Harry wets himself at the TV Awards Show

[Lee]

“Come on lads, time for one more beer!” yelled one of the band members, “before twinkle-toes here has to go and change into his dancing shoes!”

“No, no please, no more, not for me” said 26-year old, Harry, glancing down at the table in front of them, with scarcely a space between the beer bottles. He tried to think whether he had had two or three bottles himself – but whatever, he needed to get himself away and off to the TV Awards show, where he’d been nominated in the “Sexiest Male” category after his winning performance in the renowned Strictly Come Dancing hit show.

As he went to stand up, a voice called out “Harry, Harry, come on quickly, your carriage awaits, they’re ready for you now.”
“Stretch limo is it, mate?” laughed his colleague, “just for you, all on your own?”
Harry laughed, “I doubt it. Now where’s the toilet here?”
“Harry! Come on!” the voice called again, “we can’t wait any longer for you!”

Harry hugged his mates in turn, aware of the slight pressure in his bladder and then strode off towards the bloke who’d called his name. ‘Maybe we’ll pass the toilet on the way out’ he thought to himself, ‘but anyway, it can’t be far – and if it is, the driver will simply have to stop somewhere for me.”

There was no sign of a gents toilet sign and before he knew it, Harry was in the car park which was strangely almost empty of people. He looked round for a car but all he could see was a coach, parked just in front of the entrance and which was packed with passengers.

“Here we are, Harry. Jump on, you should still find some spare seats.”
“Am I being taken on this – a coach?” Harry asked.
“Of course, unless you want a private car laid on just for you! What, do you think the BBC is awash with money these days?” the bloke laughed and put his hand on Harry’s back to guide him onto the coach steps.
“How long’s it going to take, please?” queried Harry, as he stepped into the aisle of the coach.
“Depends on traffic, that’s why you need to leave now, should be there in time for kick-off though!” and the response faded as the noise of the coach door closing drowned out the end of the reply.

Harry got on and before he had found a seat, the driver had started to pull away, Harry looked in front of him and although he knew no-one personally, there were a few familiar faces he had seen on television. No major stars though, this must be the coach of the ‘also-rans’, the performers who weren’t exactly classed as stars but who were part of the TV shows, especially the soaps.

“There’s a few seats back there, love” called out a familiar-looking middle-aged woman and another similarly-aged lady beckoned him towards the middle of the coach. Harry smiled politely and made his way along, nodding in response to the various smiles and silent greetings he received as he passed along the aisle.

Spare seats seemed at a premium but he spotted an empty double seat and sat down in the window seat. There was a general hubbub of noise from chatter as the coach trundled along and Harry’s thoughts immediately turned to what was now more than an irritation, namely his rapidly-filling bladder. That beer was starting to go through him more quickly than he had anticipated and every jolt of the coach made his predicament feel more urgent.

‘Damn,’ he cursed to himself, “I knew I should have found a toilet before getting on. I’m not going to be able to ask a coach to stop for me. I should never have got myself into this situation.’

Fifteen minutes later, the coach was still weaving its way through London’s traffic as the chatter continued unabated and was mixed with bursts of brief and spontaneous laughter. In the window seat just beyond the middle of the coach, Harry was sitting on the edge of his seat, knocking his knees together and fidgeting his feet on the coach floor. His need to pee was acute. The beer, which had made its presence felt with a vengeance, had gone through the diuretic stage and was now screaming to be released. This was most definitely what had to be referred to as “absolutely bursting for a pee”.

Dressed in his light grey Gucci suit with the drainpipe, low riding hip hugger trousers, tapered down to the ankles and his fashionable black, pointed-toe Paul Smith wing-tip shoes, Harry was dressed to perfection for his sexiest male award category, with his cream shirt and black skinny tie showing off his tall and thin body at its best. But as he sat upright, contracting his tummy muscles and stiffening his calf muscles, he couldn’t picture quite how he must be presenting himself to anyone looking at that specific moment in time.

‘I just don’t know what I’m going to do!’ he muttered to himself under his breath, ‘Whatever can I do?’

