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Twice every year, my school receives a group of student teachers from
the local college to get two month's teaching experience. Amongst last
year's group was an older student called Nigel, about 25, thin and
prematurely balding. I had to supervise him and my first impression was
that he was one of the most nervous students I have ever seen. The next
thing I noticed was that as first break approached, he was fidgeting
ever more nervously, like a little boy desperate for a wee-wee I
thought. I put this down to nerves and it wasn't until we were back in
the staff-room, where he almost ran the last few steps to the loo, that
I twigged that he really had been bursting.
Having a small bladder myself, I have always taken note of others' bladder capacity, or lack of such, so my interest was aroused and I watched him more closely. He would always go immediately before the morning lessons started, yet still be in a rush at break time, eighty minutes later. Then he would go again after break and straight after morning lessons. In the afternoon he would try to find some excuse to get back to the staff room, or more precisely, the teachers loos, between one of the three periods, though he did seem to just about be able to last all the afternoon, but then it was another rush to the loo after lessons finished.
In my early days as a teacher I had been like this, but years of experience of coping with an egg-cup bladder have taught me all sorts of ways, mainly by not drinking too much tea, of getting through the school day without too much discomfort. he had a bladder as small, or even smaller than mine. Another day the deputy head delayed him for most of the morning break and I was just leaving the staff room as Nigel rushed past to the loo. I'm sure he was holding his cock as he came round the corner, letting go as soon as he saw me, but still almost running to the loo, with that grim, pained look that means only one thing. I must confess that I would not have been surprised to see a wet spot on his trousers, but as far as I could see they were dry, but it looked to have been a close thing.
Twice I hinted about the problems of teaching when you are bursting to go to the loo and trying to find reasons to leave the class for an emergency wee, but he was clearly embarrassed by this and changed the subject immediately. Maybe he would have been able to discuss it more with a male teacher, but all of the men at our school seem to have more than adequate capacity and no interest in other people's urinary capabilities.
At the end of the term I organised an outing for my class to a Medieval Farm theme park, something that was just about educational enough to justify the time and money it took. We had to use the cheapest coach available, which of course had no loo, but as it was my outing, I naturally chose somewhere that was within my bladder's range. So long as I did not drink any extra cups of coffee in the morning this was not going to be one of the crisis coach trips that I had been on. Normally I would have worn a skirt or dress, so that if the worst happened and my bladder had a bad day, any accidents between the coach and the loos might go undetected. If I was desperate on the coach, I could sit on my heel and almost certainly hold on, but walking to the loo was always the crisis time. This time I wore fawn cords, which would preserve my decency if I had to climb any ladders at the park.
Nigel and Amanda were the student teachers who were assisting us on the trip. Amanda, a big, dark haired girl who seemed to be able to last a whole school day without going to the loo, was not going to be bothered by the length of the trip, but I felt obliged to mention to Nigel that we would not be stopping on the way, though he made no comment on this, except to look embarrassed that I had even mentioned anything about loos. Since I had not made any secret of my numerous visits to the loo during a school day, I wondered if he was so un-observant he had not noticed that I also had a small bladder, or if he thought the whole subject taboo. I felt I had done all I could for him and if he didn't prepare himself, then he would just have to suffer and wait. Nobody had been so thoughtful on my first coach trip as a teacher, which had turned into a desperate nightmare.
To start with, the day went as planned; no-one was late, the coach left on time at 8.30 after an early registration. I made a point of reminding the kids to go to the loo on the way out to the coach, then said that I would check the girl's loo to make sure they were all out, taking the opportunity to have a quick, last minute wee. Better safe than sorry, I thought as I squeezed the last few drops of wee out. I told Nigel to check the boy's loo, but he just looked in the door, not taking the chance of a wee. Well, that was his funeral, I had given him every chance of another wee.
Despite all my precautions, I began to want to go after less than an hour, but it was not urgent, just a gentle warning from my bladder not to take it for granted and easily controlled by crossing my legs. It made me think of Nigel and I saw that he was sitting with his legs tightly crossed, looking quite anxious and stressed, far more in need of a loo that I was. At first I thought I might be imagining it, but every time I looked at him he was in a similar position, one which to me said 'Desperate for a loo.' Maybe he hadn't taken the hints I had given him? Well, that was his fault. He could hardly expect me to tell him not to drink much and then make sure he went to the loo immediately before we left. When he saw me looking at him, he blushed and uncrossed his legs, but as soon as I looked away, I could see out of the corner of my eye that he quickly crossed his legs again.
We were only ten miles from the park and I was just thinking that this was going to be the most comfortable school trip ever for me, as I hardly wanted the loo at all, when we stopped in a traffic jam. An accident had completely blocked the road and it took ages for the police to clear part of the road and set up a detour. Naturally, for me at least, the thought of not getting to a loo as quickly as I had expected made me want to go more badly almost at once and I needed to sit on my heel to ease the strain on my bladder.
We were crawling along at about one yard an hour for nearly 45 minutes and I was rapidly going from bursting to desperate. This was turning into yet another desperate coach trip and I was sitting on my heel, praying we would get a move on, as I had done on so many school trips before. Since this was my trip, I had a map with me and I could see that there was no side-road diversion that we could take, nor was there anywhere on the way we could stop at a loo.
If I was bursting, then how was Nigel managing with the hold-up. He looked to be suffering more than I was, sitting with his legs tightly crossed and moving about in a manner that meant only one thing to me. While I was watching, he confirmed his condition by clasping his hands in his lap and pressing down hard. When one of my pupils did this it normally meant he wanted the loo so badly he was having to press on his willie to avoid going in his pants, but I did not expect a grown man to be doing the same in public, any more than I would be holding between my legs. If Nigel really did have to squeeze his cock to hold it back, then he was in a very bad way, but there was nothing I could do to help him; if there had been any chance of getting to a loo quickly, other than squatting behind the hedge, I would have taken it.
