Alone in the World

Mary Ann Gardener wrinkles her pert nose in disdain as she walks, quickly, past the ladies’ room. She and her husband Richard have spent the early evening dining and dancing at their country club and are getting ready to go home. She can make it home; She is a lady, a grown woman, not a child. She dislikes public restrooms anyway. She really doesn’t like to pee in a restroom at all. It is no secret. There is more, but it is very secret. No one must ever know. Mary Ann is a lady. She keeps the arousing thoughts away. Richard would never understand.
The petals of Mary Ann’s flower part slightly, an immeasurable microscopic fraction of a millimeter, a yawn, the miniscule beginning of an awakening. She does not notice that she breathes a little deeper, taking in a few more molecules of oxygen. Mary Ann’s grey eyes widen and dilate, imperceptibly. Her body does not notify her of this either, nor of its increased production of certain hormones. Her body readies itself. Sleeping passions stretch, stir, there is work to be done and a warm lovely body in which to do it.
Richard steals a glance at his wife. He loves her and knows he is a lucky man. They have been married since just after college. He remembers her then, a muscular athlete, a swimmer, slim of hip and breast. Her body has changed, matured, and improved he thinks. The years of marriage have treated her body with respect. Her full figure is still quite arousing. Her hips maintain a youthful curve and she moves in the manner of a woman of sophistication. Her breasts are mature, round, soft sweet globes, swaying gently in the tight white satin ball gown gracing her womanly curves. He sees the peaks of her rich dark nipples through her gown and enveloping silk bra. Her belly rises just slightly past her waistline. His manhood stirs. Mary Ann still does that to him.
Mary Ann feels the insistent weight of her bladder. It is arousing to her. She knows that her body will betray her, but is powerless to resist it. The 42–year old rancher’s wife is Middle America. She is pretty, if not beautiful. She is not why men fight. She is why they come home. She has large pretty eyes, a sensuous mouth surrounded by full red lips and her body maintains more than a passing semblance to its youth. She loves her husband; he is a good man. He has treated her well. She has been with no other. He is endowed more than adequately, but his manly cannon doesn’t fire quite so quickly now, to her pleasant benefit. She thinks the thickening of his waistline is charming, the little belly sexy. She is a good wife. She is quite aware she is becoming desperate. She is becoming very aroused as well. She says nothing. Richard would never understand.
Mary Ann’s arousal and desperation feed from each other, growing, consuming as an avalanche consumes the areas it destroys. She looks at Richard. Her eyes are lowered, heavy–lidded. She speaks softly, deeply, and slowly. She tells him to hurry because she really needs to pee. Richard acknowledges her request without comment or question, without looking at her. His mind is occupied with other thoughts, how much fuel is in the truck, the best route out of the city, how long the drive will take. The reaction she always desires never occurs. She almost blurts it out now, impatient, tired of his failure to recognize her need. Mary Ann checks her impulse, a wave of helplessness washing over her. Richard would never understand.
The formally attired couples board their SUV and began the drive home. Mary Ann’s thoughts go to her bladder as the vehicle slips away from city lights onto the darkened country highway, which will carry them home. Perhaps she should have gone pee in the restroom. She really wished she were home so she could just pee. Why did she drink so much tea??
The iced tea and champagne, along with a forgotten bottle of water and two cups of coffee at dinner work their way through Mary Ann’s soft body. She is unaware as the onslaught of fluids pursues their insistent unwavering and unalterable course, arriving en masse to assault her waiting organs. Her kidneys work furiously, processing the fluid. Mary Ann is unaware as still more fluid arrives– reinforcements for the coming battle. Her kidneys capitulate. They cannot resist, can do naught but pass on the invading volume. The internal flowing river reaches the voluptuous woman’s bladder. Faster than one might imagine the tea, coffee, champagne and water, filtered and processed, begin swelling her bladder to uncomfortable dimensions. Mary Ann is aware.
