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Realizing a lot of the omorashi blogs I follow are inactive :’)

So anyway if you’re into omorashi and post about it please reblog this post so I can follow you 😅

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It's Happening Again...

I look around me at my friends, and they're starting to realise.

For some of them, it's "Haven't we been here before?", and they're starting to realise that it's happening again.

I'm pissing right where I'm standing, you can hear it, there's a puddle spreading around my shoes, it's splashing on the terracotta floortiles of Patricia's expensive kitchen.

Fuck.

I close my eyes and I say what I have to say:

"Okay, it's happening again, it's what my body does: don't pity me, please don't judge me, I never want this to happen and there's nothing I can do now."

There is a sense of resolve from my body, an assertion of authority from my body, a very, very public statement of We really mean it this time from my body.

And the front of my skirt is hissing, hosed-down from the inside and soaking-through.

I have a script, I've practiced it, I don't think it works with people who are forced to see me do this, but it's helping me get through this:

"I've had to learn not to be ashamed of this, I've had to learn not to be disgusted by the way I am..."

I don't even know how to try to stop.

I know that all six of my soon-to-be-ex- friends are looking straight at me.

The script is almost at an end:

"I will not hate myself for this."

And I feel myself muttering it under my breath, repeating it, trying to make it true.

My body has settled down to long, long piss and if I can't fucking stop I...

I can't conceal it, the relief is such a weight off me. And all six of them are going to despise me for that.

I'm still pissing.

It isn't fucking stopping.

I face the dismaying prospect, that I'm going to spend the rest of my whole life, just standing here, with my self-respect emptying-out of me like liquid shame, hot and wet and appalling in the cup of my pants, enduring the revolting sensation of piss wetting my legs and sucking in my shoes, and watching bubbles of froth chasing around in the puddle because I can't look up in case I meet anyone's eyes...

While my six remaining friends look at me piss onto the floor of a kitchen bigger than the nicest apartment I'm ever going to own.

I will not hate myself.

I open my eyes, try to look Patti in the face and I know I...

I just can't do it. I can't look her in the eye.

The very, very last line of The Script dribbles and hisses out of me and I want to wipe my mouth:

"Patti, I am very, very sorry that I am embarrassing you in this way."

I'm going to cry. I'm going to cry. I'm going to cry. Is there any fucking way left for this to get even worse?

I close my eyes to make it easier:

"I did not want this to happen. I never want this to happen, I..."

I will not hate myself.

And I'm not going to cry because this is.. It's beyond fucking ridiculous, I can't possibly still be pissing, and it's still streaming out of me and running down my leg.

I open my eyes, and I just...

I smile that broken half-smile of "What the fuck can I do?" and lift my hands up in resignation, palms-up and out of ideas: I am still fucking pissing, and tappity- tap-tapping a faltering stream onto my sandals.

The girls are four feet away, backing-away from an expanding puddle of piss.

Someone's Miss Sixty jeans have been splashed and spattered and I just want to die.

And my bladder's found even more piss to do, and there's that awful splashing between my feet again, and I fold-up inside myself.

"I'm not gonna be able to look any of you in the face after this, please help me with that, please don't make it worse than it is."

"Please?" but I'm unable to say it.

I think they know I tried to.

Silence, and every time my heart beats, I can feel a part of me dying.

Okay, I can look Patricia in the face.

"Patti, do you want me to help you clean up the mess I made before I go?"

A part of me is now dead and I accept that I'm glad that it is.

Before I Go. I'm leaving it out there, that I'm gonna have to wait to be asked back, and I had better be okay with it if I'm not.

Ever.

There's no point crying about that and I won't.

I can't look at her, so I close my eyes again.

Open them, blink, realise that I've stopped pissing, spurted and pulled-in and...

Another long trickle runs down my leg and patters in the puddle.

I straighten up, start reaching into my bag for my phone, and I am doing pretty damn' well at composing myself to Go.

I've had practice at this and I know that it will happen again.

I shiver as a last dribble of heat runs out of me, and try not to notice when it tickles around my knee like someone invented the word 'Disgusting!'

And I won't hate myself.

I just won't, I can't let this be the whole of my life.

Drip, drip, drip.

Get busy about going, I'll just freeze-up and be pinned here, standing in a puddle until they tell me to go home out of sheer fucking kindness: get busy, Kate.

I won't hate myself.

I think Patti heard that: I hadn't meant to say that out loud, I hadn't even meant to say it under my breath.

And...

"Kate: No."

"You have to go, we get that: please, please, believe me that we want you to get over this and we want you to come back."

All this, and I don't want to cry at people's kindness.

"Kate! we want to make it easy for you to get over it."

"Please, let us."

"We won't pity you, we won't shame you, we know it's a thing you wish it wasn't and..."

All this, and I don't want to cry.

