Lurking Within Tent

Note: This story contains Female Desperation, Accidental & Deliberate Wetting, Masturbation, and Foreplay.
The rain beat down remorselessly on the fly sheet of the tent while Helen tossed and turned in a vain attempt to get to sleep; but try as she might she could not get comfortable. Eventually, remembering something she had once read about the sleep–inducing qualities of the female orgasm, she gently lifted the hem of the long pink cotton T–shirt which had served her as a her night dress during her camping holiday with Andy, and slipped her hand down inside the front of her knickers.
They were the same dark blue knickers she had worn that day at Byron’s Pool when Andy had caressed her, and fondled her, and brought her to that first, incredible earth–shattering climax. How ironic was that? She had had her first real sexual experience wearing these knickers; yet now she was reduced to pleasuring herself if she wanted to have any sort of action at all. And what was worse, she still couldn’t explain what had gone wrong to bring about this state of affairs.
She had had such high hopes a week ago, sitting beside Andy on the bus to Wells. They were going to spend a week together at the seaside, sharing a tent, and she had felt sure that at some point during the week they were going to share more than just the tent, and have sex together for the very first time– and the second, third, fourth, fifth and sixth times, too, with any luck. That was what she had hoped; yet nothing of the sort had happened. It was a big frame tent, which they were sharing, with a living area and two separate sleeping areas, and Andy had insisted that they each sleep in one of them. Every night, however, after washing in the campsite washrooms Helen had returned to the tent and changed into a crisp, clean pair of knickers before settling down into her sleeping bag expecting, then hoping, then finally despairing that Andy would come and join her and explore her body underneath her pink T–shirt (and, with any luck, underneath her knickers, too). But he never had, and each morning she had awoken alone in her sleeping bag, still wearing the knickers she had changed into the night before, and still the virgin that she had been when she arrived in Wells.
The days had been equally frustrating. They had explored Wells together; they had ridden the narrow gauge railway to Walsingham; they had visited Holkham Hall; and spent countless hours goofing about on the beach or splashing together in the sea. She hadn’t brought a swimming costume with her, but had shamelessly stripped down to just her knickers and T–shirt to go into the sea, no matter who might be watching and no matter either that her knickers might be most obviously knickers rather than the bottom half of a bikini. (Nobody, so far as she knew, made white floral print bikinis; but that hadn’t stopped her from stripping to her white floral print knickers the day she wore them to the beach.) She could tell that it excited Andy to see her doing this, and she hoped that he would want to come and explore her body a bit when they returned to their tent for the evening. But, night after night, he had simply given her a gentle kiss on the lips and then retired to his own sleeping quarters.
The last couple of days, when they were playing together in the sea, Helen had even been so bold as to wet herself, deliberately, in order to feel those delicious hot fingers of pee caressing her inner thighs as they rolled down from her crotch to her knees. She would far rather it was Andy’s fingers doing the caressing, of course; but for some reason he had been far less tactile this holiday than he had been on their last couple of dates, and she had all but given up hope that he was going to oblige her in that way. So instead she made do with this – an acceptable, but very definitely inferior, alternative. When she had finished she felt incredibly sexy, but she also felt flustered, and embarrassed, and worried that somebody might see that she had just peed in her knickers; so she immediately dived into the waves and swam across to throw water at Andy. He would see her in soaking clothes, but would never guess that her knickers were wet from more than just seawater.
Tonight had been the worst of the lot. For the last night of their holiday they had planned a beach barbecue. They bought a little single–use barbecue tray, some sausages and burgers and ribs to cook on it, and plenty of beer. Helen slipped off into town during the course of the afternoon and bought a sexy little pink gingham mini–skirt that she had seen in a shop window, which she reckoned would show Andy much more than just her upper thighs when she sat cross–legged on her beach towel to attend to the barbecue. She hoped that this might encourage him to get a little friskier than he had been so far this week, especially once he had a couple of beers inside him. She had worn her cut–off jeans all day, but finally, at about half past six, once they had gathered together all the things they needed for the barbecue she had surprised Andy by nipping back into the tent and changing into the new skirt before they headed down to the beach.
