Tuesday , January 25 2022

Girl’s miniskirt misfortune turns into secret thrill

Too much coffee can really disrupt a morning. She drank her three cups of coffee to stay awake during that one awful day of the week where all three of her liberal arts electives were back to back from 9 AM straight through until noon. If liberal arts were actually interesting, chugging one coffee per class wouldn’t be necessary. Now she was fidgeting and waiting for noon, still one and a half dreary hours away, where lunch with her mate waited. He was free of all of this. He was at the office.

She was awake. That was planned. She hadn’t had a chance to use the facilities after coffee number two. That was unplanned. She was dressed up for him that day. However, it had turned out to be just a bit too chilly for short skirts. She felt just a little out of place with the other students, dressed as she was. His favourite short sleeved white blouse which he liked her to wear. It unbuttoned just so. Her cleavage framed just so. Her demi-bra giving a lift to her curves, and the pendant he gave her flowing to the tops of them.

The cardigan shawl with the long sleeves to keep the chill off her arms in the classroom. It would tie in the front if she wanted, but she wore it open. Then the skirt. It pleased him so. It probably would never have found its way into her wardrobe without his insistence. It was plaid, red – a tartan, really, pleated and very much like the uniform skirts of private schools. Which was exactly what it emulated, but it was shorter than one would find with the genuine article. It was a bit too short for her tastes, really, and when she sat down it would ride up higher on her thighs then she felt comfortable with.

The lower eighth of her tush was uncovered on the seat under her. It was unnerving. She would tug and tug at the hemline neurotically in class, like she was today, because of That Guy. Every class had a nameless guy of some sort with no visible personality. She always named them That Guy . The one who always found the seat on the other side of the room opposite to her and would spend the long hour staring at her legs. Her legs were bare today – long, smooth. She didn’t mind showing them off. That is, she wouldn’t mind showing them off if her skirt were just a bit longer, the guy would stop gazing at her so much, and she had taken the extra minute to put on some tights or pantyhose. She would feel more comfortable today.

Now she had to pee. Too much coffee too fast. So she kept her legs crossed and bounced her upper leg gently, back and forth, to keep her bursting desire in check. It had the added unwanted effect of drawing more attention to her legs from the guy. At the ends of her legs were her heeled black shoes. She could slip in and out of them in one effortless movement – the kind with no heel strap. That Guy really liked those on her, obviously, because his eyes would flick down if she rotated an ankle, arched her foot or (in absent minded moments) let her shoe dangle off her bare toes.

She would quickly shove her foot back in and stop the foot fidgeting whenever she came around from her bored haze and saw him riveted there. Now he was making her paranoid, and she flicked her eyes down to her hemline and up again. Were her panties showing? Her high cut, white panties with the flowered silk mesh right across her pubic hair? The pair her mate had picked out with her. That was secret. She tugged the hem down again and re-crossed her legs. The urge to pee was overwhelming.

Every time she tugged the hem down over her thighs at the front, it would pull out from under her rear. Through the long hour, she would rock her thighs gently to keep them from fusing to the seat. She could feel the kiss of the plastic against that part of her bum where the panties, already scant on her, crept up between her cheeks. She longed to stand up, pull her panties back down over her cheeks, yank her hem back to a comfortable spot and sit back down again. It would look about as publicly appropriate as picking her nose. She re-crossed her legs again. The hem shifted, the guy’s eyes bore a hole at the tops of her thighs, her hand moved reflexively, and she squeezed her thighs in quiet desperation. Would – the – prof -please – stop – for – a – break. I need to pee, she thought.

She doodled small circles in the margins of her notebook and watched the second-hand on the clock crawl around the face. She zoned in on the drone of the prof. … the House of Commons insisted that the Declaration must be withdrawn. If the king genuinely wished to relieve nonconformists, he must do it in a legal way… Relieve. If the prof genuinely wished to relieve students, he must cease his class right away. The minute hand clunked to the :29 notch. It was too much. She was going to pee against her will. She threw propriety to the wind and stood up and made for the door.

Picking her way down the row was difficult – she didn’t want to rush and stumble. It would only mean having an accident right there in the aisle. Neither did she want to take her time. Now that she had stood up, the full force of gravity betrayed her bladder, and she knew her time was almost up. That Guy was watching her departure. She could feel his eyes on her backside and thought ruefully that he had probably already got an eyeful as she had stood and whirled around. It was a small classroom too, so everyone watched her slip out the door, the hinges creaking distractingly and causing the prof to hiccup in his drone.

She dashed down the hall, her heels echoing on the tiles, into the washroom, bam, bam, one swinging door and then the next and then the stall, and then – oh yes. The fashionable belt around her skirt. Forgot about that. Her fingers found the buckle – why was she bothering with this? She had begun to lift the skirt, begun a grab for the waistband of her underwear when she was defeated by it all giving way. She soaked herself just as her fingers found the dainty tops of her panties.

She was repulsed. She had only dreams about this which she never told anyone, and now it was all coming true. And no one could or would know about this, not under pain of torture. Was she five years old again? She was dazed. She had peed a good third of it all into her panties. Her secret panties just for him. Were soaked. It was disgusting. She finished what she had left, into the bowl, defeated, and then immediately stepped out of the wet silk. Stared at them, lying on the multicolored tiled floor, fouled and heinous. At least she had lifted her skirt clear in time. Now what.

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