Agony at Bish Manor

This is the story of Reginald. A tall, handsome, huskily built but elegant gentleman aged about 40. His little episode took place one evening at Bish Manor, England, ca. 1935.
He had been with a wedding party all day, most of which took place out of doors at a vast estate in the English countryside. Once evening came, the party moved to an enormous house, practically labyrinthine, five stories or more, the rooms and passageways innumerable, and as Reginald was soon to discover, nearly impossible to navigate if unfamiliar.
He had been out of doors and in the company of others for the entire day, (as this particular wedding party was very large, over two hundred people, most of them high aristocracy, and indeed, most of them, to Reginald, strangers).
He was an exceedingly shy and proper gentleman, adhering at all times to codes of strict social decorum and manners.
But on this particular evening, Reginald’s dignity would be quite literally worn to nothing.
Reginald closed the final door at the end of the massively grandiose and now dreadfully unfamiliar hallway. There hadn’t been any facilities in THAT room either.
So far he had examined every last room on that hall, and that was only one wing of the manor– as well as being only one of the five floors. He turned; his face visibly distressed and tried to decide on his next course of action.
His bladder was well overfull. He’d been unable to seek relief until just minutes ago after hours of very constant discomfort. The feeling of heaviness beneath his fly buttons and snug tuxedo vest was beyond distracting, it had reached a level of painful urgency. He tried to think clearly. He wondered if it would be worth his while in the end to simply try and sneak away and search for privacy somewhere outside. But already it had begun to rain, and besides, to reach the outdoors, he would have to retrace his steps and make his way back through the reception downstairs, where there were…(he shuddered in his shyness)… people everywhere. If someone stopped him, even if only for a moment, well… considering the signals his bladder was sending him, he feared the worst.
But he had to relieve himself of the torrents of water inside him. He absolutely HAD to. He’d been containing himself for so long now that the need was just terrible. He was almost afraid to walk. He did, however, as quickly as he dared. Though his mind was focused with every second on the throbbing, consistently surging muscle that felt, with every step, that it was seconds away from throbbing too strongly for him to bear.
He realized his breath was shallow and quick as he made his way down the dim carpeted hallway. The doors of all the rooms he’d checked stood on either side, some still partway open. He glanced at one or two of them anxiously, seeing only classic furnishings and works of art, and could not help but halt in his steps. The discomfort was incredible. He could feel the muscles around his urethra practically vibrating with the effort it took to impede the inevitable flood of urine that wanted so desperately to escape. He made a small, whimpering sound in spite of his valiant effort to hold onto his modesty, and squeezed his legs together. The wave of pressure in his bladder seemed to deepen and bloom into a more severe state of need, and he felt even more swollen and close to the point of honestly bursting than he had even moments before. He despised the sensation of needing to pass his water and not being immediately able to do so, it terrified him. To be caught in such a dire and private need was not something he considered becoming to a gentleman.
He forced himself to keep walking. It wasn’t easy. His large, solid thighs were clenched, his ankles stiff, and he found himself slowing his hesitant gait to a full stop several times. His hand, not daring to fully meet his crotch, he stuck tight and flat between his knees. He could not believe he had to go so badly! It was awful. His bladder must have been enormous, barely the size that it was meant to be at all. It was hard as a rock, angry from having to hold so much for so long. He was suffering.
At length he straightened his posture, allowing the particularly strong spasm to subside as best he could, and was ultimately able to take a few more steps. He had to hold it. He had to. He had literally no choice, at least until he was able to get upstairs, (more rooms and therefore the possibility of toilets), or downstairs, through the throngs of wedding guests and outside into the seclusion of the garden. Oh, God, the thought of urinating in the garden, or indeed any place at all was maddening. It was all he could do to keep from bursting right there as he was, merely trying to hurry down the hall.
Finally he reached the end of the corridor near the landing. He pressed his legs together again. Thankfully, there was nobody immediately about. He stepped toward the edge of the landing and listened to the sounds of the crowd below, his bladder screaming at him to let go. He could hear the noise of the party and conversation quite clearly. Looking down, he could even see shadows.
