The Motorway Part 4

Could Joan’s situation get any worse? She had somehow got down the steps into the subway, blindly following Amy, convinced that this was the way to the Ladies she so urgently needed, and now nothing; just a long passageway leading to some more steps, the walls blank, with only a few advertisements and not the door to the ladies that she had to find. To confirm her misery that this was not where the Ladies was, Amy, her friend who knew the way to the Ladies, was starting to climb the steps, leading up to’ where? The Ladies? It had to be there, somewhere close, Oh please not much further to walk! Joan needed to pee more desperately urgently than she had ever done in her life, and did not think she was capable of waiting much longer. Trying to walk down the steps had been bad enough; she had not been able to control her bursting bladder, and to her great shame, she had let go a spurt of pee. Even her last frantic attempt to get control of herself: pulling up her tight skirt and pressing her fingers between her legs, had done no more that stop the ‘leak.’ She was terribly conscious of the warm wet feeling between her legs, where the soaked gusset of her knickers was a constant reminder of her shameful loss of control. To compound her misery, the subway was not empty, but far more crowded that she had expected. The whole area was crowded with Shoppers, some like Joan and Amy perhaps looking for a Ladies, others heading for the shops. The place was far too crowded for Joan to be able to hide that she was pressing her hand between her legs, desperate to hold back her pee and almost out of control. Ashamed that she might have been seen holding herself, Joan hurriedly pulled down her skirt, snatching her hand from between her legs, and tried to act and walk normally. She gave a gasp of despair as she tried in vain to control her pee; she was clenching almost every muscle in her body as she tried to clamp shut her bladder outlet. She didn’t think it was possible to try harder to hold in her pee, but without the pressure of her fingers between her legs, she could not wait. She shuddered with the sheer effort she was making to hold her pee: legs pressed together, her hands gripping the front of her skirt with white knuckled intensity, but as she was not pressing between her legs, it seemed that there was nothing she could do could control her pee any longer. Another spurt leaked into her knickers and she felt the wetness spread down her legs. She gave a gasp of shame, as she realised that she was actually wetting herself, and then, with one great clenching effort somehow she managed to wait. She was only keeping control of her bladder by standing, leaning, against the subway wall, with her legs crossed so tightly she was almost trying them in a knot. She was an adult, in a public place, and she somehow, HAD to control herself. Respectable women of her age, simply did not wet themselves in public, did not wet themselves anywhere. She wasn’t far from the Ladies, and she HAD to make herself wait until she found it. She tried with all her strength to make one enormous effort to hold onto her pee, and with, it felt, every muscle from her ears to her toes clenched tight, and walking almost on tip–toe with her legs pressed together, she made it to the next flight of steps, where Amy was helpfully waiting for her. Walking up steps was even more difficult for Joan than it had been walking down the previous flight. It was impossible to keep her legs pressed tightly together as she walked, even when she tried walking sideways. Every step, which she hoped was a step nearer the Ladies she so desperately needed, was additional strain on her overworked, overstretched bladder, and more that she was capable of controlling. She needed to hold onto the handrail to keep her balance, and this meant that she could not, however much she wanted to, press between her legs. After the first two or three steps she was losing control, and nothing she did could stop spurts of pee leaking into her soaking knickers. This time the pressure in her bladder too much to bear, and at every step another spurt of pee leaked out, the warm wetness was spreading between and down her legs. Almost in tears with the shame of what was happening under her skirt, Joan somehow managed to reach the top of the steps, and ignoring Amy’s outstretched, helping hand, staggered to a nearby seat and twisting her legs into a knot, sat, hunched forward, fighting to get her bladder under control again. It was not until later that she was to discover that this was, perhaps, the worst thing to have done. She might have stopped herself leaking as she hobbled along, but nobody else was aware of this. (She might have looked to be a lady in desperate need of a pee, but nobody could see that she was leaking pee with every step. Now as she sat, fighting to control her bladder, the soaking fabric of her thick, elasticated, control knickers was pressed against her tight, pale grey, skirt. The result was a large, dark grey, wet stain on the back of her skirt, announcing so plainly to everybody who saw it that ‘this lady has pissed in her knickers.’ This was going to embarrass Joan all day, or even the res of her life, as everyone on the outing would know about her complete loss of bladder control. Poor Joan was desperate beyond any logical thoughts, but later, talking to Amy, she would realise that if only she had kept standing up, walking to the Ladies, nobody would have known about her leaks. The pee would have run down her legs and perhaps not shown on he skirt. Once in the Ladies she could have taken off her wet knickers and dried her legs, and she would have only been a very desperate woman hurrying to the loo. Nobody would have known that he had been leaking pee at every step. Thinking that Joan needed some encouragement to get to the Ladies that she very obviously needed, Amy took her arm and tried to pull her to her feet. “It’s not far now, just over there,” she said, vaguely indicating the pathway across the small park they had reached. Poor Joan did not know what to do. She desperately needed to get to the Ladies, yet, she wanted to pee so very, very urgently, that she was afraid that if she tried to walk any further she would only wet herself more. Before she could explain her awful situation to Amy, she was being pulled along the path towards the Ladies. Once she was standing, her legs no longer twisted in a knot, she had not taken three steps before she felt another spurt of pee into her knickers. She was far too ashamed to tell Amy what was happening, so with another sob of despair, she tried to press her hand between her legs to stop the leak. As she should have realised, her skirt was too tight to allow this, but frantic to do anything to help hold her pee, she pressed as hard as she could, trying to get her hand right between her legs, to force her body to contain her pee until she could find the Ladies. What she didn’t realise, or find out until later, was that this might have felt like she was holding back her pee, but it was also pressing her skirt against her soaked knickers, making another damp stain on the front of her skirt, that told the world ‘I’ve pissed in my knickers.’ Her bladder bursting beyond human endurance, Joan allowed herself to be dragged across the park, still letting go spurts of pee, further soaking her knickers and skirt. If Amy had not been pulling her along so quickly, she might have managed to hold back her pee by walking sideways, with her legs almost crossed, hand pressing between them, but Amy was in a hurry to get to the Ladies, and assumed that Joan was also, so mercilessly dragged her along, up and down more flights of steps, ignoring Joan’s sobbing and pleas of “Slow down, please, I can’t wait. Oh please help me I want to go so badly.” Amy thought she was helping Joan, and finally she dragged her into the Ladies, only to be confronted with 4 occupied cubicles, every one with 2 or 3 women waiting to use them. Still there was no relief for Joan, but at least in the semi–privacy of the Ladies, she could pull up her skirt and hold herself ‘properly.’ For this she had both hands pressing, as hard as she could press, between her legs, concerned only with stopping herself wetting. The horror of feeling how wet her knickers were gave her more strength, and she was pressing so hard that there was no possibility of any more pee leaking out. Feeling how wet her knickers were only added to her misery as she had to face the awful thought that she had wet herself, and even now she had reached the Ladies, she still had to wait before she could pee, something that did not seem possible. Sobbing with the shame of having wet herself, something that all of these women wait must be able to see, she was begging to be allowed to the front of the line. Amy, by luck, had picked a line that was moving faster, and had reached to front, next to pee. With calculated generosity, she pulled Joan over and offered to change places, pushing her into the cubicle before anyone could complain. Joan did not have any second thoughts about this, because nothing mattered to her as much as peeing, and struggling to pull down her wet knickers, she, at last, could sit on a loo and empty her poor, bursting, overstrained bladder. To compound her misery her tight knickers, now very wet, clung to her and were almost impossible to pull down. Worse, they were also clinging to her skirt, stretched tight across her bum, and stopping Joan pulling her skirt up round her waist. Joan now was in a complete panic; she wanted to pee more desperately than she had ever done in her life, so it felt, and the only thing she could think about was getting he knickers down, round her knees, so she could sit on the loo and pee. Such an easy thing to do. She had done it thousands of times in her life, but now, when she needed to do it more quickly than ever, she could not. Her skirt and knickers seemed to be stuck together; in a panic, she tore undone the waist band of her skirt, ripped down the zip and, not caring what damage she might do, dragged both skirt and knickers down to her knees. At this moment, her over–strained bladder took control, and before she could sit on the loo, she begun to pee a torrent, the flood of relief she had so longed for, and had been containing for so long. The pleasure of relief was more than spoiled when she saw how wet her knickers were; the lower parts were soaked, and the awful wet patches on her skirt, that could not be hidden, and made it so obvious that she had wet herself. She would have liked