Mr. Thwaite's Desperation

Mr. Thwaite smiled at Miss Cunningham as he pulled out a chair for the young lady to sit on. This was his lucky night: a decent opportunity to impress the delightful young lady to whom his affections belonged.
Mr. Thwaite’s rich uncle, the Duke of Westwick, was holding the stately party. The Duke, a small penguin suited man, was seated at the head of the grand table where the guests were about to eat. He smiled at Mr. Thwaite knowingly. Mr. Thwaite and his uncle were like father and son, so his crush on Miss Cunningham was well known by the Duke.
“Ahem,” coughed the Duke whilst tapping his spoon lightly against his crystal glass. “If I can have your attention please!”
The babble of social chitchat and polite laughter died down as the guests quieted down to receive the speech. Mr. Thwaite felt a slight twinge in his bladder, but ignored it by taking a swig of champagne. ‘What a beautiful evening,’ he thought. ‘And how beautiful the lovely Miss Cunningham looks…’ As though reading his thoughts, Miss Cunningham suddenly glanced up and bore her deep hazel eyes into his, a look so smoldering that Mr. Thwaite felt weak at the knees. All his defenses were down, and tonight was his night. He took another sip of champagne.
“My friends, I suppose you all know me well enough to question my reasons for gathering you here tonight…god forbid the old man simply wants an opportunity to get drunk!”
Polite laughter ensued as the guests wondered whether this statement was supposed to be funny or not.
“But anyway, enough of the jokes!” guffawed the old man. “The real reason I have organized this party is to announce something rather important and close to my heart. In June I will be handing the family business over to my wonderful and very deserving son, Frederick.”
A delighted chorus of “aww” and “well done old chap” was directed at Frederick. Mr. Thwaite smiled graciously, he felt pleased for his cousin, though he was feeling rather distracted. The twinge in his bladder had started to feel more like a pinch. It was not urgent as such, merely slightly aggravating. He so wanted to feel calm and relaxed in front of Miss Cunningham. He tapped his fingers lightly on the table, trying to distract his thoughts away from his urine.
“Yes, yes…at the age of 72 I feel it is time to settle down finally!” came the husky voice of the Duke. “Let’s drink to Frederick!” he proclaimed, lifting his glass in the air.
The guests did the same. “To Frederick!”
Mr. Thwaite tilted his glass back and let the cool champagne flow down his throat. He was feeling most uncomfortable now. His bladder had become more swollen. He discretely prodded himself just above his penis and could feel the hardness of his lower belly. Miss Cunningham was chatting to her sister, who was seated beside her. Mr. Thwaite crossed his legs, maneuvering his penis so that it was tucked between his thighs. He hoped that maybe this would weaken his urge to use the toilet.
20 minutes later more champagne arrived. Mr. Thwaite had been idly chatting to the person next to him, but the conversation was dwindling. His thighs were pressed more tightly together and his penis had started to throb with annoyance. He uncrossed his legs and let his member slump back into its rightful position. He felt he really should make an excuse to ‘freshen up’ but thought it would be rather rude to leave his conversation partner, so decided to stay sitting down. He clenched his sphincters with all his might, hoping they would act like a closed gate between the contents of his filling bladder and the pipe of his penis that the urine so desperately wanted to flow through.
Another half an hour passed and Mr. Thwaite was going red in the face and gritting his teeth. His urge to urinate had reached new heights and he felt very embarrassed and ashamed. He squirmed on the seat and sat on the edge of the chair so that his disgruntled penis was jammed tight against the wood. His sphincters were still tightly clenched but the amount of urine stored in his bladder was causing them to lose resistance ever so slightly. He wondered what Miss Cunningham must think of him. She had left her seat a while ago with her lady friends to ‘powder her nose’. She must have thought him frightfully rude to ignore her, but as hard as he tried he just could not sustain conversation when his swollen bladder was causing him this much discomfort. He couldn’t leave his place at the table because it was deemed as rude and not very ‘gentlemanlike’ to walk away from a male social group. He tapped his feet on the floor awkwardly, not wanting to draw attention to his predicament, but desperately in need of a way to take his mind off the situation.
