Posted by Dickie on December 27, 1998 at 16:28
Underground Piss Artist
I planned my visit to London carefully. I was going to do a bit of shopping and visit an art gallery. I would also play hold it all day, and travel back on the Underground to my car which I had parked in the suburbs. The underground would be crowded in the rush hour and, as I would be bursting for a piss before I got on, I would almost certainly be unable to avoid without wetting my pants. Once on the train there would be 'no turning back'.
The first few hours went as planned. I dressed casually in my favourite clean well worn blue jeans and a polo shirt with a leather jacket over it. I had a normal breakfast; only a medium orange juice and one mug of coffee. I parked the car at Wimbledon near the underground station locking it carefully and leaving my change of clothes hidden in the boot (trunk). The train then took me into central London and I visited several shops looking for a rare book, which I did not find. So I went for a coffee, noticing as I filled my cup from the jug for the second time, that the pressure in my bladder was developing nicely, a distinct but still comfortable desire to pee.
I headed for the Whitechapel gallery to see the Lucien Freud exhibition, arriving there just after eleven, and spent an enjoyable hour and a half studying the incredible, beautiful and often tortured paintings.
All the while my bladder was filling and when I made my way to the restaurant in the gallery for some lunch I was beginning to feel a need to jig around and make a conscious effort to hold it. It was in the restaurant that my carefully laid plans began to go terribly wrong. It was self service rand I carried my own food, salad quiche and a very large juice, to an empty two seat table. I had taken a large swig of the juice and, legs crossed tightly, was just starting on the quiche when a woman a few years younger than me approached.
"Is anybody sitting here?"
"Be my guest."
She seated herself and placed her tray in front of her. Like me she had a large juice which she drained almost in one go before starting on her lunch.
"Have you been round yet?"
"Sorry?"
"The exhibition," she smiled "have you seen it or did you come straight up here?"
"Pretty thoroughly, I think Lucien Freud's great. How about you?"
"I took a quick look in the main hall, but I had to eat first, I do so love his work but I've seen lots of them before and I'm pretty hungry. I'll do the rest after I've eaten." She ate in a nervous fidgety way and looked at me intently between mouthfuls.
"Which period do you like best? I'm really taken by the wartime pieces but the later nudes are also great."
"Oh the later stuff definitely ..... and the surreal period ........."
"Yes I know what you mean ...... " we got into a deep conversation about painters and art in general. Linda appreciated many of the same paintings as I had and we also seemed to have lots of other things in common.
When we finished eating we naturally wandered back round the show and visited our favourite paintings together she drew my attention to things I had not noticed and stood transfixed before some of them totally lost in the painting but still with an intense fidgety energy. Her hands in the pockets of her distressed blue jeans were never still, almost as if she had to pee. Meantime I concentrated on keeping still and calm despite my growing pressure.
We then got on to talking about photography and how we both loved black and white, especially figures in Urban landscapes.
"there's a great show on at the serpentine. Sophie Rickett, do you know her work?"
Did I know her work? ! Well I knew one photo of hers very well, her pissing in a tube station, from Thomas's WS page. The rest I hadn't seen but hoped they were like that one. I decided not to mention the piss scene just yet "Not really but I would really like to see them." Was she into the WS pictures? I wondered.
"Come on then, lets go now." This woman I had only met half an hour ago grabs my hand and, before I could recover in my thoughts from the 'wow is this really happening to me' fantasy, we were out of the gallery and entering the underground station.
I had already decided I wanted to get to get to know her better, much better, and would have gone more or less anywhere she suggested. That it was to see photographs by Sophie Rickett was the ultimate bonus. And if one of Rickett's famous pissing shots was in the show I might find out a little of what Linda thought about watersports.
But what about using the toilet? On meeting Linda I had abandoned plans for a public wetting, getting to know her was much more important. Still I was feeling pretty full and although it was only a twenty minute Journey to Hyde Park so I felt a twinge of apprehension that I really should have found the toilet before leaving the gallery. But I told myself it would be OK.
