Secret Gardens

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Posted by Lucy Peters on February 28, 1999 at 12:48

Secret Gardens

Hello, everybody. As usual, I haven't been able to see the board for a while; how I wish I could afford my own computer and internet access! But us poor students don't have much money, and most of mine goes on keeping my own flat. There's no way I could play my favourite little games in one of the university halls of residence, where if you scratch your ear at three in the morning half the campus knows about it next morning! So the flat is very important to me. And at least most Sundays I can get an hour or two on the keyboard while the boys are out at the pub talking rugby and cars and other boring male things.

I've found the reactions to my posts interesting and gratifying; I wish my tutor had as high an opinion of my writing skills as some of you seem to entertain! But thanks, anyway. I think that the conclusion that I draw from the feedback is that there are several quite distinct categories of 'panty pooper', to use the board vernacular. Quite a lot of the posts, for instance, seem to have far more direct sexual-deviance overtones, particularly of the scat variety. I'm sorry, but this sort of extreme fetish (I'm talking about full-house scat practices like eating it or smearing it all over yourself) don't do a lot for me; in fact, if I'm honest, I find them repellent.

It's the tactile and visual qualities of a pair of well-filled knickers plus the comforting links with stress-free childhood that I enjoy, but along with a lot of you I find the actual stuff itself rather unpleasant to deal with and I can't say I'm bowled over (in any pleasurable way) by the smell! If some clever type came up with a way of producing nice big odourless BM's that felt and looked the part but washed away really easily, I'd be first in the queue. (Try eating charcoal biscuits from the health food store to lessen odours, by the way - a tip I read somewhere on this board.) If the same clever type could also come up with something - some sort of potion or pessary maybe? - that permitted BM's 'on demand', I'd be over the moon. Nothing is more frustrating than longing to be able to indulge in a nice, relaxing, knicker-filling BM - but being denied by lack of ammunition! And with most of us, even if we look to our diets, ammunition usually only arrives once a day at best, often less.

It would be interesting to know what proportion of those of us who have 'come out' on this board are actually 'comfort soilers' who enjoy the practice as a private, solitary thing. I have just a bit of a hunch we might be the 'silent majority'. (Sorry about all these inverted commas; they would loose me marks in a set exercise!) I can't really believe, for instance, that there are too many 'public accident' exhibitionists about. It seems to me that, whether we like it or not, most of us are conditioned by the society we live in - and something so directly anti-social as having very public pants-messing 'accidents' would have considerable repercussions. Personally, I'd die rather than be caught by society at large (and definitely my peer-group here at the university!) with messy pants. And even when I was a highly-unreliable child, when it was a lot easier to get away with 'accidents', I was still very careful not to do it when I was with people I wasn't sure about.

I was very interested by the posts from 'Delurker' (the nicknames get odder and odder, don't they?) Apart from obvious wit and enjoyment with word-play in the descriptions of the initial post, the theme also struck a vague chord with me. While most of the various 'minders' or 'nannies' that my parents paid to look after me when I was small used to get pretty cross or upset with my unreliability in toilet matters, there were a couple that didn't and there was one girl, Liz, who almost seemed almost to encourage me. Looking back, it seems fairly obvious to me now that Liz must have been into the whole business in very much the same way that I now am, and as 'Delurker's' aunt may have been. Maybe she never had the opportunity or nerve to indulge herself, but by watching me happily pooing my pants she was able to get some vicarious pleasure. I'll confess I was guilty of the same sort of thing myself when I started to baby-sit for young children when I was sixteen or so.

Now that I've (just) been able to read the whole story (and thank you very much to 'Delurker' for sharing it and writing it so honestly) and I must say I found it quite touching. Obviously, the relationship between 'Andrew' and his aunt was quite unusual and intense, and those aspects that are not discussed might suggest a more sinister or at least perhaps more sexually 'loaded' aspect to the affair. Nobody asked me to dress up as a little boy, although I suppose that the shorts I often wore over my panties amount to much the same thing - an advantage we girls have in the dressing stakes. I was intrigued by the link with Francis Hodgson Burnett's 'The Secret Garden' - an English children's classic with which I'm very familiar as it was a study book when I was at school. I have always liked being out in the garden, and to me it's the ideal setting for indulging in my 'toilet games'.

The idea that when you're in the 'secret garden' the normal rules don't apply, whether in respect of dressing or in toilet behaviour, has a very strong appeal. I think most of us long to discover - or create for ourselves - somewhere that we can retreat to when we just want to 'be ourselves' without having to worry about what anybody else thinks. That's why I like my flat so much! The garden at my parent's house was quite 'secret' in its' own way, while the little courtyard at my flat is nicely hidden, too. As Delurker says, when you're outside you can wet your pants as well then if you want to without having to worry about the furnishings. I've always been a pants-wetter - if you're not going to bother to go to the toilet when you need a BM, there doesn't seem a lot of point worrying about the odd piddle, does there?

