To Have and to Hold

Robert and I were married over a year ago now. I’ve washed his socks, cooked his dinner, dusted the house– in fact I’ve done all the things a housewife used to do in the ‘good old days.’ Before you tell me I’ve given up my feminist principles I should tell you that Robert has done the same for me. In that time we have never had an argument and I’ve never been happier.
Throughout last summer we drifted around the canals of England, stopping for the night in shady corners, away from the towns and continued to play our games whenever the mood took us. That is to say several times per week. Once we were caught by a farmer in the corner of his field where we had lain down for cuddle and a piddle. We were both wet through and giggling so much we couldn’t give him an explanation. All we managed was a ‘sorry’ as we climbed the gate back onto the canal side. He failed to see the funny side– I suppose he wasn’t a Skymouse reader.
Then there was the occasion when we tried another shopping trip during a ‘hold it’ game. We’d reached our evening destination very early and decided to do the shopping trip straight away instead of waiting till the morning. The day had been warm so we’d been drinking gallons of lime cordial. All supermarkets have toilets– so we thought.
Planning the trip we took the long way round so as to see a farm that specialized in rare breeds of sheep. It took a lot longer than we had intended and as a result we arrived at the checkouts more than five hours since our last pee stop. We had become so used to our games that neither of us mentioned the build up of anxiety. Even as we paid, I kept quiet about my need for a rest stop assuming there would be a loo near the exit and there wasn’t.
Yet again we left the shop carrying two bags each and no hand free to ease the pressure. Robert was nibbling his bottom lip as we crossed the car park and headed for the by–pass road that led to the canal bridge– more than a mile from where we had left the boat. At this point the canal is lined with back gardens where people were enjoying the sunshine and having an evening drink. I know it’s not wise for a chubby woman like me to wear shorts but when you’re in holiday mood you can stretch a pair. Mine are a pale lemon color so leaks would be absolutely clear.
Turning to Robert, I asked if he was thinking about somewhere to pee. He usually has some ruse for getting us out of a difficulty so I expected him to say something like, ‘there’s a little hut just round the corner,’ or ‘wrap this light cotton skirt round you and pee to your heart’s content,’ both of which he has done before. His reply was squeezed out of clenched lips, ‘I’m afraid that if we can’t hold on for the next half mile we’re just going to have to endure the public’s gaze.’
Already at the end of my tether I panicked and squirted without meaning to. “Oh” came the tiny voice, as he looked first at my face then at my crotch. “Walk close behind me,” he said. No more than twenty paces further on it happened again and I felt it trickle down my leg but worse– it also seeped round to my bottom. Holding the shopping behind me I waddled along a little further.
Robert is as thin as I am fat so he wears tight fitting trousers since anything else slides off his bottom (which I love to watch). Today’s pants were a light grey and he looked very elegant, sexy even. Thinking a good letch might take my mind off things I gazed at his rear. His buttocks bobbed from side to side as he moved showing the dimples, as I call them, on their outer sides. However my attention was taken lower down to his knees– at first they seemed to be in shadow, but no, they were wet.
“You’re leaking as well,” I hissed. Before he could reply, a line of people came towards us. If only they were strangers. Six or seven of them, a family, three generations, were all well known to us from a couple of days previously. Standing there, awkwardly trying to shield one another we had to pass the time of day, hear about some little adventure they had with their boat, then give directions to the shop we had left half an hour before. If screaming were possible I’d have wakened the dead.
One result of playing ‘hold it’ is that the anguish of holding is increased but you learn that if you can only endure it long enough you will not lose all control even though there’s a dribble from time to time. So there I stood, gritting my teeth in a sort of smile while dribbling into my shorts every few minutes. Would they never leave?
As Robert is the man of words he has to do most of the talking, I’m more of a ‘Yes dear’ type and I was thankful. Not daring to glance at Robert’s legs I heard him give a sharp gasp and his shoulders hunched. A moment later he said “Well, must push on, we’ve a long way to go.”
“Oh no they said, your boat’s the one with the green window frames, isn’t it?” “Yes, it is.”
“The waterways men asked us to tell you they had to tow it a mile up the canal because of some work they are doing on the bit of bank where you were moored.” Poor Robert, he bent forward at the waist as if bowing goodbye to them but I knew differently, I think I heard a hissing noise.
At least we’d got by them but another mile was impossible.
“Robert,” I announced, “I’m going to let go.” He said, “I already have.”
Sure enough he was wet from hips to ankles. We squelched on. My shorts, stretched over my rump were visibly wet, but Robert’s trousers slapped as he walked.
Having eased the pressure we walked more freely and were fortunate enough not to meet anyone else. Can you imagine our dismay to find that our boat was moored on the opposite side of the canal? “That does it,” said Robert, “I’m going to swim across.” He put down his bags and jumped into the water. As I watched, a boy on a bike came by and stopped to watch as well. “Weird” he said, then looked at me, “You been swimming too?”
Without thinking I said “No.”
“Looks like it,” he said, “He splashed you all over.”
