The Motorway- or Why didn't She Ask to Stop? Part 2

The Motorway– or Why didn’t She Ask to Stop? Part 2
Sitting on the coach, desperate to pee, Joan was trying everything she knew to help herself wait, to contain the pee in the bursting bladder, to hold back the pressure that was reaching danger level.
Without meaning to, her hand had slipped down from her aching bladder area and into her lap. These thoughts of a loo had made her want to pee more urgently, so, she was horrified to find, she was pressing both hands between her twisted legs. Realising what she was doing made her pull her hands away quickly, before anyone could see what she was doing. She wanted to pee so badly! But, she reminded herself, women of her age did not hold themselves in public, in fact, they did not hold themselves at all. They could make themselves wait for the loo without behaving like a little girl.
She could not stop another groan of desperation; she was absolutely desperate for a pee, and holding herself would have felt so good. If only she could do something to make this desperate, urgent, need to pee go away. If only there was something she could do, except of course, pee. What would she give for a chance to pee right now? Even in one of those new ‘super–loos.’
She wanted to go so badly she would happily pay, if only they could stop. 10p? That would be a bargain if she could pee NOW! It was becoming an emergency. 50p or even ’1 would not be too much. In fact, she didn’t want to think about it, but she would pay almost anything to get into a loo and PEE, before she wanted to go any more urgently, before she was in danger of wetting her knickers. She was bursting, desperately bursting for a pee and her bladder was nearing critical level, throbbing like an overblown balloon. She could not keep putting it off for much longer. She was going to have to pee soon. The awful thought was that she might not be able to get to a loo soon enough: then what could she do? No loo meant no peeing! That was all there was to it. Either the coach stopped at a loo, or she would have to wait until they reached Oxford Street, their destination.
Until then, somehow, she had to make herself wait. How? That did not matter, if there was no loo, it was no pee, and that meant wait. She must, she had to wait, what else could she do? Wet her pants? That was out of the question! Hold it! No choice but to make herself hold it. If it got too bad to bear with just crossing her legs she would have to resort to holding herself. If she put her handbag on her lap that might hide what she was doing, and if she could hold herself would she be able to wait? If you held yourself tightly enough, you could always wait, surely?
Why did it have to be her that was dying to pee? Didn’t anyone else on the coach want to go? Wasn’t there any chance that somebody else might get the coach to stop at a loo? Was there a loo they could stop at? If only they would! Just for 2 or 3 minutes, that was all she asked for. 2 minutes in a loo and all her troubles would flow away, like the stream of pee she so, so, wanted to let pour out of her aching bladder.
They drove past a garage with a tempting ‘Toilets’ sign outside. If only the coach had needed some petrol and had stopped there, she would have had no hesitation in getting off and asking to use the toilets. In despair she looked around the coach for support, for some sign that she was not the only person desperate to stop for a pee.
Amy, her closest friend, sitting next to her, had her legs crossed, but she did not look the slightest bit stressed, and Joan thought ruefully, she had never known Amy want a pee when they had been out together. Behind was a group of youngsters, all enjoying themselves; she thought they had brought some cans of cider or beer on the coach and had been drinking them. A tall blonde girl, she only knew as Val, was laughing and cuddling up to a rather attractive young man. They had both been drinking, and, Joan cringed at the thought; if she had been drinking like they had she would not just be crossing her legs, she would be absolutely flat out desperate, about to pee herself, or even worse, sitting in wet knickers. Or she would have made the driver stop so she could pee.
She could not understand why they hadn’t demanded a stop at the last services; they must want to go. How on earth was Val managing? She was still drinking and the only sign of her needing a loo was that she had her legs crossed, but casually, not desperately twisted like Joan’s. Her jeans were amazing, she had never seen such a tight fitting pair, and they must have been sprayed on her!
Joan was reluctantly reminded that she no longer had the figure to wear such jeans. She ought to go on a diet, but it was easier to wear skirts and ‘control’ underwear to squeeze her figure into shape. She was wearing a new skirt on this outing and to look her best she had needed her tightest ‘control’ knickers to squeeze her into shape. She looked presentable but she had not bargained for wanting a loo so badly. The control part of her knickers was designed to give her a flat stomach, and the pressure needed do that was, unfortunately, bearing full on her bladder area.
Normally she welcomed the pressure there as it gave her a ‘young’ shape, the flat tummy and tight bum fashionable clothes demanded. Now she longed to be wearing her older, casual, clothes she messed about the house in. An old skirt or her loose fitting trousers and cotton panties were not ‘smart’ but they did not press on her bursting bladder, and, at that moment, she was more interested in comfort that fashion. Anything that could ease the aching pressure in her bladder area would be so wonderful. A pee, a long, glorious, gushing pee would be the best thing, but if that was out of the question, then less pressure on her poor, aching, bursting, bladder would be so wonderful.
Joan stifled a groan of desperation and tried to twist her legs even tighter together. Thinking about a pee was making her worse. Her need to pee getting more urgent, and the pressure in her aching bladder was rising, rising, every minute, so it was taking more effort to hold back. ‘Oh God! What can I do?’ she thought to herself. She wanted to pee so desperately. The pressure in her bladder was getting worse, so bad she was beginning to struggle to hold her pee. She was almost gritting her teeth with the effort it was taking to control her bursting bladder and, as she squirmed on the seat and pressed her thighs tighter together, one thought was uppermost in her mind: ‘I can’t wait much longer! Oh please! I must pee soon. What can I do? I want to pee!’
In response to this desperation her hand was resting in her lap and her fingers reaching between her legs. She was trying so hard to hang on, and she was so desperate she needed something, anything to help her wait. She had to wait, she simply had no choice, and there was nowhere she could pee. If it got any worse she would have to hold herself; it was awful to be thinking that, but anything, even openly holding between her legs, was better than wetting herself in public.
Correspondence on this or other desperation fantasies welcome at Paul_Tester144@Yahoo.co.uk
By: Paul tester