Jill on the Train

During the vacation after my second year at university I got a phone call from Jill, a fellow student on my course who I knew casually. We were due to attend a seminar in the city that week and Jill was going to borrow her mother’s car and drive to town. She wanted to park at my house and then we could go into the city by train. She was not a particularly attractive girl, but I had nothing much going on at the time, so I told her to be here at 8.30 so we would have plenty of time to get into town.
Jill duly arrived about 10 minutes late. She was a tall thin girl, with long light brown hair but with very plain, or even unattractive, looks. However she was wearing skin–tight jeans that were stretched over her hip bones, and almost cut her in half they were so tight round her crutch. I was waiting, ready to go, as she parked in out driveway, and said we would have to hurry or we would miss the train. Jill crossed her legs tightly as she locked the car.
“I need to go to the loo first,” she said. “It’s a long way from home, and the traffic was terrible.”
I showed her the loo, and she was in there like a shot. She seemed to be in there an age. When she came out she smiled. “That’s a lot better; I was getting in a real state almost driving with my legs crossed, trying to find your road.”
“MY own fault for drinking too much coffee at breakfast,” she continued ruefully, “I never will learn that my bladder can only take one mug of coffee. I was nearly killing myself trying to hold three; I was getting in such a state I thought I was going to flood the car. Talk about a burst water main causing the hold–up…it nearly caused a burst water main in my jeans.”
Taken aback by her candour in talking about her bladder problems, and wishing she would tell me more about her desperation in the traffic, I could only just reply that if she was OK now we should be getting a move on.
We caught the train with about a minute to spare. Jill sat opposite me with her legs apart. I was able to see how prominent her crutch bone was, and how sexy she looked in those jeans. As we got off the train, the outline of her tiny triangular knickers could just been seen when she stood up. Knowing that she had been desperate and thinking of her trying to drive with her legs crossed made the sight of her even more erotic. Tight though her jeans were they looked either creased or worn between the legs, and I was fantasising that this was caused by Jill having had to hold her crutch while she was driving and wishing I had been in the car to see such a wonderful sight. Either that or some lucky boyfriend was being allowed to rub her there and perhaps help her hold her pee when she was desperate.
The lecture was pretty boring, and when it was finished we met some more of our class and decided to go for a drink. It was just before noon, and we found a cheap and cheerful pub just round the corner. The drink turned into a good session, and we had far too much to drink. Anticipating the 3 o’clock closing we bought a round at 2.55 and drank it in less than 5 minutes. Jill went to buy the next round, but the landlord refused to serve us. We were pretty drunk by that time, so we all decided to make our way home. We were heading for the station when Jill went into a little shop and came out with 3 large size six–packs.
“Never say I didn’t buy my round,” she said. She distributed the cans round, but ended up with a complete 6–pack for the two of us.
“We will need something for the train,” she said.
I suggested that she had had enough to drink if she was driving home, but she said that if I gave her some coffee before she started she would be OK.
Well, Jill certainly carried on drinking at a good rate. She had virtually finished 2 cans before we got to the station. I was still on my first can when we got there, but even so I felt that I had had enough to drink. While we were waiting for the train I noticed that Jill was looking all round the platform. She had also slowed down her rate of drinking, and showed no inclination to open her third can. It was ages before the train arrived. I was starting to want a piss by then, and Jill was standing with her legs crossed. I wondered if, no, I would be honest and admit I was hoping that she wanted a loo as well. It certainly looked as if she did from the way she was standing, not surprising, considering the amount she had drunk. If, as she had told me that morning, her bladder could only hold 1 mug of coffee, she was going to be struggling to hold several cans of beer, each probably the equivalent of two mugs of coffee at least. Knowing the journey we had in front of us, I wondered if she would be able to hold it and if not what she would do.
In the afternoon, to make it worse for Jill, there were no non–stop trains like we had come in on, only stopping at all stations and often a change of train half–way. The trains were not too frequent either, and by the time one came Jill had her legs twisted tightly together and was not looking at all happy. She was not drinking any more now, and had thrown away her can of drink. As we got on the train she was holding the front of her jeans as they were hurting her. In fact she was displaying all the signs of wanting to piss quite badly, and I was becoming excited at the prospect of what might happen. I was also starting to need a piss, but steeled myself to wait until we got home. At night I had often pissed against the wall at the end of the platform when changing trains, as there were no loos on that station, but I was sure that would not be possible in the daytime, particularly for Jill, who I hoped would be the one most wanting to piss. I could not imagine we would find anywhere else to piss, so we would have to wait until we got home, and that was going to be a long time. Again I wondered if Jill would be able to last out. Remembering how frequently she had been pissing in the pub, she was certainly going to be pretty desperate by the time we got home.
