Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

Emma froze, immobile on the dance floor as her worst fear came true. The silence was total. The audience, just a few seconds before cheering and clapping were as still as statues. None of them could believe what they were seeing. Emma wished the ground would open up and swallow her whole, but more than that, she wished she’d never agreed to appear on the damn show in the first place. It had all started with Emma’s wish to be a journalist. She had dreamt of being a journalist from an early age, sitting behind a cardboard desk even then, reporting the news to lined up toys in her bedroom. She’d studied media and journalism at university, then a Masters, then a lucky break just after completing her course. There had been an opening at a regional station, miles from where she lived but she had to take the shot. She had broken up with her boyfriend of four years, said goodbye to her parents, her friends, even some of her old school enemies and finally set off on the journey two hundred miles north. Emma looked out at the three judges sitting in a row, staring opened mouthed at her, for once in their careers they were completely speechless. The presenter of the show, a veteran of countless TV shows, was looking to the producer who could only shrug. Nobody seemed to know what to do. Emma didn’t see him, or anyone else. She was staring at the wet pool at her feet and feeling her face begin to burn with embarrassment. Her first day on the news floor had been a lucky one. The presenter of the lunchtime news fell ill halfway through the broadcast with what later turned out to be a heart attack. As she was passing the studio someone with a clipboard grabbed her and she was manhandled into the vacant chair, spending the remaining fifteen minutes of the bulletin reading out the details of hospital closure protests and cuddly puppy stories. The collapse of Barry Smith on screen, the longest serving newsreader in the county, was an internet hit, but as the views increased, just as many people were impressed by the confidence shown by the young woman taking over mid broadcast. That assured performance soon led to a regular spot and within a year Emma was headline news herself, the quickest career progression anyone had seen, getting a main anchor role, her own chair at the station board meetings, something even Barry had never achieved. After a year at the helm, Emma was instantly recognisable wherever she went, small towns, cities, walks in the countryside, everyone seemed to know her or thought they did. Nobody suspected her secret, but then she had never had the courage to tell anyone before. One lunchtime, her routine was interrupted, just days before she got the fateful letter asking if she’d like to appear on the national dancing show, Anything Goes. She was on her way down the corridor on the seventh floor, past the sport department, round the hideous pot plants by the lift and to the toilet to make her last trip before the broadcast began. Unfortunately her slavish devotion to routine had a downside. The toilets were locked, a lopsided sign declaring them “Out of Order.” Emma tried the door nonetheless to no avail. She glanced at her watch but time was against her. The show was due to start in less than a minute. Her makeup was already done, another of her quirks, getting that done before her last toilet visit rather than just before getting into the newsroom. So with heavy heart and a deep breath Emma made her way to her chair to begin broadcasting, with a quite desperate need to pee burning away inside her. The show itself went without a hitch but eagle eyed viewers might have spotted that the presenter seemed to shuffle in her seat more than usual and at one point could be seen glancing under her desk as if checking something. Emma finished the broadcast with an aching bladder and a Kuşadası escort sense of exhilaration. It was as if she’d somehow cheated her own body, mastered an art of self control that she hadn’t realised existed inside her. She liked the feeling and vowed to repeat it. So began a new routine, she would wait until after broadcasting to visit the bathroom, no matter how desperate she was. For weeks this went on, her sense of power increasing until like any addict it just wasn’t enough to just be desperate. She started drinking a bottle of water before stepping into the studio, making her desperation ever more severe. She would sometimes have to climb to her feet during video sequences, dancing on the spot before sitting down at the last possible moment when the camera returned to her. Some shows, she held her notes with one hand only, the other buried under the desk, clamped between her thighs to press against her urethra, trying to ensure she didn’t commit the ultimate sin and wet herself live on air. That was her only fear, that one day she would go too far, wait too long, and everyone would know about her secret, know what she liked to do. That idea terrified her but not enough to make her stop. When she read the letter from Anything Goes, she was delighted. An invitation on to a national televised dance contest. This