My girlfriend Ann
Dear reader! I must confess something to you immediately, before you read on. I am obsessed with pee! I adore delaying my trips to the restroom until I am nearly at the bursting point! And even more than that, I adore watching girls and boys who need to go. Their squirming and pained expressions are like a grand play, and their whimpering is the music! I have – how is it called in English? ah yes, I remember – I have a fetish. That is what my story is about, and only that. If that is disturbing to you, please turn back now!
With that out of the way, bonjour, my name is Blaise DuPree. You Americans should say it like “blez”. It’s not “blaze” and it is certainly not “blah-zay”! “Blez” is also wrong, but you will not get it any closer without professional instruction.
I have been living in America for two years, in a suburb of New York with my beautiful girlfriend Ann. Oh, just saying her name fills my heart with joy! How I love that girl. My story concerns some events near the beginning of our relationship. I met her when she was on tour, in Bordeaux, where I was born and raised and where I had been living in an apartment just big enough for a bed and a small desk. What is the English phrase for this? Ah yes. It was the size of a postage stamp. Anyway, I first saw her at a movie theatre. We had both come to see the same film – I can’t remember which one, but it was in English – and she was about to leave, having just learned that the establishment only accepted euros, and not dollars. Money had never been a problem for me, so I tapped her on the shoulder and offered (in English, as it was clear to me that she was an American tourist) to pay both of our tickets. She very graciously accepted – oh, she does everything with such grace! – and we sat next to one another in the theatre room.
As the film played, I couldn’t help stealing a glance every now and again at the absolute work of art beside me. Oh, my apologies – I understand in America it’s considered rude to refer to women as works of art. Well, I don’t mean to degrade her humanity. She had, as I would find out later, both the heart and the brains of an angel. And, in my humblest of opinions, the sein of an angel as well. About halfway through the film, I utterly lost control of myself: I snuck my foot over to the side and gave her ankle a little playful kick. To my absolute delight, she returned the gesture less than five minutes later. Oh! My heart flutters to think of it.
Soon the credits were rolling. I knew I had to take my chances. As the girl was about to stand up, I asked her name, and told her mine. I then asked her out for coffee the next day. Well reader, I suppose she must have found me at least half as attractive as I found her – either that or she liked my foreign accent – because she accepted!
We met in the early afternoon, at a coffee shop on the outskirts of town, in view of the Garonne. To my surprise, she ordered the drink she wanted by its French name. I inquired; and she explained that she was a bit of an enthusiast, and had learned the names before her arrival. I was too, at the time, and we started chatting about drinks. Before we knew it, evening had come, and we were still talking. She was obliged to leave, and I – desperate to know whether I would see her again – asked if she was staying long in France. To my heart’s great relief, she said she was staying another week and a half. We planned another date in two days’ time.
Looking back on things, I realize now what I didn’t notice at the time: that Ann did not pause once to use the restroom during either of our first two meetings. I can’t remember now whether or not it is normal not to relieve oneself after watching a movie – I haven’t done so in years, but I know I am unusual when it comes to bathroom frequency. But I know, given how long we chatted in our second meeting, that most people would have wanted to go in that time. Doubly so given the number of coffees we each drank. But my mind was elsewhere in the moment.
On our third date, though, the topic was on my mind. It was in the afternoon, I hadn’t used the washroom myself since the previous day’s morning – did I mention that I have a gigantic bladder and that I take full advantage of it? – and I was getting a bit, ahem, full. So, as I say, the topic was on my mind.
The date began with a two o’clock movie, during which Ann drank several soft drinks. I eyed each one as she finished it off. We had planned a whole afternoon together over text, and I was curious how long this American girl would last before she was running off to relieve herself. After the movie, we made another trip to the same coffee shop from before, where we chatted again about our mutual enthusiasm for the drink, and shared some of our views on philosophy if I remember correctly. I was eying the bathrooms in the corner, not because I wanted to use them – I would not dream of using a public bathroom, do you hear me? Note it well. Anyway, not because I wanted to use them, but because I wanted to know if Ann would want to use them. I could simply have asked her, but I wasn’t so sure if it would come across as unusual. Probably it would have been okay. She had drank a lot, so it wouldn’t have seemed out of place. But things were going so well, and she was so beautiful, and I didn’t want to take the risk.
