Moments of regret. We all have them. Those times when we think to ourselves, ‘If I’d just stopped to think a moment, I wouldn’t have…’

Driving north up I-5, near Medford, Oregon, I pulled off the freeway, my stomach growling. Breakfast was a long way off, and I’d been too intent on getting to Portland to stop for lunch. Yeah, I needed refueling in the worst possible way – not only the gas tank of my car, but my own personal gas tank. Sodas will only get you so far…

It was a quiet little diner. Probably didn’t get a lot of business – just enough to stay open. The booth in the corner fit my needs perfectly. There’d be enough privacy there to sit and read a bit while waiting for me meal. Not that I normally needed privacy to read, but then again, I didn’t normally read erotica in public. Thing is, I’d been burning up to read a new story by a favorite author of mine. A fetish story. One that nice girls didn’t get turned on by. I, however, am most certainly not a nice girl...

It was hot. Of course it was. When I said fetish, I know I left it pretty open ended. All sorts of fetishes, really. Some people are into feet. Other are into panties. Me? I am into watersports. No, not swimming or diving or even water polo. Pissing. See? I told you I’m not a nice girl.

I wasn’t even half way through when I felt my panties getting damp with arousal. The story didn’t disappoint and I wasn’t even to the best parts yet – I was still building. Oh, and I had to pee, something I had realized as soon as I started. Later, I thought. I didn’t want to spoil the flow of the story by stopping now. Besides, that feeling of a full bladder heightened my arousal. Glancing around carefully, I decided to be a little daring and pop the button of my jeans and loosen up the zipper a bit, just enough that I could slip a couple fingers into them and assure myself that yes, my panties were wet and that, beneath them, my cunt was even wetter.

Around me, everything seemed normal. Mundane, even. Bored people on the road to long stopping for a burger. Bored waitresses taking orders. Seemingly bored girl doing work on her laptop, only… I wasn’t doing work, I was reading while playing with myself under the table, the sight of my hand blocked by the stereotypical checkered table cloth.

Half away through, doing my best to act normal, be inconspicuous. Not that anyone was paying attention. My order was in, it would be a while. I had time, not as much as I would have liked, but enough to make it to the end. The thought of coming was delightful, not that I would. I wasn’t that daring. Or was I? It was like a challenge to myself. Would I push myself over the brink, or would I chicken out? In order to test myself, I teased my zipper all the way down and tugged my panties to one side. The cool air felt heavenly against my bared cunt, and my fingertips, brushing across my sensitive clit as it peeked out from its hiding place. Are there really any words to describe that feeling? If I hadn’t been so intent upon the other story, hers, not mine, I might have found some, but just then, it was really heating up, as was I…

“Refill, Miss?”

Damn, I’d been careless. I felt my cheeks burn as I looked up, certain that my face was crimson and my eyes were full of guilt.

“No, thank you. It’ll only make me have to pee,” I murmured, blushing even harder at my choice of words, my bladder smirking at me from within. After all, I’d crossed that line several paragraphs ago…

She left, thankfully. I watched her go, wondering what she would say if she knew that my jeans were unzipped and that my fingers were coated in cunt-juice. Just the thought, those two words, made me want to moan. I decided to repeat them quietly, yet out loud, for my own benefit.

“Cunt-juice.”

Mmm… perfect. I should have stopped there, but more slipped out.

“Pissy panties.”

I followed that up with a giggle, shoulders hunching as I tried to shrink into myself, not wishing to be noticed, especially not now.

I found my place, easily enough, and continued, barely noticing that I was licking my lips, imagining the tip of a lovely ebony cock resting upon my tongue, filling my gaze, silently waiting, wanting…

A soft moan, one I captured in my mouth before it escaped into the room. What was I thinking? I should stop. I would stop. Just finish this one paragraph. It was short, after all. Wait. What had I agreed to? Stop reading or stop touching? One or the other? Or both?

Touching, I decided. Reading was harmless, and I could control my needs if I simply zipped myself up, buttoned up. I felt my heart beating, my breath getting a little out of control. It wasn’t too late, though. I summoned all my will power and tugged my panties back in place before pulling my zipper back up and redoing the button, sealing my needy little pussy off from my greedy fingers. A sigh of relief, perfectly placed between paragraphs, and then I was lost in the story again…

Now that I had nothing to distract me, the need to pee made itself known. Before, I had simply acknowledged that it existed. Now, however, its presence as the proverbial elephant in the room. It was hard to stop thinking about. I was close, however… to the end of the story, that is. Close enough to finish and then… oh, the sweet relief of pushing myself from the booth and hurrying to the restroom to relieve myself. Perhaps I’d indulge myself then. Perhaps, once I’d done peeing, released that lovely stream of piss, knowing that emptying my bladder, in and of itself, would be nearly orgasmic at this point, then, maybe, I could allow myself to a real orgasm. It was a tempting thought, so I read on, making it nearly to the end when, either my mind or my body, or both, betrayed me.

“No,” I whispered, feeling my muscles relax and unclench. “No, no, no…”

It was too late to make a run for it, too late to stop myself, too late to do anything but finish the story as I wet myself. If I stopped, reading that is, I could, perhaps concentrate on squeezing. Yes, my panties would be wet, but hopefully, only those. No one would know. No one but me, at least. Wetting my jeans, however…

“Here you go, Miss.”

She carefully placed my plate in front of me, hopefully oblivious to my plight or the fact that she broke my concentration. As she turned to go, I closed my eyes and gripped the edge of the table as I wet myself, the last few lines unread. Worse, perhaps, or perhaps not, for it took my mind from the humiliation of pissing my jeans, I felt the last vestiges of self-control flee as the orgasm that I’d been ignoring came back to haunt me. Sitting there, by myself, in the corner booth, I came, and came hard…

It took a while before I was able to open my eyes, thankful that, for now, I was invisible. I groaned softly as I felt the wetness spreading through the seat of my jeans. I could tell that my panties were soaked. And I knew, without looking, that there was a big wet patch in my pants that wouldn’t dry before I left the diner. Thankfully, I had dry underwear and a pair of yoga pants in the suitcase on the passenger side of my truck. Out in the parking lot, a million miles away. Closing my eyes, I tried not to think about it. I reminded myself that I need to eat, so eat I did, right after I pulled off my sweat shirt and shoved it underneath me, hoping to keep the padded seat dry. Hopefully, no evidence would be left.

Oh, and yes, I left a ridiculously large tip before fleeing, a reminder never to stop there again, in case someone recognized me as the girl who pissed her pants… but not before taking a quick moment to write it all down... 

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dedicated to Abi Thornton who inspired this story with her words.