Thrills and Spills

Amanda put her nearly empty pint glass back down on the little cardboard drinks mat and glanced nervously around the crowded pub. There was no obvious sign of a ladies’ room anywhere. She glanced at her watch, crossed her legs tightly, and leaned forward a little. Then she looked around the pub once again, studying the demeanour of her fellow drinkers. Two or three of them were taking a more or less obvious interest in her; and one of those, in particular, stood out. He was about six feet tall with a shock of unruly sun–bleached hair, a heavily tanned face and sparkling green eyes that seemed to smile at her encouragingly every time she looked in his direction. Mid to late twenties; on his own; and quite obviously turned on by what he was seeing. Yes: he was the one!
She was sitting at the end of a long, green leather settle, and now she turned slightly to her left so that her right elbow rested on the table and her knees faced towards the stranger at the bar. She looked towards him, met his eye, and held it for a fraction longer than is seemly for strangers to do in a crowded pub. She gave him a nervous little half–smile. Then she uncrossed her legs and re–crossed them the other way, making sure as she did so that he got an unmistakable flash of her red cotton knickers. She checked her watch again, and then glanced nervously around the pub once more. When she looked back in the stranger’s direction he was standing almost in front of her. He smiled down at her. It was a lop–sided sort of smile, which revealed a shockingly crooked set of nicotine–stained teeth.
“Hello there,” he said. He had a soft, lilting Irish accent.
“Hello.”
“So you’re all alone, then?” It was as much a statement as a question.
“Yes,” Amanda sighed. “I came here hoping to meet someone. But it’s beginning to look like a no–show.” She bit her lip, and crossed her legs the other way again.
“Well, never mind,” said her new companion. “How’s about you meet me, instead?”
Amanda looked at her glass, then up at the smiling Irishman. “Actually,” she said, “I was thinking I’d just finish this and go home.”
“Ah no,” came the soft reply. “The night’s still young and we can’t be having that, can we now? This is no time for you to be going home. No time at all. You tell me what was in that glass of yours and I’ll be bringing you another one. What d’you say to that?”
“That’s very sweet of you,” said Amanda.
“Think nothing of it,” said the Irishman. “We’re a generous people, so we are.”
“Well,” said Amanda, “I was drinking bitter shandy; but I’m really not sure I should have another.”
“Why ever not? How many have you had?”
“That was my third.”
“Holy mother of Jesus and all the saints, but that’s nothing at all,” said the Irishman. “You’ll not be getting yourself drunk and doing anything as you’ll regret on four pints of shandy.” And so saying, he turned his back and headed off in the direction of the bar. As she watched him go, Amanda wondered whether he genuinely thought her concern was to avoid intoxication, or whether it was all just an act to cover the fact that he wanted her to get even more desperate than she appeared to be already. If it was the latter then he was good – very good! And he was probably just the man she wanted. She smiled to herself, and jiggled her legs a little.
“Here you are,” said the returning Irishman, placing a full pint glass down on the table in front of Amanda. He had a pint of Guinness in the other hand. “Now, shuffle your little bottom along the seat, so as I can sit down beside you.”
Amanda did as she was told, taking the opportunity to re–cross her legs the other way as she did so; and the Irishman sat beside her, trapping her in the settle. The other end was against the wall, and if he didn’t want to let her out then the only way she could escape would be to crawl out under the table. But she had already grazed her shin on the cast iron table legs, and she guessed that there might well be enough metalwork down there to make even that undignified escape route untenable.
“Cheers,” he said, raising the white–topped glass of black liquid to his lips. “I’m Declan, by the way.”
“Amanda,” said Amanda. She, too, raised her glass to her lips, and looked over its brim into Declan’s eyes. He, however, was looking down at Amanda’s lap, confirming her suspicion that he knew exactly what he was doing. It was, she concluded, no accident that she was trapped in the settle with no realistic hope of escape.