The children were getting restless with the delay and beginning to misbehave. I turned to Amanda and Nigel and told them to walk to the back of the coach and tell the children to sit down and be quiet. Maybe I should have done it myself, but I was just about comfortable sitting on my heel and did not want to disturb my bladder until I had to. Anyway, I was in charge and could delegate if I wanted to. If Nigel wanted to wee as much as I thought he did, he was not going to enjoy walking about the coach, but, I thought maliciously, it would be good training for him and I rarely had the chance to see someone else needing a loo more than I did. Poor Nigel! At his best he did not have much control over his classes and now it was obvious to me that the only thing he was interested in controlling was his bladder. He was just about managing to walk about without holding his cock, but the way he was gripping the belt of his trousers showed that he was struggling to hold on. As soon as he sat down again, his legs were crossed and his hands were pressed into his lap for some time before he got himself under control. Had he made it, or had he let a little dribble go in his trousers? I wondered. I made a mental note to look carefully at his trousers when we got out.
It was nearly 11.00 when we got to the park. I was desperate, pushing my heel hard into my crutch and Nigel was squirming about, holding his cock more and more frequently, though still trying to hide what he was doing. He was sitting next to Amanda, who seemed totally oblivious to his plight, presumably because as she never wanted the loo herself, she never realised that others did. Naturally, the park did not have any loos in the coach park, so, as I had feared, I had to walk about with my legs pressed tightly together and my bladder muscles clenched tightly shut, organising the kids into groups and giving out some guide sheets, while Clare, the other teacher, went to collect the tickets. Amanda was helping as best she could, but Nigel was virtually useless, shuffling about with both hands in his trouser pockets, fairly obviously holding his cock, presumably in such an advanced stage of desperation that he had to do this or wet himself. His in-action meant that I had to walk about more, when all I wanted to do was stand with my legs twisted together, it was putting more strain on my bladder, so I had very little sympathy for him. I could remember times when I had been so desperate that I had to hold myself under my coat, hardly able to move, yet still had to get my class in order.
The kids were almost under control when I realised that I had left some books we needed in the coach, so I left Amanda in charge and went back to get them. They were on the back seat of the coach, so as I was sorting out what I needed, I took the chance to ease my bladder by pressing one hand between my legs. I looked out of the window to see Nigel with both hands deep in his trouser pockets, very obviously holding his cock in desperation, crossing his legs and almost running on the spot. Was he really so desperate he had to make such an exhibition of himself? Didn't he realise that the first rule of teaching is not to let the children know you are in any sort of trouble? I noted that there wasn't a wet patch on his trousers, though it looked as if that could occur at any moment. As I watched him, he was looking anxiously round the coach park, then he almost doubled over, probably holding his cock with both hands. He straightened up and came rushing round behind the coach. Instinctively, I ducked down so he could not see me, but he was not in any condition to take any notice of anything. He was clutching his cock with both hands as if it was about to fall off and as soon as he was right behind the coach he was undoing his zip and pulling it out, letting fly with a tremendous jet of wee. I make no claim to be an expert on men weeing, but it seemed to me that, firstly, he had started weeing before he had got his cock out of his trousers and secondly, he was going with the most incredible pressure. His wee was going horizontally for yards until he pointed it to the ground, when I could hear the splatter as it hit the tarmac. He was quickly finished, not surprisingly at the rate he was doing it and he was heading back to the car park without ever being aware that I had been watching him. The children were staring at him in amazement, never having seen a teacher making such an exhibition of himself before, so I tried to divert their attention by giving out the extra workbooks I had collected.
By the time I had given out the extra sheets, Claire was back with the tickets and at last we were heading for the loos, which were thoughtfully sited just inside the entrance, my first bit of good luck for ages. Nigel was still not making any effort to help with the kids, which was not surprising when I saw that he had a very obvious wet patch the size of a saucer on the front of his trousers. I had not imagined it when I thought that he was already going when he pulled his cock out. Of course, no matter how much he tried, he could not hide this from the kids, who were whispering among themselves and kept looking in his direction. No one should ever under-estimate the observational powers of school-children to see something that will embarrass their teachers. I was confident that my class would have spotted a penny sized wet spot between my legs if I had let even a drop go that morning, so they were not going to miss Nigel's great wet patch. His grey flannel trousers could have been designed to reveal his accident as clearly as possible and it was late afternoon before they had fully dried. I really felt sorry for him, not only because I knew how he must have felt, so desperate that finally he could not hold on any longer, but also because by the next day all the school were going to know that he had wet his pants. Women may talk about 'penis envy' and how easy it is for men to have a quick wee against a tree, while we have to squat down with our panties round our knees, but this showed that men don't have it all their own way. If they actually let a spurt go, it is going to show on their trousers, while a woman in a skirt might get away with it. Nigel's mistake had been trying to hold on until he had actually lost control, instead of running behind the coach before he wet himself, but I guess he didn't have the nerve to do that in front of the children, and I don't blame him.
Knowing how this would affect his teaching ability, I tried to talk to him about it the next day, telling him that nobody could have anticipated the traffic jam and suggesting that he might take sick leave for his bladder complaint, but he did not seem able to either admit that he had a weak bladder, or lie that he had some urinary infection that made him wet himself. In fact he acted as if nothing had happened, presumably trying to blank out an unpleasant incident, but this was not how the children reacted. By the end of the next day I had overheard him being called 'Mr. Wetters,' (his name was Walters) and 'old wet-himself.' He had a most miserable last two weeks at our school, totally unable to control his classes and almost certainly failed his teaching practice grading.
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