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Growing Up, Part Two
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
Growing Up by Zeta Part 2
The next significant episode was at a teenage party. Teenage
parties are pretty dumb I must admit, but at the time they
seemed cool enough - mainly I guess because just about
everything at that age is new, a revelation and is a 'learning
experience' and no matter how polished and sophisticated you
make yourself out to be, the girls all look at you in scornful
disbelief and think you're a real bozo, deadbeat nerd (or
whatever the fashion is in terms these days).
I had an even bigger handicap than my teenage peers - I had a
real babyface at a time when my friends were growing a manly
fuzz. Teenage girls thought even my friends were sort of 'pretty
basic', as for myself well I guess I didn't even register as a
one on the acceptability scale and consequently went by for
the most part, unnoticed. So I was all the more delighted,
bemused and ecstatic to find my teenage hearthrob Delwyn,
sitting on my knee at a far-out teenage party at the house of a
friend whose parents had gone away for the weekend and left
strict instructions that Bruce wasn't to have any of his rowdy
friends around in their absence.
Bruce was an honourable sort of guy. He didn't have any of his
rowdy friends around - only the laid-back, respectable genteel
ones. These were the ones having a party in that house right
now. We spent a time impressing each other and if there was any
time left over, we spent it jerking catatonically to the hip
music of the day. Ancient emnities were patched up, new friends
were made, we all felt pretty switched on and cool. I wandered
around beaming at friend and foe alike. After a while I couldn't
tell the difference because Bruce's parents were partial to
certain brand of whisky and I had just stunned the assembly by
casually tossing a snifter full of this amber fluid right back
down my throat and saying, 'Hmmmn, yeah, it's got a cool sort of
aftertaste.' Even the hardened ones were impressed.
Ten minutes later the music was right up loud again. The
multitude had forgotten my performance and were busily going
about their own concerns. For myself, I must confess I felt
quite strange. I had never felt quite this way before (and if I
only knew it, before the evening was out, I'd have been quite
pleased had I never felt this way again either), but that's
another story. The details escape me now, but somehow I found
myself sitting on a sofa in a dim corner with Delwyn on my
knee. I was in the seventh heaven. I found myself saying stupid
little meaningless things just to keep Delwyn talking to me,
just to keep her attention. Somewhat to my surprise, I found I
didn't have to work all that hard after a while. So when I
introduced a new topic, Delwyn gave every appearance of being
interested, fascinated, and hung on every word. Hey, perhaps I
wasn't such a bozo after all!
Well we talked. We covered all the conventional topics and a few
more besides. After a time I sensed she was becoming restless.
Delwyn explained that she needed to use the bathroom. Her words
struck a pang of terror into my heart. I knew enough about girls
to know how unstable they were. If she took off for the
bathroom, by the time she came out again she'd have forgotten me
and taken off in another direction. This was a loss that didn't
bear thinking about. I tried a delaying tactic. Just a moment
more. Delwyn humoured me for a little, then claimed her urgency
was becoming great. I had one hand inside her blouse and what I
discovered in there was so enticing I was loathe to release the
grasp of my other arm around her waist.
The next turn of events has remained etched vividly in my
memory, and as starkly clear as though it happened yesterday. I
felt Delwyn give a faint shudder and she stiffened momentarily,
then to my surprise and delight she leaned back against me,
nestling into my shoulder, her lips against my neck. Then I felt
a spreading warmth; Delwyn was wetting her panties and the
intimate wetness flowed on down between my own legs.
I was shocked. Delwyn tried to get up, but I still held her
against me - it was too late now anyhow. Her next move caught me
by surprise. She quickly took my hand away from her breast and
put it under her dress pressing my fingers against the front of
her knickers. I became very aroused (an understatement). I felt
my fingers slip under the leg of her panties and into that
glorious, enveloping moist warmth of her sex.
It suddenly dawned on me what I must do. Usually 'what I should
have done' occurs to me much later after a lot of agonising
reappraisal when of course it's then far too late. For once, I
was on time with this one. I turned my head towards Delwyn's,
and as my fingers slowly explored her feminine labyrinth, I
murmured, 'Do it on me again.'
