Casual Friday

A change of management policy in our office bought in the supposedly popular idea of casual dress permitted on Fridays, so whereas girls had been expected to wear skirts and look smart, we were now allowed to wear ‘casual clothes’ i.e. jeans on a Friday. This, of course, became a sort of fashion competition among the girls, all trying to show off the most expensive and tightest jeans.
Since my boss disapproved of jeans, I had an excuse to avoid this, but, being a bit of a show–off, I tried to join in by buying a pair of black trousers, quite smart looking, in a thin and slightly stretch fabric. They fitted me ‘perfectly,’ so much so that one rather catty comment was: “Never mind the ‘panty line’ showing, Louise. Those trousers show every detail of your panties except the colour.”
Well, maybe that was true, but what can a girl do? I wasn’t going to leave them off, (and risk catching my pubic hairs in the zip?) I was already wearing my smallest and thinnest panties and I don’t like thongs; in any case they showed a much of a line as any. Did I mind that men were looking at me more? Not one bit, so long as the men were not too bad looking themselves. Note: I don’t like ‘old letches’ who stare at young girls in tight trousers, particularly when that girl is dying to go to the loo and trying to hide the fact.
So, one Casual Friday we were celebrating a birthday with some drinks after work. Only the office girls, so no chance of meeting a new boy–friend, and very much the office fashion parade. The pub was full that night, probably with men who wanted to see the group of girls in skin–tight jeans getting drunk. Despite its adverse effect on my bladder, I was drinking lager that night, and making far too many visits to the loo. I should have known that this was a bad sign, but I was enjoying myself too much to care.
We left the pub as a group, a noisy group of girls and walked to the underground station most of us were using to get home. By the time we got there I was beginning to feel a slight need for a loo, but only a slight need. Had I been alone I would have sneaked into a pub by the station and used their loo, but with girls from the office, I had my ‘image’ to think of; I wasn’t going to be known as ‘Louise with the small bladder’ even if it was true. Mary from accounts, a well–built quiet girl, who was not one of our normal ‘pub’ crowd, was laughed at for asking about Ladies? Loos on the station, and looked very upset when told that “there ain’t none miss.”
She looked very worried when the other girls laughingly told her she was going to have to ‘cross her legs real tight and hang on.’ Since she was very obviously crossing her legs before she got on the train, I wondered how she was going to manage.
I was also crossing my legs and wondering if I dare try to creep out and use the pub loos, or squat down a dark side road, it was getting that serious, when my train came. So I was caught by my own pride and left with no alternative but to hobble on the train, needing to keep my legs pressed together and hopefully telling myself that I would be OK once I could sit down and really cross my legs. Thankfully I got almost the only seat on a crowded train. I sat down and crossed my legs just as tightly as was humanly possible, but my need for a pee would not go away, not even with my legs twisted, almost in a knot, suggesting to anyone that was watching, that I was dying for a pee, I was still wanting to pee far more that was comfortable, without thinking of how long I was going to have to wait until I found a loo.
Some of you might be thinking that this was going to be a good excuse for a wetting session: black trousers and the wet might not be noticed, so I could have a really enjoyable wet in public. If only! My new and very expensive trousers were very clearly labeled “Dry Clean ONLY”, and I was not going to risk ruining them with a major flood of steaming hot pee, which was probably much worse than warm water for them. Secondly, wetting was a private experience for me, only enjoyable when done in private, like in my bathroom, or bedroom, when I could give myself over to enjoying all the sensations, and not caring about what anyone else might think. No Way was I even considering wetting myself in front of a train full of strangers, or at least I hoped not.
The worst thing was, that even when I was sitting down with my legs knotted, my need to pee was not any less than it had been standing on the station; in fact it was worse, and getting more urgent with every minute as the drink reached my bladder. It was not long, only to the first station, when I was ‘clenching my bladder shut’ with literally every muscle in my body, still trying, not very successfully, I’m afraid, to hide my desperation from the rest of the people in my carriage. I was absolutely desperate for a pee, and it was taking so much effort to hold on that I seriously wondered how long I would be able to hold on. Grimly, I told myself that I had no option; I simply had to wait, there was no other choice. Making a huge effort to wait, I managed to hold out until the next station, but I was near the limit and only just holding on. Two stations gone, and, oh horrors, there were still another 14 to go. I travelled on the train every day and I knew that it was 16 stations, at least 45 minutes to my station, and then there wasn’t a loo there, so I had to hold out even longer to get out of the station and find a pub or somewhere to pee.