When we stopped at the second station, Jill asked what was happening. I told her that the non–stop trains were only in the rush hour.
“If it stops at every station, how long does it take to get home?” she asked.
“Ages,” I replied, “We probably have to change trains half–way as well.”
Jill looked suitably and delightfully horrified at this, perhaps, I Hoped, wondering if her bladder was capable of lasting out that long. She was sitting with her legs knotted, and had her arms crossed across her stomach. If she was not desperate, she was giving a good imitation of it. I found I was getting quite turned on by this. Jill’s plain face was no longer such a drawback as I concentrated more on her body, which was a real delight. I could not help staring at the tight crutch of her jeans and thinking what pressure must be building up underneath the tightly stretched denim and how hard Jill had to be clenching her little cunt shut to hold back the pee trying to get out. I wished we were on familiar terms so she would tell me how much she wanted to piss and let me help her wait by rubbing her prominent crutch bone.
Jill maintained her position in silence until we had to get off and change trains. There were quite a few people about, also waiting for our train. Jill leaned against the station wall and beckoned me close to her.
“I have GOT to go to the loo before we get the next train,” she said quietly. “Have you any idea where the ladies is?” Her voice sounded husky and strained, an indication of how badly she wanted to pee.
I told her that I did not think there were any loos on the station. Poor Jill. “Oh no! There must be a here,” she said, “I simply, absolutely must, find a loo soon. It’s getting serious, I really do want to pee very badly.”
I pointed out to Jill that there was no sign of any loos on either of the platforms. Pretending I was being helpful and concerned about her predicament, I suggested that the only other place was in the booking hall, and that we should look in there. I took hold of Jill’s hand to lead her across to the other platform. She was not walking very well, just sort of hobbling along as if her legs were tied together. By the time we had got to the booking hall, Jill had her other hand in her jeans pocket and was pulling at them as if to get them tighter between her legs and away from her stomach (bladder?). As soon as we stopped to look round she had her legs crossed again.
Jill saw there were no loos in the station, as I already knew. She was now standing with her legs twisted together and both hands in her pockets, pulling up her jeans. I assumed that this was helping her hold back her piss by pulling her jeans even tighter across her crutch, if that was possible. As there were no ladies’ here, I said we should get back onto the other platform in case our train came in.
“You don’t understand,” said Jill, “I’m absolutely bursting. I simply must find a loo before the next train comes.” From the way she was standing with her legs twisted tightly together and half crouching in a classic desperation pose, I could see she was not exaggerating her need. She could see there were no loos on the station, and I did not know what she was going to do about this. The obvious thing was to wait until we got home, which is what I was planning on doing. If we did not get onto the right platform and missed the next train, then it would be longer before we got to the loo. Jill still hesitated, and then said she would look outside, as there might be a public loo there. She did not sound very hopeful and it seemed as if she was clutching at straws, as if there wasn’t a loo, there did not seem to be any chance of her being able to piss (nor did it look as if there was much chance of her being able to wait long it she did not piss somewhere soon.) I stayed where I was to try and discourage her from this, but she hobbled out of the station entrance and went off down the road so I followed, as I wanted to see what she was up to. To me, there did not seem to be any likelihood of there being a loo near the station, but Jill was not going to believe this. I was wondering if she was yet desperate enough to risk squatting between two parked cars or something like that Jill had walked to the corner, about 30 meters away. She looked despairingly down the road either way, standing in her usual knotted leg position, pulling up her jeans. She may not have realised I was watching her, as she held her crutch as she stood there, but there was no point in her trying to hide how desperate she was. All her actions since getting off the train had shown how desperately she wanted to pee. She looked as if she was going to walk further in the slight chance that she might find somewhere to pee, but at that moment a train came into the station. She looked up, saw me watching her, so quickly took her hand away from her crutch. I waved her back, and hurried back into the station to see which train it was. It was our train, but there was no chance of Jill getting back in time to catch it. However, to make the gesture, I ran over to the platform and waited half in the door, in the hope that she would really get moving and catch it. There was still no sign of Jill when the door shut, so I had no choice but to let it go. When Jill did appear, she was not making effort to hurry. I told her we had missed the train because firstly she was wandering about looking for a non–existent loo, and secondly because she had not run back when she had heard the train coming. Jill looked really forlorn when she heard this.
