Good Times

 

This story is based on true events with my ex-girlfriend. I only added and changed parts that she did not tell me about. For example, her taking the garbage to the curb. When I was told she was taking out the garbage, she didn't specify exactly what she was doing, so I had to improvise in some minor respect for consistency. The outcome was not changed. Please inform me of any errors. Thank you!

 

 

 

When we got together, I remember wondering how I ended up with someone so beautiful. She had dark hazel eyes, long black hair, and a button-like smile. She was not out of shape, but she had a small pudge on her stomach and hips a bit wider than she liked. Her face was always decorated with a soft, vulnerable expression, no matter how she felt. She had the features of a well-off Hispanic girl, but with misleading, milky-white skin. She tanned easily, but it never seemed to stay.

 

        She didn't share my fetish, but she did care enough about me to do little things. She would gladly tell me of the many times she had found herself desperate or leaking and she always kept me updated. I think towards the latter half of our relationship some of the moments were staged, but not quite faked. I believe she would put off going to the bathroom or drink just a little more than was needed so she would find herself in a position of dancing and shuffling - sometimes in public, sometimes not.

 

        The times she was most susceptible to leaking - or as it seemed to me - was when she went out running. She didn't involuntarily leak very often; it normally only happened when she lost control, but was close enough to the toilet to prevent an accident. Of course, like most things in life, there are exceptions. One of the most erotic things that I can remember was on Valentine's day, during one of those infamous runs.

 

        If memory serves, it was a Sunday. She woke up in the late morning, sometime around 10:00 or 11:00. She laid for about twenty minutes before sitting up, letting her eyes adjust to the soft light which poured in her window. She uncovered herself when she sat up, exposing her naked body (she always slept in the nude). She stood up and yawned. Her bare breasts contorted and giggled as she rose both arms in the air and stretched. She walked over to the light-blue shorts and the dark-green, cotton t-shirt that sat on the ground and put them on. The shirt went over her head and concealed everything down to her belly-button, stopping right above the pelvic area. The shorts then covered the rest of her nudity, not going lower than her delicious, Greek thighs. Without any underwear, her nipples were constantly visible through the thin-fabric, and in the right position, the loose-fitting shorts could easily compromise her lower parts.

 

        She left the room and headed straight for the bathroom. She urinated for a some time before pulling up her shorts and washing her hands. She enjoyed breakfast, drinking down a full glass of orange juice at its end - a Floridian cliche. As she washed her dishes, she planned her next action. She wanted to see me, but it was still early and there were other things that needed to be done. It made more sense to get them out of the way first, lest they interrupt our time together. She thought about grabbing a shower, but it made more sense to go running first. The hot, Miami sun was bound to leave her in need of a shower.

 

        The cotton shirt and the loose shorts were replaced with a high-cut, black bra, some snug,  faded-black shorts, and a black t-shirt. Then, she thought about me: she drank another glass of water before slipping on a pair of black, bikini-style panties. I've never been good with materials, but I believe they were some blend of nylon; they were softer than cotton, but not quite as elegant as silk. It was rare that she wore panties. She usually only did it during her "time of the month," but she knew that I loved them, and she figured that a little extra protection during the run couldn't hurt.

 

        After putting her shorts back on, she grabbed her keys and left the house. Sitting down in her car, she could already feel the liquid filling her bladder. It was not at all bad, but she knew that by the time she was done running, she would be in more than a hurry to get home. Not wasting anytime, she drove to the park; it was maybe ten minutes away with Miami traffic.  

 

        When she got there, the urge had increased slightly. It wasn't enough to make her outwardly desperate, but it was enough to constantly remind her of her state. After each lap she completed, she would find herself back at the car, taking a drink from her water bottle. It only took one lap for her to notice a surprisingly large change in her need. Her legs started to gravitate toward one another, and there was a slight, bittersweet pang of desperation constantly being emitted from her upper pelvic area.

         

        As she went for another lap, she started to regret her brashness. It was rare for her to drink so much before running, and she could remember occasions where she had drank far less and just barely made it to the toilet. Would she make it home? Yes, she would make it home - she had too - but it wouldn't be the first time she would have to leave early and possibly make a mad-dash for the commode. It didn't matter, though. Regret was pointless; what's done is done, and as long as she made it home in time, it didn't make a difference.

 

        By the end of the second lap, she stood at her car, clutching her water bottle, wondering if she could take any more of the liquid. She didn't dare spread her legs standing still, and performing any act of desperation would have been too embarrassing - despite her shamelessness. She considered getting in the car and leaving. She was confident she could make it home in time, but that was too easy. She had come with the intention of gaining a story she could tell me, and she wanted it to be a good one. She knew that running one more lap would take about fifteen minutes. With a notable lack of confidence, she figured she could make it all the way around dry, but the ride back might get her.

