Jane

It was one of those beach parties where everyone just assumes you know everybody else, so nobody ever bothers introducing you to anybody; but in reality you’ve scarcely met anyone before in your life. It was originally intended as a small old chums’ get–together; but then friends started getting invited, and then friends of friends, and before we knew it there were close on two hundred people having a great time, eating lots of great food, and drinking lots of great drink. Most folk had brought rather more than a bottle and there was plenty to go around; so I just went with the flow and made the most of the opportunity to chill and enjoy myself.
The sun was setting, but there was still plenty of light. I was sitting on a rock with a six–pack of beer, chatting with this stunning, leggy redhead in a little pair of faded denim shorts and this cute pink T–shirt. We were both well pickled already, but we kept going on the beers because – well, they were there.
And then we smelled it– the unmistakable, sweet aroma of high–class dope being smoked. And she looked at me, wide–eyed with fright.
“I think it might be a good idea if we went for a stroll along the beach,” she said. “A long stroll.”
“You smelled it too, then?”
“Yes,” she said. “And believe me, it is what you think it is, so I need to make myself scarce.”
“Me too,” I said as she hopped down off the rock and began to saunter along the sandy shore. I too jumped down, and ran the few yards it took to catch her up.
“So,” I said, as I fell in step beside her. “Why do you need to make yourself scarce?”
“Because I work for Customs,” she shrugged, “and they kinda don’t like to think that their staff get involved with that stuff when they devote so much effort to trying to make it impossible to lay your hands on in the first place. And you?”
“Much the same,” I sighed. “Only my, er, place of employment is the local police station.”
“Oh wow!” she shrieked, jumping up and down like an over–excited little schoolgirl. “You’re a policeman? How cool! But – er – shouldn’t you be back there arresting the miscreants or something?”
“You really think one police officer could arrest all that lot, do you?”
“You could radio for help.”
“I don’t have a radio on me right now,” I said. “And besides, I’m not a police officer.”
“You’re not?”
“No,” I said. “I’m a civilian dispatcher. I man the radio at base, make sure the cars are in the right place or going there, that sort of thing.”
“Well,” she said, “I’m sure that’s cool too.” But she didn’t sound as if she meant it.
“And how about you?” I asked. “What’s your place in the global fight against drug trafficking and global crime?”
“Me?” she said, sounding as though she desperately wanted to change the subject but couldn’t quite see her way clear to doing so. “I, em, well, you know. I work in section G7. So I’m one of them.”
“Section G7?” I asked.
“Yes, that’s right.”
“And can you tell me what section G7 does? Or would you have to kill me if you did?”
“No, I can tell you,” she said.
“But you still haven’t,” I observed.
“Would you like me to?”
“If it’s not too much trouble.”
“Well, okay. Um, section G7. Yes, well, you see, it’s the section that does VAT audits.”
“VAT audits?” I was trying not to sound incredulous, really I was. But it wasn’t easy.
“Yes. You know. We ask to see a trader’s books and go through them to check that he’s filling in his VAT returns correctly and paying us the right amount of tax and all that sort of thing.”
“Yes, yes,” I replied, perhaps a little too tetchily. “I do know what a VAT audit is.”
“Then what?”
“Well, it’s just, you know,” I said. “I hardly think it’s fair for you to mock my job because I’m not a uniformed officer when your is just – well – number crunching. Ticking and bashing.”
She smiled. “The bashing part can be quite fun, actually.”
“Hmmmmm” I said. “By the way, I never did catch your name.”
“Jane,” she said. “Plain Jane.”
“Plain?” I nearly choked. “I wouldn’t call you plain, you know. You’re … you’re, well … “
“No, no,” she protested. “It’s just what my friends and colleagues call me. Plain Jane.”
“But why?” I demanded. “I mean, it’s a scurrilous lie with absolutely no basis in fact.”
“Actually,” Jane corrected me, “there’s nothing scurrilous about it at all. It’s all perfectly true. They call me Plane Jane because – well – I fly a “plane.”
And with that she stuck her arms out and began to run around me in circles, making engine noises the way you do when you’re young and playing at aeroplanes. Then she ran a little ahead and came back at me, pretending to strafe me, yelling “Dakka dakka dakka dakka dakka” as she did so. She came back for a second pass, and then a third. This time I was ready for her, however, and my nose turret returned her fire. “Rat–tat; rat–tat; rat–tat–tat” went my guns as hers went “dakka dakka dakka.” She came straight for me, guns blazing all the way. And then, just when it looked as if a head–on collision was inevitable, she peeled off and circled away to the left. But she’d got just that little bit too close, and as she passed alongside me I stuck out my foot. She tripped and sprawled headlong in the soft sand, and in an instant I was on top of her, straddling her, kneeling back so that my buttocks pressed down against hers, pinning her to the ground.
