The 18-seater coach pulled off the motorway and headed towards Newmarket Racecourse. It was a late afternoon/early summer evening and the Friday traffic was busy. The small group of staff from Manning Property Estates were getting ready for their evening at the races and having finished their working day earlier than usual, they had met up in the pub near their office before setting out on the hired coach.
Three seats from the back, 24-year old Ashley was sitting in near silence, cursing the fact that heâ€™d not had a soft drink in the pub because the pint of cool lager which had proved so refreshing on the hot afternoon had been making its presence felt for the past hour. The early twinges in his bladder had got progressively worse and the jolting reminders had become so frequent that scarcely a minute passed without a distress signal being emitted.
Dressed in his mid-grey, tight-fitting fashion suit, Ashley was desperately trying to sit still, willing himself not to make his condition obvious to his colleagues. He was also furiously admonishing himself for not asking for a stop when they were on the motorway. They had passed a couple of service stations and the ribbing that he would have received would have soon faded into a distant memory, compared to the anguish he was now experiencing.
They had around 10 miles still to travel and every 100 metres produced its own panic-inducing moment for him. He couldnâ€™t ask for a stop now, not now that they were so close to their destination. Ten miles was hardly a marathon except that his bloated bladder needed to be at that finishing line sooner rather than later â€“ much, much sooner.
The excited chatter and peals of laughter from his colleagues were all around him but Ashley was starting to jig his leg back and forth. He just couldnâ€™t help himself. The discomfort was such that sitting motionless was becoming impossible. Not just that, but he was getting a numb feeling in his buttocks where he had been sitting awkwardly, unable to relax properly.
As the coach passed a road sign showing â€œRacecourse â€“ 6 milesâ€, Ashleyâ€™s heart was thumping. This was going to be a close call. He was absolutely bursting and frantically wanted to clutch himself through the crotch of his suit trousers. Such action would, of course, have been out of the question in such circumstances but he feared that he would find himself with no choice if they didnâ€™t arrive soon.
With two miles to go, panic had turned to agony. As ridiculous and unacceptable as it was, he was actually beginning to wonder if he was going to be able to hold on. He couldnâ€™t ever remember being in a situation where he genuinely didnâ€™t know if he was going to make it in time.
The road sign in front of them said, â€œNewmarket â€“ Welcome to the home of Racingâ€. Ashley lifted his backside slightly from the seat and wedged both of his hands under his aching buttocks. Sitting on his hands he began to gently scissor his legs back and forth. The ache in his tummy was now a tight bloatedness all around his midriff and every jolt of the coach sent a mini spasm through the pit of his belly.
The groan from several of his colleagues echoed through Ashleyâ€™s ringing ears and he strained his neck muscles to see what had caused their consternation. He hardly needed to look as a voice blurted out,
â€œOh look at this sodding queue to get in the car park!â€
The queuing cars and coaches reduced every vehicle down to a speed of scarcely more than 7-8mph as the snail-like procession edged its way towards to the sprawling grassy car-parks. They were so near that the racecourse itself was in full view, but so far away as to know that this last leg of the journey would be a frustrating and slow one.
In his seat, Ashley was in a blind panic. Having extracted his hands from beneath him, his sweaty palms were now tenderly massaging his swollen bladder whilst he was gyrating himself on the seat, shifting himself back and forth and willing the pain to go away. Although moving at a crawl, the coach was not being forced to brake or stop and that was just adding to his anguish. If they had ground to a halt he could have overcome his embarrassment and demanded to be let off, even though there was nowhere obvious to relieve himself. But as the traffic moved steadily and slowly, stopping was just not an option without causing a major jam.
The final few hundred yards were simply tortuous. Ashley had never been in so much discomfort. He was using all his will-power and muscle power to contain himself, absolutely terrified that he would disgrace himself and as the yellow-jacketed steward pointed the driver in the direction of the coach park, Ashley was unable to swallow as his throat almost clammed up with the acute panic that he was about to humiliate himself.
As the driver opened the door, with the coach now stationary, there was a bit of a scramble to get down the small aisle and off the bus into the bright summer sunshine. Standing in the aisle and literally metres from salvation, Ashley felt an extraordinary calmness sweeping over him. Heâ€™d made it!
He knew he still had to get into the racecourse but the sheer fact that he was no longer trapped and was unable to walk, and out in the open, reduced his panic to miniscule proportions. His heart was still thumping but this time in grateful thanks. He really had made it okay!
As they all gathered next to the coach and started to collect their admission tickets from Luke, Ashleyâ€™s bladder was still absolutely screaming for relief but he could almost walk on the spot un-noticed as the milling and jostling continued. The release of his tension was so palpably absurd that he almost wanted to grin at the ridiculous situation he had been in.
