Mrs. Carpenter

I work at a medium–sized IT–development firm where we develop large–scale applications for other firms. Doing an intake for a new assignment starts with a visit to the customer by a technician and an account manager.
When I was still a novice I was told to join Mrs. Carpenter in such an intake trip. Mrs. Carpenter was one of the top sales executives, but most of the men thought about her as the woman who knew how to dress. She always wore suits with skirts that never ended at or below the knee. She always walked on spike–heeled pumps. In the company’s cafeteria, I used to admire her muscular, yet very feminine legs with bulging, rock–hard calves, which she always crossed in an equally feminine manner. Not vulgar, but always showing lots of thigh in the process, always making you wonder if her panties would show. At 39, she was still a beautiful woman with chestnut–brown, shoulder–long hair and hard–blue eyes. On the morning of the trip she entered my room with a cheerful “good morning” and “shall we use my car?” I answered positively. God, those legs. Her bright–red suit had an even shorter skirt than usual and even showed some cleavage. Her heels were so high, that I already admired her for coming this far on them. After a two–hour drive, we arrived at the new client. We started off with a rather big meeting. Then, after lunch, technicians and managers went their separate ways, the managers to talk about money, basically, and the technicians to talk about the design. At the end of the afternoon, the managers joined us out of curiosity. Mrs. Carpenter pulled up a chair right next to me and, crossing her legs, gave me a heavenly close–up at her thighs and – hail white cotton panties. As she bent forward, she gave me a nice view down her cleavage. Soon after that, we were walking back to Mrs. Carpenters BMW in good spirits with her complimenting me on my input. As we drove off the parking lot Mrs. Carpenter mentioned that she might need to do a sanitary stop underway. Traffic out of this customer’s city was terrible. We were crawling through many multi–lane streets filled with cars. After some twenty minutes, Mrs. Carpenter sighed deeply and said: “This traffic is awful and I need a toilet badly.” I asked: “Didn’t you go before we left?” The answer was honest and surprising: “I didn’t have to go too badly then. Besides, I prefer not to go in strange places.” “You mean that you haven’t used a toilet all day?” I asked, trying to hide my excitement, thinking about bulging, throbbing bladders with liters of pee in them. “Not since I left home.” She acknowledged, “I usually make it through the day “ “Wow! You must have a huge bladder!” I exclaimed, hoping my hard–on wouldn’t show. “Maybe, but the capacity is almost used up now.” About fifteen more minutes went by during which I closely watched her for signs, but she was still able to maintain her composure. Then, suddenly, she sighed deeply and said: “This is terrible. My bladder is bursting at the seams and I have nowhere to go!” Her body rocked back and forth and her buttocks squirmed in her seat. And so we went on. I became afraid of coming in my pants while she made more and more comments about how badly she needed a toilet. Every now and then, she stroked her thighs with her hands as if she encouraged her body to hold on. Finally, we were in a long row facing the last traffic light before the highway. She had totally lost the ability to sit still for longer than 20 seconds, squirming frantically in her seat, she made her skirt ride up to dangerous levels. With a hissing sigh through her teeth she opened her thighs a couple of inches and pressed her hand in her crotch for a few seconds. Then she removed it, squeezing her thighs shut and gasped: “God, I’m so desperate! Do you see anything I could go to? I don’t want to piss in the car!” Until then, her choice of words had been rather civilized, but the word ‘piss’ marked a moment of further loss of composure. The light turned green and we turned onto the highway. After shifting into the highest gear, her hand slid sideways in between her thighs, pressing into her crotch. I could see the full length of her thighs and the side of her hand pressing the seam of her pantyhose together with the cotton of her panties into her pussy. Then my eyes caught her face. Her eyes were filled with tears. The pain was easily readable in them.
Within a couple of miles, traffic came to a halt. Mrs. Carpenter totally freaked out: “God no… Sssssssss… I don’t want to piss in the car … Sssssssss … I’ll piss in the car!” She started doing a violent pee–dance sitting in her car seat. Her whole body squirmed while her ass was sliding up and down her seat. She stopped for a second to lift her ass an inch and pull her skirt up from under it. Then the squirming went on. Both her hands were in her crotch with her fingers massaging her pussy lips in small circles. “What am I going to do?” She gasped with a breaking voice. I saw people in cars around us look at her strangely but decided not to warn her about it. Slowly the traffic started moving forward again. “There is a parking in a mile, but it has no facilities.” I observed. She couldn’t reply and looked as if she was fighting another wave that was trying to push its way past her sphincter. I saw another tear rolling down her wet cheek. In a way, she looked incredibly sexy like this but on the other hand I felt deep sympathy for her. Struggling, she made it to the parking, stopped the car and threw the door open. She swayed her legs outside the car and then paused for several seconds. She was obviously pulling all her strength together to stand up. Then she got up and started walking towards the bushes with small, hurried steps while pulling down her skirt. She nearly made it. Nearly. I just spotted the small stream running down her pantyhose when she froze and bent over folding both hands between her legs. This last wave was too much for her exhausted muscles. She slowly squatted down as I saw an increasing spray of pee coming out. For at least three minutes she sat there with this human waterfall splashing loudly on the grass soaking her shoes and legs. Even through the cotton and nylon, the stream was massive, thick and hard. The amount must have been enormous. Very slowly it came to a stop. She returned to the car, pulled a plastic shopping bag over her seat and continued the trip. After several minutes she broke the silence: “What a relief, but I’m so embarrassed. Please don’t tell anyone at the office!” I promised to her that it would be our little secret. I never told anyone in the office. Sometimes, when we met later in the office, she would give me a big smile, cross her legs and do a small curtsey as if she were desperate.
Martin