Not-So Cliche Summer Part I

I can say with little cessation that some of the best times in my life were as a kid. I remember every summer my Dad would ship me out to my uncle’s farm. There had been a time when I dreaded the experience and pleaded with him to let me stay, yet every time my pleading would accomplish nothing and I would be sent anyway. I detested the trip with such intensity because all it did was destroy my summer –my time to relax – and replaced it with hard work and loneliness. It’s not as though I didn’t love my Aunt and Uncle and didn’t’ want to see them; I just simply wanted to enjoy my vacation. The idea of working from the morning to the afternoon and getting off only to be painfully bored and depressed was not a positive thought, but there did come a day when my feelings changed; it was the day I met Samantha. She made it all worthwhile.

I was still in my early years at the time, so my experience with “women” was quite limited. I mainly hung around boys at home, since having a girlfriend was in an ambiguous state of being unpopular and popular; of course, the silly labels I had to deal with in the city didn’t plague me in the vast countryside. It’s just you, and her. No one watching and no one judging, so if something seems alright, then it is! It doesn’t matter what the people around you say, because simply put, there are none.  There is little question that the sheer isolation helped set the ground for the quest of self-realization and sexual acceptance we embarked on. I must confess that the experience was much more difficult for me, and while I am certainly not complaining, it had a lot to do with the social norms that had been instilled in me and that I had chosen – the best way a boy of my age could ‘choose’ – to live by. I will admit that she could, in some ways, relate to me, since she went to school as well, and just like my school, which was a more urban environment versus her more rural environment, contained misappropriated judgment and the all too true struggle for acceptance.

The first word that comes to mind when I think of Samantha is divine. Her skin was naturally white and pale – much like the robes of an angel – and she had a tan that conflicted delightfully with it, helping balance it out to make it more subtle and alluring, as opposed to attention-grabbing and even somewhat gothic. She had long, straight, blond hair that reached just past her shoulders. I remember her being only a few inches shorter then I was; my best guess would be in the 5’4 to maybe 5’6 range - give or take a few inches. All in all, she had a stunning body, with a flawless face. For someone who worked out on a farm and was well versed in the world of manual labor, her face was incredibly smooth, clean, and well taken care of. She definitely wasn’t like any other girl I had ever met before, that’s for sure.

Every day after working the hours on the farm I was required to, I would go to play with Sam. There were times that I would finish and she would be there at my house, waiting. Other times, I would quickly make my way to her house and find her; regardless of how we met up, we took particular pride in seeing each other at least at one point in each passing day, it was almost ritual. There were, as if with almost all walks of life, exceptions; although, they were once in a blue moon, and whether it was through the window of a car as the other drove away, or a passing glance as one of us was called away moments before we could meet, we almost always managed to see each other at least once.

One odd thing about Sam, and I say this because it further helped differentiate her from the girls I was familiar with, was her choice in apparel. It was more common than anything to see her in shorts, but on more than a few occasions she could be observed in things such as loose-fitting dresses and skirts; which, you must bear in mind to be very odd for a young girl to wear if she is going to be climbing, rolling, and at brief moments, upside down! I, being a boy in the midst of maturity and adolescence, naturally, had nothing against it. I speak with no shame about this now, since looking back, I can say I was merely a curious boy with wondering eyes and precocious sense of discovery, but I did notice one other thing that piqued my interest and toyed with my fluctuating hormones – she never wore a bra. I, at the time, didn’t understand; after all, I didn’t have the knowledge or sense to deduce why she would choose not to, and I didn’t have the courage to ask.

Her choice in attire was one of the big causes of my interest in her. There were times when my youth and innate perversion had gotten the best of me, and I would sometimes talk her into doing things that would afford a good chance of her being physically exposed in some way. She would come outside in a dress or a skirt and I would attempt to lure her to the woods, maybe talk her into climbing a tree –showing me the “proper” method. I would do whatever my growing mind could conceive, while still attempting to deceive her. There were many occasions where I had gotten glimpses of her body, as well as her underwear, but there was one occasion that stood out. I had talked her into climbing a tree, and as I explained before, I used my silver tongue to make her show me the “proper” method. When she climbed it, I took no quarter in my gazing. I could still name the color of her panties on that day, despite how perverse that may sound; although, it wasn’t her underwear which made that day stand out, since I had seen up her skirts and dresses on many occasions. The thing that stood out was, for only a brief moment, she had found herself in a certain position, and due to this position, I was able to stare farther up her dress, and somehow, I managed to catch just a glimpse of her breast.  While that may not sound like much of an accomplishment, I assure you, for me, it was glorious; after all, I had never laid eyes on a woman’s breast before, and as I understood, it was quite a taboo thing to see. There is also my certain proclivity towards the taboo, and while I have no desire to take things farther than necessary, I do happen to be one of the many people hard-wired to find interest in that which is not considered the norm, but I digress.

