…continue tickling

“Nah, you’re fine.” As you continue to work your fingers, far more vigorously than you ever would in a more conventionally sexual encounter with a naked woman, you can feel her concede to her helplessness, her reactions not absent but duller, more token, her unwanted giggles suppressing any further coherent thoughts. “You can survive another few little tickles, but if you really have to do a wee-wee I can’t stop you.”

There’s a warm splash against your thighs. You cease your ****, your hands now just holding, touching, but still there’s another splash. You look down, taking in her wide open womanhood, and a spreading damp radiating from it across the white bedsheet. The third you see before you feel, her genitalia pushing and pulsing as it expels a stream, now arcing higher, into your mid-section. This time, there’s no obvious stopping her, as she continues to pee onto your crotch, the pale yellow fluids dribbling down your thighs, now exuding a faintly foul smell as they soak in a rapidly expanding circle onto the bed. “Oh no, oh no, oh no,” Susie murmurs, her face buried under her forearm. “This can’t be happening.” It is, though. You remain enraptured by the intimacy of the experience, enjoying the deflation of her bladder even as you feel guilt and sorrow for the obvious deflation of her ego. She must be at least half-empty now, you think: your calves, like the threads on which they rest, are now as moist as the parts of your body onto which her stream flowed directly. Your sheets will need washing and your mattress will be in need of some repair; you’d not seen a grown person wet the bed up close, and are realising in real time that the contents of a full adult bladder make short work of a (small) double bed when spilt.

By the end of this performance - repulsive yet arousing, bizarre yet quotidian - the bed and all its clothes are sodden: not just darkened by dampness, but covered in visible, coloured, reflecting pools or Ally’s urine, whose thick odour hangs as unmistakable evidence of what had just transpired, should anybody suggest that a healthy, awake, adult woman could not possibly have just wet her boyfriend’s bed. You feel privileged and thrilled to have witnessed it, not yet quite ready to reckon with whatever consequences your partner might impose, once she recovers from her current predicament. With her head buried under her arms, this is something she seems in no hurry to do either, and so you happen upon an idea you think displays magnanimous cowardice. You throw on some clothes, and then offer, “Ally, don’t worry about it, I’m sorry I pushed it so far, I’m going to head out - take as long as you need, and we’ll talk later.” And so you do.