We’ve had a lovely evening up in town, a nice meal followed by drinks in a pub. It’s your turn to drive back from the station, so you’ve just had a glass of wine with your meal and have been on the coca-cola since then. But I’ve not been holding back, and I’ve glugged back several pints of rather tasty ale. I’ve been sticking to the low-strength stuff, only 3.8 ABV, so I don’t think I’m going to pass out yet., though my bladder is getting a bit full. We’ve been laughing and holding hands and playing footsie under the table and I don’t want to stop looking at you. You look so pretty in your tight low-neck t-shirt, that shows your breasts.
Suddenly you look at your watch.
“Oh bugger! I’ve forgotten the time! Quickly - drink up, Annie, or we’ll miss the train.”
“Hold on, Vikka, I need a pee first,” I say, downing the last few mouthfuls.
“No time, sweetie, you’ll just have to go on the train.”
We have to run all the way to the station, me feeling a bit wobbly and hoping I don’t fall over and disgrace myself. We make it with seconds to spare, and jump on the last train. All that running has shaken me up, and already I can feel my bladder starting to ache. The train is quite full, with lots of people like us going home after an evening out, but I insist on pushing down the carriages until we can find the one with a toilet. I hate using train toilets– they’re usually dirty and smelly and have a lock that doesn’t work, but it’ll be better than nothing.
And wouldn’t you know it, when we find it, the damn thing’s out of order, with a sign stuck on the door saying sorry for the inconvenience.
“They’ll be bloody sorry all right when I wee all over the floor,” I say, and you raise an eyebrow. Looking back with the benefit of hindsight, perhaps I shouldn’t have said that.
There isn’t room for us both to sit together, so we stand in the space by the doors. You’re obviously feeling horny, because you start kissing me, and I respond happily, enjoying the taste of your tongue in my mouth. I’m light-headed with the alcohol, while you are pretty much stone-cold sober, though that doesn’t seem to be holding you back. You put one arm round my waist and clutch me against you. Your other hand strokes my thigh, first the outside, then moving round to the tender inner thigh. I squeeze my legs together, trapping your hand, and you respond by pinching the soft flesh between your fingers, making me wince with pleasure. In the background, I can hear the laughter and chatter of late-night travellers actually talking to each other, their inhibitions loosened by alcohol too.
Your hand slides round over my crotch. Oh Vikka, what are you doing? Your fingers slowly pull down the zip of my jeans. You insinuate first one finger, then another, between the flaps of material.
“Vikka, don’t,” I whisper urgently. “What if someone sees us?”
“Who cares?” you whisper back.
“I do!” I reply, but I know I don’t. The combination of alcohol and arousal overrules my natural modesty and inhibitions, as they always do I’m afraid.
And god it does feel nice as your fingers rub against the thin material of my pink panties. You know where you’re going, and it doesn’t take you long to find the little nub of my clitoris at the top of my slit, and start to rub against it. You are pressing tight against me, keeping your hand hidden between our bodies so unless someone looks very closely they won’t see what you are doing.
I can feel my cheeks starting to flush, and I try to breathe steadily. I close my eyes and abandon myself to your fingers. The pressure of your circling finger against my clitoris is electrifying. Now beads of perspiration are breaking out on my forehead. I whisper in your ear, telling you to stop, but not meaning it. You stop the pressure on my clit. I am about to make you carry on, but I then feel the crotch of my panties being pulled to one side, and your fingers stroking directly over the soft mound of my freshly-shaved pubis. I can’t believe this is happening. Your fingers reach my vulva, and I feel one of them burrowing between the soft lips into my vagina, revolving round inside, finding my soft spongy walls and causing my secretions to dribble out over your hand. I bury my face in your shoulder, each breath coming as a short sharp gasp. My nose is pressed tightly into the hollow of your neck, and in my arousal I bite your shoulder through your t-shirt. You respond by curling your fingers upwards, pressing against my urethra from inside.
Oh Vikka, you shouldn’t have done that. In my arousal, I had temporarily forgotten my full bladder, but the pressure catches me by surprise, and I relax my muscles, releasing a little spurt of pee. I can’t tell where it has gone; I think it must have gone over your hand.
“I’m going to pee myself if you’re not careful, darling,” I whisper.
“Do it, Annie,” you whisper back.
“I can’t!”
“Why not?”
“We’re on a bloody train - there’s loads of people,” I whisper urgently. But I know what you’re like when you’re in this sort of mood - your inhibitions disappear and things get dangerous. And exciting. It’s at times like this, when you scare me and challenge me, that I realise why being with you is so special.