It was true that I greatly enjoyed the many occasions where she had inadvertently exposed herself, but there were other things as well, things that I had never considered until actually bearing witness to them. One of these things, or rather, moments, happened on a typical day. The sun was shining brightly, and the breeze was helping to off-set the rather harsh and imposing heat. I remember me and Sam doing what we could often be found doing –exploring the woods. While I can’t remember if we were following a familiar path or if we were pioneering a new one, I do remember the grass and brush was very thick and resistant. Sam was in a black t-shirt and a brown, loose-fitting skirt; her hair, as it could often be seen, was tied in a pony tail. I remember at some point she stopped me and told me she had to go to the bathroom. This was in no way suspicious or different to me; we often had to relieve ourselves in the woods. As was the norm, she began to distance herself from me, doing her best to work her way through the opposing brush. I, to this day, do not know if she had simply gotten fed up with plowing through the brush, if she had simply found herself quite suddenly desperate, or if it was a combination of both, but she walked behind a tree that was only a few meters from myself, and much to my amazement and bewilderment, proceeded to squat down and lower her underwear. I could only make out the exposed sides of her that the tree did not cover, so I didn’t see anything amazing, but I could hear, with plain and almost remarkable detail, her urinating. There was something about the hiss that she exhibited, something about the splashing the urine made as it rushed the dirt and slowly pooled together, only to overflow and run downwards, making a small river in-between her legs – at least, I imagine that’s how it happened – that drove me crazy. There was more to it than just the physical attraction though; psychologically, it seemed to be almost invigorating, while simultaneously tranquilizing.  I didn’t understand my pleasure at that time, and I desperately tried to deny its presence. My urge to watch her urinate, it couldn’t be natural, or rather, normal. At the time, my naivety got the best of me, and that is indeed the way I felt about it.

I did, in a lot of ways, become a slave to my desire, which in retrospect, turned out not to be such a bad thing, but at the same time, my rampant urges and thoughts of her urinating and the like, combining with my pining to see her in the nude overwhelmed me with guilt. I feel if things had continued like that, I would have found myself going down a dark road of self-hate and depression, but fortunately, they didn’t. As one thing lead to another and our relationship grew stronger and more complex, I found myself learning independence and confidence in her example.

There was another event, one that occurred not shortly, yet, not long after, the prior. It was another day - blue skies, penetrating heat, and assuaging winds. My Uncle, being the nice man he was, often let me off from work on Saturdays and handled the load himself, as he always did when I wasn’t around, and that Saturday was no exception. Not wanting to waste a minute of day light, I quickly made my way to her house. It was sometime mid-morning when I was knocking on her door. Her dad, a nice man, who was not only friends with my Uncle, but also liked me for my manners and polite ways, answered. He let me inside and told me I could find her upstairs, in her room. With the typical haste of a young and energetic boy, I made my way to her room and saw the door closed. I had, up to that point, never had any sort of experience with walking in on people; in my home, the doors were always locked if someone wanted privacy. As a result of my ignorance, I opened the door, and to my amazement she was in the middle of her room, hair down, a long white shirt draping below her waist, and a white pair of panties just barely visible below the hem of said shirt; coincidentally, her butt was not only facing me, but pointed towards me as well. She was bending down, and I watched as she quickly pulled up a pair of tight, white shorts up and over her shirt. She must have heard me, because as she pulled the pants up, she turned back and looked at me. I couldn’t think to utter anything other than a quick sorry. After seeing what I did, I quickly closed the door and stood flustered. I heard her voice, calm and without apprehension or embarrassment, tell me that I could come in. I opened the door as she buttoned her shorts.  I repeated that I was sorry, but she didn’t seem too bothered by it. She told me it was fine and that I could have a seat on her bed, she was still getting ready.

I could see from where I was sitting the upstairs bathroom. I saw her approach it, even walk in, but mere moments before she flicked on the light and closed the door, her dad’s voice rang through the house. He was calling her. With only a moment’s hesitation, she heeded his call and exited the bathroom to go find him downstairs. With her out of sight, I found myself overrun with deviant thoughts, and lacking the experience and discipline to will them off, I acted on them. I quickly made my way over to the dirty pajamas sitting on the floor of her bedroom; they were purple with a yellow star design repeated many times over. I wasn’t entirely sure what it was I going to do, but I did know that I wanted to find her panties. If upon finding them all I did was touch them, then so be it; the fact was, I had an uncontrollable urge to do so, and I needed to act on it. With a quick raise and examination of the pajama pants, I was initially disappointed. She didn’t appear to have been wearing panties, or she was possibly still wearing the same ones. My disappointment quickly shifted to excitement when I made another interesting discovery: the inside of her pajamas were damp! My first thought was that she had wet the bed, but that didn’t make sense. The dampness only covered the crotch area. It hadn’t run down her legs, up her front, or more appropriately, her backside.

