Trainer Panties

by Michelle

On Friday last I wore plastic covered towelling trainer panties under a long loose skirt. Not my normal wear, I like my skirts short, pants tight, briefs very brief. If I choose to wet then I want it to be obvious. Except on Friday I was genuinely accident prone and wasn’t so sure about the ‘choose’ bit.

Started with a presentation I had to give. Thursday nite was when I planned to work on it. What do you know, it was cancelled! So there I was, a free nite, and one of the girls in the office having a birthday celebration, out for a few drinks. I accepted the invite, offered to do the driving as I don’t use alcohol.

‘No thanks, Chelle,’ says Sue, the birthday girl, ‘we gotta get back too.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Well pet, you do seem to meet guys and, well, abandon the rest of us.’

Hmmph! So much for my reputation as the dedicated, hard working little researcher. I decide not to dress too tarty. Loose blue dress, mid thigh, long by today’s standards. A little low at the neckline, well, I may only be 34 inches up top, but I take a c-cup and can flash a cleavage if I choose. The advantage of the longer dress is I can wear stockings rather than tights, and I choose black fishnet hold-ups with lace tops. A lady always flashes a little decorous lace. Talking of which... I decide against the black lace g-string, when it comes to panties I prefer something I can sit on. Instead I choose nylon hi sided bikinis in a kinda sexy purple. Blue bow in my hair. Look in the mirror. Decide I look kinda tarty after all. Good.

The gin, or in my case club soda flows like, well, gin and club soda. Girls get a little loud and giggly. Guys gather round for a harmless flirt. All my colleagues are either married or going steady, which doesn’t mean they can’t flash a leg and flutter an eyelash. Being neither married nor going steady, I’m looking for something more.

Now, even today I know some folks don’t understand this, but there are girls like me who, because of careers, or maybe because they aren’t good at relationships, go in for one night stands. We’re not tarts or nymphomaniacs, just normal women with normal drives making out however we can. I haven’t been laid for weeks and a night’s nookie would be very acceptable. But only with someone I like, I’m not promiscuous. I do hope I meet someone I like.

Our eyes meet across the crowd. He’s quiet, not joining in the flirting, not handsome, but kinda cute. Small, about an inch taller than I am I guess, slim. I smile, pat the bench beside myself. He comes over. My friends exchange glances. They can think what they like.

We chat. His name is Paul. We are very polite, almost shy. Seating is tight, and thigh contact unavoidable. My hem rides up all by itself to show a hint of flesh above my lacy stocking top, a nipple kinda peeps from my cleavage. His foot touches mine, could be mistaken for an accident. My response couldn’t. We continue to talk politely, while, concealed by the table, our legs get to know each other. I want to kiss him, cuddle wildly on the bench, but I’m not a teenager any more and know how to act decorously in public. Last orders. My friends assume I won’t be going home with them. They’re dead right!

We walk to his auto. Nobody about. Quiet doorway. Our bodies meet explosively, tongues exploring in a long kiss. My nipples rub against his firm chest. I lift a leg and grind against him, his hand works its way up my thigh.

I feel a pressure, exciting, yet a little uncomfortable. I was so tied up in Paul I forgot to go to the john, and now with the sexual excitement, I’d dearly love to pee. Better not, might spoil everything. Kiss again. Mmmmm. Wriggle a little. Definitely reaching the full stage.

He disengages a little and looks me in the eye. His hand is on my firm little butt, under my dress but not yet inside my panties. I smile at him, but can’t stop wriggling.

‘Need to go?’ he asks.

‘Yes. Sorry.’

‘Don’t think there’s a ladies nearby. I’ll stand guard if you want to use the doorway.’

‘Anybody could come,’ I pout, not at all displeased at the turn events are taking. He seems more turned on than ever, certainly not put off.

‘Go in your panties if you want,’ he says.

‘Pardon?’

‘Some girls seem to like it. I think you already have a little, or are you just pleased to see me?’ I realise he’s right, sexual excitement has loosened my control, and I am slightly damp. Most guys would have taken it for the normal lubrication of an aroused woman - this one’s met wetting girls before!

Kiss me again,’ I say, ‘gently.’ Slowly, deliciously I relax, and let a warm spurt escape into his hand. He rubs the hot liquid into the seat of my panties.

‘My place,’ he says. I nod. Anywhere would do me, much more of this and we’ll be copulating on the sidewalk. We walk arm in arm to his auto. On the way I stop and do a little pee carefully down one fishnet clad leg. He is all but bursting thru the front of his pants. Good, and I got most of a bladderful to go yet.

His auto is a four by four, very utilitarian, plastic seats, no carpets. He drives back to his place while I make a little puddle on the floor. He lifts me down, fingering my wet patch. I push him away and wiggle my soaked bum in front of him as we walk to his front door. I skip quickly over the carpeted area, trying not to drip, and find a large kitchen, vinyl floor, nice sturdy chair for me to sit on his knee. I make an anticipatory puddle, this time weeing down my other leg, waiting for him to grab me, take me as I soak myself...

‘Michelle,’ he says, ‘you’ve been a very naughty girl.’

