A Wet Drive Home

Note: This story contains Female Desperation, Accidental & Deliberate Wetting, and Humiliation.
There were four of us in the car. I was driving and the only guy. Sitting beside me in the passenger seat was Rosemary, a longtime co–worker and years ago, my girlfriend and lover. In the back seat was Mandy, a cute although a bit overweight blonde prone to sexy outfits and too–tight stretch jeans. Next to her was Geetu, a stunningly beautiful dark complexion India–born woman with raven black hair and flashing dark eyes. She dressed more modestly than Mandy, but her tight jeans clung attractively to her lithe body. All of us worked for Acme Industrial Insurance and were returning home on a Friday afternoon following a 3–day workshop and conference at a nearby city.
Rosemary and I had both been with Acme for 11 years and had been instructors at the conference. We had dated for several years but had gone our separate ways five or six years ago, although we remained friends. She worked on the fourth floor of Building 2, while I was on the second floor in Building 1, so we seldom saw each other during work days, although we still sometimes met for lunch. Mandy and Geetu were relatively new employees, both in their early 20s and with the company less than a year. Rosemary was their supervisor, although I knew Geetu slightly because she did some work with my unit.
The four of us had driven to the conference center Tuesday in the car, a new but nondescript four–door sedan checked out from the company’s pool of vehicles. Now we were headed home, midway through a three–hour drive under good conditions. I had noticed a little earlier that Mandy seemed uncomfortable and appeared to have her legs tightly crossed. At that point it hadn’t occurred to me she needed to pee, although I guess I should have recognized the symptoms. Years earlier, when Rosemary and I were dating, Rosemary often displayed the same symptoms 20 minutes or so before she announced she had to pee. With Rosemary, though, peeing was never a problem. She would drop her pants or hike up the long cotton skirts she liked to wear and pee behind the first convenient bush or dumpster without any hesitation.
All three of the women had set themselves up for problems at the lunch that ended the conference at noon. Each had consumed a several glasses of beer or ale during and after the meal. I had refrained because I knew I’d be driving and knew how my company would react to a drunk driver who worked for it. I hadn’t really counted the glasses, but Mandy appeared slightly drunk when she climbed into the car. Even my old friend Rosemary seemed pretty mellow, although I knew from experience she could drink a lot and not show it.
We’d been on the road about an hour, making good time, when Mandy spoke: “Can we stop at the next rest area?” she asked. “I gotta go to the bathroom.”
Rosemary added, “That’s a good idea.” Geetu said nothing, but a quick glance to the back seat revealed that she was sitting with her legs crossed and looking grim. I knew immediately she had to go, too.
“Sure,” I said. “There’s a rest area about 10 miles ahead. We’ll stop there.”
The words were barely out of my mouth when I saw red brake lights ahead of me and cars slowing. Our smooth trip was coming to a halt. Within 30 seconds we had slowed to a crawl in a construction zone. Traffic was reduced to a single lane, but we crept along at about 5 mph for another few minutes before the line of vehicles came to a complete stop. There was nowhere to go. On one side was a 10–foot grassy median with the opposite lanes of traffic beyond that. On the passenger side, less than two feet from the auto, was a row of those massive concrete barriers used to keep vehicles in line and out of construction area. We were stuck.
It was a beautiful sunny day with ideal temperature. I turned off the engine, powered my window down and opened the door. Other drivers ahead and behind us were doing the same.
“Oh, no, aren’t we going to move?” cried Mandy. “Geez, I really got to pee.”
“Sorry, Mandy, but no one is going anywhere for awhile,” I said. “You’re just going to have to hold it.”
Rosemary looked at me and rolled her eyes. Either she didn’t have to go as bad, or she had some plan. Knowing Rosemary as well as I did, I opted for the latter.
Geetu, who had been quiet throughout the trip, spoke: “This is really embarrassing, but I think I might wet my pants. What should we do?”
“I’m about to burst!” Mandy added.
“Let me try to find out what’s going on,” I said. “I saw a construction worker in a truck back about 100 yards. I’ll walk back and ask him about the delay. Just hold on, ladies,” I added. “And don’t go messing up this nice company car,” I said with a laugh as I left.
“Easy for you to say,” Rosemary yelled at my back.
The construction worker told me that a piece of construction equipment had tipped over in the single travel lane, but that they thought they’d have it upright and out of traffic in about 30 minutes. He said the accident had occurred about two miles ahead of us, so even when they got the machine out of the road, it’d probably be 10 or 15 minutes before cars this far back started to move. I walked back toward our car and saw that Rosemary, like dozens of other motorists in the stalled traffic, was standing beside our car with her passenger side door open. She was wearing those ankle length cotton skirts she loved and nothing seemed unusual until I got close. She had the door open as far as it would swing without bumping the concrete barrier and was standing between the car and the door. She was barefoot with her feet slightly spread and between her feet was a small puddle. As I got closer, I saw the puddle was growing. In fact, pee was splashing directly into the puddle from beneath her skirt.
