Posted by Terry on December 13, 1998 at 15:47
Last Friday my office had a luncheon at the top of a major shopping complex in downtown San Francisco. I wore new shrink-to-fit 501s with black cowboy boots and a nice sweater of indigo and burgundy hues over a dress shirt. The jeans had been given the routine first washing to shrink them down to size, and they fit great. I felt horny in them all morning,
After pre-lunch drinks, a couple of bottles of wine shared with two women at my table, and a round of drinks after the meal, we all went our separate ways home. I headed downstairs to catch the Metro. I had become faintly aware of pressure in my bladder, but it was far from urgent. Still, with the combined effects of all the drinks, my inhibitions were pretty low. So as I glided down the escalator, I started seeping a little -- without forethought, just spontaneously. I was wearing grey Jockey pouch briefs, the mid-thigh style, and could feel my piss warming my thigh as I rode down. I knew it would show on the outside of the jeans, too, but not much. Which was true. At the bottom of the escalator, I paused to "adjust my pantleg over my boot" and took a look. Small wet area on the right, nothing conspicuous.
Well, by the time I caught the Metro to the Castro, the pressure had mounted considerably. When I sat down, I knew I wanted to do it -- to piss my jeans on the train -- but was a little ambivalent. The pressure decided for me. Somewhere between the Montgomery and Powell Street stations, I lost control. It came out in spurts, two or three, and then I just relaxed and peed. Let go until the pressure subsided. I loved it. New, fuzzy 501s, really dark indigo, glistening in the crotch as I pissed. Felt the warm sensation spreading around my ass.
In the Castro, I had to shop for a couple of things, and did so -- walking around with a wet crotch and butt. No one commented; but then, it was the Castro. For those unacquainted with San Francisco, that's the predominantly gay neighborhood where it's generally understood and taken for granted that some people are into watersports.
To get home, had to take the Metro again and catch a bus. On bus, had to pee again. Didn't want to get gentleman next to me wet. But couldn't hold it, either. Crowded bus. No way out. Started spurting. Spurt, spurt, spurt. Ahh, yeah, just let it flow! Wet my crotch again, soaked my ass. Not enough to overflow into the other guy's seat. My jeans soaked everything up. It felt so fucking good, though, just to sit there on the 44 O'Shaughnessy and piss my 501s!
At my stop, I stepped down off the bus quickly, as is always necessary, but with no special haste. Maybe a person or two noticed the wet backside, maybe not. I'll never know. When I got to our house, I checked it all out in the mirrors. My rear was wet from just below the belt loop, where the seams cross, all the way down over the edges of the patch pockets, halfway down the backs of my thighs. The handkerchief from my right rear pocket was wringing wet. The front of my jeans was very wet, of course, from having peed them twice sitting down. I'd noticed on the bus, below the folds of my sweater, how symmetrical the dark wet ellipses along my inseams were. I love that look. There's something about the denim that Levi Strauss uses, along with the orange thread, that gets me hard every time I see it wet.
Admiring the wet jeans in the mirror, carressing them and rubbing my wet crotch, naturally I gave myself a boner and ended up jacking off in my wet pants and taking a long post-orgasmic nap. The jeans dried over a chair for a couple of days and are amazingly odor-free. I'm wearing them now and plan to wear them to a tree-trimming party this evening. The scene last Friday was just the beginning of their career as fetish-wear.
Email: terry@wetjeans.com