Wet Bi Boi

I just did this but my old blog got deleted :') Name: Ty Age: 36 at the time of writing Pronouns: he/they Gender: Demiguy. Mostly guy, a little bit princess Bisexual, polyamorous, into soft things Here you'll find a lot of omo, a little ero writing, and tasteful art of bodies. I'm not against adult content but am trying to figure out how to stay alive on this site. If anyone has any tips please DM me <3 Omo preferences:

Similar to the last story shared, it might have been reblogged a time or two but I assure you 'twas me. :3 ---------------

So many experiences are made or broken by the company present for them. That was definitely the case this time, walking through Boston in the wee hours of the morning, actually worrying about making it to a toilet before these wee hours became more literal. I would not have been nearly so scared, frustrated, and excited all at once were it not for Nicole being with me.

The two of us were friends from years ago. We met in elementary school and were only acquaintances for a time, but kept running into each other– the same clubs, classes, and random chance meant we were in each other’s lives for the time being whether we liked it or not. The first time I saw her in high school, I was all of a sudden struck by her beauty. Whether she had matured significantly or I simply saw her differently, this previously plain, down-to-earth friend had sparkling eyes, long hair a luminous blonde, and a body that demanded my attention.

We had talked about dating at one point, but it was never meant to be. The two of us found an alternative way to be together since confessing our mutual crushes: this friendship that was close enough to border on intimacy. Now she was in town to visit me. We celebrated by barhopping all evening, watering our respective genders’ bathrooms as needed– that is to say, extremely frequently. The plan was to pace ourselves on drinks (too expensive for more anyway), and park far enough away so I could sober up on the walk. We both presumed that bathroom access after leaving the last bar would not be a concern. At least, I let her think that, and maybe she felt the same. My suspicion was that I would need to go again before reaching the car. However, my intense pee fetish combined with the buzz to deliver a one-two punch of all but wishing to run into problems myself. For Nicole? She was a big girl and could handle herself. She knew about my interest already, and I promised myself not to be creepy about it if she put on a show against her will.

I had been well into a “frustrated” cycle after feeling excited for a few minutes. My bladder hurt, my feet hurt, and I just wanted to be home. And empty. Whenever I thought she wasn’t looking, I squeezed my dick through my jeans. That second or two of relaxing my hold still made a difference. “I have to go again too,” she said, “Nobody talks about how much you have to pee when you go drinking!”

Heat flashed to my cheeks. I was shy about bathroom habits to begin with, and apparently had not been sneaky about grabbing myself. She was being an angel about both. I chuckled, sending a spasm through my bladder. “Pretty sure you do.” She was always open about her pee needs, at least with me.

“Well we could all do with talking about it more because I’m supposed to be a lady and I’m about to pop a squat in someone’s alley.”

I shot her a mischievous grin. “Well, if you feel the need, I’m not gonna stop you.”

She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. “Ugh, I’m not even kidding right now, it’s kind of an emergency.” She had begun sliding her fingertips over the hem of her lacy black cocktail dress. She and I must have differed on the point where desperation became an “emergency” because I had never gotten to see her truly at the end of her rope. Still, I began imagining how her dress hem would handle being sprayed with pee.

We began crossing through a small park, complete with winding paths interspersed with benches, and dense trees all around. Another couple was sitting on the far end, well out of earshot at least if we spoke quietly.

“I’m serious,” she said out of nowhere, stopping to cross her legs and look up at the park’s ornate light poles, “I have to pee like right now and I don’t wanna get arrested.”

She was presumably looking for cameras. There didn’t appear to be any. If I had my way she would have just squatted by a bench and gone through her panties, but I would have preferred to be actually helpful. “I don’t think there are any cameras, and those people won’t care.”

Nicole sucked in air through her teeth, massaging her stomach. “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” she said, “Here, sit with me.” She pointed to the spot next to her. Having me sit with her made it look less suspicious. I pulled out my phone and scrolled, trying not to watch as she prepared to go as discreetly as possible.

