“Take me home, please,” she says. It’s a request, but it’s also a demand.
She’s leaning against the outside wall of the bar when I step out, next to the door, legs wrapped tightly together. “I have to pee too much,” she says. After squirming for most of the evening, she is still. Her fists are tightly clenched.
I don’t know what this means, exactly, that she has to pee too much. But I don’t need to ask questions.
It’s only a block back to my place. But as we walk, she keeps having to stop and drop into a crouch, fanning her legs, before springing back up again. She’s never not moving. It occurs to me what a good workout her pee-holding sessions must be. She rests her weight on one leg, then the other, then crouches, clamping her legs together, then springs up, raising her right knee up almost even with her hip. I know she’s struggling, but I can’t help finding it a little amusing.
And, of course, terribly arousing.
My eyes keep dropping to her legs to see if I can find any evidence of the droplets I glimpsed in the bar, but I can’t. Her dance is, apparently, working. She’s keeping it in. I wonder for the hundredth time that night about the state of her underwear.
We arrive back at my place. I live in a fourth-floor walk-up — not ideal — and climbing the stairs takes forever. Every now and then she emits a slight whine as we clomp upward. With one floor to go I pause and look back. She’s on the landing behind me, bent slightly, hand between her legs, looking up at me.
“I’m having a hard time,” she says, smiling at the understatement. “I’ve almost peed myself so many times tonight,” she says. “And I almost did again.”
“You’re almost done,” I say. “Almost there.”
She begins to move forward again. I climb the last flight and unlock the door. I step aside just inside the entranceway, holding the door to let her pass, wondering what’s next. She reaches the top of the stairs, and walks, with tiny, stiff steps through the doorway. Then she collapses into me, head on my neck, shimmying pelvis against mine.
“Do you know how bad I have to pee?” she asks.
“Really, really bad?” I venture.
“The worst,” she breaths into my neck. The feeling of her breath makes me shiver.
I wrap my arms around her, and she wraps hers around me. She draws us tightly together, and clamps her legs around my thigh, rubbing herself against it. I feel some moisture through my pant leg, confirming what already seemed almost certain: her underwear is damp. She makes a low sound in her throat.
“I have to pee so bad,” she whispers. “I have to pee so, so bad.” It’s like a mantra, and she continues with it as she grinds herself harder and harder against my leg.
She nods. “I have to pee so bad,” she murmurs again into my neck.
I slide my right hand up her back, tracing it with my fingers — I feel her shiver — over her shoulder, and then down, over her breast, over her belly, down to her bladder. Gently, I trace it with my fingertips. It is rounded and very firm. I apply an infinitesimal amount of pressure and the response is immediate. “Mmmmm,” she groans, burrowing her face into my neck. She bites me a little on my shoulder. I feel my thigh get hot, then cool, right between her legs. She leaked — a short, quick burst, through her underwear and onto my pants. She gasps.
“You’ve gotta pee,” I confirm.
“I have to pee,” she agrees, mumbling again into my neck.
“It’s really bad,” I say.
“I have to pee so, so badly,” she replies.
“Do you want to go?” I ask. I nod down the hall toward the bathroom.
She looks up at me, one raised eyebrow. “No fucking way.”
She turns her head up a bit more, and then kisses me fully on the mouth. Her mouth moves hungrily against mine as she grinds her crotch into my thigh. I respond, first drawing her closer with my one arm and moving my other down from her bladder to her thigh. She breaks the kiss, dismounts my thigh, and takes a half step back. Looking me in the eye, she moves my hand gradually upward to her crotch. It’s warm, and the cotton fabric guarding it is quite wet beneath my fingertips.
I almost cum. She watches my response, eyes gleaming, and smiles. Then she takes a shaky step back. “This situation,” she says, “is too good to waste.”
She reaches behind her. I hear a zipper unzip. Her skirt falls to the ground.
She is standing in a white bodysuit, underwear that reminds me of a leotard. She manages to hold still for a second — ta da! — before she resumes squirming ceaselessly, legs clamped tightly together. A wet circle the size of an outspread hand is between her legs.
“You’re wet,” I observe, somewhat stupidly.
“I have to pee,” she reminds me.
She smiles again, eyes gleaming.
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