was her chance to really hit the big time, a move from regional star to national treasure. Maybe a shot at getting on the national news. After all nobody from a regional show like hers had been invited on to such a prestigious show as Anything Goes before but then she was an internet sensation. The day of the first show had been like a dream. Not just a chance to meet other stars from round the country, but also the chance to put her holding skills to the test whilst moving, a whole new challenge. It had been easy at first, keeping on the move distracted her, stopped her realising she needed to pee. But when she finished her first dance, she found herself in agony. She hadn’t peed before starting the show and now thought that might have been a mistake. She stood with the presenter by her side, being interviewed, managing to keep her legs moving as if still excited from dancing, trying to conceal how desperate she was, how she would have done anything to run to a toilet and peel off her skin-tight underwear, let the balloon of a bladder insider her relax, let go at last. Instead she had to stand in her thigh high miniskirt, her glittery top, her tiara perched on her head (glued on before the show to ensure it didn’t slip.) What was worse, after the interview she couldn’t leave, she had to sit with the other dancers whilst the show continued. In the rehearsals, once they’d performed, each couple could leave but someone had obviously had a rethink. So Emma had to spend forty minutes dying to pee, ten minutes longer than any of her news broadcasts. She was sweating under the studio lights, her legs clamped together, jiggling her heels up and down and squirming in her seat, enough to make the rugby player beside her give her a number of strange looks. “Are you all right?” he whispered. “I just need the bathroom,” she whispered back, trying to smile at his mixed look of sympathy and disgust. She watched the huge clock on the wall behind the audience. It seemed to pass the time at such slow intervals, every minute scraping past as she was hit with waves of pain, shooting spasms through her bladder. Tensing her thigh muscles helped but she couldn’t hold them like that forever. Every time she relaxed her body tried to pee and she had to immediately tense up again. At one point she could almost feel a drop of pee wetting her panties, hoping against hope that she was imagining it. Finally the studio audience applauded for the last time and bodrum escort bayan the lights dimmed. Emma shot up from her seat, almost knocking over the soap star in her rush to the door. She ran down the corridor and into her dressing room, locking the door behind her. She pushed open the door into the connected bathroom, almost tripped over the toilet in her rush to turn and sit down, frantically yanking down her panties and perching on the edge of the cold plastic seat. She was just in time, the instant her bottom touched the seat, her bladder gave way and a torrent of urine echoed against the porcelain bowl, splashing down into the water beneath. Emma sighed happily, almost able to see her tummy deflating. She stared at the floor at her feet, a smile playing across her face as for a moment she tensed up, stopping the flow momentarily, just long enough to feel the warm ache inside her again. Unable to hold it for more than a few seconds, she again relaxed and another gush of pee sprayed out of her into the toilet. Finally she was finished, after what felt like forever, and she was able to tear off a sheet of toilet paper, dab between her legs and stand up. As she sat down at her dressing table to wait for her call to do the interview for that night’s news, there came a knock at the door. It was one of the producers, a tall man wearing a grey suit, phone in hand. “Hi Emma,” he said as she invited him in. “Mind if I sit down?” He had a tendency to ask questions without waiting for a response. “Now that was great tonight, simply super yeah? But next week if you want to really show the audience what you can do, you need to do something really special. Can you bring something really special? Think of something unique that nobody else has and you’ll go far. I’ve got a good feeling about you Emma, catch you later yeah?” Emma nodded and he was gone before she even had a chance to speak. She sat looking at herself in the mirror, pulling at a strand of hair and wondering just what she could bring to the next show that nobody would have seen before.