Posted by wetfan on May 21, 2002 at 16:18
Hello there,
I was clearing some files out and found this story hidden among some other stuff. I don't know who original wrote it or whether it's true or fiction, but it's got some great desperation so I thought I would post it again.
Take care
wetfan
Entry to: Month 12
Received 02/04/1998 (on time), published 10/04/1998.
Title: The School Outing or Somewhere To Go on a Wet Day
By: Anon II
At the end of my first term as a full-time teacher, working in the Midlands, I assisted with a
school outing to the Natural History Museum in London. I was expected to be at school
early to help organise the children, as the coaches were leaving at 8,30. It was a cold,
damp December day, and that morning my car chose not to start. I called a taxi, but I
didn't get to school until nearly 8,30, when the children were already on the coaches and
ready to leave. I should have gone to the loo before we left, but that would have delayed
the start even more, and I would have had to tell everyone why I needed to go into the
school instead of getting straight on the coach. I tried to convince myself that as I had been
before leaving home, and, as I had not drunk much coffee that morning, I would be OK,
but I knew that no sensible girl with a small bladder ever gets on a coach without going to
the loo at the last possible moment. I also knew that it was dangerous to worry about
wanting a loo, so after apologising for being late, I tried to put all thoughts of such matters
out of my mind. Everything was fine until just before 9 o'clock, when we joined the M1,
and a 'Services 12 miles' sign triggered some Pavlovian response and made me want a loo.
I told myself that it was impossible that I needed to go so soon, crossed my legs and tried
to get the urge to go away. All in vain, and 15 minutes later, when we passed the Services,
I was bursting, and sitting with one foot tucked under me to ease the pressure on my
bladder.
On that part of the M1 we were going to pass a Services about every half hour, and it
seemed reasonable to me that we would either stop at the next one, when I would be
really bursting and some children wanting to go, or the one after, when I would be
desperate and lots of the children dying to go. It wasn't very warm in the coach, which was
not helping my bladder, and I was dismayed to find that my need for a wee was increasing
faster than I expected. By the time a sign showed that the next Services was 5 miles away,
I really was bursting, and having to make a conscious effort to control my bladder, despite
sitting on my heel. The coach was not exactly speedy, hardly ever getting out of the slow
lane, and we had taken longer to get to this Services than I had anticipated. We had to
stop here, or by the time we reached the next Service area I was going to be Desperate,
underlined and with a capital D. The coach seemed to slow as it approached the turn-off,
and I was already thinking of the relief that was only minutes away, but instead of signalling
left and going down the slip road, the coach pulled out to over-take a couple of trucks that
were turning off.
The thought of stopping and soon being in the loo had made me want to go more, and I
was having to clench my bladder shut as we passed the Service area. I had to steel myself
to wait another 30, no, more like 45, minutes at the speed this coach was going, before the
next chance of a loo. We really did have to stop then, I was going to be desperate, going
on frantic, and I expected that plenty of the children would want to go as well. To try to
make time pass quicker, I stopped dreaming about the loo I so badly needed and began to
converse with Joan Parker, a senior teacher who I was sitting next to. She had been using
the journey time to catch up with her marking, and did not welcome my conversation, but I
persisted, as I had to do something to make time pass quicker. Casually, I mentioned
stopping somewhere on the way to London.
"This is your first school outing, isn't it?" Joan asked. "Well, there are some things that you
are not taught at college. One is the amount of trouble that two coach loads of children can
cause at a motor-way services. They treat the car park like a playground, and nearly get
run down by 30 ton trucks, they buy loads of chocolate and then make themselves sick
eating on the coach, or worse they get caught stealing from the shop. So, you never, never,
stop anywhere unless you absolutely have to. We are certainly not stopping today, when
it's not going to take much more than 2 hours to get to the museum. Some of the children
might be a bit uncomfortable when we get there, but that is nothing to the stress we are
avoiding, believe me."
