So anyway, I’m thinkin’ about summer vacations. No big hunky handsome millionaires offer to take me to Monte Carlo (wouldn’t go under these circumstances anyway), but my friend Maureen (Mo) suggests Fuerteventura.
‘Where?’
‘Canary Islands, dummy. A couple of guys I know are working as windsurfing instructors. They’ll put us up.’
Hmmm, two big, fit, sports instructor types - suddenly I’m interested.
‘Forget it Chelle. Jules and Henri aren’t available. They’re in love.’
‘Oh, surely their girlfriends’ll object if we....’
She gives me a pitying look and the light dawns. Oops. OK, so I’m dumb!
Boy, am I dumb! Windsurfing is what they call sailboarding over here, and Mo’s very good at it indeed. Also, Fuerteventura is where they hold the world championships, a small island with nothing between it and Mexico except about two thousand miles of Atlantic. So there’s our Michelle with her RYA Grade 2 trying to keep up with two instructors and an aspiring international in howling great gales and waves the size of houses.
‘Tomorrow,’ promises Jules, ‘we go out of the bay and try some rough conditions.’ I almost fall off my sailboard. No, scratch that. I do fall off my sailboard.
The first few days I’m bushed, and just flake out every night. Eventually, however, I decide that maybe a girl ought to have a little night-life on holiday. Like, forget it! There’s a postcard with the title ‘Fuerteventura by Night’. It’s completely black. Henri tells us that what little action there is is in Corralejo, on the north of the island, and offers to lend us his auto. I suspect he wants some time alone with Jules, and accept gratefully. I drive. Mo stops screaming after the first two kilometers and just sits looking dazed.
The town’s touristy, but clean and kinda nice, with a guy playing a keyboard at music square and a Dutchman called Eric playing some neat guitar in the market. All souvenir stuff except....
‘Hey, look at these,’ says Mo. Real neat, lace dresses, hotpants, totally see-thru, and for underneath the sexiest lace underwear I ever saw. OK, cotton’s best for my little kink, but I’m not adverse to flashing a sexy, lacy butt either. Prices? Too high.
Mo starts to bargain. Funny how folks are different. Our Maureen can just about count to ten and thinks Laplace is a type of fish, but she speaks French, German, Italian and Spanish like a native. She’s promised to teach me English some day. Anyway, prices are a lot less in Spanish and we stow the loot back in the auto. Now for some fun.
I drink a lot of lemon squash. Mo gets outside a fair amount of sangria, and starts to wobble a bit. Guys eye us up, but no action as yet. Mostly couples there anyway. We go searching for a john - most of the bars don’t have one. We wiggle along the street. Mo’s wearing a red dress, so short that her ass shows a bit with each step. Underneath she’s in a black lace g-string which hides nothing. I’m wearing a thin white cotton dress over nylon aquamarine panties. I decide to be naughty - warm night, why not? I stand for a few moments, feet about a foot apart, and pee thru my panties, then squeeze my thighs together, resist the impulse to lift my skirt and inspect my wet knickers, and walk on, dress unstained.
Nobody notices, except Mo. She gives me a look and says nothing. We go into the busiest part of town..
‘Oh my God,’ yells Mo, ‘I’m bursting!’ Heads turn. She writhes and wiggles, convincing everyone but me. ‘I cant hold it,’ she yells, pushing the hem of her dress between her thighs. ‘I don’t believe this! I’m gonna wet myself!!’
Revenge indeed. I did the first wet, but she’s gettin’ the attention. I wonder for a moment if she’ll go thru with it. Mo has no problems about making a discrete little puddle thru her g-string should the need arise, but she’s not into sexual wetting and staging accidents. As usual, I’ve underestimated her. A big wet stain spreads on her red dress - it’s so short she has to pull it down to her crotch to get it really soaked. She keeps her knees together and streams of pee run down her thigh-high holdups. She lifts her skirt and bends to examine the flow thru her inadequate panties. A puddle forms on the sidewalk. She gives one more high pressure spurt then stops.
‘I just peed in my panties,’ she tells the world. ‘I can’t believe what I’ve done.’ I try not to applaud - it has to be one of the most convincing ‘accidents’ I’ve ever seen.
Most folks try not to look at us, or, if male, try not to let their companions see them looking at us. Two guys come over. Will they be sympathetic? One is tall, dark, bit of a smoothy, but he speaks to Mo gently, commiserating about the shortage of washrooms, offering to take her back to his hotel to clean up. The other is quiet and shy, my type. I smile. He swallows.
‘Hi,’ I say, ‘I’m Michelle.’
‘Charlie. Sorry your friend couldn’t find a toilet. Not many around, and we usually sneak into the nearest hotel. It’s because there’s hardly any water on the island...’
‘She wasn’t the only one,’ I interrupt quietly.
‘Wh.. what!?’
I lift my hem discretely to show him the stain on my panties. His eyes all but pop out. as, I note with interest, does his erection. He gives me his arm.
Mo’s smoothy is called Bill, and she’s got the hots for him, but we all take things easy. Mo and I use the guys’ washroom, then sit in borrowed shirts and swimming shorts while they rinse our things thru and put them on the balcony to dry. Mo adds some white wine to her sangria consumption, while I stick to soda. It appears there is a nightlife of sorts, a couple of the bars re-opening at midnight as night-clubs. Charlie and Bill make no attempt at seduction despite our vulnerable state. I’m impressed; Mo, I think, is disappointed. We dress in our cleaned clothes, fix our make-up, and it’s just nice time to go out.
