Mind Games

“Hanna Evans, come on down!” exclaimed the familiar voice. After more than two years of trying to get tickets, design a costume and the ordeal of auditions, the cute young housewife in the pigtails and the schoolgirl plaid skirt had often thought this moment would never come. Her white blouse and short, very short, skirt really accented her youthful figure. Hanna leapt to her feet and made her way to the stage, her plaid skirt flying, revealing glimpses of white cotton panty as she took steps two at a time. The camera operator, used to all manner of spectacle at the show, was distracted in spite of his experience and drew in close as Hanna’s panties again made an appearance. “Sweet, sweet, sweet!” he spoke quietly, knowing the shot would be edited but unable to resist the temptation. Hanna was certainly that.
The cameraman’s reaction was typical of the effect she had on people. It was not great beauty or even incredible sexuality, though she was blessed with more than most in that respect. It was something else, difficult to explain, it was more and less than it appeared. It will be harder still to accept.
Whether it was related to the recent miniscule variation in her DNA, which remained undetected, or the odd new formation of cells at the base of her cerebral cortex, similarly undiscovered, no known instrument or present knowledge would suffice to impart full enlightenment. To simplify in the interest of general understanding and brevity, let us say simply that Hanna generated impulses and caused those around her to act on her and their own impulses. The ideas she generated in men were perhaps the strongest, but women too felt the release of certain inhibitions in her presence.
Incredibly, this influence grew immeasurably, to mind–possessing strength when Hanna was aroused. She was, of course, oblivious. Not a clue. No idea why things just seemed to happen when she appeared. Yet, she was completely aware of this and all else happening around her. She sensed the seeming contradiction as a function of various levels of her mind. At just 27 years, her body looked fresh and vibrant, firm and supple, her sweet fresh face the embodiment of innocence. Her wavy red hair was a few inches past her shoulders and, combed out, lay just over firm succulent breasts. She carried the slim hips and nearly flat stomach of a younger girl, in spite of the extra 7 pounds she thought she needed to lose. She was misinformed about other things too. For instance, how long she would sit in the audience before she was called. The producer had warned the contestants not to leave for any reason, because they could be called shortly. I suppose for a man used to working 18–hour days, 4 hours was considered “shortly.” For Hanna and her full bladder, it had been an eternity of epic desperation. Sprinting down to the stage, the excited girl–woman was surprised and relieved that her bladder had decided to behave. There had been other times…she willed the thought to fade, enjoying the excitement and joy of the moment.
She had not always been successful in avoiding accidents. Suddenly, as if summoned by the fleeting thought of her memory and angry at being ignored, Hanna’s full bladder rebelled. A yellow cloud of fierce desperation descended to hover over her; the urge now much stronger than before, neither ignorable nor controllable. Standing on the stage, the all–consuming intensity of this desperate urge to pee enveloped Hanna. She could feel her face flush, hot, red, her breathing labored at the thought of possibly, no, almost certainly, peeing her panties on stage, in front of millions. Her pussy burned, ached, the pressure on her young pee hole increasing as her nipples, irritated, stiffened, almost itching. She could not believe how badly she had to pee, but she simply could not allow an accident to happen!
What could she do? She was on national TV, with an opportunity at hand to win thousands of dollars in cash and prizes, and on the verge of wetting herself, no, soaking herself and the stage with the insistent volume of her warm fragrant sweet pee! There appeared to be no escape, no way to avoid soaking her panties, flooding the stage. The world was about to watch Hanna turn her dry white panties into soaked hot wet dripping yellow; it was going to happen, right now! Her pussy burning, the dancing redhead struggled to get control. Because of the incredible urge to pee, she was also fighting an equally strong urge to grab her pussy to help hold her pee; she was thinking that was why, anyway. There would be more. Already a short dribble had escaped to dampen her panties. Not enough to see, but she felt it, warm, wet, startling in its effect on her mind and body. As the wet spot began to cool, the real struggle began, the one for possession of Hanna’s mind. She was unaware of the exact moment it began. It was stealthy that way; her conscience would know when it had been relieved of responsibility; her mind would simply follow, without judgment or remorse, just following an impulse with the actions required to pursue it.
Her panties were begging to be warmed further, wet more. Touched. The quiet opposing voice told her it was ok now. It will feel great. Warm. Arousing. Hanna wondered how that could be. She thought she could smell it. No! She must fight harder this time! The desperate dribble had resolved her determination; the quiet voice must not win this time. She knew it would try; it always did. She would not miss this opportunity no matter how badly she had to pee. Well, she thought, at least the announcer hasn’t called on her––– yet. Don’t tempt fate, she reminded herself. “Hanna Evans, I’ll give you 100 dollars for your white cotton panties!” the announcer’s voice boomed out, “1000 dollars if they’re peed!! 10,000 dollars if we can watch you pee in them!!!” What?? What had she heard?? No!! It was not possible!! It must be the quiet voice, not the announcer, and not so quiet this time. So, this is how it’s going to be, Hanna thought. She would have to be very careful to ignore the quiet voice. It wasn’t playing fair. Hanna had wet her panties more than once at the urging of the quiet voice. Once it had made her pee her panties at a fraternity party. The legend of that night still lives on in that house nearly 30 years later, and for 11 young men, the memory is as fresh in their minds as the night before. She had been blonde then, and taller. Whenever the quiet voice made her sweet warm pee flow into her panties, she was slave to sensations, desires, wants, and needs she could normally easily resist, even casually dismiss successfully. Not today. Hanna felt her body open, her arousal growing, the effortlessly tantalizing feeling between her legs drawing her, burning her nipples, parting her swollen mound. There were always more and different urges, ideas, unheard of lusts, many she would never have even thought of, without the quiet voice.
