Patience and Prudence: My New Boyfriend

I’ve had quite a few boyfriends, but nothing very serious. With Paul I knew from the beginning it would be different. He was good–looking, intelligent, had similar interests to mine, but above all he was kind, thoughtful, considerate. I really felt this as going to be something special.
I like to take things slowly, and our first two dates ended with no more than a chaste kiss. On the third date we went to a movie, and then to the pub. Half way through our second pints he suggested, rather shyly, that I might like to come home with him. Although I tried not to show too much enthusiasm, I accepted straightaway – indeed, I should have been very disappointed if he hadn’t asked. We finished our drinks, and Paul excused himself and went to the lavatory. When he came back he seemed slightly surprised to see me still sitting there, but nothing was said, and we walked to the tube station. The journey took a bit longer than I had expected, and by the time we emerged from the tube I was desperate – really desperate.
I turned to Paul and asked if it was far to his flat. “About ten minutes walk,” he replied. “Why, are you felling tired, Peach?” (Prue and everyone else call me Paish as short for Patience, but Paul had already decided that Peach sounded more affectionate)
“No,” I said, “But I’m absolutely bursting for the toilet.” Paul looked genuinely worried. He glanced at his watch. “I don’t think there’ll be anywhere open at this time,” he said. “Can you hang on?” “I suppose I’ll have to,” I said, gritting my teeth. And I did, though I had to stop a couple of times to do a little dance of sheer bloody agony.
At last, at last, after what seemed very much more than ten minutes, we got to Paul’s flat. I stood behind him, swaying from foot to foot as he opened the door. As soon as we entered the flat he pointed to the bathroom door. I almost leapt to it, only to find to my dismay that it was locked.
Paul led me into his sitting room, saying very apologetically: “Sally must be in the bathroom – I don’t suppose she’ll be long.” (Sally and Richard were the couple he shared the flat with; Richard was away for a few days at present.)
“Would you like some coffee?” he asked. “Well, er, yes, “ I replied, “but I’m not going to drink it till I’ve, er, been….” “Of course not,” he smiled, and went off to the kitchen.
While Paul was out of the room I was able to plunge both hands hard into my crotch. That made things a little better, though I have to say, not very much. Frantically I tried to take my mind off my bladder by looking round at Paul’s pictures and books, and trying to work out what they told me about him as a person. But at the same time I was straining my ears for any sound that would indicate that Sally was exiting the bathroom. No such luck!
Eventually Paul came back with the coffee. I removed my hands from my crotch as he entered, but I was opening and shutting my legs like a loose pair of scissors, and he was in no doubt that I was in a very bad way. Immediately he said: “I’ll go and hurry Sally up.”
I followed close behind him, hoping to dart into the bathroom at the first opportunity. So when he tapped on the door and asked if Sally was going to be long, I was appalled to hear her angry voice shouting: “Sod off! I’ve had a really rotten day at work, and I’m trying to relax in the bath. Go and pee in the bloody garden!”
We went back into Paul’s room, but I couldn’t sit down – I was dancing from foot to foot.. Paul looked very embarrassed and said: “I’m really sorry about that. I expect she’ll only be a few more minutes.”
“Is there a garden?” I asked. He looked astonished and said: “Well, yes, but….” “It’s that or your carpet,” I said. In making my inventory of the room I had already noticed that the carpet was a rather expensive one.
Still looking very embarrassed he quickly led me to the back door and pointed to the garden. I went out, and he discreetly shut the door. Rapidly I checked that I was not visible from any of the surrounding windows, and then I pulled down my jeans and underwear, and squatted down to water the garden.
It was sheer, inexpressible bliss. As the pain ebbed away a wave of delight flooded through my body. On and on it flooded, till I thought it was never going to stop. And it also made me feel very lustful – I was really looking forward to sex now.
I tapped on the door, and Paul, still looking embarrassed, but now I think also a little excited, let me in. We drank our coffee and chatted a little, then went to bed. I had been a bit worried that since Paul was so perfect in every other respect, he might be a bit of a disappointment in sexual terms. I needn’t have worried.