Her breathing came through a bit labored, sometimes overcoming the little splatters that hit the ground underneath her. I thought she was trying to control the stream rather than let it out all at once, despite the urge. “I have never peed in public like this before, I swear.”

To an extent I felt bad for her. She was so embarrassed. To me it was an exclamation point on an already excellent night. If one or both of us got a little wet, fine. But that was me. Back in her non-pee-fetish world, it was a scandal. At least she went through with it.

She sighed and grinned as she put herself back together. “So much better,” she said, letting her eyes close again. In the moment the relief must have been worth the risk, and she did not regret the choice. Then a bit of embarrassment hit her again when she saw the extent of the puddle. It had not run back into the plants as she hoped, but forward into the walkway. Thankfully it was an ungodly hour of the night and I was certain nobody would notice or care before it dried.

Standing up with her reminded me of my own need. As a guy in jeans, it would be much tougher for me to pee discreetly. But I did not consider myself in emergency status yet. I had switched back to excitement after her daring park-pee and was more inclined to let her in on my own struggle. “It might be my turn soon,” I said, crossing my legs like she had done. I tried to present a stoic and in-control image in general, but with her, I genuinely did feel safer showing that kind of vulnerability. Plus, the excitement was fading quickly back into fear with the prospect of actually not finding somewhere to pee. My jeans were somewhat light-colored, and although I had wet myself on purpose plenty of times before, I had never done so with an audience. Her reaction was not guaranteed.

My full feeling started ramping up quickly. My body did not even do me the service of challenging my holding muscles any worse– it was more as if my bladder was expanding upward, simply causing more pain than more threat of leakage. 

I was full enough and just drunk enough to decide to try letting some out. Success would mean skipping over more frustration and getting back to excitement. I couldn’t at first. Maybe it was just hesitation from her being there, and wearing pale jeans instead of my favorite black, but the thinking part of my brain was absolutely ready. I must have given her very curt answers while privately trying my hardest to let out pee as we walked. I could even explain it away as a real accident, since she already showed that she couldn’t make it, and I made a show that I was not far behind. Still, nothing.

At one point though, she said something funny. The way I laugh made something click for me. The way I breathed out when I started to laugh made my bladder pressure spike, and likewise whatever inner muscle that held my pee relaxed. I tried it again, just a little “ha” under my breath, and pushed. It worked! Perhaps a little too well, because I let out a heavy spurt that I had to cut off again, or else it might have gone on much longer. Yes! Who cared what she would think, that was awesome. I needed to do more. 

But, I also was still trying to keep up appearances a little bit. I kept laughing for another few seconds while rubbing the warmth on my thigh. That would definitely show through. The streetlight confirmed it. “Oh my god,” I said, still smiling at her joke and my success, “Stop saying funny things because I just peed some.”

“Oh no! I’m so sorry,” she said, her expression falling into utmost sympathy as she locked onto my wet spot, “We’ll find you somewhere.” She started looking around more urgently. Only buildings and lit streets in every direction. I held up one hand in a calming gesture while the other stayed between my legs. Not only had I been looking around this whole time, but I was enjoying myself even more than I had been letting on. “It’s okay, really,” I replied, “I think I’m good now.” 

It so happened that “good” was highly subjective. My idea of the word meant that since I was already wet, it would be easier to do more. Little leaks came a lot more easily after that.

“Let’s hurry,” she said, adding without thinking, “Before I’ve got to go again.”

I gave a tiny chuckle at that, letting out another leak on purpose. It was becoming clearer she was nothing but sympathetic even as I let her into my gratification. I fucking loved her.

We eventually did reach the parking garage. Deliberate releases or no, I was about at my breaking point. The pain was sharp, and I did not want to drive in such a state. Wetting all the way was out of the question now that we were inside, under multiple cameras. But as hard as it was for me to wet standing up, it was much harder still to do in the car. I would basically have to hold it, and resigned myself to that conclusion. I groaned.

“It’s okay,” she said, “I’ll look up a good place to stop once we get going.”

