A Wet Secret Shared

Helen knew she should've gone earlier.

She'd had time. At least two windows during the afternoon when she could have excused herself, quietly, without drawing attention. But she hadn't taken them. She'd sipped water through the late meeting, followed by a large coffee with the group at four. Her body had started complaining not long after that. That awesome low pressure across her pelvis that caused her legs to fidget under the desk, but she'd ignored it.

It wasn't new.

She liked the feeling. Not the desperation, not the pain, but the sense of fullness. That feeling of control, but just on the edge, knowing that the moment she lost concentration all would be lost. She felt sharp and focussed. Keeping her body in place with calm restraint. Holding.

But this was a long hold. Probably too long based on the cramps she was feeling now.

It was twenty past six. The office was empty, the corridors dimmed to that soft after-hours grey. She was walking fast. Not hurrying (she never hurried) but fast. Every step placed carefully, sparingly. Everything had to be efficient like she had no time to waste. Which she didn't.

Her bladder felt enormous. Like she was carrying it in her hands, not her body.

Down the stairs, two flights, no lift. Every footfall jarred through her hips. She clenched harder. Her thighs were tight. She kept one hand lightly gripping her coat folded over her arm, the other pressed flat against her thigh to mask the tension in her walk. This was the way. Holding with no-one aware of the predicament she placed herself in.

By the time she reached the basement corridor, she knew she was losing it.

Not fully. She hadn't broken. But there was a warmth between her legs that didn't belong there. A dampness.

She didn't stop. Just pressed her lips together, swallowed hard, and kept moving.

The toilet door gave way under her palm.

She stepped inside and locked it quickly, leaned back against the door. Her heart raced and she willed it to calm down. There was sweat on her brow. She exhaled sharply through her nose. Her whole belly was trembling now. A thumping deep in her lower abdomen, like something knocking from the inside.

She reached under her skirt with shaky hands. Pulled down her knickers. Feeling damp already. Not soaked, but not dry.

She didn't look at them.

She barely got seated before it came.

The first jet escaped her before she touched the seat. It splashed noisily onto the back of her thigh, hot and sudden. She dropped onto the seat with a grunt, feet flat, knees wide.

And then it came properly.

Not a trickle, not a stream. A flood. Loud and constant. Hissing into the bowl. Her whole body slackened. The pressure roared out of her. She moaned quietly, involuntarily.

It went on. And on.

She leaned forward, elbows on thighs, forehead in one hand.

Warmth rose up from the bowl. Her skin flushed. The sound filled the small cubicle.

When it finally slowed and faded to little spurts and dribbles she stayed seated. She let her knees fall together and pressed her hand against her lower belly. It was soft now. Empty. A sweet ache replacing the grip that had held her all the way down.

She sat for a while, a little heady from the rush, then wiped and stood. Her thighs trembled slightly.

She looked at the gusset of her knickers before pulling them up.

The stain was visible. A dark patch, wide as her palm. Still warm.

She slid them back into place anyway. Then she smoothed her skirt, ran a hand through her hair, and breathed out slowly.

She'd made it.

The bus home was half-full. Damp coats everywhere and shopping bags wedged under knees. Everyone's breath steaming up the windows. Helen sat on a seat near the front beside an older man who appeared to have fallen asleep. She felt self conscious about her wide hip pressing against him and sat almost half off the seat with her hands folded in her lap, still riding the edge of something.

She watched the buildings slide past. A kebab shop with its shutters down. A cat in a second-storey window licking its paws. Everything so ordinary, but hazy around the edges, like she wasn't quite of the same world as everyone else.

Her knickers were still damp. Just enough to feel reassuringly cool against her skin when she shifted. Not enough to draw attention.

She got off two stops early.

Not for the walk, God no, just to move. She liked how her legs felt. Slightly shaky like they were still carrying a secret.

Her flat was three flights up and again there was no lift. The stairs were narrow and dark, with abandoned litter waiting on each landing.

She unlocked the door, dropped her bag and kicked off her boots. A small bedsit, with everything in reach. A couple of plants. No posters or pictures. Instead, she had a tall bookcase crammed with paperbacks, fantasy mostly, but they made a wall of colour. The radiator clicked on as she passed.

She pulled her socks off, unfastened her skirt and hung them on the back of the chair. The knickers stayed on, for now.

She made dinner. A quick stir-fry with tofu, sesame oil, and half a bag of kale that needed using. Rice from a packet in the microwave. She ate on the sofa cross-legged, the waistband of her knickers stretched taut against her hip bone.

She drank diluted orange squash, weak, but refreshing. She refilled her glass twice, and let her stomach swell gently.

After dinner she threw the bowl into the tiny dishwasher and settled down with her latest novel, losing herself in a magical world once more.

At ten, she turned everything off. Brushed her teeth and changed into an oversized nightie and nothing else. Knickers, dry now, went in the wash. She wiped her face and stared at it for a few seconds too long in the mirror. She thought about trimming her dark fringe, but left it for another day.

She lay on the bed, on top of the covers, one leg bent. Her hand moved automatically, fingers lifting the fabric of her nightie to gain what she sought.

She was still faintly damp. Warm and comforting.

She didn't need to work herself up. Didn't need a fantasy. Just followed the feeling. That slow hold from earlier, the ache of it. The stretch across her belly when she'd paused once with crossed legs on the stairs. Her fingers circled lightly. No pressure. Just motion.

The hiss and flood when she finally let go. That feeling of total release. She pushed two fingers inside her, twisting and thrusting, thumb heavy on her clit. She squeezed her thighs, held her breath, as her thumb and fingers built up a steady rhythm. Her wetness clicked in the dark.

The sound of the piss and the heat as it flooded out of her. The damp of her knickers and thighs. The sheer sense of breaking the rules.

She came hard but quietly, mouth half-open, breath catching in multiple deep gasps, hips pressing against the bed.

She lay for a while, stroking and soothing herself. Then finally rolled onto her side, and fell asleep without turning off the lamp.

~~~~~~~~

It was warm for March and the sun was shining. The wind was gusty, the sort of wind that moved your skirt if you didn't hold it down. Helen was behind the back wall of the office car park, just out of sight of the CCTV, perched on the narrow edge of a concrete verge. Weeds grew in the cracks, and last year's cigarette ends were half-buried in the dirt.

She didn't smoke, but she liked the smell. It covered things.

She'd needed to go for an hour.

Not desperately. Just enough that she felt a pleasant weight. A tightness that she owned.

Her skirt was loose and dark, her legs bare.

She crouched low, balancing on the balls of her feet with knickers pulled aside. Cotton, pale grey from too much washing and worn thin at the edges.

She looked around once more. Not that she expected anyone. Just force of habit.

Then she let go.

The stream started slow, hesitant, then warmed into a steady rush that splattered onto the gravel and moss. The sound was louder than she expected. She tilted her hips slightly to keep it even.

Her fingers were still resting just beneath her, two of them brushing the edge of her labia. As the stream passed, she let one slip into it. Wet. Hot. She felt it arc along her skin before it fell, running down her fingers, then dripping off the tips.

She thought of the boyfriends who'd never asked.

The ones who recoiled if she mentioned anything messy. The ones who called her weird for wanting to watch them while they peed. The ones who thought being kinky meant blindfolds and fluffy cuffs.

No one had ever just watched her piss. Or even asked to. Certainly no one ever wanted more, in the bath or even the shower. Fucking and sucking were the limits of their pitiful imaginations.

The last of her stream slowed to a trickle. A few drops clung to her fingers.

She wiped them casually on her thigh and pulled her knickers back into place. Then she stood, brushed herself off and straightened her skirt.

No thrill. No guilt. Just a moment all to herself. Her secret.

A movement caught her eye and she saw a car pull into the tiny car park. A couple of her work colleagues left the vehicle carrying sandwiches from the local supermarket. She hurried to join them, pushing her skirt down in the breeze. They headed into the office, chatting and laughing about the sweet old guy who worked in the deli. Behind them her trail of piss steamed in the warm sunshine.

