Never mind that, did you see the lines outside? How long ARE they?!

Two hours before the festival started. Two hours to get relief. Now or never.

That was the mantra that lead several wide-hipped women, of groups stretching across the boundaries of class and occupation, into queues all over the country. In places, these lines could span between villages.

Two hours before the bathrooms were closed, for what would feel like forever.

“Tradition is complete horseshit”, more than a few voices could be heard to say among the background of **** moans and whimpers. Of course, whether any of them said it like that would depend on how dignified they wanted to seem, but that was what they meant. And if any of their peers could hear it – over said sounds of need, and over the panic screaming through their minds – they would surely agree.

This was because the tradition of locking out all public commodes the moment the festival began, even among other unpopular traditions, was hated. Maybe hated wasn’t a strong enough word. Nearly everyone, from the lowest to the highest, dreaded the custom as it approached seemingly faster every year, and nearly everyone cursed every second of it. And that was why so many had lined up to a limited number of centres of sweet release.

Because there wasn’t long. Two hours before the festival started. And the emptier one could be when the fortnight of agony rolled along, the better.

Of course, that would mean that some in this mile-long logjam of humanity didn’t need to go as much as others. Those who were still maintaining their dignity stood in single file with those who had abandoned it long ago. Hands placed calmly by wide hips contrasted with hands firmly wedged between thighs. Women who were standing up straight – if shifting on their feet just a little – stood in front of and behind women who were doubled over and squirming. Silent voices were drowned out by urgent cries. And yet, none of that was an absolute indicator of how much time each one had left.

And that much was clear to everyone in the line, each and every time they lurched forth toward their destination. Each forward movement was just as likely to be the result of a relieved exit from the ladies’ as it was to be derived from an overworked bladder deciding it could take no more and causing a humiliatingly wet experience even before the festival and bathroom lockdown had begun. No one except the women nearby would know. And given the length of the line, very few in it would be nearby. All anyone knew was that it was one step closer to where they badly needed to be.

Less than two hours until the festival began. Less than two hours to get that relief. After that, it was gone.

Surely these women had private bathrooms to go to, outsiders would often say to themselves as they arrived and happened upon the monstrous progression of grinding thighs. Surely they didn’t have to wait that long. There was a sizeable number in that line, granted, who didn’t have bathrooms in their own homes. Nary even a hole in the ground. But there were several opulent dresses – all well-filled-out – and haircuts that could not have been maintained but by a servant of some sort. What business did they have here?

To which the answer was simple: in typical fashion of the nobility, they had little sense about them, and it had never occurred to them to go until now. Somehow.

It was never good to be in such a stream (no, not a stream, don’t think about streams) of pure desperation, one that seemed to have no beginning and no end. However, by far the worst place to be was right in the middle. In the very centre of the queue, ladies of all kinds, of all shapes and sizes – most of them wide – found themselves in an impossible bind. They were nowhere near reaching their destination, but they had been in the line for so long that they had too much to lose from dashing off and trying to find a place to go outside. If they could find none, their place was gone, and with it all hope of surviving this painful pair of weeks.

As it happened, exactly in the middle of the line was one of the girls who was most dangerously full. A tan young woman with brown, cropped hair, whose tomboyish looks were completely offset by her highly feminine, shapely undercarriage. An undercarriage from which an ocean of liquid was threatening to escape, and had been for a while now.

The daughter of a merchant who was rising in status and finance every day, she didn’t consider herself one of the more well-to-do, but she had certain amenities in her family home the next town over. Of these, the most important – and most pressing – was a wooden toilet facility, both comfortable enough to relax in and wide enough to accommodate the entirety of her rear. She had just arrived from port, and her home toilet wasn’t to be available to her any time soon, soon enough for her to hold until then. So, regrettably, she was stuck here.

She tried her hardest not to think about the beautiful bathroom that she so badly needed – but failed, as her already heated face rose in temperature even more. She internally thanked herself that she was dressed rather simply – a pretty but practical cloth dress, in muted red, that only barely passed over her knees. No danger of the hem getting dirty, in that case – which, now more than ever, was a clear and present threat.

Sensing a wave of need passing over her, she looked around in a vain attempt to find a sight that would distract her from the voice that seemed to be coming from her bladder and yelling “TOILET TOILET TOILET” every second. Nothing seemed to be working, but she found something in the form of a particular person she thought she recognised, a few places ahead of her and visible in a curve in the queue.

Wasn’t that Esmere Monteberg, the daughter of the Countess of Courwell? She’d seen the woman passing by her home, to survey the county which she would eventually administer, but never so up-close. What was she doing here, among such a diverse range of maidens and mothers waiting for a public rest stop?

...And why was she kneeling down and wailing?

And why was the ground around her becoming a puddle-- Oh. Oh, that made sense.

The **** brunette shut her eyes tight and let out a trembling moan, knowing it would be drowned out by the sound of a publicly embarrassed young noblewoman disgracing herself and those around her trying their hardest not to let her accident wet their clothes too. It was a good minute or two before the upper-class blonde cleared away from her position, and the distance she waddled forward seemed more than usual.

Perhaps the very loud failure had had a domino effect on others. It was best not to think about that. After all, there was still so much line to go.

Less than two hours now. Much less. Less than two hours until the festival started, and what she had waited for would become unavailable.