I could only pretend agree with her, trying hard to disguise my horror at what she had told
me. A 'bit uncomfortable' was not how I would have described my condition at the time. I
was absolutely bloody bursting for a wee, and if it was going to take another hour to get to
the museum, then I was going to be flat out, frantic for a loo, virtually doing it in my
knickers, very very 'uncomfortable' indeed. Given the choice, I would have taken full
responsibility for every single child at the service area, just so long as I could use the loo
first. I considered telling Joan that not all teachers had bladders like an elephant's; that if I
knew anything about my class, then some of them were already 'uncomfortable,' and that it
only needed a bit of organisation on her part to have a perfectly safe stop at the next
services. I didn't say anything, as the sight of a 'Services 2 miles' sign caused a sudden
urgent spasm from my bladder, which took all my attention to control. I squirmed about on
the seat, trying to get my heel to press harder between my legs, and get my wee level
down from 'absolutely desperate' to 'bursting.'
I had travelled the M1 enough times to know that we were at least an hour from central
London and the Natural History Museum, probably longer in this slow old wreck of a
coach, even if there were no traffic jams. Normally, I would have said that in my present
condition, I simply could not manage to hold on another hour before wetting my knickers.
I had been studying 'Positive Thinking,' so I knew that, in theory, all I had to do was to
believe that I could wait for another hour and a half, and I would be able to. I simply had
to put the theory into practice. I was a junior teacher, still on probation, and it was
absolutely inconceivable that I should disgrace myself by wetting my knickers. So,
somehow, I had to make myself wait, there was simply no alternative. What was worse, I
was going to have to wait without showing that I wanted to go. No squirming about on the
seat, no doubling over with my hands in my lap, and no holding between my legs, groaning
with desperation. I could sit on my heel, but I was going to have to sit still and make
normal conversation.
This wasn't the first time I had been desperate on a coach, and I began to apply all my
experience in waiting to surviving the journey. Thinking about a loo would only make it
worse, I had to take my mind off the need to wee as much as possible, and this would
also, perhaps, make the time pass quicker. It was 9,40, so if everything well and there
were no traffic jams, we would be at the Natural History Museum in an hour, but we could
easily be delayed until 11 o'clock. That was my target, I had to wait until at least 11
o'clock. I began a conversation with Joan, more or less forcing her to give up her marking
and talk to me. I really didn't care what we talked about, so long as it helped pass the time
quicker, and diverted my attention from my bursting bladder.
Five minutes later, the children were becoming noticeably noisier as they got bored with
the journey. Joan told me to walk about the coach for a bit and tell off the noisiest ones.
Of course, walking about made me want to go more urgently, and I was having to press
my legs together as I walked. I stopped regularly to reprimand the children, more because
I needed to cross my legs than because they were naughty. I wanted to be able to really
twist my legs together and curtsey, as the urge to wee was becoming really intense now I
was walking about. Two lengths of the coach, and I was really struggling for control,
thankfully sitting hard on my heel as I got back to my seat. 'Christ!' I thought, 'If I'm this
desperate now, what am I going to be like in an hour, and then I'm going to have to walk
from the coach to the Museum.'
No matter how hard I tried to talk to Joan, and to think about something else, my bladder
was demanding more and more of my attention. There were so many signs along the M1
to remind me of how far we still had to go, and my need to wee was getting remorselessly
worse. If only I had made them wait while I went to the loo before we left. I replayed the
scene outside the school dozens of times in my imagination, and each time I found some
way of using the loo before we left. If I had known what was going to happen, I would
have even made the taxi stop round the corner and gone in the bushes of the local park.
I was desperate, and even sitting on my heel, it was taking a real effort to hold back my
wee. I was beginning to seriously doubt my ability to wait until the Museum, wondering
what on earth I would do if, or when, I reached the point when I began to wet my
knickers. Every second was going to count, and I began anxiously scanning the road
ahead for any delays. Every time I saw the traffic building up, or cars ahead slowing down,
I imagined there was going to be a traffic jam and delays before I could get to loo. Most of
the time I was willing the coach to go faster, except when we approached a Service area,
when I prayed that something would make us stop. After what Joan had said about not
stopping, I could not pluck up the courage to say the simple words 'Will you stop at the
next services, I want to go to the loo, I simply can't wait any longer.'