~~~~~~~~

The afternoon dragged as they so often did in the office. Helen had lost all interest in her work months ago. Putting numbers in boxes on a screen that led to more numbers that needed to be entered in another place. It didn't tax her, it didn't stimulate her, it just consumed her, slowly and relentlessly.

She had taken to watching Gareth, the new guy. Everyone called him the new guy even though he'd joined over six months ago. He wasn't new but he was the newest.

They'd barely spoken outside of meetings. He seemed ordinary. Clean shirt, always with ironed trousers and a boring tie. Every day he came to the office, tapped his keyboard, ate his lunch, did some more tapping and then went home. Routine. Ordinary.

But today something wasn't ordinary at all. She'd looked up at the right moment and something had caught her eye.

He was shifting in his seat. She'd noticed that earlier, too. Fidgeting more than usual. Not the anxious kind, not the bored, foot-tapping kind. Something tighter. Legs pressed together, back straight. Concentrating, but not on his work.

And then, suddenly, he stood. Not rushed, but definitely urgent.

He left his screen unlocked, didn't even grab his phone. He walked with that careful, deliberate gait that made her eyebrows lift, just a fraction.

He disappeared toward the corridor past the lifts, toward the toilets.

Nothing remarkable, if you didn't know what to look for.

Helen looked back at her screen. Pretended to read. But her ears stayed tuned. She wasn't even sure why. There was just something about it: the stiffness in his walk, the way he hadn't spoken to anyone all morning. That posture. She'd held herself like that before. Many times.

He was gone longer than expected. Six minutes, maybe more.

When he came back, he wasn't calmer. That's what made her sit up straighter.

Most people came back from the loo relaxed. He didn't. He was just as tense, but... different. Like he was braced for something.

And in his hand, half-hidden beneath his jacket sleeve, was something pale blue. Soft. Folded.

She barely caught it. He shoved it quickly into his work bag, zipped it without looking, and sat back down like nothing had happened.

He didn't go back to his tapping for a good five minutes.

Helen didn't speak to him. Didn't look directly. But something inside her had shifted.

She knew that shape. That motion. And that fabric. Pale blue cotton didn't come in folders or documents. It came in underwear.

On the bus home Helen managed to grab a seat by the window. She watched the houses pass by, rain starting to spot on the glass.

She kept replaying it.

The flicker of blue fabric. His fingers quick, but not quick enough. The zip of his bag. That glimpse. What had he been hiding?

Her stomach was still tight from how fast her heart had jumped. A sick kind of thrill. She didn't dare let herself believe it yet.

It could be coincidence. It could be nothing. She'd been wrong before. People leaked. People had accidents. That didn't mean they were like her.

But... the way he'd sat afterwards. Straight-backed and careful. His legs pressed together like the posture itself meant something. She pressed her own thighs together and curled her fingers tightly into her palms.

She stared out the window as the street blurred past. Grey brick and lamp posts.

Don't get carried away, she told herself. You've imagined things before.

But under the calm, under the caution, a single thought repeated, quiet but insistent:

What if.

~~~~~~~~

Gareth was back to ordinary again. Quiet, courteous, tapping on his keyboard. If he fidgeted, it was minor. If he excused himself, it was at ordinary times. Nothing to remark on.

Helen didn't dwell on it. Not openly. But she was watchful, looking for any signs that he was like she.

Then, four days later, it happened again.

It was mid-morning. The office was too warm. A team meeting had just ended and people were milling about, chatting, stretching, escaping to the kitchen. Gareth stayed at his desk, unusually still. Then he shifted. Crossed his legs. Uncrossed them. Re-crossed them tighter.

Helen watched, behind her coffee mug, as he glanced at the time.

And then, once again, he stood up, too careful, too straight, and made his way out with the same brisk, quiet urgency. Same corridor. Same direction. Same walk.

She waited for him to return, a slow casual walk back to his desk, A smooth turn and reach into his bag and seconds later he was back at his computer, the merest trace of a satisfied smile on his lips.

About a half hour later he rose and left his desk, heading toward the big meeting room with a few others on his team.

She waited a minute. Just one. Then she stood, slow and deliberate, and wandered toward the printer with a few stray papers in hand. Casual, practiced. Gareth's desk was just off her path.

The bag was there. A black laptop satchel, propped beside his chair, the zip not fully pulled across.

She crouched beside the paper tray and rustled her documents, watching the corridor with one ear.

Then, as if adjusting her shoe, she reached out and opened the bag.

Inside was a paperback, a packet of crisps, a charger. And there, folded once and tucked along the side, were a pair of pale blue briefs.

She moved them to one side and saw what she'd hoped for: a dark blue patch, like a halo, across the centre.

She didn't take them out. She didn't need to. Her fingers brushed them lightly. Damp. Cooling.

She withdrew her hand, tucked the zip gently closed, and stood.

Then, as she turned back toward her desk, she brought those same fingers to her nose. Just once, briefly.

The scent was faint. Clean but unmistakable. Not shameful. Not repulsive. Just real.

She sat back down, heart ticking calmly in her chest, and resumed typing.

No one else noticed a thing.

But she'd stopped wondering now. She knew.

~~~~~~~~

Three days passed.

She didn't rush it. These things needed to settle. To breathe.

The opportunity came just after eleven.

Gareth was fidgeting again. Not obviously, not enough for anyone else to notice. But she saw the tension in his hips, the stiffness in his shoulders. His eyes kept darting to the clock. He sipped water without thinking. His jaw tightened when he leaned forward. Holding.

At 11:22, he stood.

Same careful rise and the same deliberate walk. He didn't rush, but there was purpose in the way he moved. It was too focused for a casual trip, too rigid to be comfortable.

As soon as he disappeared down the corridor, she moved.

His bag sat under the desk, right where she knew it would be. Zip slightly open, just like last time. She didn't hesitate.

From her own bag, she drew a small bundle of pale pink cotton. Neatly folded. Still warm.

She'd worn them for just under an hour that morning, filling them with heat and scent. She'd let out a few drops of pee that left a soft slow dampness that darkened the centre and crept outward in the shape of her.

Helen slid them into his bag with the same care she might use shelving a book. Not tucked at the bottom. Not hidden. Just... placed. Near the top, beside the charger and his deodorant.

Then she closed the zip and returned to her desk. She sat and began typing numbers into boxes, a look of quiet concentration on her face.

She didn't look up when he returned.

But she felt it.

The air changed. He approached slower than before. Quieter. And then he sat and unzipped the bag.

There was a pause and the faintest rustle of fabric. Nothing else. No exclamation, no sudden move.

And then she sensed his gaze.

He was looking at her. Waiting for a cue. A signal. She didn't give him one.

