Sandy had always had her little kinks. Doesn’t everyone?

Her favourite one was innocent enough; it hurt no one and afforded her a certain enjoyment. Well, to be honest, a wickedly intense, deliciously satisfying enjoyment. Sandy was Sandy, after all.

She saved it for Saturdays. Saturdays because she didn’t have to go to work. Saturdays because, because, well, Saturday was her day for doing it.

Sandy always woke needing the bathroom. Needing a pee, sometimes needing it very badly. Doesn’t everyone? But Saturdays she didn’t go, not for a while anyway. Saturdays, she got breakfast before she went. A toasted bagel and bacon and a pot of tea and a tall glass of orange juice. Then maybe she’d go.

Maybe, almost certainly, because by then the need was usually desperate. But the hanging on was half the fun. Knowing the mug of tea was trickling down through her system to drain into that already wickedly full bladder. She sat, bagel finished, her thighs clamped tight together, savouring the pleasure and the pain.

The Sudoku was difficult, as always, on Saturday. Her right hand held the pencil; she’d finish the puzzle despite the pain. Her left hand was down between her legs, cupping her pussy with curved fingers, pressing in tightly, helping herself hold on. She rocked back and forth, staring at the numbers, fighting the pressure, loving the ordeal.

Her desperation was only matched by her arousal. Needing to go made Sandy horny. She guessed the whole exercise was really about turning herself on. Her fingertips pressed into her mound. The pressure on her little peehole always woke her clit and soon her whole being was focussed on the double need between her tightly clamped thighs.

“Oh God!” she exclaimed to the empty kitchen, “I’ve got to go, got to, got to go!”

She squeezed her eyes shut and squirmed her ass on the chair, humping her hand. The need to go, the need to cum was a sweet pain, an awful need. She loved it.

The crotch of the pink panties she’d worn overnight was wet; her fingertips told her so, as they pressed into the softness of her sex. But she was wet with her arousal; she was winning her other struggle, so far.

One Saturday morning she’d done the washing up after breakfast, setting a record of some sort. Not today, the pressure and the pain and the need were getting too much.

She picked up her orange juice and drained the glass. That almost did it! Just the idea of more fluid flowing down into her was too much to bear. She writhed on the chair and clamped her legs together even tighter.

Now to stand up!

With one hand on the table and the other clutching herself between her legs she, struggled up. She stood slowly. Bent over, knees and thighs clenched, she nearly lost it, nearly leaked. She waited with gritted teeth for the crisis to pass.

She pictured a column of fluid above her poor bladder. The tea and, above it, the orange juice, all pressing down and, at the bottom of it all, her poor little pee hole and her fingers pressing the pink cotton of her panties against it, stopping the near unstoppable. All those little muscles down there, straining to contain.

The trip to the bathroom was a slow, agonising hobble.

Standing in just her panties with her toes against the bathtub, she wondered, as always, just how the hell she was going to get in without losing control. Could she open her legs? Dare she open herself to make that dangerous step into the tub?

Somehow she did make it.

Now the best bit, the sweet release, the flood. Gritting her teeth, she took her hand away. Nothing happened. It never did. The pain was there, and the awful pressure, but her body wouldn’t let go, just wouldn’t let go. Seconds became a minute, the minute, two. She loved the torture of it. She did a little dance from one foot to the other. Why couldn’t she let go when it hurt so much, when she was about to burst?

Sandy brought her hands up to her breasts and took her jutting nipples between fingers and thumbs and pinched, pinched cruelly. Her body took note of the new pain and forgot the other.

Sandy peed.

The hot, first squirt into her panties became a flow. She imagined the panties easing away from her crotch as they filled, darkening as she soaked them. The scalding stream coursed down her left thigh. She brought her feet together and the flood began to run down both legs.

She released her nipples and grabbed the waistband of her panties and pulled them up, up tight into her cleft. It slowed the flow but couldn’t stop it. She pushed the panties down to mid-thigh. Now her pee made a steady hiss as it left her. It splashed on her feet. She slid her left hand over herself, caressing her cunt. As always, she marveled at the heat from inside her. The hot stream tickled her fingertips.

The flow seemed to go on forever, hot on her thighs, her knees, her calves, her small feet. Finally it slowed, then became a trickle and finally stopped. Sandy was done. How beautiful it had been.

Now it was shower time, soap-her-pussy time, make-love-to-her-clit time, get-herself-off time.

Next day, Sunday, she met Harry for the first time. They clicked, had so many things in common.

The following Saturday, a desperate Sandy stood in the bath as usual, in just her pink panties. Facing her was a desperate Harry wearing nothing at all.

He’d loved his bagel and bacon. He’d drunk his tea and orange juice. Harry was in trouble, even more trouble than the squirming, thigh-clamped Sandy.

Now it was a twosome and a wonderful game of Who-Can-Hold-On-The-Longest? Her left hand grasped his beautiful erect cock; her right was clamped over her mound.

They say a man with a hard-on can’t pee. Sandy, with all her training, would never let herself go before Harry, never. She’d burst first!

She slid her hand up and down his cock, very, very slowly. Harry groaned. Sandy writhed.

They were a happy, hurting couple.

© 2012 Julius. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.