A favourit fantasy

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Posted by Lucy Peters on June 01, 1999 at 10:45

Home Farm Nursery
- A Favourite Fantasy in as many Parts as it Takes,
by Lucy Peters
Introduction
As those of us who enjoy the messy-pants experience know only too well, it’s not that easy to achieve. In order to have a BM in your pants, you first have to have the need to have a BM in the first place! And as everybody knows, bowel movements are acts of nature over which we have only limited influence. Yes, most of us are regular, to some degree, so we can have a pretty good idea as to when we’re likely to feel that familiar urge. We can hold on in the hope that we can then get ourselves into a situation in which we can indulge in the tactile delights of having that BM in our own special way. And we can, to some extent, look after our diets to produce the right sort of BM for maximum enjoyment when it’s in our pants. But that’s about the limit of our ability to control events.
Peeing is a different matter, of course. It’s easy enough to drink the sort of thing - tea, coffee, beer or wine, fruit juice or, especially, Coca-Cola - that is to some extent diuretic. With a relatively weak bladder like mine, it doesn’t take much of the right sort of input to trigger things off, and I can readily achieve a state where I’m always wanting to go. More or less continuously dribbling wee into my knickers is a very pleasant state to be in, I find; but it’s frustrating when, fired up by the feel of widdled pants, you really want to make a poo - but can’t, due to a lack of ammunition.
In common, I’m sure, with many of you, I often dream idly of a state of affairs where I am free to go to go to the toilet in my pants how and when I want, where I can adopt any rôle that I fancy, where I’m looked after by someone else who gets to do all the cleaning up, and where I can be secure in the knowledge that no-one will infringe on my activities, criticise me, laugh at me, pity me or become agressive toward me. (I can’t think *why* people should become aggressive towards those of us who indulge in this harmless if mildly antisocial pastime - but to judge by some of the unpleasant posts on the message boards, they do). And, lastly but certainly not least, my imaginary valhalla would be a place where BM’s are as frequent, as large and as messy as I would like. Once a day is not enough!
I’d like to say I dreamed up the idea of an exclusive, upmarket and very genteel resort for those who enjoy these particular pleasures one carefree afternoon as I was sunning myself in the garden and gently filling my pants. But I didn’t - instead, it occured to me when I should have been paying attention to a (very boring) lecture on W H Auden. I was rather smitten with the idea, though, and now that I’ve got my own computer to work on I thought I might write it down and develop it. If nothing else, it will be good practice for me to tackle something long and open-ended. I don’t really know at the outset how much I will be able to write on this theme, or even whether it will appeal to the rest of you - it certainly won’t be everybody’s cup of tea. I’ll probably post a first instalment and wait to see what the reaction is before getting *too* carried away!
Lucy
Chapter One: The Way Back
Several times on the long journey north, I nearly changed my mind and got off the train. Part of me was keyed up with anticipation of the secret pleasures that might be mine if I went through with this, but the more rational part of my mind was ringing alarm bells and crying ‘Don’t take the risk!’ But then there was a third part of my muddled brain that kept remembering the size of the money order I’d sent off to pay for this weekend - money that was not refundable should I not show up. And on top of that, there was the train fare - another not-inconsiderable sum. To chicken out now would cost me dear - and I would always wonder what I would have missed.
I first discovered Home Farm Nursery through a reference on an Adult Baby website - a link to a page that described, in almost coded terms, the delights offered. There was an address - a post office box number - so I wrote for details under a false name and using a friend’s holiday home I looked after as a return address. The envelope that came back a few days later was classy, the sort that usually contains an investment company circular or an upmarket catalogue. The literature inside lived up to its’ wrapping, being of a very high standard - well designed, and printed in full colour on semi-gloss art paper.
On the front of that classy brochure was a picture of a fine old country house in a remote part of the country, tucked away amid heather-purpled northern hills. It looked like an upmarket country hotel - which, in some ways, it was. But a hotel with a difference. Inside the leaflet - more a booklet, really - were other pictures. Pictures of private but spacious grounds, of rather different accomodation - converted farm buildings - tucked away in parkland, with interior views of the rooms. And this was where the difference came, for these were no conventional hotel rooms. Some were nurseries, complete with cots and changing tables that were somehow oddly large. Others were playrooms or simple children’s bedrooms, mostly girlish, with pastel paintwork and pretty curtains. Soft toys were piled on the beds, and colourful nursery-rhyme pictures hung on the walls. They looked like the sort of room any little girl might like to have.
