Re: Developmental Biology
That’s the absolute most innocent I have. But really, there’s nothing too raunchy. I’m just a lil’ apprehensive because this forum seems rather strict. Anyway! Here’s the start of an actual narrative arc.
2014.
Steven was idly zapping through the channels. His thoughts were not on the television, but on his date later that night, and eventually he settled for a random channel. Commercials. A car commercial, tooth paste… Nothing really brought him out of his reverie until a pair of tits bounced across the screen. He hated himself, but he always fell for it. What is a virile twenty-year-old guy to do? A young woman in a pink top and yoga pants was doing a series of exercises apparently designed to show off every favorable angle of her body, except the butt. ‘At sixteen, fifty percent of girls are dry during the day. But for the ones who aren’t quite there yet…’ The girl did a piruette off the screen, giving just a tiny glimpse of a waistband stretching above the top of her pants. Then a brand name flashed past the screen, but Steven’s mind was already back to Nina.
Mutual friends had set them up. They had one class together, and although she wasn’t the first girl he noticed when he walked in the room, there was something magic about her the moment she started talking. Alternatively shy and boisterous in the manner some coy girls have perfected, she was just what he was looking for. And pretty, too, a brunette taller than him in high heels. At least he thought she was what he was looking for. Steven’s philosophy, at least when he wasn’t utterly infatuated, was to attempt to let the girl prove herself to him just as much as he was proving himself to her. He had to remind himself to be just eager enough: that was key. Signal interest, not desperation. Everyone wants to be wanted, but specifically, for being them, not generically, for having tits.
Later that night, they were going out for drinks, and reliable sources—his wingwoman of choice, Anette, who also kind of had a thing about girls, but only certain girls, doing certain things, the particulars of which Steven had yet to figure out—had assured him his chances at something more were quite good. Anette was great to have around because neither of them was interested in the other in that way, but she was always up for talking him up to prospects, so long as he occasionally returned the favor. With other guys; one time, with another girl.
Zoning out in front of the telly wouldn’t do. Steven resolved to strap on his shoes and go for a run—nothing like it to get the testosterone pumping before a date.
2006.
The family piled out of the car and into the hotel lobby, suitcases in hand.
‘Bathroom—quick—where?’ Jenny yelled at the receptionist, who pointed in the vaguest possible direction. The last thirty minutes of the road had been agony, and now she would have to run into a hallway that forked in two directions, either of which could be the road to porcelain salvation. Luckily, there was a sign, and she hurried down the right hallway and into what looked to be a bathroom. It was a closet. She quickly eyed a large washbucket, but resolved to retain a modicum of dignity and take her chances. The next door down turned out to really be a ladies’ room, and she sat down just in time.
Jenny hated family road trips. Next summer, when she would be seventeen, she would ditch her family and go abroad with her friend. She was well on her way to saving up the money, and she was sure that with a little nudging, her mom and dad would let her go. She had discussed it with them, she just hadn’t specified exactly how far she intended on going yet.
Back in the lobby, Steven was being his usual bratty self, demanding everything at once while their parents were trying to get checked in. Did the hotel have a pool? Yes, but they were only staying for the night and driving on the next morning, and it was already closed for the night. Could he have ice cream for breakfast then? No, he could not, and besides that, isn’t twelve a little too old to be asking such silly questions?
They had a two-bedroom suite with a shared bathroom. Dad’s treat. Maybe he sensed that Jenny wasn’t entirely enthusiastic about visiting granny when she could be sunbathing with her friends at home. Jenny and Steven wouldn’t have to share a bed.
‘Hun, there’s something dad and I have to talk to you about,’ her mother said. Jenny didn’t like that tone. Could they have figured out her ‘little vacation trip’ was really a trans-continental? Or about what she did at a party last spring with a boy whose name they couldn’t possibly know? Something was up.
‘Dad talked to the receptionist…’ she began. Was it really just about her being a little rude when she was desperate for a piss? No, there must be something more. ‘And you know this is an expensive hotel, these are expensive beds you and Steven will be sleeping in.’ Where was this going? ‘And, well… She told him how much it would cost to replace a mattress.’
‘What?’
‘Your mom can’t just come out and say it,’ her father blurted out. ‘What she really means is we aren’t going to tell our sixteen year old daughter to wear a diaper to bed, but we sure as hell aren’t paying for it if she ruins her mattress.’ There it was. A slap in the face. Jenny hadn’t worn a diaper to bed in two years. Like most girls her age, she occasionally dribbled a little at night, but nothing major.