They lit the barbecue and made a start on the beers, and Helen tried to make sure Andy was in no doubt that she was deliberately flashing her knickers. He certainly noticed, but he carefully averted his eyes. So she opened another beer and moved round the barbecue to sit beside him.
“What’s up, Andy?” she asked, gently stroking his cheek with one finger.
“I’m not sure I like the look of that, you know,” said Andy in a flat monotone.
“Oh,” said Helen. “I thought you would. Would another colour be more to your liking?”
“Yeah,” replied Andy. “No question about it. Blue would be much better than grey.”
“But I’m not wearing grey!” protested Helen. “I’m wearing pink.”
“What?”
“My knickers,” said Helen. “They’re pink, not grey. Didn’t you see them when I was sitting over there?”
“Of course I saw them,” replied Andy. “They way you were flashing them a moment or two ago I reckon the whole bloody campsite probably saw them. But I wasn’t talking about your knickers.”
“Oh,” said Helen. “What were you talking about?”
“The sky,” said Andy. “I was just thinking it looked as if it might be about to … “
Before Andy could complete his sentence, there was a bright flash of lightning followed almost at once by a crash of thunder; and a moment later the rain had come pelting down in great, lashing torrents which hissed angrily past their ears and splashed back up off the sand as though looking for a second opportunity to soak the two nineteen year olds sitting huddled together on the beach.
“Quick!” cried Helen, grabbing a couple of unopened beers. “The tent!”
“Too far,” Andy yelled back at her, picking up a whole six–pack. “Head for the beach huts. They’re much nearer.”
“Why the huts?” said Helen, between breaths, as they sprinted up the beach. “Do you have a key for one of them?”
“No,” said Andy. “But we can sit underneath one of the taller ones. It’ll keep us dry until the storm has passed.”
The huts may have been much nearer, but by the time Helen and Andy were sitting out of the rain beneath one of them they were both soaked to the skin all the same.
“What now?” asked Helen glumly.
“We sit it out,” said Andy.
“I’m cold,” said Helen, taking her T–shirt off and wringing it out. “Look at that!”
“You’ll regret that,” said Andy. “You won’t want to put that back on, you know.”
“No problem,” said Helen. “I’ll leave it off. Like you said, the whole campsite has already seen my knickers. What difference does it make if they see my bra as well?”
She considered taking off her skirt as well, just to emphasize the point, but thought better of it. There had been something in Andy’s tone, which had suggested that playing in the sea was a special case and, that apart, he wasn’t entirely happy about the idea of the whole campsite seeing his girlfriend’s knickers. So she decided not to push things.
The two of them sat beneath the shelter of the beach hut and drank their beer. When the beer was all gone, and the rain still hammered down without respite, Helen pointed out towards the abandoned barbecue.
“I reckon the fire’s probably been put out by now, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” said Andy.
“And the food will be ruined.”
“Yeah.”
“Oh well.”
They sat in silence a while longer. Then Helen tried again.
“Do you think it’s going to let up at all?”
“Not for a while,” said Andy.
“Shall we make a run for the tent, then?”
“We’ll get wet.”
“We’re already wet,” Helen pointed out.
“We’ll get wetter.”
“I don’t care. At least when we’ve got to the tent we’ll be wet and warm and happy, rather than wet and cold and miserable.”
“Okay then.”
So they had run– along the row of beach huts, across the bridge, up the concrete ramp, past the car park with its gift shop and toilet block, and onto the campsite. When, finally, they stood dripping and sodden inside their tent, Andy looked Helen up and down.
“Didn’t you pick up your T–shirt before we left the beach hut?”
“Oops,” she said. “I forgot.”
“You get yourself comfortable,” said Andy. “I’ll go back for it.”
“You can’t,” said Helen. “You’ll get soaked.”
“I’m soaked already.”
“You’ll get even more soaked than you are already.”
“Not possible,” he grinned, and ducked back out of the tent and into the pouring rain.