“I’m sorry, but I wanted the loo so much I had to see if there was one outside. If I don’t pee soon, I am going to be in serious danger of pissing myself.”
She explained that because she wanted to pee so badly, she could not run because it hurt her bladder so much. I told her that often two trains came quite close together, so she had better wait around and not go wandering off and miss another. Jill turned to half face the wall and took a hold of her crutch again.
“I keep telling you that I’m desperate, and that I must, must have a pee. I absolutely must go before I get on the train, because I am getting so desperate that I literally don’t think I can hold out until we get to your house.”
“Jill,” I said, pretending to be impatient with her, “there are no loos here, and nowhere you can piss. I have looked before when I have been bursting, and if there is nowhere a bloke can piss, there is certainly nowhere a girl can go. If you need a loo, you will have to cross your legs and grit your teeth until we reach my house, or at least the station there.” This was not exactly true, as at night I had often walked to the far end of the platform and pissed against the wall, but I was not going to offer Jill the chance of this. I am ashamed to say that I wanted her to get as desperate as possible. If she was really frantic she might think of it herself, as the only alternative to wetting herself, but I did not think she was the sort of girl who would normally consider squatting down in public and pissing, particularly not in daylight. Jill looked despairingly at me.
“If you knew how badly I want to go, you would never say something like that. I keep trying to tell you that I am DESPERATE! SO FUCKING DESPERATE THAT IT HURTS! All I want to do is have a piss before it gets any worse, because I can hardly bear to wait any longer.” I had never known Jill swear before, and took this as a sign of how much stress she was under trying to hold in her pee.
I told Jill that being desperate for a piss did not mean that there had to be a loo near, as she must have realised by now. Adopting a ‘stern father’ attitude, I old her she was behaving like a little schoolgirl, not a 20 yr. old student. “You have got two choices really, Jill,” I said. “You can either wait until we get to our station, or you can’t wait, in which case you will piss in your jeans.”
Hearing this, Jill glared at me. “Which part of ‘Desperate’ don’t you understand? Are you being deliberately stupid and trying to make me piss myself? Don’t you realise that I am not fooling about? I have got to get to a loo. It’s becoming an emergency! I’m nearly at the point when I can’t wait any longer, and I’ll being peeing down my legs soon.” She was almost in tears with desperation and the frustration of not being able to find a loo. The few other passengers waiting for the train were beginning to look anywhere except at us, sensing that they were witnessing some private ‘scene’ as Jill was holding her crutch with both hands during this exchange, mainly out of sheer desperation but partly, I thought, to emphasise to me just how badly she wanted to pee. Despite the urgency of Jill’s situation, I was not suggesting the alternative of her squatting at the far end of the platform. The thought of seeing a wet patch spreading from her crutch down her legs was turning me on, and I really hoped it would happen, as I had never actually witnessed a girl of her age wetting herself.
Cruelly, to make her situation even more miserable, I pretended the beer was making me irritable, and that I was fed up with the way she was carrying on, as if it was my fault she wanted to pee. “If you hadn’t drunk so many cans after we left the pub, you would not want to go so badly now.”
Jill had now turned her back to the other people on the platform, and was holding her crutch while twisting her legs together. Her eyes were shut and she seemed beyond caring who could see she was holding herself.
“Please help me,” she pleaded. “I am so desperate that I can hardly think straight. I’ll try and wait, I know there is nowhere to go here, but I really am so bad that I’m afraid I won’t be able to bear it much longer. If only we had got on the last train, at least I would be sitting down, and that would help a bit. I’m not going to wet myself if I can help it, but I do want to go so badly.” Jill was obviously in a real state about her bladder, and was almost in tears by now. I put my arms round her and pulled her towards me, apologizing for being angry with her.
“I want to help you Jill,” I said, “but what can I do? I can’t produce a loo where there isn’t one.” I wanted to offer to help by pressing my hand between her legs, but dared not. Jill was going to have to hold her pee on her own. Jill let herself come close to me, but still kept hold of her crutch. “Please don’t press against my stomach,” she said. “I’m in agony, and any more pressure on my bladder and I will probably explode.”
