by Jeremy Edwards
(05/09/07)

Giselle walked briskly from her subway stop, en route to the apartment she shared with Diana. Diana of the smiling green eyes and the floppy, straw-colored hair. Diana with the ripe-looking lips that Giselle longed to taste. Diana, whom she wanted desperately to corner with a certain question, "Do you, perhaps perhaps, like girls?"

Diana, for whom that question arose in Giselle's mind every morning...and lingered, unasked, every night.

Diana, who would be moving out at the end of the month, to begin graduate school in another city.

Giselle had been caught short, as they say, on her trip home this evening. But she prided herself on being a resourceful woman, and she was determined not to be daunted by her own bladder. So she suavely diverted herself into the recesses of a vacant, semi-overgrown lot.

There, she calmly spread her legs and, yes, she peed, standing quietly, with an elegant feminine dignity, her posture mistakable at a distance for the businesslike stance of a prospective developer checking out the property. No big deal, thought Giselle. It had happened before, and it would happen again. Panties into the wash when she got home, and that would be that. As she appeared back on the sidewalk, with her soaked crotch her own discreet, warm secret, she congratulated herself on this habit she had of wearing skirts.

During the walk home afterwards, the wetness felt pleasant, almost arousing. She walked more slowly than usual.

Diana was in the kitchen, a room Giselle had to pass through on her way to the washing machine -- or to any other room in the house, for that matter. Giselle said a quick hello, then tried to excuse herself, explaining candidly to her roommate that she had a pair of wet panties to contend with. "I had to pee myself on the way here," she said with a comfortable laugh.

Diana's eyes seemed to look at Giselle with increased intensity, and she laughed a different sort of laugh from her friend's casual chuckle.

Where Giselle's laughter had been low-key, her roommate's was imbued with some vital energy that Giselle struggled to identify.

"I wish I'd been there," Diana said liltingly. "I bet you looked hot."

And then Diana went to her room. Five minutes later, she left the apartment to work her evening shift at the restaurant. And three days after that, the end of the month arrived, and Diana moved away.

Giselle started a new job, one that gave her the means to keep the apartment for herself. And life went on. Diana's presence was now limited to a series of affectionate "Miss you!" messages in Giselle's inbox.

When the first e-mail arrived, Giselle deliberated over whether to send more than just a chirpy "Miss you, too!" in reply. But she decided that e-mail was not the best vehicle for asking your ex-roommate if she was a lesbian, and (P.S.) did said ex-roommate in fact mean to have implied that she'd be turned on by seeing you wet your panties. IM didn't strike her as the ideal way to approach these matters, either.

About a month later Giselle was walking home, as usual, and once again she needed to pee. This time, it was not so urgent that she ducked into the vacant lot; but, wow, was she looking forward to slipping her little panties down upon arrival, and taking a womanly seat for thirty seconds.

In the bathroom, when she was finally peeling her silk and her ass was descending sweetly into place, the vision hit her. It was a vision of Diana, standing in the open doorway and watching, her eyes blazing and her luscious lips giving voice to that electric laughter.

A sizzle ran through Giselle's body, and she cried out in unscheduled ecstasy as piss flooded across her gates. She was as surprised as she was overcome to realize that she was going to have an orgasm. "I bet you looked hot!" her memory shouted passionately, in Diana's voice, just as she was about to peak. When she hit that threshold of tightly-coiled, shimmering bliss that is so intense a girl almost can't stand it, Giselle's feet did a drum roll on the tiles, and her legs pulled wildly against the fabric of the half-dropped panties.

It was the type of giant soap bubble of erotic pleasure that could only sustain itself for a moment before exploding; and, in another instant, Giselle was a passenger on a massive, cunt-tickling wave of sensation that resonated with the water music of her urinary flow. Then, she slouched into exhaustion, her ass cheeks resting wearily on the toilet seat as her puffy pussy dripped nonchalantly beneath her.

