Wet Yourself Go

After reading Vol 24 No 12, I simply had to write. I'm referring 
to the letter *Tinkle Turn-on* sent to your Adviser column by A.W.
of Kent, in which she describes how she became excited while seeing
her daughter wetting herself, and that she gets tempted to retreat
to her younger years and wet her own knickers while she's out shopping.
I hope she reads this letter and tries it.

   I was in a similar situation last year with my daughter. I was
walking home with her from a school open day at the time. Sara,my 
daughter, had mentioned that she wanted a wee, but I didn't realize 
how badly she wanted to go until I saw her holding herself tightly.
'Go behind the hedge,' I said quickly. She tried, taking tiny steps,
then suddenly lifted her skirt and ran through the gap. When I caught
up with her, my mouth went dry and, like A.W., I became very excited.
Sara was half-stooping, legs apart, with a stream of wee coming through
her knickers. I wanted to go myself and in my excitement, I released a
long spurt into my jeans. I'm sure Sara noticed the mark it made, but
she didn't say anything.

   I went through weeks of torment and frustration, even jealousy. I
wanted to wet my pants like Sara had, but soaking one's knickers is
hardly suitable behaviour for a woman of 34.

   In the end, I put myself in a situation where I had to do it. I
waited until I was desperate then went for a walk alone, on an open
common with no cover, and it worked. After twenty minutes, I stooped
down and wet my knickers like a naughty schoolgirl. It was an incredible
experience, and when I masturbated afterwards, I had the most sensational
orgasm I've ever had. A.W., you really must try it.

   As I have said, this happened nearly a year ago. Since then, I've been
a compulsive wet girl, indulging several times a week. I've also told my 
daughter that, if she needs to, she should never feel guilty about
wetting herself, and although she's never said so, I know that she has
on at least half a dozen occasions.

   The icing on the cake came six weeks ago. I was preparing the evening
meal, when I gave in to my weakness and nipped into the loo and piddled
myself, intending to go upstairs for a quick diddle, but something boiled
over and I had to change my plans. Just as the crisis was in hand, my
husband came in, feeling a bit randy, and stuck his hand straight up my
skirt. 'Yuk!' he yelled. 'You dirty bitch, you've pissed yourself.'

   'Sorry,' I spluttered. 'I had to. I'll go and change.'

   'Like hell you will,' he said. Kneeling down, he unzipped my skirt
and kissed me between my legs before pulling my pants off and proceeding
to have almost brutal sex with me.

   In the aftermath, I panted that I'd have to wet myself more often.

   'You had bloody well better,' he said. Well, I kept my word and now
I'll do it almost anywhere - on my own, or with hubby watching. Sex
afterwards - by hand, vibrator or with the real thing - is fantastic.
So, A.W., get on with it. Once you're used to doing it, try to stage
an accident in front of your husband, and if he doesn't respond, keep
it to yourself and your favourite fingers. I do hope it all works for
you as well as it did for me.

A.J., Oxon.
Forum. vol 25, no 3 (1992)


Wet Duet

This particular incident happened when I was at college, aged 19.
I was in the college choir, singing alto, and we were giving a
performance of *The Messiah* in a big hall at the other side of
the city. By this time, I'd discovered that I actually enjoyed the
feeling of wetting my knickers; and it's stil a real turn-on if I
have to 'go' somewhere where there isn't a toilet in sight.

   Anyway, on this occasion we were all dolled up, wearing white
blouses and long black satin dresses for the concert, and I had 
no wish for an 'accident' - but, as you'll see, I had a real one
this time. Not only me, but my friend Eileen, too. She's a bit
taller than me, has long blonde hair down to her waist, blue eyes
and is very slim. 

   It was after the performance, on the way home on the bus, that
we both ended up peeing in our knickers. The funny thing was that
we enjoyed the experience so much that we carried out a few
experiments together later on - but that's another story!

