Private Game

I’m in the midst of holding it, all alone, and I’m already quite far into the game. I’m dressed entirely in black, my tightest jeans and a small black tee. I would prefer to be wearing more clothes, because when the time comes, there’s just nothing quite as delicious as the feeling of all the hot wetness soaking me, through the fabric, first coming warm and quickly turning cold. But I’m not there yet. I’ve been gulping water and soda constantly for the past three hours. It’s getting bad. My bladder is thrashing around like a dying fish– a big, heavy one.
It’s going to start hurting in earnest any minute now. I know my body quite well, having done this same thing countless times. Already I can feel my urethra quivering, trying to tell me to let it relax. I’m already so full and nervous I’ve muted the TV and made the place quiet, as once I get to this stage even the merest distraction puts me in danger of spurting. I don’t like to allow myself even the tiniest trickle until I am ready, if I can help it. One or two always manage to escape, despite my contortions. Right now my legs are squeezed together very tightly.
My bladder is burning, bitching at me for relief. I’m going to tell it to be quiet. It won’t be quiet, God bless it. It will continue to worry itself for a long time, I know. I can barely type, my hand keeps trying to clench itself between my knees. I never actually hold my crotch, that doesn’t seem to help me for some reason, it never has. But my pulse is high and I feel a cold sweat. I keep realizing I’m holding my breath without meaning to. My fantasies are coming more and more quickly too, there’s one I came up with last night about a can–can dancer in Paris in the 1930’s. Her name is Anthea, and her chorus master is very strict about schedules. One night she has to go onstage in front of a crowd of Parisian dignitaries, hundreds, all the cream of the Paris social elite. It could be her chance to be discovered, but she has a problem. Due to the prestige of the event, the chorus master has kept his girls rehearsing all day, a real whip–cracker he is, with his girls, and will not tolerate weakness, and there was no time for a break from final rehearsal until the performance.
I can’t concentrate on the details because my bladder is filling relentlessly. I’m mmm… squirming quite frequently now. I looked at my face in the mirror, (I happen to be in love with myself), and my beautiful face is pinched with worry no matter how calm a mask I try to…. oooh. Almost leaked. I think if I just grind my jeans–clad perineum against the chair, the pressure may relent a little. It’s not helping. My bladder feels like it’s humming the Flight of the Bumblebee. I have to pee really badly.
Okay, now it’s starting to hurt. And it’s hard to tell, now, if I’ve actually let a drop escape, or if I’m just wet from how exciting this is for me. Ohhh, my head is in a completely different place now. As my twin sister (identical) Bridget often says, when you get to this point, where your head disappears in the frantic white noise of desperation, it’s like stepping onto another planet. I just caught myself making a whimpering sound. Now I have to squirm again. I’m going to get up and look in the mirror now to see if my abdomen is swollen and to refill my water glass.
Ohh, it hurts to walk. And I can’t walk slowly when I really have to pee, like I do now. Trust me, I really do. The thought of releasing my urine is so tempting, it would be such bliss, to cool the fire of sheer panic down there. I’m so glad I’m alone, to feel such agony in the presence of others, I’d be in tears of utter hum..hum…humiliation. Oh, god, I can barely type. I really have to pee. BAD. I’ll try to calm down, but my bladder is hard as a rock, screaming, my urethra snapping, and the dense throbbing almost unbearable. No position is comfortable. And my abdomen IS swollen. My poor, trembling bladder is hard as a rock. Now it hurts. It hurts pretty badly. Ohhh, please, please please let me pee! No, I won’t. But I’m about to pee in my pants. I want to pee so badly. I need to. But no, I have to hold it. So, in the can–can fantasy, the girl ends up spraying her long–held Parisian wee all over the stage through her panties and garters, as she’s dancing…
Oh, I’m about to pee. I don’t think I can hold it anymore. The pain is almost unbearable. Oh! I leaked– I really, really couldn’t help it. I tried. Only a tiny drop, but I’m so close to breaking completely… OH! Another one… it’s coming…. I’m struggling with all my strength to hold it… my teeth chattering… clenching…. I can’t concentrate… it hurts SOOOO bad… I want to GO, NOw… ohhhhh…. god…, deep breaths. The cramps of panic are TERRIBLE. I’m sorry… I can’t do anything now except hold it… Im absolutely bursting with need. REally, my bladder feels like it’s going to split. I can’t hold it… yes i can.. no no no….ahhh!
Really…I’m going to pee in my pants, right here… Icantwaitanothersecond… it’s going to come…it hurts so much, the throbbing, the pinching, the burning, the fullness, I’m consumed by it…ohhhh….damn, it’s bad. Real bad. It’s just awful, the pressure is hellishly gorgeous.
I can’t type anymore. Im going to explode…. i can’t i can’t … really.
Virgo