The train was fairly full, we got seats at first, but at the next stop it lots more people got on and I gave mine to a frail looking old woman and soon the crowd was thick enough that I had to stand right in front of Linda brushing her knees with my crotch only a foot from her face. She remained seated as she had slightly twisted her ankle earlier and it hurt her a little to stand up, I noticed she kept her legs tightly crossed and she nervously fingered the hole in the right knee of her jeans. They were very well worn indeed with genuine wear holes with very thin fabric around them, rather than phoney 'distressed' cuts at the knees, in the seat and slightly just below her crotch where her legs rubbed together. Through all these holes thick red & black patterned tights were visible.
The train lurched along and we chatted over the din, I had to stoop down so that she could hear me and to catch what she said. She craned upwards grinning up into my face or, eyes down staring straight at my crotch.
Every time I moved my bladder protested and I began to wonder about the wisdom of holding it quite so long. The pressure was building and I had misjudged it a little. No real danger of an accident but I was finding it difficult not to jig around and even harder to concentrate on the conversation. Still we would be there very soon, a five minute walk to the gallery and a slightly dramatised rush into the toilet would get her primed for chatting about Rickett.
Then the train braked suddenly and came to a stop in the dark tunnel. We waited quietly, slight delays were common. Five minutes went by, and then an announcement came over the P.A. system apologising for the delay which was caused by a points failure up the line. For the first time I began to become anxious, and have real doubts about my ability to hold it.
Normally this was just the sort of incident I planned for, a genuine accident, but I most definitely did not want to wet in front of Linda. Meeting her was possibly the most important thing that had happened to me for years and I did not know how she would take it but probably badly. After all I had had plenty of time to go in the Gallery.
We kept up our conversation as the time ticked by. We discussed work, family history, all sorts of experiences, she was an illustrator who really lived for making sculptures and had been to art college in the early seventies, Hornsey she said just after it had become famous.
The minutes ticked by and extended into half an hour. People in the coach started chatting, complaining about the state of the underground and swapping horror stories about delays and getting stuck in tunnels. Without the Linda factor I would have been in my element, preparing my half genuine stage act up to a dramatic wetting accident. Now I was in genuine fear, except that I was not the only one.
The woman sitting next to Linda was heavily pregnant and was soon openly saying how she had to go. She was a blond 'earth mother' type in a loose 'Laura Ashley' smock and seemed about to drop any minute. Linda too clamped her legs tightly and wriggled more openly than before.
I meantime was by this time getting pretty desperate, jigging around and wishing I dared put my hand in my pocket and hold it tight. The pressure built and I started to jig from foot to foot as I felt a little trickle run from my bladder into my urethra. I began to realise I wasn't going to make it !
My jigging drew Linda's attention and she leaned up towards me. "I've really got to pee bad" she says.
"Yes so have I."
"So I see," big grin, "we should have gone at the gallery." She wriggled in her seat. "I never thought it would take this long." She pressed her hands into her crotch and clamped her legs over it.
I slipped my hand into my jeans pocket. The jeans were pretty tight and there was no way I could grab it discreetly but I was past caring as I gripped the end tightly.
The pregnant woman watched amused. "I get to feel like that every hour or so. I went just before I got on the train and already I'm feeling a lot of pressure. Makes me feel good to see a MAN in the same predicament."
Somehow her pregnancy made it alright to talk like this to a complete stranger. The old woman laughed. "Serves em right, MEN, all big & proud whipping it out to pee in the gutter just for the sake of it." Laugher from Jane and several other women around and about.
I would have been getting really aroused by now but for my real and growing desperation. I would also have given up and enjoyed the reactions of those around me if Jane hadn't been there. As it was I had by this time given up all pretence of cool, both my hands were in my pockets and pressed hard into my groin as the wave of pressure struck once more. I jigged around, and squeezed my legs together and just contained it.
The pain was getting pretty severe as I held on. At that moment the train started with a jolt and I had to let go and take my hand out of my pocket to grab the strap in order to avoid falling. The release of my clamped dick was followed by a strong hot spurt into my underpants. With great effort I got it under control as I felt the delicious wetness soak into the cotton. Not enough to show but a near thing.
The train continued to rock and judder stopping and starting several times within a few minutes. With every jerk I lost a few more drops. We got going quite fast once, and then the brakes were slammed on again and once more I grabbed the strap as I cannoned into other people.
This time I failed to control the spurt and was suddenly flooding. Quickly my pale denim darkened around the crotch, (remember I had chosen these jeans as the softest and most wet showing I owned) and it started to extend down my leg.
