The Rugby Outing

Like most girls of 18 with an older boyfriend, Jane was often anxious to impress him and not to seem too young when out with his other, older friends. She was desperately attracted to Mark, who was 27 with a good job and his own flat, and was going do to everything in her power to keep him. She was delighted when they were going on a coach outing to see their local rugby club play in a final, as it would mean a whole day out together. She was not very keen on some of Mark’s rugby friends, but she would put up with this and show him how much she was a rugby enthusiast.
Jane was just above average height and build– nicely rounded, with shoulder length light brown hair that she had streaked blonde. For the outing she was dressed in the local club rugby shirt and tight blue denim jeans, a nearly new low–waisted pair, which fit her really snugly and showed the outline of her tiny knickers. This was deliberate; she knew that seeing a girl’s knicker outline turned on Mark.
It was a three–hour journey to the ground where the final was to be played, and like any rugby club trip, they started drinking soon after the coach left. Jane knew she had to join in with this; she wanted to be one of the group– Mark’s group– so she dutifully opened the can of beer that he gave her. She had woken with a hangover, and despite dosing herself with coffee and paracetamol at breakfast; she still did not feel very bright. She forced herself to drink and make the effort to join in the conversation.
By the time she had finished her first can she was feeling a lot better, and was pleased that Mark solicitously took away her empty and got her a new can, and before she had half finished this one she was feeling really bright and lively, so it seemed a good idea to keep drinking and keep pace with Mark’s group. That would also impress Mark, who she knew despised women who fiddled about drinking half pints.
Starting on her third can, she was well into the spirit of the outing, thoroughly enjoying herself. There was only one slight cloud on her horizon; she had just started to want a pee. Nothing serious or desperate, but she definitely wanted to go. She casually crossed her legs and then twisted them together at hard as she could, at the same time as she clenched her bladder shut. This seemed to force her pee back inside her and stopped her wanting to go. Then she could relax again, only keeping her legs crossed as she joined in the conversation, trying to stop herself thinking about wanting a loo.
That worked too well, because without thinking she had finished her beer and Mark had given her the next one to drink. One sip and she suddenly wanted the loo quite badly, and this time the leg crossing and bladder clenching made it better only until she relaxed, when it was just as bad again. A ‘Services 10 miles’ sign they had just passed heartened her. She had a fairly good bladder, thank goodness, and if she wanted to go, then so would some of the others who had drunk as much or more than her. This next service area would be a very convenient place to stop.
Much to Jane’s dismay they did not stop, and as they passed the turn–off she crossed her legs harder and squirmed in her seat, mentally preparing herself to hold on a bit longer. Only about half an hour longer, she hoped, seeing a sign ‘Next Services 24 miles,’ which surely they had to stop at. Her need to pee had got quite a lot worse since she had thought they were going to stop, and, with all that beer and coffee inside her, it was going to be a long half hour. It was going to be vital that they stopped at the next services, and surely she could not be the only one who was thinking that.
Jane had been on other outings with this rugby crowd and knew that one thing you did not do, particularly if you were a girl, was admit that you wanted to pee. Everyone in the coach would make fun of her if she was to suggest a pee stop at the next services, even those that were bursting themselves, and she would be the butt of typically stupid comments, like being offered a cork to help her wait. She would just have to wait in silence. Somebody would have arranged a stop, and for her bladder’s sake it had better be at the next services.
When they were a mile from the services she celebrated this with a long drink of beer, finishing the fourth can, and thinking what a glorious long pee she would soon be having. Except she wasn’t having it so soon, as they did not stop at that services either, and Jane only just stopped herself saying ‘What the f**k’s going on?’ because she was really bursting, and this had been the obvious place to stop. She really did want to pee very badly, and her bladder felt like a football in her stomach, and she put her hands across her abdomen to try and support it, surprised it wasn’t actually bulging as much as it felt it was. She tried several different positions, legs crossed in different ways or pressed together, hunched up or sitting up straight, but it was all the same. Nothing was going to make any real difference except a loo. Mark was bringing her another beer; she could not refuse it, but she dare not drink any until after the pee stop. She pretended to drink to keep Mark happy. She wasn’t going to tell him she wanted a loo. He was one of those people who never seemed to want to go, nor expect anyone else to.
