Posted by adrian on May 10, 2001 at 12:25
In Reply to: Re: Wetting My Knickers In Chu posted by Havelock on May 09, 2001 at 08:56
Do you think of this one?
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Posted by Wendy on November 25, 1998 at 13:06
ACCIDENT IN CHURCH
This is the only live accident I have ever witnessed. It occurred on Christmas day in
1984. I was 16yrs. Old and attending mass with my family at our parish (Catholic) church.
It was snowing out and, what with the heat from the furnace and the packed house, it was
stifling inside. We had arrived early and were sitting three pews back from the pulpit.
There were so many people crammed in there that several of the children were required
to spend the entire service kneeling at the communion rail. One girl in particular had
caught my attention because of her almost perfect outfit. She was about 12yrs old and
wearing a pink dress with a full skirt. She must have had at least three petticoats under
that skirt. She also wore a white hat, with a matching pink ribbon, white gloves with frilled
cuffs and black patent shoes with white frilled socks. I thought that she was the best
dressed child in the church.
Now Catholic services, especially at major religious holidays, are long and boring
affairs, sometimes as long as (or over) two hours. It’s not unusual to see kids fidgeting
and adults nodding off. So, by the time we had been through the beginning homilies and
prayers, the ‘Agnus Dei’ and an interminable sermon, even the hardiest of believers was
yawning and hoping someone would open a door. The air was still, humid, overly warm
and oppressively scented from old ladies who could no longer smell their own perfume.
The priest and his attendants were in the process of preparing communion, a particularly
quiet segment of the service. You could hear people’s smallest movements: changing
position to relieve the stiffness from hard benches, shuffling feet, clearing phlegmy
throats and occasional whispers to unruly children. I was looking around discretely to see
if any boys about my age were near, when the girl in pink started to fidget in a most
familiar way.
Her movements were unmistakable and I knew immediately just what she was going
through. She was shifting her weight from knee to knee and, even under all those
petticoats, I could see that she was rhythmically drawing her bottom inward. Her distress
was so evident that it reminded me that I, too, could do with a trip to the loo. I watched
her intently for more than five minutes, feeling her need. The priest raised the host and
the altar boy rang the bells, breaking my concentration for a moment. When I refocused, I
noticed that she had changed her movements. Now her knee to knee dance had picked
up a variation. She was alternately squeezing her thighs together. The poor thing was
even looking, longingly, toward the side door, only five meters away. She was getting
truly desperate.
I was torn by conflicting emotions and hopes. I was hoping that the poor girl would be
able to hold out until the service was over. But that would probably be another forty-five
minutes, considering the huge number of people that would take communion. (And
nobody ever got up and left in the middle of mass!) I was also hoping (‘Lord forgive
me.’)that, if she could not hold out, I would be able to see it happen. I was at the end of
our pew at the aisle, less than three meters from her. I had a clear view. I silently prayed
that if she let go, nothing would obstruct my view. The boy rang the bells again and it
caused her to turn her head to that side. I could see that she was biting her lip. Then I
saw her hand go suddenly to her crotch, a major no-no in church. She pulled it away
almost as fast. But it went right back, and this time, it stayed. She bent forward at the
waist and, in the silence I distinctly heard her quietly whimper. I think she was praying as
well. Then she straightened and went ridged. Her body was shaking ever so slightly and,
judging from the sudden tension in her arm, her grip at her crotch had tightened. I was
now watching in fascination and anticipation. I knew she was losing a hopeless struggle.
It was only a mater of seconds now.
It happened with no further warning signs. Drops of her pee began to appear on the
leatherette pad that she was kneeling on. Her legs went instinctively a little farther apart.
Then her shoulders sagged visibly in resignation to the inevitable. That’s when I heard
the hissing begin. It was overly loud in that reverently quiet atmosphere. And the pee
came cascading down between her knees. Her toes were tapping the marble floor as
the pent-up frustration flowed out of her with her pee. The urine ran off the kneeler in a
little river and began forming a puddle around her feet. She didn’t move a muscle for the
longest time. She just stayed there, too mortified to run, while her bladder ran to the full
extent of its betrayal. Others noticed what was happening, especially the front pew.
There were whispers and fingers pointing. One woman brought a hanky to her mouth in
shock. A young boy giggled. And still she peed. As sacrilegious as it may sound, I was
tremendously turned on at the sight of this young girl wetting herself so uncontrollably. At
the same time I prayed that it would be over for her. Finally she ran dry. (Perhaps dry is
the wrong word.) She gave out a stifled cry of ultimate embarrassment and pushed
herself up from the communion rail. She ran, crying, to the side door and out into the
snow. A nun, sitting to the side of the altar saw her predicament and hollowed her out. (I
found out later that the girl was taken to the convent, across the road, and cleaned up
and comforted.)
As for me, I was in a state. I wanted to pee in my own panties right there and then to
wantonly masturbate to climax. I was so randy that I was twitching inside. I watched an
usher trying to clean up the huge pond of pee she left behind. I wanted to run over and sit
down in it. I wanted to put my hands in her golden puddle and play in it. Just as soon as
the service ended I ran for the girl’s room and, even though the place was crowded, got
off in the stall. I masturbated again as soon as I was home! That was in my own room,
after sitting on the toilet and wetting my panties. I still feel sorry for that girl; but I’ll always
be grateful to her for a wondrous memory.
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