That was the best plan. I was probably not going to pee anymore in the car, and could keep it together well enough to get to a gas station. It would absolutely suck, though. “Okay,” I said.

“Are you sure?” She asked. “Are you safe to drive?”

“Not really.” I had my eyes closed in my sharp endurance challenge. “I mean, I’m sober now,” I added, “Just not looking forward to driving while having to go like this.”

“Well, I’m definitely not sober enough,” she added, “I’m so sorry!” Wet as I was, she draped her arms around me and leaned her head on my shoulder. “Do you want to keep walking and looking then? I don’t want you to be uncomfortable driving.”

Wetting or no, that sounded better than getting in the car at this point, against all odds. “Okay, but I’m like really trying not to pee more at this point.”

“Me too!” she reassured, giving yet another little curtsy, “We can go together. It’ll make me feel better if we both have to go in a weird place.”

I sighed again, bringing a knee up as I did and nearly falling over, “Okay, but I hope you are ready in case I don’t make it.”

“You’ll make it,” she said, rubbing my back, “And if you don’t, at least you don’t have to worry about your shoes.”

We both looked down at my exposed toes. She said previously that she liked how I always wore flip-flops if it was warm enough. We both grew up in Florida and it reminded her of home. I just thought they were cute on almost anyone. Then it dawned on me she was all but talking me into risking a full wetting! We were so close now though, and my existing pee spot was getting cold and itchy. I cupped the head of my dick through my pants and spurted again into my palm. “Let’s make it fast,” I said truthfully. I was having fun, but also was ready for this odyssey to be over. 

We did not make it far before she spoke up again. She must have noticed my labored breathing and hunched posture. “It’s okay if you don’t make it, you know,” she said, her voice soft, as if she were talking to her kitten. “There’s no one around and I promise I won’t be grossed out. As you might have guessed I’m not all the way dry down there myself.”

That was hot, but I was too tired and pained to fully process what she said. If I wet now, I was looking at a sloppy walk of shame back to the car, and knowing that she knew that I let it out on purpose. Whatever came over me seemed to compel me to try to hold it now. 

She intuited my struggle. “Well I won’t tell you what you should do, but I think you’re being a little ridiculous right now.”

“What?” In my foggy state I truly did not grasp what she was getting at.

“Even if somehow we find a good place to go, you’re already wet enough to say you peed yourself tonight anyway. I wouldn’t judge you if you just went.”

“Mmf,” I said, repeating my knee-up motion from before, “As tempting as the offer is, it’ll be weird to just go.”

“Okay how about we compromise,” she said, crossing her legs again, “Hold it with me for a little while, and if we don’t find somewhere in the next five minutes, we can let it out together. Deal?” My head swam with the idea that she just proposed indulging one of my all-time greatest fantasies. I started walking with renewed vigor.

After that point, I could have sworn neither of us was looking very hard. Everywhere was either too open, too lit, or ironically, too dark and scary. We settled for a stretch of sidewalk with a bulky van for cover, and far enough from any streetlights to be acceptable. “Nicky,” I groaned, almost losing my footing while I squirmed. I confessed what I never thought I’d say to anyone, “I really don’t think I can hold it anymore.” I knew I could hold it at least long enough to see what she did with that.

“C’mere,” she said, extending her arms to me, “C’mere, it’s okay. Just go.”

We wrapped each other in a hug again, and I went. I did my breathing technique from before, confident she was not just accepting, but encouraging this time. The pee rushed out of me, loud enough to trill and splash in my crotch before running down both legs.

My euphoria was just weak enough to be broken by her breathing. “I’m going too,” she volunteered, standing still as her pee raced down her bare legs into her flats, “Aah I should have taken my shoes off. I can’t believe we’re doing this.”

I relaxed more deeply into her, causing my fading stream to redouble. “Neither can I,” I chuckled, “But I’m glad we are.”

“Me too.”

We both stood there and continued peeing. She finished before I did, but kept holding onto me until I was well and truly empty. “Ohmigod, I’m so wet,” she said, peeling her flats off and shaking the drops out of them. The wet footprints she left after stepping out of our puddle will surely stay with me. “I told you the flip-flops were a good idea!”