Delwyn's breathing became quick and shallow, presently a warm
flood engulfed my hand, ran beneath her and spent its forbidden
wetness over my rigidly excited penis. I looked around me
desperately hoping no one would see our predicament. Everyone
was busy with their own affairs. Delwyn's face was flushed, her
eyes seemed unnaturally bright. I confided in a whisper that 'I
was going to come', more in quiet desperation than anything
else.
Delwyn didn't hesitate: she lifted the hem of her dress up a
little to help conceal what she was doing, then slipped her hand
down inside my trousers. She quickly found my cock - she could
hardly miss it, there wasn't room for much else in there. The
moment I felt her soft fingers caressing me, I erupted, out of
control, and while Delwyn's tongue explored my own, the slippery
spurts of my climax pulsed wetly through her nimble fingers.
You might think that signalled the end, but not quite. There was
a small footnote that showed Delwyn to me in a new light. She
signalled to a guy with some drinks on a tray - lemon cordial I
think it was. She took a liberal glass full, thanked the guy,
tripped carelessly as she rose from me and poured the contents
into my lap. This occasioned much hilarity and some heavy
ribbing about people who wet their pants. I joined in good
naturedly - after all, they wouldn't have believed the truth.
I caught Delwyn's eye, she had a mischievous look: 'Thanks,
Delwyn,' and added silently to myself, 'for being smart (and
caring enough to get me out of this gracefully).' A few other
people I know would have jumped at the chance for an
embarrassing display.
***
In early married life I was taking the family for a drive in the
country when I came upon a scene that has remained with me to
this day. Two girls emerged from bush bordering the road and
walked along the grass verge towards us. The car was travelling
moderately fast, but slow enough to catch a glimpse that
impressed itself indelibly on my memory before we flashed by.
The girls were dressed in jeans and tee shirts and each wore a
backpack. They had evidently been tramping through the bush. The
older one nearest to me was an attractive girl in her mid to
late teens with short brown hair - and a wide dark stain in her
crotch.
Automatically I glanced at her companion a couple of steps
behind her. They were both wet. My mind went into frenzied
overdrive. In the space of the few seconds in which they were
still visible, I had surveyed the whole story of their
afternoon. They had wet themselves. Was it deliberate? I was
fascinated. Were they caught out? If so, why didn't they just
squat in the bushes. Mostly the bushes are deserted. So it had
to be deliberate. I looked back at the older one in the front.
Our eyes met. It was only a brief glimpse but in that fleeting
moment, we knew each other. Her face carried a haughty look of
high defiance. Beneath it, a trace of uncertainty.
I saw it. I saw it all and I am sure she saw in my glance, the
recognition of a fellow-conspirator. I am astonished that such
intense communication was possible in such a short time. For
years afterwards I would bring this memory to the front of my
mind, recreate the scene, relive it again and again. I longed to
turn time back. To be able to stop, get out of the car, meet
that girl and ... well I don't know what I would do next. I just
knew I wanted to be with her. That little episode would flash
vividly into my mind at times of arousal. Maybe that poor girl
would be shocked at how many times her image accompanied an
excited, solitary climax.
Well, time moves on. Eventually, I had to acknowledge to myself
that the whole subject fascinated me, I was hooked. I became
skilful at deftly hinting and probing in conversation with girls
and women about their own experiences. I longed to know whether
they enjoyed wet fantasies, had incidents of wetting their
pants, beds or other experiences. I kept up this line of enquiry
for a long time but always cautiously and tentatively. I didn't
want to offend anyone. Little by little I pieced together some
fascinating discoveries. Mostly my guarded questions drew a
blank or sometimes, an embarrassed silence. Occasionally I was
rewarded. One memorable occasion at a party I must have been
pretty relaxed because I asked an attractive girl outright
whether she had ever wet her pants. I played the part of a
secret conspirator because I laughingly confessed to a few
shameful 'accidents' of my own. Because these comments were
offered quite casually and without expectation of a reply, I was
gratified when she laughingly acknowledged a similar
predicament.
