Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
(This is a new story which I hope very much that you’ll enjoy. I have already posted it elsewhere but, if you’ve not already come across it, I hope it will give you pleasure. Please be aware though that for reasons of context it contains somewhat stronger language than the majority of my stories. If you’re offended by that sort of thing, please give it a miss. My aim, as always, is to amuse and titilate, not offend.)
Anne’s feet ached, she felt tired and struggled to control the light-headedness which the lack of any lunch had induced. Had anyone suggested in her student days that one day she’d be out canvassing for Woodchester Conservatives, she’d have thought they were stark raving mad! Twenty five years down the line it was a different matter though. In Brian she’d married a man who, though seldom at home, was ambitious if he was anything. A successful businessman, busy councillor and one time town mayor of Attleton Market, his latest project was to try and get himself elected as the MP for Woodchester City. Moreover he’d been successful in getting the local Conservatives to select him as their candidate.
All that remained was the small matter of the General Election which, in 2010, promised to be interesting if nothing else. Anne viewed the whole business with a quiet dread and found it impossible to avoid that sinking feeling which went with the realisation that her destiny was no longer her own. Of course she could have put her foot down and vetoed the whole business, just as she’d said ‘no’ to a second mayoral term, but she also realised that she’d never have heard the last of it. Brian’s heart was set on becoming the new MP and she had at least to do the dutiful wife bit, supporting him as best she could. That support included canvassing, and thus it was that today she’d found herself on Birkbeck Rise, the most unpromising council estate in inner city Woodchester. Local residents hadn’t exactly warmed to her — or rather what she represented — either. In the course of a morning she’d variously been ignored, sworn at, spat on and narrowly avoided being bitten by various dogs.
Aching feet, exhaustion and the light headedness of a lunchless day were not the only things that bothered her though. During the last hour she’d become increasingly conscious of a rapidly filling bladder and had reached the stage where she needed to pee badly. It was rapidly approaching two in the afternoon and she’d not peed since seven thirty that morning kaçak iddaa so it was perhaps not altogether surprising that the need for relief was rapidly becoming urgent. Anne could hold her pee longer and better than most women of her age could claim, but even she had her limits. She knew from long experience that trying to exceed those limits, whether intentionally or unintentionally, had only one consequence — wet knickers. It wasn’t unusual for her to hold too long and wet herself at home when Brian wasn’t around. In fact it made her incredibly horny and she’d often done it deliberately, masturbating as soon as she’d she’d peed herself, and reaching heights of orgasm to which Brian, with the best will in the world, couldn’t possibly take her.
Peeing herself in public though was a different matter. Even in the twenty first century the world judged grown women who openly peed themselves somewhat harshly. The default assumption tended to be that they were either drunk, on drugs or simply unable to control themselves – and she was never any of those things. Anne had observed how the world treated men differently. Although it was technically illegal, she’d often seen men unzip in the pedestrianised city centre shopping area, get their cocks out and just pee wherever they happened to be. Such behaviour was rarely commented upon as remarkable and she’d never seen a guy arrested for it. However if a woman happened to wet herself in public, not a frequent daytime occurrence by any means, she was immediately branded a “dirty bitch,” a “cow,” a “whore” – or something else equally derogatory. It was perhaps not altogether surprising that Anne was determined to avoid wetting herself whilst out canvassing if possible and it was rapidly become apparent that her only option was to knock on a door and ask to use somebody’s loo.
As it happened, the first of a row of bungalows which looked as though their tenants might be mainly pensioners, came in to view and Anne considered her options. That first one looked smart and appeared to have a well kept, if small, front garden. It looked promising, or rather the least unpromising of the lot, and maybe even the home of potential Tory voters. Clutching her leaflets with one hand, and desperate to thrust the other up her skirt, Anne surveyed the lay of the land. Encouragingly there was no sign of a dog in the garden but Anne opened the gate quietly, taking care to leave it off the latch. She was fairly athletic by the standards kaçak bahis of most fortysomethings, but moving quickly whilst struggling to control a full bladder wasn’t her strongest suit. Fighting the urge to reach for her crotch, Anne gingerly tiptoed to the front door and rang the doorbell.
