Val
Sun, 1 May 05, 11:09 PM
"I think", Stella said, "We should combine resources". "Meaning?" "Meaning that there are all sorts of psychological additions to holdit games when somebody else can see, but we haven't tried when each other can feel, it looks set for the first decent weekend of the year and I've unearthed the tent and sleeping bag". "And what happens when a sleeping bag gets wet from the inside?" "It doesn't because Hiawatha put the inside outside and the outside inside and the outside inside stayed dry because it was a waterproof outside inside. Anyway it's pretty ancient and we could do with a new one before there's a nest of mice or something in there".
"Do you mean", Gerry unravelled. "Turn it inside out, or even outside in. And I prefer Lewis Carrol's send-up: Hiawatha's Wedding Photograph". "He's so bright, this one. All the creatures of the forest met inside his wigwam, And they powwowed and they parleyed and they said he had a big bum". "Too many syllabubs!" "Why it never made the published version. Don't just stand there looking pretty, we're camping in three hours so get some decent bloody food in". She curled round him as honestly false as a cat smelling cream, "You're so good at salads". "With you around, life's as camp as the Girl Guide Jamboree anyway. Out to the shops then for this lot. And plenty of civilised sodding wine!".
Gerry's salads were famous or infamous depending on preference for taste or familiarity. Two hours later, home produce and if-we-made-it-ourselves-we'd-have-enough-for-an-army bought in mixed overflowed Tupperware and commercial cartons into emergency jam and coffee jars. The olives had been disappointing, being unpitted and the thing that projected the stones, usually at Stella, long lost. Bits of black mingled with bits of tomato and smeared his fingers.
Disdainfully, Gerry opened Stella's blouse to wipe them off on a nipple rising to respond, so he could lick the result off that. "So much nicer than licking my fingers, my sweet", he told her swishingly. "You bloody bugger, that's my tit!" was her only response. She'd got used to occasional treatment like the household sex slave on the basis that she hadn't found a man before delighted for her to use him just as casually. Use her and no returns, often enough, too often.
Grovel thrilling to their mistress telling them what a worthless worm they were, for what? not raping her into her rightful place like a 'real man'? yes. (Ask what she's supposed to get out of trampling on the feeble wanting to be trampled on, not so easy. Real sadism would be to tell them to get up and do something). Send both sides up and still both get a laugh and a thrill, not so often. Still, she couldn't let the assault go unrevenged so squashed a neglected split over-ripe tomato as far down his pants as she could reach. "Bitch! I was going to eat that!" "Am I stopping you?"
By agreement and multi-seeded necessity they shared a shower with bladders emptied to start on the same basis before dressing each other in the same satinesque briefs. Cotton would have been more practical for comfort and absorption qualities, but they were looking to fun, not a prize. Camping drinks included a lot of fruit juice, peach-flavoured water and Irn Bru for him, Lemonade for her to prevent drunken oblivion, plus Vodka in case they changed their mind and wine wasn't obliviofacient enough.
They loaded Samantha up and dark ages later arrived in the middle of nowhere. By the time the process of taking whichever track looked less travelled had lost them any track whatsoever and they were surrounded by sheep, it seemed deserted enough time to pitch camp. There was a river for washing nearby. The drive had taken it out of them so even though it was early, nothing happened that night beyond a warm cuddle and they fell asleep helped by wine ready to enjoy the results the morning would bring.
That was a different tale, they were hungry. Not many people eat salad for breakfast. Those mad enough might well follow it slipping cotton pants on and creeping back into bed with Chardonnay Shiraz and Rioja within reach, working from light to heavy. Stella had it all worked out. Those of a certain disposition arranged themselves in a very tight bundle. Stella arranged her legs to his since his usually closed and crossed at the same time as hers spread for the same reason.
Wetting your pants is one thing even with somebody watching. But against somebody else? Even if you both enjoy it and watching, there's so much inhibition, like saying, "Hey I fancy you, let's make love" to an attractive stranger (sober that is). Seized by sudden masochism, Stella wrapped a band under their armpits so her breasts were crushed flat against his knowing both would want to pull apart and feel down the front and instead just have to press and wriggle as far as they could, teasing each other more.
Proximity, hard tiny nipples against her breasts and swollen soft ones cushionned against his, thrilled. So did the now hard pressure up her dark hair line and for him, soft lack of pressure enfolding his often overlooked protruberances - alright then, bollocks, and to you too! He wanted to feel those folds more than just warm and lightly damp enfolding and protecting them they'd made so very sensitive.
All the same, once half-awake warmth retreated before fully-awake awareness, need to squirm up together turned into 'lust' and each became aware of a bladder teasing as well from inside. Every time Stella caught herself losing it, her deliberate contractions thrilled Gerry and helped him to hold too. She still felt really desperate to ease her tingling against him but all she managed when she couldn't help trying to press up against him was to put more pressure on her bladder. Gerry was maybe better off, feeling her press just where everything came together for him. On her back, Stella could wet herself discretely but Gerry's weight changed that. She rolled Gerry underneath.
