The Rugby Club Dinner

Siobhan was a rugby fan, so when she was working in the English West–country she was a regular at the local club games. As a colored Australian girl with a flamboyant, if not provocative, style of dressing, she attracted plenty of attention, and it was not long before she had one of the players as a boyfriend. This got her free admission to the best seats in the ground and into the club bar, but her skin tight jeans or short skirts, coupled with her openly partisan support of Australia over England meant that she was not universally welcomed. The wives of some of the older and more conservative members were particularly disapproving; not that Siobhan cared one bit. She dismissed them as a bunch of fat–arsed, jealous old cows, and was prepared to tell them so to their faces, but Ken, her boyfriend, pleaded moderation. He wasn’t going to stop inviting her into the clubhouse, but he was hoping to join the club committee that year, and upsetting the president’s wife was not going to help him. Reluctantly she agreed to ignore them rather than to provoke them, and when the club’s annual dinner approached she assured Ken that she would dress and behave appropriately, knowing how much he wanted to get on the committee. However, she could not resist buying a figure hugging green evening dress with gold trimmings, (the Australian colors,) instead of the more sober outfits of most of the women present. With her tall, slim but ‘well–endowed’ figure, she was lusted after by most of the men and envied by the women present.
The dinner was the major event of the club’s year, and the local brewery had been commissioned to produce barrels of celebration cider, as this was a traditional West Country club. Siobhan was not very keen on the local cider, but she could hardly refuse when Marge, the treasurer’s wife, one of the ‘fat–arsed old cows’ offered to buy her a pint of the celebration brew, which she had to admit was so drinkable that she had another before the dinner started.
The service at dinner was slow, and they were still waiting for the main course to be served when Siobhan began to feel the effects of the cider, having nearly finished a third pint, and turned to Ken and whispered to him “I think I’ll slip out to the loo now, before they serve the next course.”
To her surprise Ken gripped her arm tightly, holding her in her seat, saying, “No Siobhan, you can’t do that.”
She looked at him, puzzled. Ken had never shown any interest in pee holding or desperation games before, and this wasn’t the time she would have chosen to start, but if he was up for that sort of thing, she certainly was. She was out of practice, but she had outlasted a few men in her time and she would give Ken a run for his money.
“This is a formal dinner,” Ken began to explain, “and nobody is allowed to leave the table until it’s over and the toasts drunk. It’s an old British tradition, and the club has always kept it. I’m sorry, but you simply cannot just get up and go to the ladies’, you will have to wait until the dinner is finished.”
Siobhan’s immediate reaction was to show Ken, and the rest of the members, what they could do with their old British tradition by marching straight to the ladies’ loo, but she remembered she had promised Ken she wouldn’t do anything provocative at the dinner, so she stayed in her seat and meekly said “Sorry, I didn’t realize that. Thanks for stopping me before I made a fool of myself.”
She tried to make herself feel virtuous because she was going to suffer to help Ken’s election chances, and then thought that if she had been prepared, in fact, willing, to play a holding game with Ken, then she could just as well play on her own, even if it wasn’t so much fun. She did not actually believe that people would really suffer for the sake of tradition, and when some of the others went out to the loos, she would go as well, though she wasn’t going to be the first to go. Then another thought struck her. All the members and wives would know about this rule; this explained why most had been drinking cocktails before dinner. So someone deliberately buying her pints of cider would be setting her up to need to pee. She would not put it past those older bitches to do something sneaky like that. Siobhan was furious with them for trying such a trick, and instantly resolved that she would not, under any circumstances, go to the loo until dinner was over, nor would she even let them see that she was in any need of a pee.
She crossed her legs, more as a gesture of intent than because she needed to, and drank the last quarter of her pint of cider with a flourish, intending them to see that she had no need to restrict her liquid intake. She had played enough pee holding games, with one boyfriend in particular, to know that she was good at waiting. It seemed that she had been blessed with a large bladder and exceptional control, so if she really had to wait, then she could, and without any serious problems. To show how confident she was of being able to wait, she ordered another pint of cider when the main course was served, and began to drink it with relish, ignoring a faint warning voice in the back of her mind whispering that over–confidence could lead to disaster.