When he had swung the boat across for the bags and I, Robert stood on the deck and peeled off his wet clothes. That tight bottom of his looked more inviting than ever so I ushered him into the cabin for a pre–dinner wriggle.
All in all I’m enjoying married life.
On the first anniversary of our wedding Robert bought us a package of plastic pants. They were a very superior variety, guaranteeing ‘no leaks’. Before I continue you should know that this was not his only present, we do have other aspects to our life.
Returning to the matter of the pants, we decided that they should be given a chance to prove themselves in action. The boat is an ideal place for our sports since so few people are around and even when they are it is possible to pee at will– it has it’s own rather primitive toilet.
One part of our annual trip takes us down the river Trent from Newark, a journey of more than six hours without a stop– and no good mooring spots.
Because it’s a tidal section and a lot of very powerful craft use it, Robert feels it his duty to play the skipper. He knows the channels and all the radio protocols. I have to say he exudes confidence and I’ve never realized how dangerous a mistake might be because he has never made one when I’ve been with him. He loves telling hair–raising stories of adventures when someone miscalculated or made a wrong decision.
Well, we put on the pants at 6 that morning and set off on the long trek downstream with Robert in fine form telling his tales prompted by various features along the way. At this point the tide was still rising and he said that we might well meet a several hundred–ton barge at any of the bends. He had left me to steer for a minute or two while putting the kettle on and I was feeling quite proud of myself when we swept round one of the bends to meet a vast barge, high out of the water roaring towards us. Now I knew what to do in theory and I did it all right but I was so anxious that as we passed it I could tell that I had given my pants their first test.
Robert’s praise was welcome, so I didn’t tell him about the little accident. He took over for the next couple of hours and we had another couple of pots of tea. By this time Robert was ready to test his pair. He made a big song and dance about it standing on the cabin roof so I could check their efficiency. Perfect, not a sign on the outside. Somewhere around ten in the morning we were making good progress as the tide had turned and we were now going more than twice as fast. To say we went at 9 miles an hour doesn’t sound much but imagine driving a car on an icy surface, which is itself moving and then add high stone walls less than the length of the car apart and hairpin bends, you get some idea of the journey. It was just my luck to be steering for a few minutes when the radio squawked. “Trent craft, Trent craft, this is Fusedale at Morton corner, upgates.”
“Oh Robert what does that mean?” I called. His reply from the cabin sounded confident. “It’s one of the big ones coming our way.” Having already seen how enormous the things looked, I just stood and peed in fear.
“Where’s Morton corner?” As he came from the cabin he smiled and told me that it was about five miles away.
I can now tell you that the pants hold at least two good pees and do not leak.
Sure enough we met the boat in question and waved cheerily as it swept by within a few feet, its back deck higher than our wheelbox roof.
Just as an aside, the crews that are aboard these monsters have never had to hold their water in their lives. As it vanished behind us I saw the mate casually letting out his surplus over the rail. Another crew once told us that they become so used to peeing wherever they are, in the certain knowledge that there is nobody watching that when they pass through a town they have to remind themselves that peeing in public is not normal. One man told us, with a grin, that he had been caught with his trousers down as you might say and made the best of the situation by waving cheerfully as if it happened every day. As he said they couldn’t get to us and even if an offence had been committed how could the law enforce a penalty?
Our second and third pees respectively were quite tame. I worked out that I carried well over a liter sloshing in the pants by the time we came in sight of the place where we turned off the river into a lock. The lock keeper took our rope, worked the mechanism, told his tale of the day and we rose gently up to canal level. While I retrieved our navigation lights and stowed them away, Robert went into the keeper’s hut to identify some change in the channel we had noted on the way.
As the gates opened onto the canal ahead we said goodbye to the man and I filled in the log recording 1.30pm. In my mental log I recorded 7.5 hours without the need to remove the knickers. Not long after this, Robert had to go ashore to move a swing bridge. As he stood there in the warm sun I could tell he was filling the wonderful undies.
I’ve told you before that he wears slim fitting trousers because he’s like a stick insect. (I’m just a bit jealous) Well now he looked more like me. There wasn’t a wrinkle in the trousers and his hips looked huge. He closed the bridge and I set off a moment sooner than I should have, with the result that he had to jump for the deck. It was only a small jump, say 5 feet and it was downwards. As he hit the deck there was an explosive wet noise and his hips deflated, the trousers became wet and there was liquid pouring down the front and back on the outside.
The test had been too severe for the waistband, they had filled completely and the only release was upwards since the legs were still watertight. I cannot say whether or not my pair was bigger, or I peed less, but I can report that I achieved a fourth filling by 5 that afternoon. They might have done more but once we had tied up for the day I sat down for the first time since six that morning. Robert says that there was a fountain up the back of my blouse, which collapsed over the engine cover behind me and flowed off into the canal.
We have some excellent plastic pants but they cannot hold unlimited quantities. Hence the title.
Yours, May (Mrs.)
(a wet kiss for you and one from Robert too)
Robert and May