She was thrilling and the irritation kept her muscles tight but felt they couldn't hold like that for ever. It was the kind of thrill to want more, not the sort to finish off as if it were something to relieve instead of enjoy for as long as possible. Somebody had to lose it first. Stella felt warmth spreading. She was wet already but she couldn't help that and Gerry probably couldn't feel it. She felt him tense all over and then a little extra warmth high up around her hair line. It tickled. Then it trickled. She sort of envied him able to wet over himself as well as just spread where she was soppy and warm already.
Stella clenched but still felt herself leaking. It thrilled through her. She felt Gerry relax and then stiffen and shiver against her, and instead of leaking like her, spurt up over her and then slowly soften and again. For her, the leakage pressed through more and more and she felt the thrill increasing. For him, it was clench most back and spurt some out more and more often. She was deliciously wet under and over, both flowing, feeling the next need to positively force. She rolled over on top of him.
Wallow wallow, both wet together. They had to stay close in a sleeping bag because even in the nicest centrally heated flat, bits of wet bed could get horribly cold. Here, they stuck together. It was like the slightly drunk times of comfort in one's own sweaty warmth. There was no time limit on it and once tiredness and desperate bladder had taken over, not to mention plenty of wine (so I won't) they could each both enjoy the holding and the failing and the wriggling together until when they finally gave up even trying to control, there was no certainty whether each just couldn't help it or felt too much or just coudn't stand the trhill any more.
Stella felt Gerry's stream through his pants up her front and let go, or maybe her nuscles gave up liberated from psychological inhibition, so while he rose up to her feeling her warmth pouring over his balls, he felt some down his legs too where she poured through her briefs. In turn, she felt his warmth where he did, down the lines of her neat haired triangle washing all over her bladder and womb where she could not wet herself. His was half a diamond. It wasn't orgasm but it satisfied in a different sort of way, almost more grown up like cuddling up together just loving and accepting instead of having to exhaust each other.
Next morning of course, two wet people felt no qualms about wetting themselves again while reaching to drive each other's pants off and discover whether he in her or she on him clenched their bladder back uncontrolled first. Not surprisingly, his single channel swapped function before her vagina turned her bladder off until her spasms turned it on again. What made the real difference was the continuity, wallow wallow, could go on for ever. But finished and exhausted, wetting was comfort together knowing they'd head for the river to wash together.
There was a slight complication since yesterday's sheep had been replaced by visitors surrounded by an army of kids. It was just a matter of charging off before the damp seeped through their outer clothes. The river took their breath away and shrivelled Gerry's appendages so fast they felt like they'd been rammed up his groin. Stella's nipples on the other hand found themselves bursting to outswell her neat little breasts. They had no idea water that cold could still move. Still, it washed them off. One of the few good things about the English climate was that it was possible to dry off sunbathing in perfect safety from sunburn or sunstroke.
"Do you mean", Gerry unravelled. "Turn it inside out, or even outside in. And I prefer Lewis Carrol's send-up: Hiawatha's Wedding Photograph". "He's so bright, this one. All the creatures of the forest met inside his wigwam, And they powwowed and they parleyed and they said he had a big bum". "Too many syllabubs!" "Why it never made the published version. Don't just stand there looking pretty, we're camping in three hours so get some decent bloody food in". She curled round him as honestly false as a cat smelling cream, "You're so good at salads". "With you around, life's as camp as the Girl Guide Jamboree anyway. Out to the shops then for this lot. And plenty of civilised sodding wine!".
Gerry's salads were famous or infamous depending on preference for taste or familiarity. Two hours later, home produce and if-we-made-it-ourselves-we'd-have-enough-for-an-army bought in mixed overflowed Tupperware and commercial cartons into emergency jam and coffee jars. The olives had been disappointing, being unpitted and the thing that projected the stones, usually at Stella, long lost. Bits of black mingled with bits of tomato and smeared his fingers.
Disdainfully, Gerry opened Stella's blouse to wipe them off on a nipple rising to respond, so he could lick the result off that. "So much nicer than licking my fingers, my sweet", he told her swishingly. "You bloody bugger, that's my tit!" was her only response. She'd got used to occasional treatment like the household sex slave on the basis that she hadn't found a man before delighted for her to use him just as casually. Use her and no returns, often enough, too often.
Grovel thrilling to their mistress telling them what a worthless worm they were, for what? not raping her into her rightful place like a 'real man'? yes. (Ask what she's supposed to get out of trampling on the feeble wanting to be trampled on, not so easy. Real sadism would be to tell them to get up and do something). Send both sides up and still both get a laugh and a thrill, not so often. Still, she couldn't let the assault go unrevenged so squashed a neglected split over-ripe tomato as far down his pants as she could reach. "Bitch! I was going to eat that!" "Am I stopping you?"
By agreement and multi-seeded necessity they shared a shower with bladders emptied to start on the same basis before dressing each other in the same satinesque briefs. Cotton would have been more practical for comfort and absorption qualities, but they were looking to fun, not a prize. Camping drinks included a lot of fruit juice, peach-flavoured water and Irn Bru for him, Lemonade for her to prevent drunken oblivion, plus Vodka in case they changed their mind and wine wasn't obliviofacient enough.