Jane crossed her legs more tightly and squirmed in her seat, scanning the side of the motorway to see how far the next services were. She thought there was a rule that they had to be every 20 odd miles, which would mean less than a half–hour’s wait, which at the rate her bladder was filling was going to be a struggle, and they would absolutely have to stop then.
She saw a sign, but it was not what she wanted. ‘ –– Services closed. Next services 49 miles.’
That was another hour! She was not sure if she could wait that long, but what else could she do. To ask to stop at a services would have been bad enough, to ask to go at the side of the road was ten times worse, and she was not going to do that unless she was literally starting to wet herself. She tried to convince herself that she could not be the only one bursting, but she really didn’t care about anyone else. They could be about to piss themselves, but unless they got the coach to stop at a loo it was not going to do her any good.
She endured a miserable half hour, and when they passed the closed services she had to close her eyes and look away. She could not bear to think of the relief that was so close, yet impossible to get to. She was desperate, really, seriously, desperate, beyond the stage that she had ever gone voluntarily, and there was not going to be any hesitation about demanding a stop when they finally reached the next services. She wanted to pee far too badly to care what anyone thought. Time was passing so slowly, and the worst thing was that she did not seem to be able to find any position that eased her need. Her bladder was absolutely bursting– she could feel it throbbing where the waistband of her jeans cut right across it. Crossing her legs actually increased this pressure, but with her legs apart there was a sharper, more urgent need to pee to cope with, just as miserable but in a different way. The best thing was to keep changing position, but then she was fidgeting like a little girl about to wet her pants, and making her need for a loo obvious. Someone making fun of her desperation wasn’t going to help one bit. Another five minutes passed; she tried to convince herself she did not want to go any more badly, or at least not very much worse, and she was more confident of holding out until the service area. She could take it minute by minute, that way she would not notice it getting any worse, and she would make it. Her bladder hurt, but she could stand that for another fifteen minutes.
Then, when she thought her situation could not get any worse, the coach turned off the motorway, just when she was planning to tell the driver he had to stop at the next services. They were less than ten minutes from a loo, and now what on earth was she going to do?
“What’s happening Mark? Why have we turned off?” she asked.
“Because this is the way to the ground, stupid,” he replied.
Jane had forgotten about the rugby match. For the last half hour she had not been able to think beyond getting to a loo, and now even that hope had been taken away from her. She checked her watch; they were due at the ground in three–quarters of an hour, and it was impossible that she could wait that long. Somehow she had to get the coach to stop at a loo before she burst.
“Are we going to stop at a pub on the way?” she asked Mark. This was her one hope of getting to a loo quickly.
“No luck,” replied Mark, “the driver’s ‘hours’ only allow one stop, on the way back. We’ve still got some beer left, I’ll get you another can if you want a drink.”
“No thanks,” Jane had to struggle to keep her voice level as she recoiled from the shocking thought of having to drink more beer before she could pee. “This canned stuff is too gassy, it’s making me feel really bloated. I was hoping for some real ale in a pub.”
Bloated was a huge understatement, her bladder was close to exploding. She wanted to pee desperately, probably as badly as she had ever wanted to go, and there did not seem to be any immediate chance of a loo. If she could think about anything except her bladder for a moment, she could vaguely picture where they were. They were going round the city to the ground, all the way through the outer suburbs, not the sort of route that would have anywhere for a coach to stop. She either had to beg them to stop somewhere, a pub, a garage, a public loo, a hedge even, or she had to wait. She crossed her legs the other way, and went though her twisting, clenching herself shut, routine for about the hundredth time that morning, putting all her strength into shutting her bladder as she decided she would wait a bit longer before asking. The longer she could put it off, the more chance there was of someone else asking.