The last half of the brochure was the most interesting and unusual. For amid pictures of pretty young girls obviously wearing nappies, or dressed in short little-girl frocks that gave glimpses of their panties, were details of services that no other hotel would dream of providing: the opportunity to be little again, to have no more cares and worries than you had when you were a small child, to be looked after in every way (with or without your ‘mummy’ or ‘daddy’) and to be free to do those things that only small children can get away with.
The last few pictures were the most arresting. They all showed the same young girl - who could have been any age from twelve to twenty but who was obviously pretending to be about five. She was wearing her long brown hair in bunches held with pink ribbons, and was dressed in childish clothes. In one photo, she wore a very short pinafore dress, white Tessie Bear socks and jelly shoes, and she was squatting down in the middle of an immaculately-manicured lawn - simply peeing streams through her white cotton little-girl pants. In another picture, she had on the same dress, but she was holding it up to show obviously-wet nappies and plastic pants beneath. In the next picture, she was kneeling in a sandpit wearing a My Little Pony T-shirt and yellow shorts - yellow shorts with a definite bulge and a tell-tale stain in the seat. And a last photo showed her lying on a changing table sucking her thumb while an older-looking girl in a nurse’s uniform changes her messy nappy. Startling stuff.
But the most intriguing part of the brochure lay in the final page of text, the page that described the freedom offered to ‘act out your childlike fantasies in every detail. You will be tended and aided in every way by our trained staff of expert nursemaids, who can help you relive those wonderfully childlike moments as often as you want, in whatever way you want. Our unique and specialised ‘nursery aid’ products offer you opportunities that, in the normal way, will only occur perhaps once a day.’ Read it which way you would, that meant only one thing. At Home Farm, you could somehow poo your pants as often as you liked. I had no idea how, but if I stuck to my plan I’d soon find out.
I looked at my watch. There was about an hour of the train journey still to go, and no more stops. A car would meet me at the station, and shortly afterwards I would be checking into Home Farm under my newly-assumed name of Amy Stevens. And then - who knows? I turned to my book, tried to read for a while, then gave up and looked out of the window, trying to counter the unease I still felt. Unease - and anticipation.
At long last, the train slowed, and we had arrived. It was cool and cloudy when I stepped down onto the platform, carrying only my small overnight case. Suitable clothes were part of the Home Farm deal, so there was no need for much luggage. Slowly, I walked along the platform toward the station exit, a knot of nervousness in the pit of my stomach. There were only a few travellers leaving the train, and I noticed that two of them were girls about my age - and that they both had small overnight bags but, apparently, no other luggage. I was not the only seeker after childhood pleasures, it seemed.
A moment or two later, we were all three standing beneath the glass canopy that covered the station entrance, sort of looking sideways at each other, and glancing nervously about the station approach for any sign of an approaching car. You could feel a sort of hidden tension in the chill spring air. ‘This is silly,’ I thought and, turning to the girl who stood nearest to me, I said quietly:
“I’m waiting to go to Home Farm. Are you?”
The girl smiled at me nervously, nodded. I took a step towards her, held out my hand.
“I’m Amy,” I said, assuming my new personna.
“Susie,” she said, taking my hand gingerly. I smiled at her, and the strained look around her eyes eased a bit as she untensed.
The other girl came across to us then.
“Did you say you were going to Home Farm?” she asked.
It was my turn to nod.
“Well, that makes three of us,” she said. “I’m Claire.”
We all shook hands, and I looked at my two companions. Claire was petite like me - and strikingly pretty, with shoulder-length blonde hair and wide, china-blue eyes. There were two high spots of colour in her cheeks, but her smile was more relaxed now. Susie was an inch or so taller than either of us, and had dark, curly hair and shy brown eyes. We were all three quite smartly dressed - no-one would ever have believed where we were going. Or rather, why.
We chatted for a few minutes, all three of us relieved to find each other as supportive company. We discovered we were all first-timers, and in the way of nervous debutantes quickly established a bond of mutual depedence. Then Claire spotted a car approaching, and a moment later a maroon Mercedes pulled up beside us. It was driven by a woman wearing a casmere sweater and designer jeans.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said. “I got held up by some sheep that got out into the road. Took a while to shift them.”