“Oh dear,” I said. “You appear to have had an accident.”
“Oh no!” she spluttered, spitting out sand. “I’ve not, have I?”
“Course you have,” I replied with a grin. “Crashed and burned like a good ‘un, you did. Let that be a lesson to you never to fly too close to the guns of a B17 Flying Fortress.”
“Oh,” she said. “I see what you mean. Yes. Sorry. I thought you meant something … well, never mind what I thought.”
“No, no,” I protested, sensing where this conversation could be heading and hoping that I might be able to encourage the beautiful Plane Jane to open up to me. “You’ve mentioned it now – so go on. What did you think I meant?”
“Well,” she hesitated. Then she went on, “it’s just I could, well, you know. I could probably do with a visit to the ladies’ after all that beer. So when you said I’d had an accident I thought you meant the shock of the fall had made me lose control for a moment and … well, you know.”
“Do I?”
“You’re determined to make me say it, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
She took a deep breath – or as deep a breath as was possible given that she was still pinned face–down on the beach. “I thought you meant I’d wet myself a bit and made a wet spot on the back of my shorts.” Her voice had dropped almost to a whisper, so I leaned forward and whispered in her ear.
“That wasn’t what I meant,” I said. “But then again, I wasn’t looking. So perhaps I’d better just check for you.”
I reached back with one hand, and ran it across her firm little bottom. Then, experimentally, I reached back and down between her legs. She sighed and moved her thighs apart slightly– just enough to allow me to slip my hand down between her legs. It felt deliciously warm, but quite dry. I decided against pushing my luck, however, so I withdrew my hand and leaned forward again.
“Check completed,” I whispered, “and I can confirm absolutely and categorically that you have not made a wet spot on your shorts.”
“Yet,” she said.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that if I don’t go to the toilet soon I probably will. So, much as I was enjoying you frotting my bum, I really think you ought to let me up now so I can go to the toilet.”
I climbed up off her and looked back along the beach, past the distant group of partying friends and friends–of–friends to the toilet block in the car park. Jane was still facing the other way as she got herself up. So she didn’t see what I saw. But I saw it all right, and it made me worried. Very worried.
“Jane,” I said. “Don’t look now, but I really don’t think it would be a good idea to make for the toilet block just at the moment.”
“You mean you actually want me to wet myself?” she asked, with a derisive snort.
Well, yes, actually. I did. But I was hardly going to say that now, was I?
“No,” I said. “It’s not that. It’s just there’s an awful lot of flashing blue lights in the car park right now, and I really think it might be a good idea for the two of us to be heading away from the party rather than towards it.”
“You’re joking!” She sounded serious.
“I’m not.”
“Oh shit!”
“The dunes?”
“Yes,” she said. “Let’s head for the dunes and keep our heads down.”
We made a dash for the dunes and found a little hollow where we could hide out of sight, provided we sat down.
“Keep low,” she hissed at me. “And keep quiet.”
So we sat in silence in the little hollow, facing one another, and for the best part of half an hour I watched her growing steadily more desperate. Crossing her legs; uncrossing them and sitting on her hands; anxiously biting her lip; scissoring her thighs and shifting her weight awkwardly from one buttock to the other. Then she whispered, “How much longer do you think we need to hide out? I’m getting pretty desperate here.”
“Why don’t you just drop your shorts and have a pee then?” I suggested. “I’ll look the other way.”
“But what if a policeman suddenly appears at the top of the dune and catches me mid–piss?”
“I’ll crawl up to the top of the dune and keep a lookout for you,” I offered.
“No,” she moaned. “Still no good. I mean, fine if I was wearing a bikini or ordinary underwear. But I’m not. I’ve got a one–piece on under all this and I’ll have to get naked to pee. It would take too long to get dressed again if you spotted someone coming.”
It occurred to me that she could just drop her shorts, squat and pull the gusset of her swimming costume to one side; but this thought obviously hadn’t occurred to her, and I was in no hurry to suggest it. So instead I just moved to sit beside her and put a comforting arm around her shoulders.
“Oh,” she moaned, jamming both hands between her thighs and clenching her muscles tightly.
“Are you in a bad way?” I asked, somewhat unnecessarily.
“Yes,” she whimpered. “I’m only just holding on here. I haven’t been this desperate since… since…”
“Yes?” I was feeling pretty horny already, to tell the truth; but I nevertheless hoped that with a little encouragement I might manage to coax a really arousing story out of her.