Some time later – it was still pitch dark – I awoke with a raging desire to pee. That is very unusual for me – I hardly ever get up during the night, just wake up absolutely exploding when morning comes. But it was quite clear that I was not going to get back to sleep till I had relieved myself. Paul seemed to be sleeping soundly, so I crept out of bed very quietly and slipped across to the bathroom, where I did my second really long gusher of the evening.
I slid back into bed, hoping not to disturb Paul, but he was awake and reached out to me. “Are you all right, Peach?” he asked, with a note of genuine concern in his voice. “I’m fine – now,” I said, “I’ve just pissed about half a gallon.” I don’t know whether it was the vulgar language or the reference to my capacity that aroused him, but I could feel his erection swelling beneath my touch. Within moments we were making love again, and this time it was even better than the first time.
Luckily it was Saturday morning, and we could sleep late. After breakfast Paul introduced me to Sally, who seemed really nice. I apologised to her for having disturbed her when she was in the bath. Her face almost collapsed with shock and embarrassment, and she asked: “Oh, was that you who wanted to come in? I assumed it was Paul.” She gave me a hug and said: “Listen, Peach, if you’re ever desperate again, just call out to me, and I’ll let you in. We’re all sisters, after all.”
The relationship really took off now. I was seeing Paul three or four times a week, and spending more time at his flat than at home. Mum and Prue were very pleased I had got someone I liked, so there was no problem there.
The next time we went to the pub, I drank my usual two pints. As we were preparing to leave, Paul said rather shyly: “Remember what happened last time, Peach. Hadn’t you better…?” “I’ll be all right,” I assured him, “I’ve got very good capacity.” I noticed that he seemed mildly excited by this. Of course by the time we got to Paul’s tube stop I was desperate again, and I mentioned the fact to him. Again he looked very concerned; I could tell that while he was aroused by the thought of me being desperate, he was far too fond of me to take pleasure in my suffering. Fortunately Sally wasn’t in the bathroom this time, and I was able to leap straight onto the toilet as soon as we arrived, and again I did a real gusher.
When we got into bed I decided to remind Paul of the evening’s events. “You were really worried when I didn’t go for a piss in the pub,” I said; “you’ll have to get used to the fact that I have a very strong bladder.” Again I could feel his erection swelling at my words.
I was very keen that Paul should meet Prue, so we arranged to spend an evening together. We had a meal and then went to the pub, where I drank my usual two pints. It was nearly time to go home, and Prue, obsessed as ever with taking precautions, had just come back from the toilet. Paul excused himself.
“I’m glad to see your boyfriend has more sense than you, “ said Prue. “He knows it’s sensible to go to the toilet before a tube journey. I expect you’ll be jumping up and down in agony before you get back.”
This, of course, was calculated to set me off. I started telling Prue that she was neurotic about going to the toilet, and that she would never develop any proper control because she never got any practice at holding it. I reminded her of a coach trip and a car journey when she had been desperate despite her precautions, and how she had been in such distress because she never got any practice. I didn’t mention the time she had wet herself in Mum’s car, because I knew that would really upset her, and I didn’t want to be cruel. [See previous Patience and Prudence stories for details.]
But Prue gave as good as she got. “Remember when we went to that three–hour movie?” she said. “I told you to go to the toilet before we went in, but would you listen? For the last hour it was like sitting next to a trampoline, you were bouncing up and down so much.” “Well, at least I held it,” I rejoined. “I’m not like you, having to go every ten minutes. You won’t even cross the road without spending a penny first, just in case you get caught short on the traffic island in the middle of the road.”
At this Prue started giggling. I looked at my watch. “Hey,” I said, “you’d better pop to the Ladies’ before you set off home. It’s a good seven minutes since you last went. You don’t want to take any risks”
And I started giggling too. Then I realised that Paul had come back from having his pee, and was listening to this exchange with surprise and great amusement. I explained to him that Prue suffered from a psychological condition that meant she had to go to the toilet with great frequency. “Whereas,” I added, “I, as you know, have one of the strongest bladders in North London.”
Paul didn’t say much; in fact he looked slightly embarrassed, since this was his first meeting with Prue. But I could tell he was excited.