“That’s OK,” said Claire as we opened the car doors and slid onto the smooth leather seats. “Gave us a chance to get the introductions out of the way.”
“That’s good,” said the woman, turning to look back over her shoulder before swinging the big car round in a circle and heading back down the road.
It was a journey of about five miles. The woman at the wheel introduced herself as Meg, but otherwise contented herself with making comments about the weather, and pointing out landmarks in the beautiful hill country through which we drove. After a while, we turned off of the main road onto a minor lane that ran up into the hills, and then, after another half-mile or so, the car swung in through a gateway between tall stone posts. The driveway ran downhill to the house, and the view was breathtaking; Scarthwaite Manor sat privately in its’ own little valley, a bowl of parkland amid the rough upland fields. It was a truly secluded spot.
The house, too, was beautiful, elegant and comfortable in pale limestone beneath a slate roof. Not fussy or fancy, just well proportioned and well kept. The entrance porch was arched to take carriages, and the wide hallway was had a hotel-style reception desk. We checked in just as if we were at a normal hotel. There was no sign of the sort of ambience that the brochure sold. The girl on the reception desk was smartly uniformed and very professional. She gave us each a glossy folder of information, and asked us to wait for a few minutes for someone to take us to our rooms. So we sat in comfortable chairs in the carpeted hall, with it’s big oil painting over a stione Georgian fireplace, and talked quietly among ourselves until a fatherly-looking man in his sixties came in the front door.
“Are you young ladis wanting to go down to Home Farm Nursery?” he asked, as if he were talking about a place that sold plants, not the other sort of nursery at all.”
“Yes,” said Claire, and we got up and followed him out to the wide gravel sweep in front of the house. The Mercedes had gone, and in its’ place was a minibus painted to look like one belonging to a pre-school play centre.
We got into the bus, and were driven down a gravel road between a fine avenue of beech trees that ran down the side of the house. We passed a range of buildings that lay behind the main house - stables and coach houses, and swung onto another roadway that ran between the outbuildings and a magnificent kitchen garden. Home Farm was about a quarter of a mile further, and was a typical Victorian ‘model farm’ - a range of neat stone-and-brick buildings around a central courtyard. Except the coutyard was now a wonderfully landscaped garden area, with a playground at it’s centre - swings, roundabout, rocking horse, sandpit. And the buildings had obviously all been converted to provide accomodation - accommodation of a very special kind.
The minibus pulled up in front of one of the buildings, a low stone structure that looked as if it might once have been a cowshed. A wide doorway opened onto the courtyard, and standing, waiting, was a pleasant-looking fair-haired woman - girl - of about twenty- five or so. She smiled at us as we got off the bus.
“Hello,” she said. “I’m Angela. I’ll be your nursemaid this weekend. And you must be Amy, Claire and Susan.”
“Susie,” said Susie.
“Susie,” said Angela, inclining her head. “Now, let’s come and get you settled. I’ve put you all in the same nursery, if that’s all right with you.”
We looked at each other, not quite certain. The Claire shrugged and grinned.
“Why not?” she said.
We followed Angela along a wide passageway that led through the building, to a door midway along. This opened into a wonderful room that went the full height of the building, right up into the roof. Tall sliding windows opened onto a garden bright with evening sunshine, and the room was fitted out mostly as a playroom. There were bean-bag seats, a rocking horse, a thick rug on the floor and a big-screen TV set with a video beneath it. In one corner was a table with chairs around it; two outsize high chairs stood in the corner. Four doors opened off of the room.
“The three doors at this side lead to your bedrooms,” said Angela. “And the one at the far end there leads to the bathrooms and the nursery area.”
And she showed us, opening the door of the middle bedroom to reveal one of the grown-up children’s rooms that were illustrated in the brochure - decorated prettily, with an outsize cot on one side and a childlike bed on the other complete with a nursery-rhyme duvet and a pile of soft toys. The other furniture included a chest of drawers and a play table. The only discordant note was a discreet TV and video and a typical hotel-type bedside panel.
