Again I’ve used ChatGPT to help me. I wrote the story in short form and asked ChatGPT to expand on it.
Chapter 1: Morning Relief
Jack woke up like a shot, blinking against the pale light pushing through the blinds. For a second, everything was calm—until it hit him.
His bladder was full. Not just a little full. He was ballooning.
He groaned, clenching his thighs together beneath the covers. Lying still made it worse. His body throbbed with pressure, the kind that couldn’t be ignored or brushed aside. He sat up quickly, grimacing at the slosh of liquid in his belly. His bare legs swung over the side of the bed and hit the cold floor. Boxers only—no time for anything else.
The bathroom felt miles away.
He hobbled down the hall, one hand brushing the wall for balance, the other pressed over the waistband of his boxers, giving himself some leverage against the weight pressing down inside. His thighs were cold. His calves tensed with every step. His bare legs looked lean and strong but felt weak under the urgency.
He reached the door, flung it open, and nearly stumbled in. The sound of the toilet lid being lifted was somehow louder than usual. His hand fumbled at the waistband, tugged down his boxers just enough, and he barely made it to the bowl in time.
The pee came out slow at first—agonizing. Then it picked up, hitting the water with an unbroken stream that lasted forever. The splash echoed off the walls. His eyes fluttered shut. His legs trembled slightly, knees soft, the muscles unclenching one by one as the pressure drained out of him in waves. The kind of relief that almost made him dizzy.
When it was finally over—truly over—he let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. He flushed, pulled up his boxers, washed his hands, and stared at his face in the mirror for a second. Still groggy. But the worst part of the morning was behind him.
Or so he thought.
Back in the kitchen, he loaded up breakfast like he always did: a massive bowl of cornflakes, absolutely drowned in cold milk. He poured until the flakes floated and swirled, then added more just to be sure. No half-measures.
He made coffee while the cereal soaked—two mugs, double strength, because why not? The caffeine hit faster that way.
He sat at the table, bare legs outstretched under the chair, and started shoveling cornflakes by the spoonful. Sip of coffee. Another bite. Sip again. His stomach filled fast, but he didn’t slow down.
The milk, the coffee, the water from the cereal—all of it was already on its way through him. But it wasn’t until he stood up, dishes in the sink, and started pulling on his hoodie and gym shorts that he noticed the faint pressure returning.
Not urgent. Not like earlier. But noticeable. His bladder wasn’t empty anymore.
He tied his laces, zipped up the hoodie, and stepped outside. The cold air slapped against his legs. His skin prickled. The chill had that way of nudging his bladder into awareness.
It was going to be one of those days.
Chapter 2: Cold Walk, Filling Tank
The front door clicked shut behind him. The morning air hit like a slap—sharp and clean, with that early chill that went straight to the bones. It was the kind of cold that snuck under your clothes and bit at your skin.
His bare legs were the first to feel it.
He stepped off the front step and onto the pavement, the breeze whipping past him like a warning. His hoodie held up against the wind, but his gym shorts offered no protection. His thighs were already goosebumped. Every stride made it worse. The cold air clung to his legs and crept up under the hem of his shorts.
He walked fast—not just to warm up, but to shake off that creeping discomfort in his bladder. It wasn’t urgent yet, just a low pulse of pressure sitting inside him. Nothing to panic about. But it was there. Unmistakable.
Each step brought a little more awareness.
He tried to push it out of his mind. The walk to the gym wasn’t long. Ten minutes, tops. A familiar route: past the bakery with its shutters half-up, across the zebra crossing, then a straight shot down the high street to the sports centre. He’d done it a hundred times. He could do it with his eyes shut.
But this morning felt different.
The two coffees and the lake of milk in his cereal were catching up quicker than expected. His stomach was full, slightly sloshy, and the early signs of bladder fullness were gaining ground faster than they should have.
As he walked, he pressed his hands into his hoodie pockets, shoulders hunched slightly against the cold. The fabric swayed against his torso, his shorts brushing his thighs with every step. He could feel the weight of his bladder starting to shift, ever so slightly, as the liquid inside settled with each movement.
Halfway there, he paused at a corner for traffic. A bus rumbled past, sending another gust of cold air across his legs. He bounced on the balls of his feet, not from excitement—just a subconscious response to the cold and that growing internal tension.
He told himself he’d go as soon as he got to the gym. No sense waiting around with all that pressure building up again. First stop would be the loo. Quick and easy. Then workout.
That thought carried him the rest of the way.