***** Emma spent the next week training hard with her dance partner, but on the night of the show he wrenched an ankle and had to be rushed to hospital with a suspected fracture. Emma had less than two hours to practise with an understudy, one of a range of back up dancers, all eager to appear on screen, get their chance at the big time. As they rehearsed over and over again, Emma had to snatch sips from her bottle of water between moves, the heat in the studio was overpowering. She found herself drinking more and more but was still trying to nail the end moves when the call came to appear on stage. The show was about to begin. Emma was rushed through make up and into a changing room. She was helped into her outfit, a skimpy approximation of a nurse uniform as their performance tonight represented nurse and patient. Emma was slightly shocked by the costume, a skin tight white crop top, most of her torso exposed. She tugged at her skirt, pink, again skin tight with a few slight frills, making her wonder just how much freedom of movement she would have on the dance floor. Her frantic catching up with a new dancer had left her no time for a dress rehearsal but she would have to make do. Her socks reached her knees and her white shoes completed the ensemble, two red crosses over her chest, covering her nipples which would otherwise have shown through the thin fabric. As she was dressed she realised that as last week she was becoming desperate for the toilet. There was no time to go now though as the lights went on and she was ushered to the stage with the other performers. This week she was drawn last and had to spend the first half of the show sat watching the other performers as they strutted across the dance Kuşadası escort bayan floor. The audience seemed happy, cheering and clapping as the cameras moved round and the judges quipped. Emma sat as still as she could, though she became increasingly uncomfortable as the show progressed. She began shuffling on her seat, placing her hands under her bottom to help lift herself on and off the seat every few seconds. Her feet were tapping on the floor and she began to feel the familiar pain in her bladder as it became more and more uncomfortable, demanding she let go, get to a toilet now. Finally, just as Emma was glancing at the exit door, wondering if she could dash off and come back without being spotted, she was called to dance. With a groan she hauled herself to her feet and gravity immediately made the pain inside her worse. She stepped out to the dance floor as the presenter chatted away to the crowd. Shuffling on the spot, squirming almost, her legs stuck together as the crowd all stared at her captured by her beauty and her costume, so different to the newsreader they all knew. “Look at this now,” the presenter grinned. “Raring to go, can’t even keep still. And I thought nurses were meant to help make my blood pressure lower! Anyway let’s see how you get on.” Emma took her place by a bed, positioned at the top of the stage. The music began and her partner climbed into the bed, getting under the covers and looking ill. As she bent over him, ostensibly to take his temperature, she found herself moaning in pain once more, gripping her thighs together tightly and wishing this was all over, that she’d never agreed to come on the show in the first place. Her partner leapt from the bed and began limping round the stage, before slowly picking up the pace, grabbing her and spinning her round and round. The crowd cheered but Emma felt herself wincing as a tiny spurt of pee fell from her involuntarily, soaking her panties. She hoped nobody would notice, tensing even more to prevent further accidents. As the dance continued the two of them moved more and more in sync, at one point Emma stretching one leg up in the air behind her, blushing in case anyone noticed the damp patch there in the moment it was visible. She bit her lip, knowing there were only a few seconds to go. If only she could last. As the music reached a crescendo her dance partner lifted her into the air and ran across the stage with her. As he brought her back down he slipped and Emma fell, losing her concentration and accidentally relaxing her bladder as she stood back up. “Oh no,” she whispered to herself, turning bright red as a trickle filled her panties and overflowed the sides. It soon turned into a torrent, Emma was unable to stop it, she’d lost control. A never ending stream of urine ran down her legs, splashing onto the stage and pooling at her feet as she stood there wetting herself in front of the entire audience and all those watching at home. The crowd was silent, the judges staring open mouthed. Finally the presenter stepped out on stage, as the last few drops fell from a humiliated Emma. She felt the warmth on her legs, the wetness of her panties, the burning shame on her face and wished the ground would open up and swallow her whole. “Well,” began the presenter. “At 75, I thought I was supposed to be the one who couldn’t control his bladder.” That broke the spell, the audience laughed, so did the judges. Even Emma half smiled. As she slowly made her way to her seat there was a sympathetic round of applause from half the audience, the other half giggling and whispering. Emma sat staring at the floor, wondering if her career was over before it had had a chance to really get going. She didn’t hear the judges’ comments, lost as she was in her own thoughts. “The results are in,” said the presenter. “And today’s winner is Emma and Evan!” There was a moment of confusion before the crowd began cheering. “The people at home must have liked your stunt!” he added as Emma was brought back out to the stage. Afterwards she made her way in silence to her dressing room, ignoring the looks people gave her on the way.

Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32