A Day in Paris

Caroline drained her second cup of coffee and glanced at her watch. It was nearly time to leave. She had been so excited by the prospect of her day in Paris that she had woken early, and she had passed the time by having a leisurely breakfast.
She had met Bernard–Henri on holiday the previous summer, and they had fallen madly in love. But he lived in Paris, and she lived in London. They both had demanding jobs, and neither was prepared to give up their career in order to be together. So it had been a long–distance relationship. Passionate phone–calls, highly explicit e–mails and whenever they could afford it, a day, a weekend or a short holiday together. Now that the Eurostar took only a little over two hours from London to Paris, a day trip had become an easily available option.
As she prepared to leave, Caroline considered briefly whether to visit the toilet before leaving the house. She decided against; she had relieved herself on rising just over an hour ago, and she felt no need. In any case there would plenty of clean, acceptable facilities on the station and on the train; there was no necessity to take precautions.
It would take her close on an hour to get to the Eurostar terminal at St. Pancras, a bus ride followed by a tube journey. She had given herself plenty of time; she checked one final time that she had her ticket and her passport, locked the door and walked to the bus stop.
Buses were not very frequent at that time on a Sunday morning, and when one did come it seemed to be going very slowly for some reason. She began glancing anxiously at her watch; it was a good job she had given herself a reasonable margin of time. And she began to feel some mild twinges in her bladder. Nothing serious; she wasn’t sure whether it was nerves or the extra cup of coffee. She had a good bladder, and could often go five or six hours between comfort breaks. But she remembered that Bernard–Henri had promised her a picnic, and she made a mental note to be sure and visit the toilet before arriving in Paris.
At last she got to the station. She was slightly late for the check–in, and by the time she had got through passport control and the baggage security check, the train was already boarding. There wasn’t time to use the Ladies’ on the station, but that was not a problem; it still wasn’t urgent and she could go on the train.
Eventually she found her coach and her reserved seat. Her place was by the window, and a quite attractive lady already occupied the outer seat, in her thirties, wearing a red coat. And surprisingly, though she could only have been there for a few minutes, she appeared to be fast asleep. Caroline tapped her on the shoulder, to ask her to let her past. The woman did not budge, and for one horrible moment Caroline wondered if she was dead! What a way to start a romantic day out!
Caroline tried several times to get her attention, but eventually she had to almost shake her before she could get her to wake up and move out of the way. Caroline took her seat and the lady in red promptly went back to sleep.
The train set off and Caroline took a book from her bag and began to read. It was a love story with some very spicy passages, and she began to wonder if her own affair would ever reach similar heights of passion and drama.
By the time the train got to the tunnel Caroline definitely needed to pee. She was not bursting, but beginning to feel rather uncomfortable. But a trip to the toilet would mean waking the lady in red, who seemed to be lost to the world. And indeed, when she thought about it, if she did get the lady in red to let her out, by the time she got back from the lavatory she would doubtless have to rouse her all over again. She just couldn’t face the hassle. The discomfort was quite bearable, so she decided to leave it till she got to the Gare du Nord.
Of course that was going to mean greeting Bernard–Henri, kissing him hello and leaving him immediately. “Hello, I love you, I must pee.” “Bonjour, je t’aime, je dois faire pipi,” she practised to herself. They both spoke each other’s language, and tended to converse half in English, half in French. With anyone else that would be a bit embarrassing, but she had shared total intimacy with Bernard–Henri, and they were both quite open about their physical functions.
At last the train drew into the station. Somehow the lady in red seemed to know where she was, for about one minute before the train stopped she came to and got ready to move. Caroline climbed down from the train; she could see Bernard–Henri at the far end of the platform, and she ran to meet him, mentally rehearsing her greeting: “Bonjour, je t’aime, je dois faire pipi.” “Bonjour, je t’aime, je dois faire pipi.”
But before she could even kiss him, he grabbed her hand and explained that they must hurry, as he was parked illegally and did not want to risk a fine. Forgetting her bladder in the joy of being reunited with her lover, she ran with him to the car.
For some reason, traffic was exceptionally heavy, and they made very slow progress along the boulevards. Caroline looked longingly through the window at the automatic toilets, which were positioned at regular intervals along the pavements – a very welcome change from the 1960s when, as Bernard–Henri had told her, there were male pissoirs on every street corner, but nothing at all for women. She thought of asking him to stop, but realised it would be impossible; there was nowhere he could park in the heavy traffic. At one point they were stopped completely just outside one of the toilets for a full five minutes – quite long enough for her to have got out, had a quick pee and got back in the car. But of course she didn’t know how long they were going to be stopped until the traffic began moving again.