“Ohh…” he groaned quietly in his misery. There were people everywhere! His bladder swelled still further and pinched at him mercilessly in protest. He shushed it. He told himself that the bladder was a muscular organ and would therefore expand to contain whatever volume there was inside it. All he had to do was will it to stay closed. That was all. After all, he was a strong, handsome gentleman of property in the prime of his life. He could surely hold it however long he had to, no matter how… thundering the need.
Oh, he had to go so badly! Now– he tried to take a deep breath, upstairs to search more rooms, or maybe– downstairs and out the door, probably having to evade others? He really didn’t know at that moment which prospect seemed more promising. He found it difficult to keep a single thought in mind. All he could think about was how terribly he needed to urinate. He’d been holding it for so long! He bent at the waist, his hand trembling on the banister, in a cold sweat.
“Ohhhh, God please make it stop…” he whispered, and closed his eyes for a moment, his body trying not to contort itself too ridiculously. His bladder, still thrashing madly with his need, sent him a particularly hot, sharp twinge; so strong and so urgent he was unable to his hand from burying itself again between his thighs. Oh, dear God, where are all the toilets in this bloody house?
“Ohhhh…” he moaned softly. Oh, this is so silly, he thought. “I have to relieve myself. I simply HAVE to. What if I… just cannot wait any longer? It’s not my fault Bish Manor doesn’t have proper facilities… at least any that I can find. Oh, just please make it stop…”
He didn’t dare move for several seconds. He stood, the white noise of desperation filling his head, his knees almost numb from being held so tense. Finally the rush of pressure edged off just enough, and he was again able to stand more or less upright. Just hold it a little longer, he told himself. Just try and make it… well, he decided then to try and venture UP the stairs. There were fewer of them, for one thing, and it was more private although there was no greater promise of possible proper relief. He crossed the short hallway, his great need weighing him down with every careful step. I don’t know how much longer I can take this; I really don’t, he thought, his agony reaching a fevered level. It’s beyond uncomfortable; it badly HURTS for goodness sake… I’m so damned full, it’s simply impossible, I can’t, I really… his thoughts trailed off as he reached the first step on the landing. His bladder trembled, threatening him. It was the worst state of desperation he could remember in all his years as a gentleman.
“I’m not going to make it!” he said out loud suddenly. He turned back to the hall behind him. His bladder was dying. It was more, now, apparently, than posh, polite Reginald could stand. He took only a few more mincing, contorted steps, as far as the first door, (one of the few he’d thought to close), when suddenly his bladder quivered with sick violence, and to his horror and humiliation, he felt a hot, thin slash of urine escape the tip of his penis and soak, warm, into the fabric of his underwear and formal gray pinstripe trousers. He let out a cry and his hands, both of them, darted to his fly, scrambling madly to undo the buttons. It was too late. He couldn’t help it. He was wetting his pants. He struggled, still wrestling with his buttons, he struggled to stop himself, and with a good deal of painful clenching and contorting, was just able to stem the ferocious oncoming deluge, issuing only threatening threads and dribbles down his legs and into his clothes.
Immediately he ducked into the first room opposite, its door still open from before. He scuffled into the dark, both hands tearing at the front of his pants. His bladder throbbed tyrannically, and before he was even fully into the shadows, he began to void even more strongly. “Oh, god, please no, not here, not here…!” He whispered, his voice piteous and sincerely plaintive, feeling himself on the very verge of breaking utterly and completely.
He just had to get his pants open; already he could feel an alarming amount of wetness and warmth between his legs, trickling down the insides of his thighs. He was wetting, most certainly, but not yet in full force by any means. He fought to control the complete spill, dying from shame, and by the time he was finally able to free his spurting, exhausted penis, he was in tears.
