New Times, Old Times

Posted by Lucy Peters on May 27, 1999 at 07:21

New Times, Old Times

It’s nice to take a look at this board again. As usual, it’s been a little while since I had a chance, but that’s partly my fault as I’ve been a bit preoccupied - not just with college work, but also with Hugh, who is my rather nice new boyfriend. Meeting Hugh has perked up my ‘normal’ sex life quite a bit; I have still been doing naughty things in my knickers, but rather more of the ease-the-gusset-aside variety.

As I think most of us girls who indulge in messy knickers from time-to-time have decided, it’s something that not many of us can hope to share with a boyfriend, especially a fairly new boyfriend. Nowadays, I suppose, most of us expect to have sex fairly soon in a relationship - probably well before we really know the other person that well; but I certainly haven’t reached the point with Hugh (or with any other boy, come to that) where I feel I could let him into my little secret. Although I do sometimes wonder what he would think if he realised that the leg elastic of my panties has more often been stretched by a BM trying to get *out* than by a penis trying to get *in*!

As I think I’ve said before, I keep the two aspects of my personality - or is it my sexuality? - well apart, in separate compartments. Sometimes one side - the naughty little-girl Lucy who is very unreliable about the toilet and widdles and messes her pants - predominates; at other times, I prefer to be naughty big-girl Lucy, who likes to find herself on her back with her frock up round her waist, her knickers pulled aside and several inches of prime English p***** deep inside her. And just lately, if my panties have been a bit wet or messy, it hasn’t been my toilet habits that made them that way.

That doesn’t mean to say that I’ve given up my messier habits. It just means that I have to be rather more careful and discreet, as my flat is now rather more of a love-nest and somewhat less of a nursery. It would be a bit awkward if Hugh found a pair of poo-stained pants in the laundry or, worse still, turned up unexpectedly (and he does, he does!) when I had just filled my knickers... At the moment, I’m still at the ‘can’t get enough of him’ stage of the affair, so I wouldn’t dream of risking it by trying to suggest something that might be too way-out or kinky. Although in my fantasies I would love to play ‘daddies and daughters’ with him.

However, this last weekend was a little different, for two reasons. Firstly, because Hugh was away in London at a Rugby match (Cornwall v Gloucester - Cornwall won, I think 24 - 19, so as Hugh’s Cornish he’ll be very pleased - and probably well hung over - when he gets back tonight!), so I knew I had the flat to myself. And secondly, because on Saturday evening I had a visit from Liz, the girl - well, woman now, she’s 36 - who used to look after me when I was about six or seven years old. It was Liz who once told me to go toilet in my pants - when we were coming back from an outing and I’d held on too long - and she was far more tolerant of my frequent ‘accidents’ than any of the other ‘nannies’ that looked after me. She was on holiday here with her family (husband and two sons) , but the males had all gone - as males will - to a football match, so she got the address of the flat from my stepmother and wrote to say she would come and see me. I quite looked forward to her visit.

After an hour or so of general gossip, we naturally got to talking about how it had been when Liz looked after me. I wondered if she’d say anything about me going toilet in my pants so often - and after a while, she did. She sort of grinned at me, and said something like: “Of course, you were really hard work. You were for ever wetting yourself - and worse!” I sort of grinned sheepishly at that.
“Was I?” I asked. And then Liz told me all about how I never used to go on the toilet, but would always hold on then do it in my knickers.
“I can see you now,” says Liz, “Standing there all red in the face, grunting away and just filling your pants. You never tried to hide what you were doing...”
I looked suitably bashful, hoping she would go on. She did - reminding me of several occasions when I’d poo’d my knickers. In the garden. In the playroom. On the slide. On the swing. In the sandpit (you were wearing shorts and a lot got out down your leg - we had to throw away a some of the sand!) And, worst (best?) of all, in my best dress just after I came home from somebody’s birthday party. (They had squishy chocolate cake at the party, and it looked just as though someone had shoved the whole thing in your pants! said Liz)

After a bit of this reminiscence, Liz suddenly looked at me and asked:
“Why were you so messy? Did you like it?” I blushed a bit then, and confessed that yes, I did like it. But I countered by asking Liz why she didn’t make more of an effort to stop me using my knickers as a toilet. Did she, I wondered, have some sympathy with me? Perhaps she felt the urge to be messy in her pants when she was smaller? It was Liz’s turn to blush a bit then, but after a bit of prevarication she admitted that she had also been a ‘mucky child’.
“Mind you, I couldn’t do it like you did; but I sometimes saved my big jobs and then let them go in my knickers. My mum used to be sort of sad rather than angry, and she never scolded me that much.” Liz said she was doing this pretty much up until the age of ten, and then she stopped before she went to ‘big school’. She tried to start again when she was about fifteen, but it was difficult, living at home with her parents and an elder brother. So after that she just sort of dreamed about it and did it very occasionally when she was sure she wouldn’t get caught.

