tagBDSMOn Display: At the Fair

On Display: At the Fair


I'm standing in line to use the porta-potty at the fair and I realize that I'm probably not going to make it. I'm going to pee in my pants right here in front of 50 other people. They're all going to see me. And I'm nearly having an orgasm waiting for it to happen.

We like to play games. He tells me what to do, I do it and report back. He knows that I can't push myself far enough. I need him to make me do all the nasty things I dream about but can't force myself to do. What kind of woman makes sets herself up to pee in front of strangers? Not me - he makes me do it.

Standing there, waiting in line, I'm still a little hopeful. I've picked a line right in the middle. There are four lines on one side of me, five lines on the other. I've got six people in front of me, and the woman inside is taking way too long. I'm cramping and shivering I have to go so badly.

The first time was online. We were chatting away, me naked sitting in my chair, a clothes pin on each nipple, Saturday morning with the blinds open and people driving by on the street outside, me thinking that it's probably too dark in here for them to see me like this.

I typed that I had to use the bathroom and I'd be right back. "No," he typed back as I was up and half way across the room to the bathroom.

That stopped me. I sat back down. "Sir? May I please use the rest room?" "No."

He went on to type something about his job, while I sat wondering what this latest adventure was going to bring. Had I mentioned to him about being controlled, even this basic human function? Probably in one of our late night chats I had confided about my fantasy to have every action controlled. He already controlled when (if) I had an orgasm, and where, and how. Rubbing my pussy against the door handle at the office late at night. The mouse at my desk at work during lunch hour, praying no one was still in their cube. Sweeping the garage with the large push broom, the end of the stick handle in my cunt. Things like that.

The woman's done in the porta-potty finally, and we move a step closer. It's not quite dusk on a Saturday afternoon at the county fair, and the day's beer has finally gotten to people. Looking around, I see men and women, some of the men checking me out, getting stares and whispers from some of the women. I'm wearing a tight pair of white pants that the white thong shows pretty clearly through. I also have a tight white t-shirt, and a black bra. Entirely appropriate - people wear clothes like this all the time, right? Maybe at the clubs, but certainly not at the fair on a Saturday night when the band is a has-been country act going on in a few hours. No, everyone else is wearing cowboy boots, hats, jeans. I'm in sandals and this mildly slutty outfit.

Not to mention the medium-heavy chain tight around my pants that I'm using as a belt. Or the combination lock in front, locking the ends together. I don't think they can see the piece of paper with the combination on it - it's in the thong pressed against my cunt. If I get to the porta-potty in time, I'll be able to wiggle my fingers down there, hopefully, and fish it out in time to undo the combination lock, pull down my pants and thong and pee. If, that is, it's not too dark in the porta- potty. He plans things well. If I can't see to read the numbers, I'm in the same place as if I don't get there in time - walking all the way back through the fair, through the parking lot, with wet smelly pants for everyone to see.

Sitting at the computer that day, I ended up begging and pleading for him to let me go. He was so happy - he knew that he had yet another part of me he got to control. Eventually, I went. That day I got to just crawl to the toilet and go. The next time I almost lost it when he told me to go sit on the toilet and wait for the instant message chime before I went. I sat there crying, straining to hear the sound. Do you know how hard it is to hold it when you're sitting right there, right where you've always gone, but have to hold it? But oh, the satisfaction of following his orders when I started gushing less than a second after hearing the sound. He had complete control over me.

Another person leaves, and I move up one. Lots of young men around me now, trying hard to be subtle and check out my thong panty lines. I love the attention and I'm dying to pee - what a delicious combination.

If I don't make it soon, I know I'm going to lose it. I've never done this before - be so obvious. At least he's set it up so it can look like an accident. Good thing they didn't see me chugging the 2-liter bottle of diet coke an hour ago in the car, or the two extra large-lemonades I've had since then, all at his order. Hardly an accident.