An urgent spasm suddenly swept through the poor man’s penis and he instinctively swooped his hand down to pinch it hard under the tablecloth. He looked around. No one could see what he was doing thank goodness, but the shock of the moment had caused his bladder to throb more violently. He doubted that he could keep the battle going for much longer. He could literally feel the urine swishing in his bladder, pressing with such force on his sphincters that they…
Another spasm hit him, much stronger than the last. Mr. Thwaite’s breathing quickened and his cheeks went a deeper shade of pink. What could he do? This was an emergency now and if he didn’t pluck up the courage to leave the table soon his urine would soon be spurting out of his exhausted penis for sure! It was quivering with the strain of holding back his liquid and it ached so badly.
Suddenly, the blessed sound of violins came from nearby. The dancing had begun! Yes! This was his chance! The other men were already scraping back their chairs, gesturing their female partners to come join them. With eagerness Mr. Thwaite stood up and started walking briskly to the other side of the crowded, dimly lit hall. It was a strain to walk normally without the assistance of his hand gripping his penis, and it was left to sway gently to and fro in his trousers as he walked, bravely fighting the war against his bladder on its own.
He had nearly reached the doorway to the main entrance. Oh blessed relief! He slung the doors open, and barged through. The hallway was empty and dark. Where were the toilets? Where were they? An extremely violence spasm rushed from his bladder and as quick as a flash his hand dived down his trousers to rescue his trembling penis. He gripped it tightly, but found that this was not enough of a deterrent. A second hand plunged down his trousers and he gripped his member with both hands, skipping up and down with light steps as he did so.
There was no way he could last another minute! He ran to the other side of the entrance hall, his muscular bottom quivering as well as his poor tired penis. He did not know what to do…the toilets were nowhere to be seen! He squatted on the ground; beads of sweat pouring down his forehead, breath coming out in short bursts. Suddenly, a hand touched his shoulder. Startled, he lost grip of his penis and a spurt of pent up urine short out of the tip, dribbling down his hot skin before another pair of hands were felt on his member. He leant his head back and gasped as Miss Cunningham stemmed the flow.
“Mr. Thwaite,” she whispered softly, sending shivers down his spine. “Allow me.”
She pulled his penis softly and directed him towards the doors, the many layers of her blue lacey ball gown swishing as she lead him like a dog on a lead. Without saying anything, she unzipped Mr. Thwaite’s trousers and gently scooped his bulging penis from within the compounds of the fabric and pointed the tip in the direction of a large plant pot.
The exasperated man shook his head with embarrassment, his face turning crimson as the most violent spasm yet swept through his bladder and his straining sphincters relaxed, causing a small dribble to leak innocently from the tip of his shaking member. In response to this, Miss Cunningham planted a small kiss on to the shaft of Mr. Thwaite’s penis. His worn out sphincters could just not hold back the floods much longer. He closed his eyes and sighed happily as they relaxed and a huge ferocious jet of yellow liquid shot out like a bullet from a pistol. Miss Cunningham smiled lovingly as she held the plump penis in position, so as not to allow Mr. Thwaite to spill any urine on his smart evening attire.
The flow lasted for a minute at least and Miss Cunningham was enjoying every second of it. Oh how she loved to see a man genuinely desperate for release. Oh how she loved Mr. Thwaite. As soon as the last few drops were shaken off the penis Miss Cunningham rubbed it tenderly, and carried on rubbing as she stood up. Whilst smoothing her cool hands over the damp member of the man she rubbed her body up against his, enjoying the blush that crept on to the face of Mr. Thwaite. She licked his cheek.
“So Sir,” she whispered gingerly into his left ear. “I think it’s time we got better acquainted.”
And with that they became betrothed. Their love affair grew, as did their love for desperation. Though that’s a different story altogether…
Sweety