Immediately he took hold of the head of the soft, wet thing between his thumb and forefinger and squeezed it shut tight. A large amber drop pooled at the tip of the glans and then fell. Reginald tried to catch his breath. He was trembling all over, crying from how badly it hurt. He didn’t dare let go of himself. He crouched forward in an agonized curtsey, his bladder screeching and weakening rapidly. He looked with frantic, tear–stained eyes around the strange room for anything he could possibly use for a receptacle.
“Mmmmmnn…!” he cried softly, alone in the room, now not only clamping off around the shaft of his member just behind the head, but pinching the flesh of the slit at the tip closed as well with his other hand. He hopped a little, biting his lip, his lovely English face desperate and shifted his weight around like mad, his wet pants open at the fly. There were only a few drops on the floor beneath him, not at all the massive puddle he wanted so desperately to avoid. “Oh, dear GOD, I have to peeeee!” he whined.
He crossed his legs, fought another wicked, needful surge and kept his fingers closed tight around his quivering penis in both places. He saw nothing in the room but tables, chairs, and books. Obviously it was a library. He took a few comically hunched tiptoed steps over toward the other side of the room, peering into the corners, hoping against hope for the sight of a wastebasket. Nothing. He bobbed up and down, made cringing, little sobbing noises. He had never in all his life as a gentleman been so embarrassed.
I don’t know what I’m going to do, he thought, I just can’t hold it in anymore, oh God, I’m going to wet on the floor… he squirmed. “I’m going to wet on the floor!” His bladder shrieked in frenzy and felt as if the stone it were made of was beginning to crack. He felt another rush then, so strong and so overwhelming his muscles quite forgot their task, and despite all his efforts, all his contortions and childlike squeezing, a long, hot stream managed to escape.
Oh, god, I can’t hold it! Another warm splash pulsed forward and fell to the floor with a splattering sound. He wrenched himself tightly, but it was simply no use. He was bursting, completely. He scurried like an animal into the closest corner leaving a trail of long–held urine underfoot, swearing and finally peeing so thunderously and furiously he was almost unable to bring himself to a full stance there up against the corner wall. He could not stop. The urine came in hard, pouring waves, fast, pounding, making an embarrassingly loud, un–ignorable hiss. He gasped aloud, his eyes fluttering, faint with the rapidly building landscape of relief. He felt it come, so heavy and so complete, all that fullness and all that water, so heavy…
He moaned and tried his best for a clear aim at the floor, and he realized with terrible shame that he had truly and finally lost his most private battle. It was all he could do to stand there, his legs trembling, and watch helplessly as hours of waiting and suffering and torture came at last to a gorgeous end. The puddle grew quickly, pooling hot around on the hard wooden edges of the polished floor before finally seeping into the large oriental carpet. The red nap of the fabric turned dark and glistened. He loathed spoiling it, but there was nothing to be done. Soaking the floor had turned out to be an inevitability.
“Ohhh, dear God forgive me, I just couldn’t wait,” he whispered in all valiant modest sincerity. He felt that hateful pinch at the crux of his bladder inside him slowly and blessedly begin to disappear. His mind began to turn a cool blue. Oh, he’d had to go SO badly! The relief was nothing short of orgasmic. After well over a minute, he felt the stream begin to subside and he looked down. The floor was covered with it, practically steaming around his resplendent black patent leather shoes. It was still coming. Wary, suddenly, of possible (horror!) discovery, he cast a quick, anguished glance over his shoulder to the direction of the door, and realized then that he had neglected in his haste to close it behind him.
He hurried to finish up. “Come on, Reginald…get to the last of it…” After a few more slashes and dribbles he finally felt sufficiently empty, and so much better he could have slept for a quarter century. With no reason whatsoever to hesitate, he buttoned himself back up and stepped back, wiping the tears from his handsome face, to the open door. He inspected the front of his pants in the light of the hallway.
“Oh, dear…” Well, it wasn’t too bad, he decided. It could have been worse. He would be dry in ten minutes time, he supposed, and resolved until then to keep more or less out of sight.
Reginald then stepped into the hallway, closed the door behind him, smoothed his slick, dark hair, tugged at his vest to pretty his silhouette, and headed for the stairs.
He could really use a drink.
Virgo