[This is one of my first few stories about the ‘discovery’ years of my fetish. It was originally at the Experience Project, which used to be a pretty special community for exploring topics as exciting and confusing as somewhat taboo fetishes. It was the first place I felt safe enough to put my pee (and beyond) fetish memories and feelings into words … and then to chat with others who share them. I’ll post my favourite few stories from there over the next few weeks.]
When I was about 13 and up I had a long bus ride home from school, 40 minutes on public transit, to almost the end of my route. No-one was going to be there to meet me most days.
I’d been playing a lot of wetting games at home for the better part a year by that age. Usually I would hold my bladder to the bursting point and then act out a scene of being caught desperate and having an accident, or being a small child again and peeing in my pants, diaper or bed. Then I would pleasure myself in my wetness in more mature ways. I’d accidentally and intensely linked the feeling of losing control of my bladder to the pleasure of surrender to having an orgasm in the fog of puberty, and loved everything about it: the way it felt, the helplessness, the exciting ‘forbiddenness’, the warmth, the way it looked when it happened.
I loved having such a daring secret, and especially liked to replay real accidents I’d had, or heard about, or seen. I would also play with what it had felt like to be an even littler me, who still wet all day long, anywhere and everywhere I happened to be.
It became part of my favourite game to pass the time on the bus. I’d sit in the back seat and observe all the passengers and people and places we passed by. The rule was that any time I got a clear look at something that made me think of wetting, I had to pee a little, right where I was sitting. I either had to give one good push, until I could feel my wetness — the wet spot would show and start to spread across the front of my school pants after two or three of these, always one of the most exciting moments in the game — or, more riskily, I’d set a number, like 3 or 5 or even 10, and have to relax my bladder muscles completely for that many counts at every sighting.
I might not pee at all during the count, or if I miscalculated I might start wetting my pants a whole lot, and even have to decide whether to cheat and stop. The risk and childishness of maybe being about to pee my pants on a public bus without any control always felt thrilling, but I would usually stay pretty dry with this version. Then as I got near home I would make up some excuse or extra rule that let me start wetting anyway before getting off the bus.
Realistically, the cue for me to ‘let go’ would almost always be diapers. There were always stores on the route with early Pampers in sight on a shelf. There were still lots of cloth diapers and plastic baby pants hanging on clotheslines in those days, and on hot days there might be babies whose diapers weren’t covered up. On garbage day there were boxes from used diapers with people’s trash. A few times there was a baby or small child on the bus who’d visibly leaked or had an accident. Once only, a year or so old boy got on with his dad in just a disposable diaper and a t-shirt, and he’d clearly pooped, you could see the shape of his mess right through the seat of his diaper. I don’t think I’d ever seen that before, and I decided it counted double.
Usually I would be able to savour the game over most of the route, and would end up slowly wetting in small amounts. When we got to my stop, my pants would pretty much always be wet enough to have to hold my backback in front of me to try to hide what I’d done. I was often but not always the last one on the bus. I couldn’t count on that for safety. There were times I let things go too far obeying the counting rule, or every store on the route seemed to have a special on Pampers, and the wet spot had spread up to my waist and was the size of a dinner plate. I loved making the wet spot and feeling and watching it grow.
The block and a half from my bus stop to my house was along a four-lane road. If no-one else was walking too nearby I might raise the stakes on that short walk home and let go for an extra long count. Or I’d push one short little spurt of pee in my pants as I passed each telephone pole, or as every car went by. Or — a special favourite, because the uncertainty and risk were so high — I’d relax my control for a minute at the bus stop until the pee was just about to flow, and then have to walk at a normal pace until I reached our hedge, or a certain parked car or street sign, committing to let anything that happened in that time happen, no matter what. It sometimes did, and it was incredibly exciting to take that chance.
If it didn’t, I would sometimes still find a last-ditch way to lose. I’d switch into one of my at-home role playing games — becoming a little boy again, hurrying home to get to the bathroom too late, and doing it all in my pants at the door. Or heading for the bathroom, wetting down my legs on the way. Or making it right in front of the toilet holding control and then having an accident while trying to get my pants down, something I’d read often happens in toilet training…