I tried to think of a scenario that would get the coach to stop. Maybe one of the children
getting 'car sick', or the coach going wrong and needing repairs, or running out of petrol. If
only the driver wanted to wee, or one of the children say they could not wait any longer, if
the coach didn't stop they would go in their pants. If only something could happen to get
the coach into a Service area, then I could get to a loo.
At last we reached the end of the motorway, and as we approached the last Service area,
I prayed for some miracle to happen and the coach stop there, but no such thing. We were
off the motorway and into the stop-start of London traffic. I had been wanting to go for
nearly an hour and a half, sitting on my heel for most of that time. Desperate, Frantic, Flat
Out, Screaming to Go, use what ever term you like, I wanted to wee so urgently that I
really didn't know how much longer I was going to be able to wait. The pressure in my
bladder was almost unbearable; even with my heel helping, I was using all my strength to
hold it back. I joined hands under my legs, pulling my heel harder into my crutch and also
pressing my thighs harder together with my forearms. I was clenching my bladder shut with
all the strength I could muster, while still trying not to give too many visible signs that I was
nearly wetting myself. Every road junction, every traffic light, was a potential delay, and
every delay was taking me nearer the time when I broke down and wet my knickers. I
wanted to scream at the driver to get a move on, to force his way through the traffic, but
he was slow and careful. It was almost as if he wanted to make me suffer, slowing as he
approached lights, stopping for pedestrian crossings, driving over every bump and hole in
the road he could find.
The need to wee was coming in waves; sometimes it was bearable, and I thought I would
make it OK, then there would be a surge of desperation and I would go right to the brink
of wetting my knickers, using every ounce of my strength to hold it back. I was shuddering
with the effort when this happened, and once or twice, could not stop an involuntary groan
or gasp as I fought to control my bladder. Hands clasped under my legs, I was pulling my
heel up into my crutch and leaning forward; somehow I simply had to hold on a bit longer.
The second time I did this, once again just managing to avoid a leak, Joan gave me a very
funny look. I smiled wanly and said I was stiff from sitting too long in the coach. Later, I
realised she never suspected how frantic I was, because she could not conceive that
anyone, particularly an adult, could really need a loo after such a short journey.
The last part of the journey was nothing but a blur of absolute desperation, fighting with all
my strength to avoid letting go in my knickers. I had no idea where we were any more, the
only thing that mattered to me was somehow finding the strength in my bladder muscles to
hold back my wee for another few minutes. Then, at last, the coaches were stopping in
Exhibition Road. We were there! Somehow I had managed to wait. I was thinking that I
could be in a loo in a few seconds, but no, there was more bladder strain first. We had to
get the children out of the coaches and lined up on the pavement in class groups, make
sure they had all got their sandwiches and work-sheets, and then get them in the Museum
in an orderly fashion. This was going to take ages, and I was going to be standing up,
nothing to help me wait. I was within an ace of wetting myself sitting on my heel, so how
on earth was I going to hold it standing up.
As we were sitting at the front of the coach, and I had the aisle seat, I had to get out first
and supervise on the pavement. I crossed my legs, I twisted them in a knot, one foot
hooked behind the other calf to get maximum pressure, and leaned against the coach to
keep my balance. I must have looked most peculiar, but it was the only way I could
possibly wait, so I had to do it. Once they were all lined up, I had to walk along the line to
get them in order. I was frantic, fighting with every ounce of my strength to control myself,
clenching my fists in my anorak pockets to find some more control, almost in tears with the
effort. The children messing about were keeping me from the loo, which was all I cared
about, so I almost screamed in fury at them to shut up and behave, which shocked them
into order.
We were so nearly there, except that what I though was the entrance, right where we were
lined up, was another museum. The Natural History Museum was round the corner,
perhaps a hundred yards away, but it might have been a hundred miles as I didn't think I
could walk five steps without wetting myself. All I could do was concentrate every ounce
of my strength on my bladder, and hope that it would be enough to hold out just a little bit
longer. I would have given anything to have been able to hold my crutch as I walked, but
my anorak was too short to cover me doing this. How I wished I had worn either my
raincoat or my new winter coat, as both were long enough to cover me holding my crutch.