Declan didn’t have a very original chat–up routine; but he was pleasant enough and Amanda was happy to converse with him while they drank their pints. And all the while she was fidgeting in her seat and glancing anxiously around the pub; all of which seemed to excite Declan’s interest in her still further. And then, to put matters beyond all possible doubt, just as she was getting to the end of her pint and fidgeting almost incessantly in her seat, a barman stopped to clear away the empty glasses on the table and Declan reached for his wallet and said “Can you bring us two more pints here, please? One Guinness, one bitter shandy.” He didn’t even consult her: he just ordered the drinks, and Amanda felt certain – she just knew – that his plan was to fill her up with shandy so that he could enjoy her little desperation show, whilst all the time blocking her exit from the settle and pretending not to even notice her predicament. Yet all the time he’d be keeping her – and especially her lap – under a discrete yet constant surveillance. He’d be enjoying every little wriggle and writhe and sign of her growing desperation. No doubt hoping, above all, that she’d end up wetting herself, a dark stain spreading across the front of her faded purple skirt. It was obvious to her that this was what he was up to; but he was good, and she guessed that most women would never cotton on to his technique. He was that good. But she was on his case. And she was better.
The fresh pints arrived, and Amanda tried to protest.
“Declan,” she said, as he pocketed his change without bothering to count it. “It’s very kind of you to keep buying me drinks, but I really shouldn’t have any more you know.”
“Ah, get on with you,” he chuckled. “The night is young. Cheers!”
He took a long swig of Guinness and smacked his lips with satisfaction as he returned his glass to the table in front of him. “Now,” he declared, “those fellas know how to brew a pint, wouldn’t you say?”
Amanda, too, took a swig from her new glass of drink; but when she returned her glass to the table she placed it with a studied nonchalance on the very edge of the table, where it teetered unsteadily for a moment and then toppled slowly back towards her, spilling its contents into her lap. She shrieked and leaped to her feet, but the damage was already done: she had a huge wet shandy stain right across the front of her skirt.
“Oh, look at that!” she exclaimed.
“I was,” said Declan. “Believe me I was.” Amanda believed it.
“I’m soaked,” she said.
“So I see,” Declan replied.
“I’ll have to go home and get changed. Will you let me out?”
“I’ll do better than that,” said Declan. “I’ll walk you home if you like. Just let me finish this.” He drained the rest of his Guinness at a single pull, then stood and put a protective arm around Amanda’s shoulders.”
“Is it far to your place?” he asked.
“Not far,” Amanda replied. “Just around the corner, in fact.”
They walked in silence, Amanda feeling very uncomfortable as her wet skirt flapped and slapped against her thighs. But it only took them five minutes to reach her little cottage, and as they arrived at her front gate she fished in her handbag for the front door key.
“Would you like to come in, Declan?” she asked. “For coffee. Or something.”
“I’d like that very much,” said Declan.
She pushed on the front door, which opened straight into a small sitting room, and gestured towards a three–seater sofa with a tall standard lamp against the wall behind it. “Have a seat,” she said, “while I just nip upstairs and change into a dry skirt and knickers.”
She chose her little faded denim mini skirt and a pair of light blue M&S midi knickers; and when she came back down to the sitting room she found Declan seated at one end of the sofa. She leaned across him and switched on the standard lamp, then sat facing him, cross–legged, with her back resting against the arm at the opposite end of the sofa. There was no doubt that he would be able to see right up her skirt, and that was precisely where he was looking.
“So,” she smiled at him.
“So,” he replied. “That was no accident, was it?”
“I’m sorry?”
“You didn’t spill you drink accidentally,” he explained. “You put it back on the edge of the table deliberately, didn’t you?”
“Why should I do a thing like that?”
“To cover up,” he replied.
“To cover up?”
“Another accident.”
“You mean, you think … “
“I mean I think you might have wet yourself. You knew you were about to, so you spilled the beer in your lap, hoping that way nobody would ever know.”
“Well, if that was what I was up to, then it doesn’t seem like a very good plan, does it? I mean, if you could work it out, then everybody else would be able to work it out. And it wouldn’t be much of a secret then, would it?”
“I wouldn’t say that, to be sure,” said Declan. “You see, I am – how shall we say – particularly well tuned–in to these sort of things. I notice what other people don’t. And do you know why that is?”
“Do tell,” said Amanda.
“It’s because, you see, the thing is,” said Declan, “I get very turned on by the sight of a woman – particularly an attractive woman like yourself – getting desperate for the toilet. And even more turned on if I think they might have wet themselves. And right now I’m as horny as hell, Amanda, and I want you right now.”
“You do?”
“Oh yes, indeed I do. But I wish you’d go and put your wet red panties back on. Either that, or wet the blue ones you’re wearing especially for me. You know you want to, after all.”
“You’re very sure of yourself, aren’t you?” she said.
“That I am,” said Declan. “You see, it often pays to be direct, so it does.”
“Often,” said Amanda. “But not always. What makes you so sure that I want to play along with you, and that I won’t be disgusted by this little fetish of yours?”