Then she asked me whether I’d kept on doing it. I sort of skated around the point for a bit, then (we were well on the way down the second bottle of wine by this point!) admitted that yes, I had started again when I too was about fifteen. And yes, I still did, sometimes. Just occasionally... So we talked about it some more, trying to decide *why* it felt so nice, and about how we had done it as children. ‘Sagging seat syndrome,’ Liz called it. She’s a nurse now, working at a big London hospital, and gets a bit medical in the way she talks sometimes. All the time we were sitting there talking about pooing our pants, I was feeling the need to have a BM get stronger and stronger. I suppose I started to fidget a bit, because Liz suddenly asked, just as she had when I was small: “Lucy, do you need to go potty?”

I don’t know if it was Liz’s voice, the wine or the heady flood of reminiscence, but all of a sudden I was six years old again. I really *felt* six, and all the present of my independence in the flat, my life at the university and my raunchy love-affair with Hugh sort of melted away. And I was just little Lucy with Liz her nanny, little Lucy playing games and not wanting to bother to go off to the lavatory or the potty to do big jobs. Well, why bother going off to the potty when it’s just as easy to do your poos where you are, let them come and give you that warm squishy comfortable feeling in your knickers? It was always so easy to give just a gentle push - uuugh! - and feel the soft sticky lumps slide out and squidge under you. I was wearing a short dress which was a bit rucked-up where I was curled up on my sofa, and I knew that Liz knew what I was doing. She leaned over and lifted the hem of my flower-print pinafore dress as the little bulge in my pink-and-white cotton panties grew and spread sideways a bit.
“Lucy!” she said, in her best nanny voice. “Lucy, are you going ugh-ahs in your knickers?”
I stuck a finger in my mouth, looked as coy as I could.
“Come here!’ said Liz.
I got up, stood by her chair with my back to her, just as I’d done all those years ago. Liz lifted my dress again, looked at the bulge, felt it to see how much I had done.
“Have you finished yet?” she asked. I shook my head.
“Do you want the potty?”
I gave her my coy little-girl look again.
“Don’t want potty,” I said.
Liz let my dress drop and sighed.
“Well, I’m not going to change you until you’ve finished.”

So I stood in front of her and strained to do the rest of my BM, feeling myself go a little red in the face as I pushed out another nice, big squidgy lump, then a last smaller lump that was a bit softer and made that wonderfully squelchy sound as it squeezed into my knickers. It felt as good as ever - just as nice, in its’ own way, as a romp with Hugh. As usual, I was quite sorry when I couldn’t do any more. Liz looked at me with a peculiar, wistful expression on her face.
“Oh, Lucy,” she said, “Did you *have* to?”
I looked sheepish again, nodded, put a finger in my mouth. It was an odd game we were playing, but it had me well in its grip. Liz lifted my dress again, checked the seat of my pants.
“Poo! You little stinker,” she said, just as she had all those years ago. “Are you sure you’ve finished?”
I shook my head. I always shook my head when Liz asked me that when I was small, so that I could run around with messy knickers on for a while.
“Well, just don’t make a mess on the furniture,” said Liz.

I did, though. I didn’t sit on the sofa again, but on my wooden desk chair, spreading the warm softness right through my pants, loving the feel of it escaping down my legs and squeezing between my bottom cheeks and thighs. Liz looked at me oddly again.
“Does that feel nice, Lucy?”
I nodded.
“All nice and warm and squashy,” I said, in my best little-girl voice. “Lucy did a big poo-poo,” I added, rather unnecessarily.
“Lucy certainly did,” said Liz. “She’s a very dirty little girl.”
I put my guilty face on.
“And now Liz will have to clean you up and wash your mucky knickers and put some clean clothes on you,” she went on. “At least you didn’t make pee-pee as well.”
That was my cue to relax a bit more, dribbling warm wetness into the crotch of my messy knickers, letting the stream gather and strengthen until it splashed noisily onto the cork-tiled floor.
“Oh, Lucy,” said Liz, “Couldn’t you wait?”
I shook my head, and sat there happily peeing my knickers while several glasses of wine worked their way through my system.

When Liz eventually brought our little game to a close by marching me off to the bathroom to change my filthy, sodden pants and clean the thick smearing of poo from my backside and legs, we were both oddly turned on, although not in the sort of sexual lesbian way often described. I am not quite sure what really went on (we were quite well away on that litre-and-a-bit of best Italian white), other than that I enjoyed messing my pants just as I have often enjoyed it in the past and Liz somehow enjoyed me enjoying myself, and re-living the way that I had obviously given her vicarious pleasure in the past. It’s a mighty odd and complex business, this, and understanding what we all get out of it is far from straightforward. Liz had to go off to meet her males shortly afterwards, and I went to bed puzzled but pleased, if a little thick in the head. And yes, I did have a headache when I woke up in the morning. A headache, and a pair of badly-stained pink and white knickers to wash.

Lucy

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