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Finally back at my hotel you hobble across the deserted lobby, hanging onto me. You’re bent far forward, cute breasts thrust out. Your bladder is so, so very stretched out, aching, straining, bulging visibly in your abdomen in the visible inch of bare flesh between your shirt and the jean cutoffs.
And then the feeling in your little pussy, like a white hot knife blade pressing down from inside, that enormous quantity of pent up pee needing to get out of your little burning pee hole. Your whole body is trembling. Your inner bare thighs and the crotch of your denim shorts are wet, your free hand straying unashamedly to clutch your crotch and squeeze. The desk clerk looks up and stares, but you’re past caring.
You’ve leaked a little. You know I don’t like it when you leak and you’re wondering if I’m upset with you. You know I want you to control your need to pee, to squeeze hard and save every drop for me, and you’re trying, really trying. You can barely walk but I’m pulling you, dragging you to the elevators and pressing the button.
But let’s back up. How did you get this way? You certainly knew when we went out tonight that you’d be holding as much as you possibly could for me. You live in the Silicon Valley area, and I visit the area fairly regularly on business. We met via the Internet and have hooked up three times before. We’re now comfortable with each other and we know we love the same thing- I love to make you wait, and you love to be forced to hold it. And then we fuck, but do we fuck.
I’ve come into town tonight and called you. We’d already arranged to go out, and I told you to wear a denim miniskirt and a t-shirt, very casual. I pick you up around 9:30pm in my rental car. You look hot, cute pink Converses with short ankle socks with lace, very short denim skirt showing off your long California legs, and a cute little girly looking t-shirt, not loose, but not skin tight, showing me the bulge of your proud little titties and letting just a little tummy peek out.
After a little hi-how-are-you small talk I get right to the point. “So, you’ve been avoiding sex like a good girl, right.”
Giggling, “Yes. I’ve been a very good girl.”
“How many days?”
“Seven days now. Nothing. Nada.”
“Not even any little tiny masturbation incidents you need to tell me about?”
“No, I’ve been good. I swear. Oh but Sean, I tell you, am I super horny. I almost lost it last night trying to get to sleep. Thinking about tonight.”
“But you didn’t, right?”
“No. I told you I was good. But I’m going to be very bad tonight.” You push your arms together to make your breasts push out, and wiggle back and forth flirtatiously.
We’re pulling into the parking lot of a local pool hall. I ask if you’ve drunk anything before I picked you up.
“Of course, baby. I had a big glass of water like you asked. I don’t have to pee yet, though.”
We go in and find a table. The waitress takes our order. We both order beers, and I ask the waitress to also bring you a glass of water as well.
We sit and talk. You’re a pile of fun, a bright girl with a lot of personality. We catch up on life in general while we sip beers, occasionally slipping back into sex talk a bit, but mostly just relaxing, having a nice time. After a bit your bladder is starting to swell. It’s still the early stages, more an annoyance so far. It doesn’t start to feel fun until the urge is really getting strong.
More beer and more conversation. Finally I say we’re leaving and we wander out to the car. You’re starting to really feel it now, and you tell me so.
“Oh, I’m starting to need to,” you say as you slip into the passenger taksim escort seat. You give me a few cute little butt wiggles. You’re excited now. It’s starting to get to the full point where it’s fun. You’re horniness is increasing, from the beers, from the growing fullness in your bladder, and from the excitement of another night with your crazy Internet lover.
I’m taking you to a kinda redneck joint tonight. It’s not totally redneck. A lot of those yupster Harley owners mixed in with real bikers, and normal folks, pretty blue collar. Not exactly our usual hang, but you know by now that I’ll surprise you somehow. We pull into the parking lot. We exchange a few kisses in the parking lot and I slide my hand under your skirt, pushing your panties aside, and slip a finger into you. You moan. It feels so good to get some attention down there in pussy-land. I feel the firm surface of your rapidly filling bladder, and you groan quietly as my finger presses against the inner surface of your plump little reservoir. You feel a little bigger than a softball. You’re getting firm but not hard yet. Now me, I’m hard. But you, you’re going to have to hold a lot more still.
