The Board Meeting

I work in a large, and thriving modelling agency. This is close to an all female establishment, I am a secretary, and one of the two guys in the agency. The main offices are plush, and the staff look the part – power dressing is the order of the day, a business jacket worn over a lacy bra, and a neat micro–skirt. They all have tanned, smoothly shaved legs. These girls are confident, almost all with gorgeous figures, and totally professional and business–like in their behaviour.
Friday morning was the weekly board meeting, the chief executive and fifteen of her immediate underlings would gather at 9.30 and thrash out the agencies business for the past and following weeks. All 16 of these girls vanished into the board room in a heady mix of expensive perfumes, not emerging until 1 o’clock. They were all in their 30s, but looked in their 20s with young, firm bodies and beautiful figures. They had ample supplies of mineral water, and Barry (the other male secy) or myself would serve coffee at 10:30 on the dot. What caught my attention was the mass rush for the loo when they emerged, and I often wished I could attend the later stages of these meetings. One drunken evening with Barry I discovered he shared my thoughts, and we hatched a plan for the following friday.
First we added a small amount of diuretic to each jug of mineral water. This was carefully calculated to be subtle enough not to arouse suspicion, yet enough to increase bladder filling noticably. Then at 9:15, Barry – suitably primed with excuses for my absence – sat at his desk, and I slipped into the board room and hid myself under the long, wide, board–room table. When the girls came in quarter of an hour later my heart was thumping with worry. If just one girl dropped something and spotted me – I was out of a job, and perhaps in big police trouble as well. Fortunately no such problems, they all sat down in a buzz of conversation – and a chink of mineral water glasses – were called to order and the meeting began.
I sat cross–legged under the table, surrounded by 16 pairs of gorgeous legs. Some crossed, some together, some with ankles crossed under their chairs. I shifted my position – breathing slowly and quietly, and took the chance to take in as much information as I could. These microskirts rode up when they sat down, and I could see at least part of every single pair of knickers. Mainly white, but one black, one red, and – surprisingly – 4 pairs of light blue. There was a steady murmur of voices, and occasional ripple of laughter, and I settled down – a bit more relaxed, and waited.
Things were quiet until the 10:30 coffee. I heard Barry’s cheery voice, then the door closing again. And it wasn’t long before things began to hot up. It started with an almost simultaneous display of knee bouncing from 6 different girls. They each, almost in turn, would bounce one leg vigorously for about 10 seconds, before relaxing, then starting again a few seconds later. One girl alternated legs, the other 5 were right leg only. This lasted for a quarter of an hour, by which time I was satisfied that every single girl round that table was aware of her bladder. I was now watching a lovely display of various early–desperation movements: crossing and uncrossing of ankles, gentle rhythmic banging together of knees, crossed and swinging legs, and ever more vigorously bouncing knees. Despite all this activity their bodies remained almost unaffected, and it struck me that above the table nothing would appear amiss. Neither Barry nor I had ever seen anyone leave a meeting to relieve themselves, hopefully this tradition would continue. And there was more than 2 hours still to go!
By now every ripple of laughter was accompanied by a violent flurry of movement: thighs banging together, violent bouncing with both legs, and pert backsides sliding backwards and forwards on the edge of the chair. Every single girl’s skirt had now ridden high up on her thighs giving me a perfect view of proceedings. It was mind–blowingly sexy to think of all these bladders, full and still filling. Those cool confident girls trying to suppress their almost overwhelming desire to relieve themselves, and simultaneously to maintain their poise. It was one minute after 11 when the first hands became involved in the action. It was Stephanie the Chair–person who broke first. Her squirming had probably been the most violent and desperate looking, her backside rocking continuously from side to side as her thighs banged and squeezed together constantly. Suddenly there was a short peel of laughter, and her legs slammed together hard. Her right hand dived down into her groin, and she parted her legs briefly to allow her fingers to curl down and back, before slamming her legs tight again. She then wriggled forward to the edge of her seat and sat apparently still. Looking closely I could see her slim fingers massaging frantically through the thin blue fabric, then to my delight she slowly parted her legs and her fingers slipped under the elastic to continue their work. I resisted the urge to try to get closer, and watched the show fascinated. Looking round I saw another four girls gripping their crotches. Surely they wouldn’t try to last the next 2 hours? I thought to myself. By 12 o’clock all sixteen girls were hard at work trying to contain their bursting bladders helped by probing, supporting fingers. Conversation was now coming in short phrases only, and the clink of water glasses had stopped. My money was now firmly on Stephanie to be the first to wet herself, she was looking now like she wouldn’t last annother minute. Her entire body was rocking back and forth, both hands plunged deep in her knickers, legs sliding in and out rubbing against each other. She had kicked off her shoes, and her toes were curling hard, then straightening out. She would occasionally lift a hand – presumably to make a gesture or turn a page – but it was never more than a second before it rejoined its partner in that feverish grasping rubbing of her pee–hole.
I missed the beginning of the end. The first thing I noticed was a growing dark patch around the foot of the front leg of Stephanie’s chair. On closer inspection I could clearly see that her knickers were now wet and translucent. Her fingers still worked away, but there were regular little pauses each followed by a spurt of urine that caused a small glistening bulge before soaking away into the seat fabric. Stephanie was wetting herself while the meeting was going, and hoping to get away with it! She was still rubbing, and spurting in turn 15 minutes later when the meeting ended.
The other fifteen must have been right on the verge, holding themselves tightly while squirming, not caring who knew. “God, I’m bursting!” came a voice, then “You’re not the only one!” and I could see them standing, all still holding hard, and hobbling with little steps toward the door. Stephanie never moved, and when she was left alone, or so she thought, she upped the tempo of her rubbing, and I became aware of her gasping and occasional soft, clipped, “mmmmmmm”. Her legs were now wide apart, wet knickers clinging to the back of her hand as it rubbed and squeezed and caressed. This was the sexiest thing I had seen in my life, and when she suddenly cried “oh!!!”, and her body lurched violently, I had to restrain myself from shouting “Yes!”
On my escape, Barry and I went to swap stories. The girls had hobbled past his desk into the loo, no accidents en route. But our topic for the rest of the evening was the gorgeous, vivacious, dark–haired Stephanie, her hours of agony, and her moment of ecstasy!
Squirm