“I’m sure,” said Declan, “that you’re into peeing for fun as well. Isn’t that so?”
“Am I?”
“Oh yes,” said Declan. “There you were, in the pub all that time, getting more and more desperate, writhing and squirming, and you never once got up to use the toilet.”
“Has it occurred to you that I might not have known where the toilets were?”
“There were plenty of folk in the pub, so there were. You could have asked.”
“I might have been too shy to ask. A lot of women are, you know.”
“Oh yes,” said Declan. “I know. A lot of women are– but not you. However, let’s just say for the sake of argument that you didn’t know where the ladies’ toilets were in your own local; and that you were too shy to ask. Still it was only a five–minute walk to come home and use your own toilet. Which is what you’d have done if you weren’t enjoying being desperate, so it is. And if your friend had turned up while you weren’t there, well, sure they’d have waited a few minutes for you.”
“Perhaps,” she conceded. “But, well, let’s just say for the sake of argument that I did enjoy being desperate, there’s a big difference between being enjoyably desperate and actually wetting myself, isn’t there? What makes you so sure I had an accident, and spilled my drink to cover it up?”
“Well,” he said, “when we were in the pub you were showing all the classic signs of desperation, weren’t you? Yet when you got up and walked home, you walked quite normally. You can’t do that when you’re desperate, can you? So you were no longer desperate. And there’s only the one way I know to go from being desperate to not being desperate. How about you?”
Amanda considered the question for a while. It had obviously been rhetorical – but it gave her the opportunity she needed to take control of the conversation again.
“Let’s just say, then, for the sake of argument, that you’re right about all that. And you say that all this turns you on, right?”
“Right.”
“And now you’re hoping for something more in the way of sexual action. You’re hoping for some decidedly wet action, right?”
“Right.”
“So which would you prefer, Declan? Would you prefer me to change back into the red knickers which got wet earlier, or would you prefer me to wet these fresh, dry, blue knickers just for you?”
“Oh, wet the blue ones,” he said. “Definitely the blue ones.”
“That would excite you would it, Declan?”
“Oh yes,” he said. “That’d excite me.”
“How much would it excite you, Declan?”
“It depends how you do it,” he replied. “If you were to wet yourself just sitting there like that, it’d be pretty hot. But you can do better than that, you know.”
“How, Declan? How could I do better?”
“Well, take that skirt,” said Declan. “I really don’t think we need that, do you?”
Amanda stood up and undid the fastenings of her little denim mini–skirt, and allowed it to drop to the floor. She stepped out of it and stood right in front of Declan. The dry crotch of her light blue knickers was just about level with his eyes.
“How’s that then, Declan? Is that better?”
“God yes.”
“You like to see me in just my knickers and blouse do you, Declan?”
“Indeed I do.”
“And how about the blouse, Declan? Do you really want me to keep that on?”
“Not if you want to take it off.”
“It’s not about what I want, Declan. It’s about what you want. Do you want me to take my blouse off? I’m not wearing a bra, you know.”
“Oh yes,” Declan was practically drooling now. “Take your blouse off.”
She unbuttoned her blouse and dropped it on the floor with the little denim mini–skirt. “Do you like what you see, Declan?”
“Indeed I do.”
“And is that how you would like to see me wetting my knickers, Declan? On the level from in front? Or would you prefer to see them from below?”
“From below?” Declan echoed.
“Yes, Declan. If you were to lie on your back on the floor, I could straddle you. Your nose would be right by my pussy, and you could look up at my knickers from below as I peed myself all over your face. Would you like that, Declan?”
“God yes,” he said, already half way to the floor.
“How much would you like that, Declan? What effect would it have on you, do you think?”
“It’s probably make me come right there and then.”
“Let’s try it then, shall we?”
Declan was already supine on the floor. Amanda dropped to her knees on top of him, straddling him, gripping his head between her thighs and thrusting her pussy into his face. Then she took a deep breath, relaxed, and started to pee. It flowed freely and easily, wetting her light blue cotton knickers and running down over Declan’s face. He moaned with pleasure, and she gradually became aware of the rhythmic contractions as his cock pumped out semen into his pants somewhere away off behind her.
When she had finished peeing, Amanda clambered to her feet and helped Declan to his.
“I’ve just wet myself sitting on your face, Declan,” she said. “And now I’m standing here in front of you in my warm, damp knickers with a puddle of pee at my feet. I’ve done as you asked, Declan. Did you enjoy it?”
