Anyone who has ever used a real estate agent to find a house knows that they can be a blessing or a curse. The good ones are patient and understand that you may not want to buy the first house you see, or the second, or the third.

      I got a real estate agent named Rebecca who was pushy and frankly irritating. So why did I not change to someone else? Simple: she was cute, curvy and had a magnificent mane of chestnut hair. And... oh yes, she liked to wear sexy clothing. Today it was a light gray suit, the skirt of which was short and vented up the left thigh. And high heels, naturally, open-toe black ones on this occasion, showing off her perfectly-manicured toes.

      It wasn't purely vanity on her part, although that was surely a significant factor: these were her weapons, her means of enticing her male clients to buy properties she was representing at inflated prices and boost her commission. She got away with it because she knew all the right buttons to push, and I admit that she even had me dangling... but only up to a point. I was very particular about what I wanted, and wouldn't let myself be bamboozled into buying some overpriced property just to have the dubious pleasure of Rebecca fawning over me in the contracts office.

      Rebecca was not overly keen on my attitude, but at least it meant I needed to view properties than the average buyer, and therefore had to make a lot more viewing trips than her usual clientele. We always went in her car, naturally, which meant that she drove while I admired the scenery and sneaked occasional looks at her slim, tanned legs.

      On this particular day, a Saturday, she had lined up six properties for me to view, probably reasoning that the more choices she threw at me, the sooner I could make up my mind and the sooner she could get back to the more malleable types. It seemed like a reasonable plan when we started out, but as the morning wore on, her constant hard-sell tactics started to get on my nerves a little. I think that was why, as we drew up outside the property, that I dismissed it out of hand without wanting to go inside.

      Rebecca looked astonished. "You don't even want to go in?" she asked, as if she must have misheard me.

      "No."

      "But why not?" she demanded, sounding a bit irritable herself. "It's a beautiful house."

      I regarded the not-so-stately pile through the windshield and pulled a face. "You think so?" I said. "Looks pretty plan to me."

      "But the interior is amazing. I think we really should take a look," she insisted.

      "No," I repeated. "I need to like the exterior as well as the interior of my home."

      "Well, that's not going to be easy to find," she said, rather peevishly now. "You're expecting a lot for the amount you're willing to pay, you know."

      I watched her compress her lips as if she were biting off an even more caustic remark. With a sigh, she slid the lever into reverse and turned to look behind her as she backed out of the driveway.

      And that was when I saw her right hand, resting on her lap, ball into a fist. At the same moments, the muscles along her thigh flexed as she moved the foot that wasn't resting on the gas pedal so that she could press her knees together. Now I understood why she was so testy: she needed to pee, and I had just inadvertently deprived her of the opportunity.

      Now, I don't know why she didn't let herself into the property and make use of the bathroom; it was, as far as I knew, unoccupied. Perhaps real estate agents didn't have the right to go in if their client wasn't with them, or perhaps it simply didn't occur to her. Or she may simply have wanted to avoid letting me know she wanted to pee, although given her extrovert personality, I didn't she why she would mind that. But, for whatever reason, she chose to put it off and wait for the next opportunity.

      "So, which one is next?" I prompted, wondering how long she would have to suffer, and hoping that it would be a while. She leaned over and rummaged carelessly through the stack of papers on the back seat, then thrust a property description at me without speaking. Oh dear, I thought, someone really is in a bit of a snit. I took satisfaction from the knowledge that she had sit there with an aching bladder and drive, which ensured that she could not cross her legs, and my presence ruled out the possibility of any crotch grabbing. I felt myself stir at the thought of her discomfort, and tried to concentrate on the property description to avoid an embarrassing erection.

      Upon consulting my map, I found that the next house was about fifteen miles to the north, a twenty or thirty minute drive depending on traffic. Good, I thought; that's a nice long wait for her, and by the time we get there she's going to be pretty desperate. With any luck, she would have trouble maintaining her composure when we got there as she fiddled around with the lockbox to let us in. In fact, I was sufficiently irked by her behavior to want to see her suffer the humiliation of pissing herself. What would happen to her cute, sexy pose then? Alas, I didn't think it particularly likely to happen.