Leaning back in her chair at the end of the main course, more than halfway through her fourth pint of cider, Siobhan had to admit that she already wanted to pee rather badly. Not desperately or anything yet, nothing she could not cope with, but less than fifteen minutes ago she had hardly wanted to go at all. Since living in England she had heard jokes about cider making you pee a lot, but until now she had not taken them seriously. It was no worse than beer, she tried to convince herself, and she was used to drinking plenty of that. To reassure herself further, she thought back to the waiting contests she had held with Paul, who had really been into that sort of thing. She had never lost; however hard he had tried to control himself and hold back his pee, she had always been able to wait longer, and so easily by comparison to his struggles. All she needed to do was to cross her legs and endure the discomfort of an aching bladder. Never had she felt in any danger of losing control, of actually wetting her knickers. Little girls might do that, (or big boys, because Paul had pissed himself a couple of times trying to outlast her) but not Siobhan, she was made of much sterner stuff.
The waitresses were still clearing the main course, and had not even started to serve the next, which Siobhan guessed meant that it would be at least 20 minutes before the dinner was over, perhaps longer. That, she thought grimly, was going to be an awfully long time to have to wait. In fact, considering she was noticeably worse that only a few minutes ago, she could well be struggling by then. It could well be difficult, very difficult to wait until the end. Her bladder area was becoming painful, and felt awfully swollen, so much so that she could see the bulge under her close fitting evening dress. This was as long as she had ever had to wait with Paul, or anyone else. She could hold out of course, there was no doubt about that, it would just be more of the same– worse bladder pain, but bearing that would be a good test of her will–power.
She joined the lively discussion going on about England’s prospects in the World Cup, making provocative and derogatory remarks about the deficiencies of the England rugby team, which she then had to justify. As always, she enjoyed the controversy she stirred up, and this made the time pass more quickly. What it did not do was slow down her body’s reaction to the cider and she was becoming more and more distracted by how badly, really badly, she wanted to pee. There was no ignoring the fact that her bladder was bursting, absolutely bursting. Her evening dress was now distinctly tight round the waist, as her stomach was bulging over her swollen bladder. The pressure from her dress was unwelcome, to say the least, and she could feel the elastic of her knickers cutting right across the most painful area. She had never wanted to go this badly before, and she really didn’t want it to get much worse. She took a long drink of her cider, hoping that the alcohol would deaden her bladder pain before the liquid made it worse. She wanted a loo so badly it was becoming absolute misery, and she just wanted this dinner to be over so she could pee and be comfortable again.
At last the tables were cleared and they were standing to toast the Queen, another British tradition that Siobhan could have done without– as standing, plus the thought that she could soon pee, put more strain on her bladder and she was crossing her legs tightly as she raised her glass. Glancing down she was shocked to see how much her bladder area was bulging. She had never been in such a state before. Her bladder must be absolutely bursting, stretched to its limit; no wonder it was hurting so much, it was absolutely essential that she had a pee very soon.
She was about to put her glass down and head for the ladies’ when, instead of saying the dinner was over, the club chairman was introducing the first speaker, and everyone was sitting down to listen. For a moment she thought of just walking out, into the ladies’, and that long, long pee that her body was crying out for. Then she sat down, plaited her legs as tightly as she could, and, gritting her teeth, prepared herself to hold out a bit longer. No way, she thought grimly, was she going to be the first to give up and go to the loo. It was just a matter of willpower, ignoring the discomfort, and making herself wait.
Before the toast she had been confident of holding her pee so long as she could ignore the ache from her bladder, but standing up, or thinking she was about to be able to pee, seemed to have done something to her bladder, and now she was having to make a serious effort to hold in her pee. She was crossing her legs tightly, twisting them together as hard as she could, suddenly conscious of how desperately urgently she wanted to pee. It was as if her bladder could not stretch much more, and was telling her she absolutely had to let some pee out soon.
If only there was something to take her mind off her bladder problems, but a dreary speech and some weak jokes she had heard before were no competition for the terrible need to pee that had built up so quickly. Siobhan was really having to make an effort to hold in her pee, clenching, so it felt, all the muscles in her pelvis so hard that it made her shudder. That was holding back her pee, but it was taking so much effort, and, if the need to go got any worse, she wasn’t sure she would be able to hold it. This was becoming a real emergency, desperation beyond anything she had ever known, or even imagined, and it needed an emergency response. Sitting nearer the table, and pulling the table–cloth over her lap, she jammed one hand between her legs, pulling up her skirt to give her enough slack to get her fingers pressing hard into her. Siobhan had never thought it would come to this; in her mind, adults simply did not need hold themselves, certainly not in public, but now she had started she dreaded the thought of having to stop. It just felt so good; she was back in control, capable of holding out until the end, as long as that wasn’t too much longer. She pressed harder, hoping that would make it even better, and then, without thinking, she had her other hand there as well, all her fingers bunched together and pressing so hard that it had to be impossible for her to pee, however badly she wanted to go, however full her bladder got.