The bathrooms were small but well-equipped, and we had one each. The nursery area was softly furnished, with a quilted changing table beside a special tiled area with a shower, waashbasins and an arrangement of rubber tubes with smaller shower heads fitted. Bottom washers, I supposed. On the other side of the table was a tall rack of open shelving containing piles of white towelling nappies, pairs of plastic pants, cotton little-girl knickers, trainer pants and so on. A chest beside the table was laden with other necessities - wipes, talcum powder, zinc-and-castor oil cream. On the floor stood a row of buckets with lids, ready - presumably - for the worst. We stared at all this, then looked slightly awkwardly at one another.
But Angela was already leading the way back to the playroom area.
“Right,” she said. “Now, I’ll let you get settled in. There’s a video for you to watch that will tell you all about what we can offer here, and in your information packs you’ll find a form you can fill in to let us know exactly what you like to eat, wear and so on. I think you’ll find we can produce most things.”
And she drew the curtains across the big windows to blank out the last of the afternoon sun, and switched on the TV and video.
“I’ll be back in an hour or so,” she said, “And we’ll bring you supper in the playroom tonight, if that’s all right?”
We nodded our assent, and she smiled her warm smile and went out, shutting the door behind her. We were left in the half-light with the bright rectangle of the TV screen.
The video opened with some general shots of Child’s End, then interiors of the main house and the nursery areas.
“We want you to gain as much satisfaction aspossible from your stay here,” said a calm female voice-over. “And to that end we have set up the Home Farm Nursery area to satisfy almost any aspect of child-time rôle play. You need only ask your nurserymaid, and we will do our best to meet your desires - but we think you’ll find most things are covered on the questionnaire you will be asked to fill in shortly. Among other things, this will tell us what sort of clothes you want to wear, as well as letting us know what size you need. Our three resident models, Alice, Melissa and Katie - a picture of each girl flashed up as her name was mentioned, so we would know who was who - will now show you what we have to offer”
All three girls were slight, petite and pretty, with all-but-flat chests, straight hips and small, neat, rounded bottoms. They were obviously at least teenagers, maybe more, but it was difficult to tell how old they actually were, especially when they were dressed up - down? - in the childlike clothes they were modelling.
The sequence started with babywear - mostly shortie smock tops with nappies and plastic pants prominent - then moved on through toddler clothes - dungarees, shorts and little-girl dresses, with or without nappies - and finished with older-children’s clothes, including schoolgirl uniforms.
“To go with our wide range of beautiful clothes, we can of course provide a range of suitable underwear.” said the voice-over.
The pictures now were of the girls pinned into nappies, then with a variety of different types of plastic pants pulled up over them - clear vinyl pants, opaque white pants, printed pants and frilly rhumba pants. The next sequence showed them again, this time with different sorts of trainer-pants on beneath their short frocks, which they held up becomingly. The sequence moved on to cover little-girl panties of all sorts - plain white cotton, white with print patterns or nursery characters and finally fancy frilly knickers. Lastly, the girls modelled older-children’s underwear - more plain white, colour or print panties, and classic thick cotton schoolgirl knickers.
“Of course, we realise that few of our guests will be completely potty-trained,” went on the voice-over. “But this is never a problem at Home Farm. Accidents will happen...”
Alice was lying on a rug in a playroom, wearing a short smock-type baby-top over nappies and clear vinyl plastic pants. She was sucking her thumb and there was a far-away look on her face; the camera tracked in close to show the growing patch of wetness darkening the front of her nappy and the droplets of moisture running across the inside of her plastic pants. The next shot in the sequence had Katie standing spread-legged in the middle of one of the nursery rooms, a finger in her mouth and a coy expression on her face as a steady stream tricked from beneath her dress and splashed into a puddle between her feet. She lifted the hem of her dress up to show the pee dribbling from the crotch of her pale blue cotton-towelling trainer pants. The shot cut to Melissa, out in the garden this time, wearing pink shorts. She too stood with her feet apart as a darker patch of wetness spread out rapidly from her crotch and a steady stream started to course down the insides of her thighs. A last shot was Katie again, this time dressed as a schoolgirl in gymslip and white knee-socks , sitting at a school desk. She put a hand up then got to her feet; next moment, with a look of alarm on her face she started to wet herself, holding her gymslip high out of the way as the pee poured from the gusset of her navy schoolgirl knickers.
“Out exemplary nursery care makes sure that these little mishaps cause no trouble,” went on the voice-over. “Our staff are quite happy to keep our babies fresh and dry or to deal with any potty mishaps that might happen, no matter what.”