Of course, as always happens at such times, I was soon wanting to pee even more urgently, and trying to cross my legs even more tightly. The pressure in my bladder was becoming agonizing, and it was taking so much effort to clench it shut that I didn’t know how long I could go on holding out. What I wanted to do, no absolutely needed to do, was to press my hands between my legs, but with so many other passengers, and some seeming to be looking at me, that was impossible. No choice, I had to wait with only crossed legs to help my poor, overfull little bladder. I had the wrong shoes on to be able to sit on my heel, and to take my shoes off and then sit on my heel would have been as obvious as holding myself.
I lasted for two more stations, but by then the pressure in my bladder had risen to some unbearable level, and even crossing my legs so tightly that I was almost standing up, I felt a spurt of pee leak out, and the familiar warm wetness between my legs. I was starting to wet myself in public, in a train full of strangers! I had to stop! I had to get my bladder under control and wait!
I tried, I really tried to wait. I was clenching my bladder shut with all my strength, and crossing my legs as tightly as I could, but nothing I could do could hold back the pressure in my bladder. Another spurt might have leaked out, or I might have been letting little dribbles of pee go. I wasn’t sure exactly what was happening; only that I was getting wetter between my legs, and I could not stop. As the train was arriving at another station; a place that I only knew from the name I saw as I passed through every day, I panicked. I could not simply sit on the train and wet myself in public, but I had to pee. I was losing control of my bladder and there wasn’t anything I could do to hold out any longer. The answer seemed to be to get out at this station, pee, and get the next train home. (I wasn’t thinking very clearly that night, or I might have guessed that a London Underground station would not have Ladies’ loos.)
When the train stopped and the doors opened, I hobbled out. Hardly able to walk I wanted to pee so desperately, and clenching me bladder shut with every muscle in my body. Somehow I made it onto the platform, and despite trying with all my strength, I could not prevent another spur of pee escaping. Where was the Ladies? room that I expected and needed to find? Nowhere to be seen, and even if there had been one, I did not have any chance of reaching it before I completely broke down and wet myself. What was far worse was that for a ‘nowhere and nothing’ station, crowds had got off the train, so there was no chance of holding myself and keeping my pee back until the train left and then squatting in the shadows for a pee. Yes, I had really reached that level of desperation! I was willing to squat and pee on the platform, if only there was nobody about, or at least nobody very near.
Instead all I could do was sort of shuffle along the platform, trying to keep my legs crossed and stop myself peeing in my knickers, while really knowing that it was hopeless. I simply could not wait any longer. Then I was almost saved! The part of the train I was walking past was nearly empty, so, without thinking I just managed to get into that carriage before the doors shut.
Still leaking pee I collapsed onto a seat as far from the platform as I could get and, hoping that nobody could see what I was doing, doubled over with both hands pressed between my knotted legs. Actually I don’t think I cared if anyone did see what I was doing. All I cared about, and all I was thinking, was that I had to stop myself peeing! Somehow, by pressing with both hands, and with all my strength, I stopped myself peeing; not that stopping myself peeing did me much good as I could feel it was too late. I was wet, soaking wet, between my legs, and still absolutely desperate for a pee. My bladder was in agony, it felt as if it was bulging out about 10 cm. and very near to exploding. Never, never, never had I wanted to wet myself so much, or more truthfully, never had I wanted to pee so much, so much that I didn’t care where I did it. Except… I still had just enough sense left to tell myself that I was going to ruin an expensive pair of trousers if I did wet, so I had to force myself to wait; force the pee to stay in my bladder, where it belonged until I could find a loo. I was still thinking that if only I could hold until my station I would be able to get into the local pub and pee. I still had 10 stations to wait, and I was doing everything possible to make myself wait. Sitting in that almost empty carriage, the only other occupants were a couple at the other end, luckily facing away from me, and ignoring my frantic efforts to hold in my pee. I was sitting almost doubled over with both hands pressing between my legs which were crossed as tightly as I could. I was pressing so hard against my poor little pee outlet that it was a miracle that I didn’t do it some serious injury. All my fingers were bunched together so that I could get the maximum pressure, so much pressure that no pee could possibly leak out. Not surprisingly, considering how desperately I wanted to pee, my bladder was agony and felt as if it was sticking out at least 20 cm. This was absolute desperation, and once again I thought of wetting; I so wanted to, I wanted to do anything that would ease the pain in my bladder, but, once again I thought of the cost of my trousers that were going to be ruined, and gritting my teeth, resolved to hold out a bit longer. I thought of squatting between the seats and peeing on the floor: a ‘proper’ pee with my trousers and knickers pulled down round my knees, but the risk of the couple seeing me was too great.
