Patricia

Trish gasped and slipped a hand between her legs. Her denim mini skirt was practically round her hips and Mark, sitting in the bus seat beside her with a protective arm around her shoulders, could have looked down and seen her knickers from crotch to waist had he wanted to. But he was too much of a gentleman, so he averted his eyes and tried to think of ways to help Trish hold on.
This was so not how Trish had wanted their first date to end. She had wanted to get to know Mark properly first, and then choose the right moment to tell him about her weak bladder and the problems it sometimes caused her. But now … oh well, there was little point crying over spilt milk. She crossed her legs and clenched her thigh muscles tightly.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “This wasn’t meant to happen.”
“Don’t panic, Trish. Nothing has happened yet,” Mark soothed, “and I’m sure you’ll manage to hold on.”
“I’m not,” said Trish. “And anyway, how do you know nothing’s happened?”
“Your body language,” said Mark. “It’s still the body language of someone who is struggling to keep her pants dry. The body language of someone who’s just wet herself, even a little bit, is altogether different.”
“And you’d know about that, would you?”
“It’s a reasonable surmise.”
“Okay,” Trish conceded. “So I’m still holding on by the skin of my teeth. But this bus is going to take another fifteen minutes to get to my stop, and I really don’t think I can hold on that long!
As if to emphasise the point, she drew breath sharply and sat very still for a moment or two, then relaxed slightly.
“Okay?”
“No,” she sobbed. “I just wet myself a little. Look.”
She took her hand away from her crotch and uncrossed her legs for a moment, then desperately crammed both hands back into her crotch. During the brief moment when her hand was not obscuring his view, Mark saw that she was wearing full–cut cotton knickers with broad horizontal candy stripes in pink, purple, red and creamy white; and that there was a large, round dark patch between her legs which could only be one thing.
“Oh Trish, I’m sorry,” he said. “I should have just called for the bill rather than suggesting we have coffee to finish the meal off.”
“Don’t be daft,” said Trish. “You can’t have a meal like that and not finish with coffee.”
“It would have saved you from your present plight.”
“Not necessarily,” she said. “This isn’t exactly the first time, you know.”
“What?” said Mark, incredulously. “You mean…”
“Yes,” said Trish. “I’m afraid I’ve wet myself on the bus home more often than I care to remember. I’m a bit accident prone like that, you see.”
“Oh,” said Mark.
“I do try desperately hard not to have an accident on a first date, though, because – well, it does tend to put people off. But sometimes, well, sometimes it just sort of happens.”
“Like now?”
She smiled meekly and nodded. “Like now.”
“Well,” he said, “Trish. I want you to know that it really doesn’t matter as far as I’m concerned. I think you’re a smashing girl, and I really would like to spend some more time with you. The whole you, that is. The real you. And if the real you has a tendency to wet her pants from time to time on the way back from a date, well then, I guess that’s the you I want to be with.”
Trish shifted uncomfortably in her seat.
“It’s not just on the way back from dates,” she said. “It’s pretty much all the time. I guess I manage about one accident every two or three weeks.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Well,” said Mark, dropping his arm from her shoulder to her waist and tracing down with his finger, across her knickers to her exposed inner thigh, “it doesn’t put me off you at all.”
She turned her face to his and kissed him; and he, in turn, brought his fingers gently up to make contact with the soft, damp fabric of her knickers between her legs. She separated her thighs slightly, and he stroked her gently up and down, lingering lovingly at the warm damp spot where she had wet herself.
“Don’t,” she whispered urgently. He looked at her quizzically. “That is,” she continued, “not unless you want me to start having an accident right here and now.”
“And if I stop,” he replied, “how much longer will it be before you can’t hold on any longer anyway?”
“Not long,” she sighed. “I’m pretty confident that I shan’t be able to hold on all the way to my stop. Not now my knickers are already a bit wet.”
“So what difference does it make?”
He resumed stroking her tenderly through the damp fabric of her knickers, and she did not resist. She moaned softly as her nipples began to tingle and harden, and she felt herself becoming more and more aroused. Suddenly he stopped and, lifting his hand slightly away from her knickers, looked enquiringly down at her. She reached for his hand and placed it firmly back between her legs.
“It’s really what you want?” he asked.
“It’s really what I want,” she confirmed.
“Even if it makes you wet your pants?”
“I think it’s a bit late to be worrying about that,” she giggled; and before she had even finished the reply, Mark felt the wetness spreading rapidly beneath his hand and heard the angry hissing as Trish peed forcefully in her pretty candy–stripe knickers. He began stroking her again, softly at first; but she lifted her hips and pressed urgently against his hand, peeing all the time, and he responded by rubbing harder. She buried her face in his neck and bit, hard, into his exposed flesh. He felt up to the waist band of her sodden knickers and slipped a hand down inside; forcing a finger against the flow of warm pee and crooking it gently round so that it began to enter her. She tilted her hips, arched her back, and gasped as her whole body shuddered to an instant climax. Then she slumped back down in her seat, warm pee still gushing out through her knickers and cascading off her seat onto the floor of the bus. Mark gently withdrew his hand.
“Happy?” he asked.
“Oh wow,” she replied. “Who’d have thought it?”
“Who’d have thought what?”
“I’ve always been horribly embarrassed whenever I’ve had an accident before,” said Trish. “I never imagined that wetting myself could be such an erotic experience.”
“Was that the accident, or was it me?” asked Mark.
“Who cares?” replied Trish. “Just so long as we can do it again some time.”
“Well,” said Mark carefully, “if you wet your pants as frequently as you say, I’m sure we’ll have no shortage of opportunities.”
By: Indigo