Three Hours

                “Ooh, look at that! You’re getting close, only two hours left!”

                All I can do is groan. I’ve got my back pressed against the wall, one foot brought up as high as it can go just to do anything about the pressure. My hands are balled into fists out at my sides, every so often pounding against the wall in frustration. They can’t do anything else, for as much as I would prefer otherwise. If I could just untie the drawstring forcing my sweatpants to dig into my bladder…

                But no. Can’t let them get anywhere near there. That would just make things worse, though at the moment I can’t imagine what might be worse than this. I turn my head to look at the empty jug on the floor a few feet away to my left. There used to be a gallon of water in that, and now… Now all I can think of is how much I want to refill it.

                The thought makes me jump with a little yelp as a warmth appears where it’s most unwelcome. Quite a bit of warmth, and by god I wish I didn’t have to stop.

                “Sounds like someone leaked.”

                Once I recollect myself I silently glare at her, more for that songlike tone than the actual teasing. Then my gaze shifts to her left hand, the one holding her phone that she’s been using as a stopwatch this whole time. Wrapped around her wrist is a long piece of string, and below the knot, hanging from some excess string, is the key that I need.

                “Whatcha lookin’ at?” With a chirping voice she lets me know that she knows I’m looking at her. “Oh, you want to know the time, right? It’s been… three hours and two minutes.”

                With another groan I move to look at the ceiling instead, pressing the top of my head against the wall. I most certainly did not want to know the time, but… only two minutes? Really? How am I going to survive another two hours if two minutes felt that long?

                I close my eyes and start breathing through my mouth, kind of marching in place while I remain against the wall. Honestly, I don’t even know if I could move from this spot anymore. Moving my legs like this is helping a little bit, if only because the feeling of motion is distracting from what would have been unbearable pressure otherwise; I’m not actually going anywhere so everything that used to be in that jug remains largely undisturbed for now, and I know for sure I won’t be able to say the same if I try to take so much as a single step forward.

                For only a moment my eyes open so that I can look to my right – to the bathroom door just a little bit farther away from me than the jug. The door which, even if I could walk to without exploding, wouldn’t open without that damn key. So I go back to looking at the ceiling instead.

                “Yep, it’s still locked.”

                She says that like I can’t see it for myself.

                “Don’t worry, I’ll let you in as soon as we hit five hours.”

                I want to tell her to go fuck herself almost as much as I want to piss, but since all of my energy is dedicated to making sure that the latter doesn’t happen in my pants, I have no energy left with which to do the former. Or even to say anything at all, for that matter.

                “Actually, you know what, I’ve been standing here watching you for three hours now. I think it’s about time I took a little break.”

                You have got to be fucking kidding me.

                “You stay there,” she says, and I shift to look at her as she gives a taunting little wave and slides her phone into her pocket. She walks nonchalantly to the door, slips the key into the lock, and a moment later the door is closed again with her on the other side.

                I move around and get into a more hunched over pose, my hands now right at my sides, occasionally twitching to move where I need them. And, sure, I could, and it would be great, but nothing I can do would actually help. I can’t release the choking knot, because she would know, and I can’t grab anything because I’d just have to take my hands out again almost immediately.

                So I just hang my head and look at my shoes. It’s my own fault I’m in this situation, but now it’s too late to just say I shouldn’t have done what I did. I didn’t think she’d find out, and I certainly never expected anything like this. But here we are. Here I am looking at my own bladder that’s full enough to make a very visible bulge in my abdomen – and the fact that my shirt doesn’t actually go down that far anyways just makes its presence even more painfully obvious.

                With a deep and shaking breath I try to straighten up again, both hands tugging at my waistband to try to do something, but the knot is just too tight and all I accomplish is creating even more pressure on my bladder. For my efforts I am rewarded with a brief stream renewing the warmth below, one that I can’t easily cut off and leaves a large dark spot on my gray pants.

                The worst part is that it just made me need to pee even more. But for now all I can do is just knot up my legs and hope that some miracle will happen and let me wait out the next two hours without getting any wetter than I already am.

                One hand comes up to my head to push my hair from my face – it’s supposed to be kept in place by a ponytail but this whole ordeal means that the tail is barely even there anymore. There’s just a bunch of loose hair behind me, barely kept in place by a hair tie that’s far lower than it should be.

                When the door to the bathroom opens again, both of my hands are practically clawing at the wall while my posture worsens.

                “So, what’s new with you?”

                She’s standing right in front of me, and I look right into her eyes not with the same contempt as before, but now just silently pleading that she won’t make me endure any more of this.

                “Hm, looks like someone got a little wet.”

                My hands curl up into fists again while I just stand there, trembling and staring at her, hoping for mercy.

                “Hope you let enough out to last the rest of the two hours,” she says, not acknowledging anything else and just walking back to where she had been standing before. She’s got her phone out again, checking the timer. “Hundred and ninety-five minutes. Three-fifteen. Getting close.”

                How.

                The.

                Fuck…

                … was all of that only fifteen minutes? There’s no way this is possible.

                I look down at my feet again, squirming almost violently to hold out as long as possible. I gasp as I feel a quick burst of warmth in my clothes, and then groan when it gets followed up by a stream lasting several seconds. I can just barely hear the sound of some liquid splattering on the floor over the sound of blood rushing through my head.

                Fortunately, I wrest control back from my body to stop that puddle from getting any bigger.

                But then I double over and press both hands into one of my thighs as another stream follows, this one much harder to stop. The effort leaves me panting and I’m starting to feel my pants sticking to my legs from the knee up, and some more wet trails down the rest.

                And I still need to pee worse than I ever have before.

                I start whimpering and doing the best little dance that I can, hoping – praying – that nothing else comes out. That I don’t totally wet myself. That all this would just be over.

                I don’t even care anymore that she’s standing there with her phone, counting up to a time we both know I can’t reach. All I care about is the fight I’m putting up against my own body. God, if this could all just be some bad dream, I would have woken up on the verge of wetting my bed by now. If only I could be so lucky. Hell, at this point I would take waking up from this nightmare in a wet bed. I would take anything.

                Anything at all. Something to make this all stop, to make the pressure go away. Something, anything, some way that this could end without a flood.

                I just want this to be over.

                My little dance intensifies as I feel another leak coming.

                And then…

                Then I freeze.

                And then it’s over.

This was my contribution to a collaborative project involving a bunch of great artists. Their wonderful entries can be viewed here.

I decided after finishing this that my take on the waterlogged girl here shall be named Samantha (or just Sam, as is her preference). We'll be seeing her again.