Her bladder was agony where her jeans cut across it, so to try and ease this she first loosened her belt, which did not make much difference, then undid the waistband, which was better, and finally, desperate to do anything to help her wait, undid the zip halfway. She tried to pull her sweater down to cover the bare flesh and knickers that this revealed, because it felt so good that she could not face doing herself up again until she got to a loo. Even like this, her bladder ache was awful, and she wrapped her arms across her stomach and bent forward, which only made it worse, and then leaned back, an unnatural position, but the one that was least painful for her. She could feel the hard, painful, swelling of her abdomen. It wasn’t imagination, her bladder really was so full it was bulging; she had never been in such a state before, and if she didn’t pee soon she was going to do herself some damage. Could she bear another half hour of this? She didn’t have much choice. Her only hope was that they were ahead of schedule and would be at the ground sooner. If it didn’t get any worse, she might just be able to hold out that long.
The trouble was, it did, inevitably, get worse as more beer reached her bladder. The throbbing, aching, desperate, but containable, need to pee became more intense, more urgent. Ten minutes later and it was taking very definite effort to hold in her pee, constantly keeping her bladder clenched shut. The thought of having to keep this up for another twenty minutes was almost too awful to think about, and was even worse when heavy traffic started to slow them down and Mark cheerfully told her they would be at the ground in half an hour. The thought of having to wait that long terrified Jane– what if her need to go increased more? What if it got so bad she could not hold her pee back any longer? She couldn’t sit and wet her knickers like a little girl; she would have to make herself wait somehow. She wanted to hold her crutch, (like a little girl about to wet her knickers!) but everyone would see that. Her only hope was to sit on her heel, something she hadn’t needed to do for years, but might be enough for her to hold out. The only way she could do this was to stand up, then sit down again with her leg tucked under her, which needed an elaborate pantomime of stretching and pulling up her jeans to disguise what she was up to.
She got a questioning look from Mark, but it was worth it. The pressure from the heel of her trainers was as good as if she was holding her crutch, taking the intense, urgent need to pee back to a more controllable level. She was still desperate, wanting a pee more than she had ever done, but she was going to be able to hold out. It was more difficult than she thought it would be, and she needed to keep squirming about to get the maximum pressure from her heel. Every time the coach stopped in the traffic she seemed to want to go more urgently, making her go through a clenching herself shut and forcing back her pee routine, and each time it was having less effect. Even on her heel, it was going to be a close thing, but it was too late to think about asking for a stop unless she was prepared to squat in the gutter, and it hadn’t gotten to that, yet.
Jane’s silent prayers for the coach to park behind the main stand, near the Ladies’ loos, as at their local ground, were not answered. They were directed to a separate coach park away from the ground. Everything seemed to be conspiring to keep her from a loo until her bladder exploded. As she hobbled out of the coach, doing up the waistband of her jeans and gritting her teeth against the extra pressure on her bladder, she wondered if she was going to be able to make it to the ground. She was frantic, absolutely frantic, for a loo. Now she was walking, or more like hobbling, her poor, overloaded sphincter had no help from her heel anymore, and she wanted to pee more urgently than she had ever known. The pressure in her bladder was enormous, and it was taking every ounce of her strength to hold in her pee.
‘I can’t hold this much longer,’ she thought, ‘if I relax for a second I’ll wet myself. If it gets any worse I won’t be able to hold it anyway, I’ll start doing it in my knickers.’
She was walking with both hands pushed into her jeans pockets, gripping the waistband and pulling them up as hard as she could. The seam was cutting into the flesh between her legs, helping her hold in her pee, almost as good as if she was holding her crutch.
They had to wait to cross the main road; the delay was almost unbearable, but it did allow her to knot her legs and take the edge of her frantic urge to pee.