She kept her eyes fixed on her screen and crossed her legs slowly beneath the desk. One knee resting over the other.

But she was warm. Throbbing, gently. A steady pulse at the base of her spine.

He knew what she'd done, she knew what he'd found and neither of them said a word.

~~~~~~~~

By Wednesday morning, it was clear that Gareth still wasn't sure. He hadn't worked it out, not entirely anyway. Whether the pink knickers left in his bag had been hers, whether it was deliberate, whether it meant what he desperately hoped it meant. He was circling the question but hadn't dared to answer it yet.

Helen could see it plainly. It was there in the way he kept looking, not directly, never enough to confirm anything, but often enough that it wasn't nothing. His hands moved more than usual, tapping at keys that didn't need tapping. He scrolled too quickly, blinked too often. There was tension in his shoulders that had no business being there on an ordinary morning.

She watched from behind her screen, hands steady on the keyboard, but her gaze flicking up every few minutes.

At half-past eleven, he stood.

It was the same pattern now. The same slightly-too-casual walk toward the toilets. No bag with him. No jacket. That was the signal. If it were a real break, he'd have taken something.

Helen kept her posture loose, relaxed. Pretending to be deep in work. But every sense tracked him.

Seven minutes later, he returned. His face was neutral, almost carefully so, but his body told the truth. His back was too straight. His mouth set in a line that aimed for casual but fell short. He knelt slightly by the side of his desk, unzipped the front pocket of his bag just a crack, and slid something inside.

She caught the glimpse of pale blue. He didn't linger. The pocket zipped shut again, his fingers steady but just a little too careful.

Helen let him settle. Let the moment pass.

At five to two, the calendar reminder chimed for a team meeting. She watched him stand, grab his notebook, and join the shuffle of colleagues heading to the meeting room. The bag stayed behind, slouched against the desk, forgotten or deliberately left. She wasn't sure which. Maybe he didn't know himself.

She waited until the last voices faded down the corridor.

Then she stood.

Her steps were unhurried. A casual drift past his desk on the way to the kitchen. No pause. No glance around. Her hand dipped into the front pocket of his bag as naturally as adjusting her sleeve. Her fingers found cotton, soft and damp, still holding the heat of him.

She curled them into her palm, folded tight, and slid them into the deep pocket of her cardigan. Then walked on without breaking stride.

Back at her desk, she sat. Face calm and composed. Her hand rested in her lap, fingertips pressed into the damp weight of his briefs. Her pulse ticked higher, but her breathing stayed steady.

About twenty minutes later, Gareth returned.

She saw it instantly: the flicker in his face as he glanced at his bag, expecting to check, to reassure himself. Then the pause. The sudden, sharp pull of realisation as his eyes darted back to her. His face tightened. His mouth opened slightly. His shoulders stiffened. His whole posture said it at once: Oh God. No. She knows. She's caught me.

Helen didn't look away.

Her hand shifted slightly in her lap. Just enough. The soft curve of pale blue cotton was now faintly visible between her fingers. The waistband looped over her thumb. It wasn't exposed. Not fully. But visible enough that there was no mistaking it.

Gareth froze. His face paled. His hands clenched around the notebook he was holding, the tension running from his fingertips to his jaw.

She held his gaze. Steady despite the pounding of her heart.

Then, slowly, her hand rose. She brought the wet fabric to her nose and quietly inhaled. A soft, measured breath, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

His face broke. Not into relief exactly, not yet, but something cracking open. Fear collapsed under it. Disbelief flooded in. Then something brighter. Something sharper. His lips parted. His eyes softened in a way she hadn't seen before. A flush climbed visibly up his neck.

He understood now.

She knows. She wants this. She's with me.

Helen held the fabric there a moment longer, her eyes never leaving his. Then she lowered her hand, folded the briefs neatly, and slid them back into her pocket.

No smile. No wink. No acknowledgement beyond the simple, steady gaze between them.

Then she turned back to her keyboard and resumed typing, as though nothing at all had happened.

~~~~~~~~

It started with a conversation. A real one. The first of its kind between them.

They stood together in the kitchen, late morning, two mugs steeping in silence. The hum of the fridge filled the gaps between words that hadn't yet been spoken. Gareth hovered by the counter, watching his tea slowly darken. Helen stirred hers, slow and steady, though her hand wasn't quite as casual as she hoped it looked.

She waited a few seconds. Then, without looking at him, asked quietly, "Do you live with someone?"

There was a pause, sharper than it needed to be. Gareth fumbled with the milk carton, nearly dropping it before getting it under control.

"No," he said. His voice was low, careful. "Just me."

He didn't elaborate. He didn't say I'm single or no partner. Just that, no one else in the flat. No one who might notice. No one who might ask questions.

Helen nodded slightly, let the silence sit for a few beats. She stirred her tea again.

"Hmm."

Gareth shifted, glanced sideways at her. "Why?" he asked. There was a careful edge to it, half curiosity, half knowing.

She shrugged, not quite smiling. "Just wondered."

Neither of them moved. Neither of them sipped their tea.

Then Gareth let out a small, tight breath and said, quietly, "I think... we like the same thing."

His voice wasn't steady, not entirely. But it was true. It sat clean in the air between them, fragile and real.

Helen set her spoon down. Turned to look at him properly, studying his face. He wasn't smiling either. His mouth was pressed into a line, his shoulders stiff. But his eyes were wide, watching her like he wasn't sure if he was about to fall or fly.

"Yeah," she said. Her voice was softer than she intended. "I think we do."

For a moment neither of them said anything else. It wasn't awkward. It was just... big.

"I wasn't sure," Gareth said, glancing down, then back up. "I kept... wondering. Hoping. But... I didn't know how to..." He broke off. His fingers drummed lightly against the mug. "I didn't know if it was real."

Helen felt her stomach twist, tight but bright. "It's real," she said. "If you want it to be."

He nodded quickly, a breath catching in his throat. "I do," he said. "Yeah. I really do."

She smiled then. "Good."

Her thumb traced the rim of her mug, once, and then she added, quieter still, "I've... had a few ideas. If you are interested."

Gareth blinked, straightened slightly. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." She let it hang there. Let him sit with it. "Nothing too scary. To start."

His breath stuttered into a quiet laugh. "Right. Okay." He nodded again, quickly. "I think... yeah. I'd like that."

Helen let her smile shift into something steadier. "All right," she said. "Then we'll see."