 

        She ultimately decided on doing one more lap. Once she finished, she would get in the car, speed home, and pray she made it to the toilet. The run itself left her with mixed feelings. Part of her was glad that she had decided to do it, knowing that the story would bring me a lot of pleasure, but another part of her second-guessed it. Each step sent made her bladder clench and brought her urine just a little bit closer to spilling out without control. She originally thought the beginning steps of her third lap would be the worst of it, but she was mistaken. As the minutes ticked on, each impact of her foot with the ground left her a little closer to losing control. Every jolt brought her pee a little closer to escape. It eventually got to the point that she was waiting - almost expecting - to leak. The urine was at the very bottom of her system and making a little release involuntarily would have been no great feat.

 

        After roughly seven minutes into the third lap, she started to feel waves of desperation wash over her. Each one seemed to whisper into her ear for release. It told her to go for just a second, that she would feel better and that I would love to hear about it; but her social instincts prevented the shameful act. The waves got progressively stronger, and when the run was almost over, she was met by one more intense than any before it. She instantly knew this one was different, and any normal person would have slowed down, if not stopped and resorted to holding themselves. She, however, kept running; almost through pure stubbornness and willpower. But her efforts were in vain: a bit of urine forced its way out.  

 

        She was surprised by the sudden dampness of her underwear. She hadn't faltered for a second, yet the fresh pee dripping from her womanhood begged to differ. She wanted to know what had happened, but there was no time to consider the matter. Another surprise was already in the works. She felt - just for the slightest of seconds - her muscles contract. A quick burst of urine was released, soaking the underwear and possibly leaking through. This time she looked down at the shorts, but quickly returned to looking straight ahead. The last thing she wanted to do was draw attention to herself or her possibly wet shorts. Before she could completely regain control of herself, another, smaller burst of urine left her. She felt two streams run down her left leg as she continued to run. It was apparent that her panties were now dripping wet and her shorts were at least dampened.

 

        The release in urine had helped dissipate her desperation slightly, but each step was still a trial against her willpower. The bottom of her shorts were wet and she could feel the moistened fabric rub against her leg. Her cheeks were a bit flushed and she had begun shaking. She managed to hold it all in until she made it to her car. When she sat down she exhaled heavily and examined her shorts. They were definitely wet, but it didn't seem too visible. It was likely no one had noticed. This had relieved her, but she was still a bit hyped up on adrenaline, and her urge to urinate was still remarkable.

 

        She drove off, shifting frequently in her seat and keeping her free-hand mashed into her crotch. The ride home was about ten minutes, and despite the fact she was no longer running, there were more than a couple of moments where she almost lost control. When she pulled up to her house, she noticed her dad's car was currently in the driveway. She couldn't block him in, so she had to park by the curb, go inside, get the keys from her mom, move his vehicle, park her vehicle where his was, and then park his directly behind it.. This was all done while she was not only trying to hide her desperation from her mom and anyone who could have been watching, but also while she was trying to keep from wetting herself. Fortunately, the urge had temporarily subsided; and while it was not enough to keep her from cramming her hand inbetween her legs when she was in a car or from performing quick dances when she was out, it was, however, just enough to give her a bit of false-confidence.

 

        When she got both the cars in the driveway successfully, she scrambled out and headed for the bathroom. Before she could get into the sanctuary to relieve herself, she was stopped by her mom. The garbage needed to be taken out. She could have gone to the toilet first. Certainly it wouldn't have been an issue. But she thought of me and she thought of how she wanted to go the whole nine-yards. She had done so much; why stop before the story was complete?

 

        She soon started to wonder if she had made the right decision. Her bladder ached and her desperation was growing exponentially fast. Suddenly, she wasn't sure if she would even make it. She quickly brought the bag of garbage to the curb, still aware of the moistness of her shorts. She was experiencing another wave of desperation, but this one, much like the one that inspired her leak, felt different. It felt as though it were less merciless, less forgiving. When she stopped at the curb, she shuffled her feet back and forth; when she discarded the bag, both of her hands pressed into her crotch. It was a last ditch effort to prevent an accident. She no longer cared if someone saw her desperate; it was better than them seeing her have an accident.

 

        She walked as quickly as she could to the front door of her house. She thought about dropping her pants behind a bush and just letting loose, but she was too close to the toilet to resort to such a thing. As she walked in the house, her mom looked at her with mild amusement and skeptism: her daughter clutching at herself, desperately trying to reach the toilet. It didn't matter, though. She instinctively knew that soaking her pants and making a mess on the floor was far more embarrassing and troublesome than putting on a display. So she ignored her laughter and kept on toward the toilet.

 

        The door to the bathroom was almost in sight, but she didn't know where her dad was. She knew that if he was in the bathroom, even if it was only for a few seconds, it would be all over. She would stand in front of the door pissing all over the place, drenching her shorts and panties. Fortunately for her, he was not. She flew in the bathroom and slammed the door behind her. She flicked on the light and darted towards the toilet. She could feel her urine about to shoot out, not caring whether or not her pants were at her ankles or that her butt was on the seat. When her pants had reached her upper thighs and her butt was just above the toilet seat, she lost it. If she had been delayed for even a second she would have added to the wetness in her clothes, and a few seconds would have been an accident.  

 

        She spent the next minute peeing quickly and heavily, reflecting on how close she had come to peeing herself not only in public, but in front of her parents.