I was about to post this under Dreams but changed my mind at the last moment, so for those bitching about pee stories, you've got no case any longer, matter of fact, why would you even be here in Wet Stories?
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I imagine two women, best friends. Call them the Margarets, Maggie and Meg, and say they work together-maybe one does accounts payable and the other accounts receivable, or maybe they run the front office, one of them handling the phones and the other taking walk-in orders. Whatever. They'll be universally regarded as the two cutest women in the company. Meg, we'll say, is pretty enough in the winter months, but in summer (when she often goes around in a tank top) she'll be nothing short of breathtaking. Her breasts are large and round and firm and her bra will hold them up to make a cleavage you could lose yourself in-a valley that could engulf your whole face, or take your penis and surround it like a second vagina. Maggie will be tall and lanky. We'll make her a little too skinny for my usual taste and not quite as pretty as Meg, but with a nice friendly smile and a vivacious energy.

Both of them are desperate to pee. I dress them in bathing suits for this: Maggie in a bikini-turquoise or royal blue, skimpy but not outlandish- acres of exposed skin. The bottom is low-cut across the front-a quarter inch lower and it would start to show wisps of pubic hair-and it rides high over the hips, not a thong, but still showing some good buttock. Meg is in a one-piece suit, scarlet, with a scoop neck that's as low-cut as her tank tops to show the deep, hypnotic cleavage between her generous breasts. She's tanned to a rich amber, as far down as you can see.

The whole office is at a weeklong management seminar on the Cape. With an afternoon off, they've gone to the beach, riding out in two carloads; Meg and Maggie are using a rental car that they just picked up that day, and everyone else is riding in the company van. The van served as a changing room, and all the clothes and shoes were stowed there. When they all left to go back to the hotel, the folks in the van didn't realize that they still had the Margarets' clothes with them, so Meg and Maggie are forced to drive back in nothing but their bathing suits. Meg has a little belt pouch with the car keys, drivers' license, glasses, and a key card to their hotel room, and they each have towels-not great big beach towels, though, just little ones barely long enough to tie around the waist.

The drive back to the hotel would normally take about a half-hour. They buy large sodas at a drive-through (feeling dehydrated after the day spent in the sun) and as they sit with the car idling waiting for their order, they talk about the fact that they could each use a bathroom, but without shirts or shoes they won't be allowed inside to use the ladies' room. So they go ahead and get on the highway, where (of course) there is some sort of massive delay. For over an hour they sit in traffic, waiting to get past the scene of a flatbed tractor-trailer that has spilled its cargo. Let's have it be creep-stop-creep driving, because if cars were completely stopped, there would be much more temptation to get out of the car and look for bushes to squat behind. Maggie may even fantasize about concealing herself in the open wedge of the car door, facing away from traffic-not normally something she'd want to do, but she super-sized that soda. So they stay in the car, and stay in the car, and stay in the car some more, hoping that traffic will begin to move again. Meg is in the driver seat, biting her lip and keeping her legs pressed tightly together, gripping herself through the bathing suit while Maggie, in the passenger seat, has her legs crossed at the knee and again at the ankle and is bouncing up and down. They talk about nothing else but how badly they both need to pee and how they hope they can make it back to the hotel in time. Meg is scissoring her knees now, and beginning to wonder, were they to pull over, could she pull the crotch of her suit far enough to one side to pee without stripping down stark naked? Maggie is frantic, just about to plead with Meg to pull over so she can get out and squat, but right then they reach the site of the spill, pass through the bottleneck, and traffic begins to flow again.

Five minutes later they reach their exit, but then there is another fifteen minutes in city traffic before they reach the hotel. Maggie has her left hand balled into a fist and is using her right to press it into her crotch. She's bouncing up and down in the seat. A cute guy in a car in the next lane smiles across at her, and she laughs, embarrassed. Can he tell she has to go? But she can't stop wriggling. At the next stoplight, Meg asks Maggie to hand her one of the towels. She takes it and rolls it up tight and wedges it underneath her bottom, straddling it and wriggling so that it presses into her vulva. "In case I leak," she says. Then she goes back to doing that thing with her knees. Maggie looks across at the cute guy again, who has now pulled up right next to them. Now he's the one embarrassed to be caught looking. Maggie smiles back at him and shrugs, a pained smile on her face. As the car behind him honks, he looks up at the green light and wipes the drool off his chin.