“Jill,” I said, “you are a big girl now, you are not going to wet yourself. You might be desperate to piss and hurting, but you can always wait a bit longer if you have to, and if you really try to hold it, you will probably be able to wait until you find a loo.”
Jill put on a brave smile at this, and said that, yes, she knew that, and she was sorry she had been making such a fuss. She had one arm round me now, and was leaning against my chest. She was still holding her crutch with her right hand, but apart from that she was becoming quite affectionate. We had been like that for about five minutes when another train arrived. I held Jill’s hand and led her on to the train. Now we were apart she was not holding between her legs, but was pulling up her already skin–tight jeans instead. Luckily the train was not full, and we got a 4–seat to ourselves. Jill was by the window, and she sat with her legs literally plaited round each other. Within a minute of sitting down she had her right hand in her crutch again, and then covered it with her left, either to hide what she was doing, or to pull up harder. I smiled at her, and said it would not be long now… Her bottom lip was quivering and she looked like a young child about to burst into tears. The poor girl was truly reaching the outer limits of desperation, and looked to be close to breaking down completely and wetting herself. I could not resist looking at her crutch again, where denim was stretched so tightly across her little hole that was screaming to be allowed to pee and ease the terrible pressure it was holding back. I wondered how long it would be before a wet patch started growing between Jill’s legs. She was so desperate, literally frantic, trying to hold back her pee, with all her strength. As there was nobody sitting near us on the train, she had lost all inhibitions about holding herself, or maybe she had no choice; what she was doing was probably the only way she could hold back her pee. She had both hands pressed between her tightly crossed legs, all her fingers bunched together and pressing where I imagined her pee hole to be. She was moving her fingers round in a small circle, as if she was trying to rub a hole in her jeans and press right against her flesh. (I tried this later on my own and realised it was a way of getting the absolute maximum pressure under my finger tips. Jill must have been frantic and trying with all her strength to hold back her pee.) She was lost in a world of her own desperation, her eyes closed and her face screwed up with the effort she was making to hold her pee. Her mouth was clamped tightly shut, (as tight as she was trying to keep her pee hole shut?) but I could hear her letting out little gasps and groans and she was starting to whimper incoherently as she fought to contain her pee.
Sitting opposite me, giving me the ‘best seat in the house’ to witness her desperation, she was bending double, leaning forward in her seat, as if she was in pain, her face almost on my knees.
I put my hand on her shoulder to comfort her, and she whimpered “How much further? How long do I have to wait? Oh please help me– it hurts so much. I Must, must make myself wait, but Ooooh it’s so bad I can’t last much longer, what can I do when I can’t hold it? Oh please Paul, do something, help me find a loo or somewhere I can pee. It’s so bad I can’t bear it much longer, I’ll have to go. I don’t care– I’ll go anywhere. I don’t want to piss myself in my jeans”
After two more stops, Jill asked how many stations to go. I told her five more to my normal station, but we could get off at the station before and have a bit further to walk. However, I warned Jill, there was no loo on that station. Jill appeared to think about this while she wriggled about a bit and ground her hands about between her legs. She made a definite effort to press with all her strength with both hands, and then looked at me and groaned. “It will take ages, five stations will be over 15 minutes. I think I’ll be dead by then, it hurts so much. But I dare not get off at any station that doesn’t have a loo, as I know I can’t walk very far, I’m in such a state. I have never wanted to piss so badly in my life, and I really do not know how much longer I can hold out. Do you think anyone would mind if I went on the platform?” she ended hopefully.
I told her that all the stations on this line had CCTV cameras to prevent vandalism and she was asking to get caught if she tried to pee on the platform. She managed to wait for 3 more stations without saying any more about wanting to piss, but as we left the third one she asked how long it would take to our station. I told her less than 10 minutes, which was a bit optimistic, but what she wanted to hear.
“Paul,” she said, “I really don’t think I can wait that long. I want to piss so urgently that I don’t think I can hold it back much longer. I have never been like this before, but it’s becoming so intense that I’m going to let go pretty soon. I’m going frantic because I think that I am going to wet myself on the train, and I don’t know what to do to stop myself. I simply cannot hold it back any harder than I am now, but I’m afraid it is not enough.”
