Bladder Strain on the Train

Some weeks ago work took me to a meeting in London from which I had to go on to a day conference in Brighton. As per company policy travel was by rail, normally a reasonably pleasant affair as the main line trains although crowded are quite comfortable. I had expected to return from Brighton via London, the reverse of my outward journey but found that the cheapskates in the office had booked me on the slow, all stations coastal route back to Fareham. I had never used this service so had no idea what awaited me. If I had I may have arranged things differently.The conference did not finish till late in the afternoon and I had to dash for the station to get my booked train, not even having time to use the loo before I left the hotel. Not that I was worried, after all, I had never travelled on a train that did not have toilets and had no idea that I would find myself stuck on one without such a basic facility.I reached the station with only minutes to spare, dashing though the barrier and into the first relatively quiet carriage, settling in for a journey of almost an hour and a half. The train was old and uncomfortable, with low backed, narrow seats and seemed decidedly scruffy. Fortunately my carriage largely emptied by Worthing so I was at least able to stretch out a bit and get comfortable, apart that is from a growing need for a wee. I looked around for the usual signs showing the direction of the toilets but could not see them anywhere. Assuming that the signs were simply missing I was about to try the next carriage when the train manager appeared checking tickets. I asked her where the toilets were – and learned to my horror that there were none on these trains. She did not like it herself and sympathised but basically I could get off at the next station with toilets or hang on to my stop, nearly an hour away. To get off would mean waiting ages for the next train so, perhaps foolishly, I chose to hang on. As it turned out perhaps not my best ever decision.Of course knowing that you can’t get to a loo only helps make the need greater and with half an hour to go I was desperate, legs tightly crossed and fidgeting about in my seat – not a good look for a normally confident 20 something professional dressed in smart business, skirt and jacket. As the train rattled on I began to think the unthinkable. What if I couldn’t hold on? To wet myself in private would be mortifying enough but to do it in my seat on a train . . .!Somehow I had to hang on and hope I could reach the station loo in time when the train finally reached Fareham. Those 30 minutes were agonising as each jolt of the train threatened my weakening control. I don’t think I had ever been more desperate in my life, even near the end of long boring meetings when I was not the only one who had to dash straight for the ladies as soon as the meeting ended. On those occasions of course the toilet was nearby and if necessary I could have excused myself had I been really bursting.So I sat there, trying not to panic or focus on my aching bladder, praying that I wouldn’t wet myself but increasingly worried that I was going to have a very embarrassing accident. I had only wet my knickers once as an adult and that had been down to too much alcohol when celebrating the end of exams. I hadn’t been the only one and had largely forgotten the incident till now as my present plight brought back memories of a hot wetness down my legs and an uncomfortable walk home in soaking knickers and skirt. I flushed at the memory and at the embarrassment of my current predicament.The train slowed again and in the darkness I made out the station name – Porchester. Almost there, just a few more minutes and I could find the relief I needed, so just hang on girl! Those last few minutes seemed like hours but finally we pulled into the platform at my station. Grabbing my overnight bag and raincoat I hobbled to the door almost losing my weakening control as I did so. Stepping gingerly down from the train I looked around for the Ladies, spotting the sign only 10 metres away – salvation. Or so I thought.I pushed the door but it didn’t move. I pushed harder and the then I saw the notice ‘ “Closed Please Use Alternative Toilets on Platform 1”. In my shock the inevitable happened – my knickers suddenly warmed and a wetness trickled down my thigh. How I prevented immediate catastrophe I don’t know but it took all my willpower to regain control and I knew there was no way I would ever make it over the footbridge to the other platform or even out of the station without wetting myself totally. I just couldn’t hold it any longer and there was nothing I could do now except surrender to the inevitable. I was going to wet myself and there was nothing I could do about it.I glanced around for some sort of cover and as quickly as I could manage hobbled the couple of metres to one of the metal seats that were sheltered by windbreak screens. Pulling out my phone I quickly sat down and stared intently at the screen, keeping my head down. Taking a deep breath I just let it happen. A hot flood filled my knickers, welled up between my legs and pooled underneath my bum before dripping through the holes in the seat to form a growing puddle beneath me. After what seemed an age my bladder finally emptied. The relief was incredible, almost orgasmic and I sat for some minutes composing myself while quietly dripping! Strangely, having mentally accepted that I had no choice but to wet my knickers I didn’t feel the horror and embarassment that I had expected. What with the overwhelming relief and the strangely pleasant feelings in my crotch as I flooded my pants it was actually quite an erotic experience!But now I had to get home, some ten minutes walk away. My knickers, tights and skirt were soaked and even though my skirt was black it would cling – it would be obvious to anyone taking more than a cursory glance that I had well and truly peed myself. I could walk home as I was or I could put my raincoat on and which, being knee length, would at least conceal what I had done, albeit it too would get wet from my soaking skirt. At least it was washable and wearing it would avoid some of the embarrassment of walking home in my ‘condition’.So, slipping on my coat I took a deep breath and headed for the exit, which fortunately was unmanned. The streets were quiet as I tried to walk as quickly and as normally as possible – not easy in my soggy underwear and with my wet skirt sticking to the back of my legs. Fortunately I didn’t meet anyone I knew and was soon able to breathe a sigh of relief as I closed my front door behind me. I’m not sure I would call it good luck after what had happened but at least I had avoided total humiliation and hopefully only I knew what I had done.As I took off my coat I caught site of myself in the full length mirror and was surprised to see that my black skirt and tights largely hid my accident though as I felt round behind me realised that the whole back of my skirt from the hem almost to the waistband was wet. Amazed at just how wet I was I became intrigued as to the state of my knickers. Unzipping my skirt I let it drop damply to the floor and pushed it away. My tights were pretty much drenched on the seat, front and between my thighs but being thick and black hid they their wetness well. But what about my knickers? I peeled off my tights, dropping them on top of my skirt and inspected myself front and back. I was wearing lilac coloured light control briefs (or were they now loss of control briefs?) now dark with wetness. Hardly a dry patch remained – the whole back was wet top to bottom and the front was similar, the result of wetting myself sitting with my legs together. I realised that had I done it standing I wouldn’t be so wet but it would have been much more obvious what was happening.I would have expected that wet knickers would be uncomfortable but they felt rather nice, especially between my legs! Indeed, the warm, wet gusset caressing my pussy as I walked had made me more than a little aroused. Continuing to watch myself in the mirror I ran my hand over my wet bottom, quite enjoying the feeling. My fingers moved between my legs and as I massaged my clit through the soaking material another wetness flowed from me. Sinking to the floor I continued to pleasure myself in front of the mirror till I came so intensely that I wet myself again, another orgasm rippling over me as the puddle spread around my bottom. It was almost like a scene from a porn movie!It was some time before my orgasmic high subsided to be followed by very confused feelings – disgust with myself for putting myself in a situation where I had had to wet my pants like a silly teenager but also intense curiosity at the feelings it had given me. Rationalisng things I realised that I actually enjoyed both my accident and what had happened after. Weird, or something to explore further?Still wearing my wet knickers I put my other clothes in the washing machine and mopped the hall floor. I was about to take shower but for some reason decided to grab a drink and something to eat first, putting a thick towel on my chair before sitting down. Only after eating did I head for the bathroom. Surprisingly I needed to wee again but instead of using the loo I stepped into the shower and just did it in my still wet knickers, savouring again the warm flood around my clit and down my legs as I weed myself for the third time in as many hours.I had discovered something exciting. Now I had to experiment further.By: Poseidon