I’m still shaking as I write this. Tonight was the most humiliating, terrifying, and… exciting night of my life.We went back to the same club. I wore that short white pleated skirt again (I know, I’m an idiot) with baby-pink panties underneath and a cute crop top. The music was loud, the drinks were sweet, and I met him again — the same tall guy with the dark hair and that confident smile. We started dancing almost immediately. This time he pulled me even closer, his hands on my waist, my body moving against his. I felt so small and cute next to him.But I had to pee. Badly.I’d had three cocktails and ignored the warning signs because I didn’t want to leave his arms. The pressure kept growing until my bladder felt like a tight, heavy balloon. Every grind of my hips made it worse. I kept telling myself “just one more song,” squeezing my thighs together between beats, trying desperately to hold on.Then came a slow, bass-heavy song. He spun me around so my back was against his chest, one of his hands sliding down over my tummy. That gentle pressure on my full bladder was too much.I lost control.A hot, powerful gush exploded into my panties. I gasped and tried to stop it, but I couldn’t. Pee flooded out of me in heavy waves, soaking my pink panties completely, then pouring down my bare thighs. It splashed onto the dance floor between my feet. The front of my white skirt turned dark and wet, clinging to me. I could feel the warm stream running all the way down my legs, even into my shoes.I froze.Tears instantly filled my eyes. I started crying right there in his arms — soft, embarrassed sobs that made my shoulders shake. “Oh my god… I’m so sorry,” I whimpered, my voice tiny and broken. My face was burning crimson. I felt like such a little girl, a pathetic bedwetter who couldn’t even hold it while dancing with a cute guy. Everyone was going to see. Everyone was going to know what I did.But the worst part? Or maybe the best part… I was soaking wet in another way too.The humiliation hit me like a wave, and it made me throb. My clit was swollen and aching against the drenched, warm fabric. Every little sob made my pussy clench, and I could feel myself getting slick underneath the pee. I kept crying quietly, tears rolling down my cheeks, but I also pressed back against him harder, rubbing my soaked panties against the front of his jeans. The shame was making me dizzy with arousal.He noticed. He had to. The wetness, the smell, my tears. His hand slid lower, brushing the soaked hem of my skirt, and instead of pushing me away he held me tighter and whispered, “It’s okay, baby…” in my ear.That made me cry even harder — and made me even wetter.I stood there on the dance floor, panties ruined, skirt ruined, tears streaming, while my body trembled with both mortification and the strongest rush of excitement I’ve ever felt. I wanted him to lift my skirt right there. I wanted him to see what a helpless little bedwetter I am. I wanted him to touch me through the mess I made.Eventually I pulled away, still sniffling, and ran to the bathroom. I locked myself in a stall, sat on the toilet with my soaked skirt hiked up, and touched myself while I cried. I came so hard my legs were shaking, whispering “I’m such a baby… I’m such a pathetic wet baby” to myself over and over.I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Normal girls don’t wet themselves in public and then finger themselves to orgasm in the bathroom stall right after. But I did.I’m home now, lying in bed in just my ruined pink panties because I wanted to feel the cold wet fabric against me a little longer. My eyes are still puffy from crying, but my hand keeps drifting back between my legs.I think I’m going to wear a diaper to bed tonight.I need it.— Lily
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