"We know it'll happen again. It's a thing to deal with, it's not a thing we have to make into a problem because I never, never want to look at you as 'a problem' instead of a person and a friend, Kate. "

I'm not going to cry.

"It happens to you. You've accepted it, we accept you, and we want you as a friend and as you are."

"Patti, I'll have to..."

I can't make that offer out loud. I hate what I am about to say, I hate the way that it makes me feel when I have to do that, and I am going to end up hating Patti and my soon-to-be-former friends and sisters because of it...

And Patti cuts me straight off.

She knows. She fucking knew.

"Kate, we're not going to be people you have to tiptoe around and 'Wear Protection'. It's humiliating to have to and..."

I blink, and I look her straight in the face, and I don't care if I cry or not.

"...Actually it would be very hurtful to me if we were people you didn't feel safe around, and we've become people you'd rather be uncomfortable and embarrassed and constantly worrying about being seen Wearing Protection around."

I'm never going to see her again.

"Kate, it's happened, it's now A Big Scene and everybody knows, and we can't help you through it by pretending nobody saw."

I will not return her phone calls and I will block her number.

"Kick off your shoes, someone will rinse them and wipe them off. Ditch the tights, come up with me to the bathroom and shower it off, and you won't go home uncomfortable and hating the way you feel."

I will pass her in the street and I will insist that I do not know who she is.

"We can't pretend we didn't see but we can..."

And Patti looks around the kitchen...

"We will do a pretty thorough job of pretending that we've all completely forgotten that anything ever happened. And I don't care how many times we have to do that Kate, and forget about that Kate, I don't want you ever to feel so bad about this that you can't face being with us."

I'm just blinking, I'm not crying. It's over over, over.

"Kate, ninety seconds with a mop and a little work on not being embarrassed: it's not much to do. And we get to keep you as a friend, and you spend five whole seconds being nervous about that next time we meet, and then you realise you feel safe and you're among friends."

"Put on the Crocs by the door, come-with upstairs to the bathroom, do ALL the embarrassment and be done with it just so that you and I know how to make it go away if it happens again."

"Kate: when it happens again. We accept you as you are Kate. It's unconditional. Come on upstairs now, we gotta be quick."

I don't care any more, I don't want to be here any more, I do not know why I am following this woman upstairs in her house where I have pissed on her floor, when the door is right this way in front of me.

Five minutes showering, five minutes to dry, and I can hear someone hair-dryering a skirt that I guess they sponged-down.

A knock on the door, a hand reaches 'round with an unopened three-pack of Marks & Spencer's cotton briefs.

Wrong size but its the least of today's discomforts.

No difficult eye-contact, not pitying looks, no sense of fuss, just...

It's over so fast and I wouldn't even have had time to embarrass everyone by bursting into tears.

A taxi outside on the driveway, a peck on the cheek, and "Message me when you get home Kate, I want to know that you're okay."

I'm never gonna feel good about this, but I feel better than I did.

I won't talk about the part where Patti found me curled-up in a ball on the bathroom floor and crying.

Why is accepting kindness so very hard?

I still have Patti's number. I've only ever replied by texting: "not yet"

It's been a year and I've had a better reply there, typed-in and staring at me like a guilty conscience for a whole fucking year.

"Patti, please come round, please bring Mili or any one of The Girls, it's long past time for"

Unfinished, unsent, I've missed two weddings and I think that this friendship is dead now.

I hit 'SEND' anyway.

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Sneaky fantasy

Hey, I should post more often!

I saw a very, very exciting and provocative video from r e a l w e t t i n g ( dot ) c o m and I don't want an automated link-blacklisting crawler to recognise that URL that and hide my post.

It's a very simple idea: she has to go, there's nowhere to go, and she decides to do it discreetly, keeping her legs together so that the stream is only visible if you happen to be looking.

I left some feedback:

Hi Audrey - Thank you for 'Sneaky S w i m s u i t P e e'!

You have opened-up a treasure box of interesting scenarios to write and film with that video!

Try playing it further:

Be even stealthier. show nothing, lift nothing, don't look down and check anything, get away with it completely while you stand, and sip your drink, and maybe chat or flirt with your companion.

Make the camera work for it and find the shots of something you're pretending isn't happening.

It's probably going to need a very, very short skirt, or a 'boyfriend shirt' over your swimsuit to make that work.

Short skirts are thing: you have the figure for it.

Body language matters and the 'the whole person' is the star here: succeed in supressing the most obvious "Oh no, I'm going to…" tells of desperation, except for maybe the one where you realise that you're gonna have to do it, right here, and maybe lost a little when you did.

Film the whole person as well as those exciting little trickles.

Film an aftermath, where everyone is being absolutely 'its all perfectly normal nothing happened' while the camera shows that one of them, or both of them, has wet underwear and tell-tale streaks on her legs.