Eventually, the reached their destination, the Bois de Boulogne, a huge forest on the Western edge of Paris. Bernard–Henri had chosen a fairly remote spot, and though there were a few other people around, walking or picnicking, there was no sign of any facilities.
Bernard–Henri had packed a magnificent lunch – meat, cheese, baguettes, cream cakes and two bottles of rather nice wine. They sat on the grass and started on their meal. Stretched out comfortably on the ground, Caroline’s need to pee became less urgent. She was still aware of it, but it was a bit like having a headache but carrying on and trying to ignore it. Paradoxically the wine, rather than fill her up, seemed to have a mildly anaesthetising effect, making her less aware of her discomfort. She became engrossed in conversation – they talked of their jobs, their families, of the possible of a whole fortnight’s holiday together, and even of the long–term possibility of getting together permanently. It was an idyll, and for the two young lovers the time seemed to fly past.
Eventually they had finished the two bottles of wine. Bernard–Henri stood up and walked over to a tree about twenty metres away, and with his back to Caroline, he opened his trousers and began to piss against the tree. The distant sound of running water sent a little tremor through Caroline’s distended bladder.
How much easier it was for men, she reflected. She was very tempted to follow his example. But of course she couldn’t just squat and water the roots of a tree. Although there were few people around there was always the chance of someone turning up while her knickers were down. She would have to retreat into the woods and find some convenient bushes, and even then there was always the possibility of wetting her shoes, which would be a very bad idea in this romantic context.
So, she decided, she would hang on till they got to Bernard–Henri’s flat, where she could luxuriate in his very swish bathroom. She had been there before, and remembered that she had been very pleased with the facilities– no hole–in–the–floor squat toilet for Bernard–Henri.
Having had his piss, Bernard–Henri decided he wanted a bit of a walk to clear his head before driving, so they strolled through the woods for half an hour or so. On a couple of occasions Caroline had a spasm of pain and thought of diving into the bushes, but she decided to keep to her original resolve.
As they drove back the traffic was still quite heavy, and Caroline was becoming impatient. But Bernard–Henri was clearly impatient for something else. The main event of the day, the reason why they had come together, was still ahead, and Bernard–Henri’s lust was becoming uncontrollable. As they drove he kept touching her and making highly erotic remarks. Caroline too was becoming excited, though she was divided between her anticipation of sex and her need to urinate.
At long last they reached Bernard–Henri’s flat. Caroline remembered where the bathroom was from her previous visits, and as soon as they came through the door she was heading in that direction, but before she could say “je dois faire pipi” Bernard–Henri grabbed her and dragged her into the bedroom. They were both seized with lust, and her bladder momentarily forgotten, she embraced him and they tore the clothes from each other’s bodies and plunged into bed.
They explored each other’s bodies and soon he penetrated her. The fact that she had a very full bladder seemed to heighten her sensations; it was a peculiar mixture of pleasure and pain which seemed to run in waves through her whole body. They took it slowly, savouring every moment, but when her climax finally came it gave her a thrill she had never experienced before. Mentally she made a note to remember in future not to go for a pee before making love; she had discovered the joys of full–bladder sex.
She held Bernard–Henri’s naked body very tight. As she relaxed the pain in her bladder came back in full force, but she felt that after such a marvellous act of love it would be almost sacrilegious to say “je dois faire pipi” and climb out of bed. She would hang on for another five minutes, enjoying the total intimacy she shared with her lover.
But in less than five minutes the combined effects of wine, fresh air and vigorous sex had made themselves felt, and she had fallen fast asleep. Her dream was one she often had before waking up desperate. She was in an huge underground labyrinth, wandering around frantically trying to find a sign for the ladies’ lavatory. Plenty of “Gentlemen” signs, but no Ladies’. Eventually she found one, but when she went inside, she was still in the same labyrinth. Corridors stretched in every direction; there were rooms with comfortable settees, baby–changing facilities and even washbasins, but no sign of an actual toilet. At last she found what looked like a cubicle but when she opened the door, it turned out to be a storeroom, full of buckets. She found another cubicle, but it contained a squat toilet (what Bernard–Henri had told her was called a “Turkish toilet”). She knew there must be a proper sit–down toilet somewhere, so she continued her search, getting ever more frantic.
Suddenly she was awake, unsure how long she had slept. She looked at her watch. There was just time for a very long pee and another quick bout of lovemaking (if Bernard–Henri was up to it, which she had no doubt he would be), before getting the train. She climbed out of bed and was heading for the bathroom when a sudden realisation hit her. French time was an hour ahead of British time, but she had forgotten to put her watch forward on the journey out. So it was an hour later than she had thought. She was in serious danger of missing her train.
