I had known of Griselda since she had joined our company two years ago, without
ever really talking to her. Quite tall, slim, ash-blonde, great legs, about
thirty, she was one of the more attractive girls in our company. Last summer we
had been to a seminar in town, and as one does, we were having a drink
afterwards. Griselda, who was drinking pints of lager, had her usual crowd of
admirers, so I was surprised, when, after talking on her mobile, she came and
asked me if I would accompany her home on the underground. Apparently her
boyfriend could not pick her up and she didn't want to make the journey alone.
I told her I was ready any time she was, but that I was not in any hurry if she wasn't. Knowing this journey well, I decided to stop drinking, but Griselda had another pint before telling me she was ready to leave.
Although she had good legs, she wasn't a fast walker, so it was ten minutes before we were at the station and then another ten minute wait for the train. I noticed that Griselda was looking about the station and coupled with her crossing her legs, I guessed that she was getting desperate to pee and her last pint was having the usual effect on her bladder desperation. I was also beginning to feel the need for a desperate pee, but there were no toilet facilities on the station. Luckily the train came soon after, so I thought I would be able to hold out, even if bursting.
At the third station we stopped for ages, the doors closed and then opened again several times, then stayed open. No reason that I could see, nor any announcement to explain the delay. I was thinking how much of a strain this was going to put on my bladder when Griselda said. "I wish the bloody train would get a move on, I'm beginning to have a problem with that last pint of lager, like I'm getting quite desperate to pee, I really do have to pee, I've got to let my pee out soon".
"I'm afraid that LT don't provide any toilet facilities, it's part of their scheme to keep drunks off the tube, not having any toilets on the stations or the trains."
"Miserable bastards," replied Griselda, rather pointedly crossing her legs and hitching up her tight black trousers.
It was another five minutes before the train moved and then the whole desperate performance was repeated at the next station.
"Get a move on, please," muttered Griselda, "I really do need to pee badly already, it's getting beyond a joke, more like a 'desperate to pee' crisis now!"
"I'm getting pretty desperate myself," I confessed, "but I can't see any alternative except to hang on and hope the train gets moving. Cross your legs and grit your teeth." The beer was making me more open about being desperate and it was Griselda who had brought the subject up.
"I've had my legs crossed since we got on the train, there's not much else I can do without letting everyone know I'm desperate for a pee."
She continued, "If I had known Den wasn't going to pick me up, I wouldn't have drunk so much. Does this always happen? What on earth do you do, you don't seem to cross your legs, you always use the train for these meetings don't you? You must have an iron bladder if you can do this regularly."
I abandoned all inhibitions about talking about pee as Griselda seemed to enjoy the topic as much as I did. "If I had been alone I would probably have had a pee in some dark alley by the station, just to be 'bladder safe' before getting on the train," I confessed.
"I wish you had tonight," said Griselda, "I was already wanting to pee, but I stupidly thought there would be toilets on the station. If I had known there wasn't one, I would have peed in the street with you rather than get desperate like this."
I turned to look at her. She had her legs crossed just about as tightly as was humanly possible and was gripping her thighs with both hands, obviously very desperate. Her close fitting black trousers were stretched skin tight between her legs and across her abdomen, which looked swollen with the pressure of pee in her full bladder. I deliberately didn't suggest getting off at the next station, finding somewhere to pee and getting a taxi home because I wanted to see how desperate she could get and I was willing to go to my own limit to see this.
The train doors were working again now and for the next few stations Griselda was managing to hold on with no more than pee inspired, anguished groans, crossing and uncrossing her lovely legs and muttering "Hurry up!" every time we stopped. Then she counted five more stations and told me she didn't think she was going to be able to make it and asked how I was managing.
"Touch and go," I replied. "It's a case of will-power, mind over full bladder, we don't have any choice but to wait."
"It's OK for you," said Griselda, "as soon as those people sitting opposite get out, you can pee in that McDonald's cup there. I've got no option but to hold it in, unless the whole carriage empties and I can pee on the floor."
I hadn't considered peeing in the empty cup, even if I had been alone, certainly not with Griselda sitting next to me, but it was a tempting thought if only the couple opposite were not there. I turned to check on Griselda's state of pee again; was it imagination, or was her abdomen more swollen?
"Thanks for the suggestion I hadn't thought of that, so let's hope they get out soon because thinking about a pee has made it worse. You are not so badly off, you could probably have a discrete pee in those black trousers without anything showing. If I let even a drop of pee go, it will be obvious to everyone." I was wearing grey flannels, which would show any leaks. Was this too bold a suggestion for desperate Griselda, even in her present mood? Apparently not.
"If you pee in that cup, I don't think I could stop myself going in my panties in sympathy," was her amazing reply. "In fact, I might have to do it anyway, I'm so close to losing it now, I think I could let go of my bladder any second. You're probably right, as long as it doesn't drip on the floor, nobody will notice if I pee a bit. The problem is going to be stopping once I start."
Right on cue, the offending couple got off at the next station and we had nearly half the carriage to ourselves with still three stations, (at least ten minutes) still to wait.
"Go on, pee!" said Griselda, pointing to the cup, "you don't know how lucky you are, nobody will notice, I don't care, I'm just envious."
I didn't need any more encouragement. I picked up the cup and holding it between my legs, as discretely as possible, pulled out my cock and directed a stream of pee into it, trying hard to pinch off the full flow and avoid splashing, not easy when my full bladder was close to bursting point. It was even more difficult to stop when the cup was full, as I was far from finished and had to squeeze my cock hard for several seconds to get control of my bladder again.
"I could fill several more of those if I had the chance," I said as I fought to control myself.