â€œFirst thing I want is the beer tentâ€ announced Dave
â€œI think I want the loo before anything elseâ€ said Georgina
â€œMe tooâ€ added Tina
Ashley couldnâ€™t resist it, â€œAnd meâ€ he whispered
Tina turned and looked him, â€œI hope thereâ€™s not a queue to get inâ€ she replied quietly.
â€œI knowâ€ Ashley said â€œIâ€™ll seriously wet my pants if there is!â€
Tina giggled and Ashley gave a grimaced grin. He could hardly believe heâ€™d said that but the sense of relief he was feeling at that moment after such a terrible ordeal overcame all else in those all-too-short few moments.
With their tickets handed out the group headed towards to the main entrance. As they walked, Ashleyâ€™s bladder decided that the frivolity of the last few minutes was to be cut short and with every step, the crisis began to re-introduce itself. Each time he put one foot in front of the other, a stabbing pain shot like a bolt of lightning through his groin and his bladder felt like a baseball in his stomach. If every step was agony, it was being matched by his panic as the walking movement felt as if his muscles were starting to relax.
Ashley wanted to try and run the last 50 metres but that was impossible â€“ and not just physically. The queue at the turnstiles was short enough not to be really noticeable but for someone so utterly and unbelievably desperate for the toilet, it was a dagger to the heart. As they joined the short line of waiting punters, the sudden necessity to stand still was almost fatal for Ashley. His pain was such that he wanted to bend forwards to ease the agony. His bladder felt on the verge of giving out and he knew that he just simply had to hold himself to prevent the most awful thing happening to him. He plunged his hand into his trouser pocket and without caring whether it was discreet or not, he clasped his d*ck through his underpants. Two or three squeezes seemed to avert immediate catastrophe but as he approached the turnstiles, his eyes were darting from side to side to see where he could run to once inside.
As he pushed through the turnstile, the effort of doing so caused a knife-like discomfort that told him in no uncertain terms that his body was close to ending this torture, whether Ashley liked it or not.
Once inside, the group were re-gathering but all Ashley heard was â€¦ â€œâ€¦outside the betting office at 6.00pmâ€¦â€ and with that, he launched himself away from his colleagues. He felt as if he was staggering slightly and he had no idea where he was going but as he saw a racecourse official steward slightly to his left, he blurted out,
â€œThe toilets, mate. Where are the toilets?â€
The steward gestured with his arm, â€œJust around that corner.â€
Ashley stumbled on, half-walking and half-running as best as his body would allow. He got to the end of the building he was facing and turned left, as instructed by the steward.
If the Devil had been conducting proceedings with an objective of destroying a manâ€™s salvation and crushing his dignity on the spot with one foul swoop, then this was this occasion. Ashley almost stopped in his tracks as he was confronted by a Gents and Ladies toilet block â€“ each with a queue of dozens waiting to get inside.
The queue for the Ladies was long and stretched back to almost where Ashley was standing. The Gents was fronted by more of a mass than a single-line queue and so it was impossible to assess how many were waiting.
Ashley lurched forwards and found himself right behind a group of about six blokes, obviously mates, who were standing in a little crowd, chatting away and with a couple of them drinking from beer bottles. They had no reason to take notice of someone joining the rear of them until Ashley gave them good reason to,
â€œI donâ€™t know what Iâ€™m going to do!â€ he said loudly.
Three of them turned round and looked at him,
â€œWhatâ€™s up, mate?â€
â€œWhat can I do? Where can I go?â€ Ashleyâ€™s voice was again loud and panicky.
Before anyone could respond again, Ashley astonishingly began to do the only thing he could to cope with his predicament. Completely averse to the acutely shocked reaction of others, he started to bob up and down on the spot, lifting one foot and then the other, whilst crossing his legs tightly and pressing his thighs together. As if that was not embarrassing enough, he plunged his right hand to his crotch and gripped himself tightly, blatantly squeezing and clutching the material of his grey trousers. Within seconds his jigging on the spot increased to a near-dancing motion and he found himself grabbing and clutching his crotch with both of his hands.
Each one of the group in front of him had turned to look at the spectacle, glancing at one another in amazement as Ashley started to mutter to himself â€“ inaudible comments which sounded like an anguished groan.
â€œYou can jump ahead of us mate, but youâ€™re not going to get to the front,â€
â€œHeâ€™s not going to make it in time, is he?â€
â€œI think heâ€™s pissing himself!â€
One of the group called out, â€œHurry up in front, weâ€™ve got someone going in his pants back here!â€
The comment caused a few more heads to turn and a few muffled words were exchanged,
â€œI know, thereâ€™s a guy literally wetting himself behind us.â€
â€œI think itâ€™s too late, it looks like heâ€™s doing it in his trousers!â€
If Ashley had been slightly more in control of himself and aware of his situation, he would have noticed that the crowds in front of him was starting to part like the Red Sea. Some of the movement was caused by others shifting their positions to try and see what was happening but others were stepping aside to let someone through, based on the comments that had been flying around.