The door flung open and she was greeted by an old man in a tatty, off-white shirt and badly stained trousers, held up by braces.
“What do you want?,” he grunted.
Anne did her best to look and sound composed under the circumstances, but it wasn’t easy.
“I was wondering if I might possibly use your loo. It’s a bit of an emergency.”
The man looked at Anne with disdain but there was a distinct bulge in his trousers which hadn’t been there before she’d mentioned her (now urgent) need of a loo.
“An emergency, eh? How do I know you’re up to no good? Got some ID, woman? If you’re one of them bloody Jehovah’s Witnesses you can fuck off right now.”
After a morning of meeting people of his ilk, Anne was sorely tempted to give him a piece of her mind, but decided that restraint was the better course.
“I’m from Woodchester Conservatives. Look, here’s my card. Perhaps you’d care to take one of our leaflets.”
The man grabbed a leaflet, studied it and scowled.
“Bloody Tories. Hey, you’re the missus of that fat bastard who fancies himself from out Attleton way, aren’t you? I’ve seen your photo in the paper.”
Tiresome though she found the whole election business to be, Anne didn’t like to hear Brian described in such terms and felt that his honour was at stake.
“My husband is a hard working man of integrity who only wants to serve the people of this city. If you care about immigration, jobs, taxes and the proposed rail link from here to London you’ll vote for him. Yes, he caries a few more pounds than he or I would like, but he’s not as fat as some of the idle slobs I’ve seen on this estate.”
The man laughed.
“Integrity? Your lot don’t know what fucking integrity means. Fuck me. What about that bloke out Lincolnshire way on that claimed two thousand quid for cleaning his fucking moat, or the one the claimed for fucking duck houses? They say it’s going to be a hung parliament a fucking good job too. They want to get a bloody big rope and hang the fucking lot of them.”
Anne squared up to the man. She was unused to hearing such language and didn’t intend to demean herself by stooping to the man’s illegal bahis level.
“Sir, my husband cares a great deal about parliamentary standards and, like all the other candidates, he’s committed to making sure that sort of thing doesn’t happen again. Now can I please use your loo? It really is urgent.”
A large spurt of pee escaped into Anne’s knickers, a sure sign she was on the brink of wetting herself completely. Obviously aware of her increasing desperation, the man reached between his legs and played with his penis, caring nothing for the offence that such blatant masturbation might cause.
“No you can’t use my fucking loo. The bloody Tories never did me any favours and I don’t see why I should do them any. I used to have a fucking good job down the pit — a job for life I’d been told and then that bloody Thatcher woman came along and I was out on the scrap heap.”
Another large spurt escaped into Anne’s knickers, indicating that a full on wetting was now only a matter of seconds away. Fighting to control her bladder was bad enough but struggling to keep her temper in the presence of such a foul mouthed, uncouth man was proving barely less difficult. Lewd though his behaviour was, at least he’d stopped short of exposing himself to her, a small mercy under the circumstances.
“Sir, I think you’ll find it was a Mr Scargill who cost you that job for life, not Mrs Thatcher. I was newly married at the time but I remember thinking what a silly, unnecessary, wasteful strike it was. Anyway, that’s a long time ago and we must think about the future.”
The man looked angrily at Anne.
“It is a fucking long time when you’re thrown on the scrap heap at fifty. I’ve not worked since 1986. How the fuck do you think I’ve managed?”
Anne lowered her head.
“On benefits, sir?”
“Yes, on fucking benefits and a reduced pension.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
Unable to hold her pee a second longer, Anne parted her legs and peed hard, her golden stream landing on the concrete of the garden path. The man gave her a black, disgusted look, but couldn’t conceal a certain smugness either.
“Fucking dirty bitch. I’ll teach you to piss on my path.”
Anne looked him hard in the eye.
“I’m sorry sir but I asked to use your loo – and told you it was urgent – but you wouldn’t let me. Actions have consequences, sir, something you seem not to understand.”
At that, the man swung round at shouted into the hallway, “Mary, fetch the fucking dog!”
Abandoning the few remaining leaflets in her possession and still peeing slightly, Anne legged it, grateful that she’d left the gate unlatched.
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32