I remember looking out her doorway nervously. It had only been a few seconds, but I was terrified she could walk in at any moment. With that fear in mind, I figured I should probably make the experience quick, while still making the best of it; after all, I didn’t know when a similar opportunity would occur. I, lacking any better ideas, grabbed the crotch of the pajama pants. The fabric was cool and wet, and oddly arousing. I then set the pants down in a fashion similar to how I had picked them up, and retreated over to the bed to ponder what had just happened. Despite my intense and evident arousal, I did not have any physical reaction to the event other then minor shacking –which was more related to the nervousness.

I sat patiently on her bed and awaited her return. I thought about the event, and played with the consideration that I could have sat there, touching and feeling them so much longer - if only I had known when she would have made it back. In the time waiting for her return, I pondered what the wetness was and how it had gotten there. Much to my disappointment, I figured it was possible she had simply spilled any old liquid there. I very much wanted to believe it was urine; it just didn’t seem very possible. I then had an idea, I could smell it, or rather, I could have. It was too late then, since she was due back at any moment… then I remembered something. I had grabbed the area with my entire hand! There was no doubt that the smell, assuming it was indeed urine, would still be there. So, I quickly brought my hand up to my nose and inhaled. The smell was somewhat pungent, and while it was not as obvious as I had originally assumed it was going to be, I was able to conclude that it was urine. How it had gotten there was a completely separate matter though.

She eventually returned and joined me in her room. She was holding two glasses filled with what I quickly deduced to be lemonade. Even so early in the day, the drink was still refreshing, and was a sure fire way to fight off the predictable summer heat. After handing me my glass, she took a few large sips of hers, set it down, and walked over to the mass of clothes I had fiddled with earlier. My heart almost skipped a beat as I struggled to not start coughing up the lemonade I was attempting to drink. She picked up the clothing and nonchalantly placed it in the hamper. It was apparent she didn’t suspect a thing, and for all she knew, neither did I. I remember after that, she went back downstairs for a couple minutes, being sure not to rudely leave me in her room alone for a long period of time. When she returned, she finished the last bit of her lemonade and we headed out.

After leaving, we quickly discussed what we would do, and the answer seemed all too commonplace – the woods. We would head to the stream, and instead of stopping as we typically did, we would go past it and continue into the woods – area that was mostly unexplored for us. The stream was a decently deep, but slowly moving, river that we both loved not only for its aesthetic value, but because we were free to swim in the mostly clean and unpolluted water. Going past the stream was somewhat difficult for us since it was a pretty remarkable distance away, and while going there was not normally an issue, going past could run cause minor issues since we not only had to be home before nightfall, but because the brush was quite a bit more dense on ‘the other side’ – as we called it. Despite the decent expanse we had to cross, we arrived there not to long after leaving, and that was when things really started to get interesting.

Upon reaching the stream we went straight to the bridge of small slippery rocks that offered unstable crossing from one side to the next. While it may not have been the most secure passage way, it was the only one that didn’t involve swimming, and since the worse that could happen was slipping into the river and getting wet; we figured we were better off trying our best and at least having a chance at not getting soaked, instead of just jumping in the water from the get-go. Fortunately, our many experiences of climbing, jumping, and avoiding in the woods had trained our agility and tact to the point where we had little trouble getting across. I found her leading the way, which was pretty common. We typically alternated with her doing it far more often since she was significantly more seasoned in the wild. As she stretched her legs from one rock to the next, my eyes glued to the well defined butt contained in her tight, white, shorts,  I heard her utter something of how she should have went to the bathroom before coming out. She didn’t say it in any sort of desperate manner, but rather in a faux-annoyed and somewhat humorous fashion, but despite the fact she wasn’t desperate and would, with almost undeniable confidence, make it across the stream to relieve herself the conventional way – out of sight and out of clothing – I couldn’t deny my instant fascination and peculiar arousal. I did my best to focus on crossing the stream, but it was hard. My eyes were now glued on her butt not only for the purpose of pure admiration and desire, but now, I had glorious images of her pants becoming suddenly saturated and of urine running down her legs, all as she stood with her legs spilt, completely unable to do anything in such a compromising position.