“Hello mate, I thought I’d say hi”. The voice reverberated in his ear as a figure plonked down in the seat next to him. Harry spun his head round and recognised the young guy as someone he’d seen in TV’s Eastenders show.
“Oh, hi there” he responded, trying to act as normally as possible despite his predicament.
“You won Strictly, didn’t you?”
Harry swallowed and nodded.
“Yeah, you were great on that, well done. To tell you the truth, I’ve got up and walked back here because I’m gagging for a piss. I couldn’t sit in my seat any longer!” and with the last comment, he threw his head back and let out a raucous laugh.

Although Harry smiled back, he inwardly felt angry. ‘How can you be needing to go that badly if you can laugh and joke about it. You want to be in my situation, I’m panicking like you wouldn’t believe about being able to hold on, it’s no laughing matter at all.’

His new-found friend continued to babble on about his own apparent need, “To be honest, I walked back here thinking that if there was no-one in the back rows or back seats, I might be able to conceal myself, take one of my shoes off and have a piss into it. There’s no other receptacle I can think of, no-one's got any bottles or anything."
Harry looked straight at him, “Your shoe! What happens when you get off?”
“Dunno mate, I haven’t though that far ahead. I just don’t want to be busting when we got off and all the press are there, that’s all!” and he laughed out loud again, “anyway, no chance of doing that so I’ll just have to sit tight, that’s all. Keep your fingers – or legs – crossed for me, mate!”

As he walked back to his seat, Harry’s panic was intensifying by the second. His tummy ache was starting to throb and he felt that he had to keep jiggling his legs about. His constant shifting about on the seat had become imperative and he almost needed to rhythmically slide his backside from side to side to keep control of his bladder.

“Oh look, there it is!” a female voice crowed loudly from a seat on the opposite side of the coach, “there are the theatre lights!”
“Where?” Harry found himself responding, almost without acknowledgement that the comment had not actually been made to him.
“There dear, you can see the lights at the top of the building.”
The momentary relief that had coursed through Harry’s veins was sent crashing back down to the soles of his feet as the woman’s companion announced, “That’s way in the distance, we’ve still got to get across the bridge yet, and right through all this traffic.”

Harry felt his eyes almost welling up and he knew that he had unwittingly bounced himself up and down on the seat a couple of times. The ache across his midriff was constant now, no longer pulsating but just agonisingly crying out for a relief to the thudding pain.

‘I can’t hold on! Oh My God, I can’t hold on any longer. I think I’m going to just do it!’ As the words seeped through Harry’s mind as terrifyingly vividly as he imagined urine seeping into his pants, he almost got a sort of second wind. Incredibly, the pain subsided and he felt a calmness sweep over him. He still had little feeling around his tummy and groin area and his heart was pounding like a train roaring through a tunnel, but his anxiety dropped back a notch.

‘I’m 26 years old. Of course I can control myself. I’ve just got to. There’s no other option.’ He told himself and he straightened his upper body as best as he could, firmly pushing his feet back under the chair and rubbing his hands along the tops of his thighs.

Just over 10 minutes later, the coach was turning into the busy streets on the approach to the theatre. The passengers were, even more noisily than previously, craning their necks to look out of the windows and seeing their approaching destination.
Still in his window seat, Harry’s brief period of apparent calmness was now a long-forgotten and distant memory. As close to becoming ha quivering wreck as he had ever been in his life, he was well beyond the desperate stage and doing everything in his power not to wet himself.

His legs were crossed, one over the other, and his feet were tucked around each other at the ankles. His right hand was resting on his crotch so that he could alternately press, caress and squeeze himself in a frantic bid to stop himself urinating and his back was pressed, almost arched, against the back of the seat, with his head nodding like a toy dog on a rear car seat – looking to the roof, then down at his lap, then up again at the sky-light above him.

Remarkably, no-one else seemed to have noticed his state and Harry sat alone in his torture.