They loaded Samantha up and dark ages later arrived in the middle of nowhere. By the time the process of taking whichever track looked less travelled had lost them any track whatsoever and they were surrounded by sheep, it seemed deserted enough time to pitch camp. There was a river for washing nearby. The drive had taken it out of them so even though it was early, nothing happened that night beyond a warm cuddle and they fell asleep helped by wine ready to enjoy the results the morning would bring.
That was a different tale, they were hungry. Not many people eat salad for breakfast. Those mad enough might well follow it slipping cotton pants on and creeping back into bed with Chardonnay Shiraz and Rioja within reach, working from light to heavy. Stella had it all worked out. Those of a certain disposition arranged themselves in a very tight bundle. Stella arranged her legs to his since his usually closed and crossed at the same time as hers spread for the same reason.
Wetting your pants is one thing even with somebody watching. But against somebody else? Even if you both enjoy it and watching, there's so much inhibition, like saying, "Hey I fancy you, let's make love" to an attractive stranger (sober that is). Seized by sudden masochism, Stella wrapped a band under their armpits so her breasts were crushed flat against his knowing both would want to pull apart and feel down the front and instead just have to press and wriggle as far as they could, teasing each other more.
Proximity, hard tiny nipples against her breasts and swollen soft ones cushionned against his, thrilled. So did the now hard pressure up her dark hair line and for him, soft lack of pressure enfolding his often overlooked protruberances - alright then, bollocks, and to you too! He wanted to feel those folds more than just warm and lightly damp enfolding and protecting them they'd made so very sensitive.
All the same, once half-awake warmth retreated before fully-awake awareness, need to squirm up together turned into 'lust' and each became aware of a bladder teasing as well from inside. Every time Stella caught herself losing it, her deliberate contractions thrilled Gerry and helped him to hold too. She still felt really desperate to ease her tingling against him but all she managed when she couldn't help trying to press up against him was to put more pressure on her bladder. Gerry was maybe better off, feeling her press just where everything came together for him. On her back, Stella could wet herself discretely but Gerry's weight changed that. She rolled Gerry underneath.
She was thrilling and the irritation kept her muscles tight but felt they couldn't hold like that for ever. It was the kind of thrill to want more, not the sort to finish off as if it were something to relieve instead of enjoy for as long as possible. Somebody had to lose it first. Stella felt warmth spreading. She was wet already but she couldn't help that and Gerry probably couldn't feel it. She felt him tense all over and then a little extra warmth high up around her hair line. It tickled. Then it trickled. She sort of envied him able to wet over himself as well as just spread where she was soppy and warm already.
Stella clenched but still felt herself leaking. It thrilled through her. She felt Gerry relax and then stiffen and shiver against her, and instead of leaking like her, spurt up over her and then slowly soften and again. For her, the leakage pressed through more and more and she felt the thrill increasing. For him, it was clench most back and spurt some out more and more often. She was deliciously wet under and over, both flowing, feeling the next need to positively force. She rolled over on top of him.
Wallow wallow, both wet together. They had to stay close in a sleeping bag because even in the nicest centrally heated flat, bits of wet bed could get horribly cold. Here, they stuck together. It was like the slightly drunk times of comfort in one's own sweaty warmth. There was no time limit on it and once tiredness and desperate bladder had taken over, not to mention plenty of wine (so I won't) they could each both enjoy the holding and the failing and the wriggling together until when they finally gave up even trying to control, there was no certainty whether each just couldn't help it or felt too much or just coudn't stand the trhill any more.
Stella felt Gerry's stream through his pants up her front and let go, or maybe her nuscles gave up liberated from psychological inhibition, so while he rose up to her feeling her warmth pouring over his balls, he felt some down his legs too where she poured through her briefs. In turn, she felt his warmth where he did, down the lines of her neat haired triangle washing all over her bladder and womb where she could not wet herself. His was half a diamond. It wasn't orgasm but it satisfied in a different sort of way, almost more grown up like cuddling up together just loving and accepting instead of having to exhaust each other.
Next morning of course, two wet people felt no qualms about wetting themselves again while reaching to drive each other's pants off and discover whether he in her or she on him clenched their bladder back uncontrolled first. Not surprisingly, his single channel swapped function before her vagina turned her bladder off until her spasms turned it on again. What made the real difference was the continuity, wallow wallow, could go on for ever. But finished and exhausted, wetting was comfort together knowing they'd head for the river to wash together.
There was a slight complication since yesterday's sheep had been replaced by visitors surrounded by an army of kids. It was just a matter of charging off before the damp seeped through their outer clothes. The river took their breath away and shrivelled Gerry's appendages so fast they felt like they'd been rammed up his groin. Stella's nipples on the other hand found themselves bursting to outswell her neat little breasts. They had no idea water that cold could still move. Still, it washed them off. One of the few good things about the English climate was that it was possible to dry off sunbathing in perfect safety from sunburn or sunstroke.