We both, unfortunately and fortunately, made it across the stream completely dry, and in more than one respect. I had expected her to excuse herself, but she didn’t; she only continued to lead me through the woods. While the thought of her desperate to urinate was arousing, knowing that she wasn’t in enough need to casually excuse herself was somewhat disheartening; of course, the very fact she had to urinate at all was still better than nothing, even if it wasn’t that badly. As we progressed into the woods, I soon realized my assumptions were simply mere ignorance, for it did appear as though she needed to ‘go’, but for some reason, she didn’t. Several times throughout our walk I would hear her give off a slight moan, or maybe complain about her desperation, and her outgoing nature regarding her bathroom related needs only grew more intense as the walk persisted. Whenever we would stop, her legs would come together like oppositely charged magnets and she would subtly bounce up and down, legs rubbing together, as she looked for the next direction to go. I, at the time, had no idea why she didn’t just excuse herself; it wasn’t as if she hadn’t done it without hesitation many times before, but I was too young to really factor in the many reasons why she might purposefully delay it; after all, it seemed rather odd to me, since in my school and around my neighborhood at home, people never really did things like that – in my presence at least - and because of that, I had never actually witnessed an accident happen.

I remember my hands shaking as the situation steadily dragged on and as she grew progressively more weighed down. The way I felt is still, to this day, somewhat hard to describe: it was anticipation, obsession, desire, and even vulnerability. It was almost as if I would do anything to see her lose control, but conflictingly enough, I didn’t wish any embarrassment or pain on her; I just simply could not get over the psychological, and to a lesser extent, physical, need to see her wet herself, or to at least watch her urinate. So, with my conflicting feelings flying around in my head, running into and bouncing off my other fantasies and desires, I followed her and watched. I did my best, for the length of the event to not come off as too distracted, aroused, or consumed. Every once in awhile she would state her desperation, she would tell me how badly she had to go, and on a few enthralling moment she would utter something of how she was about to wet herself; I would respond with something simple and generic, something showed I wasn’t thinking too intently about the event. I would give her legitimate advice – advice I with agonizing propensity willed for her to ignore – to go to the bathroom before she lost control. Luckily for me, she always chose to ignore that advice.

There, after much anticipation, came a point where I knew things could not possibly go on much longer; something I recognized as both a blessing and a curse. It had gotten to the point where she was not only consistently stopping to make sure nothing unplanned slipped out, but to where her hands were taking turns in helping in the large task of ‘holding it in.’ Finally, my eyes scanning over her, always coming back to her delightfully formed bottom, I saw her step up on a fallen tree. She had done it merely to travel over it, and I find it almost ironic that, given its small size, if she hadn’t been so desperate, she may have been willing to just completely stretch her legs over it and avoid the resulting problem entirely, but due to her added pressure on the rotted and old slab of wood, it cracked below her feet, and she slid, with no injury, but with compromised balance, to the ground. The fall itself was small, and she managed to remain standing, but the sudden shock was where the real ‘problem’ lied. I heard her gasp loudly and I quickly asked her if she was alright, and over my voice, certainly a sound I focused more on when I finished my question, was an intense, yet quiet hissing noise. She stood there, not facing me, and not saying a word. My mind, judging by the noise, instinctively knew what had happened: she had lost control. I stood there, mirroring her actions of silence and stillness, watching as the object of my young and underdeveloped desires peed on herself. I could see in my mind the sight of her white panties getting drenched by the flowing stream of urine; soon overflowing on to and out of her shorts, but I didn’t have to imagine the second part, for I could see it happening in front of me. A fantasy I had for so long desired with bittersweet resolve. I watched as the bottom of the shorts became quickly saturated and a single line of urine began to run down her leg. Soon, the wetness began to expand up her back area slightly as a stream of urine started to cascade straight from the crotch of the shorts to the ground, arching back and forth from her left leg. During the event, more streams, each of shifting intensity, formed on her legs, slowly making their ways to the ground. I remember looking at her feet, and what was not absorbed by her socks caused two slightly different sized puddles to form at her feet, one puddle for each foot.

I don’t know if it for was anatomical reasons, or if she had simply given up any desire to prevent the accident after it had begun, but for what seemed to be the entire calamity, her legs were spread a very natural distance apart. To me, and possibly to her, the event itself seemed to go on forever, but in reality, it finished quite quickly; this was mainly because, as I said before, she didn’t appear to making any attempt to stop the already out of control incontinence, so the stream remained hard and fast throughout – quickly draining her bladder of its contents.

When the torrent of urine finally came to a slow stop, she slowly turned around to face me. I wasn’t sure what to expect. I didn’t know if she would be mortified, amazed, or crying; after all, while it was true I knew her well, I didn’t know her that well. This all happened on my first summer after meeting her. I found myself quite relieved when she turned around, her cheeks red, but a surprised smile on her face. She seemed to have taken the event in stride, and in reality, thought it was hilarious. I didn’t have the courage to ask her why she held so long, but she did, on her own discrimination, decide to tell me that she was planning to go right after crossing over that tree, but the fall had scared her, and before she knew what was happening, it was too late. It was the first time I had ever witnessed an accident, and even now I can appreciate how fun and astonishing the event was; of course, it certainly wouldn’t be the last.