By the time the glass doors of the gym came into view, he was more than ready to get inside. The warmth. The buzz of music and clanking metal. The feeling of focus and routine.
He pushed through the doors and nodded at the receptionist without stopping. His breath steamed in the warmer indoor air. The cold on his legs was already starting to fade.
He stepped into the changing room and pulled off his hoodie. The muscles in his arms flexed slightly as he tossed it into his locker. His gym shorts clung a little tighter now. Probably the walk—or maybe just the rising pressure in his lower belly reminding him again: you’re not empty anymore.
He glanced toward the hallway that led to the bathrooms.
Soon, he thought. Right after a few stretches and some warm-up sets.
He didn’t know it yet, but that plan was about to hit a serious snag.
Chapter 3: Hydration Station
The gym floor was already buzzing. Dumbbells clanked against mats, treadmills whirred in rhythm, and the overhead speakers cycled through their usual playlist of high-energy pop tracks. He stepped out from the changing room, now just in his gym shorts and trainers. His legs were still cold but adjusting.
He took a long swig from his water bottle — out of habit more than thirst. The cold liquid slid down easy, refreshing after the walk. He wiped his mouth on the back of his wrist and rolled his shoulders, getting into the zone.
First up: treadmill.
He tapped a few buttons and started slow, easing into a light jog. His legs moved easily, bare skin flashing under the overhead lights with each step. The rhythm came back to him quick — steady breathing, arms pumping in sync. His mind started to clear.
But about five minutes in, a dull sensation tugged at him again.
There it is, he thought.
His bladder had started speaking up again. Not shouting yet. But definitely clearing its throat.
He pushed through, upping the speed slightly. Maybe he could run it off.
He moved from treadmill to the rowing machine, then to the weights. He paused between sets to sip water again — not thinking, just automatic. Hydration had always been drilled into him as part of the routine.
By the time he was back near the cardio section, the water cooler caught his eye. A few other lads stood nearby, filling up plastic cups, laughing between sets. He wandered over, nodded to one of them, and took a cup from the stack.
The water splashed loudly into the cup — sharper than it should’ve sounded.
He drank it quickly. Then another. And another.
By the fourth, his stomach felt waterlogged. He crumpled the cup and tossed it into the bin beside the cooler. It bounced off the rim and rolled away. He didn’t chase it.
The pressure in his bladder had definitely grown now — not critical, but steady. Enough that it pressed against his waistband a little when he bent down to pick up a dumbbell. Enough that he was thinking about it.
Time to go.
He headed for the bathrooms.
The hallway was quiet, a little cooler than the gym floor. He pushed open the door to the men’s toilets.
Then stopped.
A piece of paper was taped to the wall just above the handle, printed in black marker:
MALE TOILETS OUT OF ORDERDUE TO BLOCKAGE – STAFF AWARE
PLEASE DO NOT USE
He stared at it.
No movement. No noise from inside. Just the sign — blunt, final.
He sighed, hard.
There wasn’t anything to do but turn around and go back.
Back in the gym, everything felt a little heavier. The machines felt louder. The lights, brighter. His body, fuller.
He tried to shake it off.
Rowing machine again. He pulled hard, arms flexing, legs stretching out in front of him. But the tug in his lower belly didn’t disappear. It stayed. It shifted. It reminded.
11 a.m. came and went.
He made another stop at the water cooler. Three more cups — partly from thirst, partly just… what else was there to do?
The splash of water into each cup echoed like a taunt.
He drank them anyway.
Tossed the final cup into the bin. This time it landed.
By now, his bladder felt like a slow-growing stone — not unbearable, not even urgent, but definitely there. Definitely increasing.
He told himself he’d check the toilets again in half an hour.
Maybe they’d be fixed by then.
Chapter 4: Push Through the Pressure
He went back to the rowing machine, sat down, and strapped in. His thighs were tense now—not from exertion, but from that creeping pressure inside his lower belly. His gym shorts didn’t help. They hung loose enough to feel every shift, every small expansion of his bladder. The stretch of sitting down made it worse.
Still, he pulled the handle in and rowed.
His legs pushed forward, bare and exposed under the fluorescent lights. Every time they extended, he felt a tug low in his abdomen. Each movement jostled the growing weight in his pelvis. The pressure hadn’t gone away. It had gotten stronger—noticeably stronger since the last trip to the water cooler.
He told himself he could still manage.
Just hold it for another fifteen minutes. Then check the bathroom again.
He finished the rowing session and stood slowly. His bladder shifted. A subtle slosh of fullness made him wince. He casually adjusted the waistband of his shorts. They weren’t tight, but the elastic rested right above the spot where the pressure was building.