Pull back, continue filming a perfectly normal conversation, let the viewer enjoy the secret of knowing what they did, even - especially! - now that it is not in view.

There are lots, and lots, of scenarios that work like this. Including one with the players wearing shorts, or even jeans, and everything is going to be okay as long as no-one breaks eye contact and looks down below the line of the table.

(I know: fetish people can be kinda weird. But we're here, and you invited us, and I know you're one of us, because)

Play to a woman's fantasy of getting away with it, and explore the deep end of what's plausible. Or implausible, and still might work on video, if the participants wished, so hard, that getting away with it actually worked and nobody noticed or said anything about it, that one time they actually did have an accident in the bar, and wished they hadn't had to 'walk of shame' to the Ladies' Room with everybody looking. Imagine not having to do that, when you did it, and carry right on with a good night out.

Or, you know, exactly the scenario that you did film - sneaky swimsuit pee - in other clothes and other settings: this scene works.

And I get it, that the camera work for the video you shot in Audrey-60, is very demanding and difficult to get perfect.

Except that 'Perfect' is getting a result that people thoroughly enjoy, and watch to the end, and then discover that the invisible 'video camera' and 'director' of their own imagination is still playing scene after scene after scene.

That's not a good video, it's a great video.

N

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Are you thinking what I'm thinking?

Yeah, bet you are: you're here, reading a blog with a very, very out-of-the-mainstream adult interest...

I don't do photoshops - they're never convincing, because even the most pixel-perfect alteration won't create the body language of a real person in a real event - and I don't write celebs into erotica, because I happen to believe that celebrities have far too much done to their image and their sense of self already...

And it's creepy to fantasise about real people.

But...

Your own mind is the perfect photoshopping tool, and there's a small space between my ears - and some other places where I do what passes for thinking - where her sound engineer is trying to filter out 'the electronic interference' from that microphone, picking up an unwanted tap, tap-tap, tippety-tap that joins-up and deepens into a kind of drumming sound, then this weird splashy tinkling noise, before fading back into an intermittent tap, tap 'raindrop-on-the-stage' artifact, and stopping.

But it's okay, the stage lights dim to a spotlight on the performer's upper body so there's nothing to be seen: and Taylor, consummate professional and performer that she is, doesn't miss a note and sings pitch-perfect with a hint of breathiness, and the crowd love her for it.

And she performs the entire set, wearing what she did, trapped in those shorts and in her underwear: slopping, sucking, tickling, slapping and squelching every time she moves, and sometimes when she doesn't.

And the rhinestones on those shiny tights are perfect cover for the drips and droplets flashing on her legs.

Betcha there's a hot girl out on the town tonight, in leather shorts exactly like 'em, who got that 'electronic interference' too: but only as a faint hiss because she stood with her feet together. And she's all "What the Hell..? Well, whatever", and she's decided to accept it and be fine with it; so she's not gonna mind, it's not some kind of World-Ending disaster, and maybe she likes it a little; and now she's having a great night out and loving it.

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Yeah, this...

Hi to all my new and not-so-new followers... Who are you?

Say a little bit about yourselves.

Reassure me that you're of age to be legally considered an adult: sometimes I post stories and images that younger readers shouldn't be reading - not without guidance from a trusted adult and, for some of what I share here: not at all. If that's you, under the legal age of majority, it's best for you to stop here and close the page.

If it isn't... You'll like some of this. So show a little bit of what you like: odds are that if you like my stuff, I might like yours.

...And that last point is a big point: show that you're not just hear to take, you're here to participate, to contribute, to be a part of a community.

Show a little of yourself that communicates shared values. There are people online, and here on Tumblr, who believe in things that I don't: I'm fine with that... Mostly.

Mostly.

There are people who want some of my friends - and, for that matter, people I don't know and will never meet - to be harassed, attacked, suppressed and driven out of public view. Hurt. Or dead. And that's not a 'difference of opinion', it's a dark and dangerous absence of society's essential values: and there's no 'greater good' in tolerance of destructive hate, and a costly 'free speech' intended to inflict damage upon others without any sense of responsibility or equity or accountability.

Such people are a danger to us all: are you one of them?

How do I know, when you say nothing?

If you are any of that, Go Away.

Or conceal that so convincingly that I'm not just taken-in, I find myself reposting and broadcasting your tolerant and civil and convincing arguments for a joyous and free society that celebrates our common humanity in all of it's beautiful ways, including the peculiar or shocking or sensually-provocative ways that we like to see here, on the interesting bits of Tumblr.

So yeah... This.

Meanwhile, I do block people for other reasons: I don't want anything I have created, or written, or re-used, to appear alongside images of violence and injury and dangerous aggression to sexual partners; and, despite what you might think of my own interests, there's only so much degradation and humiliation that I would consider 'play' because, beyond that point, I start to see an urge to damage people.