You slip your fingers out of my vagina, and tug my zip up again. Your hand is wet with a mixture of pee and sex juice. You whisper in my ear again.
“It’s nearly our stop, Annie…let a bit more out…for me.”
Now I’ve started thinking about it, it’s getting worse. And letting a little bit out hasn’t helped. It’s getting painful. I don’t think I can hold on much longer anyway. I let go for a fraction of a second, and release another little squirt of pee into my panties. I look down, and can see a little wet spot on the crotch of my jeans.
You have both your arms around me, pressing me against you, almost holding me up. Thank god, I can feel the train slowing; it’s getting close to our stop.
You squeeze my hand hard. I can sense your excitement.
“Quick, Annie – now! Please!”
I look straight into your eyes – they are bright and so very alive. I love you so much, and because of this I give you what you want.
So I just let it all go; release the floodgates. I feel the flow of urine down my urethra, painful at first then bringing blessed relief as it floods out. I glance down and see a massive wet patch spread across the front of my jeans. You are pressing your crotch against mine, so my pee is wetting you too. I can smell its sharp primitive scent.
I can feel the warm liquid running down the inside of my legs inside my jeans, the dark patch following and spreading. The liquid reaches my ankles, and I look down to see the first trickle running out over my foot and onto the floor of the train. For some reason, most of it seems to be running down my left leg, and soon there is a great pool of it spreading across the floor towards the doors. The whole of the front of my jeans are soaking now, and some of the pee is soaking through the denim and dripping straight onto the floor.
Looking back, it’s surprising how long it is before anyone else notices. I’ve got my eyes shut, blocking out everything but the sense of relief, and I’m only half aware of a sharp intake of breath and a rising chorus of mutterings: “Oh my god,” “how disgusting,” “look at the state of her,” “she can’t even stand up she’s so drunk.”
I can hear your voice raised above the hubbub.
“I’m so sorry…she’s not well…this is our stop…please, just let me get her off…she’ll be fine...she just needs some air…I’ll look after her…it’s ok…so sorry…”
All this as the pee continues to flow over the floor.
The train stops, the doors open and you drag me out, leaving a trail of pee across the platform. You pull me to a bench and sit me down on it, my drenched jeans dark all over. Yours are almost as bad where my pee has soaked into them.
You kneel on top of me on the bench, pinning my arms down and kiss me ravenously on the lips. I can’t move, even if I wanted to, and suddenly I feel another burst of warm wetness over my crotch. For a moment I wonder if I’ve started again, but then I realise it is you, letting your own pee out, all that coca-cola going straight through you. As the sound of the departing train fades away, I can hear the sound of your pee dripping from our soaking clothes through the bench onto the platform.
I clutch you to me as you rub your soaking crotch against mine, pressing your clitoris against my pubic bone. You push your hand up under my t-shirt and inside my bra, squeezing my breast roughly, your orgasm coming as the flow of pee stops.
You flop on top of me, breathing heavily. I’m still holding you tight. Neither of us wants to move. The scent of pee envelops us. I feel almost sober, as if my drunkenness flowed out of me along with the pee. I start to giggle at the insanity of it all, and you splutter with laughter too. Slowly I become aware of my cold heavy jeans.
The platform is deserted. Anyone who got off the train with us has gone.
“Come on, Annie, time to go.”
Luckily your car is in the station car-park. Squelch, squelch, squelch go my pee-soaked pumps as we walk across to it.
“I need to get out of these,” I say, and you agree. We stand behind the car, hoping the security cameras can’t see us, and ease off our soaked jeans and panties. Soon we’re both standing there in just our shirts. You shove our wet stuff in a plastic bag and throw it in the boot, getting out a couple of swimming towels at the same time which you put on the car seats. We get in, and you put the car into gear before driving off. I tease you as we drive back to my flat, pulling up my shirt to show my breasts and masturbating in the front seat, a different sort of liquid oozing out of my vagina onto the towel. You lean over while we’re sitting at a red light, and slip one of your own fingers into my vagina next to mine. Rubbing my clitoris, I bring myself to orgasm.
Back at the flat, we strip off the rest of our clothes and I put it all, pee-soaked jeans and all, into the washing machine. Then we shower together, soaping each other tenderly, before falling into bed. My last thought as we fall asleep in each others arms is how much my sexuality has grown since I met you, and how much I love you.
