pee-holdin' blog

You shouldn't be just sitting there. You know that. It's a busy day today, and you've been placed as one of the leads of a project that should at the very least ensure the promotion you've been working towards for months. It's always a busy day. That means you should be used to this. Why, then, have you allowed yourself to get so bad today?

Some small part of you - the part that used to be human, used to exist before you started this job - tries to beg to you. It shakes your shoulder and screams with tears in its eyes that all you have to do is find a toilet and use it. Let the rock-hard bowling ball of a flood (at least, that's what it feels like) pour out of you harder than a faucet could ever flow, and get back to work as if nothing had ever happened. But that's not how it works here.

There is only one bathroom at Omo Inc. It's on the first floor, several levels below you, and only non-workers (or workers during off-hours) can use it. There's some special sci-fi stuff attached to the entrance, you don't know how any of it works, but if it recognizes you as a worker, it locks itself and alerts a higher-up to inform you of your permanent dismissal. Without even letting you go.

Many rookies thought they could game the system. Disguise themselves, clock off for lunch to run down. You thought you could too, at one point. But every time, that worker would walk past your desk with tear-streaked faces and piss-streaked pants. And you learned better.

Maybe you should've found a different job, one that values its workers. But the pay is phenomenal, the work isn't too hard, and the hours are pretty good, granted you aren't picked for overtime. All you had to do to keep it was paste a smile on your face and keep the waters retained. You're usually pretty good at that.

Today is not your day.

What usually at this point of time (you check the clock for the umpteenth time, and through the fog of panic and desperation you see it's barely 2 pm. Just after lunch but way, way too long before sweet release) is simply a hotel pool in your bladder, maybe a small lake on a bad day, is a churning, twisting, splashing storm of an ocean. Your pee hole is straining with force, but even then leaks are pushing through the cracks. Maybe those coworkers weren't so nice. Maybe they saw how you rocked and jiggled your leg even as you were deep in focus mode. You have a very admirable position, after all. Many other people would be chomping at the bit for a chance to work as high up as you've gotten.

Your arms shake where they cling desperately to your seat. Fuck fuck fuck you shouldn't have worn your nice pencil skirt. God forbid you try to have a femme day. A nice day, especially after working so late yesterday trying to keep the schedule going. Oversleeping and still dead tired, no time to pee before work. The unforgiving fabric fights for space against your straining bladder, and every little movement makes it push deep into you. The concept of walking feels impossible.

Your brain is overloading. You have so much to do and all you can think about is to pull up your skirt and piss right into the coffee pot. Everything has begun feeling like a hypothetical place to pee, wherever would make the least mess and finally give you some fucking relief.

Someone passes by your desk, and in a form of autopilot you immediately bring your hands back to the keyboard. Can't be caught slacking, after all! Day after day of urgent torture has sculpted you into the perfect worker, and there's no way you can lose that now. Just for what? A few fluid ounces extra? Perish the thought.

You squeeze your legs impossibly tighter. All it does is pressurize your bladder even further. Holding your breath is the only way you can keep the whimper down. Your foot taps subconsciously. You feel like you're about to explode.

The person passes, and something inside of you snaps. You. Can't. Take. This. Anymore.

You stand up in a moment, and in the next hunch over as you pulse and throb and the ocean crashes against your little hole. your hands grip the table so hard that a part of your brain worries about cracking the fake wood. Hair fall over your blushing face, your knees buckles slightly, and you think all at once that you must look so disheveled. But that's not proper. That's not a perfect worker.

You straighten up, as best as you can. It hurts to fully stretch up now, so you're stuck with your butt pushed out a little to carry the heavy weight. Your laptop goes into sleep mode then, and you can see how your abdomen is cut deeply by the waistband of your skirt.

You shuffle down the hall. Not to the elevator. Never to the elevator. Going down costs your job. You can't fucking lose this job. No, instead, with all the practiced ease of being an Omo Inc Employee for months at this point, you take tiny steps and walk to the staff room. Just for a moment of unabashed need.

Two people are there as you enter, taking water from the cooler. You pass through and begin looking down at the Omo Inc reading material on the cheap coffee table in the middle of the room. Standing is honestly easier right at this second, turning the pressure of squeezing and shaking into just a dull ache, intensified with the simple pains of gravity.

The water cooler gurgles and bubbles as its water is released. You whimper. Not loud, not long. Just an "n".

The two workers look at you. You look back. You try to look fine, but then their eyes turn from confusion to humor. They smirk and giggle, and you feel your face heat up even further from humiliation. Hopefully this won't get on your record.

Then, they leave. And as soon as that door slams shut you shove both hands under the hemline of your skirt and let out the longest, loudest keen and crumple into yourself. You are trembling, piss pounding against your hole, pushing back with your fingers to even have a chance at recovering. Your underwear is wet, and you hadn't realized it. Your heart is in your eardrums.

You fall into the lounge sofa and screw up into a panting, moaning, gasping little ball of your usual composure. Your bladder must be full to the brim. In fact, your sure of it. You can't feel splashes and waves inside your body anymore, just the near-deafening siren call of needing more than anything else to be letting it all pour out of you letting it flood the whole floor letting it ruin your oh so pretty skirt letting it out let it out let it out let it out let it-

"You know, this is exactly the opposite of what we look for in Omo Inc. employees."

You look up, teary-eyed and tomato-faced, to see your boss at the doorway, prim and proper. She smiles that perfect corporate smile at your horrible, unperfect appearance, and enters the room. You jolt and breath heavily at the sound of the door closing.

"I was told that there was about to be some . . . spillage in the breakroom. I wanted to survey the issue." she explains in her perfect false-positive tone. Customer voice even to a non-customer. "I didn't think you'd be the cause. You're usually quite composed, aren't you?"

You nod frantically, as if to say "Yes! Yes! I've always been quite composed! I'm the most composed! I've been good, please let me be an exception!". In reality, to speak now would be to risk it all. There is absolutely no hope for you if you aren't given a place to piss. No hope at all.

She bends over (how can she bend over?!) and looks you up and down, left and right. You can't move to stand up, to apologize, to do anything. You are stuck there right on the precipice of losing everything, as though you were an animal dragging itself to a little comfy spot to die.

Then, she nods. Stands back up. And still in her perfect false-happy voice, says, "This will be your only warning. You're lucky you work so well, this is not an opportunity I give to anyone. Towels are in the janitor's closet, and not to be used excessively."

Then, she starts to turn around. starts to walk out the door. You keen after her frantically, trying to move. The largest spurt you've ever accidentally let out stops you in your tracks almost immediately. Fuck, you actually can't move, can you?

Your boss stops at the door. "You may have to put in some overtime after this. We can't have you getting behind." She says, then looks over her shoulder. "I do hope you clocked out before you came here. I do hate it when faithful employees piss themself on company time."

With a final little smile, she steps out the staff room.