Chapter Nineteen: THE RUGBY CLUB DINNER- PART TWO
Pauline Goes Through Hell
Her boyfriend’s rugby club annual dinner was not an event that Pauline could get excited about, but she had some sort of duty to Jerry to attend. At least this year Tamzin would be there as well, and her enthusiasm for the dinner, which she though would give her the chance to see some of the men desperate for a pee, inspired Pauline to try something as well.
Though she wasn’t particularly interested in seeing desperate men, she decided to use the dinner to take her own bladder to the absolute limit and break her own, and the school record of 3 minute 32 seconds for the longest pee.
Along with many of the All Day Girls, she was convinced that you had to put yourself into a situation where it was impossible to pee to force your bladder to its limit. Besides, a formal dinner was an excuse for both girls to buy a new evening dress. Tamzin chose a close fitting amber dress that she had to wear a thong under to avoid showing any knicker line, and Pauline, determined that she was going to take herself to a new level of desperation, bought a blue dress, which with no under-skirts just gave glimpses of the outline of her knickers, deliberately choosing a colour and material that would show the slightest leak of pee.
Meeting in the bar before the dinner, Tamzin set the pace of drinking, knowing that she was trying to force the men to drink more than their bladders could hold, confident that she could outwait any of the others. This was going to be a formal dinner, when it would be almost unthinkable to leave the table for any reason before the dinner ended. Particularly, anyone leaving for a pee would be considered a weakling and their life made unbearable by the other members. Sensibly they all went to the loo before going into the dining room, but in the ladies, Pauline only washed her hands and brushed her hair.
“I’m not having a pee this time,” she said, “I went before we left Elmdene, and that’s all I am allowing myself until the dinner is over.”
“You’re crazy, you’ve drunk three pints since then!” replied Tamzin. “I was thinking I would be struggling, even with a pee now, so you really will be trying the impossible.”
“I’m going to do it,” said Pauline resolutely. “This might be the most desperate point of my life, but once I sit down out there I don’t have any choice but to wait, even if it nearly kills me.”
After Tamzin had checked her hair and make-up they joined their boy-friends, who had also been for a pee, in the dining room. She was following two smartly dressed women in their mid thirties, wives of some club officials, who had been in the ladies just before her, and she overheard one say to her friend:
“Now the agony starts.”
“Don’t talk about it,” her companion replied, “I nearly died last year, the way those speeches went on and on, I was almost in tears at the end.”
“I’ve hardly drunk anything since last night,” said the first, “just to try and make enough room to hold all the evening’s drinks. I just hope I can manage. At least we are sitting near the door, so we should make it before there is a queue.”
As she sat down Pauline was thinking that she had just drunk three pints of beer all of which she was going to have to contain, and that there was still more beer, wine, water, and coffee to come before she could pee again. She tried to put aside the thought that she might have to contain four pints of pee before she was in the loo again, because she didn’t think her body could possibly hold that much. She wished she had never heard those women talking about wanting to pee, because she had a horrible feeling that she was just beginning to feel the slightest urge to pee. She told herself firmly that she could not possible want to go yet, and that in any case it was not going to be a big deal for an All Day Girl to hold her pee for less than two hours.
Half an hour later, when the main course was still being served, Pauline was less sure of herself. She had never dreamed that the service would be so slow, and she was uncomfortably aware that she already had a lot of pee in her bladder. She didn’t actually want to pee yet, or so she told herself; it was only imagination, seeing other people drinking a lot and knowing what effect that usually had. She tried very hard to ignore that she had probably drunk as much as anyone, and was the only one brave (or stupid) enough not to have been to the loo before the dinner. To prove that she really did not want to pee, she deliberately sat with her legs apart as she tried to work up some interest in the sorry looking roast turkey on her plate.
She drank some more beer to try to make the food more palatable, and was horrified to find that without paying attention she had drunk most of another pint. She quickly pushed the glass aside; from now on she would stick to wine, that didn’t make you want to pee like beer did, and then she wished she had not thought about pee, because suddenly she definitely did want to go. Sitting with her legs apart had been a stupid mistake, it had been too suggestive of having a pee, and crossing her legs now would not make the urge go away. Only by making a real effort and clenching her bladder shut could she make it go away, and as soon as she relaxed it was back again.
