Donna couldn't believe that it was going to happen to her again. She'd only been seeing her new boyfriend, John, for three weeks, and in that time she'd done something that she hadn't done in years -- she'd wet herself. It had been on their second date. They'd gone out for a couple of drinks and he was walking her back to the house she shared with a friend. It was only a ten minute walk, and she had not even needed to go when they left the bar, but within two minutes of setting off she'd been desperate and after another six or seven minutes, heart-breakingly close to home, her resistance gave out and, almost dying with embarrassment and humiliation, she'd stood in the street weeing in her knickers. It was dark, and nobody but John knew, and he'd been quite kind about it, but the memory of the hot rivers running down her slim legs, the humiliation of her boyfriend seeing her piss herself like a child when she was actually a shapely young woman of 22, none of that was something she wanted to repeat.
But, a fortnight later, the same thing had happened. They'd gone out for a couple of drinks and a meal and were walking back to John's apartment. It was another few minutes away at least, and Donna was very concerned that she was not going to make it. Even worse, the first time she'd been wearing a skirt, so whilst her panties were soaked and her legs and shoes were wet, at least her housemate had not noticed when she got home and it had been easy enough to launder her underwear. But now she was wearing tight, light blue jeans and John's apartment was more central than her house, so there were other people around.
Although John had been nice about her embarrassment, he had scolded her gently, pointing out that at 22 most girls don't go to the toilet in their knickers. She was afraid he'd split with her on the spot, so whilst his comments made her feel like a naughty schoolchild, she was just relieved that he still called her the next day. He'd mentioned it a couple of times since, jokingly asking if she'd managed to stay dry all week. Donna was usually quite sparky, but something about John seemed to make her quiet and more submissive, so she'd blushed at his comments and simply nodded that yes, she'd been good, as if it was normal for a girl her age to have to confirm that she'd had no accidents.
"John, is there somewhere we can stop on the way to yours?" she asked. She'd meant to sound casual, but the sentence came out meek.
"Not really. Why?" It was late and he sounded half-irritated. He'd been saying for the last half an hour that they should head back.
"I...I need the loo, that's all." Again, she sounded quieter than she'd intended, like a shy kid talking to an adult. John was only a couple of years older than her -- what was wrong with her?
"For God's sake, Donna, why didn't you go at the bar? It's only a couple of minutes from here."
"I didn't want to go, but now I really need to pee. I really do." A note of pleading crept in, but John's response was brusque.
"Well just wait. We'll be at mine soon. Just hold on. You know, like adults do?"
Donna fell into a petulant silence. She wanted to retort that she was adult enough when he was playing with her amazing, soft 32E boobs, or running his hands through her chestnut hair whilst screwing her. But then, he could remind her that she'd stopped in the street, a minute from her home, and wet herself uncontrollably. And now she was close to doing it again.
The next two minutes were an agony for Donna. She chewed her full, lower lip and screwed up her dark eyes in her pale face as she hobbled along after John, trying to walk with her legs crossed and, for the last minute, clutching between her legs, as if pressing her pussy would stop her peeing. But she made it. She felt like she was going to explode, but they were in the lobby of John's building and, Miracle!, the elevator was waiting. Shaking his head as he looked at her, they pressed the button for his floor, and as Donna almost doubled over, he counted off the floors. He seemed in a grump, but she could hardly blame him for that -- he'd wanted a sexy, 22-year old girlfriend, not someone he needed to potty train. Donna continued to shift her weight and cross her legs, pressing her thighs together in her tight jeans, as the lift slowly made its way to John's twelfth-floor apartment.
After what seemed to Donna like an eternity, the lift arrived and, with another shake of the head, John led Donna down the corridor to his apartment.
"Seriously, Donna, the first time was weird but I guess just one of those things, but this again -- are you sure you're old enough to drink?"
"Don't be a dick, this isn't funny. Just open the door." Donna scowled at him as they arrived at his door and he got his keys out, but as she spoke he turned away from the door to face her.
"I'm a dick? How is it ok for you to call me names? What have I done? You're the one who needs a wee-wee like a lickle girly every five minutes."
"I'm not a child and it's not every five minutes! Just open the door, for fuck's sake, I'm desperate!"
"Again with the language! If you want to use my bathroom maybe you should be nicer, not naughtier." A strange feeling flickered across Donna's mind. John almost always made her feel much more timid and meek and (just admit it, Donna) submissive than she normally was. She knew she was beautiful, slim, 5'6" and with natural curves, especially her boobs, that women would pay good money to achieve. Her physique and her pretty face, dark hair and a few pale, cute freckles that came out in the sun had always given her confidence as she knew girls envied her and boys wanted her. But John made her feel like a little girl, and something about his use of the word 'naughtier' stirred fantasies that she rarely admitted to.
"I'm not being naughty," she insisted quietly, "But I...oh! Oh no!"
It was too late. Donna's tormented bladder gave up. She jammed both hands between her legs and bent her knees, but there was no stopping it. A hot rush of golden piss bubbled from between her pussy lips, immediately soaking her pink, cotton bikini-style panties. The liquid followed the seam of her jeans and the crease of her bottom cheeks, shooting down her inner thighs and fanning out across her bottom, before streaming down the back of her legs. There was an obvious patch at the front of her jeans too, and piss was dripping from between her legs to splash in a yellow puddle between her feet. As John just stood looking at her, Donna started to cry, the humiliation was just too much. Her pee just kept coming, waves of piss flowing down her thighs, glistening on her soaking jeans.
John unlocked the door, and pulled Donna inside, her shoes splashing in the puddle she'd made and with pee still dripping from her onto his floor. He closed the door behind her and then turned to her.