The next sequence was a repetition of the previous one in most respects - except that the ‘accidents’ were rather more substantial. Alice, wearing a short smock baby dress and a nappy with nothing over it - toddled into the middle of the nursey floor, then stood by the rocking-horse holding its’ head as she bent forward slightly and started to strain visibly. She went slightly red in the face, and grunted to herself as she very obviously messed her nappy. To judge by the soft, sticky sounds and the amount of grunting, it was a good big mess, too. To prove the point - about the care, presumably - a nursemaid (not Angela) came in, took Alice by the hand (she was a really tiny girl - not much more than four-and-a-half feet tall) and led her into the changing area. Alice lay on the table with her legs in the air as the nursemaid unpinned her nappy and let the front part drop to the table to show the sizeable hillock of soft brown poo under Alice’s bottom, and the girl’s neat hairless little slit.
The next sequence starred Katie. It started with her sitting on the potty with her short little-girl pinafore dress up around her waist and her trainer pants - thick white cotton knickers with pink leg-trim and a teddy-bear motif - around her ankles. Then the same nursemaid appeared, and made her get off the potty, pulling up her panties and patting her on the bottom. Katie wandered out into the nursery, sat down and started to play absently with a pile of soft toys. After a few minutes, she started fidgetting, then got to her feet, lifted her dress up, and held her long fair hair back with her hand as she, too, started to strain. A spurt of wee dampened her crotch and then grew into a slow trickle down the back of her leg as small dimple showed in the cotton under her seat, rose to be a minor peak, then crumpled and lost its shape as a large, rounded bulge grew inside those clean white teddy-bear pants. Katie took a deep breath and, slightly flushed, pushed again. The bulge grew a little more, and a long low sticky sqelching noise was clearly audible on the soundtrack. Then, still holding her frock out of harm’s way, Katie carefully sat back down to resume her game. As she sat, firm chocolate-brown softness squeezed out under the leg-trim of her pants beneath her thighs. Very definitely a ‘potty mishap’.
Melissa came next, still out in the sunlit garden, still wearing shorts - blue, this time. She was squatting in the sandpit and quite unselfconcously straining to have a bowel movement in her pants. She didn’t have to strain very hard, and to judge by the long series of sticky squelching sounds the results were quite soft and rather plentiful. We three girls watching glanced at each other in the dim light and grinned when the seat of Melissa’s blue shorts moved sharply outwards as she filled her pants. When she had finished, Melissa got to her feet and felt round behind herself, pushing her fingers into the yielding bulge under her bottom. Then she waddled over to the far side of the garden where there was a swing - and sat down on the yellow plastic seat with a sticky ‘splat’. She swung gently to and fro for a couple of minutes until a nurserymaid - this time it *was* Angela - appeared and called her. Melissa got down from the swing and stood in front of the nursemaid. Angela knelt beside her and slowly eased Melissa’s shorts down. There were thick smears of golden-brown poo showing at the backs of both her legs, and a wide mottled stain across the seat of her white cotton little-girl panties with their teddy-bear print pattern. Melissa had certainly messed her knickers right up, and there were smears on the inside of her shorts as well. A very mucky mishap.
Last in this sequence came schoolgirl Alice again, walking home with her satchel over her shoulder and a worried expression on her face. She looked more and more worried, then stopped by a large flowering shrub. She looked desparately about her, then went quickly round the back of the bush. The camera followed her as she bent over, plucking nervously at the hem of her gymnslip. Then she gave a little gasp, and a grunt, and hoicked her slip up as the seat of the white waist-high schoolgirl knickers she wore beneath it suddenly pushed out and down into a rather lumpy bulge. Alice gasped, grunted again, and the single bump was joined by a further series of lumpy bulges that distended the white cotton to accomodate the large, firm BM which had evidently ‘got the better of her’. Nervously, Alice felt behind herself, exploring the irregularities disfiguring the seat of her pants. Then, cautiously, she let her gymslip drop, and took a cautious step. She stopped again and gave a squeak as a lump of firm, sticky brown poo-poo slid slowly down her leg from beneath her slip and fell on the ground with a soft ‘plop’. Alice hoicked her slip up again, then, grasping the waistband of her bulging panties, pulled them sharply up. The bumps and peaks flattened a little as she squashed the chunky BM inside her knickers. Then she let the hem of the slip drop again, wiggled her bottom experimentally, took two or thee careful steps, and set off to walk the rest of the way ‘home’ with a big mess in her pants.