“Come back, Andy!” Helen called after him. “It’s only a T–shirt. It really doesn’t matter than much.” But Andy was gone. And by the time he returned, Helen had stripped off her sodden bra, skirt and knickers, towelled herself dry, and changed into her long pink T–shirt and dark blue knickers. They were the last clean pair of knickers she had, and would obviously have to serve her for tomorrow as well. She thought briefly of leaving them off altogether, which would make things easier if Andy came back and decided that tonight was the night they should lose their mutual virginity. But that didn’t seem very likely. And anyway, it felt so strange standing there in just her T–shirt with nothing on below: something she’d not had to do since she was six, and had managed to wet herself twice on a day trip to the seaside, and her mother had had no more spare clothes for her to get changed into. So she picked up the knickers, fondled them gently as the dreamy memories of that first wild orgasm in the punt came flooding back; blushed crimson as she recalled the knickers–wetting accident which had followed; smiled once again as she recalled that that was the occasion when she had first realised that wetting herself was a highly erotic thing to do; persuaded herself that despite appearances it had indeed been a complete accident and that she hadn’t (on that occasion) intended any of it; and finally stepped into the knickers and pulled them up. Then she had gone through to her sleeping quarters and snuggled down into the warm, inviting sleeping bag, noticing as she did so that there was a little leak somewhere and that a small puddle was gathering on the ground sheet by the tent pole. It was nothing to worry about – only about an inch in diameter – but she nonetheless made a mental note to make sure that if she turned over in the night, she kept away from the tent pole.
When Andy returned, he announced that he was leaving her T–shirt with her other sodden clothes, then got himself ready for bed without another word. Finally, when Helen heard him undoing the zip of his sleeping bag, she called out to him.
“Good night, Andy.”
“Good night, Helen. Sleep tight.”
Only she hadn’t slept tight. Indeed, she’d hardly slept at all: the steady drumming of the rain on the fly sheet and the occasional splash of another drop of invading rainwater joining the puddle at the foot of the tent pole saw to that. And then there was another thing. She’d drunk a lot of beer but she’d had nothing to eat, and her bladder was making itself felt in no uncertain terms. She needed to go for a wee. But how could she, in this pouring rain? She hadn’t packed any waterproofs (who would, for a seaside camping holiday in the middle of August?) and if she tried to get to the toilet block and back in this rain she’d get soaked to the skin again. That would leave her with no knickers to wear tomorrow at all. She briefly toyed with the idea of taking her knickers off before venturing out of the tent, so that they were here and dry and waiting for her return; but what if she happened to bump into someone else as she wandered across the campsite in the rain with no knickers on? It didn’t bear thinking about. It would be bad enough to be seen in her T–shirt and knickers, but just a T–shirt and no knickers? The pink T–shirt might be long, but it wasn’t that long. Without a doubt she’d be exposing part of her bum, if not all of it, and hence the fact that she was completely knickerless. No – that would never do.
The next thought she had was that she could take her knickers off and put something else on. Like the cut–off jeans she’d been wearing this morning. She could just about bear to wear them without any knickers for a short trip to the toilets and back. But when she groped around in the dark in the main tent to see if she could find them, she discovered that she’d dropped her wet clothes on top of them and that Andy had dropped his wet clothes on top of that, and then her T–shirt as well, with the result that now they too were totally sodden. And there was absolutely no way that she was going to take her nice, warm, dry knickers off and put on a pair of cold, clammy, sodden denim cut–offs instead. No way at all.
The other skirts, trousers and shorts she had with her were all equally unsuitable for the task. They were all white (oh why had she brought so many white clothes?) and would go completely see–through pretty quickly in the rain. Again, she could just about bear the thought of being seen in see–through wet shorts with blue knickers on underneath; but not without anything on underneath. So if she wanted to keep her last pair of knickers dry for tomorrow, that idea was out too.
So that was it. She would just have to control herself, and lie here in her sleeping bag until the rain let up and she could make a dash for the loo. Which she could probably manage if only she could get to sleep. But while she was awake the sound of the rain beating on the flysheet and running down it in little rivulets made her think watery thoughts and they, she knew, did nothing to promote good bladder control. And so, to try to get herself to sleep, she slipped her hand down the front of her dark blue knickers and began gently rubbing and stimulating herself, wishing as she did so that it was Andy’s hand and not hers which was giving her such pleasure.
