Wetting Ch. 05

Story Info
She wets in vignettes.
1.3k words
4.41
37.6k
8

Part 5 of the 5 part series

Updated 10/03/2022
Created 03/07/2005
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Yellow Brick Road

"Come on!" Rosie urged urgently. "Follow me. And watch my back!"

I watched her back eagerly, curious what she would do in this somewhat populated area. We were in an old-timey district with narrow streets lined closely with buildings on either side, the streets themselves made of bricks or cobblestones, but I paid little mind to our surroundings as I was indeed watching Rosie's back, or, more properly, her backside. She was dressed in bright green overalls with her mid-length hair bobbing over the straps, loose and shiny golden in the sunlight, darker in the shade which frequently obscured us both but didn't deter me from carefully eying Rosie's green bottom, looking for any darkening there, and down her verdant pantlegs for a change in color bleeding through. I was anticipating most hopefully signs that there was more in those trousers than just blithe Rosie – sensible, since she'd promised me more that morning when the two of us had set out from our house to go picnicking – and I was determined to watch her back carefully, to pick out the very beginnings of her delivery and not miss a second of the fulfillment of her promise.

I watched my Rosie so carefully that I almost lost my footing over uneven bricks in the road. It occured to me that nothing would happen until we reached the privacy of the picnic site, but with Rosie you never knew. Sometimes she would let loose in shopping malls, in parking lots, and during band practice in the basement, signalling me by instant message. She had gone while walking up the stairs outside the house and sitting on a towel in her car, and had passed me her underwear as proof that the sweet girl had done it during a flight we were both on. I felt something tighten under my belt as I reflected on where and how that woman could go, sometimes even catching -me- off-guard.

Rosie smiled guilelessly over one shoulder at me and then skipped a little as she ran ahead and took a quick right. I didn't speed up, letting her have her fun, but when I rounded the corner I was still in time to catch her standing stock still, gazing up at the windows of the buildings above her and shamelessly wetting her pants, darkening the green of her overalls and sending it gleaming down both legs of her wide-spread stance. My eyes ate up the sight of the wetness creeping down towards the street, shiny and sexy, growing and widening and finally streaming out the now-greener cuffs and onto the bricks on which she stood. That lovely liquid ran quickly, filling the gaps between the bricks and with dirt floating on top. The streams ran to meet each other in a pool in the depression over which my dearest Rosie had chosen to stand. Orchestrated? You couldn't be sure.

I just stared, slowly moving to see her closer. She, meanwhile, must have decided that it was enough, because she stretched her arms slowly over her head, and as she lowered them she started walking again, pants dripping a bit, away from that puddle of hers. I tore myself away as well, without too much difficulty, since my mission was more to follow those wet pants, and the girl, -my- girl, in them. As we both walked, the shine went out of them and the dark triangle seemed even darker when it did. And I swear to you, all the way to the picnic site, Rosie -wiggled- as she walked, bounced and wriggled in a self-satisfied way, right up to the point where we spread out our sky-blue tarp and sat down for more than just sandwiches. And they and she were delicious.

*

Wet Blanket

"I'm willing. Are you?" she asked. "You've been saying you wanted to wrap me up in that pink blanket since forever. Don't you want to see the stain spread through it?"

I did. I did want to do just that, to fold the blanket around her, like a partial cocoon, like a... No, not that, I wasn't into that. But for her to let out that hot fluid into that blanket, and to see it come out the bottom. Something about it was intriguing, delicious, somehow embarrassing yet still hot. She'd been getting clothes wet for me for months, and ever since I mentioned wanting to put her in a blanket and have her pee for me, she hadn't been able to let the idea go, wanting to know if it was like a diaper, wanting to know when I wanted to do it, after I'd assured her it was -not- like a diaper. Because it wasn't like a diaper, was it? And was that why I'd been putting it off, because maybe it was?

"Okay, yes, I want to see it. Do you know where the blanket is?"

She helped me spread the folded blanket out on the bed and climbed on it, ready to be folded into it. She smiled and told me she was ready three times as I asked her, while folding the pink blanket around my pink girlfriend. I sat back and watched for any sign of wetting, staring and waiting and waiting...

"Are you ready to start?" I asked again, at length. And, "Start? I'm finished," she answered.

Oh, no. There was nothing to see. As I unfolded her, I found wetness, but I didn't get to see it happen, didn't get to see it move through the material. Still, what do you expect to get out of a wet blanket?

*

The Leaky Cauldron

It was almost Halloween, and props abounded. There was a cute and dapper ghostly gauze-on-frame haunting the bushes. By the door was a frog who croaked when you passed him and in the front window was a cardboard ghoul. My girlfriend was a funny-seductive witch with tall hat, great pot o' frogs' eyes and newts' breath, and a skimpy little dress which made her red clown's nose (worn on her nose, not cooking with the frogs' eye) a bit jarring. I, for reasons of convenience, was an unspecified eighties rockstar with torn jeans and a long, black wig. Decorating for the holidays was fun, but it only became memorable when I walked out of the bathroom and in on a scene with my witch and her props.

To be fair, there was only the one bathroom. And to be more fair, I had been in there for a long time, plunging a clog that was more stubborn than most. I had finally gotten it to yield and had opened the door, when a fine stream met me, about to find its way under the door and into the room I'd just left.

I looked up and saw my witch-clown girlfriend looking as red as her nose. Her fake plastic cauldron had sprung a leak, it seemed, and when I pressed her, I got the whole tale:

"You were in there so long, and I tried to hold it, was sure I could hold it. Then I suddenly couldn't, and I looked around, and all I could find to go in was my cauldron. I felt so warm and full and urgently pressed, and there wasn't even time to take down my tights. I went in the cauldron, squatting over it, right through them. Oh, and I got the hem of my dress wet, too. I could have died when I realized, and that's when I noticed the cauldron was leaky."

I convinced her that she was wonderful and had done nothing bad, but rather something very good indeed. I convinced her at length and in bed. She was still wet under her tights and altogether desirable. That year, our Halloween was spectacular and spectral and sometimes sopping, thanks to that leaky cauldron.

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AnonymousAnonymousover 13 years ago
Flowing prose

You have a real talent for description and a very good vocabulary. Keep it up.

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READ MORE OF THIS SERIES

Wetting Ch. 04 Previous Part
Wetting Series Info

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