Accident in Studio 4

[Kupar 12,356]

Contains mild female desperation, toilet peeing, wetting and very public peeing

With *huge* thanks to @Sophie for the idea, plot development and editing – it’s as much her story as mine

Sarah was quite nervous. She’d only been in the job for a week, and she’d been told yesterday that a well-known singer was flying in from Paris, who would need looking after.

It had been Sarah’s dream to work in TV, and she’d finally got a foot in the door as a runner on the live music show – the first step towards her goal of being a floor manager. 

The thing she’d noticed most in her first few days was how frantic and chaotic everything seemed to be for a couple of hours before the show. People shouting and running around; technicians connecting cameras and microphones and boxes of tricks with miles of cables until with a minute to go until the show started, magically everything went quiet and calm. Then Sarah felt that amazing buzz of adrenaline when the light went on and the professionals did their job. It was everything she’d dreamed it would be: nothing out of place, nothing unprepared for, everything moving like clockwork.

“Sarah! Alizée will be here in ten minutes. She’s the last act on, so she’s going to be sitting around in the star dressing room for the best part of an hour. She’ll have her own people with her of course, and they’ll be doing costume, hair and makeup, so your job is to help them make her feel happy and switched on when she walks out on to the floor. She’s no real diva, but she can be a bit of a handful. The last time …” Jon’s voice trailed off. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll tell you another day.”

Sarah had been listening. She really had. But mostly what she’d heard was the first couple of words, then not a lot else, because her heart had started thumping and it sort of drowned out most of what Jon had said. Alizée! Sarah could remember how she felt as a teenager when she’d first seen the French singer on a TV show four years ago – completely dominating the stage with the raw sexiness of her singing and dancing, hips wiggling, cute bum constantly moving, eyes flashing, effortlessly seducing everyone in the audience.

“Got that? Make sure her people have everything they need, show them the schedule, reassure them the band know what they’re doing. The rider says Galaxy chocolate, so double check there’s plenty in the room. Show them where the toilet is – some of her outfits ... Jesus, she must have to be sewn into them. And don’t get too close – right?” Sarah nodded, and Jon pushed a clipboard of notes into her hand and walked away to speak with the sound engineer.

Ten minutes of reading the notes and composing herself, and Sarah was prepared, even overcoming panic at the whirlwind entry of the star and her entourage. Sarah did her job, and everything was fine! She’d done as she was told, and everyone around her had done their jobs a hundred times before. Sarah just kept reminding everyone of the time – 30 minutes, 20 minutes, ten minutes – and running errands: a bottle of water, some vegetarian jelly babies for the hairdresser. The star herself seemed relaxed, confident, stunning in her outfit of black thigh-highs and a black all-in-one number – a sort of shorts bodysuit with a pale collar forming part of the crossed-over straps. She was, thank goodness, oblivious to the existence of the rather shy runner in the shadows. Until it happened.

“I need to pee. Where do I go?” Alizée demanded. There was a few seconds of silence. Sarah stepped forward, took a deep breath, and “I can show you. Do you want to follow me?” What was it Jon had said? Sarah tried to forget it, and to forget how Alizée’s voice had sounded. She could read the telephone directory and make it sound sexy.

“D’accord. I will go – show me now,” said the singer, and she stood up from the chair in front of the big mirror and turned towards Sarah, who couldn’t – just couldn’t – keep eye contact, and had to glance down at her watch.

“We have six minutes until you’re on. We’ll need two minutes for the sound man to fix your radio mic. Is that OK?” she managed to say.

“Oui, oui! En avant!” and then a little laugh, and a dismissive wave away of the dresser, who was trying to interrupt – something in French that Sarah didn’t catch. Sarah’s knickers dampened from the inside, and she turned on her heel and walked to the door, partly because time was now tight, but mainly to hide her crimson face.

It was quiet in the bathroom: a row of three basins, three cubicles. Sarah realised with alarm that she desperately needed to pee too. In all the excitement she just hadn’t found the time, or felt the need. Alizée went straight to the middle cubicle and pushed the door behind her. Sarah quickly put down her clipboard and went into the left-hand stall, pulled down her skirt and thong and relaxed as four hours’ build-up hissed against the porcelain – it felt so good!

“Merde! Help me please – I cannot take this off!” Sarah clenched her muscles and her flow stopped instantly as she realised with horror what the dresser had been trying to say – that outfit would be impossible to take off and put back on quickly. She looked at her watch. There was no chance now to sort out the star’s need to pipi.

“Miss Jacotey – I don’t think there is time to get you out of that suit and back into it before you need to be on stage. Is it, is it possible you could hold on until after your set?” A long pause.

