The Wet Wedding Day

Fiona took another sip of her gin and tonic before putting the finishing touches to her make–up, then rose from the dressing table. She stepped into her tailored, powder blue skirt, pulling it up and fastening the zip. It was going to be warm at the wedding and she decided to dispense with the blouse and donned her matching jacket, buttoning it over the swell of her full breasts and the delightfully deep cleavage created by her lacy half bra. Blue court shoes and a broad brimmed straw hat with long, trailing ribbon completed her wedding ensemble. She stood in front of the long mirror in her bedroom, smoothing down the short, straight skirt and liked what she saw: at 36 she was looking good – her waist still trim, full hips and a neat bum, long classy legs in their tan stockings and those gorgeously beautiful, firm tits.
She drained her glass, enjoying the spreading glow in her stomach from the gin and looked again in the mirror. She had not worn such a short skirt before, but the fashion trend in the early ’60s was for shorter and shorter hemlines and young girls, like her daughter Gemma, who was 18, were now wearing them indecently short. She smiled at her reflection and picking up her gloves and handbag she went downstairs to the drawing room where she poured another gin, tinkling the ice into the glass, watching the fizzy bubbles from the tonic hissing to the surface. She turned as her daughter entered the room. “Oh darling! You look quite beautiful,” she exclaimed and Gemma gave her a mock curtsy. “Thank you, mummy. Oh you are becoming daring,” as she looked at the length of her mother’s skirt.“In your case,” Fiona replied, “it’s not daring; it’s positively lewd. Bend over and you’ll show off your panties to the world.” “Don’t be silly, mummy,” and Gemma giggled, “Anyway I’m wearing tights, so no one’s going to see anything.” She took a long drink from the glass of coke she was holding. Her summer dress was certainly very short, with a full swirling skirt and it had taken a certain degree of courage to decide to wear it, but she knew that it would attract the right sort of attention. Having very recently discovered the delights of fucking she was more than keen to drop her panties if the opportunity arose, which it might well do at the wedding. Fiona sat down on the sofa, sipping her G&T and checked the contents of her handbag: cigarettes and lighter, money, make–up and a pack of five Durex rubbers. She smiled to herself – well the Cavendishes were a randy family and there would be lots of them at the wedding, so you never could tell what might happen, and with her own husband, Rear Admiral Sir Donald Drummond, away in the Far East for eleven months, Fiona was more than a bit horny herself. She looked at her watch, just time for a quick cigarette, finish her drink and go for a pee before the car was due to pick them up. Gemma finished her drink and took a cigarette from her mother. Should she have another drink before the car came? She rose and crossed the room to the drinks trolley where she poured another coke over some ice and added a generous dash of vodka while her mother wasn’t looking and took a long swallow, enjoying the spreading warmth in her stomach from the alcohol. She was suddenly conscious of the need for a pee but decided to finish her cigarette first and crossed to the window, looking out onto the drive in front of the house. She took another swallow of her drink and crossed her legs, exerting the mildest pressure on her pee hole and then noticed the car coming up the drive. “There’s the car, she said, “It must be early and I must go for a pee before we leave.” “Oh come on,” her mother replied, putting on her hat and picking up her handbag and gloves, “We can go at the vicarage when we collect Ruth and Christina.” She drained her glass and Gemma followed suit. They went out into the sunshine of a beautiful English summer and the driver touched his cap,” Good afternoon Lady Drummond, afternoon miss,” as he opened the doors for them. Conscious of the shortness of her skirt Fiona stepped carefully into the car and sat down, nevertheless giving the driver a eyeful of long legs, and stocking tops as she did so. Gemma settled herself beside her mother, smoothing down her dress and balancing her hat on her lap. Two minutes later they were turning into the vicarage drive. Ruth Rutherford, the vicar’s wife and her 18 year old daughter Christina were seated on a garden bench on the lawn waiting for them, drinking Martinis from a large glass jug. “National emergency,” Fiona laughed as they got out of the car, “We’re both absolutely desperate. Can we use the loo?” “Oh dear,” Ruth replied, “Edwin has gone off with my keys to the house. He’s doing a Christening at St Stephen’s and we can’t get back in.” “Oh shit,” Fiona responded, “Now what do we do?” and she cast an anxious look around the garden, but there was no cover, only a wide expanse of lawn and their driver was standing watching. No matter where they went, he would see and then the story would be all over the village. They went over to the bench and sat down at the table. Fiona crossed her legs tightly and noticed that her daughter had done the same. Ruth and Christina finished their drinks. “Can’t you last until we get to the wedding?” Ruth asked anxiously. “I know that Sir Michael was arranging lots of extra toilets beside the house because there were so many people coming to the wedding.” “We don’t have much bloody choice,” Fiona replied. “Do you think you can last out darling?” she whispered to Gemma, who grimaced. “Oh I don’t know, really I don’t, but the sooner we go the better.” They rose and made for the car and a minute later were turning on to the narrow country road leading to the village of Northmere where Sir Michael Cavendish had his large house. The road turned and twisted up through the forest, each corner and bump increasing the