Should’ve gone before I left the house again, he thought.
But that window was long gone.
Next, he moved to the leg press. Not the smartest move. He knew it as soon as he sat down.
The angle pushed everything downwards. Pressure multiplied instantly. He shifted in the seat, trying to relieve it, but there was nowhere for it to go. Every rep made it worse—legs pushing up, bladder straining against gravity and muscle tension.
He bailed halfway through the set.
By 11:30 a.m., he was definitely uncomfortable. Bordering on desperate.
He walked a little stiffer. His strides were shorter. The cold air had faded, but his bladder felt like it had doubled in size. Everything was stretching. Heavy. Tight.
He headed back toward the toilets.
Still closed.
Still the same handwritten sign. No movement inside. No repair crew. No hope.
He groaned quietly and leaned against the hallway wall for a second, one knee bent, foot resting against the tiles. His shorts tugged across his thighs. He looked down at his bare legs and felt the heat in his face. His body language was betraying him now—anyone watching would know.
This wasn’t mild discomfort anymore. This was becoming a situation.
He took a deep breath and walked back onto the gym floor, trying not to look as tense as he felt.
Back on the exercise bike now.
He sat down slowly. Carefully.
The seat pressed up into him—not painfully, but enough to remind him that things were reaching a limit. He adjusted himself, subtly shifting his weight to one side, then the other. It didn’t help.
He reached for his earbuds and pressed play on a playlist. Music flooded his ears. Maybe that would distract him. He started pedaling, slowly at first, then picking up the pace. His legs worked on autopilot. But every rotation pushed his thighs up toward his belly, and the motion pressed on his bladder like a rhythmic squeeze.
He looked down at his legs—bare, tensed, moving up and down like a piston.
He couldn’t ignore it now.
His bladder was full.
That’s when two lads jumped on the bikes next to him.
One of them was wearing gym shorts and a hoodie. He flopped onto the seat and said loud enough for everyone nearby to hear, “Ugh, the toilets are out of order, and I’m dying for a piss.”
The other one—in gym shorts and a football shirt—snorted and added, “I am as well, mate. It’s brutal.”
That hit like a punch to the gut.
He stared straight ahead, earbuds still in, but he’d heard every word. As if he needed the reminder. He clenched the handlebars tighter, tried to focus on his pedaling.
But the moment was turning.
His body was no longer working with him. It was turning on him. Muscles tired. Mind scattered. Bladder very full. The more he thought about it, the worse it got.
He told himself he’d check the toilets again in 30 minutes.
Just hold on.
Chapter 5: No Escape
By 12 noon, Jack was bursting.
There was no more pushing it to the back of his mind. No more telling himself he could hold out a bit longer. His bladder felt like a giant water balloon, heavy and stretched. It felt like carrying a full backpack strapped to the inside of his gut.
He stopped pedaling, the exercise bike slowing to a halt beneath him. His legs ached. His shorts clung slightly to his skin from the heat of the workout. But all he could feel was the pressure ballooning behind his waistband, pressing low and hard.
Time to try again.
He slid off the seat carefully, letting his shorts hang loose over his bare legs. They felt even more exposed now—like everyone could see how tense his body had become, how rigid his stride was. He walked fast, cutting through the gym floor toward the hallway. Past the free weights. Past the treadmills. Past the stupid water cooler with its constant, mocking splash.
Back to the same toilet door.
Same sign. Still taped up.
STILL OUT OF ORDER.
His jaw tightened.
He turned on his heel and walked straight to the front desk. The receptionist looked up with a polite smile.
“Hi,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm. “The men’s toilets are out of order.”
She nodded with practiced sympathy. “Yeah, unfortunately. We’ve had a blockage. Maintenance has been called.”
“I’ve been holding it for ages,” he said. “I’ve had loads of water. I really need to go.”
She gave a sympathetic frown. “I’m really sorry, but there’s nothing we can do right now. You’ll just have to hold it a bit longer.”
His stomach dropped.
“You don’t have a backup toilet?” he asked, clearly struggling to keep his tone steady.
“Just the staff ones. But we’re not allowed to let members use them. Health and safety.”
He clenched his jaw again. “Right.”
“I’m really sorry,” she said. “I wish I could help.”
He didn’t reply. He just turned and walked back toward the gym, heart racing now—not from cardio, but from sheer discomfort. From the building sense of panic.
Back on the gym floor, everything was a blur. Machines, bodies, clanking weights. Music pulsing through the speakers.