It might be legal for you to say it, do it, and publish your enjoyment of it - and I'm very much onside with your free speech, here - but I'm free to say "Count me out!" and I expect you to respect that.

I wish blank blogs a very stop following me :\ blogs with no bio that do nothing but reblog can fuck off too. if your archive goes back to 2017 or earlier or you have a personal post somewhere about going to uni or getting a tattoo or something that a legal adult would do, I'll give you a pass but I'll be pissed that I had to do a background check on you for it

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Hot, and water that won't cool you...

One of 'The Admin Girls' writes...

Day Two of The Heatwave From Hell, the air conditioning's nowhere close to coping, and everyone's desperately trying not to repeat yesterday's near-death experience of heat exhaustion.

So we drink iced water: two long, beautiful, cold pints an hour, brought around on a trolley to our desks, except for those hours when one of them is a carefully measured-out half-litre of of rehydration salts...

Three hours into our early start to beat the heat, it's mid-morning, and everyone's thoroughly fed-up with constantly going to the loo...

And some people have brought bottles of water in, and are drinking even more: Heaven Help Them!

Surely, what comes out can only equal what went in - less, with everybody sweating! - so we should only be Going twice an hour: but is seems more frequent. It feels like the little tickle of need-to-wee is already there waiting for us, the moment we get back to the desk, and it's going to be desperately urgent Any Minute Now...

But we have to drink, Oh God, it's too hot, we neeeed to drink: more, More MORE!

The iced coffee was a bad idea, but it felt lovely at the time.

Someone who was caught on a delayed commuter train - buckled rails and signal failures due to overheating - is talking about standing for an hour and a half with the air-conditioning off, everybody sweating buckets but they'd all brought water.... Then people started wetting themselves, weeing down their legs and saying nothing, and you couldn't look anyone in the eye because it seemed like half the carriage had done it...

Two of the girls in Press & PR were very, very quiet during that conversation.

But nobody seemed to notice, and the unspoken rule about wearing stockings or tights - no bare legs, its unprofessional! - had been graciously relaxed because of the heat, and they're the sort to wear comfy sandals on the way in and change into smart 'work shoes' at their desk.

So they got away with it, and if they're wearing nothing underneath, good luck to them.

But it's eleven o'clock and all of us have got thoroughly fed up of constantly going to the loo, and half of us are surely beginning to think: "What if we just peed where we sit?"

And some of us are beginning to worry that it'll happen whether we wanted it to or not: there's only so many times you can 'just make it in time'.

And if one - just one! - of these agonisingly-long 'Bridge Calls' and at-desk video conferences goes on long enough, one or two of the girls who rush for the loo at the end of it are going to sit still, very carefully still, and not rush off when they drop the call, not wanting the whole office to see that she's peed in her skirt.

...And hope that somebody else gets to be the first one who got noticed for wetting herself.

And I'm sitting here hoping that the count reaches three or four, and everyone just gives up.

We might be there already, but nobody's been noticed; Or I've not noticed, and maybe everyone's are pretending-not-to-notice, and being ever-so polite about it.

But it'll be impossible to ignore, or pretend away, sometime pretty damn soon: these office chairs will soak up exactly one light wetting (no, I'm not telling you how I know that) and anything more is going to be audible, and horribly visible as a puddle on the carpet tiles.

Anything you spill on the carpet tiles just sits there: it soaks-in, eventually, becoming a wet patch and drying to leave a tide mark.

Yes, there are watermarks around a lot of the chairs on our floor: and we're careful to refer to them as 'coffee spills' in the quarterly maintenance report, and some people get talked-to about reporting spillages to the Cleaning Hotline without ever mentioning that everyone know those 'water' marks in the carpet tiles actually are.

So yeah, we've got some unspoken social conventions around not-mentioning and not-noticing-she's-wet-herself in our workplace: today's question is "Who will break the silence and speak up?" and the answer might be "No-One" if the person most likely to do that is quietly sitting in her own wee.

Those situations where it's "You'd think someone would SAY something!" go on for far, far longer than you'd ever expect - longer than you'd ever believe is even possible - and sometimes nobody speaks up at all.

Maybe this is one of those times: I figure it'll be a coin-toss if the office ignores the first audible cascade of piss onto the floor; and better-than-even odds that the second time that we all hear the sound of piss drumming on the carpet tiles, someone will face up to The Awful Truth, speak up, and force everyone to see and acknowledge something we really, really don't want to.

Halve the odds if someone jumps up and rushes to the loo with a wet skirt, double the odds if she sits tight and radiates "Don't notice me, don't say anything!" - there is such a thing as sympathy, and it's ever such a little bit stronger when it's self-interest too.

The odds of someone 'noticing' go down the third time, and the sound of the fourth little waterfall will flip the floor into a firm decision to say nothing about this, ever, with a mass stampede for the loos and it doesn't matter whether your skirt's wet or dry...

