She Gave Up (the Story) (Patreon)

And here's that story I mentioned!

~~

She had a problem.  A big problem.  She rocked wildly in her chair with both of her hands buried between her tightly-clenched thighs.  Every motion she made caused the plastic seat to squeak against the metal frame, and this had clearly broadcast her predicament to all of her classmates.  She'd given up on attempting to listen to the lecture --- instead, her attention was solely fixed upon an increasingly arduous task: not peeing.

Were she back at Nitefield, she could have resolved this entire situation with ease --- provided the ladies’ rooms were functional at the time.  She'd have just had to leave the class for a moment.  Permission wasn't necessary; college-age adults were allowed to come and go as they pleased, though their grades might reflect this depending on the instructor.  And, indeed, here was no different.  The nearest bathroom, in fact, was right across the hall --- something she was relentlessly reminded of by the occasional flushing of a toilet.  Yet she remained seated.

At some point, the instructor had started his lesson.  She hadn't been paying enough attention to know when.  But his start was a good sign.  At least time was passing --- albeit very slowly.  This reassurance did very little to soothe her agony, though.  The guys around her shot glances her way --- sometimes with grins.  They were very aware of her problem.  And to them, it was a very self-inflicted one.  "Quit being so dramatic about this.  Quit torturing yourself," she could almost hear them say.

Oh how tempting was the thought of finally relenting...  But she would continue to hold her water. No matter how badly she needed to relieve herself.  She crossed one thigh over the other, though it did nothing to ease her suffering.

Nitefield had, in its boundless wisdom, made a very small error.  Her major required her to spend two semesters outside of the states as an exchange student.  She was happy to do this --- this was an academic excuse to explore some other country, and this aligned precisely with her interest in travel.  All was good --- except for that very tiny mistake on the part of her "home" university...

Nitefield had sent her to an all male school.  And she hadn't even known about it until the faculty here were apologizing profusely upon her arrival.  For two whole semesters, she would be surrounded by men.  Ok.  That would be... interesting.  And at least she got a private dorm room and her own bathroom for the trouble.  Sure, it might be a bit awkward, but she'd survive.

Sweat rolled down her forehead and traced her cheek on its way to her chin.  Tears rolled from her eyes.  At least that little bit of water would not be crammed into the over-filled pressure-vessel in her lower abdomen.  Fuck, did she need to pee.  She usually didn't feel this way until the end of the day.  But now, she still had two more classes to suffer through before she was free.   Tough luck, she supposed... she still wasn't going to use the bathroom.

The bathroom.   Another flush.  It was like cold water pouring down her spine.  Hold it.   The bathroom was her problem.  Seeing that this was an all male school, none of the bathrooms were labeled according to sex.  All of the bathrooms were freely available to all of the men --- and one woman, in this odd case...  And her classmates had told her as much on numerous occasions: she could use any of the bathrooms, they didn't care...

But she did.  And the reality was that every single bathroom was functionally a men's room. No girls allowed — except within the one she'd been allowed to use privately next to her dorm.  It was her one haven of privacy.  And it was there that she could pee.  No guy would be there to watch.

It got hot between her legs for a moment.  She couldn't tell if there had been a leak, and she was too dependent upon her balled-up position to check.  Maybe it had been a trick of her mind.  Or some weird sensation borne of her insidious desperation.  Class was nearly over, and this was very clearly the worst she'd ever needed to pee.

She'd gotten so good at holding it over the semester.  Not even once had she "caved" and used one of the men's rooms.  There were “close calls” — times where she could have sworn that a moment longer would have had her dribbling on the floor.  And the guys all around her would mockingly torment her in some misguided attempt to convince her to “suck it up” and just go to the bathroom.

Her knuckles whitened as she tugged at the beltline of her shorts.  Room.  She needed room.  Room for her bladder to expand.  As the instructor began the conclusion of his lesson, her feet tapped wildly on the floor, and she unbuttoned her shorts.  Already.  She normally hesitated to pop the button even at the end of the day — and she’d only resorted to it a couple times previously.  Now staring down two more unrelenting classes, she was downright terrified that she’d already resorted to this incredibly desperate maneuver.

Standing from her seat was indescribably torturous.  Seated, she was in agony.  Standing, she was in hell. Her bladder greedily devoured what little space she had provided it by undoing her shorts’ button.  Yet unsatisfied, it rewarded her with another flash of heat between her legs.  And this time, she was certain she had leaked.  Not a lot… She would not allow it.  But some.  It had been entirely involuntary — accompanying some muscular reflex, it just trickled out.

Her back remained arched and bent-forward at the hips as she delicately waddled from the classroom.  Two more classes.  Two long hours at the barest minimum.  And she’d already begun to leak.  

Another flush roared out of the bathroom invitingly.  So what if a few guys saw her?  She could imagine it… Pushing open the door, ignoring all the dudes, planting herself on one of the toilets, and draining her misery in a thick golden cascade against porcelain.  A heavy, hissing jet of urine that could last for over a minute…  Ecstasy.

Fantasy.  She settled gingerly into her seat in the next class.  Early as always.  Her hands flew to her crotch.  At this point, attending class was scarcely more than a formality — there was no question as to where her attention was focused.  But no amount of fierceness behind her dire need to urinate would cause her to skip class attendance; she could hold it, after all.  Dashing to her far-off toilet and walking in late — all in the name of comfort — was anathema to her very being. Hold it. Hold it.  HOLD it.

