Holding It In

I got home exhausted from my dinner with Brian. It had just been a long long week and the meetings had taken it out of me. The dinner had been pleasant—we both adored the tiny Japanese hideaway where we didn't even have to tell them what to bring us by now—and Brian had been darling. But I begged off going back with him and though I knew he was disappointed, I was just done in.

Some of us, especially my girl friends, relax by spending a long, indulgent time in the bathtub, complete with scented candles and bath salts and oils, you know the whole routine. Even on nights like this one, though, when I was far too wiped to want sex, I knew I needed some stimulation down there if I was going to get unwired enough to sleep solidly that night.

One of my favorite ways to accomplish this was soon enough started. I unlocked my apartment door and flipped on the lights and the AC. Camel polo coat and navy blazer were carefully hung in the hall closet and I proceeded into my bedroom and thence through my dressing room into my sanctuary—a well-appointed bathroom.

Not that I'd ever admit this to anyone—or even tell anyone but you—but here is where I derive my strongest sexual excitement. I have made this into a bit of a ritual, the way we do with things that only are known to us. Instead of rucking up my grey flannel skirt, I carefully unzipped it and stepped out of it, placing it neatly on one of my several bureaus that line one wall in the spacious bathroom.

As I then move back toward the comfortable toilet seat and prepare to sit, I slip my pale blue hicut panties down but only to just over my knees, as my legs spread to hold them there. Once seated, I feel my labia spreading as my bladder craves relief after all the water and a moderate amount of wine I enjoyed at dinner.

I do not indulge myself that way yet, however. My daily workouts include ten full minutes of Kegels so I know I can readily hold off even as I feel that insistent urge to give in, to let the pee flow and relax. I suspect that much of my attitude goes way back to my childhood—when learning to control when you peed was as much a part of our education as fractions and grammar. Girls of our sort did not lose control but waited and learned how to hide any urgency to urinate.

Now that I am rising rapidly in a large enterprise, I have seen how helpful my training has been. Increasingly men at the top level excuse themselves—doubtless the result of slowly expanding prostates—and I remain at the board table, smiling indulgently. Let the secretaries flee to the ladies room every hour or so—I can stay there with the big boys and not miss any of the crucial give-and-take that occurs during "potty breaks".

My ritual includes carefully inspecting my panties—held below my knees—for any stains. I've never been a great wiper and since I love my luxuriant red bush and don't trim it, my pee, and yes, sometimes other things, do manage to withstand my use of toilet paper. As I stare into the white cotton crotch of my pale blue undies, I do see a tell-tale yellowish spot right up in front where my bush betrayed me yet again. And yes, there's also the still-visible spot from my last period arriving unexpectedly, diminished through washing, but still evident down there in the bottom of the gusset.

Finding a spot—and even still seeing the evidence of my failure to anticipate my menses—means that I must further delay the moment when I may release the contents of my bulging bladder. Testing those PC muscles with a flex, I reach down with thumb and index finger and softly tease the very tip of my little nub just peeking out right at the top of my puffy labia.

Like most women—except those who must sublimate to please men—most of my orgasms are from my clit. While I adore the marvelous feeling of fullness that a lovely thick penis inside my vadge can bring me, only a very few of my male lovers have been able to get me off through intercourse. I smile as I recall Brian's joining that elite number.

It's the intimacy of sex that is so fulfilling. Someone who feels nice up close to you and that connection down there, being filled by someone whom you have grown to feel close to in all the other ways is inside you. Their explosive orgasming is only a small part of it for me, especially if I am going through one of my regular stages of withdrawal from the Pill.

Actually, there's something quite charming about my using a diaphragm then. I'm quite good at inserting it and Brian is fascinated as I manage to do it so smoothly, right there in front of him, with none of that "excuse me I need to go to the bathroom" business that truly causes pre-coitus interruptus.

It also makes me able to conceive of what it was like for my mother and her generation, for whom even being found using a diaphragm was enough to get you thrown out of the Seven Sisters—especially Smith, which then was not the lesbian citadel it now has become but was still quite starchy when it came to anything having to do with sex that might lead to unwanted consequences.

As frosh, we all giggled rather than were shocked by reading the diaphragm scene in Mary McCarthy's The Group. What was it about Vassar that made it such a haven for delightfully unladylike behavior? From being the birthplace of the Daisy Chain—we needn't observe that none of you realized that it started out perfectly innocently, for something that now only connotes same group sex of the female persuasion—the school moved on to provide the setting for some of Shadow Lane's most lubricious passages.

I went on teasing my clit, now risen out of its hood and quite a firm little item, by barely grazing the tip with my index fingertip. The warm lovely feelings were also rising in my groin and spreading through my torso. I maintained the steady rhythm of my ever so light touches and knew that that cheery first cum was almost ready.

This was the test of my ability to hold it in—Brian had warmly commended me for being able to cum without releasing pee when I had refrained from going to the toilet before sex, saying he was sure that part of me must be male—and I knew it would be a challenge this time. My need to urinate was growing urgent right in line with my impending orgasm.

While continuing the soft rhythmic motion of fingertip on clit, the index finger of my other hand slipped down my back and slowly penetrated my puckered anal rosebud. This usually was what I needed—the added stimulation of those nerve endings inside my rear opening took the sensations emanating from the front over the top. And so it did now.

I felt myself carried off into that oh so brief but marvelous moment of sheer ecstatic delight. The pressure from my full bladder accentuated the orgasm and somehow I did hold on, despite almost feeling my muscles give way to the pressure for relief. I've been with women who waited too long and desperately pressed their palms against their crotches to somehow keep the pee from emerging. Amazingly, I've seen that work—probably because it's psychological as well as physiological.

But now I had earned release. I was glowing from my cum despite having been exhausted before it. Too pooped to pop—that was what my sister always said, and now I laughed at the meaning she never had even conceived for her line. I spread my legs as far as the panties below my kneecaps would permit me and painfully relaxed my tense, over-pressed muscles.

The yellowy stream surged out of me and hit the toilet water with a blast. I looked down—the world is divided between those who never glance into the toilet after using it and those of us who always review our products—as the foam grew on the surface during this one long pee.

Before I reached for the tp to wipe my quim, dripping with more than the last drops of pee, I performed the next step of my bathroom ritual. That same index finger that had so shrewdly insinuated itself in my bottom to bring me off went back into my rear hole to see if what I thought I felt way back in there was going to emerge any time soon.

I slyly grinned to myself as the finger encountered something quite deep inside there. Wiping front to back down between my legs so I wouldn't drip on the floor—so tacky—I prepared for what would be happening quite soon. But as I rose from the toilet seat to walk in halting steps—keeping those panties just below my knees—I reached the far wall, right opposite the toilet, and briskly slid down the quarter-sized black cover over the round notch there that would close off the remainder of my ritual from the tiny camera.

I wasn't yet in the right mood to provide the video world with a woman's most personal moment in the bathroom.