And some of the women won't be stampeding because their bladders will be triggered by the waterfall: my guess is that a dozen of us will be rooted to the spot in their seats and pissing like a firehose.

And what happens after that?

Either we all just... Carry right on working... And sit in our own wee, what with it being damn' close to clear water and we're thoroughly fed up with constantly needing to go...

Or we all dry-off as best we can, saying nothing by mutual agreement; and. wet or dry, we all go out to the bar in the square, and out onto the grass. And we'll all drink whatever we damn' well please, and just piss it down one leg discreetly, every time we need to, and everyone will pretend not to notice until we're all too drunk to care about it anyway.

And if anybody asks, we put it down to catching 'a touch of the sun' and we'll all agree without saying a word that we won't ask: which is fair enough, if so many of us have will have peed our pants that ganging-up on anyone for wetting herself would be like biting your own back.

And somewhere in the building, there's a girl in Engineering - some kind of mathematician, we hear - who has diabetes insipidus and she needs to drink, and drink, and drink, even more than you and I do on a day as hot as this. And she's very quiet about it, and seems to have a talent for slipping to the loo unnoticed. Or something, and that 'something' might be, well...

She has to be going to the loo, even more often than we all do today: but we can't work it out - she isn't wearing a pad, not with her figure and the way she dresses to show it off - and simply not possible that she just sits and pees in her chair and no-one notices.

But it's all men on that floor, apart from what's-her-name that we don't talk about at all, and they won't notice anyway.

And if that's what she's doing, and getting away with, I damn well wish I could, too.

Time to finish the next glass on my desk - the ice is completely gone, already - and I never needed to drink to drink a glass of water so badly in my whole life.

And yes, I'm going to sit here and work through lunch - why did you even ask?

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Hope you're all keeping safe today...

There are millions of people in Western Europe today, watching the thermometer creeping over 35°C towards 40° and further (that's 95 to 105°Fahrenheit, for everyone in North America) for the second day in a row...

...In homes and offices with ineffective aircon or none at all, that simply weren't built to be liveable in these conditions.

If you're in a place where you deal with these temperatures every summer, and everyone knows what to do, and everywhere has proper eaves and sunscreens and good ventilation, and everyone's acclimatised...

Great. I'm glad to know you're safe.

But there are parts of Europe - Ireland and Scotland especially - where we start seeing people turning up in hospitals when the heat hits 30°C. Its abnormal, and people aren't acclimatised, and some people die. 'Hot' in relative terms is just as dangerous as heat in absolutely dangerous temperatures.

Northern France got hit by this in 2003, and close to fifteen thousand people died.

It's even hotter now.

Just so you know, I'm fine: mylar heat-reflective screens over the windows and one room has a portable aircon unit...

And I've acclimatised to 27°.

I can't quite believe I just wrote that: it's "To Hell with this I'm spending the day in the shade on a hammock" heat; and here I am, changing the settings on the aircon because I'm uncomfortably cool at my home-working desk, at 26.5°.

But this isn't just the way it is: I made an effort to acclimatise to this.

Back in the day when I worked long hours in air-conditioned offices, emerging into the heat after work was like being sandbagged into a steaming duvet fresh out of the dryer and still wet, being rolled-up in it and told to waddle to the train station...

And home wasn't any better when I got here.

So I'm getting used to it: and yes, I will be writing about the heatwave in a more... Interesting ...way, a little later today.

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A muse walked by...

Every time [Redacted] posts a picture of these beautiful young women on Tumblr, a muse swishes past me, turns and smiles, and wees a little trickle that just, just appears beneath the hem of her skirt.

Blink and you'd miss it, and she walks away with a delightful wiggle in her step, knowing that I know, a little bit nervous at her own flash of daring, but pretty sure no-one else saw a thing; and she's thoroughly pleased with herself.

I write them into erotic vignettes, here and elsewhere on the web.

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Here's a thing: this is a side blog, from someone with an omo kink.

A fetish, a thing that turns me on, but not quite an obsession...

But.

Everyone except the Aces here will be looking straight at that gap.

Some of the women here will be thinking of her figure, with a little envy, because she can dream of a lover's hand slipping its way into that gap and finding...

Would it be a man's hand, or a woman's? Doesn't matter to everyone, here, but it matters a lot to some.

Some of the men, here, will be thinking of undoing that button, and seeing her smile when they do: an invitation.

But...

I have a piss fetish.

If she wets herself right now, exactly as she is, it'll form a pool, lapping and tickling her lips, weighing down the frontage of her shorts, rounding-out the fabric in a lovely curve before it tips the waistband and rushes out in a colossal fall of piss.

Just before it does, a little dribble of droplets will stream out of the lapelle, just below the button.

Whatever she does next, there will be a wet tickle of trickly drips on her tummy...

I wonder how she'll react.