She picked up her mug, left him standing there at the counter, and walked back toward her desk. She could feel his gaze following her the whole way.

~~~~~~~~

It was Friday, just before nine, and the office kitchen smelled faintly of burnt toast and brewing coffee. Gareth was again standing by the sink, rinsing out a mug. His shoulders were slightly hunched, his posture relaxed in that absent, automatic way people carried themselves before the workday fully began.

Helen stood nearby at the counter, stirring her tea without adding anything to it. Her hand moved in small, idle circles, but her attention was entirely on Gareth.

She waited until the corridor was clear before speaking. Her voice was soft, low enough that it would not carry beyond the kitchen door. "Are you feeling full?" she asked without looking directly at him.

Gareth paused for a fraction of a second. His hand stilled on the mug, but he recovered quickly, glancing toward her out of the corner of his eye. His shoulders tightened slightly, a subtle shift that betrayed how quickly he registered what she meant.

"Not really," he replied, matching her tone. "Why?"

She turned her head and met his gaze fully. "Good," she said. "Because I want you to hold for me. All day."

Gareth's breath caught. It was not loud, but Helen saw the way his fingers tightened around the rim of the mug. His posture stiffened almost imperceptibly.

"All day," he repeated. His tone was not questioning exactly but edged with disbelief.

She nodded, slowly and deliberately. "I don't want you to let it go. Not a drop. Not until I say."

Footsteps passed in the corridor behind them, and Gareth instinctively glanced away, straightening his back, lifting the mug as though examining it for cracks or stains. Helen waited, appearing to busy herself with her tea until the person passed.

When the hallway was quiet again, Gareth lowered the mug slightly. "Okay," he said at last, quieter but certain. "I can do that."

Helen stepped in just a fraction closer, enough that the fabric of her sleeve brushed his. The movement was subtle, calculated, invisible to anyone not watching closely.

"You'll need to drink," she reminded him. Her voice was calm, measured, and entirely practical. "It doesn't count if you dehydrate."

"I know," Gareth replied, nodding. His eyes did not waver from hers.

"Good," she said.

She picked up her tea and turned toward the door. But before leaving, she paused just long enough to glance back at him over her shoulder. "Gareth," she added, her tone lighter but edged with something firmer beneath it.

"Yeah?" he replied quickly, attentively.

"Don't embarrass yourself."

A flicker of a smile touched the corner of his mouth, quick but unmistakable. "I won't."

Without another word, she walked out of the kitchen, leaving him standing there with the mug still in his hands.

It was just after one thirty in the afternoon, and the office had settled into its usual lunchtime lull. Most people were hunched over sandwiches or scrolling through news tabs hidden behind work documents. The clatter of keyboards and occasional soft conversation floated through the open-plan space.

Helen walked past Gareth's desk with a neutral expression, holding her tea mug in one hand. As she passed, she tapped her fingertips twice against the corner of his desk. The gesture was small and casual, but unmistakably meant for him.

A few seconds later, Gareth rose quietly from his chair. He did not speak or hesitate. He simply followed her toward the back of the office where the supply cupboard stood. It was an underused storage space with a door that never latched properly unless pushed firmly.

Helen slipped inside first, holding the door open just enough for Gareth to follow. Once he stepped inside, she shut it carefully behind him, pressing it closed with the soft click of the bolt.

Inside, the air smelled faintly of dust and cardboard. Gareth stood in front of her, his posture held but clearly strained. His hands rested loosely at his sides, though his shoulders were slightly raised with tension.

Helen stepped forward without ceremony. She placed both hands on his stomach: one flat against the soft curve above his waistband, the other lower, pressing directly over the firm swell of his bladder.

Gareth flinched slightly at the contact but forced himself to exhale and relax beneath her hands. His abdominal muscles tensed under her palms.

His bladder was hard and distended. She could feel the tautness beneath his skin, the unmistakable resistance of a body stretched to its limit. The rounded pressure under her lower hand was warm, firm, and full, a sharp contrast to the usual softness of his belly.

"You're doing well," she said softly. Her voice was calm and matter-of-fact.

Gareth nodded once, jaw tight. "It's... yeah. It's a lot now," he admitted quietly.

Helen pressed her palm a little firmer against the top of the bulge, testing the resistance. Her thumb brushed in a slow circle just above the waistband of his trousers. Beneath her fingers, his thighs trembled subtly as he instinctively braced himself.

"Still dry?" she asked.

"Yeah," he confirmed with a quick nod. His voice was steady but strained.

"Good," she replied.

She let her hand linger, tracing the subtle tension in his muscles, feeling the fine tremor running through him. She adjusted her grip slightly, sliding her thumb along the edge of his lower abdomen. The heat radiating from his skin told her exactly how much effort it was costing him to stay composed.

"I could keep my hand here all day," she said. Her tone was quiet, almost reflective. "Feel you get heavier, tighter, until you're right on the edge."

Gareth inhaled sharply. His breath caught, but he stayed still, shoulders locked, thighs clenched.

"I'd hold it," he said, his voice low but firm.

"I know," Helen replied, meeting his eyes.

She left her hands resting against him for a moment longer, as if memorising the shape of him under pressure. Then she stepped back.

"Get yourself a glass of water," she instructed. Her voice returned to its usual, composed tone. "Then back to work."

Gareth nodded immediately. "Yeah. All right," he agreed. There was no smile this time, but his eyes were focused, serious, and full of something sharper than simple obedience.

Helen opened the door and glanced back at him once more before stepping out.

"Don't make me regret trusting you," she added lightly with a smirk.

"You won't," Gareth replied without hesitation as he followed her out. His stride was careful, measured, his whole body moving with the conscious effort of someone carrying something both precious and precarious.

By mid-afternoon, it was obvious Gareth was struggling. His face was pale, jaw tight, and a thin sheen of sweat had begun to gather at his hairline. His movements were slow, deliberate. He sat rigid in his chair, legs locked tightly together beneath the desk, barely shifting except to reposition his hands now and then.

Helen watched him steadily over the top of her monitor. Not openly. Not conspicuously. But closely.

She hadn't said a word to him all day. Not a glance. Not a gesture. Nothing.

At 3:42, she opened a private browser tab and logged into the ProtonMail account she had created over the weekend. The inbox was empty, pristine. She composed a new message. No subject line, no greeting. Just a single instruction typed plainly into the body of the email.

"At 5:30, film yourself pissing. I want to hear it."

She read it twice, then hit send.

Two minutes later, her inbox pinged.

His reply was as brief as hers.

"Understood."

That was all.

She closed the tab, deleted the history, and resumed her work without looking in his direction.

By four thirty, Gareth's condition had deteriorated further. His hands stayed clenched in his lap. His back remained unnaturally straight. He stared at his screen with a blank, unfocused expression. His whole body radiated tension, as though he was no longer part of the office at all, no longer present in anything except the effort of holding.

Helen didn't speak. She didn't offer him a glance or a word. She simply let him carry it.

At 5:26, Gareth closed his laptop. The click of the latch was soft but definitive. He stood slowly and with the agonising stiffness of someone who had been holding for nearly nine hours. He slid his bag onto his shoulder without a word and left without a glance.

Helen stayed perfectly still as he walked past her desk and out of the office. She didn't move until the sound of his footsteps faded down the corridor. Then she gathered her things and headed out to the bus stop.

The email arrived just after eight that evening.

Her phone pinged once from where it rested on a folded towel beside the bath. A single new message in ProtonMail. No subject line. No text. Just an attachment.

stream. m4v

She opened it without hesitation.

The video was shaky at first. She could see tiles and the edge of a toilet bowl, blurry shapes of shadows across the floor. No face. No body. Just the view aimed low, angled carefully to show nothing except the target.

There was silence. A few seconds where nothing happened. Then it started.

A deep, rushing surge. A violent, gushing stream that hit the water with a sharp, echoing splash. Loud. Hard. Endless. The kind of piss that had been held far beyond comfort, well past decency. The noise filled the tiny speaker on her phone, so vivid she could hear the spray bouncing off porcelain, the rush of air, the relief carried in it.

It didn't falter. It didn't stutter. It simply poured. Long, powerful, desperate.

Helen's breath caught.

She leaned back against the bath, water lapping at her shoulders, and reached between her legs. Two fingers slid over herself with easy, instinctive pressure, still slick from the water but growing quickly slicker from something else.

She didn't rush. She let the sound fill her chest. The endless stream. The knowledge of what he had carried for her. What he had given.

After, she lay there and let the water drain from the bath. The flow tugging at her as it raced down into the drain.

She needed to see it again. She sprawled herself wet and naked on the bed, one knee bent. Her laptop balanced against her raised thigh. The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow from the screen. The faint hum of her radiator was the only sound in the flat, except for the noise coming from the speakers.

The video played again.

It began the same way every time. Shaky camera. The edge of the toilet bowl. Tiles. The low shadow of Gareth's legs braced wide either side. No face. No body shown. Just the setup, just enough to say this is real.

Then, after a breathless pause, the sound started.

The rush. The heavy, brutal sound of piss hitting water in a forceful stream. Violent. Relentless. The noise was sharp, clean, echoing around the porcelain in a way that hit her square in the chest every single time.

Helen's thighs were slick with heat. Her fingers moved fast, relentless, pushing hard against herself as her other hand hovered over the trackpad, clicking the video back to the start every time it finished.

She'd never had this before. Not like this. Not someone willing to show it. Not even to just talk or pretend. Not shy, sidelong hints. This was real. The weight of it hit her in waves, what it meant that Gareth had done this. Filmed it. Sent it. For her.

Every time the stream started, loud and unstoppable, the tension inside her clenched tighter. Her hips rolled upward into her own hand, desperate, chasing friction, chasing the next wave. Her breathing was broken now, catching at the top of her chest, barely steady enough to curse under it.

"Fuck, fuck," she gasped, as the noise poured through her again. Her fingers were already aching, but she didn't slow. Couldn't.

The image stayed the same. Impersonal and focused. The sound did all the work. Sharp splashes. A slight tremor in his breathing, caught on the microphone. The steady fall-off as the stream slowed toward the end. A hiss. Then a few final drips.

Helen scrabbled at the trackpad, replayed it from the start.

The sound hit again. Instant. Her whole body jerked as release surged up, tight, overwhelming. She came hard, hips locking, her mouth open in a breathless cry that didn't quite make it to sound.

But it wasn't enough. Not yet. Not close.

She clicked it back again. Her fingers slid back over herself, fast, rough. Her mind was a mess now, racing through it. What this was, what it could be. Him pissing for her. Obeying. Giving her the noise, the proof, the truth of what he was carrying, what he'd held all day, just because she told him to.

Her second orgasm hit harder. A full-body clench that left her trembling, toes flexed, thighs shaking. Her hand barely slowed before starting again.

The video kept playing. Over and over.

By the time she finally stopped, sweat damp on her chest, fingers exhausted, breath broken into little shivering gasps, she wasn't sure how many times she'd played it through.

But even then, as she closed the laptop and wiped her hand roughly on the towel beside the bed, one thought was still ringing clear in her head.

This wasn't just what she wanted. It was what she was always meant to have.