“As you can see,” said the cool, melifluous tones of the voiceover, “Accidents, even of the messiest variety, are simply not a problem here at Home Farm. In fact, they are something we take in our stride several times a day, as Katie shows us.”
Katy was asleep beneath a Miss Muffet duvet in one of the bedrooms. Her fair hair was sprawled across the pillow and she had a thumb in her mouth and a large teddy-bear tucked in beside her. Looking at her, it was difficult to realise she wasn’t actually about four years old and not nearly five times that age. After a few moments, the door of the room opened and nursemaid Angela came in to get Katie up. In the corner of the screen, a superimposed clock-faced showed the time. It was eight o’clock.
Katie sat up in bed, rubbed her eyes, smiled. Then she got out of bed, revealing her short little-girl nighty with her plastic panties and nappy showing underneath. The camera (the filming was very professional, steady and well-lit) tracked closely as Katie, clutching her large teddy-bear, followed Angela through to the changing area. Katie climbed on to the table and lay there, cuddling her bear and sucking her thumb as Angela pulled down her plastic panties and unpinned her wet nappy. Wet and messy nappy, as was amply revealed when Angela pulled the sodden terry-towelling out from beneath Katie’s rosy-cheeked bottom. There was a big pile of soft brown poo in the seat of the nappy, and a corresponding thick mucky smear across Katy’s buttocks. Angela wiped and washed her carefully using wipes and a flanel, then got her down from the table and onto the tiled area. She reached for one of those small rubber tubes I’d noticed, and turned on the small chrome tap beside it. The end of the tube gave a fine spray of water, and Angela used it to give Katie’s skin a thorough washing. Then she used her finger to apparently inspect Katie’s back passage for cleanliness, gave a last rinse with the tube, dried her with a towel and rubbed in a generous dollop of cream. Finally, she sprinkled on plenty of talcum powder before dressing Katie in clean white-and-pink cotton vest, thick cotton trainer-pants, a T-shirt and pinafore dress, finishing off with white ankle socks and sandals.
The camera followed faithfully as Katie went back into the nursery and observed the three ‘little girls’ as they ate their breakfast. Then Katie got down from the table, and wandered across the room. She went to the rocking-horse, climbed on, rocked for a few minutes, then got off and walked slowly over towards a table covered in toys. But halfway across the room she stopped and stood quite still. Next moment, she was going red in the face and grunting quietly to herself as she quite evidently had a large bowel movement, holding her dress up and leaning forwards slightly as she completely filled her trainer-pants - which sagged down under the load. Then she waddled over to the table and sat down on a low plastic chair, pushing wide swathes of rich caramel poo-poo out at the legs of her pants. The ever-present clock-face showed a quarter past nine.
A few moments later, Angela found her charge sitting in very messy pants, and took her off for changing. The camera duly followed, and watched as Angela lowered Katie’s trainer-pants to reveal a very large BM. The mess was caked more than an inch thick over most of the inside of the cotton knickers, with a neat wedge-shaped lump in the centre where it had filled the space between the round cheeks of Katie’s bottom. There was more sticky mess spread almost as thickly across Katie’s skin - virtually up to the waistband height of the panties and several inches down the back of each thigh. It was a truly monumental pants-full - more than I had ever managed. More wiping and washing followed, but this time there was a glimpse of something else going on - small objects, it appeared, being eased quickly into Katie’s back passage before the last thorough rinse of her bottom with that little rubber tube, a tube that seemed to be kept still for several seconds just where Katie’s puckered little poo-hole would be. Then her skin was dried once more, cream and powder were once again applied and fresh, clean panties pulled up - ordinary white cotton knickers this time, with a pattern of red-and-black ladybirds over them.
