Summertime

I’m 26, 5foot 5, 9stone nearly (120 pounds) and my boy friend is twice my age nearly. Both of us like watersports and we play almost every weekend. It was a Saturday in August 2000; we were on Robert’s boat under the shade of an avenue of trees. The afternoon sun shone on a notice board saying ‘Beware– Army shooting range’ so we stayed on board idly watching the ducks. My summer dress is the shortest a tubby girl can wear without looking silly. It’s a pale blue with a belted waist and very full in the skirt covering my faded pink knickers by about three inches if I stand up straight.
When it’s hot I prefer to do without a bra but I stick out a bit so I only pluck up the courage when we’re far from civilization. Near Coventry– that’s not a problem! We were in George Eliot country because she’s my heroine. Robert had gone to find a guidebook to the places she lived and I was spending a lazy hour or two pleasing myself.
Drifting in and out of sleep on the top of the cabin, rousing every time a boat passed then slipping back into a daydream I became damp between my legs and wondered about a little rub. No one about I thought ‘why not?’ First a dribble, then stop it so that the lovely tickling feeling comes on. Sneak a finger under skirt to assess the progress, a bit more to drink and drift off again, wake to wave at a passing boat, dribble some more, tickle again, and dribble again.
I must have been doing this for nearly an hour without arriving at a climax, just hovering close to the edge. The family on a passing boat included two girls lying on the roof apparently doing the same as me. Our eyes met and they smiled at me. It’s a mystery how neither of the parents twigged but they were oblivious. As they passed I rolled onto my side to watch and felt my skirt sticking to my bottom. It was soaked, I must have peed a gallon without realizing it. Worse, the family decided to stop a few yards further on and I couldn’t get up without it being obvious what state I was in. The girls would not mind surely, but what about the parents?
No sooner had they stopped than the parents also took to the cabin roof no more than 20 yards away. Although I’d stopped tickling myself I felt more and more aroused. Should I try and back away to avoid showing my wet skirt? If I stood up that would be possible but I’d have to turn round to get off the cabin roof. A pale blue dress shows wet patches very clearly so I decided to stay where I was in the hope that they would set off again later.
An hour went by while my bladder filled up. Robert didn’t come back; the parents and daughters lounged around carrying on a conversation in which they included me. It was obvious that they would soon be inviting me to come aboard. The berries on the bush overhanging our boat were some type that can be used to make a drink which the family were fond of, would I reach up and pick a cluster? Yes that could be done without turning my back but could I pass them across? No.
A brainwave struck me. “I’ll bring some when Robert gets back and we’ll both be sociable. He’ll only be a few minutes.”
“Ah” they said “bring them over here and we’ll have the drink ready for when he gets back.”
What a blunder! Slowly I stood up hoping for a better idea. No thinking was possible. I realized that a long afternoon rubbing myself had obscured how badly I needed a proper pee. Promptly sitting down again I claimed cramp and suggested that they put the kettle on and I’d be with them in a moment. Watched all the time I couldn’t put off the standing operation any longer. If only they’d give me a minute I could rush into the boat, pee, change my skirt, put on a bra and bring the berries. Instead they began to point out which berries would be best. Pretending idiocy I pointed, “Those?” They looked up: at last a way to move without being seen but there would be only a second or two. I stood facing them, pointed again fearing that I’d spring a leak and as they looked I backed towards the cabin edge.
Once more and my lower half would be hidden by our cabin as I stepped to the deck, but to do that I’d have to turn. It worked. I was down. Again I played the idiot pretending to point again at a different bunch. Staring straight into the mother’s eyes I felt myself start to dribble, the sort that doesn’t allow stopping; it was too late for that. Still looking earnestly at her as if to try and identify exactly which bunch was needed, I peed and peed all over the back deck.
“Look love I’ll come and show you which ones to pick” said the helpful mother. Panic, she would see the stream across the deck and my folly would be clear. The only thing to do to stop her was to get the bunch indicated and to do that I’d have to go back on the cabin roof.
Reaching up to pick the berries now loomed. You will see my wet panties as I stretch up. Pale pink panties are hopeless for covering accidents as they show a dark patch. There was no turning back as I’d already gone through the charade of recognizing the correct bunches and climbed back to the roof. Could I have another attack of cramp? Nearing the branch I wondered if perhaps the offending panties might just be covered. Yes, maybe it was worth a try. Gingerly stretching up I looked down pretending to check my footing but really looking at the hemline. Back to the task, I reached and………..BANG. BANG.
The army firing range had begun to practice. In a trice my sub–conscious saved the day. I grabbed myself whilst crying out in surprise. They were also taken aback but as we all calmed down I managed a fair imitation of someone caught unawares and quickly said “I’d better go and change.” What an understanding group of people.
The clothes were hurriedly dropped and changed for whatever came to hand. A sports skirt and some white cotton undies with one of Robert’s woolly jumpers and I was back picking berries. That was when Robert returned. We all went into the newcomer’s boat and tried the drink. A bit sharp but refreshing it formed the basis of a long conversation about nice things to drink. All the while I wondered about the looks I was getting from the father and it made me feel uncomfortable. Robert spotted this and we made our exit.
What was that man looking at? Robert sat opposite me and examined what he saw. Then he began to grin. “I see a voluptuous young woman in the prime of life with her nipples protruding through the loose home–knitted woolly jumper and under her short skirt she shows soft white panties with a big yellow mark.” I’d inadvertently picked an unwashed pair of special peeing panties.
All that anxiety to cover my peeing together with a load of nonsense about not seeing the obvious bunch of berries only to be caught out and completely unaware of it. What a gaffe!
Later in the evening the girls came round to chat and it turned out that they knew all along what I had been doing because they had seen my dribble across the cabin top. They thought it was quite amusing when they heard the full story and admitted that I had saved them from almost certain trouble because they had indeed been doing exactly what I’d been doing and were in a quandary about how they would get back to their own cabin without the parents knowing. Apparently they were fully–fledged knicker wetters and under strict instructions from the parents to stop it.
A rather stern voice soon called them back in a few minutes. I hope I didn’t get them into trouble. You can imagine the worried father talking to his wife about the country being infested with wet–knickered women. I wonder if it is.
Have a wet day.
Yours,
May