~~~~~~~~

In the morning she headed to the coffee shop across the square. It was busy, full of young parents with pushchairs and children throwing cake scraps onto the floor. She stood in the queue with one hand in her coat pocket and the other clamped loosely round the strap of her bag.

Her bladder throbbed. A deep, full warmth behind her navel. Not urgent. Just there, heavy and alive.

She'd woken up needing it and spent a few minutes squeezing her thighs, enjoying the ripples it made deep inside. She made tea in a pot instead of going to the loo and leisurely drank two and a half cups while reading a couple of chapters in bed. She'd pulled on jeans over fresh knickers, and almost lost it when sucking her tummy in to fasten them. The pressure had been pleasantly steady ever since.

Now, she waited.

"Americano, please, no milk" she said, and the barista scribbled it down.

She didn't sit. She didn't need to. She stayed standing by the wall near the back, pretending to scroll through her phone while her thighs pressed together beneath the denim.

Her coffee came. She smiled, took the cup, stepped outside into the crisp spring air.

She didn't drink it. Not yet.

She carried it like a prop all the way home. Past the charity shop where the sad cat always stared out the window and across the tiny, but neat park.

Every step sent a tiny pulse through her belly.

She kept her pace even. No sudden movements. Control was the point. Not suffering. Holding on until she chose not to.

By the time she reached her block of flats, her knickers were hot and sticky. Her thighs tensed with every step. The cup in her hand was still warm.

She didn't go straight inside. Instead she slipped round the back, through the low gate into the shared garden. It consisted of a few patches of grass, a picnic bench with green paint peeling off and an old rusty barbeque. Other than that it was empty.

She stopped by the far hedge, where no one could see from above, and pulled out her phone. She smiled at the camera and pressed record.

"Hi, it's.. uh... me," she started then hit the stop button. A light cramping in her lower belly made her shiver. She started again.

"Hi, it's me," she said brightly. "I loved your video. Thank you for doing that. In return, I thought you might enjoy one of your own."

She stood still and took one sip of coffee, holding the phone high to show her face and body.

Then she let it happen.

Her breath caught as the first spurt came, larger than she'd planned. A flood of heat against her underwear, then down both thighs at once. She stood straight. No crouching, no shame.

She let more flow and a dark patch formed at her crotch, then spread quickly, soaking her jeans front to back in seconds. Down over her knees, filling the fold behind them. Then into her socks and her shoes.

The wet spread silently and satisfyingly across the paving stones beneath her feet. She angled the camera down to capture its flow.

She finished the coffee while it ran, brought the phone back up to capture her smile and then clicked stop. The warmth faded from her jeans, the cuffs dripping onto her shoes.

She felt an intense satisfaction. It was what she needed today because this week was going to be the start of something and she needed to be grounded in herself

She walked back up the stairs to her flat slowly, trailing faint marks on each step.

Inside, she kicked off her shoes, stripped out of her jeans, and stepped into the shower still in her knickers.

