This story was inspired by Phoenix Arrow's "Bathroom Mistress."  
I sent him a copy, and he liked it.  

    


                        PIT STOP 

                           by

                       C. Lakewood 
                        


    Gwen Miller smiled at herself in the mirror.  Dark blonde 
ponytail, brief yellow sundress, local huarachas....  Slender, 
with smallish breasts but nice legs, under the right conditions, 
she COULD resemble a college co-ed -- well, maybe a grad student 
-- rather than the 31-year-old editor she actually was.  Tonight 
she was more than ready for some semi-anonymous partying to shake 
off the dust of this dreary conference and the stultifying 
presence of her supervisor, Ms. Harriet Hopkins.  

    Actually, Hopkins was only a few years older than Gwen, but 
she SEEMED much more senior.  Mostly she was just infuriating...a 
starchy, Puritanesque authority-figure...but, every so often, 
Gwen thought that she detected a sort of "drooling dyke" look in 
Hopkins' eye.     

    She shuddered.  Well, she'd ditched Hopkins for tonight and 
was off to fiesta.  She glanced at her purse and shook her head.  
No unnecessary burdens tonight, after lugging around Hopkins' 
lap-top all day, in addition to the reams of conference crap 
that the gorgon had insisted on picking up.  

    She just stuffed a wad of the local funny money -- pesetas or 
escudos or reales or whatever -- into her pocket and flounced 
happily out the door, delighted to have gotten free at last and 
looking forward to drinking in a lot of the local color -- as well 
as the local beer.

    As the hotel room door clicked shut behind her, she suddenly 
remembered that her key card, along with all her ID, was in her 
purse, now locked inside the room.  She stiffened, momentarily, 
then relaxed and shrugged.

    On the way out, she stopped at the front desk and found that 
there was someone on duty all night, who would recognize her and 
let her back into the room.  So she went on her way with a light 
heart.  

    The instant she left the hotel, the hot and humid twilight 
closed in around her, and she began to sweat.  But that was okay.  
Even in the rapidly fading light, it was obvious why they'd named 
this city "La Ciudad Roja" -- most of the buildings were either 
of red brick or stuccoed with red adobe, and virtually all were 
topped by red tile roofs -- and she enjoyed the sights and the 
walk and the sense of being "footloose and fancy-free."  

    A few blocks along, she reached the plaza or zócalo and plunged 
into the street festival -- noise, gaiety, a jostling crowd, cheap 
and plentiful beer....  Gwen easily shed inhibitions amongst all 
the merry-making, an indulgence she hadn't allowed herself for a 
dozen years.  But she felt she needed the R&R after having had to 
fetch and carry for Hopkins all through this damn inane conference.

    Time passed.  She didn't know how much time, exactly; she 
wasn't wearing a watch.  It was all a mad whirl.  She spent all 
her money on delicious snacks and fizzy local beer and tips for 
the dancers and musicians.  But that was okay, for, after she 
was broke, she got anything she wanted to eat or drink free, 
simply by asking.

    Eventually, though, she realized that her bladder was full 
and that she had to pee...somewhat urgently.  She would have 
settled for a quiet alley, but there was absolutely nowhere 
within sight that wasn't teeming with merry-makers.

    Then she spotted a quiet cantina.  She slipped inside and 
found it strewn with fiesta debris, but apparently deserted, 
except for a bartender snoozing in one corner.  It was somewhat 
cooler inside than it had been in the street, with a negative 
effect on her bladder.  After a brief search, she located "Las 
Mujeres" and was relieved to find it was a fairly modern set-up 
(well, vintage 1939).

    She scurried into one of the two stalls, but was held up 
fiddling with the door latch, which seemed to be defective.  
Worried that she'd piss herself, she was about to try the other 
stall, when she heard someone enter that one, close the door, and 
latch it.  As it turned out, all the beer Gwen had drunk was 
apparently making her fumble-fingered, for, a moment later, her 
own latch clicked into place.  She flipped up her dress, pulled 
down her panties, and dropped gratefully onto the toilet seat.  
She sighed and prepared to let go, hoping she could do it quietly.      

    "I say, hang on!"  A woman's voice from the adjoining stall 
interrupted her, and Gwen's sphincter clenched like a fist.   

    "Ah?  Are you talking to me?" Gwen said, and then she had a 
vision of that scene from "Taxi Driver."  She shook herself.  This 
was no time to lose focus. 

    The voice came again.  "Yes.  Of course.  I told you to hold 
it in."

    "Ex-cuse me?  'Hold it in'?"

    "Yes.  Do not pee yet, chica."  