I closed my eyes and laughed until I could hardly breathe, properly relieved for the first time in a few hours and able to see the outrageousness of how this all happened. My own shoes were barely damp enough to notice compared to my disastrously soaked pants, but I took them in hand too in solidarity. “That they were.”

This got reblogged a time or two before my old blog got deleted but I promise it's mine. ------------------

A name on the community organizing screen stopped my casual scrolling– Weston Meers. Holy shit. I clicked his name, and with a little bit of stalking, found out he had come out as gay years ago. That’s what he was doing in the queer meetup group, apparently.

Why was any of that significant? I bullied him in middle school. Not so much the scary “take your lunch money and shove you in a locker” -type bullying, but teased him over a decently long term for the fact that on a few occasions, he had wet his pants. 

The memory came rushing back at me upon seeing his name. I didn’t process it at the time, but the reason I bullied him was because in no world could I have accepted the risk of being nice to him after that. Equally as important was my understanding that liking boys, and specifically liking watching boys hold their pee (and lose it!) was unfathomable depravity. Pants-peeing was for babies– gross, funny at best, and for those not already invincible in their coolness, social suicide. No one could know. No one could be allowed to even suspect that I believed differently. And so even though I thought Weston was perfectly likable, cute, and even my crush ever since his first accident, I started calling him “Wet-son” and performed my obligation of making his class hours hell until we went to separate high schools and never saw each other again.

The wetting was all I remembered at first, and now I had a separate realization that he was also gay, for real. Of course he got homophobic comments along with the pee stuff. Many gave as well as they took in that respect, and no one who had a problem with it at first was listened to. It turned out they were wise, or we were stupid.

Ten years later, now I was left to grapple with all that came with his name appearing in the “Going” column of the LGBT+ bonfire night. I had wanted to go, but if he was going to be there, perhaps I shouldn’t.

No. Part of the reason for going to queer-focused events was to be accepted. Everyone had flaws, big ones even, but mutual love and understanding were the only way forward. I did not want Weston’s forgiveness. Deep down I wanted him not to show. Deeper down I just wanted to apologize. I put on my band-T, mildly tattered flannel over it, skinny jeans with a rainbow belt that I never believed I’d deserve to wear, did my eyeliner (even though it would be dark) and committed to the evening.

It was dusk when I arrived at the campground where the fire was being held. Some organizers were already hard at work unloading snacks and drinks. I felt ridiculous being so nervous, even if it were expected of someone fairly new to being visibly “out.” I actually delighted in strangers’ judgment the last few years. Good or bad, it meant they saw me, and not the paper doll I thought they wanted to see. The nerves were from anticipating the one person’s judgment I knew would be for my actions, not looks.

I took a spiked seltzer, exchanged smiles with a few strangers and acquaintances, and sat down by the firepit. As the stars came out and the drinks flowed, the fire grew to a welcoming embrace. In spite of myself I started to relax.

On my way back to the cooler, I saw him. The anxiety hit me like a cold plunge. He must have recognized me too, as his brow twitched when we made eye contact. His eyes were as gentle as I remembered, reaching me from a more chiseled face. “Weston?” I said. He turned away.

I sighed. Not believing myself, I pursued. “Hey,” I said, keeping my voice low to avoid causing a scene, “It’s Jace. I know I treated you like dogshit in school and needed you to know I’m sorry. That’s it.”

He actually stopped and turned around, his posture that of a dog unsure of whether he was going to be beaten. “You mean it?”

“Yes,” I said, taking another step forward for emphasis, “It’s all I’ve thought about this whole time. I was scared and stupid, and you didn’t deserve that. At all. We don’t have to hang out tonight but I’m just glad I got to say so in person.” The confession raced out of me as if under pressure.

He stood silent, letting my words percolate. “I appreciate your saying so,” he replied, the barest hint of a grin darkening his cheek in the firelight, “‘Wet-son’ was pretty fuckin’ funny though.”