‘Please, please, please!’ he was willing himself to make it. He didn’t know what else he could do to lessen the anguish or to ease the agony or to reduce the chances of him losing control and actually peeing himself. He had no protection from the impending flood. A vast quantity of beery urine – seemingly four times as much as he had consumed – was pressing so much to release itself that his control was weakening. The prospect of an unstoppable tsunami right through his underpants and his suit trousers was getting to stage where it was going to happen, no matter what the circumstances.

The cruel twists of fate that had seemingly befallen Harry were not at an end. As the coach stopped and, through watery and cloudy eyes Harry assumed they had arrived and expected everyone to start to get off, his hopes received a shattering blow as the coach door opened and rather than anyone getting off, three or four cameramen stepped inside and a voice said, “Just a couple of minutes please, ladies and gents. A few photos for the press boys and then we can all get ourselves off.”

Harry sunk lower in his seat, pressed his hand between his legs and prepared to wet himself.

Never could anyone have needed to pee like this, surely most normal human beings would have let go long before this. The numbness was receding and wave after wave of pounding excruciating pain was spreading up to the top of his stomach and the tops of his legs were beginning to throb too.

Harry thought he must be curled up in a foetal position but once again, maybe the image he was presenting to others was astonishingly less obvious than he thought and through ringing ears he heard the Eastenders lad from earlier say, “Sod this” and make his way to the front of the coach and presumably past the press boys.

As people finally began to stand up and the aisle of the coach filled up, Harry was genuinely unsure as to whether he’d pissed himself or not. The pain was such that even releasing a full bladder full might not instantly ease it and it was simply going to happen. His strength, muscle-power and even his will-power had all but vanished and his bladder was now functioning of its own accord. When it released, Harry would, quite simply, wet his pants.

With the coach emptying, Harry summoned up a last surge of what little energy he had left inside him, hauling himself to his feet with the aid of the seat in front and found himself stumbling along the aisle. To call his movement ‘walking’ would have been inaccurate. He was managing to put one foot in front of the other and his legs were jelly-like, threatening to let him down with every hobbling step. His sweating hands grasped every seat back as he passed them, using them as an aid to propel himself along the coach and with every footstep he tried to keep his legs pressed as tightly together as possible.

His earlier apparent and unintentional ability to conceal his predicament from others had now well and truly vanished and those who still remained on the coach were looking aghast at the immaculately-dressed young man. People were nudging each other and nodding heads in his direction and as he reached the steps from the coach, even more were turning their heads to see what was attracting the attention of others.

As Harry stepped onto the concrete, he wanted to weep in despair as he had no idea what to do next. As he momentarily stopped motionless for the first time in a couple of minutes, the lack of movement proved fatal and for the first time a spurt of scorching urine seeped into his underpants.

If he was unsure as to whether had wet himself on the coach, he knew for sure that the awful warm wetness around his balls meant that it was happening now. With no idea what he was doing, where he was going or what he could do next, Harry began almost marching on the spot, two steps to his right, then back again, then another step to his left, then forwards and back again. He was unsure whether his actions were having any effect or not but it was almost an automated response to what his body was doing.

The crowds behind the barriers were watching in disbelief, the gaggle of cameramen were looking awkwardly, not knowing whether to point their lenses in his direction or not, whilst theatre officials and his fellow passengers were almost open-mouthed in horror and shock at what they were witnessing.

“Quickly, get him to a toilet, he needs a toilet!” a female voice cried out.

Just yards from the anguished call for help for him, Harry’s strained body began to weaken as the intense pressure started to win out. He felt everything beginning to relax and the terrible and yet glorious warmth in his pants began to flow and glow once again. This time, the release not only proved ecstatic but also agonising as his tummy muscles began to ease and Harry had no option but to bend forwards, sticking his backside out awkwardly and bending his knees as he tried to find a posture which would lessen his discomfort.

As the scorching hot urine began to seep and then jet into and through his pants, the warm pee seemed to surge up his backside and then spread with magnificent warmth and power all down the backs of his thighs. The whole front of his lower tummy also experienced the same intense heat and suddenly the pee was coursing all down both of his legs, engulfing his thighs and upper legs before running behind his knees and streaming down his shins and his calves.