      About half way to viewing number four,we passed a shopping mall and Rebecca slowed down, switching on the right turn signal. "Want a cappachino?" she asked, indicating a Starbucks.

      "Not really," I told her..

      "Well, if you don't mind, I'd like one."

      "Sure," I said, vaguely disappointed that she would now be able to find a restroom. Oh well, I thought, it was fun while it lasted. I watched Rebecca strut her thing across the parking lot, noticing how several men turned their heads to admire her after she had passed them. She really did play it for all it was worth.

      She spent a couple of minutes in Starbucks, then emerged with the drink in her right hand. Intsead of returning to the car, however, she set off along the store fronts, pausing here and there to look in through the windows. I knew what she was doing: she was trying to find some place which offered public restrooms.

      I settled down to wait for her, hoping she wouldn't take too long since this really was going to be a long day. After ten minutes, she finally returned. She did not look happy. "Can you believe it? None of those stores have a bathroom for customers. How do they expect to get people to stick around if they don't even offer the basic amenities?"

      She was almost in work mode, pointing out the advantages and disadvantages of the property. I stole a quick glance down at her legs and saw that she was gripping the thigh closest to me with spread fingers, claw-like. No doubt her bladder was giving her grief after standing up for so long.

      "Okay," I said finally, noticing that she had not taken to top off her cappachino yet. "Um, do you want to drink that before we go on?"

      "No," she answered, setting the cup in one of the holders between the seats, then starting the engine. I tried to suppress a vindictive smile as we pulled back out onto the highway, but it wasn't easy.

      The route to the next property was not straightforward from this point on, and involved negotiating a number of junctions. Rebecca was a lot quieter now, which told me that she was dividing her concentration between her driving and dealing with her full bladder. I welcomed the silence, and without the need to uphold my side of a conversation, I was free to come up with ingeneous ways to sneak glances at her legs. By pretending to view the road map, I was even able to contrive a fairly long look at her abdomen. There was no visible sign of swelling, but I could not help thinking about the swollen bladder nestled between those slim hips. I was, I confess, really starting to enjoy this.

      I happened to see a road sign that was almost hidden by an overhanging branch, and was just about to inform Rebecca that she had missed the turning, when it struck me that getting lost would further delay our arrival at the property, and force poor Rebecca to hold in her pee that little bit longer. So, I said nothing, and let her drive on until she realized for herself that we had gone wrong somewhere.

      "Oh, damn it!" she exclaimed, slowing the car ans looking for somewhere to pull in. "I think we took a wrong turn somewhere. Can you see where we are on the map?"

      "Um, well, not really," I replied. "I'm new to the area, so I don't know what this street is called."

      "Oh, great," she exclaimed a little testily. I gathered that my interest in far-flung places had taken her out of her familiuar realm, and she didn't know where we were either. She sighed, and I saw her left knee lift as she presumably pushed down on her toes, turning her knee inwards so that he thighs were making contact. "Right, let's turn back and look for the turn we missed," she added, performing a five-stage maneuver on a narrow road to turn the car around, much to the annoyance of several drivers who were not overwhelmed by her dubious charms.

      The motorists following behind were not best pleased when Rebecca insisted on driving at a sedate thirty miles per hour while scanning the signs for the side roads we were passing. At last, she found the one I'd noticed earlier and made a turn without signalling. I could imagine the language in those nearby vehicles as we finally got out of the way.

      This little detour had cost Rebecca at least ten more minutes of bladder filling, and I could tell from the way she was leaning forward a little in her seat that the strain of holding on without all the customary gyrations was almost too much for her. Her expression as she stared fixedly ahead could best be described as taut: she had her lips compressed into a thin line, and it seemed to me that she was breathing a little heavier than before.

      Noticing her still-untouched cappachino in the cup holder, I said mischievously, "Your coffee's getting cold."