‘Not yet. Intend to be.’

‘Not yet!’ He lifts my skirt. ‘Look at you. Messed the pavement, my car, my kitchen!’ I silently translate pavement and car. Wish the Brits would speak English! Then I see where he’s coming from. OK, not quite my scene, but I’ll play along.

‘I don’t like pain,’ I say seriously.

‘This isn’t about pain, darling. Safety word is Chicago, but you won’t need it.’

I smile at him. He knows the score. Surprising how many men equate domination with violence.

‘Been a naughty girl,’ I admit.

‘I’ll have to change you. Now, be more careful.’ He strips me gently, wipes me with a damp towel, and dresses me in a pair of red panties and matching bra, the sort of tight, shiny, uncomfortable underwear that men buy for their partners at Christmas, and women never wear. The bra is a little tight, but it pushes my breasts together nicely. Kinda sexy. A spreader bar for my legs, soft cord for my hands, and I’m fastened to a metal ring fixed to the wall. Thought that was a little heavy to hold a dishcloth. No gag or blindfold, I note with relief. Then he cleans up the floor, goes puts my wet stuff in his home laundrette, and goes out to clean his auto. Odd, I’m being dominated, but he’s the one doing all the work. My bladder is kinda empty and I decide to wait until he’s washed and pressed my clothes before I do anything else. This guy’s domesticated!

‘Paul,’ I whine eventually.

‘Good girls speak when they’re spoken too.’

‘But I need to pee.’ By this time I do.

‘You’re learning to control yourself.’

‘Can’t. Need to pee. Don’t want to ruin my pretty panties.’

‘Just hold it.’

‘Can’t hold it.’ I squirm. ‘Detroit,’ I gasp, ‘Windsor.’

‘Wrong, Sweetie, and you know it.’

‘Oh God, can’t hold it!’ I pee carefully thru my panties, trying to get the maximum wet with the minimum pee. Not easy with a spreader bar.

‘You bad, dirty girl!’ He unties me and leads me to the chair, where I am put across his knee. The resultant spanking is eiderdown soft, which doesn’t stop me screaming, sobbing, struggling in his strong arms. The same arms carry me dripping into the bedroom, where I am flung on the bed. I do another wet - if he doesn’t have a mattress protector that’s his problem, then he is beside me, and our writhing bodies meet. I kneel astride him, pee thru my soaked panties on to his throbbing cock, then, gently, impale my still peeing pussy on to him. Woman on top ain’t the Dom thing though, and he rolls me over to complete the act in missionary. Our coupling is fierce, and I expect him to be quick, but he takes his time, bringing me to screaming climax three times before shooting his fecund seed into me. We stop. He withdraws. I purr with pleasure and empty my bladder. That was nice!

Luxuriating in the bath I listen to him washing sheets and changing the bed. I could get used to this submissive thing. Wonder what he’ll dress me in. Almost certainly he won’t want me naked. More panties perhaps. A diaper?

I am dressed in a lilac cotton baby-doll nightdress with matching panties. Will we make love again before sleeping? No. We both have work in the morning, it’s late, and anyway he gave me a super one. Quality beats quantity every time. I suck my thumb and am immediately dead to the world.

Wake up. Need a pee. Good. I wet very carefully, rubbing the pee into my panties and nightdress, channelling the stream on the bedsheet so it trickles against him. He stirs, groans, his cock begins to harden. I start to lick, first the glans, then down the shaft to his testicles. His body starts to move. I take him in my mouth, anticipating his first strong thrust, swallowing for full, deep throat fellatio, my warm pee dripping on the bed as I give him head. He thrusts fiercely and I match his rhythm, gushing into my sodden panties as I climax, feeling his warm semen gush into his mouth. It’s the Michelle alarm clock. Think I’ll patent it..

He looks resignedly at the soaked bed, sponges me down, and changes me, this time into glittery green underwear heavy with scratchy lace trim. Who makes this junk!? I open the curtain and gaze soulfully at the world outside. He drags me away, seats me in the kitchen, feeds me orange juice. I gulp the first glass gratefully, but contrive to make him spill most of the second down my cleavage. Now cereal. I eat half the bowl like a good girl, because I’m hungry then tip the rest into his lap. Then I stick out my tongue and pee on the floor. I like being a bad little girl.

I am bathed, and dressed in my own clothes. It’s over, and I’ve just got time to get home and change before work. We kiss gently outside my flat, and I wet just enough to make a visible damp spot on my sexy butt before wriggling away. We do not exchange phone numbers. His turn-on isn’t mine, and anyway, the red and green underwear must have an owner. Bye Paul, it was nice.

I change into working clothes. Looks like a hot day, so a nice cool, short cotton mindless is appropriate, with white cotton panties underneath so it doesn’t matter if they show thru. I get as far as the second flight of stairs before I realise I’m leaving a dripping trail behind myself. Goodness, I’ve had an accident! No, I recall, I haven’t. Felt the need one stair up and just went in my panties, quite deliberately. Well, I’d been doing it all the previous evening, and this morning, and I forgot I wasn’t supposed to any more.

I think......

Michelle