Before she had finished her main course she was wanting to go much more badly, bursting, approaching desperate was how she rated it when telling the All Day Girls afterwards, but at the time it was frightening because she was getting worse almost by the minute. This was the time when the beer she had drunk was going through her the fastest, and the thought of how much she had drunk, and that it was all going to end up in her bladder, was not something she wanted to contemplate. Neither the food nor the conversation was sufficiently exciting to divert her from the increasing problem she was having with her bladder, and because she could not stop worrying about how badly she was going to want to go, time was passing so slowly. Thinking that if she drank wine only, it would not make her want to pee any more, she decided that getting drunk would be the best way of reducing the misery she had let herself in for.
Draining her glass, she held it out to Jerry to refill; enough alcohol and it would deaden the pain when her bladder started hurting, which would not be long at the rate it was filling. By the time the last course of the dinner was being served Pauline had her legs crossed like she had never done before, twisted together a whole turn, and she was discretely squirming about, trying to get them even tighter. She was desperate to pee, and she had to do something to ease the awful pressure that was building in her bladder, and leg crossing was her only option. The high-heel shoes she was wearing were strapped on, so sitting on her heel was impossible, and she was cursing herself for being so stupid as not to have thought of that.
She finished another glass of wine in the vain hope that being drunk would both ease the misery of her bursting bladder and make time pass more quickly, trying to ignore the nagging thought that cold white wine was not the best thing to drink (except that it was better than beer), and that some would be reaching her bladder before much longer. She had her legs crossed so tightly that after a few minutes it was hurting, and she was getting cramp in her foot, so she had to uncross and cross them the other way, which she could almost convince herself made her want to go a tiny bit less. It she could keep doing this, maybe she would be OK, except that by the time she came to change position again she wanted to go a lot more badly, and re-crossing her legs, however hard she tried to twist them together, didn’t make her that much better. The next time she did this, she was pushing herself back in the chair, almost starting to stand up, she was crossing her legs so hard. She told herself that the dinner would be over in five minutes, and she had to be able to last out that long.
Formal dinners now usually had a short break between the dinner and the speeches, something she had previously considered wimpish, as sop to those with weak bladders, and she was ashamed she was now hoping this would happen, but she was so desperate for a loo that she could hardly face trying to hold out another five minutes. The next time she crossed her legs the other way she almost let go in the split second they were not crossed, and she was curling up her toes with the effort she had to make to hold her pee.
“Please, please let there be a break next,” she whispered silently to herself, trying not think what would happen if there wasn’t.
Looking round the table, hoping for any diversion to pass the time, Pauline was disappointed to see that Tamzin did not seem to be suffering the desperation she was, but that she was almost smiling with delight about something. Then the tense looks on Jerry’s, and more so, Duncan’s face, told her what. Tamzin caught her eye with a questioning look, silently asking how she was managing. Her reply, biting her lip and touching her ear, indicated that she was desperate, her bladder absolutely full to bursting point, and it was no comfort to see Tamzin’s signalled reply that she was only bursting, perhaps three-quarters full. Even such a simple thing as this exchange of signals was almost too much for Pauline, who needed to concentrate every second the keep her bladder under control, and for a dreadful moment she thought she was going to lose control, instinctively jamming her hand between her legs, blocking off her pee, about a millimetre from her knickers, or so it felt. Once she had started to hold herself, it felt so good she did not want to let go, so she resorted to the old trick of resting her other arm across her lap to hide what she was doing.
The dinner was nearly over, but she would have to stand and toast the Queen before the break let her go to the loo, and she would need to be fully in control of her bladder to risk standing, even if she kept her legs crossed as much as she could. There was some confusion clearing one of the other tables before toasting the Queen, which several people found funny, but Pauline just cursed the waitress under her breath. So close to a pee, any delay was critical. She had convinced herself there was going to be a pee break, even though this was against tradition, because she so desperately wanted to go that she could not contemplate having to wait any longer.
Standing up for the toast was an extra strain on her overfilled bladder, a preview of the effort it would take to walk to the ladies, but she summoned some reserves of bladder control and clenched herself shut, knocking her knees together with the effort she was making. As she sat down, immediately crossing her legs and holding her crutch to ease the strain on her bladder, tensing herself for the rush to the ladies, watching as the M/C stood to announce a short break then gasping with despair as instead he introduced the club Chairman as the first speaker. It couldn’t happen like this! There had to be a break first, even though it was against tradition. Her bladder was approaching crisis level, she could hardly last another five minutes, let alone the twenty five that the speeches would take. For a few short, mad moments, she considered simply getting up and walking out, admitting she had to pee right then, her bladder almost out of control and about to burst.