Several more weeks passed before it became an obsession. Certainly, seeing an e-mail from Diana, however brief, always made Giselle tingle a bit. And occasionally, when she felt that other kind of tingle directing her toward the toilet, a yearning would develop in her cunt, accompanied by thoughts of her beautiful ex-roommate.

Gradually, this sort of experience became less and less occasional.

Soon, Giselle could not remember the last time she had peed without imagining that Diana was watching. It happened at work, where she stole quick pisses with the hope that no important phone calls would be missed. It happened in public buildings, where she would sometimes wait a little longer than she had to, because it made her tingle more. It happened, of course, at home, where she was now in the habit of following almost every piss with an intensive self-fingering, even before she wiped. Wherever and whenever she tinkled, she felt on some level that she was doing it for Diana.

Often, she continued to imagine that Diana watched from a doorway. But sometimes Giselle pretended that Diana was crouching right at her feet while she occupied the commode, gazing between her delicately spread thighs and looking straight into her poised crotch. She liked to imagine Diana's smiling face less than a foot away, closely observing her most feminine flesh as it experienced the critical moment at which tension melted into release.

She began to say "Oh!" aloud whenever she let go with a stream in the privacy of her own bathroom. And she knew that "Oh!" in her inner lexicon had come to mean "Oh, Diana!" Giselle recognized that she was obsessed, that she had allowed what might have been just an off-the-wall remark by a straight chick to turn her into a compulsive, autoerotic piss-freak -- with a fixation on a girl now a thousand miles away. It was ridiculous, she thought at times. And yet, there had been that look in Diana's eyes, and that hauntingly exciting laughter.

In the shower each day, Giselle fantasized that Diana was tickling and slapping her sensitive bottom, and she pretended that this was what made her insistent morning piss emerge from its sleep. As it dribbled down the insides of her thighs, she indulged the fiction that Diana's caresses had turned on her intimate tap. Giselle's knees would buckle as she gave in to the cascade. She'd moan and tweak her clit as she felt herself nourishing the bathtub with her personal water. And, swaying in sensuous ecstasy, she wished that Diana could really be there, that she could kiss Diana's darling toes with her warm river.

And sometimes, very late at night, with a beer or two welling up in her tank, Giselle would stand in the tub again, this time decked out in a short dress and panties. Here she would pretend that she was back in the vacant lot, and that Diana was there with her. But where the original moment in the vacant lot had been characterized by poise and discretion, the fantasy-charged re-enactments found Giselle quivering, shrieking, and pressing her dampening self into frenzied climaxes.

When Diana took advantage of a semester break to schedule a trip back to visit friends, Giselle did not even have to offer Diana her old room. Her former roommate invited herself. In an e-mail exchange the day before she was to travel, Diana politely expressed the hope that she would not be imposing. She naturally had no idea that Giselle was masturbating herself into jelly each night at the thought that Diana would soon be in her house again.

The plane was a late one, and the ex-roommates exchanged only the minimal niceties before Diana collapsed into her former bed. Breakfast the next morning was a blur of toast, orange juice, and a little bit of catching up. Just before Giselle left for work, Diana insisted that she would cook dinner for her that night.

During the afternoon, it took a bit of planning and pacing -- not to mention a cup of tea and several trips to the office water cooler -- for Giselle to ensure that a stop in the vacant lot on the way home would be almost, but not quite, necessary.

Outside her door that evening, she fumbled giddily with her keys. Her knees were trembling, her ass was jiggling, and her heart was pounding.

She could hear the sounds of Diana in the kitchen, immediately within.

As the key finally connected, Giselle's thighs squeezed and pulsated purposefully against each other, and Giselle noted with satisfaction that she could just barely have made it to the bathroom in time -- if that had been her destination. Turning the knob, she felt tears of joy in her eyes, complementing the precious droplets that were only now beginning to drip into her panties.

She hoped it would look hot.

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