She added that she wished the rest of the people in our the carriage would get off, so she could squat between the seats and piss, then despairingly asked if I thought anyone would notice and complain if she was to piss between the seats. I glanced towards the elderly couple that were the nearest passengers and said that they would probably notice as they kept looking at us, particularly the strange way Jill was behaving, and they would be sure to complain at her pissing on the floor. I had never seen anyone, boy or girl, in such a state for a piss, and I did not know what to do to help her. Jokingly, I suggested she needed a cork, and she replied that if I had one she would use it, as she was willing to try anything if it helped her wait. I told her that all the intermediate stations now were small, and certainly would not have a loo. If we got off there, I told her she would have to piss in the street. She said she could not do that, but hesitated as she said it as if she was thinking about it, so she had not option but to make herself hang on a bit longer.
The last two stations, Jill was really going frantic, twisting about in the seat and pressing both hands into her crutch with all her strength. As we finally came into our station, she asked me exactly where the ladies loo was. I said it was right next to the men’s, and I was going in there, so I could take her right to the door.
“You will have to help me along,” said Jill. “I’m so frantic I’m not gong to be able to walk very far. Please don’t run on and leave me.”
I told Jill not to worry, as I would put my arm round her waist and half carry her if she wanted, then I suggested she get some money ready, as I did not know if the ladies’ was free or not. Since she did not have a free hand to get into her purse I got a handful of change ready for her. Between clenched teeth Jill groaned that she would pay anything if only she could have a pee in the next minute.
I almost had to carry Jill down the platform. She was trying to keep her legs twisted together while she walked, as well as holding her crutch with her right hand. Her left arm was over my shoulder, more or less holding herself up. Only about 7 people got off, so nobody was really interested in her activities. About halfway to the loos she let out a gasp of Oh No! and shuddered against me, and this was repeated several more time before we go to the loos. Twice we had to stop while Jill doubled over, legs in a knot, both hands pressing between her legs. As she did this she was groaning between clenched teeth, “ No, oh no! I can’t… I must hold it, I’m nearly there– I can’t give up now– I must wait.” To Jill’s horror, the ladies’ was closed.
“I can’t wait any longer, I have GOT piss now!” she cried, “I can’t possibly wait any longer. I’m going to have to use the men’s; there must be a cubicle in there. If not I’ll have to piss on the floor, I can’t wait.”
Jill was doubled over as she said this, les twisted in a knot and both hands pressing into her crutch. I don’t think I have ever seen anyone trying so hard to hold back his or her pee, and she must have been absolutely frantic. I could hardly believe she was still managing to wait.
Now she was dragging me along and into the men’s loo. There were two cubicles there, but neither had a door that shut. This did not deter Jill, and she was in the nearest and pulling her jeans down like a flash.
“Keep watch in case someone else comes in.” she said, so I stood at the door to hide her from anyone else coming in. I turned my back as her jeans came down, much as I wanted to watch, but at least I could hear clearly; it seemed to me she was pissing with terrific pressure the instant she was sitting on the loo. Gradually the pressure dropped, and she was pissing at what I considered to be a normal rate. This carried on for an age, and I asked her if she ever going to stop and let me piss.
“I’m nearly finished now,” she said. “My bladder was absolutely bursting, stretched right to its limit, so it’s going to take some time.”
At last she was finished, and said she would wait outside for me to piss. When I came out, she was sitting down, legs crossed and both hands in her lap.
“Will your parents be in when we get home?” she asked. “I am afraid that I’ve wet my jeans quite badly, and it really notices. I held on until I had to walk, I really tried to hold it, but I have never wanted to go so badly in my life, so I simply could not stop myself letting go as we went down the platform.”
I reassured her that there was no one at home, and that we would take the back–street route there so fewer people would see what she had done. Jill kept her hand and her bag in front of her crutch all the way home, and I walked behind her when there was anyone near. Doing this gave me a perfect view of both her jeans stretched tight over her pert little bum, the outline of her tiny knickers, and the wet patch between her legs, and I was becoming incredibly turned on. I had never been with a girl who had wet herself before, and inspired by the intimacy of almost carrying her along the platform to the loos, and having stood guard and listened while she pissed, I said; “Jill, you have got the most wonderful, cute little bum, especially in those jeans and knickers, and walking behind you is the second most wonderful sight in the universe.”
Jill giggled, maybe embarrassed at this, then replied, “I’m sorry the wet patch is spoiling it, I wouldn’t have done that it I could possibly avoided it, but I simply could not wait any longer. If it’s only the second best view, what is the best view?”