      She glanced across at me, then down at the cup. "Thanks," she responded, sounding as if she didn't mean it at all. She pulled the lid off, carelessly flipped it onto the floor behind my seat, then pick up the cup and drank. I couldn't make upmy mind why she was actually drinking the stuff when she so badly needed to pee; maybe it was to convince me that he stopping at the mall was primarily for the cappachino, and that her subsequent search for a lavatory had been...well, just incidental.

      A few minutes later, we came across the street we were looking for, and Recebba drove along it looking for a driveway. They were few and far between, which was actually rather promising as far as I was concerned. We'd gone about half a mile before we came to the house number on the description, and Rebecca pulled onto the two-hundred-foot-long driveway. Better and better.

      She hopped out as soon as she had brought the car to a halt at the foot of the steps leading up the the front door. Nonw of that waiting for the client to get out and take a look around first. Perhaps she was afraid I would declare this one a failure too and she would again be deprived of a visit to the bathroom. In all good conscience, I couldn't do that because I thought the place held considerable promise. However, Rebecca was clearly not taking any chances.

      By the time I climbed out and closed the car door behind me, she was already at the front door and punching the code into the lock box to retrieve the key and gain access to the house. As I mounted the steps, I watched her legs jerking as she fought that maddening increase in desire when the moment of relief was so near at hand. She was also sticking her bottom out, and I had to admire the woman's alluring curves.

      "Shit!" she exclaimed as she stood there re-keying the code for the third or fourth time. Something was clearly wrong. "Damn it!" she added, turning to face me. "They've given me the wrong," she announced as she rushed past me and returned to the car. She jumped in and was immediately on her cellphone, no doubt trying to get the correct code to open the house. "Look, I'm here with the client now, and we need to get in as soon as possible," she explain. You mean you need to get in as soon as possble, I thought.

      I descended the steps and leaned on the car door she'd left open when she scrambled back in. From this position, I could not see her face about the chin, and she could therefore not see me. I took the opportunity to watch her legs. They were crossed, and she had her free hand resting just inches from her groin. I could imagine how badly she wanted to press her fingers against her crotch to help her maintain control, and I found the knowledge that she couldn't do so exciting.

      Now I had a problem. I was starting to respond physically to her situation, and standing where I was, she might easily notice the bulge forming in my trousers, so I sacrificed the marvelous view of her squeezing her thighs together and went back to sit on the middle step to wait. I heard her demanding querelously, "Why can't you talk to him now? ... Doesn't have a cellphone? ... Hey, never mind his client. What about mine? This is his screw-up!"

      Ah-ha. The composure was slipping.

      "Okay, okay," Rebecca said, impatiently interrupting whoever was on the other end. "Just call me back with the code as soon as possible. We've got a lot of properties to view today, and we don't need any more delays." She snapped the cellphone shut and I saw her lean back in her seat.

      I didn't move. It seemed best to wait and see what she would do next. She didn't get out of the car immediately, and I wondered if she was taking the opportunity to jamb her hands against the crotch after all, now that my view of her was obstructed. I thought it likely, especially since she had her head tipped back against the headrest.

      After perhaps a minute, she got out and approached me. "So, what do you want to do?" she asked me. "Are you interested in this one?" I nodded, and took note of her carefully neutral expression which probably concealed the thought: you would. "Fine," she went on, shifting her weight from one foot to the other as she glanced over the front of the house with mild disapproval.

      That was it. I stood up, brushed off the seat of my pants, and said, "Let's have a look around the outside."

      I thought for a moment she was going to refuse, or at least suggest that I did so alone, given her the opportunity to get back in the car and squeeze herself again. But that would have been unprofessional. She clearly didn't want to do it, but she gave me a tiny nod of approval and followed as I led the way round to the side of the house. We crossed an unkempt lawn, and when I had reached the far side of it, I stopped to turn and look back at the house. Rebecca stopped too and pretended to survey it as well, but in the corner of my eye I could see her body constantly shifting as she did battle with what had to be, by this time, a painfully overfilled bladder.

      I half expected her to bolt into the trees that lined the extremities of the property and end her agonizing wait, but she stayed at my side, her legs never still for a second. Then her cellphone rang. She flipped it open with such haste she nearly dropped it. "Hello," she said, her voice breaking on the second syllable. Oh the strain on her spincter must have been appalling.