Then, twisting her legs tighter, and pressing her fingers harder into her crutch, she somehow found the resolve to sit still, to wait until the speeches ended the same as everyone else. Maybe she was three pints ahead of them, but she was an All Day Girl, the group founder and leader, and this was what being an All Day Girl was all about; pushing your bladder capacity to the very limit, showing that you could wait longer than ordinary people, holding more pee than seemed possible. Having accepted the situation, and found the resolve to cope with it, she now had to find the strength to back up her resolve, to get herself under some semblance of control, reduce the terrible urgency of her need to something more bearable. “If you had to, you could always find the strength to hold out a bit longer.” This had always been a basic All Day Girl belief, and only Geraldine, overdosed on diuretics, had failed this (All Day Girls; Ch. 12.).
Pressing even harder between her legs, she made what she had always thought of as a great holding back effort, tensing all her muscles from her fingers right down to her toes, but most of all, those vital internal muscles that kept her bladder under control. Eyes closed, she concentrated every ounce of her strength on holding her pee, and just hung on, and hung on, and hung on… until she felt she could not keep up the tension another second and had to relax, at least slightly. She was sweating with the effort, but, thank goodness, she had managed to get some more control over her distended bladder. She was still desperate, but at least she felt capable of holding back her pee for a few more minutes. Pauline tried very hard to forget the finals of the Champion Bladder competitions, when she had twice lost control and leaked past her fingers, telling herself that then it hadn’t mattered so much, while here it was unthinkable that she should wet herself. She had meant to use the dinner to push herself to new limits of desperation and holding, and it was doing that with a vengeance.
Hardly aware of what was happening around her, Pauline was suddenly shocked to find that the first speech was ending, and, oh horrors, she would have to stand up to drink a toast to the club. Somehow she was going to have to find some extra strength to control herself standing up, and do it without making it obvious that she was nearly pissing herself. Once again she tensed every muscle to help her hold her pee. A supreme effort, she told herself; she could do it if she really tried. Her toes were curled up, her knees knocking together, thigh and bum muscles clenched tight, fists clenched, gritting her teeth, she had to hold her pee somehow. She had to relax her right hand enough to pick up her wine glass without it shaking, nor grip it so hard she might break to stem. She drained her glass, hoping that the wine would somehow ease her need enough to make it bearable a bit longer, then, thank God, she had held out, her knickers were still dry and she could sit down and start the struggle to get herself under control again. She had done it once, so she could do it again, she told herself, one more great bladder clenching, crutch holding, effort to hold her pee. She did not want to think that there was five minutes worth more pee in her bladder. She just had to make it stretch to hold that, it had to, there wasn’t any other option for her.
The next speech seemed to go on for ever, though in the state she was in, Pauline was hardly aware of time, conscious only of the agony of her distended bladder, which was hurting worse than she had ever known. But even this was partly a blessing, because the increased pain had come with some lessening of the frantic urgency to pee she had been feeling. At least for the moment she felt in control of her bladder, no longer right on the brink of peeing her knickers, having to keep herself clenched shut with all her strength to hold in her pee. Pain was easier to endure, another glass of wine helped, but her greatest fear was that her bladder pressure would become so great that she would not be able to hold her pee, and publicly wet her knickers.
The end of the speech meant standing for another toast, and making another frantic effort to hold her pee without a hand between her legs. This time she came so close to losing control that as she sat down and jammed her hands between her legs she half expected to feel her knickers already wet, but somehow she had stopped herself right on the brink. Now Pauline was more desperate than she had ever been in her life, fighting with all her might to avoid wetting her knickers. She was pressing between her legs with both hands, her fingers bunched so she could get the maximum pressure right on her little wee hole, crushing her flesh hard against her pelvic bone. Nothing, absolutely nothing, she told herself, could possible leak out so long as she could keep up the pressure. She was doing her best to cover what she was doing by sitting as close to the table as possible and covering her lap with the table cloth, but she had to hold herself, whether anyone could see or not. Her bladder was agony, it felt as if it was swollen out about six inches and she was about to split open. She was thankful she was not wearing a tight fitting dress like Tamzin’s, but even so she could see there was a pronounced bulge in her bladder region.