I let out a chuckle more in astonishment than anything. Was he rubbing in my shame right now, or what? “I just said that to hurt you and score points with my douchebag friends.”

His grin turned into a full, genuine smile, looking only mildly devilish in the orange glow. He gestured towards the fire. We dragged our chairs a distance away from the others. They must have thought we were hitting it off. Weston agreed, “It hurt a little at the time because I was scared and stupid too. But while you’re being nice to me, can I tell you a secret? He scooted closer to me and cupped his hands to my ear, giving me goosebumps. “I peed my pants on purpose.”

I stared at him, jaw hanging open. At least I didn’t laugh or tease him this time. Back in the day, I might have found that admission devastating. As if it would have made a difference compared to having accidents. “May I ask why?”

“Stop me if this is TMI,” he said, “But we’re both at a gay event so I feel like it’s probably okay.” We were out of earshot of others already, but I still leaned close for him to tell another secret. “I just liked it. I guess the first time it happened in school was an actual accident, but all the rest of the times it felt good. And believe it or not, the teasing was actually kind of part of it. Like I got to be the center of attention until I went to the nurse. I could apologize to you guys for including you all in my kink.”

“Bro,” I said, entirely out of character for myself, “That’s actually pretty hot.” It must have been the drinks talking when I said, “Believe it or not I’m actually into it too. And as you probably guessed, more than a little bit gay myself. Half the reason I made such a big deal of it back then was because it made me feel things.”

His lower lip curled. “I made Jace Proctor feel things.”

He had earned the shot or two at me and more. “Yes, you did,” I yielded, holding my arms out in surrender, “I had a crush on you. Kind of still do.”

“You’re drunk,” he said, chuckling, “No one else apologizes to their bully magnet and then flirts with them.”

“I’m not that drunk,” I said, suddenly self-conscious of my buzz, “I’ve had… a few. Enough to make me have to pee, since you might like to know.”

“I do like to know,” he replied. “You said you’re into ‘it,’ talking about me. You ever partake yourself?”

“You’re asking if I’ve peed myself on purpose?” I clarified, stalling for time.

He nodded. “Or had an accident and liked it.”

The momentum of the conversation had been so fast and inexorable I just told the truth. “Yeah.”

“You’re fucking with me,” he said, never losing his grin. Maybe part of him believed I was, but I think he knew in the way I said it that it was real.

“I swear I’m not,” I said anyway, “I’ve been into it since before I ever saw you do it. And you looked so fucking cute being all shy in your wet pants. I’m serious.”

“Well you got to see me wet a few times,” he said, “But I’ve never seen you wet, so I’m not sure I believe you.”

I did not know why I was flirting with him– the alcohol, the temptation of his good graces, my old crush, the thrill of the chase– but I persisted. “What, you want me to pee myself right here?”

He clamped his hand over his mouth in stifling his laughter. “Aah, I almost peed first. But yes. If I see you pee yourself before saying goodbye to everyone, I’m willing to call us even.”

“Wait, do you have to go too?” I said, calling out his comment with the hope of stalling yet again. “A little,” he said, suddenly making a show out of kneading his crotch for me, “But this is your moment.”

I tapped the armrest of my chair. “I have no idea whose chair this is, I’m not gonna pee in it.” That much was true also.

He shrugged. “So go standing up. It’s better that way anyway. But I bet you know that.”

I rubbed the bridge of my nose. “Yeah it is.” The seltzers I had been drinking swirled in my bladder at the thought of letting it out. “I dunno though, I’m not sure I’m drunk enough to wet myself in front of people. Even as penance.”

“It’s honestly okay if you don’t want to,” he reassured. On some level that answer disappointed me. “But… I do recall hearing you say you still had a crush on me.”

“Yep,” I said. No sense trying to weasel out of it now. “What does that have to do with anything?” “Would you do it for a kiss?”

My face burned, and not because I was too close to the fire. “You serious?” I said, catching myself shortly after at how harsh that sounded. “I mean would you really want that?”

“I dunno,” he said, bringing his shoulders up around his ears like he did all that time ago, “I’d try it.”

