The Motorway- or Why didn't She Ask to Stop? Part 1

The Motorway– or Why didn’t She Ask to Stop? Part 1
Could there be anything worse on a coach outing? Joan wondered.
She was dying to go to the loo and did not know when she was going to be able to? It was one of those nightmare situations that she dreaded and always pretended would never happen to her. As she looked out of the coach window at the passing London suburbs, Joan tried to recognise where they were and wondered anxiously how much longer it would be before they stopped for a loo break.
In fact, although she did not want think about it, the real question was; how much longer she could wait until she absolutely had to get to a loo? She seemed to have been sitting for ever with her legs crossed, really crossed, just about as tightly as it was possible for a lady to cross her legs; crossed so tightly that she was getting pins & needles in her leg. She had been sitting like this for so long that she was beginning to forget what it was like not to be desperate for a pee. She looked at her friend Amy, sitting next to her, and wondered if she wanted to go as badly. Probably not she thought enviously, Amy looked so relaxed, sitting back, but she was crossing her legs.
It had been Amy’s idea. A day out, shopping in London before Christmas, when all the big stores would be full of Special Christmas Offers, and the coach tour that Amy had booked them on had seemed such a bargain, and so much more convenient than travelling by train.
Joan squirmed and tried to twist her legs tighter together. Oh God! She was Bursting! If only she had checked on stops before booking…. If only she had not drunk that mug of tea at Amy’s waiting for their lift to the coach pick–up point… If only she had gone to the loo again at Amy’s…. If only there had been a loo at the pick–up point… If only they could stop somewhere soon, somewhere with a loo. She groaned at the thought of a loo, and hunched forward crossing her legs ever more tightly. She was desperate, absolutely desperate!
She wanted to pee and she was crossing her legs as tightly as possible, so tightly that it was hurting her. She clenched her fists with the effort she was making to cross her legs, trying to do anything that might make her need to pee less desperately urgent, and to convince herself that she was not in imminent danger of breaking down and wetting herself on the coach. If only she could cross her legs tightly enough, she thought, she must be able to hold in her pee, however desperate her need. She made herself face the reality of her situation: she must hold her pee. There was nowhere she could pee, so she simply had to wait until the coach stopped. Either stopped at a loo or when they reached Oxford Street in London, their destination.
She tried not to think how wonderful it would be to get to a loo, any loo, just some cubicle where she could sit on the loo and pee… and pee, and pee. She would not be choosy, anywhere with a loo, a cold, dirty, public loo, or even a lay–by with some bushes; it was getting that desperate!
The way her bladder was hurting she felt as if she would be able to pee for at least ten minutes. And it would feel so good, to empty her poor swollen, bursting bladder, letting all that pee just pour out; what a relief it would be! Poor Joan groaned, and twisted her legs even more tightly. She had made the mistake of thinking about a pee when there was really no chance of one, and now she was suffering for it.
Her poor overfull, overstretched bladder was begging, screaming, to be allowed to pee, and she was suddenly frantic, almost wetting herself. Even gritting her teeth, clenching her fists, and trying to twist her legs even more tightly was hardly enough to control that sudden surge of desperation. With a gasp of fear, as she so very nearly let out a spurt of pee, she reacted automatically and pressed her hands into her lap, only to find that her tight, knee length skirt prevented her pressing between her legs where her pee was so close to escaping. She shuddered and hunched herself forward as she pulled up her skirt just enough to give her the slack to get some pressure right between her legs. It had been a very close thing, but she thought, hoped, that she had got her hand between her legs in time to prevent any pee escaping. Afraid that Amy or anyone else on he coach might have seen her holding herself, she pulled her hands away as soon as she thought she was under control again. She didn’t think she had leaked, but she could not feel between her legs to make sure without drawing attention to the shameful fact that she was so desperate for a pee that she needed to hold herself.
There didn’t seem to be any hope of finding a loo along this road. The motorway had ended some way back and they had passed a Service Area just before it ended. That Service Area had been sign posted for miles, and Joan, even then dying for a pee, had confidently expected a stop there. It seemed it was the only place for miles to stop on that motorway, and Joan had been so sure they would stop there. Twenty miles before they reached it she was already bursting and had been telling herself hat she just had to hold on until the coach reached it.
If only she had been braver and made certain by asking the driver to stop when there was a chance of a loo. She had been dying, absolutely dying to go, as they got nearer to it and saw the signs, and she had been so sure they were going to stop, she had sat quietly in desperate hope. She hadn’t wanted to be the one woman on the coach who had to ask for a loo stop, even if she had been desperate, so desperate to pee. How stupid she had been! To sit in silence when she had been absolutely bursting for a pee, as if there was something to be ashamed of– being thought of as ‘the woman with the small bladder.’ Now she wanted to pee too badly to have any reservations about asking to stop. Oh God! If only they could stop somewhere soon, as soon as possible.
She was in real danger of becoming ‘the woman who wet her knickers,’ and that was far, far worse that simply having a small bladder. If they were coming to another Service Area, she wouldn’t hesitate to ask for, no, demand, or even beg for, a stop. Her condition was becoming critical and she twisted her legs together, just about as tightly as was humanly possible, and leaned her head against the seat in front of her, clasping her hands across her stomach, her abdomen, where her bladder was hurting badly. It felt like a sack of cement, so heavy and so full of pee.
Please, please, she willed the driver, find a loo quickly and stop there. It was becoming a serious emergency. She really did have to pee very soon, or…what? She was going to want to go even more badly; absolutely desperately in fact. She did not allow herself to contemplate what might happen if they did not stop soon; that was unthinkable. She was an adult, a grown woman, she would have to wait, wait until they reached a loo, no other option. Then, suddenly, she thought; ‘I bet I’m not the only one who wants to pee!’
Joan sat up and looked about her. So many of the other passengers were younger than her, young married girls, all so smartly dressed, and all looking so comfortable. How she envied them! What she would give to be a slim young girl just starting married life, and not a slightly overweight ‘over forty’ absolutely bursting for a pee. She wished she could do something to make herself want to go less urgently, but she was crossing her legs, virtually tying them in a knot, and ‘down there’ she had never been squeezed so tightly shut. She groaned; her tummy hurt so badly; no, it was her bladder, swollen with pee, that was hurting so much, and every time the coach hit a bump in the road she felt it.
Amy looked at her and asked if she was all right; ‘Fine’ she mouthed back, wondering why she did not admit to her troubles. It would have been so easy to have quietly said “Not really! I’m bursting, absolutely dying for a loo!” What was there to be ashamed of?
Amy had to pee like everybody else on the coach. In fact, she noted, Amy had been squirming about crossing her long legs and having to sit sideways to give herself room to do this. There could be only one reason why she was doing that. She must need to have her legs crossed, and maybe that was because she wanted to pee. Most likely, Joan consoled herself, some of those smart young wives were also bursting, dying for a loo stop, and if they were to stop now, there would probably be a scramble for the ladies’ and then a queue inside. And if she did not push herself to the front she would be left standing in a line, absolutely breaking her neck, nearly wetting herself. Correspondence on this or other desperation fantasies welcome at Paul_Tester144@Yahoo.co.uk
By: Paul tester