problem for the ladies. “Oh God, I wish we’d gone before we left,” Gemma whispered to her mother as the car hit another hollow in the road, forcing her down hard into the seat and sending a shock wave up through her buttocks directly to her bladder. She bit her lip, clenching her thighs together and pushed her fist hard, down into her groin, praying that the driver wouldn’t notice. Her mother gave a weak smile in return, concentrating all her attention on the increasing demand from her bladder for relief. Only another ten minutes, she thought, and they would be there. Surely nothing else could go wrong! She tried to sidetrack her brain, bending forward to talk to Ruth, who was in the front seat and, like Gemma, she pushed her fist down between her thighs under the cover of the hat on her lap, under her skirt and up. She pressed hard through the crotch of her panties, noticing that Ruth now had her legs tightly crossed as well. “How many people are expected at the wedding?” she asked, as Ruth turned her head towards her. “Between two and three hundred, I believe,” she replied and then noticed where Fiona’s hand had disappeared. “Oh dear, is it that bad?” she whispered, “Or are you just having a quick feel to get you in the mood?” Fiona managed to raise a weak smile, “Don’t make me laugh. It’s painful enough without that.” The car was out of the trees and dropping down to the village. It slowed for the turning to the narrow road leading to Sir Michael’s mansion and joined a queue of cars waiting to pass a lorry with a large trailer, stopped at the side of the road. “Oh no!” Fiona exclaimed as she read the words emblazoned along the side of the trailer, “Loos–R–Us.” The vehicle was loaded with portable toilets. Surely fate could not be so cruel! A cloud of steam was rising from the front of the lorry and as they drew level, they could see a thin fountain of hot, steaming water jetting out from the radiator. A disconsolate driver was standing on the road watching a growing pool of yellow, rusty water spreading slowly towards him. The passengers in the taxi stared open–mouthed as they inched past the lorry, each one of them acutely conscious of the images of the steaming puddle, of the arcing spray of water and of the mounting bladder pressures which they were all feeling. The fountain died suddenly to a limp trickle as they passed and Gemma looked in consternation at her mother. “ What do we do now?” she asked. “Oh God! I can’t last much longer. Oh, really I can’t. I don’t know what to do.” She was bent forward in the seat, almost doubled up, her legs tightly crossed, fighting against the demand for relief from her swollen bladder and the thought of the total humiliation if she let go. For Ruth and Christina the problem wasn’t quite so pressing, though both now needed to go fairly urgently and Ruth tried to calm things down. “It’s only another minute,” she urged, “We’ll find some place as soon as we get out of the car.” The taxi was now approaching the entrance to the grounds of Northmere Hall and they turned through the gate. Cars were parked along one side of the drive for the whole of its length and they drove slowly towards the house. The parking area in front of the house was packed with cars and there was barely room for the taxi to turn. They clambered out, clutching hats and handbags, stretching their legs and enjoying the sudden freedom of movement, which seemed to help with their predicament, even if only temporarily. There were people everywhere, getting out of cars, milling about, greeting each other with effusive kisses and again this acted as a temporary and welcome distraction. On the lawn, in front of the house, two gigantic marquees had been erected, one set out with tables for the meal and the other with a bar, a small band and an area for dancing. The wedding ceremony itself was to be held in the open and seating had been arranged on the grass. The Catering staff was circulating with trays of drinks and champagne corks were popping. Not for nothing was Sir Michael the owner of one of the largest breweries in the country as well as a chain of public houses and wine shops and no expense had been spared in the provision of liquid refreshment for the guests. It was also clear that all was not well. The normally urbane and unflappable Sir Michael was pacing angrily up and down in front of the house. Not only had the toilets not arrived but he had also just been informed of another and equally serious crisis. “What the fuck was he going to do?” An engine roared into life behind him and he turned to find that the lorry, which had delivered the contents of the bar, was just leaving. It moved slowly between parked cars, making for the driveway and, blissfully unaware of yet another impending catastrophe, Michael rushed into the house to find out what had gone wrong there. Jane, his PA, who had brought him the bad news, followed him. She had been on the go since early morning and had scarcely had time to draw breath; mugs of coffee, a couple of cokes and then some champagne, all on an empty stomach and with no time to go to the loo, had left her with a bulging bladder, sore feet and now, the worst possible news for her boss. “What do you mean, there’s no water?” he had almost snarled at her. “There must be water.” But already there was the slow dawn of realization in his mind. There were workmen at the back of the house trying to locate the main water pipe into the house, ready for the next stage of renovations due to start after the wedding.
END OF EPISODE ONE Not a lot of pee so far. Disappointed? Want to know more about the wet wedding day? What is going to happen to over 200 people at the wedding without any functioning toilets? What is the final catastrophe concerning the beer lorry? Find out what happens to Jane, Fiona, Ruth, Gemma, Christina, the bride and bridesmaids and many others as the day progresses. Coming soon!
Kirsty