“Indeed I did,” he said.
“Did I make you come in your pants, Declan?”
He blushed ever so slightly– Bless him! “You did that.”
“Would you like to do this again some time, Declan? Some time soon?”
“I would,” he said. “Indeed I would.”
“Well,” she said. “I’ve got to go and feed a friend’s cat now, so you’d better be on your way. But I’ll be in touch Declan, I promise. I’ll be in touch very soon.”
“I shall look forward to it,” he replied. “But until then, I’ll have my memories.”
“What knickers shall I wear for you next time, Declan?”
“It really doesn’t matter,” he said. “Just so long as you wet them for me, sitting on my face, like you did today.”
Amanda put her blouse and skirt back on over her wet knickers and showed Declan out. And Declan walked home a happy man that Friday evening. His happiness carried him through Saturday and Sunday, even though Amanda hadn’t yet got back in touch with him. And then on Monday morning he went back to work, still floating on a cloud of euphoria, for he had finally realised his dream of meeting a gorgeous wet girl who would do whatever he asked for him.
“Declan?” It was Miranda, his secretary: although she liked to be called his Personal Assistant. She was pleasant enough, and Declan wouldn’t have minded bedding her. But he’d managed to steer a casual conversation round to the subject of watersports once, and she was definitely not interested. So he’d decided that he definitely wasn’t going to try to seduce her because, well, she was a good secretary, and he didn’t wish to risk losing her for the sake of mere vanilla sex.
“What is it?”
“There’s a package here for you. Courier delivery. Marked personal.”
Declan took the packet and tore it open as Miranda left his office, closing the door behind her. An audiocassette dropped onto his desk. He picked it up and looked at it; turned it over. There was no label. He fished inside the envelope, and found a scrap of paper with a handwritten note on it.
“Dear Declan,” he read. “Here’s a copy of the tape I recorded on Friday evening with the hidden microphone in my standard lamp. I think we need to talk– to decide the fate of the master recording. Don’t you? Come to my house tonight, at six o’clock. Don’t be late. Love, Amanda.”
Amanda, thought Declan, gerundive of obligation from the Latin verb amare. As in amo, amas, amat, amamus, amatis, amant. Meaning “she who must be loved”. Only Declan didn’t feel any love for her at that particular moment. No, he felt … well, he wasn’t exactly sure what he would call the emotion. But whatever it was, it was about as unlike love as Cheddar Gorge is unlike cheddar cheese.
There was a gentle tap on the door, and Miranda popped her head round. She smiled. “Are you ready to do my annual appraisal now?”
“Yes of course,” Declan replied, trying to sound as though nothing was amiss. “Come in and have a seat. In fact, let’s not face one another across the desk – let’s use the leather armchairs.”
Declan had arranged the leather armchairs in his office very carefully indeed. They faced one another at an oblique angle, which meant that whenever a woman in a short skirt sat in one of them, Declan could sit in the other and see right up between her legs without it appearing that he was even looking. He suspected that Miranda knew this; but she always wore skirts, which were short enough to give him the occasional flash of her knickers even when they weren’t sitting in the leather armchairs – so he guessed she probably didn’t mind too much. Today, he noticed as he sat down in the other chair, she was wearing the “Tuesday” pair of her “days of the week” knickers. He wondered briefly why she wasn’t wearing the “Monday” pair, thought better of asking her about it, and turned his mind to the more pressing issue of just how the hell he was supposed to conduct an annual appraisal straight after receiving a letter like Amanda’s.
“Are you alright?” Miranda asked. “You look awfully pale. You’re not ill or anything?”
“No, no,” protested Declan. “I’m fine.”
“I mean,” said Miranda, “we can always postpone if you want. Appraisals don’t have to be returned to HR for another couple of weeks.”
“We’ll do it now,” said Declan, “much better that way.”
“Okay,” said Miranda.
Declan chewed his lip thoughtfully for a moment or two, and stole another quick glance up Miranda’s skirt. Why WAS she wearing “Tuesday” knickers on a Monday, he wondered. She was such a tidy–minded secretary. Surely it offended her sense of propriety.
“Are you sure you’re alright?” Miranda persisted.
“Yes, yes,” said Declan. “But tell me, Miranda, have you ever done anything that could leave you open to blackmail?”
“Blackmail?”
