Footballer Disgraces Himself on the Way Back

[Lee]

(Another Old One!)

The team coach trundled along the dual carriageway with hardly a murmur from its occupants. The youth team had been beaten by three goals to nil in their game at Bristol and apart from the disappointment of the result, the performance had been poor and now the lads were faced with a long journey back from the scene of their disaster. Throughout the eighteen-seater mini-coach the lads were sitting contemplating their miserable afternoon, some reading newspapers and magazines, others listening to music through their headphones and others staring out of the windows at the mundane scenery.

One of the lads was 21-year old Phil Warner who had been substituted at half-time. He was a surly character at the best of times but his early withdrawal from the game had left him more moody than ever. Although generally regarded as one of the better players the youth scheme had produced and widely respected by his team-mates for his ability, his often-less-than-cheerful disposition did not always endear him to them. In addition, he was a vane lad and his good looks and generally snappy fashion-sense sometimes caused him to be the target of behind-the back banter from his team-mates, always conscious of his belief that he could ‘pull’ any bird with scarcely the need to go into the chat-up phase, such was his (in his eyes) attractiveness!

Phil was sitting on his own, neither reading nor listening to music; although he was staring through the window, he was gnawing away at his finger-nail as he stared aimlessly into the passing trees. At least that’s the impression he was giving. In his mind he was silently cursing having sat through the second period quaffing several bottles of water. He had been fuming at being substituted and having let rip with a tirade of mildly abusive language towards the manager, he had got himself changed at sat on his own to watch the second half with only numerous bottles of water as comfort.

No sooner had the game ended than he had stormed onto the coach without going back into the dressing room and sat in frustrated silence before his colleagues eventually joined him and the coach had set off. Now, almost an hour later he was feeling less stressed about the game but he was growing increasingly agitated about how badly he needed to piss. The water had really worked its way through his system and his bladder was reaching the stage where any movement made it’s fullness more apparent.

Almost as if to test out that theory, he shifted his backside on the seat and swung his legs round so that his feet were facing the aisle. The twinge from his bladder and the subsequent discomfort caused him to drag his feet back and revert to his previous posture. “Shit” he cursed to himself, “Shit, I’m going to have to ask for a stop if this gets much worse.”

That was not good news for image-conscious Phil Warner. He knew that his colleagues had been somewhat wary of making too much small talk with him following his outburst at being substituted and he liked to retain a slight aloofness, often avoiding being drawn into mundane and pointless conversations. He knew that there would be nothing they’d all enjoy more than knowing he needed a piss. But the fact was he approaching the stage where he didn’t just need a piss, he was going to be dying for one before much longer. He eased his feet half out of his warm trainers and tried to nestle himself back into his seat, closing his eyes in an attempt to relax...

...Forty-five minutes later and some of the lively chatter from the lads had caused a slight mist to form on the insides of the windows as the misted-up glass made it a bit difficult to see exactly where they had reached on their journey. What was obvious was that they were powering along the motorway. The vast majority of the lads along with the manager and coaching staff had, in truth, very little concern as to where exactly they were. But that wasn’t the case in one of the seats!

Phil Warner was sitting forwards on the front half of his seat experiencing a panicky feeling he hadn’t previously known. He was absolutely busting for a piss! It wasn’t just a case of needing to go urgently; he was starting to feel frantic about how badly he needed to go to the toilet. The throbbing sensation he had been trying to suppress in his bladder was becoming almost impossible to contain. His lower tummy muscles were aching with the strain of holding on for so long and he could feel the backs of his thighs tingling as he continually tensed his leg muscles as he sat there.
His backside was uncomfortable as he shifted his weight alternately from one buttock to the other and he could hardly keep his lower legs still, swinging his feet, tapping his knees together and bouncing his white-socked feet on the tops of his discarded trainers.

“I’m going to have to go and tell them to stop” he told himself, “I’ve got to try and time it so that we are close to a service station.” Despite his agonised state he was still aware of the need not to present himself as too frantic with his request and he pulled the sleeve of his sweatshirt down over his hand, using it to rub clean a small space on the window so that he could see precisely where the coach was. As he did so, he felt the wetness under the armpit of his shirt and cursed such a weakness. With his face peering out of the window, he saw a blue motorway sign in the distance, “Thank Fuck!” he thought and as the coach sped on its way, he almost pressed his face to the cold glass and saw the sign “Services 26 miles”.