‘I’m not gonna piss the bed!’
‘Oh, honey, I know you won’t. But just in case… I know you’ve been saving for that trip.’
Jenny felt like choking her mother and crying at the same time. It was an impossible dilemma. Steven would never let her hear the end of it if she said yes, and if she gambled and lost… All her hard-earned money and her vacation was gone just like that. Meekly, she tried to find some acceptable, discreet compromise. ‘Can’t I, like, just sleep on a towel or something?’
‘Oh, honey, you’ve been known for quite the gusher…’ As soon as she said it, her mother put her hand in front of her mouth, but it was too loud and too late. Her comment elicited a loud laughter from her little brother.
‘What about Steven then?’ Jenny tried, knowing that was no retort.
‘Honey, we’ve talked about this. Boys and girls develop at different rates. You know that. It’s not your fault your nerves and your bladder aren’t quite in synch yet.’
It was worth a final shot: ‘Okay, fine, I’d do it. But we didn’t bring any stupid diapers.’
Of course it was futile. It’s quite surprising what a hotel can procure for its guests. Her mother produced a large, baby-style nappy from her purse—not even the dignity of a panty-style pullup. ‘Would you like me to help you put it on?’
She would goddamn well do it herself. Dejected, she headed straight for the bathroom. The tapes were more finicky than she would have thought, but she would not make the humiliation complete by admitting defeat. Finally, the damn thing was on. It was so thick she had to waddle, clearly designed for a firehose, not the small drop she sometimes let slip after one too many glass of water at dinner. To make matters worse, she hadn’t brought any pyjamas—she usually slept in her panties and a nightshirt, and the shirt wouldn’t cover the diaper, so she was forced to waddle out with her shame in plain sight.
Their parents decided to have a drink in the hotel bar before bed, so Jenny settled in for an hour of mockery by her little brother. ‘Say, pissy-pants, how much you wanna bet you’re dry in the morning?’ She blushed, but said nothing. After five different jeers had failed to elicit a response from her, Steven finally turned around and went to sleep.
She couldn’t, though. She had to find a way to get back at her brother, otherwise he’d be liable to bring up this night at her goddamn wedding, should she ever get married. But how? Her one advantage was that Steven slept like a rock. Once he was asleep, he would sleep until he was no longer tired, come hell or high water. And since they had a separate room, she had all night.
Finally, she resolved to give him a taste of his own medicine. Steven, who had not wet the bed since kindergarten, would wet the bed. Of course, she couldn’t really make him. And she couldn’t risk damaging the mattress either. But perhaps… Silently, she slipped out of bed. Crinkle. Goddamn. There is no silently slipping out of bed in a baby diaper. At least she knew Steven was asleep, otherwise he’d have commented the noise. On the nightstand, Jenny found a glass, which she filled with lukewarm water in the sink. Then she snuck—for very crinkly values of ‘snuck’—up to Steven’s bed and gently lifted the cover. Her brother didn’t even stir. Gingerly, she squirted a little bit of water on his boxers, carefully making sure none of it got on the bed. No reaction. A little more. Still no reaction. Finally, she poured the entire glass onto Steven’s groin and stomach, careful to minimize spillage onto the mattress. Satisfied, she tucked him back in and fell asleep in her own bed.
2014.
Nina was every bit as lovely one-on-one as she was in class, and Steven’s chances with her had been even better than Anette had hinted at. Before they finished their first drink, she was on his lap—if only briefly—and by the second, they had their first kiss. Now they were ambling their way arm-in-arm towards Steven’s place. Implicitly, she was staying over; otherwise, why follow him in the opposite direction of her own place late at night?
‘So you have an older sister,’ she was saying, ‘and I have an older brother. Isn’t that perfect!’
Well, when you think about it, what did that have to do with anything? But Steven played along. It was just the way it worked: if two people like each other, anything they said to each other made sense, and if there was no mutual attraction, nothing either said seemed to slot into the conversation.
As they neared his place, he seemed to notice her getting a little antsier, but he didn’t know if it was the anticipation or something else that had her on edge. Hopefully the former. Outwardly, she was as chatty as ever—telling him about her vacation last summer, about how she liked older guys (she was eighteen), hinting at the maturity she looked for in men. (Steven’s maturity extended to a five-o’clock shadow.)