She did not end up using the bathrooms, which impressed me quite much. Next we took a walk through one of Bordeaux’s beautiful parks, which I think about every day now that I’m living here in America. I tried to keep an eye on her expression, see if her eyes might be darting to and fro for a restroom she could use. They didn’t seem to be. We were content to walk around in the park for several hours, engaged in some of the most enthralling conversation I’d ever had.
When the sun was starting to go down, we made our way over to a bridge I knew of so that we could watch it set over the river. We stood very closely together, and I dared to reach down and hold her hand. She accepted the gesture with enthusiasm, which surprised me even though anybody could see that we had “hit it off”. Here I was, a nobody in France, practically forcing myself on a tourist who would be leaving in six days’ time, selfishly demanding her attention and affection even though our time together was so clearly going to be limited by circumstance. I think the earnest and candid attitude she displayed on this night played a large role in my ultimate decision to pack my things and accompany her back to America at the end of her tour.
Anyway, the sunset seemed to me to last for an hour. I admit, this was partly due to the state of my own bladder, which by this time was fit to burst right out of my gut. But the better part was due to the effect this girl was having on me. Simply being in her presence stretched time by a factor of two, and holding her hand stretched it by another factor of four.
And how much sweeter would it have been, had I known that she too was bursting to pee? This is something she told me later, long after I moved to America and long after the events of this story. She told me that she needed to pee almost as badly as she ever had, and that she, like me, had not used the toilet since the previous day. Did she show any sign of it at the time? Was she tapping her foot, making a tense expression, or standing with her legs a little closer together than normal? I don’t know. Certainly there was no obvious sign of it. I have a good memory, but you can’t expect me to remember this kind of detail unless I’m looking for it.
My introduction is getting long, so I’m going to fast-foward through the rest of it. Ann and I went on a few more dates, during which she again displayed impressive control over her bladder. I remarked half-jokingly that I would like to follow her back to America, she said she would be open to that, I decided to actually do it, the best decision I’ve ever made, blah blah blah, etc etc. We decided that we were officially a couple the night before we left. She lived in a New York suburb and I moved in with her. There, now you’re caught up.
–
My story begins in earnest about three months after I moved to America. Ann’s trip to France had taken place in May, and now the Summer was just winding down. It was a mid-August afternoon, a Wednesday, and she and I had formed a little tradition of going out for dinner and a movie on Wednesdays. We had just left the movie theatre, and were back in the car, making our way to the restaurant.
“Say,” Ann said. “It’s gonna start getting cold out in a few weeks.”
“Yes,” I said. “Why do you mention it?”
“I was thinking, if we wanna take that camping trip we’ve been talking about, we should do it soon.”
I nodded. “You’re right. Would you like to do it next week?”
“Sure!” she said.
Then the conversation petered out, and I had a feeling that I knew why. Ann had not used the bathroom all day, nor had she used it yesterday afternoon, and if I knew my girlfriend at all, she had most definitely not woken up and used it in the middle of the night. So by now, the poor girl was probably nearing her limit.
Have I mentioned that I’d been keeping my eye on Ann’s bladder these last few months? You’ve probably guessed as much. That girl had been knocking my socks off again and again with how well she could control herself. At this point we’d taken many full-day outings, spending eight hours or more in public, and she had never used a public bathroom once. That alone, I think, would put her in the top echelon of holders, and of course, as I’ve already told you, she’d pulled off much grander feats as well.
This time, though, I was really wondering if I would finally see her reach her limit. I’d gained a sort of sixth sense for the signs she displayed when she was getting desperate, and tonight she was showing all of them: rubbing her ankles together, looking around the space she was in, talking noticeably less than usual, and probably giving off other signals too that I couldn’t point to, but that I was nonetheless unconsciously aware of. The reading was, as you Americans would say, completely off the graphs. It was one of the most deliciously delightful scenarios I had ever experienced. I could hardly focus on driving safely for how turned on I was; and when we got to the restaurant and were getting out of the car, I took a moment to discretely, ahem, adjust myself, so as not to be showing any outward sign of my excitement.