“Yes, you know … taken illegal substances, slept around, that sort of thing?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Well, you know the bank’s policy on the personal conduct of employees. It’s very important that there should be no risk whatever of people outside the bank being able to obtain – you know – any sort of improper hold over you.”
“Oh, I see,” said Miranda. “We’ve actually started my appraisal now, have we?”
“What?” said Declan. “Oh, er, yes. Yes. If you like.”
“Well, when I was a student of course, I took all sort of illegal substances and slept around something chronic. I mean, who didn’t? But during the last twelve months – and this appraisal is meant to b an appraisal of my work during the past twelve months, right? – I’ve done nothing that might leave me open to blackmail. No.”
“Right. Good. Well, I’m pleased to hear that. Now then, where was I?”
And so Declan stumbled through Miranda’s appraisal, and the rest of the working day, in something of a haze. His mind was in turmoil as he tried to fathom out what Amanda might want. He’d told her he worked at a bank, so she might have thought he could easily lay his hands on large sums of money. But if that was what she thought, then she was wrong. Had he told her that he was a market intelligence analyst? Probably not; after all, she probably wouldn’t have understood the job title if he had told her, so why risk a repetition of all those tedious jokes which had done the rounds when he first joined the bank about “the Irishman with intelligence”? But if she did want money, and if he couldn’t oblige – which he couldn’t – would he be better off keeping the appointment, or breaking it? He really couldn’t decide, and indeed his tortured brain kept flip–flopping from one alternative to the other like a demented politician.
Inevitably, perhaps, some autopilot function took over, and at five thirty Declan packed his briefcase, left the bank and hailed a cab. He asked the drive to take him to the little pub where he had met Amanda, downed a quick double Jameson’s for Dutch courage, and retraced the route to Amanda’s cottage. He took a couple of deep breaths and knocked three times. Waited. Was about to knock again when the door opened and there was Amanda. He regarded her without emotion. She was wearing the same denim mini–skirt and blouse that she had worn on Friday. No bra today, either. Today, however, Declan did not find himself getting aroused by any of it.
She gestured for him to step inside.
“Sit down Declan,” she said. “You got the tape, then?”
“I got it,” said Declan. “But I don’t think I can give you what you want, you know.”
“Oh, but I think you can,” Amanda smiled.
“I don’t have access to any money at the bank, you know,” said Declan.
“So?”
“So I can’t get money for you, if that’s what you want.”
“It’s not what I want, Declan.”
“It’s not?”
“Oh no.” Amanda flashed a sweet smile at Declan. He willed her to sit down so that he might get a flash of her knickers, too, but she didn’t. “Would you like a drink, Declan? A Guinness, perhaps?”
“Perhaps.”
Amanda ducked through into her little kitchen, and returned a moment later with a glass of Guinness. She must have poured it a little while ago, because it was ready to drink right now. So Declan took two or three refreshing gulps of the smooth, velvety ale.
“Now,” said Amanda. “To business. I think we can agree, can we not, that if a copy of that tape – have you listened to it yet, by the way? Your distinctive accent comes across particularly clearly. Nobody who knows you could have any doubt as to the identity of the speaker. So can we agree that if a copy of the tape were to find its way into the possession of, say, the HR department of your bank, that it might have a particularly catastrophic effect on the future direction of your career?”
“It would that,” Declan nodded. He took another pull on his Guinness.
“Of course it would. And you, naturally, are anxious to avoid that particular outcome, are you not?”
“Indeed I am,” said Declan. He didn’t think there was much point in trying to turn on the Blarney. She had him over a barrel, and they both knew it. He was just kicking himself that he had been so easily caught.
“Good,” Amanda continued. “In that case, I think we may be able to help one another out here. Tell me, this little fetish of yours that we discovered on Friday. Do you ever indulge it by, oh, I don’t know, looking at Internet sites with images of women wetting themselves?”
Declan looked nervously at the standard lamp. “Is that thing switched on?” he asked.
“No,” said Amanda. “No – I’m not recording this conversation. After all, one tape is all I need, isn’t it Declan?”
“I guess so,” Declan sighed. He swallowed hard. “And even if you’re lying to me, and you are recording, a second tape can hardly add to the harm that the first one can do me.”
“Quite so,” said Amanda.
“Well then,” said Declan quietly. “Yes, as it happens, I do look at some of those sites from time to time.”
“Do you subscribe to any?”
“One or two.”
“Do you watch the live webcams?”
“Sometimes.”
“Do they excite you?”
“Yes,” said Declan guardedly. “But not as much as you did on Friday.”