She remembered Andy unfastening her jeans and slipping his hand gently inside while she lifted her hips to enable him to ease her jeans down towards her knees. She remembered his hand playing softly on the front of her knickers, teasing, caressing, exciting. And she remembered him bringing her to a climax without even needing to get his hand inside her knickers. The same dark blue knickers she was wearing now. And all the while she was remembering, her fingers were playing, thrusting, stroking. She was aroused, but nowhere near orgasm. Not yet.
The memories continued to flow. How she’d lain in the punt, her jeans off, her dark blue knickers shamelessly displayed to the whole world, while Andy started to punt them back towards Cambridge. She remembered the growing pressure in her bladder; how she’d fought to control it. Fought – but lost. She thrust her fingers in harder, and gasped at the effect it had on her, as she remembered also the shame and humiliation of that first little involuntary leak, and the realisation that she was wetting her knickers again. Finally, she recalled that moment of delicious yet abject surrender when, yielding to the inevitable, she realised that she’d never be able to stay dry all the way back to Cambridge and stopped trying to hold it back – indeed, she may even have deliberately and wilfully started to piss in her knickers. These knickers. The ones she was wearing right now. And at that very moment, her fingers found her G–spot. It was enough. She’d never had any direct stimulation of her G–spot before, and as soon as she touched it the electric waves zinging back and forth through her body lifted her to a new plane of sexual sensation. She gasped in awe. She arched her back. She thrilled at the sensations radiating out from the sexual core of her body to its sensual periphery. And at the same time she felt her bladder letting go. Couldn’t care less. Let it happen. She was totally wrapped up in the sensation of the moment of orgasm; and the waves of pleasure, which washed through, and over, and around her body. And as they did so a steady torrent of pee flowed from her bladder and past her fingers out into her knickers. Wetting them. Flowing down between her legs– puddling under her buttocks and spreading out to soak not only her knickers, but also her T–shirt and sleeping bag as well.
The orgasm ended, and still she was peeing. She ought to do something about it, she felt sure; but just at the moment she was physically drained. Too exhausted by the sexual thrill she had just experienced to do anything except lie there, panting, and peeing, until her bladder was empty. Her pulse was still racing as her pee finally stopped flowing, and her breath came in rapid, shallow pants. She knew that she ought to do something about her wet bedding, but she couldn’t think what, and in any event she was beyond caring. Beyond caring about anything: the rain, her wet knickers, her wet bedding, what she would sleep in tonight, or what she would wear tomorrow. A wave of deep, total insensibility engulfed her, and she fell asleep with her had still thrust down the front of her sodden knickers. She woke up an hour or so later, cold, uncomfortable, and miserable. She was particularly cold around her bottom and the backs of her legs, and wondered why. Her hand, too, was cold, cold and wet and…inside the front of her knickers. Which were also cold and wet.
Slowly, realisation dawned. Her knickers were cold and wet. She took her hand out of her knickers and felt underneath her bottom. There was a huge, cold, wet puddle underneath her, and she was lying right in the middle of it. Then the memories returned, the delicious, body–shaking orgasm, and the consequential wetting. She remembered clearly now. Yes, she had definitely wet her knickers – and her bed – at the moment of climax. It hadn’t troubled her then; but it was troubling her now. She was cold and wet and uncomfortable. And she felt sure she would never get back to sleep in a cold, wet sleeping bag.
She unzipped the sleeping bag, stood up and shone her torch on it. There was an enormous, sodden pee stain spreading over about two thirds of the entire bag. It wasn’t going to dry in a hurry; that was for sure. And she wasn’t going to be able to stop Andy from finding out about her accident this time, either. Rain water was still dripping onto the ground sheet near the tent pole, but there was no way the puddle was going to get large enough for her to put the sleeping bag in it and pretend that it had got soaked by the rain. And tomorrow morning they would be breaking camp, and packing everything away. There could be no hiding her wet bedding.
Well, she figured, if Andy was going to find out anyway, she might as well tell him about it right away. He might be willing to share his sleeping bag with her; which would be cosy. So she crept to his sleeping quarters, undid the zip and stepped inside. Andy was fast asleep. She sat down on the groundsheet beside him; her sodden bottom squelching uncomfortably as she did so, and gently shook his shoulder.