That would be a disaster. Her ticket was non–exchangeable and in any case this was the last train tonight. Tomorrow she had an important day at work and there could be no question of missing it. She stopped in her tracks and picked up her clothes from the floor where they had been dumped at the beginning of their passionate lovemaking. Frantically she dressed and straightened her hair while at the same almost screaming at Bernard–Henri to waken him and inform him that they must get to the station without delay.
Within minutes they were in the car. In her panic she had forgotten all about her need to pee, but in any case she would not have risked spending precious minutes in the bathroom. But now, as Bernard–Henri drove rapidly through the streets, which, thankfully, were not as congested as earlier in the day, every bump or sudden braking sent shock waves of agony through her lower body.
They got to the Gare du Nord just in time, kissed quickly but passionately and promised that their next meeting would not be long delayed. Again she was late for the check–in and only got to her carriage a few moments before the scheduled time for departure. As she looked for her seat she saw, to her amazement, that the same lady in red who had sat next to her on the way out occupied the outer seat. What a coincidence! How had she spent her day, wondered Caroline; had it been as exciting as her own? At all events it seemed to have been an exhausting day, for again the lady in red was fast asleep.
It was as though she were drugged. Caroline had to tap her several times and almost shout at her before she awoke. By now the train was starting. The lady in red showed no sign of recognising Caroline, but let her sit down and promptly went back to sleep.
Caroline’s need for the toilet was now quite acute, but having just forced her way into her seat she could hardly demand to be let out again immediately. She got out her book and tired to take her mind off her aching bladder.
After an hour she was bursting, really, really bursting. There was nothing for it; she would have to wake the lady in red. But this was easier said than done. Several polite requests, issued in a louder and louder voice, made no impact at all, and even a quite vigorous tap on the should failed to rouse her. Eventually Caroline gave up and decided she would just have to hang on to St. Pancras. To make thing worse the train was delayed slightly, and they were told they would be about twenty minutes late.
About ten minutes from St Pancras the lady in red suddenly awoke and stood up, making her way to the lavatory. Caroline thought of following her, but realised that there would certainly be a queue and that she might well not get to go before the train arrived. She would have to hold on till she got to the station. There was a special drugs check at the station, and there were plenty of police with sniffer dogs. So the crowd of passengers moved very slowly and Caroline hopped uncomfortably from one foot to the other. At long, long last, and feeling very desperate, she was through and made her way to the Ladies’. It was late and the station was closing down. As she approached the entrance she could see a man in process of locking the doors. “Sorry, love, you’re too late,” he said cheerily. He was obviously due to go home and there was no point remonstrating or pleading.
She thought of exploring the station to see if there was another toilet, but she realised they would all be due to close around now, and that she just risked further frustration. She would have to wait till she got home.
The last hour was sheer agony. She realised, as she thought back over the day, that the need to pee was partly psychological. She had needed to go for most of the day, but at times, in the ecstasy of lovemaking or the panic of nearly missing her train, she had forgotten all about it. But there was a physical part to it too, and eventually that was decisive. There was now so much liquid pent up inside her that she was almost exploding.
On the tube she sat on her foot, pressing her shoe into her flesh until it hurt, trying to keep the floodgates closed. She rocked to and fro, and she was sure that her plight must be very obvious to her fellow–passengers, but there was nothing she could do about that.
At the bus stop she skipped from foot to foot, praying for a bus to come quickly. She was seriously considering going to squat down an alleyway when the bus came at last. Same routine; curling up with her bum on her shoe and her hands between her legs, rocking to and fro in sheer unmitigated agony.
She glanced at her watch. It was 11.30 p.m. Her last pee had been at 5.30 that morning. Eighteen hours without a toilet break. Did she qualify for the Guinness Book of Records, she wondered? She almost giggled at the thought, but laughing in her condition would have been a disaster.
She got off the bus and walked the short distance to her front door. She was jumping up and down as she fumbled for her key and turned it in the door. It was a very short distance from the front door to the bathroom, but she had to stop in order to dance about for a moment, and she felt some water escape into her knickers.
Then she was on the toilet seat. There was indeed quite a large damp patch on her knickers, but she didn’t care. She cared about nothing, absolutely nothing, except the fact that at last she was peeing. As she did so some lines of poetry drifted into her head, a poem she had learned at school, by Robert Southey, about a famous waterfall in the Lake District:
And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing, And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping, And curling and whirling and purling and twirling, And thumping and plumping and bumping and jumping, And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing; And so never ending, but always descending, Sounds and motions for ever and ever are blending, All at once and all o’er, with a mighty uproar, And this way the water comes down at Lodore.
At last she was finished. Her bladder still ached from its formidable efforts, but the wave of relief that swept through her body was amazing, like an orgasm. Still sitting there, wallowing in her newfound comfort, she wondered if it was the best thrill of the day. No, she decided, but it was a close second.
By: Jay–Gee