“Je ne sais pas! Maybe?” Sarah couldn’t though and released her own pee again, forcing it out as fast as she could – she might as well get it done as quickly as possible. There was a sort of whimper from the next cubicle. A beautiful, French-accented whimper, but betraying someone clearly in near distress, listening to another’s sweet relief. Sarah finished, wiped, flushed and washed her hands in 20 seconds flat, then gently knocked at the next door along. “Miss Jacotey – we need to get your mic sorted. Please.”

“I don’t know! I can’t…” Sarah pushed open the door and looked down at Alizée who was sitting, still fully clothed, on the seat of the toilet, looking up helplessly from big, beautiful brown eyes. “Help me!” she pleaded again.

“There’s nothing we can do now,” said Sarah, somehow finding the strength of character to take control. “You need to try to think of your fans, your performance, and afterwards, you can be comfortable. I will know what’s happening. I will be there for you in the wings. I can help you through it until you get off stage – if you need reassurance, look across to me. It’s only two songs. You’ll be fine – you are always magnificent!”

The pep talk did the trick. With a minute to spare, she was mic’d up and looking radiant, sexy and every inch the star as she strode out on to the stage and launched into her cover of ‘La Isla Bonita’. Eyes flashing, hips swaying, bum wiggling, Alizée was going to be fine – more than fine. No-one knew, except Sarah and the dresser.

It was a minute into the second song – ‘J’en ai marre’ – that Sarah realized it wasn’t fine.

She kept singing, she kept dancing, she kept captivating the studio and the cameras and the live TV audience of millions, but Sarah could see the anguish in Alizée’s eyes as the singer glanced across to the wings. “Hold on!” mouthed Sarah, silently. “Hold on!” A little instrumental bridge, a turn of her back to the camera, a wiggle of her bum – all part of the choreography. But Sarah thought she saw something else – was it pee dribbling down that provocative four inches of thigh between shorts and stockings? Surely not! Had Alizée turned around to mask a little release, to test whether she could get away with it, fearful that her expression might give away what was happening? Certainly as the singer turned back Sarah knew the battle against the urge had been lost, and Alizée’s anxiety and shame – so obvious a minute before – had gone.

Pas de malaises, je fainéante … Je m'éclabousse, j'en ris

she sang. ‘No problem, I’m lazy … I splash, laugh about it.’ And the pee streamed down her legs, gushing from her shorts, saturating her thigh-highs, dripping out of her high heels on to the stage. Alizée’s  hand moved sexily down towards her crotch, touching the shorts, moving behind, feeling the soaked fabric clinging more tightly than ever to her bum.

“For Christ’s sake, head shot! Head shot!” shouted the director. “Jon – get a bucket and mop, and …” But Sarah didn’t hear that. She was mesmerised by what was happening on the stage in front of her. She knew – she just knew – that Alizée wasn’t worried any more. She was actually enjoying it.

 

 

Edited May 5, 2021 by Kupar
Bloody typo

[Sophie 23,031]

Incredible! It was like I was right there in the studio and the thought of Alizée enjoying hot pee running down her legs while performing in front of hundreds of people is a very sexy mental picture. 

Thank you! 

[Kupar 12,356]

32 minutes ago, Sophie said:

Incredible! It was like I was right there in the studio and the thought of Alizée enjoying hot pee running down her legs while performing in front of hundreds of people is a very sexy mental picture. 

Thank you! 

You're welcome 😊

[Kupar 12,356]

Part 2 - The aftermath

After Alizée had finished singing, all hell broke loose in the studio. The song was the show’s closing number – the end credits were rolling and the live TV audience probably hadn’t seen anything … but pretty much everyone there knew exactly what had happened. The singer ripped off her radio mic and ran to the dressing room. Sarah ran after her, leaving Jon and the rest of the floor staff to mop up the puddle.

In the dressing room, Alizée ordered her team to leave and locked the door behind them. She looked at Sarah. Sarah looked at her, glancing from her wickedly smiling eyes to her shorts, to her damp legs and back again. For perhaps 20 seconds – it seemed forever to Sarah – there was silence. Then they both burst out laughing, a release of tension to match the bladder relief of a few minutes earlier.

“Do you want me to help you out of your clothes now Miss Jacotey?” asked Sarah.

“No. Not yet. Please, come here,” replied Alizée. Sarah walked across the room, and Alizée pulled her close. Sarah responded – she just couldn’t help it. She dropped her clipboard and her hands instinctively found the star’s beautiful bum, drawing it close against her. She could feel the wetness of the singer’s shorts under her hands, and seeping into her thin skirt, and as their thighs touched, the gorgeous sensation of wet skin on skin.

“I have more pipi to come out,” teased Alizée, “and I think you want it to come, no? But I must see your pipi first.” How could Sarah refuse?