We enter the bar. Folks in the bar already have a bit of a buzz on, and you get a number of admiring glances as we walk across the bar. We find a table. It’s about 11pm now, and this bar happens to have that classiest of events, a wet t-shirt contest, starting at midnight. After I get another beer into you and you’re starting to get visibly a bit drunk I tell you that you’re going to need to go and sign up for the contest. At first you think I’m kidding. You are so completely not the type of girl that normally enters wet t-shirt contests. But I’m insistent, you’re buzzed, and finally you relent.
You have to go bad now, and you’re feeling somewhat trapped by all this. You’ve gone over and given your name to the guy with the clipboard. When you have to go bad, you like to think that you can always escape quickly if you have to, but now you’re feeling caged, cornered. Now you’re really stuck.
Back at the table you’re starting to try to pace yourself, but I’m urging you to drink faster. To distract you, I ask you if there seem to be any other guys in the bar you’d like to “do.” You’re so horny from a week without an orgasm you’re feeling pretty receptive. But there’s one guy in particular you point out. Dark hair, about 30, side burns a little long but it looks good on him. Plain black t-shirt and black jeans. Just looks like a well-built nice looking normal guy, handsome, maybe boyish crossed with a little bit of dangerous. I tell you to try to catch his eye. You watch him until finally he catches you staring. His eyes run over your body. I tell you that I can tell he likes what he sees. You feel some nice tingles in your pussy; momentarily distracting you from the increasing dire need for a bathroom.
It’s almost midnight. You really, I mean really, need to pee now. It’s all arriving down there right on cue. You beg me to take you outside to let a little out before the contest starts. You know there’s no way I’ll let you go in a bathroom. So you’re promising me all sorts of things, to pee in all sorts of weird places, if I’ll just let you go outside and find a place to do a little. I tell you to just cross your legs. They’re about to call the girls up for the contest. I slip my hand under the table and give you another one of my quick check-ups. Your bladder wall is rock hard now. I’m very excited knowing how badly you have to go.
You’re in a weird state. You’re frankly excited about getting up and showing off for all the men in this bar. There is some of your typical Harley looking kadıköy escort guys there, and there are a lot of cute, younger athletic looking guys as well, and then there’s your guy in black. The beer is making you feel pretty buzzed now. And you have to piss like a racehorse.
Damn, if only you could just get rid of a little of that before having to stand up and dance. You feel anxious, bursting, and trapped one minute, and drunk, crazy and “what the fuck” the next minute.
They’re calling the girls now. You join a group of other drunken girls and are taken back to a dressing room where you’re given t-shirts with the name of bar and told to change, shedding those bras of course. And then there’s what seems to be an interminable wait for things to start. Some bozo announcer needs to stand up and make a bunch of dumb announcements and jokes first. You hear a couple of the other girls say that they have to pee. They’re jiggling around, doing the little wiggle dance. They have no idea. Your bladder is sending electrifyingly urgent messages to your brain. “Gotta pee, gotta pee, gotta pee,” you’re repeating to yourself silently.
Finally you’re all going out and being led to the stage. Music is playing, guys are yelling, everyone is drunk. You’ve got your beer in your hand- you haven’t been drinking it back there- but now you’re taking some more quick gulps for courage.
All the girls are onstage. They range from really pretty, to skanky looking, and they’re all drunk and dancing as you line up on stage. You look at the two other girls who needed to pee. They’re looking a little white faced, strained smiling. Maybe you do have some company up there.
You try to get on the end of the line you hope will be called first. Once that water is on you, at least no one will be able to tell if you start to wet yourself, you reason. The girls are being called up, each trying to outdo the last, lifting their tops, flashing their tits, and dancing as raunchily as they know how.
You’re waiting in line, concealing your teeth-gritting need to pee with something akin to normal dancing. You take the last gulp of your beer. You see one of the other girls who need to pee badly go up there. She looks very nervous. The cold water hits her chest and she shrieks. She dances, but more restrained than the other girls, keeping her legs together, but proudly showing her cute titties briefly to the cheering, horny guys. But she looks far from relaxed. Shit, maybe she is as bad off as you are, you think. When she’s done she doesn’t get back in line-she runs for the side of the stage and disappears, still soaking wet, into the ladies room.