I was so near the loo, and yet I could feel control slipping away, despite all the effort I was
making. I wanted to stop and double over with my legs twisted in a knot, I wanted to sit
down with my heel pressed into my crutch, I wanted to hold between my legs, I wanted
to go to the loo, but instead, I had to walk along supervising a line of children, pretending
I was fine. I so nearly made it, but the steps up to the entrance were my final undoing, and
a little dribble, then another, then a longer spurt of wee escaped into my knickers and
began to trickle down my legs.
There was a security check at the door, more delay, but at least I could knot my legs and
bend forward a bit, and stop any more leaks. I was trying to stand still, but I was so
desperate I had to keep moving my legs or I would have wet myself some more. It must
have been obvious to everyone what a state I was in. My whole body was tensed with the
effort of holding back my wee, I was rubbing my legs together and jigging up and down on
the spot, I was biting my lip with desperation, and the agony I was suffering must have
shown on my face. How nobody noticed I will never know.
Thankfully, the security was only cursory, as none of us looked like terrorists. All I could
think was 'Where's the loo? Where's the loo? Please show me where the loos are quickly.
Oh, please, they must be just inside the doors.'
Near the door was a Cloakroom, which was just somewhere to leave your coat. No loos!
I was out of my mind with desperation, and the thought that I was so close to a loo had
caused me to leak a bit more. I could feel my tights were wet nearly to my knees, but
thank goodness they did not change colour when they were wet, so nobody noticed what I
had done. We all had to leave our coats in the cloakroom, which seemed to take ages to
organise. I was going frantic, but with my legs virtually tied in a knot, and my hands
clenched at my side, I had got my bladder under control again, but not for long, I knew.
I saw a sign to the 'Toilets,' pointing into the museum, and I was about to lead my group of
girls there when Joan told me to wait until the whole party was organised. While they were
doing this, I was going frantic. I had my legs in a knot again, and was shaking with the
effort of holding back my wee. I had never in my life been so desperate, and I knew that I
was on the verge of completely breaking down and wetting myself in front of the whole
party. I would have turned away from the group and held my crutch, but with my knickers
already wet, this would have made the front of my skirt wet.
Finally I was told to take a group of girls to the Ladies. I was so frantic I could hardly
move, but I somehow I had to make it across the hall. I tried to walk as fast as I could, but
it was not easy to walk at all. This time I did not get more than ten yards before I lost
control and let some more wee out. The rest of the way was a series of dribbles and leaks,
as I simply could not control my bladder any longer. Had I been alone, I would have run,
but I could not do this in front of the children. I made it to the Ladies with wee soaking
through my knickers and tights and running down my legs. I felt sure there was a trail of
drips on the floor, but I dared not look. As I pushed open the door of the Ladies, I could
feel the last vestiges of bladder control slipping away. In panic I almost ran into the nearest
cubicle, slamming the door shut as I felt my bladder was about to burst. I had my hand
under my skirt, pressing hard into my crutch, which just about managed to stop any more
leaks until I could get my skirt up and my knickers down, and, at long last, let the contents
of my bursting, distended, bladder pour out. Oh the relief! And oh the pressure behind that
first blast of wee. No wonder I had been leaking, nobody's bladder could have held in that
sort of pressure unaided.
Despite my desperation, I didn't wee for ages. As I said, I have a small bladder, so the
pressure fell and I was soon finished. When my bladder was finally empty, I took stock of
the mess I was in. The bottom of my slip and skirt were a bit wet, but it did not notice. My
knickers and tights were soaked. I dried my legs and tights with loo paper, but I could not
get my knickers dry enough to wear without risk of getting a wet bum if I sat down. I
wrapped them in loo paper and put them in my hand-bag. I had to go about without
knickers for the rest of the day, but my skirt was long enough for that not to matter very
much. All I hoped was that nobody had seem what I had done. My bladder was aching so
much I though I must have damaged it holding out for so long, but it gradually got better.
I never heard any of the children making any reference to their teacher having wet her
knickers, so I was pretty sure that nobody realised what I had done. How thankful I was
that I had not worn trousers, or even a tight skirt, when there would have been no hiding
what had happened.
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