“Oh Bloody Hell, I can’t wait that long, no fucking way!” he almost uttered the words out loud, swallowing as he felt as if his thumping heart was going to burst through his chest. The panic of the situation almost made matters worse and he was certain he felt a small seepage work its way down into his twitching cock. His face burning with embarrassment, he knew he simply had to go and ask the driver to stop. He just couldn’t hold himself until the services; in fact he wasn’t even sure he’d make it down to the front of the coach! Almost beside himself in panic, he tried to calm himself down, pressing his legs together and using the back of his hand to wipe any beads of sweat from his brow – the last thing he wanted, even in his condition, was for the other lads to see him in a state. But it was a case of ‘stand-up-now’ or sit still and wet himself!! Such a horrific thought hardly bared contemplation.

Phil pushed himself to the very edge of his seat and started to wriggle his feet into his trainers. He forced his left foot inside and raised his leg to re-tie the laces, but the pain in his belly intensified to such an extent that he was unsure as to whether he had forced out a spurt of piss into his pants. In a dramatic panic, he let his foot drop back to the floor and without having the time to worry about the other foot, he rose anxiously from his seat, almost immediately attracting the attention of numerous other lads sitting around him.

As he made his ways forwards in what he felt were little pigeon-steps, the others were looking at him;
“Where are you off to, Phil?”
“What’s up with him?”
“You don’t need a piss-stop, do you?”
“What’s that – a new fashion, one shoe and one sock?”

Phi Warner reached the driver and with his heart pounding and his bladder pulsating, he leaned towards him, “Can we stop please, can you pull-over somewhere?”
“What’s the matter, lad?” called the manager, from a couple of seats back.
“He needs a wee-wee!” chortled one of the others, secretly enjoying having a dig at poser Phil, even if he wasn’t correct in his assumption.
Phil tried to ignore the comment and with his stomach almost erupting into his throat, he continued to address the driver directly without turning back to face his colleagues;
“Look, please just stop somewhere, I’ve got to get off.”
The driver glanced up looking surprised at the urgency in the voice, as Phil added forcibly,
“I’ve got to go to the toilet!”
The manager half-stood in his seat and summoned Phil back;
“Get back here, lad. Don’t go disturbing the driver, he’s got enough to concentrate on. Come back here.”
Phil turned back and took a few steps back down the aisle, more than anything because he needed to keep on the move. Standing still was proving the prelude to absolute disaster.
“Do you need to go to the toilet?” asked the manager, completely failing to recognise the urgency of the situation and also as nonchalantly as if he were addressing a four-year old.
Phil could scarcely answer but as if to demonstrate his predicament, he embarrassingly and astonishingly uncharacteristically pinched his cock through his light grey track-suit bottoms and bobbed up-and-down on the spot.
Looking awkward at what he was seeing from one of his trainees , the manager quickly said, “Go back to your seat, lad. We’ll make a stop as soon as we can” and with that he stood up and himself went down to speak to the driver.

Phil edged his way back to his seat, feeling dozens of eyes boring into him and in the sort of panic and anxiety he had never ever experienced before. He cautiously dropped into his seat, with little option other than to squeeze his cock again as he did so. The other lads were agog at what they were witnessing; surely cocky Phil Warner can’t be on the verge of pissing himself! But that’s almost certainly what was happening in front of their eyes – Warner was about to piss in his pants!

Back in his seat, Phil was rocking back and forth, his knees knocking against each other and his feet sliding back and forth on the coach floor.
“He’s going to piss himself”!
“Shit, he’s about to go in his pants!”
“He ain’t going to make it in time, look at him!”
“I reckon he’ll wet himself before we make a stop!”

