The Bathroom

POSTAL DESPERATION

(Note: male desperation)

(C)2001-8 The Bathroom

Some years back, in the college holidays, I helped out delivering post for the Post Office, which was quite well paid. We loaded up at the sorting office early in the morning, then took the bags of mail round on our bicycles. There were strict rules: you didn't accept drink or food, you didn't go into peoples' houses (especially don't ask to use their lavatories). 

One year was very cold, with ice and snow that made deliveries very difficult. I kept returning to the PO to recharge my delivery bag and take some of the hot coffee they dispensed to holiday work students such as myself. I had been out four hours, had consumed a lot of coffee during my visits to the van. Unfortunately, while the van could dispense great quantities of coffee, it did not provide a way of getting rid of it, which I now badly wanted to do. 

On my fourth visit to the van I asked what time we would be allowed back to the sorting office so I could eat my sandwiches (and more importantly, to have the leak I desperately needed). But there was still a huge amount of mail that had to be delivered first..... The delivery man told me I would have to hold myself. By this time, I was bursting to piss, but with the large housing estate, relief was not possible. I began to look for discreet places that I could use. Almost everywhere was overlooked by windows going up five storeys. 

Twice on the pretext of looking through my bag, I was able to open my trousers just enough to expose my penis, and let out against a wall. On both occasions people suddenly appeared and I had to stop, cruelly cutting off the flow. Although I made puddles, I could not let out enough water to reduce my need, and the pressure of urine was now so great that I was experiencing sharp pains in my lower belly. Also, there were more people coming back from shopping, so I was no longer able to take private leaks. The pain was now becoming unbearable, so bad, I nearly doubled up. 

A woman came round the corner as I was preparing for her delivery. As I gave her the mail she asked me what was wrong. I blurted out my need. She invited me inside. Her lavatory was upstairs and I was too much pain to climb the stairs. She hurried in to the kitchen for a plastic bowl. My hands were so cold, I couldn't undo my zip. She opened my trousers and let them fall to the ground, pulled out my organ, and pointed it at the bowl. As she did so we both caught sight of my belly, swollen past my navel and out to the side of my hips. She gasped with sympathy and amazement. I immediately began to let out with such force that I thought the bowl would split. I couldn't believe how much water I was holding. I had to stop while she emptied the bowl and bring it back, and I refilled it again, almost to the brim. 

"Ohh," she said, "How much that must have hurt you! How you must have waited to go!" 
She asked how we part-time  delivery people could relieve ourselves in such situations. I told her that sometimes we had to control our bladders for seven or eight hours if there was not a public toilet we could use. She gasped again, saying that it must be torture for us, having our bladders stretched like that for so long, without the possibility of even the slight relief. I told her that particular estate, being large, took a long time to complete, and there was no way we could ease ourselves without being observed.
 
"Ooooo" she said. "How you must ache to let it all out!" I told her on one occasion I had been forced to keep it in for nine hours without a break. My bladder had nearly split under the pressure. I had not been able to urinate once in that time, and I didn't wet myself, though I was nearly fainting with the pressure. She was nearly overcome with excitement and emotion. When I finished I sat for a time by her fire, thawing out. I asked her not to let on that day I used her lavatory. My bladder continued to ache for the rest of the day. She invited me to use her facilities again should it arise. It did!