She urged the quiet voice to fall silent; a resounding “NO” drowned out her request before the thought had departed her mind. Hanna’s every resistance was woefully futile. She thought her battle would be great but when she saw the announcer coming toward her it was already over. He had pissed his pants and was rock hard, his dick hugely swollen, and the front of his pants ripped open. She wanted him immediately, the battle not just immediately lost but completely forgotten, as were the audience, the contestants, and the camera operators. The floodgates opened, heated yellow girl pee sprayed violently from Hanna’s hot crotch, her panties instantly stained, soaked, fragrant, and so very, very hot. She met the announcer mid–stage, he ripping her white blouse off, her climbing, straddling, sinking down to get the hard pissing monster into her steaming hole. She was dimly aware of the uproar around her, people acting on impulses, some new, many old. The camera operator had wondered about the script girl; they lay coupled on a desk, bucking furiously in a puddle of her piss. The show director’s dick had disappeared down the throat of the new staffing assistant, neither gay, but acting on a fleeting microsecond of impulse in Hanna’s presence. Piss flowed freely; all who had witnessed Hanna’s panty piss with any wonder of how it felt found out immediately, their own pants pissed wet completely without thought of consequence or any hesitation. The network censor, responsible for pulling the plug if things went bad, was herself quite plugged, the head writer buried in her pissy soaked pussy from behind as she stared glassy–eyed at the monitor before her unable to act on anything but the impulse which had devoured her mind. Throughout the studio, the scene was similar. A married couple, normally devoted to each other, lay in the aisle, him eating the pissing pussy of an 18–year–old fat short usher who had smiled at the right moment, her being hoisted upon the raised staff of another member of the audience who had liked her legs. Similar scenes, the sound and smells of pissing, unleashed sexual impulse, couples and more, clothes wet and torn, filled the sound stage. Untended cameras rolled, fodder for the news crews later.
Hanna woke with a start. My God! What a nightmare! It was so intense, so real, so detailed, and so incredibly weird! Her body had been an unknowing host to some kind of alien parasite, a totally sexual entity, generations old, passing from body to body as age took its toll. She struggled to separate dream and reality. She really needed to pee; maybe that was why she had dreamed this. No, maybe the pee part, but what about the other? She couldn’t bring herself to say either alien or parasite; it was still too real, too scary. My God! How weird!! What had happened?? Hanna shivered in the cool morning air, waking further, her bladder begging for relief. She briefly considered just pissing her panties over the pile of towels she had sorted for laundering. Slowly it came back to her, the paramedics, and the golf course. She remembered looking up wondering why she was on the ground. She had been very lucky. The lightning bolt had been incredibly close; some witnesses insisted she had been hit. Steve, her husband, had not left the cart and had moved several yards on after dropping her off by her ball. Her club was never found, and other than a curious mark on the back of her neck, she had appeared unharmed, though she was out for nearly an hour. She was not aware she had peed her panties and golf pants; she and everyone else, except for the paramedic who had attached the heart monitor electrodes, assumed the rain had dampened her clothing. It had been fortunate she came to; the paramedic had been so distracted by the sweet smell of her pee he had apparently damaged the monitor; it refused to work. She checked her panties now– they were dry, mostly. She was still somewhat turned on and had to pee more than ever. Her nipples were swollen, hard, and sensitive. The dream had been intensely sexual, and she really did like peeing her panties. Of course, her husband didn’t know. Steve was pretty straight and conventional.
Her pee play was generally infrequent, when Steve was away on business. She would usually do it in her kitchen, washing dishes, the warm dishwater urging her on. She would enjoy that now, she would enjoy Steve doing that, she realized, her arousal shifting into more than thought as she touched her pussy softly through her panties, suddenly more than somewhat damp. She thought more actively about sex now, wondering if she could get Steve back in bed. Hanna realized she was really very aroused, especially at the idea of Steve peeing himself. She should tell him about her interest sometime. He had never failed to try anything she wanted and was never judgmental about her sometimes slightly odd ideas. Hanna rounded the corner to her kitchen. Steve was making coffee. As she started to invite him back to bed, she stopped still– staring at Steve…he was just standing there, mindlessly smiling. He didn’t know why, in fact was barely aware, it had just seemed like a good idea. Steve was obviously rock–hard. Steve was also quite forcefully pissing his pants.
King Neptune