Just Once!

Note: This story contains Female Desperation, Female Wetting, Male & Female Urination, and Sex.
Cathy and I were together for over three years. She was attractive, warm, kind, intelligent and witty. Everything a man could want, it might seem. Unfortunately not, if a man had tastes like mine. As far as my preferred fantasies were concerned, she was a sad disappointment. She wasn’t shy or inhibited in any way; she would announce, “I’m going to the toilet” in a quite matter–of–fact tone. But that was all. Never did she admit to being “desperate” or “bursting,” or to any kind of urgency. Sometimes when we came home she would head to the bathroom without delay, but never did she offer the slightest comment – “I needed that” or “that’s better.” She had a good bladder and generally relieved herself four times a day – five at most. And if she was going to be out of reach of a toilet for any length oft time she always paid a precautionary visit before setting out. Any attempt on my part to broach the subject of urination met a blank wall – she just was not interested. In all those three years there was nothing to appeal to my fantasies.
Except for once.
We were going on holiday to Cornwall, and had agreed to avoid the motorways and take a more picturesque route on second–class roads. We left London in the morning, with Cathy at the wheel, aiming to have lunch in a small town in Somerset.
When we approached the town we found that there was a massive traffic jam and we were stuck for nearly an hour. When at last we got to the restaurant Cathy went to the toilet straightaway, but without comment as usual, so there was no telling how urgent it had been.
It was my turn to drive in the afternoon, and as it was a hot day Cathy had a pint of beer with her lunch, followed by a large cup of black coffee. As we prepared to leave I saw her give a quick glance at the Ladies’, but she walked straight of the restaurant, so I assumed everything was under control as usual.
The congestion (I think caused by an overturned lorry) hadn’t dispersed, and it was nearly another hour before we were on the open road again.
About half an hour later we were on a largely deserted road making our way across the Devon moors. I noticed Cathy fidgeting a little, and then she began to study the map.
“We can’t get lost here,” I said, “there’s only the one road.”
“It’s not that,” she said, “I’m trying to see how far we are from civilisation – or at least a town. I’m absolutely desperate to go to the toilet.”
This totally uncharacteristic admission surprised me so much that I just muttered “Oh dear,” trying to sound sympathetic.
To my even greater surprise Cathy carried on: “I was bursting when we were in that traffic jam this morning, so I simply had to go as soon as we got to the restaurant. I thought of going again before we left, but it seemed a bit silly going twice within an hour. But I wish I had gone, I really do. I’m in agony.”
“So how far is the next town?” I enquired.
She winced: “It looks like well over an hour. I hope I can hang on.”
I could see that she was sitting with her legs crossed tight, and her hand stuck between her thighs.
“I haven’t been this desperate for years,” she said. “In fact the only time I remember when it hurt as badly as this was coming back from Brighton a few years ago. My boyfriend was a rugby player, and we had a coach outing to the seaside.
I was very inexperienced. I didn’t realise it was a bad idea to drink pints of beer before getting on a coach. I didn’t even realise it was a good idea to visit the toilet before leaving. So I was in excruciating pain. The driver stopped to let the men pee by roadside, but I wasn’t going to be the only girl to join them. So I just bounced and squirmed, and eventually I wet myself. Not a lot, but quite a big squirt. Luckily I was wearing dark blue jeans, and I don’t think anyone noticed the wet patch when we finally stopped at a service station. I shouldn’t think any of the girls did – we were all too busy running to the Ladies’. But I vowed then that I would never again let myself get as desperate as that. And I haven’t. Not until today.”
I had never heard Cathy talk like that before. It put me in a quandary. Obviously it excited me to see her so desperate – I had a massive erection already. But at the same time I didn’t want to see someone I was very fond of in such acute pain, and I certainly didn’t want to see her humiliated by the accident that was beginning to look inevitable.
“Shall I stop?” I asked, “So you can go by the roadside. There’s nobody about and we can probably find some bushes.”
