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Past My Limit. A story I submitted anonymously to The Yellow Safe.

Started by zryouiki, July 21, 2013, 12:32:40 AM

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I was past my limit. Well past. I ground my teeth together and pressed forward, my face red with shame and embarrassment, not to mention shimmering with sweat. I'd wet myself before, I'll admit. Doesn't everyone? That night after the New Year's Eve party, that time on the bus, plus numerous other tiny leaks. My panties were no stranger to urine, but why, why, why tonight?!

The more I thought of it, the more idiotic it sounded. I cursed myself, cursed my boyfriend, cursed this school, over and over and over as I frantically scoured the maze-like halls for a functioning, unoccupied bathroom. Homecoming had already taken place at my school, and it went flawlessly! Nary a drip of urine! But no, of course my boyfriend had to invite to me his school's homecoming as well, probably to show me off to his macho football buddies! Inter-school relationships are a terrible idea.

A jet of hot urine sprayed my panties, dampening my thighs. I barely managed to regain control, but was powerless to stop the drop already snaking past my calf and into my clumsy high-heels. I cursed under my breath, tears smudging my makeup and dripping off of my chin. What kind of horrible school has so few bathrooms?!

I turned a corner into an unlit hall as my heel caught the back of my long, light blue dress. I stumbled and fell to my knees, releasing both a shriek and another few drops of pee. The crotch of my panties were now soaked, sticking to my more intimate parts and making my urge even stronger. I stood, thanking God that only the lockers lining the walls witnessed my fall. I kicked off my heels, no longer caring about maintaining my wardrobe or my dignity.

The pressure increased tenfold for every minute that passed. I'd been up and down four floors, stopping every other step to squeeze my thighs and hold back the torrent of urine aching to be free of my bladder. I prayed with ever corner turned that there'd be a bathroom in sight, but the prayers were never answered.

The front of my dress was visibly damp and darkened by my own piss. I wasn't going to make it. In this stupid school where nobody knew me and I knew nobody, I would flood my panties and dress like a little girl. I crouched down and squeezed my crotch one last time, ready to give in.

That's when I saw it. How had I missed it before?! Before me, just to my left, stood the familiar white tiling of a pristine bathroom wall. A glance up showed the two most familiar signs in the world. Male. Female. I was exalted! I sucked in a breath and regained control of my throbbing bladder, then began crawling on my hands and knees toward my porcelain saviors.
But it was too late.

The thing about pee is that there's literally a limit. A threshold that, if crossed, would be overpowered by our bodies, willpower or no.
I reached that limit.

My exaltation quickly turned to horror as my floodgates opened. I fiercely, desperately attempted to hold the torrent back, but my muscles would not, could not, respond. My eyes rolled up and I moaned, a mixture of shame, pain, and impending relief.

A roaring hiss emitted as hot urine surged through my panties, through my dress, and behind me onto the tiled floor. My thighs warmed and dampened, the fabric of my dress turning transparent as it stuck to my butt and legs. I stayed on my hands and knees as the puddle spread rapidly beneath me, soaking my knees, feet, and even reaching my elbows. My panties swam in a pool of urine, ever filling and ever emptying. Piss showered my thighs, constantly dripping and splashing into the puddle beneath me.

It went on for a solid three minutes. I sank down, pushing the last droplets of urine out as I shifted to a sitting position in the middle of my puddle. The front and back of my dress were soaked fully through, making the fabric heavy and sticky. A steam cloud rose around me, carrying with it the soft stench of my pee. For a moment, I simply sat, stunned. I couldn't face my boyfriend like this. I couldn't face anyone. Except, of course, my best friend.

Ten minutes later I'd snuck out of the back entrance, threw out my dress, and threw on the spare clothes my friend brought. I texted my boyfriend, saying I had a stomachache, as my loyal friend drove me home. We both laughed and agreed that, next dance, I'd wear a diaper beneath my dress.
Who would've known my fetish could be so Orwellian?