She swallowed hard. “Well,” she said. “When I was thirteen we went on a holiday in Scotland with some family friends of ours. I was the oldest of the children. My sister Heidi was the youngest. She was only six. And Roger and Thelma’s daughters Sarah and Louise were about nine or ten. We had a cottage overlooking Morar sands on the West coast.”
“Oh yes,” I said. “I know Morar. Smashing place for a family holiday.”
“Yes,” said Jane. “It was. We spent most days down on the beach or in the sea, and every night we hung our swimming costumes out on the line to dry for the next day. I was just at that age where I was getting very self–conscious about my body, so I had a very modest one–piece costume. A bit like the one I’m wearing now, actually.”
“What colour is it?” I asked.
“Have a look,” she said, and pulled the hem of her little pink T–shirt up to her chest. There was still just about enough light to see that the smooth fabric of the swimming costume she wore underneath was bottle green, with a broad white vertical stripe down each side.
“Mmmm,” I said. “Very nice. Was the costume you had back then green as well?”
“No,” she said, with a little giggle. “It was fuchsia pink with big yellow sunflower heads all over it– very girly. And I used to tie my hair back in bunches with matching pink ribbons, so the overall effect must have been to make me look about the same age as Sarah and Louise. But anyway, one night there was a terrible, terrible thunderstorm. Heidi and Sarah were both so frightened that they wet their beds, and next morning our costumes were still dripping wet. But the sun was shining brightly and we all wanted to go on the beach again so our mums told us just to strip to our knickers and go like that.”
“And did you?” I asked.
“Oh yes,” she said. “The little ones all went out in just their knicks; but my breasts were just starting to be noticeable, so I kept a T–shirt on as well. Anyway, we had a great time on the beach, but after a while some boys from the caravan site came down onto the beach and started playing near the path back up to our cottage. I didn’t want to have to walk past them and let them all see my knickers, so when I started to need to go to the toilet I didn’t know what to do. I just tried to hold on in the hope that they’d eventually go somewhere else and I could run back to the cottage.”
“And did they?”
She shifted uncomfortably where she sat, and took a couple of deep breaths. I held her tight, and she stifled a sob. “No,” she said at last. “They just kept playing, and I just kept getting more and more desperate, until I just knew that if I didn’t get back to the cottage and go to the toilet that very instant I was going to wet my knickers right where I was. And at the age of thirteen – well, thirteen year old girls just don’t wet their knickers, do they?”
“What about the others?” I asked. “Didn’t they need the toilet too?”
“Oh, they’d all been right out into the sea, so I expect they’d taken a pee in the water, same as they would have done if they’d been wearing swimsuits. But I couldn’t do that. I mean; if I’d been wearing my swimsuit I would have done– but not in my knickers. I mean that would still be wetting my knickers, right? And thirteen year old girls just don’t wet their knickers.”
“Seems a bit silly to me,” I said.
“Yes,” she sighed. “It seems a bit silly to me too. Now. But it didn’t then. So when I just couldn’t hold on any longer and I was hopping from foot to foot clutching myself quite openly, I decided I’d just have to go past the boys from the caravan site and get back to the cottage. So I told the others I was just popping home for a minute or two, and made a dash for it. And do you know what?”
“Go on,” I said.
“The boys didn’t take a blind bit of notice of me as I ran past them.”
“So you let yourself get really uncomfortably desperate for no good reason.”
“That’s right,” she said.
“But you made it back to the cottage and went to the loo and it was alright in the end?” I said, trying to sound as though I meant it but secretly hoping there was more to her story.
“Well, no, actually,” she said, a little wistfully. “When I got to the cottage I went through the garden gate and Roger was there in a deck chair with a can of beer. He asked why I’d returned, although it must have been pretty obvious from the way I was hopping from foot to foot. So I told him I was absolutely bursting for the loo, and he said he’d have to unlock the house for me because dad had taken mum and Thelma into Mallaig to go shopping. And then, as he started looking through his pockets to find the cottage key, he began asking things like whether I could have found somewhere to go on the beach, and I said no. Then he looked at me and asked me whether I was really, REALLY desperate, and I said yes, I didn’t think I could hold on much longer and if I didn’t get to the toilet right now I was probably going to have an accident. I didn’t mean to say it, and it was very embarrassing, but I was so desperate I was beside myself and I just sort of blurted it out.”
“I see,” I said, gently stroking her upper arm to reassure her. “And are you that desperate now?”
“No,” she said. “But I’m not all that far off it.”