Even his semi-stooped posture was doing little to provide the desired relief from the pressure and Harry sank lower, almost into a semi-squat with his knees bent as far forwards as his backside was poking to the rear. His head bowed, Harry looked to the floor, feeling the raging torrents cascading down his legs and watching the tap-like stream firing right through his tight grey suit trousers and hitting the red carpet, on which he was now standing, like a jet from a fully open faucet.

His feet were perfectly apart, parallel to each other and his black shoes were releasing urine from every possible outlet with the dark staining puddle turning the carpet crimson. His drainpipe-style trousers were simply darkening down each leg as the streaks and patches merged into one sodden stain and lower down, his short light grey socks were changing colour as they soaked up the scorching flow around his ankles before releasing the pee into his shoes.

Harry remained semi-squatted for what seemed an eternity and it was probably a good 20 seconds until the flood subsided. The steaming puddle around his feet was huge and the dribbles and trickles down his legs were never-ending despite the fact that his marathon pee was ending, albeit with a few powerful after-bursts.

His trousers felt cold and heavy for such lightweight material and beneath his suit, his designer tight-fitting white cotton briefs were sodden beyond description, heavy and cold and clinging to his balls and his manhood like tissue-paper. His shoes had absorbed vast quantities of his pee and his thin socks clung wetly to his ankles, uncomfortably sagging and slightly crumpled.

Harry had no idea who it was that approached him, gently took him by the arm and led him into the theatre, his bow-legged gait and stained and saturated suit trousers vividly revealing what had happened to anyone who had missed the spectacle.
In a somewhat dazed state, he heard numerous voices and the phrases “he’s wet himself”; “done it in his pants”;“been in his trousers”; "had an accident”; “peed himself” reverberated so many times that if Harry needed any convincing, the job was well and truly done for him.

Various people came up to him but no-one seemingly knew what to say or do and itwas a good five minutes after his awful but inevitable mishap that Harry stood in a side room at the theatre with a sense of abject shame beginning to take root when the door of the room burst open and his band-mates rushed in.

"Oh shit, he has as well!"
"I don't believe it it, no way mate!"
"Whatever happened, mate?"

Harry swallowed and looked at his stunned closest mates, "I went in my pants" he whispered, "there was absolutely nothing I could do, I did it in my pants."

"You've wet yourself, mate!" Danny almost yelled out the sentence at the top of his voice before taking a few steps forward, putting his arm around his mate's shoulder and then hugging him tightly, "Eeugh, don't get any wee-wee on me, mate!" and he began to laugh loudly, cuddling Harry even tighter whilst carefully edging his own feet further away.

Within seconds, the others were doing similarly and amidst the laughing, a still trembling Harry started to smile gently as the warmth of the reaction of his mates began to overcome the chill he was feeling from the cold and sticky sensation in his pants and all down his trouser-legs and he gently eased his squelching shoes off to reveal his sodden and now darkly-stained grey socks... as he heard Tom on his mobile phone,

"You won't believe this, Don't tell anyone but Harry's only gone and wet himself on the coach!"

[Fred]

The one female in the group who spoke was certainly trying to be more helpful than her male counterparts. And this double standard does exist, though it's the males who are more likely to find themselves in a similar situation. It's young men who are more likely to drink more than they should before going somewhere, and to compound the problem they are less likely to pee just before boarding a bus, train, plane or car.

Good story, Lee!

[Brian]

It's interesting that Harry found the other guy telling him jokingly that he wanted to pee annoying. It seems that if you need to pee and it's a nuisance, then you tell someone else. But if you're bursting to pee and you simply can't wait (but you just have to hold it and wait), then you keep quiet about it and you don't want anyone else talking about the subject!

The physical descriptions of Harry getting so desperate that he isn't even sure if he's started going or not are truly mind-blowing.

I hope Harry's band-mates sorted him out something to change into for the TV show after they got over their laughter - Fred's point about double-standards between males and females notwithstanding. I feel so sorry for Harry after re-reading your wonderful story, and I just hope he was able to go on after all - and maybe win the award!