[hidden-stream]

What's the best thing you've ever written?

...Or, failing that, the hottest?

Too far away, perhaps, to see that Emily's bikini bottoms are slowly rounding-out around her, with a gentle hiss that's surely inaudible...

[hidden-stream]

Gaslighting ourselves: "No, I can't possibly have done that!"

Here's an neglected aspect of real-world desperation and wetting: "Did I actually...?"

Did I actually just lose a little spurt?

And you wonder if you really did: are you a little wet down there? Or is it, maybe, sweat?

Maybe you imagined it all.

And then there's another spurt and it's "...Oh"  and "Oh NO!"

Or is it?

Not wanting to believe is A Thing and "I can't possibly have done that!" can, with sufficient self-belief, be true, and real, for surprising number of spurts and dribbles, and even a substantial flow of wee.

Right up until it's a very wet-yourself wetting indeed, with a visible soak-through and a puddle.

But even then, there's another level:

I can't possibly be doing this!

It's called cognitive dissonance, a refusal to accept the reality of something you can hear and see, but don't want to believe: and I am certain that this is a component of many, many wettings when you only realise you're pissing when you look down and see a bright stream of piss bubbling out of your sandals from between your toes, and see the puddle joining-up between your heels.

Note that there is a physical component here, too. Ignore a painfully-full bladder bladder for long enough, and the nerve cells become depleted of energy and signalling chemicals; and your pelvic floor muscles become exhausted, similarly depleting their ability to signal fatigue and irritation: and it all goes 'radio silence' down there.

You literally, physically, have no idea what's going on: but the mental effort of blocking it out is always a factor, too, because  'Wet!'  and  'Hot!' on your skin - in your underwear! - is a new and distinctive sensation against the suppressed background ache.

It should be unmistakeable, and immediately detonate into your conscious mind...

But...

Denying it's happening is a thing, and the spell of "It's not happening" and successfully excluding it from your conscious mind - a thing that goes far beyond merely ignoring it - lasts longer than you'd ever believe to be possible in a rational, functional adult.

Try writing that into a wetting, sometime...

...With the cognitive dissonance disintegrating in distinct stages:

Serene and confident normality,

Loss of focus, trailing-off mid-sentence,

Puzzlement,

A vague sense of "There's something...";

Confusion,

"Am I..?" questioning,

Vehement denial !

Another round of self-doubt and "No, really, I might actually be...?" questioning

Intrusive flashes of sensation and visual images popping up like a 'We Interrupt This Programme' announcement,

Panic;

Panic and confusion;

...And the final "Oh My God, NO!" when it all joins-up into the realisation that you're wetting yourself,

The 'rooted to the spot' state when you you know it's happening and don't do anything about it,

Panicky and ineffective attempts to stop it, that actually make it worse, like trying to scurry away in a comical walking with-knees-together 'WET MYSELF' act which makes everybody look at you, or bunching-up your skirt and jamming it between your legs, saturating fabric which had mostly stayed dry and could've hidden the embarrassment,

Not clenching, pulling-in, and drawing yourself uptight and not actually trying to stop weeing,

Acceptance, giving-up and letting your bladder run to empty with a slightly dazed expression.

...Followed by several seconds of standing there, or sitting there, trying not to move because it'll start being real, and a part of the adult world that you've got to start dealing with:

...And an aftermath of looking around you, seeing all those people looking back, working out what to do and where you have to go to do it, and actually  going and doing that  in a haze of it all being slightly unreal.

There's a whole other level to that denial, the next time it happens:

The wetting, and 'Wettings'...

What happens next? Will the next year of your life be dominated by the question... "Am I incontinent?" and worrying that you will...

Or by another denial, an "It never happened!" or "I've never wet myself" because of course there's some reason why you didn't really wet yourself, some special circumstance that makes you a respectable exception from "She wet herself!", and you're not that sort of person at all.

And maybe you never do.

Well, not in the next twelve months, and 'hardly ever' is sort-of-never, and memories fade, and things you don't want to think about fade enough for you to internalise a reality that they never happened.

Even if it happens again, a couple of years later.

Or a couple of months later...

And another 'just that one time', and another...

The less-confident woman, who's spent a couple of months worrying she's incontinent, limiting her fluid intake, and wearing dark clothing... She's doubled-down on that after her second accident, started wearing a pad, and wearing something damn' substantial for long road trips, movies, written examinations, solo recitals, and long meetings.

She might even approach her doctor, or the practice nurse about it: but most women who should seek medical advice about incontinence, don't. Even in countries where healthcare is free.

And Little Miss "Oh no I didn't!" won't, and will make an unnoticed transition from "I didn't wet myself!" to an even bigger denial: "I never wet myself!" 

...And she - you or even 'we' - might start making unconscious and unacknowledged decisions about clothing and fluid intake and coffee and alcohol, to manage and minimise the problem.