Again, the squeaking of her rocking and the greedy untying and re-tying of her legs into tight knots drew the eyes of all the men around her and — she could have sworn — even an eye-roll from the instructor.  So be it.  Let them all see how the one girl in the entire college could be the most dedicated person there!... At least, that was the delusion she could use to distract herself from recognizing the obvious “show” she was putting on for her classmates.  It didn’t help that one of the hottest ones, in her mind, was seated to her left and getting an eyeful.

Any of those social anxieties melted away as a particularly gruesome wave crashed against her strained exit.  She held her breath, her face twisted in agony, and she squeezed her crotch hard between rock-solid thighs.  A drop of sweat traced the valley of her spine down to the elastic band of her panties as she remained locked in her position.  Her eyes blurred behind a veil of fresh tears.  A wave with twice the fury of the first followed soon after.

Forty-five minutes remained of this class.  She clenched everything, from her teeth to muscles she didn’t know the name of.  Her bladder commanded her to pee.  And in a half-second of exhaustion, her body acquiesced — while her brain exploded with protests. HOLD it.  A beam of water that felt like molten, liquid metal roared against the gusset of her panties for the entire duration.  She felt it in her fingers — Vibration.  Heat.  Wetness.  The latter she did not feel until after the beam had ceased…

She dared not to imagine that this was her limit.  No.  With another entire class to follow this one, it couldn’t be.  There must have been something she had allowed with that last leak; any other explanation would not allow her to persist.  She didn’t need to pee.  She wanted to pee.  And she’d allowed her willpower to fail in the face of the severity of that want.  That was all.

The desire to deflate the watermelon in her abdomen was simply greater today…  There was a very obvious reason for this: unlike all of the days before, she did not relieve herself after lunch.  Yes, she might have “tempted fate” with a tall can of tea… But usually, she’d be able to contain it as well as another whole water bottle until the end of the day — albeit with extreme discomfort.  And the two bottles of water she had finished during her first two classes usually made for an incredibly satisfying pee.

Today, however, she’d been completely denied that satisfying pee.  In fact, she had crushed her lunch’s can of tea and tossed it into the trash bag hanging off of the cleaning cart that blocked her bathroom’s door.  The custodian inside was scrubbing away at the only toilet she could use.  He must have heard the sound, because he had waved to her — entirely unaware of the hell he had consigned her to.

Two bottles of water.  One tall can of tea.  At least two trips to the water fountain.  All said and done, it couldn’t have been much over a couple of liters.  Packed into one girl’s bladder for several hours, though, it might as well have been an ocean.

Twenty-five more minutes of this class.  The guys had returned their attention to the instructor as she continued the vicious, seated dance with which she hoped to woo Fate into giving her a more desirable outcome.  Fate rejected her advances with another searing leak.

Fifteen more minutes.  The crotch of her pants was wet.  It’d have been visible had the hands jammed between her thighs not covered up the failures of her endurance.  Don’t pee, don’t pee, don’t pee, don’t pee…

T-ten minutes.  Nine.  Squirt — for a full second.  Eight.  Seven.  Dribble — for a second and a half.

She could feel the dampness spreading under her butt.  She was actively crying now — and the guys around her had taken notice.  Six…

It was… impossible.  She hadn’t let any of it out.  The piss had simply been forced out by the laws of physics.  Her bladder, agonizingly stretched to its absolute maximum capacity — could contain nothing more.  It felt as if every minute or two, her kidneys would send another sprinkle of fresh urine down to her tortured bladder — and the new would simply push out the old.

Five more minutes.  Her resolve was broken; after this class, she’d need to go back to her dorm room.  She’d hang her purse behind her back to hopefully cover up the wet patch spreading from her crotch to the seat of her pants.  Her hands would obscure the front.

Four more minutes.  Another half-second vibration of pee hissed heavily against the wet fabric of her panties and shorts.

Three…  Two…  The instructor looked at his watch after answering a question from one of the other students.

One…

She was the first out of the room.  She was sure that she’d left a tiny puddle on her chair, but that humiliation meant nothing in the face of instinct: she needed to pee.  She needed to pee right now.  In fact, she needed to pee a while ago — now, she was slowly peeing her pants.

There was no time to make it back to her bathroom. She had to go here, or she’d be using her pants and the floor.  She stepped into the bathroom at the end of the hall and ignored the three guys who were already inside.  She’d already tugged her shorts and panties down by the time she was halfway across the room — her target was the last toilet at the end.  The “stalls” in this hellscape didn’t have doors.  Rather, they were separated by slim, doorless dividers. She threw herself onto that last toilet and her ass hadn’t even reached the seat before a roaring stream of piss exploded from between her legs.

She buried her face in her damp hands and sobbed as the hot piss that had tormented her for hours thundered against the porcelain.  She peed and peed, but did not even begin to feel the relief for the longest time.  

The guys had surrounded her, clearly drawn by the sound of the woman-turned-firehose.  She did not hear what they said — perhaps it had been some kind of teasing.  She simply continued to cry into her hands.

Yes, a portion of these tears were dedicated to her all-consuming mortification; her still full-force gush had by now left her observers in silence.  But, truthfully, she was crying mostly because of how good it felt.