Mary Ann fidgets. She cannot stop. The situation has progressed beyond her muscular control. She will leak, spurt the hot wetness into her panties again anytime. Her pussy burns with the exertion of her clamped muscles. She is now certain the champagne has not been a good idea, especially the 2nd and 3rd glasses. She wonders if she will be able to stop when next she leaks. She has extreme doubts. She knows better than to dwell on the subject, but the nectar of the grape has relaxed her and she allows her vigilance to drop. Unfettered, her subconscious excavates a mutated thought from the darkest depths of her imagining mind. It grows; summoning reserves of suppressed wants and needs as allies in its silent undetected prowl toward her consciousness. Mary Ann’s own personal Hell is about to makes a house call. A wave of heat washes over her as sensation and desperation dance wildly through her body, each bidding for control of her soul. A roar rushes through her head and assaults her body. Oh no, no, no, not now!! Her conscious mind screams. It is a futile gesture. This is a familiar occurrence to her; she knows the outcome. Mary Ann is always unaware, of when or where it begins, this need, just that it does. Suddenly, it is upon her, this force, this heat, and these undeniable feelings. It begins as a tingle in her groin, growing, spreading from the tip of her fluttering clitoris radiating outward through her chest, across her face and bursting over the lobes of her ears. The heat takes her. In the space of a few heartbeats it has consumed her. Her breath comes unevenly, she is panting, and the warmth flushes her body. Her nipples become irritated, hot turgid points on her heaving breasts. She longs to touch them, to twist and pull their sensitive length. Mary Ann struggles desperately to maintain control of her bladder. She shifts position, trying to clamp her muscles tight. She feels the pressure of the volume she contains pushing, hot against her peehole. Her efforts are not entirely successful. Unconsciously her hand slips beneath the jacket in her lap. She looks at Richard, amazed and disappointed that he sees nothing; relieved for the same reason. Richard would never understand. Her breath catches in her throat as her heart skips a beat and her mind races to catch up. Desperate to control both her bladder and the runaway passion possessing her she fakes an animated yawn to cover the sweeping orgasm which envelopes her, her hidden hand pressed firmly into her mound, a single finger stroking, gently probing, circling. “Sleepy, dear?” asks Richard, smiling quietly at her. Mary Ann fakes another yawn, nodding to her husband to cover her inability to speak, holding both her bladder and her breath as the shattering explosion drops her back to earth. She struggles to regain time and place as normality returns. In a few seconds all evidence of her nerve quake is gone, save the warm yellow piss staining her snow white silk panties and the slick wetness lining her twitching pussy as her body finally begins the slowing of her pounding pulse. Mary Ann breathes again, grateful for the dark highway hiding her mental promiscuity.
The couple drives on. Mary Ann’s desperation grows. The warm slick wetness in her panties does not help. She tries not to think of it, to focus on other thoughts. She tries to think of gardening, only to be confronted with wet memories. She often takes her wet pleasures in her garden. She knows her husband’s allergies to flowers will insure the privacy she needs for her special time there. Thoughts creep in. Leisurely wettings in the sun, her fragrance joining that of the flowers, masturbation surrounded by brilliant blossoms, the images are compelling, insistent. She wills her body to behave. Her swelling bladder grows ever larger, the pressure pushing on the waistband of her tight panties. She can see the bulge of her bladder in the curve of the ball gown she wears. She wonders. Should she say anything about her games to her husband? She wants so desperately for him to join her. She imagines his dick, hard, rigid, tenting his pants, pissing, hot, wet man piss. She wants it on her pussy, her breast, all over her body. She imagines how it would feel, taking out his iron rigid piss spurting rod, directing his hot wetness over her breasts, his hands cupping her own wet flowing woman’s treasure cave. No. It is not possible, a useless dream. Richard would never understand.
One half of the way there– how can she ever make it!! Mary Ann tries to sleep. She dozes. It is a mistake. As she dozes the monster wakes and the avalanche of emotion and feeling feeds upon her body again. She wakes. Oh God!! Not again!! She will surely lose all control! This time the fire is hotter, the tingles as physically forceful as the sting of a cutting wound. She cries out, loudly. An arrow of hot sweet aroused woman pee shoots, then another, driving through her panties, piercing her dress and penetrating deep into the seat upon which she writhes. She screams out in her mind, hoping, praying it is only in her mind. Oh God, I’m going to burst. I’ve got to pee so badly. Oh Richard, I’m so hot, so very hot, so desperate, oh God Richard can’t you see? Take out your hard dick and piss all over me, put out the fire, oh God Richard fuck me now, hard, deep, please, hurry!!!! Mary Ann tries desperately to keep her tortured body still. Realizing she cannot, she knows she must present some explanation to Richard. Her hand is at work beneath her jacket, mining passion from the dark wet steaming hole to her soul. She cries out again as the shuddering of her body tries to hide in the motion of the vehicle. The wave washes over her, the fiery avalanche subsiding as her mind reaches for the stars, trying to rejoin her body. Dimly she hears her husband’s voice as it penetrates the subsiding roar of blood pounding through her veins. “Sweetheart, wake up, you’re having a nightmare. Honey, wake up; you’re having a bad dream. Baby, are you ok?” She wishes he would say her name. Mary Ann joins her husband’s clueless misconception, grateful for the opening, stretching, yawning, and opening her eyes.
“I had a dream,” she says, not lying. Her husband touches her shoulder, concerned. She wants to scream out her desires to him. She smiles, silently. She cannot. Richard would never understand.
Richard drives on as Mary Ann’s composure returns. The miles pass. She feels the warm pee in her soggy dress and the seat beneath her. She knows she must find a way to hide the physical evidence of her piss of passion. She knows if she moves from her seat, the fragrance of her heated wet discharges will rise, fill the vehicle. The warm yellow stained satin will be impossible to conceal. Her pussy twitches, reveling in the hot wetness. She withdraws her hand, almost unaware of it resting inside the waistband of her soggy panties, lying on her dark wet curls. Richard yawns, driving on. “I’m so tired, so sleepy,” he says, stretching one arm behind the seat as he drives.