I'm also intrigued by Delurker's story in that involved somebody else who was very much part of the game. Most of the time this has been a solitary activity for me - except those occasions as a child when I played wetting or messing games with my cousin Tim. That said, I think all children are horribly fascinated with bodily functions, and I'm sure that an awful lot of them at least experiment with going in their pants and would probably do it more often if they got the chance. I suspect it's parental disapproval that stops them - but as my parents weren't there *to* disapprove, then the relative freedom that gave me probably accounts for my indulgence. The only other people involved in my childhood games were the various 'nannies' - but by and large, they weren't exactly willing players while I didn't take much notice of the efforts they made to dissuade me from going in my pants; Liz - bless her - didn't even do that.

Unlike the other girls who looked after me (quite a few of whom only lasted a few weeks!), Liz never seemed in the least phased or upset when I appeared with my knickers sagging under my dress or tell-tell brown smears at the legs of my shorts. She never scolded or hurried to clean me up, and sometimes patted me on my messy behind and made remarks like: "My goodness, you've excelled yourself today!" or "That's a nice big pants-full. No danger of you getting constipated!" And while she never overtly encouraged me to mess myself, she made it all very matter-of-fact. If I wanted to go to the toilet in my knickers, then it was no big deal so far as Liz was concerned.

I can remember one occasion, when I was about six and we were walking home from a visit to a fun-fair, I told Liz I needed to 'go poo' . Rather than urging me to hold on or looking for a toilet, Liz simply said "What are you waiting for? Do it in your pants, and we'll clean you up when we get home." I was wearing dungarees, I remember, which wouldn't show anything, so I just stopped walking and, standing there holding Liz's hand, made a good big BM in my knickers. It was one of the few times I ever did it outside the house or garden, and I can clearly remember how nice it felt to walk the rest of the way home with a big soft brown mess in my pants.

But Liz was a definite contrast to most of the 'minders', most of whom - understandably - regarded my preference for having my BM's in my pants as simply bad behaviour. I can still remember the details of lots of occasions when I was 'bad'. And I was bad - very, very bad. There was never any suspicion of 'having an accident' about it - I went in my pants quite deliberately. Well, what could be more deliberate than holding on to your big jobs - when you really wanted to go quite badly - because the poor girl looking after you had made you sit on the toilet, and you were determined that no way were you going in the toilet if you could possibly go in your pants?

I can remember that as if it were only yesterday - sitting perched on the toilet seat with my knickers and shorts round my ankles, holding on to my BM for dear life until Meg - the Nanny at the time - came and let me off. I was dying to pee, too, I remember, but I didn't dare because I knew that once I relaxed it would all come. So I sat there with everything clenched, staring at my white panties with the little blue flower pattern on, staring at the clean white cotton of the inside, that was soon going to be very far from clean if I had my way. And I did have my way; a few minutes later, Meg came back to find out how I was getting on.
"Anything happened?" she asked. I shook my head.
"Are you sure you don't need to go?" I shook my head again.
"Oh well, you'd better run along, then."

I did. I had my pants and shorts up and was out the door into the garden like a shot; moments later, the front of my pink shorts was dark with a spreading wet patch, the pee running in hot streams down my legs as I ran. And I could finally let go and make my big jobs - the feeling of relief as the warm softness squelched out into my knickers was almost beyond description. I remember it was a very big BM, and rather softer than usual. Also, because I was wearing shorts, my knickers didn't sag like they did when I was wearing a dress, so the squidgy poo spread out in my pants as I did it - I could feel some of it escaping at the legs of my knickers almost straight away, before I'd even sat in it. I was in the most awful and glorious mess, and I made the most of it, sitting on the swing, wiggling my bottom in it and squidging it out inside my knickers. I hate to think what state I was in when the hapless Meg found me an hour later. I know I must have had skidmarks down both legs and a big brown stain on the back of my shorts, and I'm pretty sure that particular pair of knickers was past saving.

I had quite a long war with Meg, but I always won. After all, it was me that had the last say as to when I made a poo and where, so if I wanted it to go in my pants, that's where it went! A number of times, poor Meg had to watch helplessly as I filled my knickers - usually when we were down the far end of the garden and well away from the 'facilities' back at the house. I would simply squat down and strain as if I were on the potty, or stand there and let it go into my pants, probably making no secret of the fact that I was enjoying both the sensations of messing myself and the look of dismay on her face. I suppose I was really not a very nice little girl!

There's an awful lot to write about this whole funny business, and it's nice that this board is providing such a good forum - although I notice a few posts that don't exactly suggest that a lot of thought has gone into them. Sad, really, that people who have the means and skill to make a post can't find something meaningful to say in it. But I'm just young and naive and probably too much of an idealist for my own good; I just need to get a bit more cynical. But not just yet...

Lucy Peters


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