Inside, we took our seats in one of the tiny booths, and ordered our usual – a cheese pizza, half assorted veggies, half banana peppers only. (Yes, our favorite restaurant was a pizza place. Don’t you dare lecture me about it how unhealthy it is. I already know, and if you’re an average American, you aren’t one to talk anyway. We ate healthy the rest of the week – Wednesday was our cheat day.) As we waited for our food, I deliberated asking Ann whether she wanted to empty her bladder. We had never actually discussed our bathroom habits at this point, even though we were almost through the third month of our relationship and even though we were both extremely unusual in that regard. I guessed that her silence on the issue stemmed from the same distaste for the subject as a whole that presumably explained the extreme infrequency of her breaks. Mine was due to a nervousness that had been instilled in me by years of knowing that my fetish would make me a “freak” in most people’s eyes – I tried never to bring the topic up at all, lest I accidentally bring it up too often and be found out.
But something must have been in the air that night, because –
“Ann?” I said.
“Hmm?” she asked.
“You seem, uh, a bit uncomfortable. Is everything all right?”
She smiled, and threw back her long, angelic blonde hair. “Sorry,” she said. “Yes, everything’s fine, I just… oh, it’s nothing.”
I nodded and smiled back at her. “All right,” I said. “Well, say, I have something to bring up, if it’s not too personal.”
“Sure, what is it?”
“Well, I’ve noticed over the past couple of months that you and I both… we’ve both got fairly strong bladders, I think. Would you agree?”
“Oh, yes!” she said enthusiastically. “Blaise, you’re absolutely right. I’ve noticed the same thing, and I have to say, I love that about you. I’ve had boyfriends before who’ve had tiny bladders, and it was always so annoying to have to constantly stop and look for a bathroom so they could pee every two hours. I don’t think the two of us had to make a single pit stop yet, have we?”
I shook my head. “No, I can’t recall ever having to do that.”
She smiled. “I just love it. I’ve had a gigantic bladder my whole life, and I’ve always hated using public bathrooms. They’re always so smelly and inconvenient to use.”
Well, that answered my question about emptying her bladder right now. But I didn’t drop the subject. An idea had come into my head, and since we were already talking about our bladders, I felt safe in bringing it up without her thinking I was being weird.
“Well, I was thinking…” I said. “When we go on our camping trip, I think it would be best if we… didn’t need to make many pit stops. It’ll be more convenient that way, and peeing outside is, well, probably not very hygienic.”
Ann nodded. “Good thinking,” she said. “I’ve never peed outside before, but I imagine it’s not much fun. We should definitely just hold it until we get back home.”
Until we get back home!? I had only meant that we should avoid peeing as much as possible, but this was… something else. And the way she nodded had been so casual, as though my suggestion had been utterly ordinary, purely a matter of course, hardly more than a formality. Under the table, I pinched myself to be sure I wasn’t dreaming. Had this all really happened? Had I really met the girl of my dreams purely by chance, simply because she’d confused euros and dollars at a theater? Had I really moved to America just to be with her? And was she really assenting to the idea that she should try not to pee for the entirety of a week-long camping trip? It seemed impossible. I pinched myself over and over, until tears were about to come to my eyes, and nothing changed. Ann still sat across from me; her eyes were still green and beautiful, her blonde hair still full and rich, her breasts still perfect and round, her ankles still audibly rubbing together under the table… and she was showing no sign of having been joking when she’d agreed to my accidental suggestion. I thought of correcting her, but… I couldn’t bring myself to do it. If she wanted to wait the whole week, then by goly, I’d let her.