Mary Ann seizes the opportunity. “Honey, you look really tired,” she says, touching his shoulder softly. They are approaching the sprawling ranch house’s long driveway, leading to a circular area by the front of the house. “Richard, just stop by the front door and go on in, I’ll put the car in the garage since I’ve had a nap and you drove all the way.”
Richard smiles at his wife’s kindness. He returns it. “Thanks, Sweetie, I’m really beat. I know how I snore when I’m this tired so I’ll crash in the guest room.”
Mary Ann smiles and is relieved for many reasons. Her pussy twitches; reminding her she is still very full, very desperate. She speaks softly as Richard stops by the front door. “Ok, darling, I won’t disturb you, but I must wash some clothes for tomorrow. The washer in the garage won’t bother you, will it?”
“No, honey, not at all, please go ahead,” Richard replies, exiting the vehicle and heading for the door. Mary Ann slits over to the drivers seat. The movement causes her desperation to peak again. Another barrage of heated wetness assaults her panties. Long past any absorbency, the thin material of both her panties and dress dribble her wetness across the console, the cup holders pooling her sweet accident. Mary Ann uses the last ounce of strength and control she can muster to stem the flow. Her super human efforts once more stop the flood. Mary Ann, now in pain, sees the end coming, knows her success will be measured in seconds. She accelerates into the garage, stopping quickly. Mary Ann knows her husband will not come to this end of the house tonight. He is tired. He will sleep. Springing boldly from the vehicle she sprints for the door. She does not make it. As Mary Ann crosses in front of the vehicle the tired clamping muscles she has so abused tonight give way. She stops, half–turning in front of the vehicle. The deluge takes her breath and the possession is immediate. Mary Ann rips the expensive gown from her hips. She claws at her panties desperate for that other relief. Her flood peaks, the hissing sound of her spray echoing in the hollow of the garage with the spattering fall of her steaming piss. Her hand in her stream sprays her volcanic piss around her, creating a brilliant yellow rainbow as it showers out and down in the vehicle’s headlights, still on from the delay timer as warm vapor rises in the cold garage, glowing eerily. Mary Ann’s searching, digging digits reach their objective and she comes, a violent earth–shaking mind numbing explosion of raw nerve endings driven by relentless stimulation. She is done and forces beyond her comprehension have sapped her strength. Mary Ann slumps to the garage floor, unaware of her circumstances. Her hair is disheveled; sweat dripping from what was earlier lazy curls in front of her ears. Her ball gown, unrecognizable, hangs from her hips; yellowed, torn, the bodice residing in the pool of piss she kneels in, surrounding her. Only her bra remains somewhat intact, sporting one wetted yellow cup, it’s breast having been evicted during her impromptu gown removal. Her panties remain around her waist, torn and stained, one end of the crotch still disappearing into her steaming hole. Sweet golden droplets of her cooling pee fleck her dark nether curls, themselves rumpled and dripping. She sighs, resting, knowing she must rise and clean up her mess. Richard would never understand.
Richard enters the house as his wife moves the car to the garage. He is tired, very tired and sleepy. As he enters the guest bedroom he realizes he really needs to pee, badly. It is one of the little surprises life serves up from time to time as age increases, the sudden urge to urinate, nearly uncontrollable sometimes. It is worse now as the mass of fluid, dormant during the long drive, makes an announcement of its arrival. Not yet, not yet the tired man mumbles to himself as he rushes to the guest bathroom. Good! He is going to make it. Richard enters the bathroom, disrobing as he goes. He strips off his pants and shirt quickly and turns to face the toilet. In the mirror he can see his straining hard dick bulging in a pair of his wife’s silky panties. He steps backwards into the open shower and his hose erupts, spraying his warm piss through the sexy panties and all over his balls. He loves the smell, the warmth, and the color. The saturated panties make squishing sounds as he strokes his swollen member through them. Images of Mary Ann pissing herself flit through his mind, each more arousing to him as his passion rises. He sees her pee, desperate, wriggling, then crouching in her tight jeans, sitting on his lap in her tight white short shorts, on the patio bent over in a short red sundress wearing cotton white panties, the panties yellowing as she wets, in the sexy satin ball gown she wore this evening as she dances close to him, her warm piss running down the front of his pants with his own. His mind’s eye takes it all in. It is as real as the feelings mounting in his loins– but not really. He knows she is not there. He knows she never will be. Wouldn’t that be wonderful, to really see her pee these ways, he thinks, to join his most treasured passions? He can almost feel her mound pissing through the silk, warm woman piss running over his hand. The images fill his mind now. He strokes, eyes closed. Richard imagines it is Mary Ann’s piss running over his hand as he comes heavily, his creamy load spurting through the panties and dripping to the shower floor. If only she would! But, he knows better. It is a useless fantasy. His wife is an iron–bladder lady. She had not peed all evening and came home still showing no sign of desperation! He aches inside, wanting to share this with her, again finally resigning himself to the hopelessness of the situation. Richard hurries to clean up his mess, washing her panties in the shower and drying them with his hair dryer. She must find no evidence of his secret need, his hidden perversion, and his greatest passion. His wife is a complete lady. Mary Ann would never understand.
King Neptune