As soon as the door was closed behind them, he spun her around and pushed her back toward the wall, initiating a makeout. It was only an illusion of force—in fact, he had merely put his hand gently on her chest and she had leaned backward as if it were a superman punch. Just another step in the mating dance: Steven liked being dominant, but he was no rapist. He suggested roughness, but every step of the way, she could easily resist. If it turned out she was into it, he amped up the heat; if not, he backed out. Nina seemed to like it. He put his hands under her bum and she wrapped her legs around his chest, clasping perhaps a little harder together than would be absolutely necessary—then he simply carried her over to his bedroom. ‘I want you,’ he whispered in her ear.
‘I want you too.’ It was on.
After their session was over, they lay there for a while just enjoying each other’s presence, and before Steven knew it, she was asleep on his arm.
Now, however, came a dilemma: on the way over, Nina’s fidgetiness could be mistaken for anticipation or plain horniness—hey, girls get horny too. But now, thinking it over, she’d had quite a bit to drink, and she hadn’t been to the bathroom all evening. Above all: she was only eighteen after all, and Steven didn’t know if she was all dry. He recalled the commercial he’d seen that evening: one in two at sixteen aren’t. And that was during the day. Should he wake her up? No, that would totally ruin the moment. Besides, despite his readiness to play the dominant part, he could hardly go around commanding a grown woman to go to the bathroom as if she were a toddler.
Steven fell asleep.
2006.
She could hear the shower running. Early morning light streaming through the blinds. Jenny sat up in bed and instinctively felt her padded crotch—dry. But the infinite droplets falling from the showerhead were rapidly intermingling in her mind with the infinite droplets about to fall from her bladder. To say she had to pee was the understatement of the century. Jenny sprang out of bed and pounded on the bathroom door.
‘Oh, honey, it’s just your father in the shower,’ said her mother, who had appeared in the doorway separating the two bedrooms.
‘Please, I really, really need to pee…’ Jenny said, jamming her hand in between her legs, which were proving to be impossible to cross properly on account of the padding.
‘I’m sure your dad will be out in just a minute,’ said her mother.
‘I… don’t have a minute!’ She was now dancing up and down on her toes. In only a night shirt and a baby diaper.
‘Oh honey,’ her mother said, in the tone she used whenever Jenny’d been a little unlucky. ‘You’re wearing protection.’
A tiny trickle was now escaping.
Could there be anything more embarrassing than to be forced to wet yourself in a diaper at sixteen, in front of your own mother?
‘I can’t believe you’re forcing me to…’ she began. Her legs went weak, and as they did, she started to audibly hiss into her padding. Jenny closed her eyes and tried to think of anything—a tropical island, a lollipop, her precious vacation—but the yellowing of her expanding nappy. She was sixteen, and she was having an accident just outside the bathroom door. As the stream drew to a close, as if to punctuate her embarrassment with a grand finale, a tiny rivulet broke lose and ran down her leg.
At that moment, Steven woke up.
2014.
Steven woke up hard. She was still asleep, legs wrapped around his. He felt her groin. Yep. The smell of urine wafted from under the covers, and her side of the bed was soaked. A little bit had gotten on him, too.
Steven was confused. On the one hand, he was used to morning wood. On the other, there was something strangely arousing about his girl there beside him, sleeping like a princess, helpless to control her own bodily urges. Last night she had to have him, and she had him. This morning she had to pee, and she peed. Quickly, though, the cold, clammy, wet reality of the situation set in. His date had pissed the bed and he was lying there partially covered in someone else’s urine, and he had to clean his sheets, and what if his mattress was ruined, and would she ever want to see him again after this embarrassment…
Rather than prolong the inevitable, he shook her awake. ‘Honey?’
‘Huh?’ She had that morning voice that sounds gruff in men, with their deeper voices, but which is irresistibly cute in certain women, to certain men. Clearly the situation hadn’t quite dawned on her.
‘You wet the bed.’
She jolted up, quickly felt under the covers, and then covered her face with her hands.
