This is one of my older stories, slightly re-worked for this site. I have 'published' it elsewhere on the net and I necessarily crave the indulgence of people who may have already come across it whilst hoping that those who haven't will enjoy it. If you enjoy adult knicker wetting and desperation as much as I do, I hope it will give you pleasure.
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Dusk fell and the light gradually faded. It was teatime on a chilly November Wednesday afternoon. Office workers could be seen scurrying home, shops gradually closed and one of the cathedral bells distantly tolled in the damp air, summoning the faithful to Choral Evensong.
Anne made her way through the pedestrianised shopping centre, clutching the spoils of a spending spree on the back of Hubby's credit card. She always spent more than intended, splashing out on some fashionable new outfits at the classiest clothes shops. Fortunately Hubby never minded about this extravagance and had grown to expect it whenever she visited Woodchester. Luckily for him, her visits were not that frequent.
Today, however, she'd not just been on a shopping spree. Her car had needed servicing and she'd taken it to the garage. It was a popular garage and, much as she'd expected, they'd been busy. Seen by the manger himself, she'd been told that it wouldn't be ready until the day after tomorrow. His words still rang clearly in her ears, "I'm sorry Mrs T---- but the earliest it will be ready is one o'clock on Friday. You did say it needed a full service, didn't you?"
Her answer had been unequivocal, "Yes, it needs a full service."
In for a penny in for a pound, she might as well have the job done thoroughly. If a tyre needed replacing it didn't matter. It could all go on Hubby's plastic. He'd just smile (or rather wince) indulgently when the statement arrived.
As usual the garage had offered her the use of a courtesy car until hers was ready for collection but this time she'd declined their offer. The Deputy Prime Minister had been banging on about people using public transport and leaving their cars behind in the interests of the environment. Justly or unjustly, Anne suspected that Mr Prescott didn't actually use public transport himself and had little recent experience of it. She thought she'd put his suggestion to the test though and then write to him, explaining that if car users people were to be coaxed back on to public transport it would need a significant investment of taxpayer's money to bring buses and trains up to scratch. Alas her options were limited. Forty years ago a train would have been available at regular intervals. However, the branch line which once ran to the market town where Anne lived had long since been axed, courtesy of Dr Beeching's recommendations. Now the only option was to get a bus and so it was for the coach station that she was heading.
The coach station was every bit as grotty as she'd expected it to be. Studying the grubby timetable she discovered with dismay that the journey she'd normally have made in 20 minutes by car would take twice as long by bus. Why was it that the bus had to take such an elaborate detour instead of taking a nice direct route?
Anne's annoyance at seeing how long it would take to get home was compounded by anxiety. She'd not been to the toilet since breakfast time and whilst she wasn't yet desperate, her bladder was beginning to ache. The three coffees at lunchtime, so delicious at the time, were beginning to kick in and make their presence felt. Trying to steel herself, she headed for the "Ladies." Yuck, it was filthy! Much as she wanted to go, there was no way she'd use those loos. She did have some self respect.