The waiter brought us our pizza, and as Ann ate I detected no hint of urgency in her manner. We talked little during the meal and not at all during our ride home. She didn’t resurface the topic of peeing, not even a casual remark that she needed to go, and I was beginning to think that I was imagining things. But when we got home and had removed our shoes, Ann, without making any fuss over it, walked over into the bathroom and closed the door behind her. As usual, her stream sounded like a waterfall.
–
I told you at the beginning of the story that I am obsessed with pee. I’ll tell you now that I am not obsessed with driving. If you came to this story expecting to get off to long passages detailing the turns we made, the long stretches of grey asphalt, or the erotic double yellow line in the middle, then I’m sorry to say that I’ve cut that part out. Ann and I used the bathroom before we left home – we’re ambitious, not stupid – and then nothing interesting happened for the next twenty-four hours. We arrived in the late evening, and had only enough energy to set up our tent before collapsing into our sleeping bags and falling asleep.
Oh, and Ann drank a bottle of water in the car, in addition to drinking a normal amount of fluids with each meal we stopped for. She made no mention of the effect it would have on her bladder, and she also made no mention of it the next morning. I drank the same amount.
Our campsite was at the base of a mountain, and after we’d woken up and eaten our breakfast, we decided to spend the first day hiking up it. I deliberated asking Ann about the status of her bladder, but I decided against it. Of course she needed to go; it had been a whole day since her last bathroom visit. I have a mammoth bladder too, in case you’ve forgotten, and even I felt the urge.
By the way, I want to quickly defend my reputation here. I am not a pervert. I did not become Ann’s boyfriend just because I wanted to see her desperate. I don’t spend all my time thinking about her bladder. I do love her bladder, but I also love her. During our hike up the mountain, her bladder was on my mind – as I expected it to remain until our, ahem, situation was resolved – but I was also simply enjoying spending time with my girlfriend, who, now that I was away from Bordeaux, was also the only friend I could speak to in person. I’ll leave those parts out of the story, but please know that they’re there.
During our hike up the mountain, we both emptied one of the water bottles we’d brought with us. At the top, we broke for lunch, and each emptied another. There were portapotties here and there, and as we were getting ready to head back down, the topic of bathrooms resurfaced for the first time.
“I’m really glad I don’t have to use these,” Ann said, gesturing at the portapotties. “And I’m also really glad you don’t have to. They’re always so gross.”
“That they are,” I said. I put my arm around her as we walked.
She put a hand on her belly. “It’s just so much better not to have to worry about it!” she continued. “I love having a huge bladder.”
I smiled back at her, and said nothing. What could I have said, except for the obvious observation that we weren’t going to make it the entire week? I hadn’t meant to suggest taking literally zero bathroom breaks for the entire trip, but if that was the goal she had in mind then I’d have thought she’d be at least a little doubtful of her ability to meet it. I’d have thought that after having a chance to mull over what she’d agreed to, she’d try to walk it back – tell me that she couldn’t wait a whole week after all and that she’d need to pee at least every X days. I thought she would tell me she had a limit.
But I didn’t say that out loud. I didn’t put in her mind the idea that she’d have to pee sooner or later, because I wanted to use this trip as an opportunity to finally see how long it would take until she discovered that for herself.
–
In the evening, we went kayaking in a small pond which was also near our campsite, situated in the valley between the mountains. We’d been drinking as normal throughout the day, and by now it had been well over 36 hours since our last bathroom break. I definitely wanted to pee, and I had a feeling I’d be showing it soon, were it not for the diligent effort I’d put forth a number of years ago to rid myself of that habit entirely. Nowadays having a bursting bladder does nothing to my outward appearance; I could pose for a painting with two liters inside of me.
As we paddled aimlessly across the surface of the water in the cool evening calm, it occurred to me that Ann had already begun one of her tells: she was talking less than usual. Would she be rubbing her ankles together too if not for the fact that she was stuck in a tiny kayak? As I considered the question, a beautiful scene painted itself in my mind, of Ann and I kayaking on this very lake on an evening just like this one, but with double the liquid inside of her. I guiltily imagined her whimpering with the effort of containing her pee; I imagined her worrying, perhaps for the first time in her life, about whether she could actually hold on until she was able to go; I wondered whether she would have an accident under these conditions.
