Too Shy to Ask

If ever my boss asked me if I wanted to do a little overtime it usually meant working late in the workshop of the garage getting a car ready for delivery the next day. A rush job. This was fine but on one such occasion the job turned out to be much more enjoyable.
‘How would you like to run up to Heathrow this evening?’ he asked.
From Bristol this wasn’t any big deal and I had nothing else planned so I said ‘Yeah, sure’.
He carried on, ‘It’s just that Fiona’s flying in from Paris and I just have to be at a meeting until late, so she would have to get a train or coach or something and you know what she’s like in those situations, she’s likely to have a disaster of some sort.’
I knew what she was like alright, an accident looking for somewhere to happen, a real scatterbrain. Apart from that, I also knew from having net her a few times over the years that she was now a very attractive 17 year old girl, tall, slim and leggy, with straight black hair halfway down her back. She had apparently been on a sort of exchange visit to brush up on her French for a week and was bringing a lot of presents for her friends and family – too much to lug around on the train anyway. After work, I drove the boss’ current runabout – a nearly new Citroen XM – home so I could change, and then set off for the M4, looking forward immensely to having the company of the lovely Fiona for the latter part of the evening.
After an uneventful journey I parked up and found that the flight was delayed and I had over an hour to wait– this I didn’t mind at all, in fact I had planned to arrive early as I knew from past experience that airports are a likely place in which to spy females in need of a loo, a splendid way to spend the evening. After a couple of cups of coffee, I positioned myself near a ladies loo and settled down to wait. Sure enough, an American couple in their 40s came by and the woman was nearly cross–legged with needing a pee. Not having seen the loos yet, I heard her say to hubby ‘Jesus Henry, I’m going to burst in a minute, where the hell’s the john in this place?’ Henry saw the sign and pointed her in the right direction and she hobbled past me on her way to relief.
I was about to go for a pee myself, not wanting to stop on the way home, as it would be late enough already, when at last Fiona’s plane arrived. She looked as beautiful as ever and wore a white, thick woollen jumper, a black pleated skirt, well above knee, and black boots. As the plane had been late I told her that maybe we had better get a move on because I had told her father that we would be back before 11pm and it was now 9pm. After getting all the luggage and loading the car, we finally got on the road 20 minutes later and I drove back to the M4, feeling quite exited now. There was a good reason for this.
When we had loaded the boot, I had taken the trolley back to where I had found it and when I glanced back towards the car I saw that Fiona, unaware of me watching, was stepping from foot to foot in an unmistakable ‘I need to pee!’ manner. I didn’t need to be an expert to see that! I really couldn’t believe my good luck and wondered how long she would be before having to ask me to stop somewhere.
We set off and were soon on the M4 and I stuck to the 70mph limit for a change to make the journey last. Fiona began to chatter away about her trip to France – normally she is very quiet and shy – and I could see her getting more and more anxious as her need increased. As we approached the first services she asked if I was going to stop – which I would normally have done, now needing to pee quite a bit – but I just said ‘No, I don’t think I need to, how about you?’
She definately hesitated but said ‘ No, I’m OK thanks’ so I carried on. After 30 minutes she was shifting in the seat and crossing her legs first one way then another, and I saw, whenever we passed a light, that this had caused her short skirt to ride up almost to crotch level. I was very aroused and having to make an effort to concentrate on my driving.
I knew she was getting desperate when she asked how long it would be until we got home, and I answered truthfully that it would be over an hour. She bit her lip and squirmed in the seat again, trying to get more comfortable. Imagine my delight when up ahead we saw the taillights of a queue of cars and lorries and ahead of that there were flashing lights.
The traffic came to a halt and Fiona said ‘ What’s going on, will we be here long?’ She sounded very worried and sat up, straight–backed, in her seat. I could just make out the movement of her legs as she knocked her knees together and I was now able to give her my full attention. There was nothing to do but wait so we talked for a while, but she was obviously thinking of other things. We had been there 15 minutes with no sign of the traffic moving when, having been silent for a minute, she said, ‘Nick? Um, I need to go to the loo – I don’t think I can wait much longer. What can I do?’
‘Oh, is it really urgent?’ I asked. ‘We should be moving in a minute’. She must have been really bursting because now, having let me know her problem, she was pressing a hand to her crotch and rocking back and forth.
‘I should have gone at the airport,’ she said, ‘I didn’t go on the plane and I thought I’d have time before we left but what with being so late I thought I’d try and wait. But I can’t!’ she said, sounding close to tears. There were cars all around us and so it was impossible for her to pee outside without being seen even though everyone had switched their headlamps off and I began to feel sorry for her. She waited a little longer and then said ‘It’s no good, I can’t wait! I’m going to wet myself!’ I wondered what she was doing when suddenly she reached down and took of her boots and then, saying ‘Don’t look!’, she lifted her skirt up around her waist. Before I could look away she pulled her white panties down and took them off too, and, in a state of panic, scrambled out of the car. I then realised what she was doing, as she just stood, barefoot, by the open door of the car and I could see by the light of the car interior light that she was peeing as she stood there. It gushed down her legs and went on for what seemed like minutes. I also noticed that there were a couple of droplets of pee on the black leather seat and, knowing that she couldn’t see, I picked up her knickers from where they had fallen on the floor. They were wet at the crotch and on the bottom, so I reckoned that she had been unable to hold it for some time before this last desperate dash to leave the car.
She got back in and with a big sigh said ‘Oh God, that’s better, I don’t think I’ve ever been so desperate! Please, you won’t say anything will you? Daddy would kill me if he found out! I just thought it was better than making a mess of his car, I’m sorry. That was so embarrassing!’
‘That’s OK’ I said, which was something of an understatement, because I had enjoyed every minute of it.
Only then did I realize that I also had an uncomfortably full bladder, having drunk three large coffees since leaving home. Over the next hour until we moved I began to feel what she must have gone through, not wanting to say anything to her about my predicament either. When we got moving finally I was bursting for a piss but there were no other stopping places until I had dropped her off nearly an hour after that so I know from that night just what it means to be ‘Too shy to ask’Nick