He got back on the exercise bike because he didn’t know what else to do. Sitting made it worse, but standing around doing nothing was boring.
One of the lads next to him—the hoodie and shorts guy from earlier—groaned, “Mate, my bladder is literally about to burst.”
The other one laughed and said, “I’m about to pee myself. I Should’ve gone before.”
They weren’t serious. They were just joking around. But to him, it wasn’t a joke. Not anymore.
He gripped the handlebars tightly and tried to pedal. His shorts rode up again. His bare legs lifted, pressing into his lower belly with each movement. He could barely pedal. Every time he lifted his legs, it put pressure on his bursting bladder.
He had to stop every minute or so. Couldn’t keep a rhythm. Could barely concentrate on the music in his ears.
His bladder felt like it wasn’t part of his body anymore—it was its own thing. Its own presence. A full, swollen balloon taking up all the space inside him. He looked down at his legs, still moving, still cycling, and couldn’t believe he was still holding on.
By 12:30 p.m., Jack was absolutely bursting for a wee.
His whole body was tense. His strides were clipped. He could barely think past the pressure. This wasn’t manageable anymore.
He walked—quick, stiff—back to the toilets.
Still out of order.
In the hallway, a younger lad stood filling cup after cup at the water cooler. He watched as the water splashed loudly into a plastic cup, then got gulped down in a few quick swallows.
The lad filled another. Then another.
He stared.
“You alright?” the boy asked, noticing the look.
“I’m desperate for a wee,” he said bluntly. “The toilets are out of order.”
The kid grinned. “Use the girls’ then.”
Not funny.
He filled another cup. Splash. Splash. Splash.
“Is this making you need to go more?” the boy teased.
“Yeah. Please stop.”
But the kid just laughed and downed another cup.
“You’ll be needing to pee as well if you keep drinking like that,” he muttered.
The kid just shrugged and tossed his cup in the bin.
He stormed back to reception.
“Sorry,” he said, his voice clipped now, strained. “I really can’t wait any longer. I’ve been holding it for ages. I’ve drunk loads of water. My bladder is literally about to explode.”
“I’m sorry, but there’s nothing we can do.”
“I really, really, REALLY need to go” he pleaded.
The receptionist’s eyes widened slightly. She glanced around.
“I’m sorry, but—okay. One sec. I’ll call the manager.”
She picked up the phone and dialed.
“Hi, Tony? Sorry to bother you, but I’ve got a lad here at reception who’s absolutely desperate for a wee...”
He looked away, cheeks flushing red. Embarrassment twisted in his chest, but it didn’t matter anymore.
She kept talking. “Yeah, the men’s is still out of order… He’s been waiting for ages… No, he really can’t hold it. I mean really can’t…”
The call dragged on. Every second felt longer than the last. He anxiously waited to see if he could empty his bladder, shifting from foot to foot. His poor bladder was now begging for relief.
Eventually she hung up and turned to him. “Okay. Tye manager is sending someone down. They’ll take you to the staff toilets.”
A wave of hope hit him hard.
He sat down and crossed his legs tight, trying to stay calm. In the corner of the room, a woman filled her water bottle at the cooler. The sound of liquid splashing into the plastic echoed again. Loud. Constant. Endless.
He closed his eyes and waited.
Just a little longer…
Chapter 6: Can’t Take It Anymore
The wait was torture.
He sat on the edge of the reception bench, one knee bouncing uncontrollably. His legs, still bare from his gym shorts, were tense and fidgeting. Every inch of him was trying not to explode. His bladder felt like a swollen balloon ready to pop at the slightest nudge. He fanned his legs in and out. He fanned them so rapidly his thighs made a loud smacking sound as they smacked together. The receptionist looked at him “Don’t worry, a member of staff will be with you in minute” she reassured him.
The receptionist avoided eye contact now, busying herself behind the desk. Probably because she could see how bad it was.
He tightly crossed his legs, then uncrossed them, then leaned forward with his elbows on his thighs. The fabric of his shorts shifted again, brushing against his skin. The waistband pressed against his lower belly like a bar across a dam about to burst.
In the corner, that same woman was still filling up her water bottle. It had to be full by now. The water just kept splashing, echoing off the walls of the quiet reception area.
He gritted his teeth and looked away.
Then another teenage lad walked up to the receptionist desk and complained about the toilets being out of order and being desperate to go.The receptionist apologised. The lad walked back into the gym.
Finally—mercifully—a voice cut through the air.