The questions filled my mind. Everyone has a limit, but not everyone reacts the same way to reaching it. If you kept Ann from using the bathroom for long enough, and made her drink water like normal, then eventually she would pee her pants, but there’s no telling what she would do leading up to that moment. Would she become huffy and irritable, demanding that I understand what she was going through and not poke any fun at her? Would she grow more and more panicked at the thought of losing control in front of her boyfriend, and finally dive into the water so she could pee discretely? Or would she just remain her normal self – cool, composed, and rational – until finally the pee leaked out? Would the puddle embarrass and humiliate here, or would it be just a simple mess that she needed to clean up?
I badly wanted to know how my girlfriend was doing. Again and again the question rose up from my lungs right out to the very tip of my tongue, before I bit down on myself and swallowed it. Were I to ruin this nigh-perfect evening on the lake with a question about bodily functions – and a question motivated by my fetish, no less – then I really would be the pervert I claim to be better than. She needed to pee; I didn’t need to know any more than that for now.
–
We slept a little less easily that night due to our uncomfortably full bladders. Well, I’m assuming Ann was uncomfortable. I certainly was, and I’ve never met anyone with a capacity greater than my own. Goddess though she was, she did use the bathroom every now and then. And although I hate to admit it, my bladder woke me up once in the middle of the night. I was able to get back to sleep, but in the morning I woke up a fair bit earlier than I had the previous day, and I was fairly sure I knew why. When I awoke, Ann was already up. I saw her silhouette crouching outside the tent.
“Good morning, honey,” I called.
“Good morning,” she called back.
I stood up out of my sleeping back and stepped outside. There she was, my beautiful girlfriend, crouching in front of a ring of stones with some sticks in the middle of them.
“What are you doing?” I inquired.
“Trying to make us a campfire,” she said. “I wanna have those eggs for breakfast.” She was referring to a carton of eggs we’d brought with us to experiment with frying them over a fire. She held a flint-and-steel firestarter in her hands, and was striking it over and over again trying to get a fire going. I watched her for several minutes. After every five or six attempts she would shift her weight a little, moving to a slightly different position before making another series of attempts.
“Having any luck?” I asked.
“Not really,” she said.
I watched her some more. My bladder was aching to be emptied, just painfully full, and watching her shift around like that was somehow making my own need more urgent. But despite badly needing to pee, I noticed that I was also quite thirsty, so I stepped back inside the tent, grabbed another water bottle, brought it back out to where Ann was, and sat on the ground to drink it. She glanced up at me, then down at the bottle, and after working unsuccessfully on the fire for few more minutes, she stood up and went inside the tent for a bottle of her own.
Again I debated asking her about her bladder, and again I decided not to. When she was done drinking, she went back to her fire, and in another quarter-hour she managed to get it burning. She precoded to grab one of the skillets we’d brought, hold it in the flame for a while, and finally crack an egg into it. All the while she continued shifting her weight around every thirty seconds or so. The longer she went on like that, the more certain I became that I finally had the answer to my question; Ann was bursting to pee.
She made an egg for herself and another one for me, and we ate in silence, her shifting her weight occasionally and me sitting statue-still. When we were done eating, I floated the question of what we wanted to do today, and she told me that she was interested in hiking up the mountain again, but following a harder trail this time. I told her I would enjoy that, so we put our dishes back inside the tent, extinguished the fire and got on our way.
As we climbed, it started seeming to me that Ann might be even more desperate than she was letting on. Every so often I’d look over at her suddenly and catch her swiping her hand away from her groin area, as though perhaps she’d been holding herself between the legs, or nearly doing so. When we stopped to catch our breath she stood with her legs pressed together and a somewhat impatient demeanor, though she said nothing at all. And she, like me, drank nothing during the climb, even though it was indeed much more difficult than yesterday’s climb and was doubtless making her thirsty.
During one of our breaks, I asked her about this.
“You aren’t drinking anything,” I said. “Aren’t you thirsty?”