“You from the front, legs apart and hands away from your crutch, so I can see just how much you have wet yourself. I have never been with a girl who has pissed in her jeans before, and it’s a real turn–on.”
“Well it’s not if so good if you are actually doing it,” she retorted sourly, “it’s absolute hell, waiting so long it hurts, sitting in agony, fighting to hold it back, and then the shame of losing it however hard I tried to hold on.”
I said nothing more until we were indoors, when, to my surprise, Jill stood facing me with her legs apart, so I could see what she had done. There was a big wet patch from her crutch down her legs for about 6 inches.
“Enjoy the sight while you can” she said. “Cold wet jeans are pretty miserable, so I’m not wearing them longer than I have to now I’m indoors”
The sight was really incredible, something I had always dreamed of seeing, and my erection was becoming obvious in my tight jeans.
“How do you rate this view then?” asked Jill, as she peeled off her wet jeans and stood in just her tiny black knickers and a T–shirt.
“Fantastic!” was all I could say, my cock getting even stiffer, and it was all I could do to stop myself putting a hand between Jill’s legs to feel her wet knickers.
Jill was looking at my bulging jeans, clearly not impressed with my reaction. “I’m glad somebody has enjoyed this afternoon, because I feel pretty awful about it; perhaps you don’t realise what I’ve been through. The misery of having to wait so long and to want to pee so badly it hurt, plus the shame of walking through the streets in wet jeans, and to cap it all, I’ve got a stomachache from waiting so long. Perhaps you can show me the shower, so I can clean myself up.”
I could only apologise to her for my reaction, take her up to the bathroom and give her a towel and bath–robe, and offer to have some coffee ready when she had changed. A few minutes later she came back, wearing the robe, carrying her wet jeans and knickers.
“Have you got a washing machine and dryer?” she asked. “I want to wash the pee out and dry them so I can get home, then I’ll wash them properly.”
Over coffee, while we waited for her clothes to dry, she seemed to have got over the trauma of wetting herself, and was at least being civil to me again.
“I’m not very proud of what happened this afternoon,” she said, “so I do not want to talk about it, either now or any other time, nor do I want anyone else at University to know about it.”
I promised that I would never mention it again, ever, to anyone, but she did not seem convinced.
“If you should think of telling anyone,” she went on, “remember that your reaction and comments could be thought of as pretty weird and perverted, and a lot of girls might be put right off you if they knew about it, so if you tell, I won’t have anything to lose by telling on you.”
In a more conciliatory tone, Jill went on,” As you might have guessed, I have a bit of a bladder problem. I can’t hold it very well when I want to go really badly, like today. If I can’t get to a loo quickly I’m in real danger of wetting myself, as you might have noticed this afternoon. It’s not the sort of thing that I want advertised. I’m an adult now and not to be able to hold my pee is a terrible thing to have to admit to. If you knew how much I envy Sue Wilkerson at Uni., she seems to be able to just cross her legs and never pee. I’m sure she could wait for a week if she could sit down with her legs crossed. She must have an enormous bladder”
This was far from the ending I had hoped for, but whatever Jill said or did, nothing could take away my memories of the afternoon, and I would relive every detail of that train journey many times, always wishing that Jill had reacted differently and we could have relived the journey many times.
I kept my promise of silence, mainly out if respect for Jill, but also because in those pre–Internet days, being interested in girls desperate or wetting did seem perverted and was something I did not want anyone to know about.
Author’s note:
This applies to all my stories. In the past I have been taken to task by some readers who have objected to my using the word ‘Crutch’ for the area between a girl’s legs, they claiming that the correct term is ‘Crotch.’ I defer to the authority of the Oxford English Dictionary, which allows either word to be used, with no preference stated, though ‘Crutch’ was first used slightly earlier. I regard ‘Crotch’ as a politer term, used by underwear catalogues and women’s magazines, and in all my stories desperate women will hold their ‘Crutch,’ and hopefully readers will understand what they are doing. The entire above story is a complete fantasy and written as something that I only wish could happen to me. I’ll admit to having fantasies about slim girls in very tight jeans that show the outline of their knickers and their prominent ‘pubic bone’ and always want to see them absolutely desperate so that they can only wait by holding between their legs with all their might. As to them actually wetting themselves, well… that shows how badly they wanted to pee.
Correspondence on this or other desperation fantasies welcome at Paul_tester144@Yahoo.co.uk
By: Paul tester