Hot water over hot piss.

~~~~~~~~

It was Monday morning. Grey outside. The usual shuffle of coats and coffee cups as people settled into their desks.

Helen was filling her mug in the kitchen when Gareth walked in. He didn't look directly at her he just stepped past, opened the cupboard and reached for the tea bags.

Nothing for anyone else to notice.

But as he stood beside her, voice low, gaze fixed on the kettle, he said, "Thank you for the video."

His tone was polite. Measured. As though commenting on a helpful spreadsheet. But there was an edge beneath it. Tension, gratitude or something more intense.

Helen didn't look at him. She smiled faintly down at her mug, stirring once. "You liked it, then."

"Yeah," Gareth said, barely more than a breath. "A lot."

Her fingers tapped lightly against the rim of her mug. "Good."

No one else in the kitchen glanced their way. Nothing about them looked unusual. Two colleagues making tea.

But beneath it, between them, it sat heavy and electric. The knowledge of what he'd seen. Of her standing in the garden on Saturday afternoon, coffee in hand, trousers darkening in real time as she let go, the stream flooding down both legs, soaking her shoes, captured perfectly in the steady frame of her phone.

Gareth added milk to his tea with a hand that wasn't quite steady.

Helen sipped hers. "Might be more of those," she said lightly. "If you behave yourself."

"Right," he said. His throat worked around the word. "I'll... yeah."

And then, like any other Monday, they walked back to their desks.

It was just after ten when Helen decided what she wanted to do. The office had ticked through its morning routine, quiet and settled. She stood from her desk, picked up her phone, and walked calmly toward the toilets. No fuss. No ceremony.

Inside the stall, she locked the door, lifted her skirt, and stood with her feet planted apart. Her knickers were new today, white cotton, snug against her mound, trimmed with small lacework flowers.

Without hesitation, she let go.

The release was instant. Warm, flooding. Her bladder emptied in a heavy rush that hit the fabric with a dull hiss, spreading fast. The cotton darkened immediately, clinging to her skin, heat blooming across the gusset, front, and upwards along the seams. She shifted her hips slightly, feeling the wetness roll forward and back, saturating every fibre.

When it finished, she stood a moment longer. The fabric hung heavy now. Sodden. Warm. The scent was rich, unmistakable. Sharp ammonia softened by cotton musk, mingled with the faint salt-sweetness of skin.

She pressed a hand between her thighs and felt the sheer weight of it. The perfect squelch of soaked fabric and heat trapped beneath her palm

Five minutes later, she caught Gareth's attention with a simple glance. A tilt of her head. He stood almost immediately, followed her without a word as she led him to the old stationery cupboard at the end of the corridor.

The door clicked shut behind them.

It was cramped. Stacks of unused binders, boxes of cable ties, dusty reams of paper lined the shelves. But there was space enough for this.

Helen turned to face him. Her hands went to the hem of her skirt, and in one smooth movement, she lifted it. Mid-thigh, then higher. She didn't rush.

She watched his eyes as she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her soaked knickers. The fabric clung stubbornly to her skin, peeling away with a sticky pull from the dampness.

Her thighs were bare now. A glimpse of the curve of her hips, the softness of her stomach. The hair between her legs glistened wetly in the gloom.

Her skin was flushed, still faintly dewed from the heat trapped beneath the wet fabric.

Gareth's breath hitched visibly. His hands hovered but didn't dare move.

She held the knickers out to him.

"They're yours," she said softly. "A gift."

He reached for them carefully, reverently, taking the heavy cotton into his hands. The fabric sagged between his fingers, dripping faintly at one corner.

He turned them over slowly, thumbs tracing the darkened gusset where the material was most saturated. The cotton was warm and thick with moisture. It was heavy enough to collapse in on itself when he cupped it fully. The scent rose immediately. Intense, sharp, earthy. The unmistakable salt and musk of her.

For a moment, he just stared.

Then, to her surprise, to her sudden, fierce delight, he lifted them to his face.

Not cautiously. Not with the shy, hesitant curiosity she had expected.

But with hunger.

He buried his nose straight into the soaked gusset, pressing it firm against the bridge of his nose and mouth. His eyes fluttered shut. A deep inhale shuddered through him. His fingers clutched at the waistband, pulling the cotton tight over his face, like he couldn't get enough.

The sound of his breathing changed. Quick, shaky, pulling air hard through the saturated fabric. As though he wanted to drown himself in her. In her scent and her wetness.

Helen felt her whole body flare hot at the sight.

He wasn't looking at her. He couldn't. His entire focus was on what he held. On the heat, the salt, the layered musk of skin and urine and cotton pressed against his mouth.

His knees shifted slightly, thighs tightening. A tremor ran through his arms. His hands trembled just faintly as he held the fabric there, soaking himself in her gift.

Helen swallowed. Her heart thudded hard. She could feel it in her thighs.

She hadn't expected him to take it this far. Not yet. But watching him now, utterly lost in it, she realised with a sharp jolt of pleasure that he was hers. Fully.

She lowered her skirt. Smoothed it down.

"Keep them," she said quietly. "They're for you."

Gareth nodded once. Still breathless. Still gripping them like something sacred.

Then they left the cupboard. No words. No glance. Just the pounding knowledge of what now sat hidden in his hands and what it meant.

~~~~~~~~

The office was unusually quiet the next morning. Rain streaked the windows in thin, wavering lines, and the hallway still smelled of damp coats. The air felt flat. That soft, papery stillness of a week not quite willing to begin.

Helen arrived just after nine. Nothing about her entrance was unusual. Hair pinned neatly, skirt pressed, her dark wool coat pulled snug against the rain.

Gareth was already at his desk.

She caught his glance as she walked in. Quick. Up, then down again. Not evasive exactly. Not nervous. But cautious. Careful. His face looked drawn in that particular way that wasn't fatigue, exactly. A kind of softness left behind after something intense.

But he wasn't avoiding her. Not anymore.

She sat. Powered up her machine and let the quiet whirr of the fan fill the silence between them. Neither of them spoke. But the air felt different now. Closer.

She let ten minutes pass and then she stood, mug in hand, and crossed toward the kitchen. She wasn't planning to pause at his chair. But her feet slowed. She stopped behind him, one hand resting lightly on the back of his seat. Not possessive. Just steady.

Gareth didn't flinch. He shifted slightly but didn't turn.

Her voice was soft. Careful. "Did you... take them home?"

He stilled. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, half-finished with something he wasn't reading. Then, after a beat too long, he nodded.

Helen felt the flicker in her chest sharpen. It was warm and right.

"Did you... enjoy them?" she asked, her tone as neutral as she could manage.

His throat worked. She saw the flush on his ears almost immediately. "Yeah," he said quietly. "Yeah... I did."

There was a silence. Not awkward. Just there in the moment.

Then, after a breath, his voice shifted, quieter still, but firmer underneath. "I... used them. Last night. Slept with them. Woke up..." He swallowed. "They still smelled like you."

Helen didn't answer straight away. Her thumb traced the seam at the back of his chair, slow and deliberate.

She nodded once. "Good," she said simply.

Then she walked on to the kitchen. Calmly, though her pulse ticked hard in her wrists. The conversation sat warm in her chest, heavier than she'd expected. No awkwardness. No guessing anymore. He wanted this.

When she returned to her desk, neither of them spoke. But something had shifted. Small glances passed between them now, sharper than before. He wasn't hiding it, not from her, at least. The careful way he sat, the subtle press of his thighs together beneath the desk, the way his hands fidgeted more than usual.

By late morning, she noticed it properly. She knew he needed to go. She'd seen it before. His posture when he was full, the stiffness that crept into his limbs. The tension in his shoulders, the tight-lipped stillness when he stood.

She waited. Let it build. Watched him fight it until she decided he'd had enough.

Then she stood. "Come with me," was all she said.

She led him to the downstairs toilet, the disabled one tucked at the end of the corridor. She held the door open for him and stepped aside.

"Here," she said.

He entered slowly then stood and looked around like he expected someone to burst in. She didn't comment on it. Just closed the door behind them and leaned her back to it.

He stood awkwardly near the sink. Hands at his waistband. Not touching himself. Not moving.

She watched him for a moment. Then stepped forward.

"You need to go."

He nodded.

"Don't hold it for me," she said. "Show me."

He hesitated.

So she reached out, gently, and rested her hand on the front of his trousers. The heat of him was immediate. Firm, but not with arousal. From fullness.

She let her hand linger.

"You're allowed."

His hands moved to his zip. She watched him fumble it down, then push at the waistband, a little awkward, a little too eager to be careful. He freed himself, half hard already, flushed, the skin stretched just enough to show how close his body sat to the edge. The tip shone faintly, catching the low light.

Helen didn't speak. But her gaze held steady. A small tilt of her head, a slow drag of her eyes over him. Wordless approval. A kind of quiet, private satisfaction that didn't need naming.