“Geez,” I thought to myself, “Leave it to Rosemary to take a pee in the middle of a crowded highway without anyone knowing what she was doing.”
She was just standing there, looking calm and soaking her panties while letting the warm wetness flow down her legs to the pavement. “Up to your old tricks, eh Rosemary?” I said when I was directly behind her.
“Hey, a girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do,” she said with a shrug.
“Well, I don’t think our young friends can get away with that,” I said, nodding toward the two young women in the back seat. “They’re both wearing pants. And besides, they don’t have your –– how shall I put this? –– your chutzpah.” I told Rosemary what the worker had told me.
“They’ll never make it,” she said. “Mandy’s going to piss her pants any minute.”
Both girls, who were listening to music on their iPhones, seemed oblivious to our conversation or to what Rosemary had just done. And both also looked equally desperate, legs crossed, hands in their crotches, pained looks on their faces.
I walked around the car to my side and as I reached the open back door, Mandy suddenly swung her legs out of the car. I watched in anticipation as she began to stand. A dark wet stain was quickly spreading through the crotch of her pants. As she stood, it blossomed outward, spreading in all directions. Then, as she fully gained her feet, shiny and dark, it began its downward flow, coursing its warm wetness along the insides of her thighs. Within seconds, the hot stream had reached the bottom of her jeans and began cascading onto the pavement.
Mandy’s face turned red as we stared at each other. She peed for at least 30 seconds before she brought it under control. Her pants were soaked from top to bottom and a steady stream of urine was running off the edge of the pavement. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a woman as wet as Mandy.
“Oh, god, this is so awful,” she said. “I’ve totally peed my pants. I’m soaked. I can’t believe it.”
Rosemary, who had followed me around the car and seen the whole episode, consoled Mandy a bit, saying it could happen to anyone and she’d done it herself. She then poked her head inside the car. “Geetu, are you doing okay?” she asked. Geetu had her ear buds off and seemed to be crying.
She had both seen and heard Mandy’s accident and apparently it had been too much for her.
“I’m sorry, Rosemary,” Geetu whimpered. “I’m wetting my pants and I can’t stop.”
I was standing next to the open passenger door, observing. She was holding her legs tightly together, causing the pee to surge upward along the front of her pants, then outward along the tops and insides of her thighs. The shiny wet stain quickly spread as far as her knees. I assumed that an equal amount was probably soaking her ass and the car seat beneath it. Geetu turned towards me, looked contrite, and then said, “I am so sorry, Rick. I know I shouldn’t have had all that beer. God, this is so awful.”
By now she had gained control of her bladder and the wetting stopped. But there was a long wet streak along the tops and inside of her thighs. “It’s OK, Geetu. No one thought we’d be stuck here for an hour. I’ll just tell the company motor pool guy we spilled some Coke on the seat,” I said, then added, “Everybody pees their pants sometime in their lives.”
Moments later I heard some engines starting. I looked up and on the hill far ahead saw that the line of vehicles was beginning to move. Motorists who were out of their cars were climbing inside and starting their engines.
“Okay, ladies, get in and try to find a dry spot. We’ll soon be under way,” I said. As I sat down, I noticed a wet pair of bikini underpants on the floor of the passenger side. Rosemary had somehow managed to shed her peed–in panties without me noticing.
Soon we were moving and in about 30 minutes were approaching the rest area, too late for my carload, I thought. But Rosemary said she wanted to stop and use the restrooms. And Geetu chimed in that she, too, really had to pee some more. The rest area was mobbed, not surprising given the hundreds of motorists who had been stuck in traffic for so long.
“Oh, look,” cried Mandy, pointing to a young woman getting out of a car, the back of her pants soaked down to her knees. Obviously others had suffered similar mishaps. I found a parking spot at the far end of the rest area. As soon as I stopped, Rosemary jumped out and headed for the facilities. For her it was easy, since her skirt remained dry. Mandy said she didn’t have to go, no surprise. But for Geetu, who was again desperate, the decision was harder. Should she embarrass herself further by walking through the crowd around the restroom in her pee–soaked jeans? Or try to hold it and risk another accident in the car? Then she made a decision.
“The hell with it,” she said aloud to us. “My pants are already wet, you’ve already seen me pee them….” She stopped talking, opened the car door, got out and stood up. Then, to my and Mandy’s surprise, she stood nonchalantly in the parking area next to the car, but away from public view, and totally peed her pants again, pretty much soaking any dry spots that remained after her first wetting. And she looked straight at me when she did it and smiled.
By: R.D. Winston