Maggie unfastens her seatbelt now to spread her own towel over the seat. When she buckles up again, she threads the belt is behind her and leaves just the shoulder strap in front. Then she slips her hand inside her bikini bottom to press directly onto her urethra, her fingers digging into the moist slit of her labia. She is writhing in the seat, and when they slow to a stop on a street crowded with taxis and pedestrians, she lets out a squeal of frustration. Meg's knees knock to a steady beat, her teeth are gritted.

They reach the hotel at last. Pulling up to the parking garage, they talk about peeing on the pavement as soon as they get out of the car. "I don't know if I can make it up to the room," Maggie says.

Meg says, "I'll try and park where there's nobody around." She is thinking she might just pee in her suit, standing right by the car-never mind if the suit will pull to the side-and probably no one will notice before they get back to their room. Maggie will try to wriggle herself down into a hidden space between two cars, or between the car and a wall, where she can squat down low enough to be out of sight and let her desperation pour out upon the ground. Meg remembers the hotel had a parking garage, but she hadn't noticed until now that it's valet parking. Car keys are surrendered for a claim ticket, the car is gone, and Meg and Maggie are left standing on the curb by the entrance to the lobby, feeling half-naked and ready to burst. Maggie has her towel wrapped around her waist, but the bikini top still shows lots and lots of bare belly and shoulders and back, and though her breasts are small, the little triangles of blue spandex are smaller still, and nothing is left to the imagination. Meg unrolls her towel to wrap it around her own waist, and there is a dark wet spot on the terrycloth that repeats at regular intervals where it had been rolled in tight layers. They both laugh to see it, but Meg is also blushing almost as red as her suit. She wraps it around her waist anyway, though there's barely an inch of overlap to tuck in.

They run inside, giggling together at their graceless dance in the confines of a single wedge of the revolving door. Their bodies bump and collide while their four feet, without room to run, move in a comical quick-time march. As they come bursting out into the lobby, the air conditioning hits them like a cold blast. Four nipples harden, poking out erectly under thin cloth that might as well be body paint, and bladders already stretched almost past endurance squeeze even tighter. No squirming now; they run. Meg bounces as she runs, and someone watching might imagine her bouncing right out of her suit, the low scoop neck of red spandex sliding down off of one nipple and catching there, then working its way even lower on the next bounce until the great swell of one breast spills completely out and the other one is half exposed and ready to join its sister. This does not happen, though. Meg runs with a hobbled, mincing gate to minimize bounce, not so much to ease the strain on her breasts as on her bladder. Maggie, beside her, hops and scampers, almost dancing. There is a ladies' room all the way on the far side of the lobby-or at least a sign pointing in that direction indicates there's supposed to be one-but the bank of elevators is right here, just a few yards ahead, with one standing open and empty. By unspoken agreement they dash into it.

This is one of those hotels with a huge lobby extending up the whole seven stories of the building. Rooms all open out onto tiers of long balconies overlooking the fountains and potted palms below. The elevator cars are triangular; one side is the gleaming brass doors, the other two are panoramic floor-to-ceiling windows so that riders can admire the spectacular view.

Meg's towel slips off of her waist as she reaches the elevator. She's still covered by the suit, but the slipping off of the towel draws the eye to her bottom, and it's definitely a touchable, kissable, rub-up-against-able bottom. She bends over to pick up the towel as Maggie rushes in next to her, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet. Though she's much smaller than Meg, it is Maggie who's beginning to fall out of her suit as she jiggles. Her bikini top has slid up her left breast almost to the nipple.

Meg hits the "5" button and the doors close. I could say that someone else caught the doors before they closed and slipped in with them, pressing a button for an intermediate floor, thus slowing them down and keeping them from moving freely, but I won't. That would just be too cruel. And besides, it's more fun if they talk and squirm freely.