He stood still, breathing shallow.

"I can't," he murmured. "Not if you're...". His hands hovered uselessly at his sides.

"I'm not judging," she said. "I'm watching. That's different."

She stepped closer. Close enough that his breath stuttered. Then her hand moved slowly and deliberately. She reached down and wrapped her fingers around him. Not for pleasure but for support.

He was warm and had good weight to him. The skin was soft but stretched taut beneath her palm. Firm but not fully hard, that peculiar fullness of a body caught between urgency and restraint. The heat of him pulsed faintly against her fingers, alive with tension. Slick at the tip. A tremor ran through him, whether from nerves or need, she couldn't tell.

"You're safe," she said gently. Her thumb shifted slightly, a glancing touch of his wetness. Just enough to let him know she was really there.

He breathed out. His body sagged slightly.

A moment passed.

Then another.

Then, finally, she felt it. A twitch. A pulse. And then warmth.

A slow, narrow stream spilled from him. First against her fingers, then down into the bowl. Thin and shaky at first, then stronger. She held him steady. Watched the colour change from clear to gold.

It smelled rich. Held too long. She watched the steam rise from the porcelain, felt the heat of it in her hand.

His breath came faster. But he didn't stop.

He kept going.

She gave him the space to empty completely.

Only when it tapered off did she release him.

"Good," she said.

With one finger she turned his face toward hers and kissed him on the lips, lingering a little.

He tucked himself away with slow hands. Still breathless. Still blinking like he couldn't believe she'd stayed.

They didn't speak, didn't need to. Helen straightened her skirt, smoothed her hair, and unlocked the door without a word. She stepped out first, glancing once down the corridor before walking back toward her desk with steady, unhurried steps.

Gareth waited a moment longer. Then he followed a few paces behind. No one watching would have noticed a thing

~~~~~~~~

By Wednesday, she knew it was time to offer something more. Something closer.

She caught him at the printer. No one else was nearby. Beside them the slow mechanical rhythm of paper feeding out measured time, one sheet after another.

She stepped in close. Her shoulder nearly brushed his. Her voice stayed low, just for him.

"I was thinking," she said lightly, almost conversational, "maybe it's time I gave you something... a little more direct. Something you could really... sample."

The word hung there, gentle, almost innocent, but heavy with private meaning.

Gareth stilled. His fingers hovered over the stack of paper without picking it up. His lips parted slightly. He didn't look at her straight away.

Helen raised one eyebrow. Watched him. "Something... warmer," she added softly. "If you wanted that."

His breath hitched. The shift in him was immediate. His knees tightened. His hands flexed.

She let the moment settle. Let him sit in it, feel it properly. Then, stepping back, folding her arms loosely, she said, "You'll let me know." Her tone was quiet. Measured. "When you're ready."

She turned and his hand caught her arm, turning her back to him.

"I've been thinking about it...", he breathed, "probably more than I should".

He nodded. "I'm ready for you."

She nodded back and walked away, leaving him standing there, hands still hovering over the paper tray. She didn't need to look back to know what state he was in. She could feel it. She knew exactly what she'd planted in him. What came next wasn't a question anymore. It was just a matter of when.

~~~~~~~~

The opportunity came a few days later.

She led him back to the stationery cupboard. It wasn't usually locked but after she opened the door, Helen slipped a key from her pocket, a key she shouldn't have.

With a quiet, decisive click she simply turned the lock once they were inside and hung the key from her finger for a moment before slipping it into her pocket.

It wasn't much. Stale air, cardboard, the smell of toner and glue. But it was private, and the walls were thick. That was enough.

He stood still. Hands by his sides. Shoulders set. He was breathing faster than usual, but she saw no nerves in him now. Not after everything else. He was ready to receive.

Without performance or pause she lifted her skirt. Her knickers were soft cotton, slightly worn at the seams but still her good ones. Plain, clean, a gentle trim at the waistband. She eased them down to her knees in one smooth motion.

She sat down on the edge of the lowest shelf, letting the wood take her weight. It creaked softly beneath her. She parted her legs just enough.

The soft curve of her mound was framed by a tidy triangle of dark hair, natural but trimmed, the edges neat where she kept it in check. The skin beneath was pale, smooth, the fine grain of it catching in the low light.

He knelt without being told.

She didn't watch his face, she watched his posture. He approached slowly, reverently. Arriving where he'd been invited.

His breath reached her first. Warm and quick against the inside of her thigh. She felt his nose hover close but not touch.

He inhaled.

The scent would be strong. Skin, sweat, fabric, held close all day. A tang beneath her, a humid warmth where her lips pressed together.

He leaned in closer. She felt his lips before she saw them move.

His first lick was cautious. More breath than pressure. Just enough to part her slightly and taste the outer edge of her skin.

She didn't speak.

His second lick was firmer. Broader. His tongue flattened, moved upward, caught the crease and followed it. She felt herself shift open slightly under him.

Still she didn't speak.

He found his rhythm: slow, regular and attentive. She allowed herself a few moments to enjoy the sensation then touched his shoulder and whispered. "Ready?".

He gave the barest nod, his tongue waited.

She let her bladder release just a tiny stream. No more than a mouthful.

He didn't flinch.

She watched him pause for half a second, then resume. Slower now, tasting properly. His tongue moved like he was trying to draw every part of it into himself. She felt his breath change. He swallowed.

The flavour would have shifted. Hot, briny, unmistakable. Less of her cunt now, more of her water. She hadn't drunk much. It would be sharp.

She gave him a little more, the press of him as he searched it out sending electric tingles down her body.

He kept licking. His nose brushed her. His jaw stayed soft.

She reached down and rested a hand lightly on the back of his head.

Not a grip. Just contact.

"You'll take more next time," she said.

He nodded against her, mouth still moving.