‘Ohmygod—I’m so sorry—I didn’t realize…’
Two years ago, he would have probably told all his friends the story and they would have all laughed, and none of his boys would ever look at Nina the same again. Or maybe he would have said nothing, simply sent her off in her wet clothes and never called again. But perhaps he had matured in those two years at university. Or perhaps he simply recalled one fateful morning, many years ago…
Whatever the reason, he did none of those things. He simply removed her hands from her face, revealing eyes starting to well up above blushing cheeks, and told her, ‘Honey, it’s going to be okay…’
2014.
Nothing had ever happened between Steven and Anette. They had slept together twice, but never had sex. It was a concept that, to Anette, seemed perfectly reasonable; to Steven, however, it was apparently a major faux pas to cuddle with a girl but not fuck her. Anette had that dirty-blond, blue-eyed girl next door look that half of people seemed to find plain and forgettable, and the other half found almost irresistible. She knew she was desired. Anette didn’t understand it, but according to Steven, if it ever became known that he, a male with a functional penis, had slept in the same bed as her, a female with attractive proportions and a functioning vagina, while not even making a pass at something more than friendship, well, that would be ‘gay,’ and among young men of a certain disposition, to be ‘gay,’ even if one has no sexual attraction to men, is to lose all respect among your peers. She didn’t understand it, but that was how Steven had explained it to her.
Anette was a dry girl. She had potty trained early: by ten, her diapers were so dry they became redundant, and by eleven, she had rid herself of them even at night. Anette was the last person to ask for a break, a rest stop, a visit to the bushes on a hike; that was just how it was. She had only had one accident since she was eleven, and that one had not been quite unplanned. Annette knew that if she didn’t visit the bathroom before bed, she would probably wake up damp; she also knew that if she did visit the bathroom, she could sleep twenty hours and still be dry upon waking. But she had a curiosity bordering on the dirty, the naughty, the forbidden, and one night she gave in to the impulse: she had a big cup of tea before bed and then didn’t go.
Sure enough, in the morning, she woke up with an unfamiliar, damp feeling between her legs: a small crescent moon on her white panties, specially selected for the occasion. The spot was sufficiently yellow to show off her deed to anyone who cared to look, and there was a small spot on the sheets, too. But years of potty training had not been completely undone in a night: she had not released fully. It was early morning, and she still had to pee really badly. Now came the most important step in this experiment in sexual chemistry: the revelation to her boyfriend at the time, Leon. Annette’s bed was so narrow that it only served two if they stacked on top; in other words, it was good for sleeping together, but afterwards, her lovers had either to leave or to sleep in her chair. Now Anette, in revealingly wet underwear, would have to pass by, and probably wake, her boyfriend. This was the real test.
Unfortunately, it didn’t go as she had hoped. Leon had seen her accident and not taken it kindly; he was not in the least attracted to babies, he told her, and he preferred dating women, not girls who wet their beds. That right there was pretty much the end of that relationship.
Even more unfortunately, that had been the most important part of the experiment. It wasn’t the naughtiness of the act itself that was arousing, although there was, at the time, an impulse to stroke herself through her wet panties and come just thinking about the sheer naughtiness of her deed. No, Anette was not exactly into wetting her panties: she didn’t like how it put her at the mercy of others. If her boyfriend had accepted her wetting as sexy, all would have been well, but when he reacted badly, there was hardly anything she could do or say, standing there in soaking underwear with hands clutching to hold back the flood, that would not put her in an inferior or submissive position. Anette liked being an equal partner; she even liked to be the dominant partner, sometimes, taking charge of what went on in bed. But wetting herself, when not seen as sexy, had made her a submissive little girl and nothing she could do in that situation would come off as anything but childish, dependent, or humiliating.
No, Anette’s secret was darker than that: she didn’t get off on pissing her panties, she got off on other girls having accidents. She had hoped that her boyfriend, who had expressed quite an open attitude to sexual deviations—by that she suspected he meant mainly anal, not something that would stimulate her fantasies—would be open to possibly bringing in another girl who was prone to accidents. Anette didn’t see herself as lesbian or bi: she couldn’t get off on the thought of other girls, their bodies, their breasts, their cunts, their eyes or any of the movements that one girl could use to stimulate another. It was purely this fantasy of desperation, of losing control that aroused her.