‘Please, please, no more delays,’ she thought, ‘I want to pee so badly I can’t wait much longer. If there’s a queue to get in I’ll have to hold my crutch, or I’ll be wetting myself.’
She was so nearly there she had to make one last effort and hold on. She could see the entrance, she just had to make one great clenching effort, concentrate all her strength on her bladder and hold back her pee. She had never dreamed it was possible to want to pee so badly, but she just had to hang on a bit longer.
Thankfully Mark had their ticket ready and there was hardly any delay, though as she squeezed through the turnstile she could not resist a quick grab between her legs. When she was shaking with the effort of hold her pee, every little bit helped. Because Jane had been walking so slowly, they were nearly the last of their party to get into the ground, and the others were already moving towards a bar under the stands. Mark was trying to catch up, and Jane let him pull her along because she knew the loos were going to be there as well, and that was all that mattered to her. She could see the Ladies Room– nearer than the bar, thank goodness.
“I need the loo first, Mark,” she said, trying to sound casual, pulling her hand away from him, “I’ll catch you up in the bar.”
She wanted to hurry, but it was taking too much effort to hold her pee, and she wasn’t half way before she just had to hold her crutch because she could feel her pee about to leak out. So what if anyone saw her? It was better than a wet patch between her legs.
It seemed like miles to get to the Ladies’, and when she finally made it, there were one or two women waiting outside each cubicle. So near, and still she could not get into a loo. She had never been so frantic for a pee, never even believed it was possible to want to go so badly.
She joined the nearest queue, behind one of the older women from their coach, and tried to gather her strength for one last effort to hold on a bit longer when she had thought she had it made. Legs twisted together, Jane was holding her crutch with both hands, and breathing hard, almost panting with the effort she was making to wait. If she stopped holding her crutch she would wet herself for certain. She was so close– she couldn’t give way in sight of the loo. Her knees were buckling, she was hunching forward, desperately trying to press harder between her legs as she felt her pee was starting to trickle out of her bladder.
The woman in front pushed her gently towards the cubicle door. “You had better go first, before you wet yourself,” she said, “I’ve been caught out on these long coach journeys, that’s why I don’t drink on them any more. It’s alright for the men, they can pee in the empty cans.”
Jane hardly heard her, because at that moment the cubicle door was opening, and she could just manage to gasp “Thanks” as she hobbled sideways into the loo, hardly giving the other woman time to get out. She kicked the door shut. There was no time to bother locking it, every second was vital now, and she dragged a tangle of jeans, tights, and knickers down to her knees and collapsed onto the loo. A trickle of pee had escaped as soon as she stopped holding herself, and this became a torrent as soon as she relaxed.
‘Oh the relief at last!’ she said to herself as she let her pee gush out It felt so good to be able to pee after holding on so long. She was just going and going and going, an endless stream pouring out of her. It did not seem possible she could have held so much pee, but she couldn’t stop herself, and it seemed as if she was going for at least five minutes. Even when she could not squeeze another drop out, her bladder was still aching with the strain it had been under, but, remembering the woman who had let her push in, she hurriedly wiped herself and pulled her clothes up.
“Thanks again, you saved my life. Sorry to have been so long,” she apologized as she left.
Jane stopped to wash her hands and comb her hair, trying to compose herself after her ordeal. She was still out of breath and her pulse racing, as if she had run 100m, from the sheer effort she had been making to hold in her pee. And her bladder was still aching badly. The state she had been in, she could easily have pulled a muscle or strained something down there.
In the bar, slowly drinking a pint of decent real ale, Jane began to recover from her ordeal. She was breathing normally again, and her bladder wasn’t hurting so much. She had been desperate beyond anything she had ever thought possible, forcing herself to wait because she thought everyone else was. Had it been a deliberate set–up? Nobody had shown any interest in her frantic attempts to wait, so was this just something that every new girlfriend went through if she was too proud to admit she was the first who wanted to pee.
Paul Tester ( Correspondence and non–abusive comments always welcome, just click on my name )