   Anyway, back to what happened. The performance had gone really
well, and we were all feeling very happy as we trooped back to the
waiting coach. There were about fifty of us altogether, and quite
a few of the girls stopped off to go to the toilet before climbing
on board. I wanted to go, but I wasn't too desperate. Eileen glanced
over at the long queue, then turned to me. 'I could do with the loo,'
she said, 'but it doesn't seem worth the wait, does it?'

   'We'll be back at the college in half an hour,' I replied, 'I can
hold on that long if you can.'

   'Half an hour,' said Eileen thoughfully. 'I'm not sure...' Just then,
the organiser of the choral society came past, asking us all to hurry
up because the coach was waiting. 'Okay,' said Eileen, 'I'll manage.'

   We climbed on the coach and found a couple of seats near the back.
It must have been at least another twenty minutes before everyone else
was on board and counted. By this time, I was beginning to feel rather
uncomfortable, and Eileen was in the same predicament. She turned to me
and whispered, 'Oh dear,' I think I must dash off and go to the toilet
after all. Don't let them leave without me.'

   But it was too late. Just as she stood up, the coach started to move
off, and she sat down again with a little gasp. 'Oh no,' she murmured,' I
hope I can hang on.' She thrust her hands tightly in her lap and squeezed
her legs together. I must admit that the thought that my best friend might
wet herself was a definite turn-on for me, though I didn't want to 'go'
myself and spoil; my satin dress. At the same time, I was really needing
the toilet quite badly by this time.

   'I wish I hadn't drunk all that tea in the interval,' I muttered. 'I'm
really dying for the loo now, too.'

   We chatted about the concert, and about some of the antics one of the
boys had got up to during the rehersals. The memory of one of his pranks
made Eileen laugh. 'Oh dear,' she giggled, 'don't make me laugh, or I'll
wet myself.' Well, you can imagine that this only spurred me on! I reminded
her of another funny event, and she started giggling again. I began to
laugh too, and I suddenly felt a little spurt of pee escape into my knickers.
I clamped my legs tightly together and brought everything under control.

   Eileen obviuosly wasn't as experienced as I was in this respect, because
she went into a fit of uncontrollable giggles as she looked at me. She
ignored my presence as she thrust both hands into the folds of her dress.
Suddenly, her face turned pink as she started to open and close her thighs,
slamming them tightly against her hands. 'I'm afraid I started to pee a bit
when I was laughing so much,' she confided. 'Now I want to go really badly.
I hope we get back soon.'

   The traffic was very heavy that night, and the coach seemed to crawl
along. There were crowds of people about, and no sign of a public toilet
that we could use. After another ten minutes or so, I turned to Eileen and
told her she shouldn't risk damaging herself by trying to hold on if it was
getting painful. She was biting her lower lip, and I could see tears glis-
tening in her eyes. 'I've already let a bit out,' she said, 'I thought it
would make me feel better, but now I need to go really badly. I'll have to
let a little bit more into my knicks. It's a good thing we've got these
black skirts on, so it shouldn't show. I'd be so embarrassed if anyone knew
I'd wet myself like a little girl.' She sat quite still, her face quite 
red, and I thrilled at the thought that my friend was actually wetting her
knickers just beside me. After a second or two, she thrust her right hand
back between her legs.

   'Oh dear.' she sighed, 'I thought I'd feel better if I just let a little
but more out, but I'm still dying to relax completely, and I daren't, or I
might make such a mess. Oh, I do hope the coach hurries up...' And she
pushed her hand deeper between her thighs, right round to the back,
pressing hard between her rear cheeks.

   All this time, I was letting little spurts out into my own panties, and
by this time I was wondering if I could stop myself from letting it all
flood out. Just then, a boy leaned over from the seat behind, offering us
both cans of beer, and I had a bright idea. I leaned over to Eileen and
whispered, 'I'm really aching for the loo, too. There's nothing I can do,
I can't wait any longer, I'll have to go in my knickers. Let's pretend to
spill the beer in our laps, then no one will realise we've wet ourselves.'
She looked doublful, but I could see she needed to go so badly that she'd
grasp thankfully at any prospect of relief. She struggled for another
minute or two, wriggling about, pressing her hands hard into her lap, then,
looking out at the slowly-moving cars that surrounded us, she gave a little
sigh, shrugged, stopped moving around in her seat and spread her legs
slightly apart.

