The Wet Journey

It all happened last summer as my former boyfriend and I were making a late night car journey, taking us home from the wedding of an old college friend. Dave had drawn the short straw over who should drink with the result that he had been restricted to soft drinks, something he had been most unhappy about. Not having that problem I had drunk freely all through the reception.
The result was that I fell fast asleep, more than slightly drunk almost as soon as we set off for home some 140 miles away– a slow journey at the best of times with many quite minor roads and few places to stop. Unbeknown to me Dave stopped to fill up with petrol and use the toilet after about an hour but didn’t bother to wake me up to see if I needed to go. Very caring!
Of course I woke up sometime later badly needing to wee and immediately asked when we were stopping for petrol. I knew that there were only two service stations on the whole route and we would have to stop at the first as we hadn’t filled the tank on the way up. I was horrified when he told me what he had done – there wasn’t going to be another all night services for over 60 miles, at least an hour away on the route we had taken.
My aching bladder was sending me urgent messages by this time and I told Dave that we would have to stop before then as I wasn’t sure I could make it that far. He simply laughed at me, saying there was nowhere he knew of, and anyway it was my own fault, I shouldn’t have drunk so much.
I had no option but to hang on and try to wait, hoping that we would find a pull in with a toilet of some sort. Not that I could remember seeing one on the way up. Dave suggested that I try to go back to sleep so that I wouldn’t notice my need. I did try but couldn’t – the ache in my bladder was just too great ? it is what woke me up in the first place. And it was getting worse.
By this time I was starting to panic and told Dave he would have to stop soon or his car was going to have a wet seat. He just laughed. I responded angrily that it was OK for him, he was able to use the loo, if he had woke me up when he stopped I would fine – not sitting there trying not to wet my knickers. I tried pleading, telling him that I really was bursting. That I was wearing an expensive skirt and didn’t want to ruin it, nor my new satin knickers and glossy tights which had cost me a fortune. If you don’t stop somewhere soon I begged I really am going to wet myself.
But there was still nowhere to stop – this was a back road, short cut but with no pull–ins anywhere, let alone a loo. I just had to struggle on – legs crossed tight, holding myself when the pressure became to great. I just kept thinking that there must be somewhere stop – even on a dark and drizzly night like this. But nothing and all I could think about was my aching bladder, every bump in the road threatening to make me lose control. Looking back I really don’t know how I managed to hold on as long as I did. After what seemed like an age we joined a dual carriageway again, with a service station only 15 minutes away. Not that I thought by that stage that I was going to make it.
Suddenly I felt a warm wetness in my knickers – a little spurt leaked out, then another. I frantically clamped my thighs together and regained control, but for how long. “Oooh, Dave!” I gasped, “My knickers are wet, I’m leaking in my pants – I am going to wee all over the seat in a minute.” He just told me to grow up and act my age (22) and that we were not far from the service station if I really had to stop. Bastard!
Somehow I kept control, well some sort of control anyway, a spurt of hot wee escaping every time I relaxed my thighs, wetting my already damp satin knickers still further. Oh god, I thought, I can’t stop leaking, I’m sure my skirt is getting wet and it will show as I dash to the loo. I hadn’t been this desperate for ages. At least not since I last wet myself! I had been drinking then as well but with a group of friends. We had missed the last bus and had to walk home. The result was inevitable. All three of us found ourselves caught short and wet our knickers while hiding in a bus shelter. We still laugh about it now, especially as we were all over twenty at the time and should have known better.
At last I could see the lights of the service station. Just hold on a bit longer I told myself, relief is at hand. Dave pulled into a parking space near the entrance – salvation was only 30 metres away. But I daren’t move! Another wet spurt shot into my knickers. Oh god I daren’t move. I knew that if I got up I was going to lose control and wet myself completely. Dave got out and came round to open door telling me to take a deep breath and get out slowly.
I got my legs out of the door – another hot jet. I squeezed my legs tight and stood up, feeling a trickle down my thigh and the warmth of my wet knickers clinging to my bottom. Standing still for a moment I tried to get some control. “Oh hell,” I blurted out, “I don’t think I can make it.”
“Yes you can.” grumbled Dave, “Just hurry up, I want to get home.” Two steps, then suddenly the ache in my bladder disappeared. I’m going to make it I thought. Another two steps and a hot flood filled my knickers and tights, pouring down my legs into my shoes, a spreading puddle round my feet. I just couldn’t stop it and didn’t even try. I just stood there and wet myself. Oh god the relief. I was soaked but at least the ache in my bladder had gone.
I seemed to wee for ages, just standing there looking at Dave who was staring in horror and amazement at my accident. The flow died away and without really thinking I forced the last spurts into my soaking undies, but what could I do now? I was too embarrassed to go into the service station toilets – not that there was much point anyway. I just got back into the car, regardless of the seats and told Dave to take me home, sitting there in my wet clothes for another 30 minutes. Neither Dave nor I said anything for the rest of the journey.
When I got out of the car I could see that my seat was soaked but I didn’t care – it was his fault for not stopping and he could clean it up. By this time I needed to wee again and desperately wanted to get indoors. Typically Dave insisted on putting the car in the garage, leaving me standing on the doorstep without a key. To hell with it I thought and just stood there and again emptied myself in my knickers, a second hot flood running down my legs and dripping of the doorstep.
The result was relief for me, although Dave just called me a dirty little bitch who should learn to control herself. Quite frankly I didn’t care. If he had considered my needs I would never have wet my pants anyway. It wasn’t quite the first time and I doubted if it would be the last time I, or any other women, wet herself when bursting. It certainly wasn’t for me. We split up soon after and my present partner rather likes it if I hang on too long and end up with damp and sometimes soaking knickers.
By: Poseidon