She looked around. “I guess I’m a bit thirsty… but you know, heh, I gotta leave some room in there for the rest of the trip!” she said, and as she spoke she wiggled her legs around while giving me a knowing look. My face flushed red, and I nearly got a nosebleed. I couldn’t believe my ears. I was so aroused I could barely speak, so I didn’t really try. I just mumbled something about that being a good idea, and looked away.
At the top of the mountain we sat down to eat, and my thirst overcame my caution about my now-overfull bladder. I took out the water bottle I’d brought in my backpack and reluctantly downed about half of it. Ann took out her own water bottle and began sipping at it as well. We ate our lunch in relative silence, but let me tell you, reader, it wasn’t a very calm silence, at least not for me. I was glad to be sitting down, since it gave my bladder a break from all the jostling, but still… I really, really needed to pee.
“Hey Ann…” I said.
“Hm?” she asked. She had been looking at her phone, and seemed a bit distant.
“I was just thinking… uhm, are you feeling any desire to use the bathroom right now?”
She gave me a bit of a look. “Well, yeah, of course I am,” she said. “I mean, I haven’t peed in…” She thought about it. “…in two and a half days. Or almost two and a half days. So yeah, I have to go.”
“But what I mean is… I mean, are we really going to hold it for the entire rest of the trip?”
The question seemed to genuinely stump her. She looked to the side and squirmed a little in her seat, then looked back at me.
“I don’t wanna do it outside,” she finally said. “I mean, yeah, like, obviously I really need to pee, but I can wait.”
I stood up, walked around to her side of the table, and sat down next to her. I gave her a kiss on the cheek, then reached under the table and pulled her shirt up just a little, revealing that her belly, which was normally just a bit chubby and quite soft, was now noticeably larger and firm to the touch. I put my hand on the swollen bulge, and gave it a gentle pat. Ann showed no reaction, except perhaps a slightly wry expression.
“You’re going to hold this until the end of our trip?”
“…I have a huge bladder.”
“…”
“…”
“…”
“Listen, Blezzy, peeing outside is disgusting. It’s worse than peeing in a public bathroom. We have huge bladders. It’s just… not an issue for us. We don’t have to put ourselves through that. I don’t want to do that, and I don’t want you to do that. We can hold it.”
So she wasn’t going to be deterred from trying to wait it out. Even the idea of me peeing outside was disturbing to her. I wouldn’t have guessed that she’d care, but… if she wanted me to wait, then I’d wait. Or at least, I’d try. It would be difficult, but it might be a little easier on account of the fact that holding pee is always easier with an erection, and if Ann was going to hold her pee in for the rest of the trip, then I was going to have one for the rest of the trip.
“Okay,” I said.
–
On the way back down the mountain, Ann’s need was getting a bit more noticeable. We stopped walking to catch our breath several times, but she never really stopped moving. At each stop she would slowly pace around, or stand still but shift her weight from foot to foot constantly, usually with her hands interlaced right in front of her crotch, as though she wanted nothing more in the whole world than to plunge them in and hold herself tight. Even as we walked, it was clear from her stride – the way she crossed one leg in front of the other with each step – that she was plainly bursting. It was a pleasure to watch, and it served to distract me from my own plight somewhat.
We got back to our tent around four o’clock, and rested for a while before eating a dinner of miscellaneous snacks taken from our bags. During this time, Ann seemed to regain control of herself: she left her butt planted firmly on her seat and didn’t change position once, even though her bladder was surely boiling inside of her.
Then I remembered my fantasy from the previous day, the one where Ann was almost losing control of herself inside the kayak. Thinking of this, I suggested to Ann that we go kayaking again in a bit, and she cheerfully agreed. In the intervening downtime, I picked up a book and tried to continue reading where I’d last left off, but I found it immensely difficult to concentrate for more than a few sentences due to my bladder, which was getting, I admit, a little out of hand. I looked over at Ann to see what she was doing, and saw that she was just on her phone. She didn’t usually spend much time on that thing… maybe she was having issues focusing on anything else?
Sunset came, and we got in the kayak and pushed off from shore.