Through watery and stinging eyes, Phil looked up as the manager appeared next to him.
“Look lad, we’re going to stop at the next services, you can go to the toilet there; just hang on until we get there, we won’t be too long.”
It was too much for an emotional Phil Warner;
“I can’t fucking wait!” he yelled, “can’t you fucking see? I’m nearly pissing my fucking self!”
The manager just stared without expression as Phil’s rant continued,
“Stop!! Now!! I’m going to do it in my fucking pants! I’m seriously about to wet myself!”

The manager turned away in silence and began to head back to his seat as one of the other lads said “I’ve got a bottle here, shall I let him use it...!” Before he could finish, the manager shouted back, “No!, No! No-one’s going to piss in a bottle on this coach. If he wants to behave like a yob he’s on his own. It’s no-one else’s fault he’s got himself into this state, he can deal with it himself,” adding “we’ll make a stop at the next service station, for everyone”

For the next ten minutes or so, the coach watched in astonished silence as desperate Phil Warner sat in his seat doing everything in his power to try
not to wet himself. He was hunched forwards, contorting his legs and his feet and alternately rubbing his hands across his stomach and the tops of his thighs, whilst holding, squeezing, kneading and moulding his cock through his pants and tracksuit trousers. On a couple of occasions he knew that he’d wet a bit in his pants, the awful warm sensation and the frantic straining of his bladder muscles revealing what had happened. Every thirty seconds or so a wave of pain pulsated through his belly, each spasm threatening to break the dam and start an uncontrollable flood down the 21-year olds legs.

Phil had already released a long and totally uncontrollable spurt of scorching hot urine to soak the crotch of his underpants and trickle horrifically under his balls and along his arse crack by the time the manager rose and called out, “Okay lads, we’ll stop here for fifteen minutes, no more please”. As some of the lads went to rise from their own seats, all eyes were on Phil and some of the others were suggesting that he be allowed to get off first.
“Come on let him go first, he won’t make it otherwise!”
“Go on mate, get yourself to that bog!”

Phil was sitting in his seat, sweating and as close to tears as he had been since a five-year old – tears of anguish and tears of agony. He half-rose from his seat and as another lad gripped his arm to aid him and start to propel him along the aisle of the coach, the others were all staring and nudging each other, nodding towards the back of Phil’s light grey-tracksuit bottoms where a dark stain the size of a saucer was apparent.
The constant and lengthy spurts of wee that he had been releasing in the last few minutes had saturated the seat of his pants. Not that Phil was particularly aware of or concerned about that. He was acutely aware that the agonising pain in his belly was growing worse whilst a spreading warmth in his crotch and down his thighs was telling him that his valiant attempt at control was evaporating.

Standing in the aisle of the coach, he was gasping and almost moaning with relief and anguish as his cock spurted forth sticky hot urine like a pump release valve. The warmth was almost unreal as it spread rapidly down his legs, engulfing his groin in a steaming cascade and streaming down the insides of his thighs and literally pouring down behind his knees and weaving warmly down the backs of his calves and trickling round to his shins.
His light grey track-suit trousers were clinging to his legs and the now dark-grey material was absorbing the piss and spreading it through the back and front of his bottoms. His feet were planted loosely in his sweaty white Reebok trainers which remained unlaced, the laces draped across the tops of them and hanging down the sides as a puddle of piss steamed under the soles.

His thick, rolled-down white sports socks were turning even warmer than they already were inside his trainers and the feeling of soggy warmth in the underside of his socks was a stark reality of how he was pissing himself. “Oh bloody hell!” the driver announced, “not on the sodding bus!”
Phil Warner stood wetting himself, saturating his white briefs, with all his team-mates staring in disbelief at their cocky 21-year old colleague having an accident in his pants that he would be reminded of for many years to come.

[Brian]

You've written quite a number of super-hot stories about guys wetting themselves on a bus, but this one has always particularly stuck in my memory. The way Phil doesn't want to tarnish his precious image and so leaves it until he's in a really desperate state before going to the front, and doing that with just one shoe on because he was too desperate to stay seated and put the other one on, are details I've never forgotten from reading this story years ago many times.

This story is a perfect one for any of us who love this scenario (and for me it's an absolute favourite) to read slowly and languorously when we're in just the right mood...