She lasted to the end of the speech, even daring to take one hand away for part of the time, but then she had to join in the applause, and with nothing to help her she did not know how she managed to hold back her pee. Thankfully it had been an awful speech, and hardly worth clapping, but she was among the first to stop, and immediately both hands were back between her legs. She was clenching her teeth with the effort it was taking to wait, crushing the soft flesh between her legs under her bunched fingers, getting her bladder back under control. She had been so close to losing it, actually wetting herself, that it had been frightening. Holding herself she could manage to wait through another speech, but could she risk letting go to clap again? Worse, how could she manage to walk to the ladies’ without holding her crutch? Somehow she was going to have to. The way to do it, Siobhan told herself, remembering her sport psychology class, was to be positive, think only of winning, or in this case, waiting, and she would make it. Or more to the point, she thought grimly, think of the consequences of not being able to wait. Either the indignity of sneaking out to the loos, with everyone looking at her, the girl with a weak bladder, or even worse, losing control and having a wet dress for the rest of the evening. There was no choice; she had to make herself wait, even if it nearly killed her. A few minutes agony was better than the eternal disgrace of failure, or of wetting her pants in public.
Siobhan pressed between her legs with all her strength, convincing herself that this would help her tiring bladder muscles and somehow get her more under control for when she had to clap again. It seemed a pretty forlorn hope, but in her situation she was clutching at straws, willing to try anything that might help her wait. To her amazement it did actually seem to work, and the frantic, intense urge to pee began to get less urgent. At first she though that this was because the pain from her bladder area was becoming sharper, distracting her from wanting to pee, but when she did have to applaud the second speech she found she could survive without holding her crutch and not go to the brink of wetting herself as she had before. She was still holding herself again as soon as she could, not daring to risk the urge coming back, but it did give her hope that she was going to be able to survive the dinner.
The third speech was much better, with some of the jokes quite funny, though laughing was not an option for Siobhan in the state she was in. She was still holding her crutch with both hands, but the urge to pee was getting less by the minute, something she did not understand but was so welcome she didn’t care why it was happening. For a dreadful moment she thought she might be leaking without knowing it, and took one hand from between her legs to feel under her bum and then lift the tablecloth to check where she was holding herself. Both places were dry, thank goodness, so she could only assume her bladder was getting a ‘second wind’ and she was going to be able to hold out. By the end of the speech the urgent need to pee had almost completely gone away, even if she was in no doubt that she still desperately needed to go. Her bladder area was really hurting now, and felt very swollen, like a great throbbing balloon inside her, bulging against her dress, the flimsy elastic of her knickers seeming to cut into her like a tourniquet round her waist. She knew she had to be pushing her body to the limit, it would not be hurting so much otherwise, but she had no choice, she had to push it to last a bit longer and just hope that she didn’t do herself any serious injury.
Scared that the unbearable need to pee would return, Siobhan kept holding her crutch as hard as she could right up to the time when, at long last, the club president proposed a toast to the success of the club. Standing for this Siobhan found she was almost shaking with the effort she was making to clench herself shut, not because she wanted to go, but because she was terrified that if the urge did return it would be uncontrollable and she would wet herself.
The dinner over, her only thought was to get to the ladies’ as quickly as possible, but in her state even walking was difficult, and hurrying impossible. Each step she took sent a jolt right through her bladder, and though she tried to force herself to ignore the pain and walk normally, short, shuffling steps, partly on tiptoe were the best she could manage, one hand cradling her agonized bladder. Luckily her table had been the nearest to the ladies, and she was just in time to get the last cubicle.