'Well I've well and truly blown it now might as well enjoy the result' I thought to myself.
Linda stared hard at the flood from 6" away and then looked up at me. A little smile played over her mouth and she bit her lower lip in a 'never mind you poor dear' kind of way.
I just carried on pissing, there was no stopping me now as it flooded down my legs soaking my right thigh and through to my left as I still pressed together in the, now futile, classic hold it pose.
The train jerked again. Stopping completely this time and all the lights went out leaving us in complete darkness and sudden silence.
In the dark I felt my crotch being grabbed and squeezed hard. It was only a few moments and I was released again.
Then the lights came back on, they had been out less than 20 seconds altogether, and I saw Linda sitting back in her seat, still holding her crotch with one hand and licking the fingers of the other. The hand she was licking was distinctly wet and there was a small smudge of damp on her cuff as well.
'My god this woman was into WS and she'd rumbled me too!' I decided to relax all attempt to control my bladder, removed my hand from my already soaked pocket and parted my legs. And the flow stopped. Now I was deciding to pee freely I couldn't. I was getting a rapid hard on and the worst of the pressure was off so I now just when I wanted to put on a real show there was none to be had. My jeans were beautifully and obviously soaked and a little had run into my shoe but there was still no dramatic puddle on the floor.
The train now got going properly and people relaxed although Linda was still wriggling and pressing.
"I don't think they'll let you in the gallery like that we'd better take you back to my place and clean you up," She grinned.
That seemed a great Idea to me, my obsession with having peed for her and her desperation stopped me from wondering about being asked home by a woman I had only met an hour before. "Thanks Linda I could do with it," I returned the smile, as the train pulled into the "Embankment" station.
We held hands in the crush as, with the other the passengers leaving the train, we had to force our way through another crowd on the packed platform.
"Where do you live?"
"Finchley," she called over her shoulder as she pulled me towards the escalator that lead to the deep Northern Line.
Standing behind her on the crowded down escalator trying not to press my wet jeans against her back I said "but that's miles out, I thought you needed to pee almost a much as me?"
"Not quite as much." She grinned back and patted my wet jeans.
"But will you make it all that way it must be at least half an hour. You could have found a toilet at Embankment."
"It would have been totally packed and I'd probably have wet myself standing in the queue. Where's the fun in that?" she grinned. "So loser like, If I'm going to piss myself I don't want to do so waiting in line for a toilet as if I cared or something." She paused to clamp her hand into her crotch. "Besides I might make it home, I usually do, it's only occasionally that I don't, but today ..........," she considered, "I doubt I will - probably about 5 to 1 against - quite a challenge really." She wriggled enticingly and winked.
The platform was packed and we couldn't get anywhere near the first train. As it left and the crowd leaving pushed past I began feeling the pressure of my refilling bladder overcome my erection. I enjoyed releasing a gentle trickle re-warming my underwear. Then as people made for the exit there were suddenly far less people around and we could stand apart far enough to look at each other.
Linda stroked my wet crotch momentarily. "You'd better let the rest go here. Better a puddle on the platform than over some poor unsuspecting bastard's ass in the crush of the carriage."
We moved to a dark corner and she stood in front of me, hands on my shoulders and leaning forward to brush my cheek whilst keeping her body away from my wet pants. "Go on let it flow."
Being so publicly encouraged and so blatant about it I found it hard to let go but slowly the trickle increased until I was in full flow. Pouring down both legs of my jeans, soaking my socks and filling my shoes. A river flowed over the platform and down a grating.
"I'm glad that's over." Said Linda as my flow slowed, "in ten minutes I'll be extremely, extremely desperate and the sound of your piss would be the last straw."
Another train arrived and we made out way onto it I managed to get my back into a corner and Linda stood close in front of me. Standing packed together I felt her knee against my wet leg as she jigged around to the swaying train, working hard to defeat her impossible odds and make it home without wetting her pants.
'At least she's got one damp knee I thought to myself.'
TO BE CONTINUED
And did Linda make it? What happened when we got to her flat?
To find out look out for Underground Piss Artist Two.
The above, of course, is fiction. I intend to enact it as soon as the weather in England is warm enough. Whether Linda will appear is unfortunatly unlikely.
Dickie
December 1998
Email: dickie_j@hotmail.com