You’re finally being called up. You’re in a dream, you feel excited, brazen, slutty. Your pussy is tingly and hurting like hell with pee-need at the same time. You feel like you’re right on the edge of wetting yourself. The icy water hits you and you begin to gyrate. You’re moving, grinding your hips, but you concentrate on squeezing your knees together to hold back the bladder spasm caused by the cold water. You’re lifting your shirt, teasing, giving the guys a flash and then a good look at your pretty little tits. And then you’re becoming bolder, spreading your legs suggestively in spite of the agony, moving in a slow grind, feeling that intense need to urinate and turning that intensity into an excruciating, grinding dance in front of a room full of horny males. They all want to fuck you, they want so bad to fuck you, and you’re up there, totally being the slut they want to fuck, and grinding your aching, exploding bladder in little sensuous circles as you lift you skirt to show your panties, and that tiny halkalı escort bayan patch of cloth between them and your overwhelming pent up need. Your pelvis has a mind of its own, writhing from the pee need. You pass your hand over your crotch, indulging in grabbing yourself, squeezing your aching pussy. God, it feels so good to momentarily hold yourself and press hard against your pussy with your fingers, squeezing your aching pussy. Guys are going crazy; loving it- and then your turn is over.
Back in the line you’re shivering. The moment is over now and there’s nothing to distract you from the pee need. You’re still dancing, more squirming really, soaked from chest down, your nipples fiercely hard through the thin wet cloth. And now you know you can get away with it and no one will ever know. So as you sway back and forth, you relax and release. It takes a few seconds, but no more, and then you feel the first squirt of warm relief, right up in front of everyone. You squeeze off the flow as quickly as it started. Uuhh, the agony of squeezing back once you’ve started. And then you’re squirting again. Sweet blessed relief. You fight to stop again. You glance down. No one can tell. You’re dancing, there’s water everywhere. Another little squirt won’t hurt. Mmmm… Sweet blessed, blessed pee relief. It’s odd; you’ve had several good squirts but it’s still not making a dent in your distended, straining bladder. The pee need doesn’t seem to be going down, but every little squirt is like heaven. It’s like those dreams where you can’t find a bathroom, but even when you find one and dream you’re peeing, the feeling doesn’t get any better.
Now they’re ready to judge the winner. The girl who left the stage is back, looking much happier. Her friend is still on stage, looking very on edge. Is she suffering like you? Is she wetting too? All the girls are showing their stuff one last time trying to remind the guys who to yell for. You’re grinding again, lifting your shirt, and showing your sexy, sexy body. And then wringing water out of your soaking shirt so that it runs down your bare thighs to cover, you release another delicious bold long, delicious squirt as you dance, a gusher, warm, like a little orgasm, slutty little t-shirt queen up there peeing a little puddle onstage and no one knows. No one- except for me.
You come in second, and get to go up front one more time and take your check from the obnoxious MC, doing one last little bit of dancing for the fellas. You’ve finally taken just enough of the edge off your bladder now that you’re relaxed, completely into being little miss slut and giving those guys something to fantasize about later.
You come back to the table. I’m proud of you, and I congratulate you, handing you another beer, of course. We’re laughing, you of all people in a wet t-shirt contest and winning 2nd place.
And then I ask if you were peeing up there.
“What? Are you crazy?” you reply.
“I know you were peeing up there. Now tell the truth.”
A long stare. You look a bit petulant, trying to decide whether to keep lying. You can’t decide if this will piss me off or now. And plus you’re feeling a bit proud, a bit sassy, having won 2nd and all. “Tell me the truth,” I insist.
“OK, well maybe a little slipped out,” you finally admit, smiling impishly.
“Oh yeah, some slipped out. You know I like you to save it all for me, don’t you?” I’m still smiling, but there’s an edge to my tone now. You look a little nervous. And then I laugh. “Damn, girl, up there in front of everyone just having a little potty break. You are a piece of work.”
And then we’re both laughing about it, at the audacity of it.
I lean toward you and whisper, “But that’s it until we get home. No more. OK?”
“I’ll try,” you say. Suddenly you’re back to the reality that you really are still quite full. Yes, you took the edge off, but we’re not near last call yet.
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32