“At last,” she gasped, hauling up her dress, pulling down her knickers, and sinking onto the toilet, relaxing and about to say “Oh the relief,” as her pee gushed out. But nothing happened; no flood of pee, no longed for relief, no easing of the pain. She could not pee. She had been waiting so long, and held on so frantically that she bladder had seized up, clamped shut so tightly for so long that she could not pee, even when she wanted to. She opened her legs wide, trying to make herself relax, gently rubbing her bladder area, and was rewarded with a spurt and then a dribble of pee which stopped as soon as she tried to force it out harder.
‘Think of running water, taps full on’, she told herself. The noises from the cubicles on either side should have been suggestive enough; both occupants were in full flow, one peeing with the force that Siobhan longed to emulate, but still she could only manage short spurts and little dribbles. At that rate it was going to take all night to empty her bladder, and already someone was banging on the cubicle door, pleading with her to hurry. In one last, desperate attempt to force herself to go, she put both hands across her bladder area and pressed hard, hoping this would burst open her seized up muscles. With her dress pulled up above her waist, she could see how much she was bulging, and she was shocked how hard it felt. The pressure in her bladder must be enormous, and if she didn’t release it soon she was going to end up in hospital. Pressing forced out another spurt of pee, but it hurt so much she could not bear to try it again.
Renewed banging on the door reminded her she could not stay much longer; she would have to get out until the rush was over, then try again, sit there all evening if necessary, do anything to let her pee out before her bladder exploded. She tried washing her hands with the tap full on, listening to the torrent from the woman who had taken her cubicle, but neither brought back the urgent need to pee which she had been so glad to lose, and now she wanted to come back even more desperately.
Siobhan hobbled back to the bar to meet Ken, grateful he had got a seat for her. “I wanted to go to the loo so badly I’ve got a stomach ache,” she confided to him, which was at least part true. “I’d like to sit down for a bit to recover before we hit the disco.” Ken was all sympathy and concern, so perhaps he was into desperation, Siobhan thought. “A liqueur would be wonderful,” she continued, “something strong and sweet and I’ll be fine in a few minutes.”
Feeling the warmth of the alcohol spread soothingly though her aching stomach, Siobhan finished her drink in three gulps, praying it would do the trick and relax her tensed bladder before she exploded. Ken, seeing that she was obviously distressed about something, offered her his drink, which she finished just as quickly. Her condition was serious– her bladder area was agony. If she could not relax it soon, and pee, she was going to be a hospital case. As the drink took effect she felt a sudden urgent need to pee, making her automatically cross her legs to contain it, and then it was really bad, and she was struggling to hold it back. Never in her life had she been so glad to want to pee, but there wasn’t time to enjoy the sensation; it was rapidly becoming an emergency.
“Excuse me, afraid I need to go again,” she mumbled to Ken as she tried to walk casually to the ladies. Her cramped muscles were relaxed now, she had to contain the full pressure of her distended bladder, and she had a horrible feeling she wasn’t going to make it. She was walking as fast as she could, hands clenched and gripping her dress as she fought to control herself a few more seconds, holding her crutch as soon as she thought no–one could see, just, but only just, holding back her pee.
As she sat on the loo this time there was no hesitation. Her pee came gushing out with the full pressure of her distended bladder, hitting the bowl with such force it almost lifted her off the seat, making so much noise she was glad she was alone in the ladies. She had never thought it possible to pee like this, but it was the relief she had been wanting for so long and the pleasure was almost ecstatic.
Just let it go, she told herself, and her bladder was doing just that, blasting out every drop of pee in her body. Not now with the enormous pressure that had threatened to break the loo, but still a forceful stream that she thought would never stop. Not that she wanted it too, the relief felt so good. Siobhan had never had a pee like this before, and she wondered if anyone had; if there was a record for peeing, this had to be it, she thought.
Weeks later, after she had told Ken how she had suffered that night, and together they had discovered internet sites on desperation, she would regret that she had not measured, or at least timed this pee, because she could never manage anything like it again. That evening she had drunk a pint of milk before the dinner to ‘line her stomach’ together with four pints of cider at the dinner, and just one half–hearted little pee at the start. Five pints in and half a pint out, how much had she had in her bladder? Two pints? Three? Even more seemed possible, but she would never know. All she could say was that the pressure of her pee had been incredible, more than she had ever done before or since, and she seemed to pee for about ten minutes.
Maybe we were lucky with the weather, maybe we relied too much on one player, but you need some luck, and you have to play to your strengths.
Paul Tester ( Correspondence and non–abusive comments always welcome, just click on my name )