According to the ever-present clock, it wasn’t even a quarter to eleven when Katie, playing with her dolls out on the grass in the garden, squatted inelegantly and filled her clean pants with another very large, very messy bowel movement. There was a long, sticky squelch as the seat of those ladybird-patterned panties bulged out, and a stain started to appear through the cotton almost immediately. Next moment, the slick brown softness was visible beneath Katie’s thighs as the mess spread out inside the tighter confines of the ordinary knickers. It squeezed out even further past the legbands as Katie - seemingly with little effort - pushed a further instalment out. Once again, Katie had completely filled her pants. This time, however, we skipped the clean-up sequence, and were almost at once back out in the sunny garden. At five past mid-day by the ever-present clock, Katie messed a second pair of panties under her dress, standing on the path by the swing in the garden as she grunted quietly to herself and pushed another very substantial BM into the sagging seat of some pale-blue My Little Pony briefs. This time, some of the mess escaped from her knickers - a large, sticky lump slid slowly down the back of her left leg and fell onto the paving slab with a soft, sticky ‘splat’. Katie stuck a finger in her mouth and looked suitably coy.
After lunch, Katie was sent off for a ‘quiet time’. She had on cotton towelling knickers under clear plastic panties - clear to give an unobstructed view of the next large, soft BM filling her pants as she lay on her side sucking her thumb and looking at a nursery-rhyme story book. Once again, Katie messed her pants completely, the rich, sticky poo escaping at the legbands like a tide of thick gooey mud rising inside her knickers. The time was a quarter to two. At five past three she was back out in the garden, busy in the sandpit until she paused to fill her fifth pair of clean panties, peeing herself for good measure as she messed her knickers so badly that the brown softness was clearly visible at the legs of the peach-pink shorts she wore over the top of them. At twenty to five it was tea-time, but that didn’t stop Katie fidgetting in her chair, then sort of sitting over to one side as she had yet another large messy accident in her pretty pink-and-white panties. Half past six was bathtime, and Katie was standing beside the tub in her white cotton vest and knickers when the need apparently overtook her again and she made another very large, messy big job in her pants.
By this time, the three of us were sitting there open-mouthed. If it wasn’t a con with some clever editing and so on, this girl had messed herself eight times in one day, each time with a real pants-full. She did it twice more before she was safely tucked up in bed in her third clean nappy of the evening. Ten big, messy BM’s in a day. It just wasn’t possible.
“Of course, what you have just seen would only be possible here at Home Farm,” said our guide. “Possible with the help of our advanced nursery systems, that permit bowel movements at will. With our unique system, the act feels and is completely natural every time - but you have total control over the frequency, consistency and size. Here at Home Farm, we have developed an entirely herbal adjunct to the body’s normal functions, a way of producing natural looking, natural-feeling bowel movements. Movements that are exactly authentic in texture and colour, but which are odour-free, germ-free and easily washed away.”
The shot on screen now was of a well-manicured female hand, holding a small shiny brown pellet perhaps three-quarters of an inch long by a quarter-inch in diameter between thumb and forefinger.
“Here is the secret of Katie’s messy day,” said the calm female voice. “A small pessary, easily inserted and hardly noticeable. Up to six of these can be inserted, and then activated simply by adding warm water.”
Thus, the real purpose of the rubber tube was explained.
“As soon as they are wetted, these clever little pellets start to gently expand and absorb the remaining water. As you may know, normal healthy bowel-movements are mostly water and natural fibre roughage - which is essentially what these are. Except they don’t contain the bodily wastes that cause odours - although we can offer versions that do have a certain amount of these if you so desire. Due to the highly concentrated nature of the pellet, it will expand to very many times its’ original size once the water is added. Six of these produce a very substantial bowel movement indeed...” - and the shot cut back to Katie’s bulging, sagging pants, the ladybird-print ones - “as Katie so amply demonstrated in our film.”
The video finished up by saying that the ‘nursery aids’ (I had already christened them ‘poo pellets’ in my own mind) would be administered by the nursemaids when they changed us, following the preferences we had expressed when filling in our questionnaires.
“And now,” said the voiceover, “it is time for you to commence your exciting, fulfilling stay here at Home farm Nursery. We hope you will find it will exceed your fondest, most childish dreams.”
The last shot showed Alice, standing in a doorway, back to the camera, with her dress held up and a large, sagging bulge in her pretty little-girl knickers. She turned, gave her coy look to the camera, and put a finger in her mouth. The camera tracked steadily in until the brown-tinged bulge in the seat of Alices’s white-and-pink-and-blue Tessie Bear panties filled the screen, with a trace of a chocolate smear just showing at the leg-trim. The light faded, and the video went to a blank screen.

(That's the end of the first part. I have part two in rough - I'll post it soon if anybody's interested - Lucy)