“Hi, I’m here for the lad who’s desperate for the toilet!”
The voice was loud. Cheerful. Embarrassingly loud.
He looked up and saw a gym staff member in a black polo shirt walking toward him. He stood quickly, fighting the wave of pressure that hit him the moment he moved.
“That’s me,” he said.
The staff member smiled. “Come on then, mate. I’ll take you to the staff loos. Bloody kids blocking the toilets again.”
They started walking. Every step felt like a countdown. He clenched his fists, trying to walk normally, but his strides were shorter now. There was no hiding it.
“I’ve been holding it in for ages. I drank way too much water.” He said.
The staff guy gave a sympathetic laugh. “Happens every week, honestly. Toilets get blocked, people get desperate, and I end up walking kids to the staff loos before they wet themselves.”
He glanced over. “Well… not just kids. But yeah, usually.”
They turned a corner and passed the water fountain in the corridor. Another boy stood there, leaning forward, drinking like he hadn’t had water in two days. Gulping. Loud.
He looked away. That sound was brutal.
His bladder screamed now. Every second walking was a second too long. His body was practically buzzing from the strain.
“Here we are,” the staff guy said, stopping in front of a plain white door marked STAFF USE ONLY.
He unlocked it and held it open.
“There you go, mate. All yours.”
He didn’t even thank him—just nodded and rushed inside.
The bathroom was small and clean. One urinal. One cubicle. No music. No distractions.
Just silence—and the overwhelming, blessed knowledge that he was finally, finally alone.
He stood in front of the urinal, hands trembling slightly as he yanked down his shorts and boxers. The second the waistband dropped, his bladder tried to release, but it took a second for his body to catch up.
Then—finally—he started to pee.
It came out slowly at first, like his body was still in shock from being forced to hold it for so long. But then it surged. A long, loud, endless stream. The splash echoed through the small room. He leaned one hand against the wall and closed his eyes.
It felt euphoric.
Minutes passed. Literal minutes. His bladder just kept emptying. It had been stretched so far, so full, it was like letting air out of a balloon that had been tied too tight for too long.
His legs relaxed. His shoulders dropped. He exhaled a shaky breath.
When the stream finally tapered off, he gave a quiet laugh under his breath. Couldn’t help it. He flushed, pulled his boxers and shorts back up, and washed his hands slowly.
He caught his reflection in the mirror.
Sweaty. Flushed. But definitely relieved.
He stepped out. The staff member was waiting just down the hall.
“Feel better?” he asked, smirking.
“You have no idea,” he said.
“Bet that was half your body weight, wasn’t it?”
“Honestly, might’ve been.”
They shared a quick laugh, and the staff member clapped him on the shoulder.
“Alright, you’re all sorted. Head back in whenever.”
“Thanks again.”
“No worries, mate.”
Back in the gym, the atmosphere felt… different. Lighter. The tension that had followed him like a shadow all morning had finally lifted.
He did a few half-hearted stretches, then gave up. He wasn’t going to finish the workout. Not after all that.
He headed back to the changing room, pulled on his hoodie over his sweat-damp shirt, and grabbed his bag. The air outside was still chilly, but this time, the cold didn’t bother him.
He walked home slowly, every step feeling like a victory.
Chapter 7: Aftermath
The walk home was nothing like the walk there.
Same route. Same pavement. Same bakeries and shuttered shops.
But everything felt different now.
The tension that had wrapped itself around his gut all morning was finally gone. The pressure, the tightness, the constant ache—it had all drained away in one long, echoing stream in a plain white staff toilet.
Now his body just felt empty. Calm. A little weak, maybe—but in a good way.
His gym bag bounced gently against his hip as he walked. His legs, still bare under his gym shorts, no longer felt cold or twitchy. The breeze brushed against them, but it didn’t cut anymore. His stride had loosened up. No more stiffness. No more careful steps.
Just movement.
Just calm.
He passed a lad walking the other way with a water bottle in one hand. The sight didn’t bother him this time. He didn’t flinch at the sound of sloshing liquid. His body wasn’t on high alert anymore.
He reached home, climbed the stairs two at a time, and tossed his bag on the floor by the door. The flat was quiet. Warm. Still.
He peeled off his hoodie, kicked off his trainers, and stood there for a moment, just breathing. There was nothing urgent now. Nothing building inside him. No pressure pushing against the walls of his body. Just space.
Relief had never felt so physical before. So earned.
He turned on the kettle, poured a glass of water, and took a sip.
Just a sip.
Because now, finally, he could drink without fear.
The End.