Ashley never moved the position of his feet at all, remaining where he was stood as his frantic jigging around began to ease and he began to bend at the waist, leaning forwards with his head bowed and extracting one hand from his groin area and placing his palm flat on his thigh as his legs bent as though his knees were buckling. He was almost motionless in his upper body as he adopted a classic posture of someone sitting on an invisible chair.
All Ashley could feel was the stabbing belly-ache intensifying momentarily and then starting to ease with a strange and tingling sensation all around his waist and tummy region. There was an incredible warmth all around his balls and his upper leg muscles, which had been taut and painful were suddenly engulfed by heat and sticky wetness as he felt a surge of scorching hot urine fill the seat of his pants and force its way up the crack of his backside.
That initial burning sensation was quickly overwhelmed by the torrential flow streaming all down his legs. Jetting through his underpants and quite literally pouring down both the front and back of his thighs, the flow reached his knees and began to trickle down his shins whilst dribbling all down the backs of his calves until the rivers reached his socks.
â€œBloody Hell, heâ€™s actually pissed himself!â€
â€œJeez, look at that all running down his legs!â€
One of the guys looked forwards and in apparent response to a comment from someone further forward, he simply said,
â€œHeâ€™s wet his pants, mate!â€
Ashley still hadnâ€™t moved. His black pointed-toe shoes were fixed to the floor with his feet about 12 inches apart and almost parallel. The urine was continuing to run from out of the bottom of both legs of his trousers, running down his black socks and forming a series of small puddles on the concrete path, thin wraiths of steam drifting up from his feet as the pools merged into one large glimmering puddle.
The queue for the Gents had dissolved into a crowd trying to get a look at what had happened whilst the adjacent queue for the Ladies had remained pretty much intact although seemingly every head was turned to witness the incident, with several of the females covering their faces with their hands in horror.
Bizarrely, Ashley was still holding himself with one very wet and sticky hand as the trickles diminished to a few wayward drips and dribbles and he was gradually straightening himself up again as a hand was placed on his shoulder and a steward said to him,
â€œAre you okay, sir?â€
Ashley didnâ€™t answer and the steward had no other words to offer either and there was an awkward silence of about 30 seconds before Ashley started to move, walking slowly and uncomfortably away from the area and heading towards the perimeter fence of the racecourse. As he walked, with his legs apart and his wet socks squelching inside his shoes, he had no idea where he was going or what he was doing.
He reached the fence and leant against it, breathing heavily and still in a daze. He looked down at himself. His grey suit trousers were sodden and dark right down to both of his knees with further wet streaks down as far as his ankles. He couldnâ€™t see the back of his trousers but he could feel his soaking wet pants clinging coldly to his backside and the clammy stickiness all down the backs of his thighs. His shoes were radiating a warmth although with every step he could feel the cold dampness inside them.
After a minute or so, he walked to the exit gates, watched by numerous on-lookers who were open-mouthed in surprise at what they were seeing and there was absolutely no doubt about what had happened. As he got to the gates, a steward opened the exit for him, saying nothing as Ashley walked through.
Five minutes later, still walking uncomfortably with his legs astride like a little schoolboy whoâ€™s had an accident, he approached the coach where Brian the driver was stretched outside on a chair reading his newspaper. He turned, somewhat startled as Ashley appeared next to him,
â€œWhat are you doing back here, mate â€¦ Oh Bloody Hell, mate, you havenâ€™t have you? Whatâ€™s happened?â€
Ashley was almost relieved to say something to someone, â€œI wet myself, I was queuing for the toilets. I couldnâ€™t help it.â€
When Brian recovered his composure he said, â€œWell, weâ€™re stuck here for the next three hours, mate. I donâ€™t know what youâ€™re going to do. Iâ€™d suggest you get those wet things off though, thereâ€™s a blanket in the hold if you want it for now. Sorry mate, I donâ€™t know what else to suggest.â€
Ten minutes later, Brian was on his mobile phone speaking to Luke, who had organised the trip. As he was talking he was glancing back along the side of the coach where Ashley was sitting on the steps of the bus. He still had his white shirt on with a light blue blanket wrapped around his waist and he was sitting in his short black socks. His suit trousers were draped over the back of a small folding chair and hanging from the door handle of the coach were a pair of white CK cotton boxer briefs with a black waistband. Ashley was sitting staring down deep in thought, holding one of his shoes on his lap, fiddling with the laces and looking at the bright crimson inner of the fashion shoe, stained dark in patches with wetness.