      She listened for a few seconds, her right arm folded across her stomach, the hand gripped her left elbow. Then she said: "seven-four-four-two. You're sure?" She listened again, then said thanks to the caller and hung up. "Okay," she said to me, setting off back across the lawn at a brisk march, "let's try it again."

      I stood beside her this time as she tried the code; it was hardly a secret now anyway. When she tried to open the lockbox, she let out a gasp which contained an almost poignant mixture of despair and frustration. "I don't believe this," she mumbled, her voice shaking a little. She tried to code again, and again it failed to work. "Oh!" she exclaimed, loudly this time, then abruptly turned and paced rapidly along the front stoop. At the end, she turned back just as abruptly and walked back toward me, her heels tapping sharply on the wooden boards.

      "What's wrong?" I inquired, a studied picture of innocence.

      She let out an irritable sigh before answering me. "I need to go to the bathroom. Only now, I can't."

      She produced her cellphone again and made another call. "It didn't work ... I tried it two times. I'm telling you, it doesn't work!"

      As I watched, she bent her right knee for a moment, then planted her shoe on the stoop and began walking on the spot. Oh my, was she in trouble now. She'd been holding her for for the last hour or more, and I was prepared to bet that her bladder an expanded just as far as it could go to accommodate the steady and continuous flow of urine from her kidneys. It had to feel like she had a football wedged under her skirt.

      "There has to be another code!" she insisted, her legs becoming still as she focused on the conversation, rolling her eyes in weary resignation. I glanced down at her legs - couldn't help it - and noticed her toes curling. Then, she let out a loud sigh and resumed walking-on-the-spot, picking up the pace as, presumably, another surge from her bladder threatened to overpower her. "Then it has to be the wrong box. Jesus, what a mix up. This is just great. I'm out here with my client..."

      And I'm almost peeing in my panties the tension in her voice supplied.

      "Well, what are we supposed to do? ... We can't come back later. We have other properties to...? Oh, for heaven's sake, okay. We'll re-schedule for another day. Thanks for nothing." She slammed the phone shut and looked at me. "Sorry, we can't view this one today. I'll set something up with the owner for...oh...um...tomorrow? Is...is that okay with you?"

      "Sure," I agreed. "Let's just go on to the next one."

      Rebecca looked like she could have cried. I didn't know how far it was to the fifth property on the list, but her expression suggested that it wasn't especially nearby.

      Back in the car, Rebecca automatically picked up her unfinished cappachino, then stopped with the cup a few inches from her lips. She gave me a faintly amused look and said, "Bad idea." She set the cup back in its holder and made to hook up her seat belt. I saw her hesitate as she started to pull it across her aching abdomen, and guessed that the pressure it was about to exert, slight though it may be, would be very unwelcome.

      Then, casting aside all pretence of comfort and composure, she placed the palm of her left hand on her stomach and let out a tense breath. "I really do need the bathroom. Do you mind if we try to find somewhere to stop en-route to the next plkace?"

      "No, of course not," I answered, sounding gallant, for which she thanked me. I was starting to feel a bit of a heel by this time, but she really was a very pushy and annoying person most of the time. I reigned in my compassion before I started making suggests like heading off into the woods before we left. The idea didn't even seem to occur to her, or if it did, she had evidently dismissed it as an option.

      As she drove, she tried to keep up a flow of light conversation which did not touch on her desperate need to pee. She was probably trying to take her mind off it, and I wondered if I dare risk bringing the subject up again. When she fell silent, probably to deal with a muscular spasm in her bladder, I decided to chance it. After all, she could only tell me to mind my own business.

      "Does this happen a lot?" I began, rather ambiguously.

      "What?" she asked with a distracted air.

      "Getting...you know, caught out for the bathroom. I mean, you spend so much time driving around..."

