Phone Wetting

Note: This story contains Female Desperation, and Accidental & Deliberate Wetting.
I’m sure phone sex has been around since shortly after Alexander Graham Bell invented the telephone. Certainly the proliferation of cell phones has increased phone sex activity exponentially, making this popular past time available to billions of people almost anywhere and anytime.
But what about phone wetting? The desperation of someone at the other end of the call, trying to hold it and bursting for a pee, can be almost as exciting as seeing your favorite woman pee her pants. In fact, phone wetting can be more exciting than phone sex. Whereas phone sex, of necessity, must be staged by the parties at both ends of the call– phone wetting can truly be accidental wetting. That’s how I first was introduced to phone wetting, and it was – and remains – thrilling.
It all started with Joy a few years ago. Joy and I had been lovers for years, but sadly lived about 200 miles apart. We visited each other at every opportunity, but of necessity, our cell phones became our lifeline and main means to staying in touch.
It was about 10:15 p.m. on a Wednesday night when I got her call. She was headed home after meeting with a group of woman at the local minister’s home. “Where have you been?” I asked. “I thought you’d call an hour ago when you left the meeting.”
“The meeting just ended. I thought I’d never get out of there. Hey, do you know whether Burger King is still open?” she asked.
I was surprised. She never ate fast food. “I don’t think so,” I answered. “Most those places close at 10 o’clock on week nights. But they may have a drive through lane.”
“Unless they have a drive through rest room, it won’t help,” she said. “I gotta go potty in the worst way.” For reasons I’ve never been able to fathom, Joy always used the term “go potty” when she had to pee. I told her once I thought it was childish, but she disagreed.
“You just left the meeting. Couldn’t you go there?” I asked.
“Yeah, I should have. But everyone was in a hurry to leave and I felt awkward and embarrassed to ask Reverend Tom to use his toilet and be the last there.” She was silent for a moment, and then asked, “Do you think McDonalds is open?” “Honey, I don’t think any of those places are open now. Can’t you make it home?” I asked.
“I don’t think so. I’m really bursting. I feel like I might lose control any second,” she said.
“How about a bar or night club– or maybe a gas station? “ I asked. “Are there any around there?” I wasn’t familiar with the road she was on and had no idea what was nearby.
Joy was silent for a moment.
“Too late,” she suddenly said.
“Huh? Too late for what?” I asked.
“Oh, Rick, I’m wetting my pants. I couldn’t hold it anymore. I felt like there was a surge and suddenly my crotch and ass were getting warm and I realized I was wetting myself.”
“How bad is it? I asked.
“I can’t tell. I hope not too bad. I’m going to have to stop before I get home to check it out. Geez, I hope nobody is up when I get home,” she added.
“Let’s hope everyone’s in bed,” I said.
“There’s a parking lot up ahead,” she said. “I’m going to stop there and check myself. It’s behind a church and no one can see me there in the dark.”
Joy continued to talk about other stuff, then said, “Oh shit, it’s worse than I thought. The ass of my jeans is soaked. And I still gotta go potty.”
“Well, just get out of the car, stand there and go. Your pants are already wet,” I said.
There was hesitation at the other end.
“You really want me to pee while standing here? I’ve never done anything like that,” she said.
“What difference does it make? There’s no one around and you’re already wet,” I added.
“OK, I’m letting it go. Ooooh, it feels really warm and nice going down the insides of my thighs. Now it’s running off the bottom of my pants and there’s a little stream headed down the pavement. Geez, I hope no one shows up.” She was quiet for a few seconds, then added,” You were right, Rick, it really feels good– all that warmth and wetness. I think I’m kind of turned on by it.”
“I know I sure am,” I said, unzipping my fly to allow my erect friend some space. I could hear her laugh.
“I’m really soaked,” she said. “I better get back in the car and get home.” We continued to talk on our cells until she arrived home. As she had hoped, the rest of the house was asleep and her wetness was never noticed. The next time she wouldn’t be so fortunate.