That was the second night she had slept in Steven’s bed. Some of her female friends could not understand how she could love Steven as a friend: he was an asshole, a lot of the time, and he was also toned and handsome; you either had to fuck him or hate him, pretty much. But Anette did neither, and this night was the perfect illustration of why she kept him around. Steven had broken the bro code. Bros before hoes. Anette had told him, in vague terms, that Leon, a mutual friend, had not treated her well and that was why they broke up; since then, Steven had broken off all contact with Leon. It was apparently unheard of in his circle to choose a girl over a bro, especially a girl you weren’t even sleeping with, but Steven had done it. Perhaps Anette had become a ‘bro,’ too. Although she had no attraction to Steven, that night if he had made a pass at her she would have given herself to him. But he did not, he simply held her until she fell asleep. She woke up dry and happy.
That was several months ago. She had not entirely given up on the idea of finding another girl who was prone to accidents. After all, statistically speaking, there were quite a few of them around her age. It was just a question of finding the right one, the one who would see it as something sexier than an embarrassment or a medical condition. Steven, with whom she had set up and been set up with a number of prospective partners, was her best hope, but she hadn’t found the courage to admit her fetish to him. Not until the perfect opportunity presented itself to her.
Sunday mornings were their usual debriefings: they’d meet up for coffee and discuss the week’s exploits, both personal, educational and sexual. For some reason, Steven had an easy-going tone that made it possible for her to explicitly tell, and be told, of sexual exploits with him. Perhaps it was simply his general attitude of not giving a fuck; an attitude that sometimes extended to rudeness towards strangers, but among friends meant an attitude that whatever was said, he wouldn’t be too judgmental, because fuck it, you live your life, not anyone else’s—something along those lines was what he had said, one time when they were both drunk and talking abstractly and philosophically about life on the grand scale.
This particular Sunday, she had nothing to share on her own, but she was eager to hear how Steven’s date with Nina had gone.
‘So, spill it,’ she said, sipping her coffee and, incidentally, not minding her bladder at all.
‘She’s great,’ Steven said, and smiled in that way of his… What was the word for it—enigmatic? Charismatically mystical? Certainly it said a whole lot without really saying anything at all, so she she had to be blunt.
‘Did you or did you not get it on?’
Steven blushed, which was unlike him. Usually he was the kind to talk loudly in a crowded café about eating out a girl, not minding any curious listeners at all. ‘Yes,’ he admitted. ‘We did, and it was great, but… There’s a but and you have to promise not to tell anyone.’
She had no clue what it might be, but curiosity made her instinctively swear eternal secrecy. ‘Just tell me already, I won’t tell a living soul!’
‘She wet the bed. She pissed all over it, in fact, and she wasn’t blackout drunk either.’
At that moment, everything changed for Anette. Here was her ultimate fantasy, almost in the living flesh: well, through the proxy of her best friend, anyway. But she still didn’t know how Steven felt about it. The possibilities were endless, but only if he was more accepting than Leon…
‘So… What did you do? Will you see her again?’
‘She was so upset, of course. And to be honest, I dunno how I’m feeling about it. I was kind of disgusted at first, but then again I woke up harder than steel. There was something cute about her, too, so helpless and wet. I thought about sending her home, you know, I gotta do laundry, air the mattress, do all this shit just because my date pissed the bed… Do I wanna deal with this shit, should I just tell her to fuck off you know, thanks for pissing my bed, you fucking…’
He trailed off. Anette was on the brink of insanity. She was horny, frightened, curious: whatever came next would be momentous.
‘But then I remembered my sister. You know my sister Jenny? Well, she had her accidents like all girls. And this one time, she must have been like sixteen, we were in an expensive hotel, and my parents made her wear a diaper in case she ruined the bed. It was so embarrassing for her, she was almost an adult and had to waddle around like a toddler, and I had so much fun with it; I hated being the little one, you know, and mocking her for being a baby was so much fun. And she wet the diaper, too: but that wasn’t it. That night I pissed the bed. And after that I could never make fun of her again for her accidents.’
Anette was speechless.
‘So I remembered that, and I remembered my morning wood, and so I held Nina and told her it would be okay. So we got her cleaned up in the shower, put her wet clothes in the washer and I walked her home, dressing her in my old gym outfit. I’m definitely seeing her again. Right now I’m playing the waiting game… How long should I wait to text, to call, so I seem eager but not desperate?’