Or, without examining our motives, deliberately do the opposite.

Denial is a strange thing: and how surprising is it, that a fundamentally irrational state of mind plays out in lots of counterproductive and irrational behaviours?

...And, as that plays out for a year or two, the not-noticing and the cognitive dissonance will get much, much stronger.

Try writing about a woman - or place yourself upon the page, and write about you - who wets herself and tries very, very hard to believe that she hasn't, and doesn't.

...And gets a remarkably long way with that denial, every time that she does.

Think the unthinkable: the very, very worst way of rationalising it...

What if the denials and rationalisations and irrationality break-through into a self-justification of "I get a kick out of this" and a light on the road to Damascus:

"I'm doing this deliberately because, actually, this is something I want to do" 

...And she rationalises herself all the way down the road into having a wetting kink. Not a common-or-garden 'a piss kink', an actual sensation-seeking, sensual and sexual gratification in pissing in her clothing...

Which, maybe, runs to the public-humiliation and transgression paraphilia of wetting herself in public.

And it's an addiction, a constant seeking, and a gradual escalation in what she does.

Or what you do, if you write yourself into it.

I bet you wish I hadn't written that.

[Edited, to remove pictures that have offended Tumblr's community standards]

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I love the way she's standing: and if you're here, reading this blog, you're thinking what I'm thinking...

Read the body language: she's got a full bladder and she's thinking of pissing, right there where she's standing, right this moment.

So that young buck's 'resolve', submissive or not, is about to be tested by the "Tip, tap, tippy-tap, tippetty-tap!-tap!-TAP!" of a hot spurt of wetting-herself and raining droplets into the gap between her dolly-boots....

While a tickly little trickle glints and flickers in the light, peeking-out beneath her skirt and running down her thigh.

...And then a sharp hiss in the cotton cup of her panties, a heartbeat of silence, and a wet splashing 'slap': then the steady drumming of a long, hard piss onto floorboards, fading after a minute-long eternity into a faltering tinkle in a hot, hot puddle.

And she walks out in the silence, no-one speaking and everybody hearing wet footsteps sucking and slapping and scattering drops of piss, appalled by the watery squeezing noises from her foot in a boot that caught ten seconds of pissing down her leg while everyone was hypnotised and staring at the puddle.

Walking, with her thighs are a little apart - not so boldly as she stood, all those long, long seconds ago, and you know very well what it looks like, the awkwardness of walking in a wet discomfort - and she winces, spurting a patter of piss onto the doorstep of the shop, gathers her resolve, forces herself to stop waddling, to stand up straight and Strut like a proud and beautiful woman and to Hell with anyone who saw what she just did.

And she pays no heed to the wet footprints she's leaving, and the tippetty-tap-tap-tapping accusation of the bright little droplets behind her, restarting and re-wetting the sidewalk time after time: she didn't quite relieve herself completely, and she's still losing it in spurts and dribbles and rushes as she goes.

Or maybe she's not 'losing' it, but doing it deliberately: after all, it's him, not her, who's left behind to offer explanations and apologies.

And that might be a little difficult, what with him ejaculating , or pissing himself uncontrollably - or both! - and hoping that the diaper that she made him wear is hiding all the evidence.

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It goes on, and on, and... OMFG does this ever stop, people are starting to notice!

A writing cue for you: this is about perceptions of time, and long, long minutes, and that very special type of time where ten seconds can feel like an eternity because you wish that this wasn't happening at all, and needed it to stop nine seconds ago.

So here's what it is: someone absolutely has to wee, she realises that she's running out of options and she's going to do it somewhere she shouldn't...

Maybe she's found somewhere a little out of sight to squat...

Maybe she didn't, and it's going to happen right here, no matter what, and she has to make the best of it by pretending it isn't happening, and hoping she can carry it off...

Maybe she starts to wee involuntarily, and realises she's wetting herself when she hears it patter on her toes, and it's all "Don't Look Down"...

Maybe the best she can do is stand somewhere a little bit out of view while she wets herself discreetly, letting it it trickle down her leg...

Whatever way it's happening, she's trying very, very hard to look as if there's nothing to see.

But...

It goes on, and on, and on: and when she tries to stop she finds she can't, and she's just got to let herself run out all the way to empty and hope she can cope with the last dribble and drips:

And she wees, and she wees, and she wees: and she begins to think it'll never stop - minute after minute, each one of them a day of your whole life long, and she just has to Wait. It. Out.

Or chicken out, far too late for it to matter: walk away, or scurry away, knees together and very, very visibly weeing and leaving a trail of scattered droplets and wet footprints, and a string of little puddles.

And whenever she thinks she's finished, at last, there's still another cupful tickling its way out, no matter how much she prays that it's going so stop - Sometime, anytime... Ever?

This does stop, right?