She shook her head miserably. “No,” she said, adding rather unconvincingly, “I’ll hang on, I’ll be all right.”
“Why not?” I asked. “Surely it’s better than being so uncomfortable.”
“I just hate the thought of squatting to wee,” she said. “In fact I’ve never done it, and I’d be scared of splashing myself or wetting my shoes.”
“How about when we were in France?” I asked. “Didn’t you have to use some of those hole–in–the–floor lavatories? That’s just the same as doing it in the open air.”
“No,” she said, “I was lucky. There was just once, in Avignon. I went to the loo after lunch, and found it was the squat variety. I didn’t need to go too badly, so I didn’t go. I hung on till I found a sit–down toilet later in the day.”
I remembered the occasion. She must have held it for a good three hours, but she had never said a word, or shown the slightest sign of desperation. She must really be in a bad way now if she was prepared to talk about it so openly.
We drove on in silence for a while. The next time I glanced at Cathy she had manoeuvred herself into a curled–up position so she was sitting on her foot. She was rocking to and fro, and, even worse, she had started crying.
I suggested again that she should squat at the roadside, but she almost snapped at me. She clearly was at the end of her tether.
I really didn’t know what to do. Excited though I was by the situation, I did not want to see my girlfriend have a humiliating accident.
On top of all this I needed a pee myself. I was nothing like as desperate as poor Cathy, but I was quite uncomfortable. However I had decided it would be terribly tactless and lacking in chivalry if I were to go at the roadside when she was unwilling to do the same, so I was hanging on.
Then it came to me– a brilliant idea, which might just solve all our problems.
I pulled the car onto the grass verge and stopped. “You do as you see fit,” I said, “but I need a pee and I’m going to have one. Here and now.”
And I climbed out of the car. Cathy scowled at me with a look that had jealousy written all over it.
I stood with my back to the road, just a few yards from the car, and unzipped myself. It was a hot day and the car windows were open; there was no doubt that Cathy would be able to hear everything I was doing.
I aimed my stream at a stone so that the noise would be as loud as possible. I hadn’t realised quite how badly I needed it, and I went on for some time. I was just shaking off the last drops when I heard the car door open and Cathy stood beside me.
“When I heard you pissing,” she said, “I realised I just couldn’t wait any longer. The sound of running water always has that effect on me. I’ve just got to piss.”
Again, the language was extraordinary. I had never before heard Cathy use the word “piss”. She didn’t even say she was “pissed off”. Desperation was clearly upsetting all of her old habits.
There were some bushes about fifty yards away, but she made no attempt to reach them – I doubt if she would have made it anyhow. There were few cars on the road, and she was concealed from the gaze of any passing motorists by our own car. The vast moor was deserted.
Rapidly she tore down her jeans and knickers, and squatted. I have seen a few women urinate in my time, but never anything remotely like this. It was as if she had a fire hose between her legs as the water burst out and splashed onto the ground. And it went on and on, for a full minute and more, as I wondered how one human body could contain so much.
Cathy’s face took on an ecstatic expression, as the pained scowl of the last half hour disappeared and was replaced by a big smile. “Yes, yes, yes” she almost shouted as relief flooded through her body. It really seemed as if she was having an orgasm. I must admit I had occasionally listened outside the toilet door when she was relieving herself, but there had never been anything like this.
I was overwhelmed by lust. When she finally finished, and before she even had time to think about wiping herself, I took her by the arm, pulled her away from the patch of grass she had just soaked with urine, and drew her down to the ground with her jeans and knickers still round her ankles.
We made love, urgently and passionately. I think it was the best sex we ever had.
Eventually we got back in the car. When we reached the next town, Cathy visited the toilet again – but this time, I think, not from any urgency but because she wanted to tidy up.
But when I mentioned the incident a few hours later, it was the same old brick wall. She seemed not so much ashamed or embarrassed as just bored by it.
In fact we never spoke of it again. But for months and months afterwards, whenever we made love, the memory of that marvellous moment burned bright.
By: Jay–Gee