My pulse thudded in my ears. The foregone conclusion loomed large. “I wanna do it.”

He drew his feet out of his sandals to sit cross-legged in the camp chair, and wiggled his hips in anticipation. “I’m waiting.”

I had not worn sandals, but cold feet struck me. “...I can’t do it here,” I said, my expression falling, “It would be too obvious.”

He chewed his lip in thought. “On the way to the bathroom then?” he posited, “Then you have an excuse.” 

“Fuck,” I said, laughing at myself, “I’m not getting out of this am I.”

He shook his head, adorable curls bouncing as they always had.

“Okay,” I breathed, mostly to myself, “I’m going to have one more drink and then get up to go. You come with me, and I’ll let it out on the way there.”

He grinned with something between childish glee and sinister victory, but reassured me again. “Just so you know you really don’t have to if you don’t want.” He was being too damn sweet for his own good. Or maybe he knew I would not chicken out now.

“A little more liquid courage, and regular old liquid, and it’ll be easier.” I got up for my last drink. The need to pee hit me harder once I was standing. I actually felt the need to squeeze my crotch here and there as the urine pried at my bladder. At one point I would have denied that being desperate to pee, and even scared to wet, was a universal human experience. In trying to be smart I was dumber than I had to be. And now, in the midst of doing something dumb, I felt like my inner child needed to see this.

Having returned to his side, I sipped my drink (a bit more slowly than necessary) and ceremoniously crushed the can. “To my doom,” I said.

Weston twisted towards the restrooms– a cement-block shack with a pair of floodlights over the doors over by the treeline. “Recycling is over there too.” He stood up and offered his hand to help me up. “No littering allowed.”

I took his hand and laughed at his obvious misdirection. I also took a moment longer than necessary to let his hand go. “I’m guessing piss doesn’t count.”

“Ugh, I’m fucking drunk too,” he said, staggering into me and nearly knocking us both over. “Don’t do that or you won’t get your wish to see me pee standing up.” We ended up clinging to each other for stability, knowing that we were both relishing the touching.

He asked me as we drew near, “You think you’re gonna make it?” He elbowed me as he said it.

I got the message; now was the time. “Ah, I don’t think so,” I said, stopping and bending forward. I let my bladder go. The previous times I had wet myself, it took a few seconds to get going. Even as he held my arm, my stream battered my zipper, burbling in my tight jeans. My groin instantly filled with heat.

Weston moved in front of me and pulled me in by the small of my back, feeling my pouring crotch with his other hand. I think he wanted to say something, but was too rapt in the moment. So was I.

“Apologies,” his singsong voice rang out, “You totally would have made it if I didn’t stop to kiss you.” Before I could answer, he stretched onto his tiptoes and touched his lips to mine.

My pee stream was still fading as he did so. “You’re getting pee on you,” I said between kisses, immediately aware of how prosaic my concerns were. He pressed our hips together harder, only saying “Yours or mine?” My stream had stopped, but the pulsing warmth continued. He had intertwined our legs and started peeing too.

I kept my eyes closed as his liquids coated my thigh. “It’s so warm,” I said, “I wish we got to do this sooner.”

He continued nibbling at my lip and pushing the last spurts out. “I did do this sooner. You could have joined.” I sighed again, nestling my head into his shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”

“I know,” he said, stroking the nape of my neck, “It’s okay.” 

The two of us together were a sopping, pissy mess. We gave clipped goodbyes in the dark to those nearest us on the way to the parking lot. We stopped between our cars, holding both hands rather than part. I had never dared imagine getting to touch Weston so tenderly as he was drenched and smelling of pee, or that he would want to touch me while I did too. 

“I, uh, didn’t think this far ahead,” I said, shaking a few drops from my legs.

“Hang on,” he said, quickly making for his car. He pulled a towel out of the trunk. “I don’t need it, I do this all the time.”

“That’s hot,” I said, carelessly letting another dribble go in my pants, “I guess I’ll have to see you again to give it back.”

“I guess so.”