Maggie squirms a lot. She crosses her legs, wriggles, and hops. She loosens the towel around her waist (tries to catch it before it falls to the floor, but misses) and reaches inside her bikini again, even sliding it down a couple of inches, to hold back her pee with the pressure of her fingers. Meg tells her "You're falling out," and Maggie laughs, her face scrunched up with embarrassment, and readjusts her breasts. She's a spectacle to anyone on the second or third floor balconies looking across at her, but if she notices, she's beyond caring at the moment. She hops again, both feet off the ground for a moment, and she lets loose a high, keening whine and says something like, "Oh oh oh oh oh! I have to pee so bad!!! I can't hold it!"

Meg, all the while, stands almost perfectly still with her legs pressed together. She rolls up her towel again and wedges it between her thighs. Then she cups her crotch using both hands, rocking back and forth and quietly muttering, "Please, please, come on, come on, come on! Oh God, faster! Come on! Please, please."

"Can I go first when we get there?" Maggie asks.

Meg looks at her, horror stricken. She lets go a whimper that says more clearly than words, Are you kidding?

Maggie elaborates, "I don't know if I'll even make it inside. I have to piss SO BAD!!!" She's pacing now, marching the width of the elevator back and forth. She has taken a fistful of her bikini bottom, wadding up the cloth and twisting it to dig into her vulva. Unruly pubic hair spills out on either side.

"You can have the toilet, I'll go in the tub," says Meg. Maggie pictures this, and again her face scrunches up with embarrassment. She raises a hand to cover a nervous laugh. The elevator begins to slow for the fifth floor. Meg unrolls the towel to wrap it around her waist like a skirt again, and Maggie bends over (nearly naked buttocks close up against the glass) to pick up her own towel.

The doors open and they bolt from the elevator, sprinting down the length of the balcony. Their own room is around a corner, on a short cul-de-sac at the very end of the balcony. They round the corner and Meg frantically unzips her little pouch looking for the key card. The lobby is still a wide-open expanse behind them, but they are far enough back from the railing to be at least a little hidden. Maggie is standing right behind Meg, looking over her shoulder, close enough that her hair and her breasts brush against Meg's back as she jumps up and down. Maggie has hooked her thumbs under the elastic and is already sliding her bikini bottom down off her hips, but Meg is taking longer than she should and Maggie suddenly realizes she's uncovering her bare behind while still out in the hall. She pulls it up again. "Hurry!!" she pleads.

"I am!" Meg says, exasperated. She finds the card, pulls it loose from the pouch. "Oh God," she moans, "I'm peeing!" With one hand, Meg presses the towel against her crotch, feeling it suddenly warm. It comes loose from around her waist again, and now it's hanging from her hand in front of her legs, a little dark trail of wet forming down its length. With the other hand she swipes the key card through the lock.

Maggie, behind her, instantly slides the bikini right down around her thighs as she runs around Meg to get through the door. The sudden nakedness triggers a conditioned response in her body; as she runs through the bedroom to the bathroom at the other end, she feels herself lose a spurt before she's even two steps in. She leaves a drop-and another drop-on the carpet as she runs. She catches the bathroom doorframe with her hand to swing herself around the 90-degree turn. Her crotch squirts like a squeezed lemon-half, and centrifugal force flings a few drops onto the doorframe. She's left the door wide open; she doesn't bother with the lights.

The unexpected sight of her friend's bare bottom startles Meg, standing out in the hall with the towel pressed into her crotch. She's trying desperately to stem the heat spreading down her inner thighs. With a monumental effort of will, she gets it under control again-at least for a second-and then dashes inside after Maggie. She kicks the door closed behind her, but not hard enough. It only sways on its hinges and gradually swings open again, but she doesn't care enough to give it a second try. She drops the key card on the floor along with her pouch (keys and glasses tumbling out of it). She can feel herself starting to pee again and she tries to catch as much of it as she can with the towel while she runs. Rivulets meander down her thighs, and she adds more droplets to the trail that Maggie left on the carpet. Just a tiny sprinkling at first, then more and larger drops fall as it becomes a rushing river down her legs and at the threshold of the bathroom there's an unmistakable wet footprint.