That next wetting happened a few months later. She was on her way to a large regional airport to pick up a friend, a trip of about 100 miles. I was at my apartment, expecting her call.
“What’s up,” I answered when I saw it was she.
“I am really pissed off,” she said angrily. “I just got a speeding ticket.”
“Oh, that’s bad,” I said, recalling that it was probably her third ticket in the past year or so. “You better keep that lead foot off the accelerator.”
“It gets worse,” she said. “I’m going to be late to pick up Susan and I gotta go potty in the worst way. There’s a rest area about 10 miles ahead, but I don’t know if I can hold it that long.”
“I suppose you’re driving pretty careful now,” I said. “How fast were you going?”
“The cop said 85,” she said. I knew the speed limit was 70 mph.
“Whoa! What was your hurry? Why so fast?”
“Because I had to go potty then,” she replied angrily. “And it’s only gotten worse. I thought I was going to wet myself while I sat there waiting for him to write out the ticket. I know I leaked into my pants.”
“How far to the rest area?” I asked.
“I just passed a sign that said 5 miles,” she answered.
“And I don’t dare speed up, because I think the cop may be behind me somewhere,” she said.
There was a moment of silence, then “Damn it!”
“What’s happening?” I asked.
“I’ve lost control. I’m letting little squirts into my pants,” Joy said. “What the hell am I going to do when I get to the rest area? I am really desperate and I don’t think I can get out of the car,” she added.
“I can’t offer you any help, Joy. Just keep those thighs pressed together,” I said. “And hope for the best.” Of course, by this time in our conversation, I was totally turned on and in need of some relief myself.
“Oh, Rick, I just had one of those surges. I’m really wetting myself now. I can feel the warm pee spreading across my ass, and down the insides of my thighs. I can see the shiny dark stain on my pants. I’m soaking myself,” she said in a desperate voice.
“How far?” I asked.
“I can see the rest area up ahead. But it’s too late. I think I’ve stopped peeing, but my pants are sopping wet,” she said.
I didn’t hear anything for about 30 seconds except car noises. Then Joy was back.
“I’m in the rest area, just pulling into a parking spot,” she said. “There are people around. This is going to be embarrassing.”
“Do you still have to pee?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah. I’m still almost full. I’m going to get out of the car, get some running pants out of the back and head for the rest room. I’m sure I’m going to get lots of stares,” she ruefully added. I heard the car door open and close. Then Joy was back on the air.
“Oh my God, I am really out of control,” she said. “I’m standing beside my car just relieving myself totally into my pants. I can’t control it at all. It’s running down my legs and into my shoes. It’s gross and exciting and warm and arousing and it pisses me off,” she said. “I hope you’re turned on by all this, because I’m a mess.”
I assured her I was. A very wet Joy then ended our call and cleaned herself up at the rest area. She told me later that she made it to the airport late and picked up her friend Susan. She told Susan everything, Joy told me, and Susan thought the whole thing hilarious. And then told her own wetting story.
As I was finishing typing this story, my cell phone rang. It was Joy. She said she was standing in line waiting to use the women’s rest room at a concert in her hometown.
“I’m about to burst. There are at least 30 women ahead of me and I’m already leaking into my panties,” she said.
Then she added, “But Rick, you’ll love this. A woman a couple places ahead of me is wetting her capri pants right now. I’m behind her, and I can see her ass is wet and it’s pouring down the back of her pants. You’d love it! And ahead of her, there’s a woman in a long skirt making a puddle on the pavement between her feet.”
This was getting better and better, I thought.
“I gotta go now,” she said.
“What do you mean?” I asked. “You’re not hanging up?”
“No, not at all. I mean I gotta go in my pants. In fact, I’m wetting them right now and the warm pee is spreading through my crotch and down my thighs. It feels wonderful. Let me tell you, the relief is…”
And so she did tell me –– in wild, wet detail. As I listened, I again realized how cell phone wetting was bringing a whole new dimension to phone sex.
By: R.D. Winston