He had me buy the chain and the lock two weeks ago. I had to transfer the combination to a small piece of paper and he specifically told me not to memorize it. It didn't help that it has been so long ago now. Besides, I've never been great with numbers. I wonder how long it will take me to fish the paper out of my tight pants while standing in the porta-potty, and how long it'll take me to dial the combination to unlock the lock. It would be horrible to make it all that way and still lose it.

This is exactly what I want, the element of surprise. Had he told me to go and just pee in front of people, lose control and let it go at the fair, I couldn't have done it. Well, actually, if he had ordered it, I probably would have. This has so much more flair though. Will I make it? Will the women in front of me take a long time, or a little? There is an element of chance to this, which makes it even more wonderful.

I love it when he takes complete control of me this way. On some Fridays, we'll instant message from work, and I'll have to ask his permission to go to the ladies room. Sometimes he'll make me go every fifteen minutes, prompting some interesting looks from the others (though it's pretty quiet on Fridays). Other times I'm practically in tears begging him to let me go. One Friday afternoon, when most everyone had already left (but still a few of my co-workers were around), I traded my bra for permission to pee - the only problem being that I was wearing a pretty thin white blouse, and it was very obvious that I wasn't wearing a bra... I walked around with my arms folded across my breasts, hoping no one would notice.

Even though I'm almost there, I can't help it anymore. It no longer matters that there are now only three people in front of me, or that there are men and women all around me. I know I have to let go. Just a little, I thought, and out it came. Only once it started, there was no shutting it off.

My pee quickly soaked my thin thong and pants, turning them a pale yellow right there in front of everyone. Then, saturated, the fabric no longer could keep up with the flow, and it actually squirted out a little before landing on the pant leg and staining that.

"Look, she's peeing her pants," someone whispered, and everyone turned and looked at me. It was no longer erotic, this little game we played, and I covered my face with my hands as I stood there, rooted in place, while I emptied my overstuffed bladder. My pants were completely soaked, all the way down to my sandals on one leg where it had at first squirted, then eventually gushed down my leg. I couldn't move, and around me I heard everything from concern to scorn and laughter.

Finally, it was all out. I looked up, beet red, at the faces around me, then started walking quickly back to the car. The tiny piece of paper with the combination on it was soaked too, and probably can't be read anyway, at this point. I hustled back to my car, enduring the stares of people, hearing things like, "Looks like someone had a little accident," and "Did you see that - she peed her pants!"

I finally made it back to my car. By then, the embarrassment was at an all-time high for me, and I marveled at how much he knew me. He knew I needed this right now. Sometimes I crave pain, sometimes I need to tie myself securely with a very dull knife stationed in a far corner of the house or - better - back yard where I would have to lay, hogtied, slowly sawing away at the ropes. This day I needed to be put in my place, to be pointed at, laughed at, scorned, all for him.

Driving home I sat on a blanket in the car, rubbing myself fiercely through the soaked pants, the clothes pin that he had had me bring along attached to my tongue, forcing it out of my mouth for the whole drive, drawing a few looks at stop lights. It's not every day you see a pretty woman in a car, rubbing her crotch, a dazed look in her eyes, with a clothes pin attached to her tongue, sipping water from a convenience store's extra-large drink. I wasn't allowed to cum until I peed yet again, were his orders.

Back home in the driveway, running from the car to the house so the neighbors wouldn't see. The large drink finished, and having to pee already again. To the desk drawer where a copy of the combination was, then out into the back yard in the fading dusk, still light enough - barely - to read the numbers as I undid the combination lock and slowly stripped off my still-wet pants, thong, and the bra and t-shirt.

Down on all fours, crawling like a good slut to the back fence, the water ready to come out, the clothes pin on my tongue. I lay on my back, the scooted up against the fence, my head and shoulders supporting my weight with my bare ass up over my head, my cunt right in front of my face. I started to masturbate, slowly at first then frantically as I felt the orgasm - and the need to pee again - build. Finally, in a rush, just like he ordered, I let the pee loose again, it splashing, hot, all over my boobs and face, a little getting into my mouth, past the clothes pin on my tongue, as my fingers flicked my clit and I came, a slut in her backyard, another assignment well done.

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