I closed my eyes; I have no idea why I thought that this would help me wait, and pressed between my legs even harder. I was already wet there, and despite all my pressing, leg crossing, and bladder clenching, I think I was still leaking pee. The pressure in my bladder was over the limit, and I don’t think it was humanly possible to hold back my pee. How that couple did not hear my groans of desperation, or notice my frantic struggles to wait, I will never know, but I managed to hold out for another three stations, but I was reaching the point when I didn’t think I could possibly wait any longer. Then, at the next station, the couple, the only other passengers in my carriage, stood up and got off the train. At first I didn’t realise that I was saved. I had been sitting in absolute desperation, eye shut, pressing between my legs with all my strength, and I had not noticed that they were preparing to get off.
Oh! Thank Goodness! I was saved! Alone in the whole carriage, once we left the station I could pee on the floor and nobody would see me. All I had to do was wait until we left the station. But that seemed to be more than my poor bladder could manage. Anticipation, the thought of the pee to come, surged through my bladder, and a spurt of pee was forced out past my fingers. Frantic to pee, as the train left the station, I stood up and began to undo my trousers and pull them down. That is easy to write now, but that night, even standing up was difficult, and to undo my trousers I needed both hands, the waist was so tight. Unfortunately, I also needed both hands to press between my legs to hold back my pee. Only having two hands, something had to give, and it was my bladder.
I was starting to pee and in despair, I gave up any idea of pulling my trousers down and simply squatted, fully dressed, between the seats and let my pee pour out. The pressure! It was pouring through my knickers and the tightly stretched fabric of my trousers like a waterfall. Even if I had wanted to stop, I could not, and anyway, the relief was so good I did not want to stop. I had completely lost control of my bladder, and despite thinking that I was ruining my trousers, it felt so good I wasn’t going to try to stop. Not that I had any chance of holding back that pressure and that torrent I was doing. Quite by accident, I had got into the best position to wet with minimum damage to my trousers. I was squatting between the seats on the train, in a ‘peeing position;’ except that I was still wearing my trousers, and my pee was coming out with such pressure, (my bladder had been absolutely bursting,) that it was pouring almost straight through my trousers, and not, thank goodness, making a soaking wet patch, as had happened when I went in my jeans.
I seemed to be peeing forever, but I stopped before the next station, and had time to move down the carriage well away from the steaming puddle of pee I had done on the floor. I would never have believed that my bladder could have held so much, but it had been stretched to the limit. My trousers were not very wet, only a hand–sized patch between my legs, and this was not very noticeable, hopefully it would be mistaken for shadow if anyone was giving me a close inspection. I walked home without attracting any unusual interest.
Afterthoughts…
Despite my worries, my trousers were not ruined by the wetting. Only a small patch was wet, and I rinsed out the pee and took them to the cleaners, saying I had spilled a drink on them. They cleaned up like new and still fit me ‘well’ so they are now regular wear for Fridays. I normally go for a quick drink after work on Fridays, so if you are in the right pub in London EC4 on a Friday evening, you might see for yourself how well they fit. After that adventure, I take care to drink a limited amount of white wine only, so my bladder is not strained on the journey home. My inability to wait that night was not so much due to bladder weakness, but the new trousers, which I had now worn in a desperate situation. The very tight waist–band passed right across my bladder area, you know where I mean, and even standing up, this put more strain on my full bladder than was comfortable. Sitting down, crossing my legs, and leaning forward, normal ways of controlling an over–full bladder, all pulled that waist tighter across my bladder, which was quite swollen by then. Thus, what I thought were attempts to help me wait were only making me want to go more, as the waist–band was pulled tighter across my bulging bladder. No wonder I was so desperate that night.
Antisocial peeing in a train? Did I have any choice? Was it the fault of Transport for London for not providing loos on either trains or stations? At least I did it on the floor, and didn’t soak the seat as I might have done.
By: Louise