She confessed that as a schoolgirl she must have 'had a weak
bladder' or something because as she put it, 'I often wet myself
a little when I sneezed.' I felt myself becoming stiff in shared
excitement. It was all flowing quite easily and naturally, now
the big question, 'Has an accident like that ever given you a
nice feeling, sort of sexy?'
She laughed, 'Yeah, sure.' Then realising what she had said,
coloured slightly and the flow of information dried up. Still it
left me with a nice warm feeling of having met a fellow
conspirator.
Sometime shortly after that I took to wetting my pants. I had a
couple of accidents which gave me the idea, after that, it
became deliberate. At that time I went through of a period of
excitement at discovering the erotic stimulation of wetting
myself into jeans that were ready for the wash. If my wife was
out, I'd slip into the laundry, retrieve the jeans and
underpants ready for washing and in a delirious moment of bliss
feel the warm spurting coming between my legs as I let go and
exulted in the forbidden pleasure of breaking some pretty well
entrenched social taboos.
But I'd never forgotten where all this had started - with girls.
Somehow girls had to be part of it. Watching a girl wet her
pants the way Jeanette had all those years ago would be the
ultimate. I was reminded of this forcibly one afternoon
returning from the beach. (We live not far from the sea). Some
of the beach users are pretty free and easy and occasionally
sunbathe nude. I came upon a discarded skirt and panties in the
bushes just yards from the beach. Evidently someone had changed
into swimwear then forgotten and left these behind. I checked,
thinking I might be able to find their (grateful?) owner, but
the beach was deserted.
Suddenly I knew what I wanted to do. I didn't have to think
about it. I gathered up the skirt, a rather heavy garment in
shades of dark green with many folds but of a material which was
soft to touch and slippery, a polyester of some sort. The
panties were plain bikini cut in a pale cream colour. I sought
out a private place I knew, concealed in dense scrub but opening
into a little sunlit glade. This magic spot was a favourite
which would figure many times in later stories or fantasies. I
unfastened my shorts with trembling fingers, discarded underwear
and drew on that unknown woman's panties. The smooth cool feel
of the fabric was intoxicating and caused an immediate erection.
As I stepped into the skirt, I was puzzled for a moment until I
realised it zipped up at the side. It was like entering an alien
world, heavy with silent feminine mystery.
The skirt fell about my legs with a soft caress, brushing
faintly with every movement. I exulted in a sense of lightness
and freedom that my drab male clothing could never approach. My
heart was beating hard. I smoothed the skirt about me,
luxuriated in unfamiliar sensations as I walked and the skirt
swung against me.
I paused on a mossy patch of ground at the centre of the
clearing. My mind went back to a scene in long grass and I found
myself squatting down, the tight feminine crotch of the panties
pressing hard against me. The skirt flowed down over my legs
concealing my private excitement. I felt a trembling sensation
in the pit of my stomach, then a warm spasm spread through my
panties. The sensations were almost identical to those heady
moments so long ago when Jeanette was watching me. I spurted
again, squeezed my legs together as the warm trickling ran back
under my bottom. I wondered if it felt like this for Jeanette
when she wet herself; I felt suddenly very close to her, my pee
now splattering wetly into the grass under the skirt stimulating
a hot, erotic excitement in my pelvis. I reached under the hem
of the skirt, pressed the palm of my hand against the soaked
crotch and with my legs now spread wide, orgasmed convulsively
into that unknown girl's wet panties.
I climbed to my feet and clung to a tree trunk weakly for maybe
ten minutes coming down to earth. Then slowly made my way up the
cliff homeward, clutching my shorts in one hand. I was still
wearing the skirt. It was risky and I had no wish to meet anyone
but I took the chance. Just before I emerged at the top of the
cliff, I pulled my shorts over the skirt concealing it as best I
could. I could hardly take it off and carry it as I had no bag
to put it in and carrying it in my hand would invite unwelcome
questions from my wife, who would no doubt suspect a more
sinister origin than "uh, I just found it on the beach!"
I washed the panties and wore them again - and again, wetting
into them repeatedly until after repeated washings and use, they
eventually wore out.
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