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.