t find her and the toilets were all locked up. Even if she came back dry, it would be awkward to explain. But worse still, supposing she came back wet? And supposing he’d raised the alarm and people were searching for her? And when they found her she was in wet knickers, and couldn’t just slip quietly back to the tent to get changed but had to make a statement to the police to say that no, she hadn’t been kidnapped or anything?
It was all just too horrible to contemplate. No, she had told Andy she was coming to these toilets. She couldn’t just run off to the car park toilets without going to tell Andy that was what she was doing first. But if she went back over to the dunes to Andy, and then all the way back to the car park, she almost certainly wouldn’t make it. In fact, she realised as another spurt shot into her knickers, she probably wouldn’t even be able to make it back over the dunes to Andy without wetting herself. She needed to pee and she needed to pee NOW!
At least she was in the woods. There were lots of trees. She could just find somewhere nice and discreet, drop her knickers and squat down for a pee. Hardly elegant, but it would do. Except the woods were full of dog walkers, and families with children walking in the warm evening twilight, and no matter where she looked, there always seemed to be somebody there. Somebody who would surely see her if she dropped her knickers for a pee. But also somebody who would certainly see her humiliation if she didn’t find somewhere to pee really soon and wet her knickers instead.
Aargh! This wasn’t meant to be happening. She shuddered and squirmed, and felt another spurt of pee escape into her knickers and run gently down her thigh. Oh good grief! Anybody who looked closely at her crotch would probably see the evidence that she was starting to wet herself, if the fabric was already that wet. What to do?
And then it came to her: the sea! If only she could get to the sea before losing control, she could run in up to her waist and Andy needn’t know about her predicament. She could wet herself in the sea, and he’d be none the wiser. After all, he knew she needed to go to the toilet, but equally he’d seen her go off in the direction of a toilet block. So he’d think she’d managed to have a pee. All she needed to do was to get to the sea before her knickers got any wetter. Before her accident became obvious. Assuming it wasn’t obvious already. At least her knickers were a dark colour. That would help. But it wasn’t a foolproof guarantee. She looked down. Couldn’t see any obvious signs of wetness. Hoped Andy wouldn’t, either.
Desperately holding onto her crotch to try to keep her bladder under control, and squeezing her thighs together as she went, Helen climbed back up the dune. She managed to make it to the top without any more leaks or spurts, but her bladder was really straining now, and she realised with something between alarm and panic that now, despite the fact that she was on the brink of wetting herself, she was going to have to act normal. Look as though she hadn’t a care in the world. As far as Andy was concerned, she had been to the toilet. She couldn’t afford to give the game away and let him know that she hadn’t.
She took a deep breath, squirmed one more time for luck, and let go of her crotch. Eek! She nearly wet her knickers there and then. She squeezed her thighs together, leaned forward and bobbed up and down a couple of times. Regained control. But from now on she was just going to have to stay in control without any of that. Could she do it? She doubted she could, but somehow she was just going to have to manage.
She ran down the steps and across the sand towards Andy. As she did so, she felt a couple more longish spurts of warm pee leak into her knickers. Struggled to control them without showing any signs of the struggle. It took longer than she thought it would. Little dribbles of pee ran down both her inner thighs. She hoped Andy wouldn’t be looking there. Hoped that he wouldn’t be looking at any part of her knickers that showed any signs of wetness.
“Let’s go swimming!” she yelled, running straight on past Andy. “Last one to get their shoulders under is an over–ripe banana!”
The effort of shouting was all it took. The strain on her diaphragm was too great. Her bladder gave way and as she passed Andy she felt the pee start to gush uncontrollably out and into her purple cotton knickers. If Andy looked now he was sure to see. Sure to know. She looked over her shoulder. He was racing after her. Not looking at her knickers at all. Unaware that she was wetting herself as she ran, pee pouring down both her legs. And now she was in the shallow water. Splashing as she went. Stamping down as hard as she could to raise the splashes up as high as she could. So Andy would expect her knickers to be wet. Wouldn’t realise. She looked over her shoulder again. He had nearly caught her. Still she was pissing in her knickers. They were warm and soggy. It must be obvious to anybody who looked, and thought about it, what she was doing. Obvious that the water glistening on her plump little legs wasn’t all cold seawater.
And then she tripped and fell headlong into the ankle–deep water. Her face, tits, belly, crotch, thighs and knees all felt cold and wet. Her bum was still clear of the water. It felt warm and wet. It must be obvious that it was thoroughly soaked. And if Andy thought about it he must realise that such a soaking couldn’t have come from just falling over in the shallows.
“That doesn’t count!” Andy called over his shoulder as he raced on past her. “You can’t get your shoulders under in that.”
Helen struggled to her feet. She was still peeing. But now she was behind Andy. He couldn’t see. And she couldn’t care less. The fresh pee re–warming the crotch of her knickers and running away down the inside of her legs felt intensely erotic. Arousing. And now the water was above her knees and it was almost deep enough to swim. Ahead of her Andy had already got his shoulders under. Was turning to face her. She dived headlong into the waves, finally finishing her pee as she surfaced once more.
There was Andy ahead of her. He wasn’t much of a swimmer, and she knew she could catch him in no time.
“Look out, then!” she cried, as she felt the cold sea water chilling her knickers through, effectively concealing the last evidence of her latest accident so that Andy would never know. “The over–ripe banana’s coming to get you!”
By: Indigo