Without moving either hand from her crutch (she dare not risk that), she could just feel it with her thumbs. It was rock hard, and even the gentlest touch was painful, an indication, not that she needed one, of the enormous pressure in her bladder. Trying to press harder, trying to clench her bladder muscles tighter shut, she prayed the speeches would soon end, and that she could hang on until they did. She simply had to hold on, if she didn’t her knickers would not absorb more than a couple of drops of pee, and her blue dress would show, oh so clearly, the slightest dampness. She pictured herself having to walk about for the rest of the evening with wet patches at the back and front of her skirt, showing everyone that she had wet herself. It was unthinkable, she absolutely had to hold out; she tried to press her fingers even harder against her outlet, so even if her bladder muscles gave way no pee would leak into her knickers. Then another frantic, frantic time standing for yet another toast. How she held back her pee she would never know, she didn’t think it was possible to come so close to wetting her knickers and not let any pee go.
Sitting again, all she could think about was holding her pee, the world beyond her agonised bladder hardly existed for her any more, and she was only vaguely aware that the M/C was announcing the final speech.
“Please be quick! Please, please make it short,” she was silently pleading.
She was going through hell, this wasn’t fun any more, she was at her limit, she could not possibly hold any more pee. Her bladder was agony, on the point of exploding, swollen so much it was making her look pregnant, and now her urge to pee was so intense, the pressure so great, that she was having to clench herself shut with all her strength all the time, as well as holding her crutch so hard she was shaking. She had never had to make so much effort to hold her pee back, and she could not keep it up for long. Even the short final speech seemed to last for ever, and by the time the last toast was announced she felt she had been clenching her bladder shut for so long that she was almost exhausted, almost at the point of giving way and just wetting herself where she sat, because she just could not stand having to make the effort to hold her pee any longer.
For Pauline the final toast again meant every ounce of her strength was needed to hold in her pee, but tiring muscles and more pee to hold brought her even closer to wetting herself, and her left hand, instead of gripping her thigh, had to be pressed against her abdomen to give her the strength to hold out. She wasn’t quite holding her crutch, but she was close enough to doing so to give her bladder some extra help, enough to hold on. She drained her glass, again. It would help deaden the pain in her stomach, because she was going to have a serious bladder ache for the rest of the evening. Then, nothing mattered except getting to the ladies before she either wet herself or died of an exploded bladder. Walking made her want to go even more than standing, and it took every ounce of her strength, every muscle in her body clenched tight, to hold in her pee. She would have run if she had been able to, but she could hardly manage to hobble along, legs stiff and pressed together, the only way she could keep her pee in. Not surprisingly there was congestion at the door leading to the loos, when even Pauline’s frantic walk was slowed, and she started to panic. She was hanging on to her bladder with all her strength, just, only just, in control, but the pressure and the urgency, had been getting worse and she did not have any reserves of strength left to contain it. She was on the brink of wetting herself, she simply could not hold on to her pee much longer.
In a last despairing gesture she pressed her hand between her legs as she walked, hoping that in the crowd it would not be noticed, but really not caring, because she would rather be seen holding her crutch than wetting her knickers. With her fingers jammed between her legs she could walk more quickly, but still close to a complete breakdown she made a final dash for the ladies, suddenly fearful that she might have to queue before she could pee. Pushing a couple of dithering women aside (her need had to be greater than theirs), she was in the ladies, where, as she had dreaded, all the cubicles were occupied. Four quick strides, which nearly killed her, because her bladder was hurting so much that every jolt, even her careful walk, was agony, and she was at the front of one line, next to pee, so close at last. An added blessing, she had the wall to lean on, and facing the loo door, both hands jammed hard between her legs, which she had almost tied in a knot, it was just about the best position she could be in, considering the circumstances.
“Oh please hurry,” she called to the woman inside. “Please be quick, I’ve simply got to pee, I can’t wait any longer, it’s an emergency.”