The reality , of course, is that it does - and even a severely overfilled and distended bladder, slowly running-out, can't take more than two or three minutes. But, as I said at the start, ten seconds can feel like an eternity when you wish it wasn't happening at all, and needed it to stop nine seconds ago.

I wrote about this, sort-of-incidentally, in a story that was mostly about something else: and I wonder how I could re-use the ideas and bring out the 'on-and-on-and-on' fantasy...

But maybe you did that already: post a few links, or maybe pick up the writing cue and run with it!

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Every now and again, I see someone has reblogged whatever I posted months ago, I reread it, and I realise that it was perverse to point of lunacy and entirely irrelevant to anyone reading my blog.

So of course I put up an unrelated image that'll draw attention, and post a link to it

But, as Tumblr's 'go to my dashboard' feature will probably frustrate your efforts to follow a link to anything interesting in Tumblr, here's the text in full:

Her knickers are slowly filling-up with wee, and she smiles: looking at her, you would think she's just read something wonderful in her email. And everyone reads their emails on their phone, standing on the train to work in the morning.

You don't see them wetting themselves - or at least, not very often - but you wouldn't be seeing it now, because her underpants are made of silicone and latex, and they are perfectly watertight. You might be hearing it right now, quite distinctly over the noise of the train, but it simply wouldn't occur to you that it is what it is, and exactly what it sounds like, because it simply can't be happening. Everything is so normal. And it will occur to you, if you know that someone really isn't very 'normal' at all, that this is disgusting and unthinkable and utterly depraved: but she's holding-down a job, smartly-dressed, to all outward appearances sociable, intelligent, and respectable.

Attractive, actually. It's just as well you can't see what she's reading on her phone. Reading, or rather: viewing. The latex is transparent and there's a small camera clipped inside her skirt. Small, and perfectly discreet, and quite expensive: and very, very good quality images are being recorded - split-screened with her face, smiling with a hint of mischief, and live-streaming to her girlfriend. And yes, there's a microphone taped to her: a very good microphone, too. The sound needs a bit of filtering and cleaning-up, and the separate files will need to be edited and remixed tonight if they get round to it: but, for now, the livestream's good enough. Good enough, for the sort of woman who's turned on by... This. So someone's seeing her face, delighted, and her underwear, and her, through the gleam of the latex, pissing and wetting herself, flashing little bubbles tickling and chasing away to give a glimpse of pornographically-explicit pleasure, pink and plump and opening-out, with her clitoris shaking in the hot rush immersing her as she starts to piss again.

And someone gets to watch her, even after the phone's put in her jacket pocket, looking up into a pale yellow pool as she walks to the office, piss swishing and lapping at her, slick and foaming a little, tantalising and provoking her to an increasingly-obvious state of arousal. And just before our perverse and depraved-but-attractive filmstar walks though the door of her office, she will take out her phone for a video call in which she blows her lover a kiss with a truly delicious smile, split-screened with a view of her physically relishing a slick of liquid sin, before she ends the call and puts her phone away. Away, but not off: she will continue recording all day, streaming it discreetly, encrypted, over public wi-fi to her lover's private laptop. Who is working from home; and this will have a terrible effect on her productivity and composure. Depraved, indeed: but it's harmless, and she's healthy and functioning well in society, and very, very happy in her relationship; and both of them are technically-accomplished and sophisticated - and secure - in sharing their pleasures, by consent. And not merely with consent: wholeheartedly, and joyously, with enthusiasm. The next time they do this - one or other of them at home, the other at work and live on underwater camera - there will be A Device in those pants: they haven't decided yet, on who will have the controller.

That discussion will be quite intense, and quite a lot of fun.

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Every picture tells a story...

See that wet footprint to her left, where she stepped out of her shoes and her tights made a wet spot on the tarmac?

She didn't start to piss, sitting there spreadeagled on the ground: she was standing there, or maybe making a frantic attempt to pull 'em down and squat, before she lost control and wet herself.

And now she's got a wet foot because some it ran down her leg and into her shoe.

Looking at her - exasperated and taking it with good humour and amused embarrassment - I would say that she didn't try desperately hard: I might even say 'relinquished control', or accepted that she'd already given up on it...

Maybe it's one of those wettings where she only realised she was pissing a second after she'd filled-up her shoe.

...However it happened, I'm calling it 'an accident' because she'd rather not have done it, and I can't imagine that she set out with the intention of pissing in her tights: but she accepts it as an event with an element of complicity on her part.

And it hasn't ruined her day: that's important too, and she knows she'll get some ragging from her friends tomorrow - but they're not the kind of people whose reaction is going to be upsetting: they're supportive, good-natured, and they make 'wetting myself' into an amusing and mildly embarrassing mishap rather than a damaging social disaster.

Woman pee standing up and girl peeing in their pants

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List of Non-sexual forms of intimacy