This opened up a number of possibilities in Anette’s mind. At the same time, she noticed for the first time that she had to pee. The urge had been the kind to build up so slowly she hadn’t even noticed, but now it was there, it was nearing urgency. Not pissing your pants urgency, but priority numero uno is finding a restroom urgency, certainly. In high school biology she had learned that sometimes, that is how girls’ nervous systems work: for some reason, some evolutionary quirk, the nerves between bladder and brain mature more slowly and unevenly in girls than in boys.
There was bound to be a bathroom in this café. It was their usual hangout spot, but with Anette’s strong bladder, she’d never had any use of it and so never learned where it was. She could definitely go right now and ask someone who worked there and the problem would be solved in two minutes. But she didn’t want to end this conversation with Steven, she wanted it to lead in the right direction—the direction that would make her fantasies true. She wasn’t really into holding her pee; it was seeing others do it that did it for her. But in her aroused and confused state, an imp on her shoulder whispered: it’s now or never. If you want your fantasy, you need to show Steven the way. He’s on the fence: he thinks it’s cute and disgusting at the same time. You need to do a bold move if you want him to lean over towards sexy.
Anette rose from her chair, jolting her bladder so much it sent chills down her spine. She made her way to Steven’s side of the table and leaned over conspiratorially: ‘You need to find me a bathroom quick, or I’m going to…’ she couldn’t bring herself to say the word, but it was heavily implied.
Steven looked confused. ‘There’s one right down that hall, I think, just ask the staff…’
Anette scrunched up her face and put on her most babyish pout: ‘But I don’t like going so publicly, it makes me so uncomfortable to know there’s strangers right next to me when I pee…’ This was a blatant lie, and both knew it. Anette had no shy bladder, and when her large bladder needed emptying, she’d go just about anywhere. This had been a bold move on her part: in essence, she had introduced an improvised, sexual roleplay, and now she needed Steven to bite. ‘Yes and,’ never ‘no, but…’ is the main rule in improv, after all. This was the moment of truth: would he yes and, would he go for it, or would he tell his friend to stop being such a klutz and go piss already?
‘Oh… Anette…’ Score. It was the tone he used with girls when he started taking charge and being dominant. As much as she disliked playing the submissive role, if ever she would get the opportunity to live out her fantasy on the dominant side, perhaps she needed to show Steven how much fun it could be.
He took her hand and led her quickly to the counter to pay for their coffees, each step reminding her that, unlike in outer space, here on Terra Mater gravity will exert an almost irresistible force on everything towards its gravitational core. In her case, it meant all the urine in her bladder was being pushed downwards, with each step, towards molten lava, but more immediately towards her lace panties and her tight, white jeans. She could feel the waistband on her pants dig into her bladder; she felt like new muscles were growing inside her with each step, muscles intent on pushing this liquid waste material out of her right now. Steven held her hand like a child while he paid for them both. He never paid for them both, and they only held hands when drunk.
Outside the café, there were no natural places to go. They were on a big public plaza: all around were stores, eateries, hotels, a few business complexes, surely a public bathroom somewhere, but they had already established that those were not an option. They needed to find somewhere secluded, preferably a private home, but both of them lived thirty minutes by bus from here. What had been a fun game in the spur of the moment was rapidly becoming reality: Anette, who was the first in her class to potty train, who had been dry since eleven, might not have thirty minutes left in her.
She didn’t want to be too obvious about her need, but it was necessary to fidget a little to avoid leaks. She realized, too, that she must give Steven a show; after all, that was the purpose of this little game she had deviced. She briefly put her hand on her crotch as a particularly strong pulse ravaged her lower body, and Steven clutched her hand more tightly. ‘We’ll figure it out,’ he said, and she couldn’t tell if he was getting any enjoyment out of this at all.
Not knowing what to do, they started idly walking towards the nearest bus stop. At a street corner, Anette suddenly had to stop and cross her legs, then carefully uncross them to prevent disaster. This reminded her of every leak she ever had since getting dry, the ones no one could call real accidents. In order from least to most embarrassing: twelve years old, forgot to go before school, small spot on her panties while walking towards the restroom between first and second period (dry before she was home); thirteen, family road trip, slight leak towards the tail end of a stretch without rest stops, possible yellowing of the panty crotch but her mother never said anything about the laundry; fifteen, overestimating her iron bladder at the movies and ending up actually squirting in the seat, but she was wearing a skirt (her friend commented that she must have spilled some of her soda); seventeen, skiing trip, heavy snow gear, tough to remove (her mother had hinted that she might have noticed a strange smell at the campfire before Anette finally gave in and ran to yellow the snow); and finally, twenty, when she wet the bed and Leon broke up with her.