      I let the sentence trail off as she treated me to a cold stare. I thought she was going to snap at me, but instead, she answered, "Sometimes. It depends." She stopped, and assuming that was all she was going to volunteer, I began steeling myself to ask another impertinent question when she suddenly resumed, "I did one showing a couple of months ago where the owner was so house proud, you could tell she hated even letting people come in to look at it. She made both me and my client take our shoes off because our high heels might mark the hardwood floors. We both really needed to use her bathroom real bad, and when I finally asked if we could go, she turned to the client and asked if she wanted intending to make an offer for the house. When the client said she didn't think she could afford the asking price, the woman refused to let either of us use the bathroom and insisted that we leave. It was unbelievable."

      "So what did you do?" I asked impetuously, surprised at my own boldness.

      "We kept our legs crossed all the way back to the office."

      I wanted to ask her if they both made it, but felt that would be just a little bit too personal. Instead, I chuckled and remarked, "Must have been hard to drive like that."

      Rebecca chuckled back, just for a moment, then bit it off as if laughing might threaten her ability to maintain control of herself. "It wasn't easy," she said at last, "but it was easier than right now. I really am straining at the leash."

      I was surprised at her use of this caninesque simile, and was trying to come up with something sympathetic to say when, quite unexpectedly, she pulled the car into the verge and tugged on the emergency brake.

      "Okay, that's it," she announced. "I can't hold it any longer. I've got to pee right away."

      I watched in disbelief as she dragged her skirt up to the top of her thighs and rammed her hands between her legs, bouncing up and down as she vigorously rubbed her crotch. "I'm so sorry," she apologized in a voice so strangled I barely recognized it. "I'm just to desperate to pee. Oh God! I don't know what to do!"

      "There's nothing else you can do," I said. "You'll just have to--."

      "Oh no!" she yelped, looking down at her hands. I followed her gaze (not that I'd been able to tear mine away from her frantically sawing hands) and saw that she was spraying pee through her fingers. "Nooo, nooo, oh NO!"

      "Let it go," I urged her. "Don't hurt youself by trying to hold it any longer."

      She was crying now, sobbing as she continued to pee through her panties onto the car seat. The first wiff of urine reached my nostrils, warm and sour, but it didn't really bother me. I was too busy coping with a wild erection at the sight of her wetting in her clothes.

      "I can't stop," she whimpered between sobs, and I thought how different she was when she was not playing the role of the real estate bitch.

      "Don't try," I encouraged her again. "Just let it go."

      "Oh God," she moaned again, hanging her head as the pee jetting out of her with increasing force, soaking her hands and spilling onto her thighs. I listened to the muffled hiss as she went on urinating, releasing more and more until I saw the wetness rising by capillary action through her puckered gray skirt. She had clearly been holding back so much pee, little wonder she had been so irritable.

      I longed to be able to touch her pee-soaked legs, but I suppressed the urge for fear of the storm that would ensue if I did. I had to be content with just watching her wet herself until she had complely soaked the car seat. Her pee dribbled down the the gap at the back on the seat and onto the floor behind her.

      At last, the hissing sound ceased and Rebecca's body sagged under the enormous relief. Her cheeks were scarlet as she sat there with her eyes close, head resting on the back of the seat, taking long, steadying breaths. And I waited, wondering whether she would continue on to let me view the last two properties, or whether she would insist on going back to the office and my rental car, then head off home to clean herself up.

      I waited several minutes for her to regroup, then she finally opened her eyes and looked over at me with a wan little smile. "Well, that's today little excitement over with. So, do you want to see the remaining properties or call it a day, in view of the state of the car?"

      "Well, I mean, I'm happy to go on," I said tentatively, "but I mean...what about you." I indicated her wet skirt and, by extension, the puddle of pee she was sitting in. "I mean, surely you--?"

      "Well, we're her now, and it's a long way to come back another day. I'd rather get it over with, if you don't mind. And you can stand the awful smell in here."

      "I'm fine," I told her, as indeed I was. "Okay, so let's carry on." She nodded, released the emrgency brake, and pulled back out into the traffic, driving with her skirt still yanked up and showing off those amazing legs. Whether I found a house that I wanted that day or not had become entirely irrelevant: I was in hog heaven.