She let him carry on for a while longer.

~~~~~~~~

That night Helen lay stretched on the rug, back flat, her head tipped slightly to one side. The room was warm. Her body wasn't.

Her mind kept circling back. Over and over. To the way he'd looked at her. The way his hands had trembled. The feel of his mouth on her.

It wasn't pretend. None of it. No half-measures, no doubt. He wanted this. Needed it as much as she did. Maybe more.

The memory of it made something tighten in her chest. A strange kind of warmth. Not soft, not gentle, something sharper. Sharper and truer.

She'd given him the smallest offering, really. Just a taste. A chance to carry her on him, breathe her in, take her into his mouth. And he had. He hadn't flinched. Hadn't pushed it away. He'd taken it.

Her fingers traced absently across her abdomen. It was tight.

Everything from the ribcage down felt gripped, hollowed, wound around some invisible coil that wouldn't release. Her bladder was swollen, visibly so, if she looked. She didn't. She knew.

She'd been holding since their encounter. Tea, two bottles of water. A bowl of soup for dinner. The slow build of pressure, hour by hour, until it filled her entire pelvis and sat hard behind her pubic bone, dense and unforgiving.

Her clit ached in tandem. Not separately. Not a different kind of ache. It was from the same source. Pressure and need.

She pressed her thighs together once. A shiver ran up her spine.

She was wet already. Her body didn't need coaxing. It just wanted permission.

She pulled her knickers to one side and slid two fingers down. Barely touched herself. Just traced along the edge, the skin so taut and sensitive that even the lightest contact felt enormous.

Her bladder throbbed at the motion. It wanted release too. But she refused it.

The contrast was maddening.

The rhythm she found was slow, circular. No pressure, no insistence. Just sensation. The stretch of her skin. The slick heat. The way her muscles tightened down in response, in anticipation.

Every circle brought her closer. Every circle pushed her to the edge of something unbearable.

The urge to let go was constant. Pressing, pushing.

She clenched her pelvic floor hard. That helped keep it in.

But the climax was close now, and she didn't trust herself.

Her body didn't know the difference between one kind of surrender and another. It was built for flood.

She hissed through her teeth. Stopped. Waited. Let the need dip just below the peak. Then started again.

She rolled her hips, hand steady, the pressure building sharp and wild in her throat.

When the orgasm came, it was small but complete. A spasm that curled her toes and snapped her inner thigh muscles tight, as if they were trying to crush the full ache inside her. She didn't cry out. Just breathed hard, fast, through clenched teeth.

And then leaped up and ran. No time to catch her breath.

She stumbled, skidded slightly on the rug, half-sprinted to the bathroom with her hand jammed between her legs. Just seconds now.

She tore her knickers down the moment she cleared the door and dropped backwards onto the toilet seat with no grace or care.

The piss hit the water like a burst pipe.

Her whole body slumped forward with the force of it. She exhaled in long, steady shudders. Her thighs were trembling. The sound went on and on. Too long. It felt impossible that she could have held so much.

When it finally stopped, her abdomen felt hollow. Her limbs were loose. A strange euphoria settled in her chest, like she'd cried, or run too far.

She laughed once. A breathy thing. Almost surprised.

Her hand was still damp from her orgasm. She sucked on her fingers and sat there for another minute, bare-bottomed, light-headed, perfectly empty.

It had to happen, she thought. Properly. Fully. No halfway version this time. No careful limits. She needed it. He needed it. This was where it had always been heading.

~~~~~~~~

The office was thinning out by late afternoon. Just the quiet hum of monitors and the soft shuffle of someone filing papers down the corridor.

Helen lingered by Gareth's desk under the usual pretence of checking a report in her hand. Her thumb traced the paper's edge, but she wasn't reading it. Her eyes drifted toward him, watching the way his hands moved, how tightly he held his posture even now.

She let the silence stretch a little longer. Then, in a voice low enough that no one else would catch it, she asked, "You're... alright with how things are?"

His head lifted, eyes flicking quickly to hers. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, his fingers tapping once against the spacebar.

"Yeah," he said eventually. "Yeah... I am." But the hesitation was written plainly across his face.

Helen tilted her head. "Hm." She waited. Held him in that space.

He swallowed, shifted in his chair. "It's just... I don't know." His hand rubbed the back of his neck. "It's... it's good. I just... I keep thinking..." His voice faltered, then dropped lower, barely above a whisper. "I want... more."

The words sat between them, heavy, as though even saying them had cost something.

Helen's mouth curved, not quite a smile, but something thoughtful. "More," she echoed, as though testing how the word felt in her own mouth.

Gareth nodded. He didn't look at her directly now, gaze fixed somewhere just past her shoulder.

She let a pause stretch. Then she said, "I know a place."

That caught him. His head turned, eyes sharp again.

"Out near the woods," Helen continued, her tone steady but softer now. "Private. Quiet. Natural. Somewhere special. We wouldn't be interrupted." She shrugged, casual on the surface, but the meaning ran deeper, thicker. "Sunday, maybe."

Gareth's breath caught. His fingers gripped the desk edge just slightly. "Yeah," he said. A short breath, then firmer. "Yes. I... I'd like that."

"Alright," Helen said. Her voice was light but edged with certainty. "Sunday, then."

She turned, walked back toward her desk, leaving him sitting there, staring down at his hands, his chest rising tight and quick.

~~~~~~~~

The woods were just far enough from town. Close enough to walk in boots. Still damp from the week's rain, but quiet. No paths. Just moss, mulch, and low gnarled branches curling close.

She picked the spot carefully. A slight slope, shielded by ferns and low evergreens. Soft grass, leaves flattened with the heel of her boot.

He was already there, waiting. Coat off. Nervous, but only a little.

She didn't undress. Just lifted her skirt, slipped off her knickers, folded them neatly and tucked them in her bag. She'd held herself through a lazy breakfast and the slow walk out here. Her bladder was full. Just heavy enough to pull at her thoughts.

Gareth lay down without needing to be told. He knew what this was now.

He looked up at her, his back to the forest floor, the collar of his shirt half-tucked behind his neck. The air misted faintly with his breath.

She straddled him, knees sinking into the soft earth either side of his ribs. Skirt lifted, thighs bare, the cold air curling under her.

She didn't squat yet. Just held her position, looking down at him.

"Before I do this," she said, "you need to tell me something."

He blinked. Waiting.

"Do you want this," she asked, "as more than a secret?"

He breathed in slowly.

"Do you want this as a way of life?"

He nodded.

But she didn't move.

"I need to hear you say it."

"I do," he said. His voice didn't waver. "I want this. I want you like this."

Her mouth twitched. Almost a smile. But softer.

"And as a couple?" she said.

"Yes."

"Even if it never looks normal?"

He swallowed. "Especially then."

She held his gaze a moment longer. Then lowered herself slightly. Not into a full squat. Just enough to bring herself close.

Her thighs framed his chest, skin warm and close. She reached between her legs, parted herself with two fingers, and let go.

The stream began with a rush: hot, forceful, immediate. It struck just below his collarbone first, hitting his shirt with a sharp splatter that spread in an instant, soaking through cotton straight to skin.

Gareth gasped. His hands clenched into fists against the grass, but he didn't move.

Helen adjusted her hips slightly, shifted her weight. The stream followed, lifting higher, splashing across the hollow of his neck, then his jaw.

Then, finally, it hit his face.

He didn't flinch. Didn't shut his eyes. He took it.

The stream splashed hard across his cheekbones, his nose, his forehead. It streaked through his hair, poured down into his ears, rolled in sheets down the sides of his neck. Warm, fast and relentless. Droplets broke away and splattered against his lips, against the curve of his chin.

And then, without thinking, or maybe because he'd been thinking of nothing else, he opened his mouth.

Not wide. Not dramatic. Just enough. Enough to catch what she was giving him. His tongue flicked out instinctively, tasting, catching the spray as it passed. A tremor ran through his chest as the heat filled his mouth. Salty, bitter, laden with her.

He swallowed. Not all of it, but enough. Enough to make the act real.

His chest rose and fell in sharp, fast breaths, but he didn't pull away. He didn't move at all. He just lay beneath her, letting it come. Letting her pour herself over him, into him.

It kept coming. Her thighs trembled with the force of it as she held nothing back. The stream broke and shifted as her hips rolled, arcing across his face, his hair, down his chest, soaking into every line of him.

She gave him everything. Every drop. Held nothing back.

And he took it.

Her scent rose with the warmth. Her relief spread across his body like steam, dripping into the earth beneath them. The sound of it, the hiss and splash, filled the small clearing.

When she emptied herself fully, she stayed like that, letting the last few drops fall onto his ribs.

Then she stood, adjusted her skirt. Looked down at him.

Her eyes were wet.

She didn't speak.

She reached down, brushed the wet fringe from his forehead, and kissed him there, tasting herself on him:

"Now it's ours."