This reminiscing did nothing to help her current situation. When they finally got to the bus stop, she was tipping over towards actually, genuinely desperate. Desperate in the sense that she thought she might not make it; desperate in a way she had not intended. She hadn’t really planned this out. Why didn’t she just go at the café? She really didn’t want to wet herself, only give Steven a taste of desperation play. And was he even getting into it? Only one way to find out.
Anette leaned into him, hand in her crotch, and whispered: ‘I think I’m about to have an accident.’ She blushed as she said it. She hadn’t said those words in ten years. She could even recall the exact occasion, although she really didn’t want to right now.
Pressing herself into him more like a lover than a friend—now incredibly turned on by the whole situation, but also incredibly afraid of the consequences, and also confused because where could she direct all this arousal, surely not at her friend whom she had established was purely platonic and also was just getting into a relationship with another girl, a wetter nonetheless—she got confirmation. Voluntary or not, Steven was hard.
‘That’s it,’ he said firmly. ‘We’re going back to that café and you’re going to make it.’
As Anette released her grip on him, she squirted. It was a single spasm and a single ejection of fluid, full velocity towards her underwear; it had such force that the panties could not fully absorb it, and a small flower bloomed between her jeans legs. She was officially having an accident, if only a small one. Yet.
Steven saw it. He was the one guy she knew who always kept his looks at eye level with her; ass, boob or crotch never entered the equation with him. But now he was openly staring at the point between her legs where she had leaked. If this damn show didn’t turn him over to the dark side of wetting, nothing would. She was playing her part perfectly, way too perfectly for her own taste.
Taking her hand, he started striding towards the café as if he had seven-mile boots. She was gonna make it, and he was gonna make her make it. But Anette’s bladder had a mind of its own. Or rather, it had no mind: it had stopped communicating with her brain some time ago, and was now simply a physiological balloon ready to burst in a reaction Anette could neither predict nor control. This was the female evolutionary curse in action as Anette had never experienced it. She was the dry girl, she was the buddy younger girls looked to when setting bathroom schedules and taking their first step out of diapers. Now she was about to be the wet girl.
A stone’s throw before the café, she had an accident. She felt her crotch warm, her jeans start to cling to her inner thighs, her need to go lessen at the same rate as her dignity. Powerless to stop it, she counted in her head: thousand-and-one, thousand-and-two, thousand-and-three, and then it was over. She was back in the driver’s seat again, at least for the moment, but now her accident was undeniable: anyone within a hundred meters could see that she had a wet, semi-transparent streak from a certain private area down her leg halfway to her knee. And still she had to pee, perhaps not as urgently as before, but urgent enough.
‘Oh, Anette,’ Steven said when he saw her accident.
At the doorsteps to the café, another accident. Thousand-and-one, thousand-and-two, thousand-and-three… Thousand-and-eight. Her right leg was now wet to the knee, and still she wasn’t done. After all, she could hold a lot. Come to think of it, she hadn’t been since last night. It wasn’t bladder size that was girls’ problem; it was nerves.
Steven hurriedly led her by the hand past waiters and patrons towards the back, where mercifully there was one bathroom, unisex. He pushed her inside, then stole a quick look to see no one was watching and entered himself.
There it was. Salvation. A toilet. Steven put his hands around her waist and started to undo her jeans buttons. Then it happened. Thousand-and-one… Her last strength leaving her, she started forcefully hissing into her jeans. A trickle reached the floor via her inner thigh and leg; then a waterfall developed between her legs, and it started puddling around her legs so much Steven had to take a step back. Anette wasn’t into wetting; this wasn’t supposed to happen; she wanted it to happen to someone else; she wanted to cry. She was aroused beyond belief.
When she was done, she bowed her head in shame and said: ‘I need a little time alone.’ Steven unlocked the door and promised to stand vigil outside. As soon as the door was closed, Anette sat down on the toilet lid and put her hands down her pants.
When she had come and done, exhausted, she buttoned up her now soaked white jeans and exited. This wasn’t the plan; she had no change of clothes; what should she do?
Steven said the exact words she had hoped to hear: ‘That… That was incredibly hot. I’m so sorry.’
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