Through her haze of desperation, Pauline was aware that she was in a dreadfully embarrassing position for any woman, and it was worse for an All Day Girl. Tamzin was going to be giving the other girls a full report on this, but at least they would know just how much pee she was holding. To the rugby club women she was just a silly young girl who had drunk too much and was making a fool of herself . These thoughts were cut off by the cubicle door opening, and she was pushing past the woman, manners forgotten in her panic now she could actually see the loo she so desperately needed. She was so frantic to pee, now the loo was in sight, she had to keep one hand holding back her pee while she bolted the door, and then struggled to gather her evening dress up round her waist with one hand, only taking her other hand away from her crutch for a split second as she pulled her skirt up at the front, immediately holding herself again, her fingers now pressing directly on her knickers. In a complete panic, knowing she was going to wet her knickers any second, Pauline was trying to hold her skirt up round her waist with her elbows, press with all her might against her wee-hole with her right hand, while trying to pull down her knickers and tights with her left hand.
“I dare not let go now,” she was telling herself, “if I take my hand away, even for a microsecond, I’ll wet myself. I’ve come so far, I must make it to the end now without giving way.”
Her tights pulled halfway down her bum, she changed to her left hand inside her knickers, pressing directly on her wee-hole, then dragged a tangle of knickers and tights far enough down her legs that she could drop onto the loo and, at long last, pull her hand away and release her pent up pee. As she let go, she had just enough composure left to remember that she should time this pee, it had to be a record, the way her bladder felt, and the incredible pressure of her initial release.
“Oh, thank goodness!” she breathed as she relaxed her aching bladder muscles and let her pee pour out. Then, “Oh the pressure!” She would have never have believed she was capable of peeing with such force, she had always been a steady stream girl, even when absolutely desperate. She forced herself to concentrate on her watch, and it was nearly thirty seconds before her pressure began to drop to something more like her normal stream. Even after such a torrent, her bladder area was still more swollen than she had ever seen it, and she hardly wanted to pee any less. Now she was just peeing, peeing, peeing, like she always did, a long steady stream that she thought would go on for ever. Two minutes, someone was banging on the loo door, begging her to hurry, but she was still bursting. Three minutes, still going strong, she checked to make sure she had not skipped a minute, then, as the second hand ticked round to the fourth minute, her pee began to slow down, finally stopping at three minutes thirty five seconds.
Her bladder was still aching, and she was sure that if she stayed on the loo she would be able to force more spurts of pee out for another half a minute and break the magic four minute mark, but there was a desperate woman banging on the door. Taking pity on her, after all she had kept her waiting long enough already, she quickly wiped herself and hastily pulled up her knickers, smoothed her tights, and let her skirt drop. She took a long time washing her hands and combing her hair, still very agitated after the strain she had been under, and, back with Jerry, gratefully sipped the large liqueur he gave her, hoping it would both calm her down and ease the pain in her bladder area, which was hurting so much she wondered if she had done some serious damage waiting so long. She would have been quite happy to have sat and relaxed, talking with her friends, but Tamzin, having just publicly dumped Duncan (at last) was clearly intent on getting a replacement, any replacement it seemed, right away. If not drunk, she was well on the way, and was throwing herself at any unattached man she could see, and really, thought Pauline, behaving quite disgracefully.
For Pauline, faced with making polite conversation with Duncan and Jerry, it was a miserable ending to what should have been a triumphant evening for her, so she decided to stop trying to be sociable and leave right away. She paused only long enough to tell Tamzin she was leaving, then, as a parting shot, dared her not to pee again until she went to bed, where-ever that was. She got a taxi almost immediately, and was back at Elmdene within half an hour, by which time she was bursting for another pee, an almost desperate situation with her bladder muscles still weakened from holding so long at the dinner. Pauline was in the first loo she could find, and while this pee was nowhere near her record, it was a wonderful relief to be able to sit there as long as she wanted to, squeezing every drop of pee out.
Then, a late coffee with Louise, because she had to talk to someone, and describe all the superlatives of the evening, the tremendous pressure, the time of her pee, the size and pain of her swollen bladder. Never completely reconciled to not being champion bladder of Elmdene, Pauline was convinced that her pee after the dinner was a school, if not a world, record, both for duration and volume. If only there had been some way of measuring it, surely it had been at least two litres, and if there hadn’t been such a queue she could have gone on longer, more than four minutes. The onus would now be on Erica to reply with something better, and, if she really wanted to prove herself a worthy champion, to show that she could hold two litres.