It’s hardly Benidorm or San Antonio, but we enjoy our little disco. Just one problem, though, the ladies’ washroom is completely out of action, and the gents’ just isn’t coping, especially when the women ‘liberate’ it and some moron tries to flush a tampon down it. Alcohol is being consumed in Spanish quantities, and there’s some evidence of desperation. The guys are OK, sneaking out I nto the dark street, the girls are too inhibited, holding it a bit long. Finally one runs outside, hoisting her miniskirt and pulling her thong panties round her knees. Another two exit, desperation evident. They come back in, looking relieved, although one has a definite damp spot on her butt. The girls in tight jeans are the least fortunate, and one tall blonde asks her companion to leave. Her distress is obvious, but he demurs, and we notice a distinct darkening round her crotch before she finally persuades him to go. I, at least, am sober, although my bladder control’s never been the best. Mo is on the far side of tipsy and heading for smashed. Neither of us have puddled the floor yet, but it’s time to go.
We walk down the street - pitch dark. I hear Mo whispering to Bill, and his answer. ‘Go ahead darling, wouldn’t mind at all.’ They stop, I hear Mo gasp, a soft hiss, the sound of liquid splattering on the sidewalk. A giggle.
‘She’s done it again,’ I whisper to Charlie.
‘Don’t you need to?’
‘Yes, I’m bursting. Maybe I can hold it until I get back to your place, though.’
‘You don’t have to....’
Mmmm, did I detect a little lust there? ‘Maybe I could do just a little one,’ I find my voice’s gone husky, ‘then do more when we get home.’
‘Good idea’
‘Kiss me then!’
We kiss very hard in the shadows, and his hands start to wander, first on my boobs, then under my skirt. I begin to get hot and wet, and not with pee. A finger slides inside my panties, finds the right spot. I let go, a controlled squirt, covering his hand, soaking my knickers. Another, and I climax. One more, real slow, puddling the ground. I sigh, relax. His cock is bobbing against me and I know he wants to fuck me now, but I have other plans. I push him away, and wiggle along, feelin’ a bit weak, glad of the support of his arm.
Into his room - an Aparthotel, so no corridors to drip thru. Mo’s clothes lie in the doorway in a sodden heap, Bill’s hastily removed pants beside them. I hear the creak of a well tested bed. Charlie’s clothes join the heap, but mine stay on. We go out to the porch. Can we be seen - maybe, but it adds to the excitement. Plastic chair with slats. Marble floor, with drainhole into gutter. I can be as naughty as I like! I sit Charlie on the chair and give him a little suck to firm him up, then lean over him so he can suck my nipples. Mmmm... I lower myself gently on to him, just touching, teasing, a lap dance, the wet material of my panties brushing his glans. He thrusts, but I tease, drawing away. I tease some more. Even in the dim light, I see him gettin’ kinda red. I do a tiny pee, dripping on to his organ. Another. Can I hold the rest? Yesssssss!!!
He’s desperate now, his cock banging against my dripping gusset. I’m kinda keen myself. He pulls my knickers to the side and thrusts hard. I prepare to soak him. I.....
He stops, kisses me, gets up. Charlie, I know I was teasin’, but you don’t have to!! Charlie!!! He goes inside, looks for something, finds it, hands it to me.
A condom! Charlie, you sweet guy! OK, bad girls need to do safe sex, but sometimes I get excited and forget. I kiss him gratefully, open the packet, and roll the sheath on to his rod. He sits, pulls me on top of him, and thrusts fiercely. I try to pee with him inside me. Can’t. Yes I can! Splashes everywhere. Don’t care! Coming... Coming...
CUM CUM CUM CUM CUM!!!
G-spot orgasm. I squirt! I pee. He roars, fills the sheath. We slow, but he stays inside. Nice, relaxed. I stand, then sit on his lap, cradled like a baby, cry a bit, gently empty my bladder into my soaked clothing.
Applause from behind us. Bill and Mo. ‘Messy little piece, isn’t she,’ the latter comments. She can talk!
I decline an invitation to swap partners. I may do sex kinda readily with guys I like, but I’m not totally promiscuous. Not that I don’t like Bill, but, well... Actually, I think the guys are a bit relieved. I milked Charlie kinda thoroughly, and when Mo lays them they stay laid. Mo and I bathe, and sit wrapped in blankets, sipping coffee, while the boys once again clean up and rinse our clothes. Thank goodness for the Fuerteventura wind.
Bill and Charlie are leaving tomorrow, quite early. In any case, Mo and I want to do some sailboarding and have to get back. A nice, casual fuck, no hurt, no strings. Funny how I always cry.
Mo and I dress, kiss goodbye, walk to the auto. We stop, grin at each other.
‘OK, Michelle, you were right and I was wrong.’
‘Huh?’
‘Wetting yourself can be a turn on.’
‘Hey, Mo, three times in one night’s overdoin’ it!’ Too late. Already the puddle’s forming round her feet. Ah well, coffee always did have a funny effect on me. Giggling, we stand in the warm black night, soaking our panties, then change into our new lace clothes beside the car. I study my companion. She’s still more than a little drunk, and none too responsible a type when sober.
‘Mo, this’s Henri’s auto. Don’t pee in it.’
‘On one condition.’
‘What?’
‘Don’t drive so ***** fast on the way home!!’
Michelle
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