“So what happened in the end?”
“Well,” she said,” as soon as I said I though I was about to have an accident, Roger found his key and went over to open the back door of the cottage. But it was too late. I’d left it too long, and before he could open the door I started wetting my knickers. I just stood there pissing myself, and I burst into tears because I was thirteen and thirteen year olds aren’t meant to wet their knickers.”
“Well,” I said, “you weren’t to know that the cottage would be locked up.”
“Maybe not,” she said. “But I’ve thought about this a lot, you know, and I reckon that even if the cottage had been unlocked I’d probably left it too late. I don’t think I’d have made it through the kitchen and the dining room into the hall, up the stairs and along the landing to the bathroom at the end, never mind closing and locking the bathroom door, crossing to the toilet, lifting the toilet lid and pulling my knickers down. I think the time it took Roger to find his keys and open the back door was about the same as the time it would have taken me to get half way up the stairs. So I’d still have wet myself. It’s just I’d have made a mess in the house rather than doing it in the garden. It was my entire fault, not Roger’s. I left it too long before coming up from the beach, and I ended up having an accident in my knickers. At the age of thirteen!”
“Poor you,” I said.
“Yes,” she continued. “I felt terrible about it, and I was crying my eyes out, and Roger was great. He came and hugged me and told me it was all right, that anyone could have an accident and it was nothing to be upset about. And I wailed that everyone would know I had wet myself and that would be terrible. He asked why everyone would know, and suggested that we could keep it a secret just between the two of us. He said nobody else need ever know, but I pointed out that I’d just wet my only pair of navy blue knickers and would have to change into a different pair. People would see I’d changed and wonder why, and they’d probably guess that I must have had an accident. But Roger pointed out that the things on the washing line were now dry, and suggested that I simply go and change into my swimming costume. He said if anyone asked why I’d changed I could say I felt I was a bit to old to be running round with my knicks on show and had been a little uncomfortable about it, so I’d taken the opportunity to change into my swimming costume when I went back to the cottage to go to the toilet.”
“That bit about being uncomfortable with your knickers on display was more or less true, of course.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “So Roger passed me my swimming costume and told me that I mustn’t worry about my wet knickers being discovered, either. He said he’d promised to wash Heidi and Sarah’s wet bedclothes, and he could wash my knickers for me at the same time. He said he’d be sure to do a full load of his girls’ pants and T–shirts as well, because people might be suspicious if he’d just washed the one pair of my knickers.”
“He seems to have thought of everything,” I said.
“Yes,” she agreed. “But it’s odd. I changed into my swimming costume, and then I gave Roger my wet knickers and wet to join the other girls on the beach. Nobody except Roger and me ever did find out that I’d got it wrong and had an accident. But I guess my navy blue knickers never did get separated from Roger’s girls’ things at the end of the wash, because I don’t think I ever saw them again.”
“How odd,” I agreed; whilst figuring to myself that a far more likely explanation was that Roger may have washed them, but he kept them as a little keepsake to remind him of the day that his friends’ daughter, on the verge of womanhood, had stood in the garden of their holiday cottage in just her knickers and T–shirt and wet herself before his very eyes. You old devil, Roger!
“And that was the last time you wet your knickers, was it?” I had to ask, didn’t I? Just in case there was another story waiting to come tumbling out.
“God yes,” she said. “After that I made a point of never letting myself get nearly so desperate.” She gasped and stifled a little sob, then added “until now.”
“How much longer do you think you can hold on?” I asked.
She thought for a moment or two. “Ten minutes,” she said. “Maybe fifteen. No more than that.”
“Shall I take a peep over the top of the dune and see if the coast is clear yet?”
“Oh yes,” she urged me. “And please let it be clear.”
It was getting pretty dark now. I crawled up to the top of the dune and peeped towards the car park. As I did so, a flashlight beam passed across the dune, paused, and swept back towards me again. I froze. The beam swung this way and that, playing along the top of the dune.
“Sarge!” a voice called in the darkness. “I thought I saw a movement over there. I’m just going to investigate.”
Shit!
I tumbled back down the dune and found Jane sitting all hunched up, hugging her knees close to her chest and rocking back and forward. She was chanting some sort of mantra softly under her breath.
“Jane,” I said. “Trouble. Do you think you could run?”
“No,” she said. “I’d lose it and piss all over the place if I tried.”
“Then I think we’ve got a problem,” I said, as the flashlight shone down on us from the top of the dune.
“Okay, you two.” It was the same voice I had heard earlier. “Better come and join the others.”