Of course, when we got home I was absolutely desperate as usual. And once again Sally was in the bathroom. Remembering what she had said, I tapped on the door and called out her name. Immediately she let me in, and I plumped myself down on the toilet as she lay in the bath. As ever, I did an enormous torrent, a real Niagara of piss. Sally looked at me in wonder, and said: “I wish I could hold as much as that. It would be really convenient. I was in a meeting this morning, and I was taking minutes so I couldn’t slip out. I was in agony for about an hour.” So, still sitting on the toilet with my jeans round my knees, I told her a few stories about how I had developed such control.
When Paul and I were in bed, I asked him if he had been embarrassed by the conversation Prue and I had been having. “Not at all”, he said, and he told me that he really liked the fact that I was so frank about the subject and that he found my capacity really exciting. “I was a bit worried at first,” he explained, “because I didn’t want to be taking pleasure in your suffering. I wouldn’t ever want you to be in pain.” And he touched me so tenderly that I knew why I was so fond of him. “But now I know that you are actually proud of your capacity and your ability to wait, then I’m quite happy to be excited about it too.”
From then on we often used to talk about pissing before we made love, and it seemed to make things even better. I felt really happy, and I could see myself spending the rest of my life with Paul.
But pride comes before a fall. The Greeks used to call it hubris. That’s a word I picked up from one of my earlier boyfriends. He was a real bore but he did increase my vocabulary.
One night we were in the pub. I had had my usual two pints, and Paul seemed ready to leave for home. But it was still quite early, and some devil inside me was tempting me to push my luck, to do something new. “Do you fancy another quick drink?” I said. Paul only wanted a half, but I got another pint. By the time I was half way through the third pint I needed a pee – quite badly. And of course my golden rule had always been not to take precautions – only to go when I felt a real need, which I did now. But if I went to the toilet now there would be no thrill – my attempt to do something new would just be a damp squib – very damp as it turned out.
So I clenched my sphincter, said nothing, drained my glass and set out for the tube. I could see Paul was excited by what I had done, so the pain in my gut seemed to be justified.
The tube journey seemed to take forever, and before we got to Paul’s stop it was hurting like hell – really, really badly. On the tube I’d been sitting on my foot, which does help a bit, but of course when we got off the tube I had to stand up and walk, and then it really kicked in.
I told myself that of course I could hold it for another ten minutes, but as we walked up the escalator I wasn’t at all sure about that. As we emerged from the tube station I looked round. If there had been a quiet alleyway anywhere, I would have run there immediately – I do quite like an open–air pee now and then. But the whole area consisted of houses and shops, with no friendly alleyways in sight. The streetlights were very bright and there were lots of people about. There was just nowhere to go. I would have to wait.
Or so I thought. But as I walked – or rather hobbled – I was increasingly dubious as to whether I could. I’d told Paul of my plight and had even admitted I’d been silly not to go to the toilet in the pub. He seemed very concerned, his sense of protectiveness far outweighing any feelings of lust for the moment. But it was still a long way to walk – and spasms of desperation were tearing through my body with ever increasing frequency. I kept stopping to do a little dance, then hobbled on a few more yards.
And then it happened. A little spurt of urine jetted into my underwear. The damage wouldn’t have been visible, and I struggled to regain control over my sphincter before any more got out. But it was too late. The flow had started and I couldn’t stop it. Cascades of warm liquid flooded into my underwear and my jeans were drenched.
Even before the piss stopped coming – and it seemed to go on for minutes – two thoughts were fighting their way into my brain. Firstly, what would it mean for my relationship with Paul? Certainly he had been excited by my ability to hold, but surely a public wetting would disgust him. Was this the end of the road for us?
And secondly, what did it mean for me? I remembered that car journey a couple of years earlier when Prue had wet herself. That had been the beginning of her neurotic obsession with taking precautions. Would the same happen to me now? Was this the end of Patience and Prudence? Would it now be the two Prudences?
I just couldn’t cope with all this, and I burst into a flood of tears, sobbing hopelessly.
[TO BE CONTINUED]
By: Jay–Gee