“Andy, are you awake?”
“I am now,” he said, and promptly turned over so his back was towards her.
“Andy,” she tried again. “Can I join you?”
“You already have.”
“No,” she said. “I mean, can I come and join you in your sleeping bag.”
“Why?” he asked. “What’s wrong with your sleeping bag?”
She swallowed hard. “It’s a bit too wet to sleep in just at the moment.” There! She’d said it.
“Wet?” Andy sounded incredulous. “How come? Is the tent leaking?”
“Well, yes,” she said. “It is a little.” Whew! Maybe she’d get away with it after all.
“And you went and put your sleeping bag under the leak, did you?”
“Well, not exactly, no.”
“What exactly, then?” Or maybe she wouldn’t.
“Well, you see, the thing is,” she began, finding the words more difficult to blurt out than she’d ever have imagined. “I had a bit of an accident, I’m afraid.”
“An accident? You mean you … “
“Yes,” she stifled a sob. “I mean I’ve wet the bed– and my knickers. And the T–shirt I sleep in, too. And, well, now I need somewhere else to sleep.”
“Ah,” said Andy.
“So can I come and snuggle up with you in your sleeping bag? I’m so, so sorry: I’ve never done this before. Well, not since I was a little girl, anyway.”
“Do you still have your wet things on?”
“Yes,” she sobbed. “But I can take them off and join you naked if you want.”
“It’s not what I want that matters,” said Andy. “It’s what you want. But let me get out of bed a moment.”
He unzipped his sleeping bag and stood up.
“Now,” he said. “Come and give me a hug.”
She hugged him, hesitantly and gingerly to begin with, but he pulled her firmly into him until her body was pressed hard against his. She felt a tingling in her nipples, and realised that they were completely hard. She also felt something pressing against the front of her knickers, pressing the sodden dark blue cotton back against her clitoris. She moaned with unexpected pleasure: it seemed her nipples weren’t the only things that were erect!
“Now,” he said. “Drop your hands down my back. All the way to my waist.”
She did as she was instructed, and when her hands reached his waist she yelped with surprise.
“What’s that?”
“It’s a pair of plastic pants,” said Andy. “I always wear them when I go to bed, so that if I have a night–time accident it’s only my pants that get wet.”
Helen yelped again.
“Now what?”
“I just wet my knickers again. Only a little bit. I think it must have been the shock.”
“Let me feel,” Andy said without hesitation. And in a moment his hand was caressing the soaking fabric over her crotch where it had been warmed by her latest little accident.
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Andy continued. “It happens, you know.”
“How often does it happen to you?” Helen was unable to contain her curiosity, even though she knew that perhaps she should.
“Five or six times a month,” said Andy. “Enough to be a nuisance.”
“And have you had any accidents this holiday?”
“Yes,” said Andy. “Two.”
“Are you wet now?”
“No.”
“Oh,” she said, a little disappointed. It suddenly occurred to her that there could be nothing more conducive to a mutual loss of virginity than for them both to have a pair of wet knickers for the other to explore and enjoy.
“But I can do something about that quite easily, if you like.”
“You can?”
“Oh yes,” said Andy. “I’ve been lying here pretty uncomfortably, waiting for the rain to stop so I can run to the toilet. I went just before coming to bed – when I went back for your T–shirt – so I can probably hold on ‘til morning if I really have to. But I’d be a lot more comfortable if I just gave up and wet my pants now. I have no difficulty getting to sleep in wet pants, after all: I’ve had plenty of practice, unlike some.”
Helen didn’t answer Andy. Not verbally, at any event. She kissed him on the lips, and slipped a hand down inside the waistband of his plastic pants. She felt round to the front of his cotton underpants and used her hand to cup the fabric that covered his bulging penis, just as the first spurt of Andy’s warm pee started to make it wet. She began running her finger up and down his shaft, rubbing him through his pants as they became wetter and wetter, and she felt his penis hardening beneath her touch.
“No,” whispered Andy. “Not yet. Let me finish peeing first. We’ll have plenty of time for sex afterwards.”
By: Indigo