“What others?” I asked, trying to sound as innocent as possible. Jane just began sobbing gently as she continued to rock back and forward.
“We’ve got orders to arrest everyone on the beach, and sort out who’s using drugs and who’s not when we get you back to the station.”
“Well, sod your orders officer,” I said in my best radio dispatcher’s voice. “Sergeant Sullivan said he was going to lunch three hours ago, so he’s probably still in the knocking shop, and I need you to go straight back to the car park and pretend you found nothing here. Do you think you can do that for me?”
“Richard?” I recognised the voice now. It was Simon Player, PC182. “Is that you?”
“Of course it’s me, Player you plank!” I replied. “And don’t you see it would be a right pain in the arse if you arrested us? So just bugger off, why don’t you, and say nobody was here.”
“What about her?”
“She’s clean,” I said. “Believe me.”
“I’d like to,” he said. “But if I arrested her, we could always search her here. Together. Know what I mean?”
I did know what he meant, and I didn’t like the suggestion. Not least because it would probably end up with Jane pissing herself all over us, and Player could hardly go back to the squad van reeking of piss and pretend there had been nobody here. He’d have to arrest us both and do it properly. So I gave him his marching orders.
“She’s already promised to let me search her as thoroughly as I like later this evening,” I lied. “But I think it’s a one–man job. So just get lost, there’s a good chap. Can’t you see she’s nervous of men in uniform?”
“Very well, Richard,” Player said with a sigh. “But you owe me one, okay? I’ll tell the sergeant it was just my imagination and there was nobody here. But you’ve got to play your part too, you know. You must stay right here and keep your heads down until we’ve gone, or it could be a bit tricky for both of us.”
“How long?” I asked.
“Give us half an hour to clear the beach and get the vans loaded,” he said, “and then another quarter of an hour just to be sure. And then you can move, okay?”
“Okay,” I said.
“Sorry Sarge!” Player called over his shoulder. “Must’ve imagined it. Nobody up here.”
And then he was gone. So I turned to Jane and asked her softly whether she could hold on for another forty–five minutes.
“Who knows?” she replied. “But I’ve got to try, haven’t I? You heard what he said.”
And try she did; but after perhaps ten minutes of shifting and wriggling and sighing and sobbing, she suddenly said, “This is no good. I can’t do it. I’m as desperate as I was when Roger was fumbling for the key to the cottage. I had barely a minute before I was wetting my knickers then – and I doubt I’ve got much more than a minute now.”
“What do you want to do?” I asked.
“What can I do? We’ve got to stay here for another half an hour at least. I’ll never manage that. I’m just going to end up wetting myself, that’s all.”
“Why not take your things off and pee here?”
“I’ve told you, I’ll have to get naked and it’ll take too long to get dressed again if someone comes.”
“Who’ll come?” I asked. “The police have cleared everyone else off the beach, and they’re trying to get them all packed off back to the police station now, aren’t they?”
“Hmmmm,” she thought about it for a moment or two, and then gasped in shock. “Okay,” she said. “But there’s not much time. Take my shorts off for me, can you?”
So I unfastened the button and zip of her shorts, and she lifted her hips to enable me to slide them down her legs while she crossed her arms and lifted her T–shirt off over her head. She tossed it to one side and began reaching for the straps of her swimming costume as I pulled her shorts free of her ankles.
She froze, and wailed softly under her breath. “Oooooh nooooo.”
Then I heard it– a soft, angry hissing noise. And I knew it was too late for poor Jane.
“Jane?”
She said nothing.
I reached forward. Put my hand between her legs. Felt the growing warm patch on the front of her swimming costume. She did nothing to stop me, so I leaned forward and kissed her.
“Not yet,” she murmured.
“What?” I gasped.
“Don’t get yourself wet,” she said. “When I’ve finished wetting I can change out of my wet things and put my dry shorts and T–shirt back on.”
“So?”
“So we can go back to my hotel room. It’s not far to walk. But it might raise a few eyebrows if you arrived there soaking wet from my pee.”
“True,” I said. “But tell me this. Once we’ve got to your hotel room, what exactly had you in mind?”
“Well,” she giggled, “I thought you were going to search me thoroughly. I’d be most disappointed if you didn’t – I’m quite looking forward to it, you know.”
“And once I’ve searched you?”
“Well,” she said, “that rather depends what you find, doesn’t it? But to judge from the effect this is having on me, I think it’s only fair to say you’ll probably find I’m more than a little bit randy.”
“Oh well,” I said. “In that case…”
So I sat back, well clear of the little wet patch in the sand, and let Jane finish her accident.
By: Indigo