Maggie is on the toilet, bikini around her ankles, peeing loudly into the watery darkness, her face a picture of pure bliss. The tile floor is puddle and the side of the toilet is wet. The seat must be as well, but Maggie's happy anyway. Meg has to turn sideways, squeezing past her to get to the tub.

Maggie's legs are spread wide, and even in the shadows Meg can see a little of the sparkling stream. Meg is pissing freely too, and it's impossible now to tell how much Maggie had already wet the floor. Maggie's eyes look directly into Meg's crotch for a moment. The spandex over her crotch glistens like the rounded stones in a babbling brook, and the gushing flow down her legs is clearly visible. Maggie can hear the rush of Meg's water even over the melody of her own stream, and as she steps over the edge of the tub, her pee falls like rain, pouring straight down from her crotch and splashing in the tub with a sound like a summer's cloudburst on a patio.

They go like that for a long time, for they were very full. Maggie with her bikini around her ankles doesn't realize she's staring at Meg, but it's hard to look away. Meg has her eyes fixed on a spot on the wall over Maggie's head. She thinks about turning away, or standing with her legs closer together, or squatting down in the tub, but nothing would make this any less of a spectacle. Maggie finishes first, easing off to a trickle and then silence. Then Meg's flow tapers off as well, but as Maggie stands to wipe herself, Meg closes her eyes, letting her face go slack, and then she pees again for another twenty or thirty seconds.

I can see them afterwards, Meg peeling the red bathing suit down off of those full round breasts and then slithering it down over her waist, revealing the lush dark of her pubic triangle, then stepping out of the suit to stand again with her feet apart but nude, maybe squirting just a little more from the slit between her naked labia.

Maggie will see this too, in the mirror, as she drops her bikini bottom into the sink to soak. She feels silly wearing just the top, so she'll shrug out of that too and drop it on the counter. As Meg starts the shower running, Maggie will pick up Meg's towel and use an edge that's still dry to wipe down the seat and the side of the toilet, and then lay it over the puddles on the tile floor. I can see Maggie stepping out into the bedroom to get something- conditioner or maybe a razor-and then looking up to see that the room door is still open, with her stripped bare ass naked without a stitch. She laughs and runs up to the door to close it, feeling mischievous and wicked in her nudity.

I see them showering together then, washing each other's hair under the blast of hot water, and scrubbing themselves squeaky clean. I smell the scent of lavender shampoo and feel in my mouth the taste of warm wet skin.

Comments

Anonymous

by Anonymous on Jan 18, 2004 at 2:12 PM

you have way to much time on your hands.

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Anonymous

by Anonymous on Jan 18, 2004 at 8:47 PM

Obviously you do too if you sat and read through the story. Despite being very well written, it was very long and if it inspired you to write a comment like that you obviously had nothing better to do than sit and read it to the end. Loser.

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Anonymous

by Anonymous on Jan 19, 2004 at 1:18 AM

Sounds like same can be said for you, afterall, your in here reading these long stories.

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Anonymous

by Anonymous on Jan 19, 2004 at 9:50 AM

The person who posted the story is in the right category. If you don't like long stories, don't read them.
Everyone complained until the webmaster created this section.Now it's here; if you don't like the stories, don't click on the "wet stories" link.

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Anonymous

by Anonymous on Jan 19, 2004 at 12:34 PM

i scrolled thru, realised it was huge, mentioned it and moved on. The subject matter was not was i was critising, more the length.

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Anonymous

by Anonymous on Jan 19, 2004 at 12:37 PM

And since when did writing long stories become a crime? You said perhaps I had too much time on my hands (I am not the author, but one of the respondants), but I enjoy spending some of my time reading a good pee story. As long as I am getting pleasure from what I'm doing what's the big deal?

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Anonymous

by Anonymous on Feb 22, 2004 at 7:18 AM

I thought it was a GREAT story

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