We paddled around, and held our pee. What else is there to say? Shall I describe the gentle rocking of the boat, and guess whether it was jostling Ann’s bladder around inside of her? Shall I tell you that the paddles made quiet splashes as they struck the water, and postulate that the sounds were torture for Ann to listen to? Shall I tabulate for you each and every instance where I thought I saw Ann’s serene smile twitch a little, her leg bounce once, her hand wander towards her crotch, her breathing falter for a moment, her eyes betray a flash of the desperation she must have felt inside? These things were happening quite a lot. My sixth sense was screaming in my ear that Ann was reaching her limit – that she was positively about to pop, and that at any second the pee might start spraying uncontrollably out of her. Soon enough we paddled back to shore, returned to our tent, and cuddled up inside, and it was like I was cuddling an old land mine, which for all I knew could explode in my hands at any time. She couldn’t sit still.
Then my phone buzzed in my pocket. It startled me because it’s almost always on silent. In fact, the only one who could make my phone vibrate was –
Ann: Blaise.
I stared at the text in confusion, then looked over at her phone, where I saw the same message in her texting app, right above the spot where she was still typing. Then my phone buzzed again:
Ann: Blaise, listen.
Ann: I need to pee. I can’t hold it.
I leaned forward and tried to look Ann in the eye, but she wouldn’t meet my gaze. She was wriggling like crazy and wearing an agonized expression. I said her name aloud, but she just turned away and continued typing. Another buzz:
Ann: Please don’t, this isn’t discussion-worthy.
Ann: That’s why I’m texting you instead.
Ann: I can’t wait, I’m going right now.
And with that, Ann stood up and walked out of the tent.
–
I followed, of course. Ann strode quickly down to the edge of the lake, and I tailed closely behind her. When she got to the water, she stopped, pulled down her pants, squatted down, and began to pee. A few initial gushes came spurting out, then the main stream. It sounded like a faucet had been turned on. I could hear it clearly from where I was standing fifteen feet away. I ran up to her, crouched down beside her, and saw that her head was tipped back and her eyes were closed. The pee flowed into the lake in a waterfall more powerful than I had thought possible.
Forty-five seconds in, Ann groaned, shifted position a little, and continued peeing. Another forty-five seconds and she sighed heavily. Her stream was showing no sign whatsoever of stopping, or even slowing down. It was a full three minutes before the flow decreased at all from its initial strength, and even at the end of the fourth minute she was still peeing at about a normal rate. Only after five minutes did she finally finish up, pushing out a few last spurts of pee before standing again, and pulling up her pants.
“Wow,” I commented. “That’s a lot of –”
But she held a finger to her lips, then pulled out her phone and began typing.
Ann: I’ve never needed to pee that badly before.
Ann: That can’t have been healthy.
I nodded as I read the texts, and already knew what I would say in response, but first, I had some business of my own to take care of. I stood up, unbuttoned my jeans, and began emptying my own bladder into the lake as well. I peed for about as long as she did, and when I was done, I breathed a sign of relief unlike any I had ever breathed before. The tension dissipated; I could think clearly again.
The first thing I did after finishing up was to take out my phone to respond to Ann’s texts.
Blaise: So was I.
Blaise: I thought we were going to overflow the lake.
Blaise: Three days is crazy.
And she replied back:
Ann: It really is.
Ann: Really glad it’s over, I don’t even wanna think about it.
Ann: Let’s not try that again.
So there we were, standing at the edge of the lake, having finally emptied our utterly overflowing bladders, looking into each other’s eyes and knowing the relief the other one felt. After taking a few moments just to soak in the fresh feeling of being empty again, I put my arm around Ann’s shoulders, and we headed back to our tent. I wish I could have talked more with her about the experience, had her tell me in exquisite detail the emotional state she was in just when she was breaking down, but of course, she had made it clear that the topic wasn’t interesting to her… and if I had pressed the matter, I don’t think I could have remained discrete about my fetish. The details would have to be left to my imagination… and damned if I wouldn’t be thinking of this night every day for the rest of my life.