“Sometimes it’s better to settle for second best you know,” said Amanda. “But being a man – well, you’d never settle for second best when the real thing is on offer, would you now.”
“I guess not.” Declan shook his head ruefully. “And that was my Achilles heel, wasn’t it?”
“I look at those sites sometimes too, you know,” said Amanda, ignoring Declan’s last observation.
“You do?”
“Oh yes,” said Amanda. “But the thing is, they don’t get me all that excited, because they don’t carry any of the material that I want to see.”
“And what material would that be?”
“Well, I want to see grown men wetting themselves,” said Amanda.
“I see,” said Declan. “And now you’ve got me at a disadvantage, you’re going to ask me to wet myself for you. Is that it?”
“Well, yes,” said Amanda. “But there’s more to it than that. You see– I’m not alone here. There’s quite a lot of girls like me; and they’re all as frustrated as I am that there are loads of female wetting sites on the internet, but no male wetting sites to speak of. So I promised them that I would set up such a site. I got lots of subscribers to pay their money up front to give me the working capital to get the site up and running. And then I hit a problem.”
“And what would that be?” asked Declan, taking another pull of Guinness and regarding Amanda quizzically over the rim of his glass.
“Getting the models,” said Amanda. “You see, as well as men who enjoy seeing women wet themselves, there are also plenty of women who enjoy wetting themselves. Quite a few of them are exhibitionists, too, and will happily strip and pee themselves in front of a photographer working for a fetish website in the knowledge that a load of men they’ve never met are going to get off on looking at the images. But men? They’re a different kettle of fish, I’m afraid. I’ve tried and tried to find some male models who will wet themselves in front of a camera for me, but – well, let’s just say that I’m still looking, and my subscribers are getting pretty shirty that the site they’ve paid for still isn’t up and running.”
“And that’s where I come in?” Declan asked.
“And that’s where you come in,” Amanda confirmed.
“So what, exactly, do you want me to do?”
“Well first,” said Amanda, “I want you to finish that Guinness. Then I want you to drink another two or three. And THEN you’re going to come through to my studio and do a photo shoot for me.”
“Is that it? You want me to do a wet photo shoot for your website?”
“That’s not the whole of what I want, Declan. I want you to do a wet photo shoot tonight; and then I want you to come back on Saturday to do a live webcam show for me.”
“And if I do that for you, you’ll give me the master tape?”
“I might,” she said, “or I might not. We’ll see.”
“But if I don’t, then the tape goes to our HR department?”
“Most certainly.”
“What if somebody from the bank happens to be one of your subscribers?”
“Oh I don’t think you need worry about that,” said Amanda. “Supposing they are? I don’t think they’re likely to be in any great hurry to go and tell your HR department all about it, do you?”
Declan though about it for a moment or two, and Amanda began to fear that he might be about to decline her terms and call her bluff. He obviously hadn’t listened to the tape – she had felt sure he wouldn’t, after all. If he had, he’d have found it to be blank, because there was in fact no microphone hidden in the standard lamp. So she desperately needed to get him on camera and onto her website before he had an opportunity to play the tape in the privacy of his own home. That was why she had insisted he come straight from work to her house. Once she had some wet photos of him then her hold over him would have some substance. For the moment, however, it was all smoke and mirrors and standard lamps. As Declan looked as though he might need a little more encouragement, Amanda took a deep breath, smiled enigmatically, and said “There might be something else in it for you, too.”
“Oh,” said Declan. “And what might that be?”
“Well,” said Amanda, “this is the first time I’ve ever blackmailed anyone, and I’m pretty nervous about it all. When I’m nervous, it makes me – you know – need to wee a lot. And I haven’t been for a while yet. If you agree to do the photo shoot, well, I might decide not to go to the toilet until we’ve finished in the studio, edited the images, and got them posted on the web. And, well, you never know: I might not be able to hold on that long.”
“Especially if I do a really good photo shoot, which takes a long time to complete,” said Declan, and gave her his trademark lop–sided smile.
“Well quite,” said Amanda, chewing on her lower lip. “But what’s a girl supposed to do?”
“You could make sure you have some spare panties in your studio. Just in case.”
“Now there’s an idea,” said Amanda. “I can fetch a pair or two when I go to get you your next drink of Guinness.”
“You can indeed,” said Declan. “And you know what? I’m beginning to feel more than a little thirsty. So why don’t you go and fetch me that drink right now?”
By: Indigo