    Gwen was flabbergasted.  "Well, it's none of your business, 
madam, surely...."

    "It is about manners, girl, and about being properly obedient." 
   
    "B-but...but...."  Gwen felt disoriented.

    "But nothing.  I expect you to be a good girl and do as you are 
told without making a fuss."

    The voice was educated, patrician...Latina, but with something 
of a British inflection.  A quiet voice, but obviously accustomed 
to being obeyed.  Its owner might be anywhere between 30 and 50, 
Gwen thought.

    Gwen wondered who this weird woman was...and if she might be 
dangerous.  Her bladder sent her another signal.

    "Well, really....  I don't know who you are, or what you want, 
but I simply MUST pee.  Please, just let me do it in peace."

    Silence. 

    Gwen trembled, waiting.

    ("Why?" she thought.  "It's nerve-wracking.  Why doesn't she 
say something?  Why doesn't she let me pee?  God!  For that matter, 
why don't I just go ahead and do it?")

    "A good girl does not pee without permission.  You are being 
obedient, and that is good.  Continue to sit there quietly and 
hold it in for me." 

    "I'm not...."  But she realized that she WAS holding it.  Not 
for this strange woman, though.  This bitch was as bad as Hopkins 
-- no, worse.  Why in hell was this happening? 

    "So, little girl, is it beginning to hurt, having to sit there 
holding it in?"

    Her words seemed to trigger a spasm of cramping.  But Gwen's 
bladder remained sealed.  

    "Yes, it fucking does hurt," Gwen hissed.  "It really, really 
hurts.  Please.  I so need to let go."  

    The woman laughed.  It wasn't a silly giggle, a nervous titter, 
or a crude guffaw, but the sophisticated laugh of someone very much 
in control.  Gwen could feel herself getting red -- partly from 
frustration and partly from embarrassment.  

    ("I'm not a kid," she thought.  "I'm 31, with a career, an 
important job...sort of important, anyway...and I'm begging a 
stranger for permission to piss.  This is stupid.  I can just....")

    "If it hurts you so, why do you continue to hold it?"

    "B-because...because you won't let me pee."

    Another throaty laugh.  

    "Please, ma'am....  Why can't I pee?"

    "Because I want to see if you truly are a good girl.  You just 
carry on sitting there obediently like a good girl, eh?"

    "Please," Gwen whimpered.  "It's so h-hard.  I won't be able 
to hold it back much longer, ma'am...."

    "So far, you have been a good girl.  You do not want to ruin 
that, do you?"  

    "Why are you being so awful?  Please!  Just let me pee.  I AM 
a good girl....  I've proved that.  Please don't make me have an 
accident.  Please."

    Another laugh.

    "PLEASE!"  Gwen, already wriggling childishly on the toilet 
seat, now began to sniffle.  "I-I can't stand much more, ma'am."
She felt weak, stupid.

    The woman pressed on.

    "So far, so good.  But you must continue to be my good girl."

    Pause.

    "What are you wearing, querida?"

    "W...wearing?  Uh...a dress...panties...sandals...."

    "No bra?  Tsk, tsk...what a little miss show-off."  

    "It...it's a sundress...with b-built-in support."

    "Oh?  Let me see it.  Pass it to me, under the partition...and 
do not dawdle."

    ("Maybe she'd let me pee if I did it....")  

    So she did it.

    "Um...not very clean, I see...and it stinks of sweat and 
beer...."

    "I...I've been out...at the fiesta...."

    "Flirting?  Showing yourself off, hoping to attract some brawny 
young lover?"

    "Damn you, you bitch!"

    "A nice way to talk.  Apologize to Mamá...right now!"

    ("'Mama,' indeed!  What a bitch!  But, maybe....") 

    "I-I'm s-sorry....  Please, Mama...I have to pee so bad...."

    "Yes, I know, mi niña.  It must really hurt.  So full of 
piss....  So frustrated.  Wanting so much to be a good girl, 
and so afraid of being bad.  Do you think you have earned your 
release?"    

    "Yes, please, Mama!" Gwen whimpered.

    "Well, I am afraid you cannot just yet.  You need to 
demonstrate the sincerity of your apology....  Pass me your 
panties...now!"

    "B-b-but...."

    "No more dilly dally, young lady, do as you are told!" 

    Gwen pulled off her panties (damp from sweat and...) and passed 
them over, too.  

    "Now your sandals, and I'll give you a treat."  

    Without hesitation, Gwen kicked her huarachas under the 
partition.  

    ("I really, really need that treat," she said to herself.)  

    "Good girl.  Now then, for a treat, you may finger your wet 
little...cunt.  Eh?  Or is it really so 'little'?"