Griselda had been watching this with interest, particularly my struggle to stop as the cup filled, with her obvious pee envy.
"I know what you mean. Oh no! It's no good, watching you pee has made it unbearable, uncontrollable, I'm going to have to pee myself, my bladder is going to give out, I can't possibly wait another second."
She kept her legs crossed, so I couldn't see if she was peeing or not, nor could I hear any hiss of escaping pee over the noise of the train. I really could not believe that she was peeing in her trousers, despite what she had said. She had her eyes shut, her legs still crossed, her hands clenched and after some seconds she visibly shuddered and tensed herself, then pressed her hand between her legs. Only then could I see that her trousers were wet between the legs, she had peed!
"I must stop myself peeing or the place will be flooded, the seat isn't soaking it up,"she said between clenched teeth, "my bum's soaking. At least that has let some of the pressure off my full bladder, I'll be able to manage now. It really doesn't show, does it?"
With her legs still tightly crossed, nothing did show, except that there was a trickle of pee running from the seat onto the floor, but that only noticed if you were close.
Peeing like this was just enough to let us hold out for the rest of the journey, but we were still desperate, both standing by the train door, waiting for it to open as we arrived.
"Don't think about it, it will only make you want to pee more," I advised Griselda as the doors opened.
"I know, so does standing up and walking is even worse, I can't cross my legs anymore. Quick, where's the toilet, I'm nearly losing it again. Can you walk behind me to cover my bum, it feels so wet it must show."
She was dragging me down the platform, frantically looking about her for the 'Ladies' sign and then almost running when she saw it. The 'Gents' was next to it, so I was dragged along with her and joined several other men who were also bursting, pouring out streams of pee into the trough, leaving Griselda to discover that the 'Ladies' was closed.
I was still letting my pee pour out when Griselda and a shorter, well-built black girl about 20, wearing a short, short, skirt, came rushing into the 'Gents', both holding between their legs as they ran.
"The 'Ladies' is shut, we are going to have to use the cubicles in here, we're both desperate," shouted Griselda. "Oh shit! It's locked, what are we going to do? I am soooo desperate to pee, I can't hold it any longer.'
"It's no good, I'll die if I don't go, I've been in agony for ages." The coloured girl stood in front of the urinal, hoisted her skirt, stood legs apart, pulling her knickers to one side, and released a torrent of pee towards the wall, again, managing to stop. "Don't none of you men go looking at me doing this. You've finished your pee, so you can fuck off out of here." She glared round and all the men sheepishly hurried out. I stayed because Griselda, leaning against the cubicle door, was clutching my arm, still holding herself, pleading with me to find her somewhere to pee before her bladder burst.
"Outside, we'll find a doorway or bush somewhere," I said, wanting to leave before I was accused of voyeurism by the other girl, who was producing an incredible torrent of pee, supporting my theory that black girls have enormous bladders.
As soon as we were out of the 'Gents' Griselda stopped holding her crutch, resorting instead to pulling up her trousers with both hands, so the already tight crutch must have been almost cutting her in half. This part of the station was well lit and her wet bum was quite obvious. I was trying to hurry her out of the station, but in her desperate state she was finding it difficult to walk and kept half stopping and semi-crossing her legs.
"Hang on another few seconds, we're almost there," I encouraged her, taking her arm to pull her along.
"I'm leaking pee down my leg, I just can't keep it back any longer unless I hold myself, I'm so glad I took the pressure off. My wet bum doesn't notice, does it? Oh quick! Please find me somewhere to pee before I burst completely, I can't hold it much longer." Griselda was whimpering with pee desperation.
I dragged her across the station forecourt and down the street, aiming for a dark alleyway about 100 yards away, but as we passed the second shop doorway, Griselda pulled us both into it. "This will have to do, I can't stand it another second, I'm going to pee now, I don't care who sees me. If you stand in front, you'll cover me and nobody really cares at this time of night," she added as an afterthought. She was already pulling down her trousers and knickers as she said this, then, not seeming to care that I was still looking at her, crouched very low and let her pee gush out. In fact she started peeing as she was only half crouched, unable to contain it a second longer and the first burst splattered hard on the ground, reducing to a steady hiss which just went on and on and a puddle of steaming pee spread from between her feet and ran into the street.
"Oh the relief!" she gasped as she finally finished and pulled her wet trousers back up. "I don't think I have ever wanted to pee so badly in my life. The size of the puddle shows how full my bladder was and how desperately I wanted to go. My bladder still hurts now, I think I must have strained myself."
I offered to walk her home, only about half a mile, as she could hardly wait in a well-lit taxi queue in pee soaked trousers. As we walked through the deserted streets, Griselda started giggling. I asked her what was so funny.
"The whole journey," she replied, "I just can't believe it. You peeing in that cup, that black girl peeing in the Mens' toilet, me wetting my panties, then peeing in a doorway with you watching and that endless stream of my pee running out into the street. All the result of a few pints of lager, it just shows what drink can do."
Then she became serious. "You won't tell anyone at work about this will you, please? I mean, you could laugh off peeing in a cup on the tube, but I would never live down wetting my panties, either accidentally or deliberately."
I promised I would keep it secret, adding that it was not something that was talked about anyway, to which she replied, mysteriously, "You'd be surprised what girls talk about together and you were not exactly tongue-tied on the train either."
"It takes two to have a conversation," I retorted, always nervous of my interest in pee being made public.
"Drink to loosen the tongues, full bladders to bring up the subject and we reveal our naughty secrets. I don't want to remember any of this at work tomorrow." Was her parting comment as she unlocked her front door. It'd been a great evening while it had lasted and it was too much to hope that anything more would come of it. Paul.
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