Nice Day (Omorashi Alert)

A Story by Mary Liu

I would call it a nice day, as any day in early May would be. The school year was winding down and the tension reeking in the air had finally ceased a bit. The afternoon sunlight, a bit too warm, beamed onto the windowsill and people’s faces, leaving behind delicate beads of sweat. I was running somewhat late so I skipped my usual toilet break, chugged down whatever remained in my water bottle, before going to English, my last class of the day.

I looked forward to English in more ways than one. I hesitate to admit this, but it was not the poetry and prose, but the one who taught them, that never failed to make my lessons and my days. He was the best teacher I could have imagined, firm yet fair, never failing to make Shakespeare or Coleridge, or whoever else, interesting. Perhaps what I had on him was, what people call, a crush. Barely a day passed without me trying all I could to make his blue eyes look at me in an appreciative way; to make him proud of me.

So I felt rather bad when I sat down and realized that I had completely forgotten to do my homework last night. He was not pleased when he came over to check my work, and told me that I was to sit a detention after class and finish what I should have done; nice as he was, he could still be a bit strict when necessary. I stole a glance at the twigs outside the classroom window flapping in the afternoon breeze, wondering how I just kept letting down people I looked up to; did not matter if it was in the most minor way. I demanded myself perfection when in front of him, yet the moments were few and far between, and the way which I repair my self esteem was simply to demand even more perfection from myself. Not the best mindset for a high school senior juggling schoolwork and college applications, and emotions that were never to tell a living soul.

“When we two parted/ In silence and tears......”

I tried to focus on the lesson instead of the twigs. Byron today. To say that it was a struggle learning love poems in his lesson would be an understatement. With love poems alone I struggle already, for it filled me with envy each time that their love could be put on paper and forced down unlucky students, while mine could only be closeted like a skeleton in the cupboard. And I was soon to know that the struggle today would come in another dimension as well. With about half an hour into the lesson I realized that skipping a toilet break may not be a good idea. I found myself crossing and uncrossing my legs more frequently than usual, and squeezing them tighter when crossing. Annoyed at myself for not doing homework and for letting this stupid distraction slip into my English class, I brushed away a stray wisp of hair from my forehead and shook my head. “This, obviously,” his voice came from above me as he concluded the first stanza, “is not a recipe for an ordinary love poem.”

“Thy vows are all broken/ And light is thy fame......”

Twenty minutes later my fidgeting was becoming apparent to the person sitting next to me, as I could tell from a few glances. My right hand was taking notes while my left hand was hovering around my crotch, knowing that holding myself was not an option since I was sitting at the first row as I did in all his lessons. Instead I gently rubbed my lower abdomen in a vain attempt to ease the pressure in my bladder a bit. I was all too aware that I could not focus like this and not focusing was not something I would wish to happen in his lesson, and I did not, actually, have a problem asking to go to the toilet in other teachers’ lessons; but letting him, of all people, know that I needed to use the toilet dug into the most primitive realm of shyness deep down inside me. My cheeks burned at the mere thought of that. Still thirty minutes of class left.

“They know not I knew thee/ Who knew thee too well/ Long, long shall I rue thee/ Too deeply to tell......”

When I say I focused on something beginning with B for thirty minutes, I wish I could say Byron instead of bladder. Sweat started beading on my forehead again, not from the heat though, and my legs hurt a bit from being twisted into a knot for so long. Never had I remembered the clock moving so slow in an English lesson, and never had I felt more frustrated, for having full control neither over my physical nor over my emotional self. My right hand was taking notes on its own command, the remnants of the command I set to every organ of my body long ago that I would do anything to make him appreciate me.

“ ‘If I should meet thee/ After long years,/ How should I greet thee?/ With silence and tears.’ Now these are the last few lines and your homework today is to analyze them in respect to their relationship with the rest of the poem. Class is over.”

My plan was to wait till everyone had filed out before walking to the toilet, since I decided that running was too dangerous in my state. I had at least managed to make it through the lesson, I had at least that much control over my -

“Remember you are staying behind for detention.”

I jerked at his sudden presence next to me. Damn, I had completely forgotten that my dues were not yet completely paid. Using nodding as a disguise I managed to avoid eye contact with him; meeting his eyes had always made me a bit giddy and giddyness was the last thing I needed when trying to hide a full bladder in front of him.

The door was ajar, the only barrier between me and the noises outside, and relief at the end of the corridor. I sat glued to my chair and worked on the assignment given yesterday. He was sitting at the front of the classroom and typing something on his computer as usual, the same pose he usually made in his office, the same pose whose silhouette had appeared in my dreams for countless times. My gray skirt was crumpled at my crotch and I had already resigned to keeping my left hand there in case I became just a teeny-tiny bit too focused on my work. I had no idea what I should focus on. My work in front of me, the words seemed to make no sense. The immense pressure in my bladder, it seemed to make no sense either. But what really made no sense, I suppose, was my feelings towards this person in front me whom I was never, never to have feelings on, and the fact that I was unable to ask from him something simple as a bathroom break. Embarrassment was not the word. Neither was shy. Maybe weakness or helplessness. Yeah, helplessness. There I sat, tortured by physical and emotional sensations both strong enough on its own, tortured by myself.

And that was when I felt a leak. Not a huge one but definitely enough to soak the crotch of my panties. The warning signs of total disgrace. My cheeks burned ten times worse at the wetness of my panties. There I was losing control in front of him, and control was something I just had to have in front of him. I could not afford this, and between this and the bit of embarrassment that may not be a problem to someone else, I chose the latter. Standing up sent a chill down my spine as it stretched my bladder suddenly, and every step towards the front of the room caused me to bite hard at my lip.

“Sir can I go to the toilet?”

“Yeah, sure,” he glanced at me over his computer, “and sorry for not giving you a break after the lesson, by the way.”

Running was, indeed, dangerous. I maintained the little steps until I reached the toilet and locked myself inside a cubicle. I could not really remember how I tore down my leggings and panties and gush out the hot torrent; all I remember was that my panties were soaked in the crotch but nothing, thankfully, showed on my light gray leggings.

Oh yeah, I remember being thankful. Thankful that my shame was hidden securely where no one can see, thankful that I had managed to come so far without letting him find out what I actually feel about him, thankful that I did have some extent of control which kept us in the safe zone, in which he was, and was only, my teacher.

I slipped back into the classroom from the back door and soon finished my work uneventfully. “Well done,” I swear I saw the glitter of approval in his blue eyes as he came over to check my work, “I know you can do it as long as you put your mind to it. By the way, I’m reading Christina Rosetti at the moment - any favorite lines?”

“Haply I may remember......”

“......And haply may forget. Good. See you tomorrow.”

Expecting no more words from me, he turned his back to me and resumed typing on his computer whatever he had not finished. Slowly gathering up my stuff, I shuffled out of the classroom onto the corridor and into the balmy May afternoon air that enveloped it, squinting my eyes at the unaccustomed sunlight. Warm gusts of wind whipped the twigs against the windows, along with wisps of hair across my cheeks. The sound of footsteps and chatters rose faintly from below. Nice day after all, I would say; wet panties and all.