    "It IS little, Mama!  I'm a good girl."

    ("What?  Masturbate?  In here?") 

    "Go ahead, child.  It is wet and itchy, is it not?  Does it not 
ache for your attention?"

    Gwen looked down at herself.  

    ("My god!" she whispered to herself.  "She's right!  My cunt's 
swollen and drooling...and my clit's stiff and throbbing.  I hadn't 
even noticed because of so much distress over my damn bladder.  
Well, if she's letting me....")    

    She brushed her fingertips across her needy pussy, and it 
twitched -- so sharply and suddenly that she almost lost control 
of her bladder.  Almost.

    But now, ready for it, she allowed herself to stroke her 
cunt-lips more confidently, more intimately, effortlessly 
falling into the pattern that gave her the greatest thrills.  

    ("Omigod...omigod!  I DO need this so....")

    "Is my niña playing with herself?"

    ("FUCK-KING-BITCH!" Gwen screamed inside her head.  Controlling 
my bladder isn't enough for her, she wants to control my cunt, 
too.")

    Determined not to give Bitch-Mama any satisfaction, she clamped 
her lips shut...though she carried on masturbating.  There was a 
heavy silence, disturbed only by Gwen's stertorous nose-breathing 
and the tiny, wet sounds of her fingering her increasingly sloppy 
cunt.  Her scent filled the narrow stall.  But she wasn't getting 
off.  A part of her mind had to try to concentrate on holding her 
pee, and that distraction was enough to interfere with her familiar 
masturbatory fantasies....

    "You are such a shameless little savage, are you not?  You are 
actually masturbating in a public restroom?  Tell Mamá...."  

    "Y-you said I could.  I NEED it.  Sooo horneee...."

    "I can hear you and smell you.  Tell me, my dirty little girl, 
what are you doing?"

    "I'm...I'm...."

    "Are you really masturbating in public?"

    "Y-y-yes...."  

    "'Yes' what, puerca?"

    "Yes, I-I'm mas-masturbating in public, dammit!"  Gwen was 
mortified, but she couldn't help it.  "I'm...um...f-finger-fucking 
myself, Mama."

    "So is that the reason you came in here?  To masturbate like 
an animal?"

    Gwen continued to work her swollen cunt, but piped, "To pee!"  

    "Really?"

    "Yes, Mama, I came in to pee."

    "That may be, but then you decided you would rather masturbate 
than urinate."

    "Oh, no....  P-please, let me pee...please...."  But she 
continued playing with herself.

    "So NOW you would rather pee than cum?"

    "Yes....  Please, Mama...."

    "But you are otherwise engaged at the moment, are you not?  
Pissing is not your priority, surely."

    "Mama...I'm s-s-sorry....  Please...."

    "So then what do you really want to do, querida?  To pee?  Or 
to finger-fock yourself in a public washroom 'til you cum like the 
puta you truly are?"

    ("Oh, god!  My bladder hurts so bad.  Pissing would be heaven.  
But I need to cum, too; I'm so wet, and my fingers feel sooo nice.  
Geez!  If only I hadn't drunk so much.  If Hopkins weren't such a 
bitch, I could be in bed asleep right now.  How can I choose?  My 
mind is drifting....")

    "I...I....  What should I do, Mama...?" 

    "Well....  Of course, a bad girl who masturbates in public 
should be punished -- MUST be punished....  So you should not get 
a climax.   But you may pee, however."

    "B-but...."  Gwen suddenly knew that she just HAD to cum.

    "You heard me, girl.  You held your pee for me, and now you 
will let it go for me...because I tell you to."

    From somewhere, Gwen summoned up the will to disobey.  The 
bitch in the next stall had seized control of two of her most 
basic and intimate functions, and that had aroused her to a 
fever pitch.  Ignoring the cramps, she thrust three wriggling 
fingers deep into her dripping cunt -- and diddled her clit with 
her thumb.  With her free hand, she clung to the toilet paper 
dispenser, for she knew it would be a bumpy ride. 

    She began to huff and puff, to groan, her hand moving faster, 
all fear and doubt finally gone now...and, as she hissed out the 
announcement of her orgasm, her bladder let go, too, and it felt 
like all her vital organs were spewing from her cunt.

    She sat there...sobbing and shaking...gasping and pissing and 
cumming for what seemed an eternity.

    And, as her mental fog began to lift a bit, Gwen vaguely heard 
the woman next door unlock her stall, wash her hands, and walk out, 
leaving her sitting alone and naked, exhausted, for a while unable 
to move, unable to speak, and even unable to wonder what would 
happen to her now.