to have remained, hiding in the Ladies until everyone else from her coach had left, but insistent banging on the door of her cubicle, and a cry of “Hurry up! Hurry up! Don’t take all day in there, I need to pee as well,” from Amy, forced her to pull up her saturated knickers, (she could not think of any way of drying the thick elasticated fabric,) and pull down her pee stained skirt. With wet patches on the front and back there was no way she could hide that she had wet herself. The second she opened the door of the cubicle, Amy was pushing to get in. The time Joan had taken had been almost too much for Amy, who’s need had been made worse by the anticipation of the pee and relief to come. Her generosity in letting Joan push in front of her had nearly been too much for her bladder, and she had her right hand pressed between her legs as she pushed Joan aside in her rush to get to the loo. Away from the privacy of her cubicle, Joan looked for Amy for some consolation, or help, to hide the damning evidence that she had wet herself. But Amy was enjoying the full 5 minutes of relief she had promised herself, and the thought of how she must be torturing the women next in her line, who had to listen to the endless torrent of her relief while fighting to control their own bursting bladders. Red–faced with the shame of her loss of control, Joan went to the far corner of the Ladies and began to wash her hands, trying to ignore the wet patch on the front of her skirt. (She was not aware of how large and prominent the wet patch on the back was,) Her bladder still ached, evidence of the strain it ha been under, and now she was not fighting to hold back her pee, Joan was more aware of how wet her knickers felt. Cold, clinging, fabric, becoming more uncomfortable by the minute. Worse, as she looked in the mirror, she could see the creased, wet patch on the front of her skirt, where she had forced it between her legs in a desperate attempt to hold back her pee. Was there anything she could do to hide this shameful evidence that she had wet herself? Amy, who had at last finished her pee, and feeling wonderfully relieved and empty after stretching her bladder so, came over to find Joan on the verge of tears with the shame of having wet herself. Amy, approaching from behind, had seen the huge wet patch on the back of Joan’s skirt, and was feeling guilty that she had had some part in causing that. “Amy, I’ve wet my knickers. What can I do? Does anything show on my skirt? Will anyone notice?” Joan was pleading for her friend to help her. Amy, who had often thought of such things happening and what she, or anyone else might do in the circumstances, took control. She might have been responsible for Joan’s distress as she had plied her with tea which had filled her bladder to the limit. Amy had only wanted her to be desperate, so she could show off how much in control she was; she had never expected Joan to be pushed to the very limit of he control and actually wet her knickers. Amy had never thought that such a thing could happen; with her enormous bladder, she had never reached such a state of desperation, and had not thought that Joan would either. Adults did not wet their knickers, they managed to hold on. Pushing these thoughts aside, Amy took control: “Take your wet knickers off quickly. Do it in here and nobody will know,” she ordered, trying to ignore the wet patches on Joan’s skirt. Joan struggled to do this, her tight, wet knickers seeming to be determined to stay put, but finally, by pulling her skirt up round her waist, she managed to pull her knickers down to her ankles, and holding on to Amy to keep her balance, kicked her feet clear of the soaked garment. Suddenly aware that she was standing half naked, she pulled her skirt down and threw her knickers into the rubbish bin. “My skirt, Amy? Does anything show on my skirt?” Joan asked, dreading the answer, as she had seen the wet patches. “I’m afraid it does,” replied Amy. “It rather looks as if you have wet your knickers.” She could not resist trying to make a joke of it, feeling so superior; she would not, could not, ever wet her knickers in public. After all she had drunk as much tea as Joan, and she had held on with nothing worse that a painfully full bladder. “Don’t laugh at me.” Joan was nearly in tears with the shame of what she had done. “Never mind. Lets get to the shops and you can buy a new skirt and knickers, change in the loo there, and then nobody will know what has happened. I won’t tell,” Amy finished smugly, “and I don’t think anybody here has noticed. They were all bursting, and only thinking of getting into a loo. Did you see that girl in those tight jeans? She was holding herself as she walked from the coach, and then she had to pee on the floor in that corner. People were looking at her, not taking any notice of you. Once you have got a new skirt and knickers, nobody will have any idea that you wet yourself..” Amy did her best to console the distraught Joan, and then lead her out of the Ladies, to the shops they had come to see, and first to the Ladies Underwear department of the first shop and then to the skirt racks. A quick visit to the Ladies saw Joan wearing dry knickers and a new skirt, sensibly black, just in case she was desperate on the journey home.By: Paul Tester