   'It's no use,' she whispered, 'I can't wait any longer, I've just got to
relieve myself.' She sat there for a few moments, quite still, then turned
to me again. 'I need to go so badly,' she said, 'but I can't seem to let it
out. Oh dear, what'll I do?'

   'Just relax,' I said. 'I know that sometimes if I'm really desperate, I
find I've been holding on so hard that I just can't let go.' Eileen lay her
head against the back of the seat and closed her eys, her lips slightly
parted.

   I thought I could hear a hiss as the first real spurt of pee flooded
into her knickers and, looking down, I noticed a darker stain spreading
across her lap. The sight of another girl wetting herself was too much for
me, and I nearly had an orgasm as I realised I was doing exactly the same
as she was - wetting my panties with other people all around me unaware of
what I was up to. The pee was flooding out of me and dribbling slowly
through my lacy black knickers and skirt, soaking into the absorbent seat
beneath me. I knew that if I stood up there'd be a big wet stain spreading
across the back of my skirt, and somehow the thought was very exciting.

   'Now for the "accident",' I said when we both felt a bit better. Luckily,
the coach driver pulled up sharply at some traffic lights a few seconds
later, and I tipped half a can of lager into my lap as Eileen did the same.

   I stood up. 'Oh no!' I shrieked. 'Our skirts are ruined! We both spilt
our drinks when the bus stopped with a jerk at those lights!' The smell of
lager was everywhere, and I don't think anyone guessed that the stains on
our dresses consisted largely of our own pee.

   I relaxed completely after that, closing my eyes and really enjoying the
wonderful delicate sensations as the rest of the warm liquid pulsed past
the softly parted petals of my secret lower lips.

   When we finally reached the college car park, there were a few jokes
about the state of our skirts as we hurried off the coach, but I managed
to pass them off, explaining about the lager. 'I bet you're both totally
pissed,' said one of the guys, sniffing the smell of beer - a true word
spoken in jest?

L.,  address withheld.
Forum. vol 25, no 3 (1992)


[No title, extract from a letter]

I have to ask myself, what is the world coming to? The headlines now tell
us that nice girls are going around knickerless and, to prove it, a newspaper
recently published a photograph of an elegant and sophisticated young deb at
a ball, holding up the train of her miniskirt to reveal to the world the
stirring sight of the two shapely cheeks of a totally nude bum. The caption
read, _Do Nice Girls Go Without Knickers?_ and the verdict was - it's catching
on fast.  Now, my mum told me when I was a kid that only rude girls went about
with no knickers on, so this all comes as a bit of a shock to me.

   Well, not all that much of a shock, perhaps.  Over the years I've become
aware that some of your less fussy girls often go bare under their frock.
Last summer in Crete, for instance, I saw a delectable little lady who dashed
out of the 'Olde Englishe Pubbe', straddled the gutter in the main street and,
pulling up her incredibly tight lycra miniskirt to her hips, released a
cascade of piss which splashed her shoes and just missed those of her
laughing girlfriend.  From the way the young lady said, "Ere Trace, I've
filled me fuckin' shoes," I should imagine she was English.

   Some uncharitable people might take the view that she was an uncouth
little cow. I prefer to think that she took a refreshingly fortnight attitude
to her bodily functions, but what impressed me, together with several other
onlookers, was the fact that her virtuoso effort was greatly helped by not
wearing any knickers, which naturally made her exercise in piss-artistry all
the more spectacular.  Did this imply that she went without knickers to cope
with just such a pressing need, or possibly to avoid unnecessary delay and
encumbrance on meeting a likely lad? I suspect the latter, but then I've
always taken the romantic view.

[letter, extract]
Forum. vol 25, no 3 1992