She was released from the embrace, took a couple of paces back, slipped her skirt down and stepped out of it. She hooked her thumbs into her scarlet thong but Alizée stopped her: “Non! Keep it on – I want it to get wet! Stand with your legs wide – and take off your shirt!” she commanded. Sarah realised now what Jon had been talking about: no diva, but certainly a handful. She knew her sexual power and was happy to use it. Sarah lifted up her blouse and raised it over her head. How relieved she was that she’d put on her prettiest lace balconette bra that morning – she didn’t want a glamorous French woman seeing anything else – and her heart was jumping as Alizée whispered “Oh! Magnifique! Now … pee for me!”

Sarah tried hard to relax, but nothing would come. She wanted more than anything to pee for her mistress, to open herself up emotionally and physically, to say “Here I am – exposed, vulnerable, peeing in front of you, giving you everything that is most basic, most fundamental, most human: take me!” But nothing would come. Sarah closed her eyes and tried – tried so hard – to relax.

She didn’t hear Alizée silently approach her, but she felt warm breath on her neck, then warm lips on her breasts, then a warm hand cupping her mound and gently stroking her lips through the red thong. Sarah breathed deeply, and finally it came – slowly at first, then faster and faster, the jumble of heightened emotions of the past 15 minutes melting away as her pee streamed through the fabric, flooding Alizée’s fingers and splashing on to the dressing room carpet. Sheer bliss! She felt her bra straps being eased over her shoulders, an expert hand undoing the clasp, a gentle, wet French tongue ever so light on her areolae, and still her pee flowed. The fingers pushed more firmly now, up and down against her labia, circling her clit, then pulling the tiny triangle of soaked cotton aside and exploring inside – one finger, two, teasing and probing.

As her pee stream slowed and stopped, her body and mind drained and relaxed, Sarah felt a different kind of tension starting to build, but Alizée was too skilled a lover to rush. She withdrew her hand and gently guided the young studio runner back towards the dressing room sofa, easing her down, then stepping back, putting her own hands on her hips, and standing wide so Sarah could fully take in the view. Sarah wanted to say something – something beautiful and memorable – but all she could think at that moment was “Oh my God! You are fucking gorgeous!” – and it just slipped out – she couldn’t help herself.

Alizée laughed and wiggled her hips. Involuntarily Sarah’s hand moved to her clit. “Now I have some more for you,” said Alizée, with a naughty, sexy smile playing on her lips: “Watch me!” As Sarah gazed at Alizée’s black shorts she could hear the hiss of pee before it hit the inside of the sodden material, which glistened in the bright light. Unable to hold any more of the warm liquid, the shorts released a river of pee down the insides of Alizée’s beautiful thighs, dripping from her saturated stockings and pooling on the carpet before soaking in.

“I think I will make you cum, yes?” As Sarah’s fingers worked busily she could only nod – she would have climaxed quite happily on her own, but Alizée had other ideas. She reached into her handbag and took out a bullet vibrator, switched it on, knelt in front of her conquest and played with Sarah’s inner lips, expertly teasing the wet, soft swollen flesh, then pushing harder against the hard pearl, or plunging gently but firmly inside. She knew just what to do, sensing Sarah’s pleasure rising, plateauing, rising again, bringing her closer and closer to the big release. Sarah’s hands grasped the edge of the sofa cushion, she bit her lip, she shook her head, she bucked her hips and finally, drowning out the vibrator’s incessant humming, she threw back her head and screamed, her legs trembling and her pussy pulsating – a flood drenching the sofa cushion as she came, fifteen seconds of the most intense throbbing orgasmic pleasure she had ever felt.

At that moment that Jon unlocked the dressing room door with a spare key…

[Lutab 1,011]

I hope Jon joins in and fucks them both 🙂

[MidoriLemonade85 1,877]

Oh! The French do it so well, don’t they?💖

Not that I speak from personal experience, unfortunately.😉

So much female passion and power in this one.

Such an amazing piece of writing, Kupar.  No, not writing, art.  

iI loved the last bit on the couch.  Those girls are going to go all night.

AND yes I really hope Jon joins the fun and fucks them both, but of course, Alizée will be in charge! 
 

and thank you Sophie! 🙏👏💖

 

[Kupar 12,356]

53 minutes ago, MidoriLemonade85 said:

Oh! The French do it so well, don’t they?💖

Not that I speak from personal experience, unfortunately.😉

So much female passion and power in this one.

Such an amazing piece of writing, Kupar.  No, not writing, art.  

iI loved the last bit on the couch.  Those girls are going to go all night.

AND yes I really hope Jon joins the fun and fucks them both, but of course, Alizée will be in charge! 
 

and thank you Sophie! 🙏👏💖

 

Oh ... I really should write a third part! Thanks so much for your comments Midori ❤️

Edited July 30, 2022 by Kupar