Story - Copying Polly

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Posted by Tim T on November 22, 1998 at 15:00

Here’s another little tale about a not-entirely fictional young lady and how she came to end up doing what she shouldn’t in her panties. Tim T

Copying Polly

It wasn’t really all that long ago, the first time I ever did it. It? It sounds daft when you try and say it, try and explain. It’s not something that would appeal to a lot of people; they’d think it was horrid - disgusting, even. But I ‘it’ did because I wanted to, and I did because it was enjoyable.What I did was - I did what little children do because they can’t help it. I went to the toilet in my pants.

I didn’t know then what I know now - that quite a lot of people like to do it. Lots of grown girls get a big kick out of peeing in their knickers. That makes me feel better - good, even. I know that I find it a big thrill. A lot of other people are into the baby thing - dressing up in nappies and so on, sucking dummies, drinking out of teat bottles, and doing all the other things that babies do, including the wet and mucky ones. And there are another lot who are into enemas, which is a bit wierd, but oddly fascinating. I’m not at all sure about that.

The nappies sounded okay, though, and plastic pants have always had an odd sort of appeal. I was always envious of my little sister - she’s five years younger than me - when she was a toddler and still had plastic pants and things, and I got hell if I leaked into my knickers. And I used to. Little sis was always a bit unreliable - more than once I can remember her making big jobs in her pants as well. Like I said, I was always a bit jealous.

I don’t know why the idea of going to the toilet in my pants has always been so appealling. I mean, on the face of it it’s not nice at all, and most people would try pretty hard to avoid it. But then I think back to little sis and her ‘accidents’ - and I’m not quite sure some of them were all that accidental - so perhaps she found it nice, too. I do; it’s a really nice feeling. And so now I have un-accidental ‘accidents’, too.

It all started when I was helping my friend Emma babysit for these people that she helps out in the holidays. They are jolly rich, and their kids are a bit spoilt. The youngest of them - by several years - was a little girl called Polly, who was about six. Well, this afternoon when I was helping Emma play with Polly in the garden of their whopping great house in Suffolk, she - Polly - did it. She went toilet in her pants. And I don’t mean a little wee, either; Polly went big jobs, and for a little kid they were jolly big big jobs.

She was wearing shorts - yellow ones - and we were throwing the ball for the dog on the lawn when she suddenly stopped, and stood there with the ball in her hand and an odd sort of look on her face - and did it. I actually saw the back of her shorts move as she messed in her knickers, and I heard the noise it made - a sort of soft sticky raspy sound. Emma was furious, but Polly didn’t take any notice. When she’d finished, she just sort of waddled a few steps, then threw the ball for the dog. She carried on running round as if nothing had happened. Except that, after a few minutes of her running and rolling on the grass, there was a sort of faint brown smear showing at the leg of her shorts.

‘Aren’t you going to change her?’ I asked Emma. Emma shook her head.
‘What’s the hurry? She’s not worried about having all that stuff in her pants, so why should I be? Besides..’ .
‘Besides what?’
‘Besides, I think she likes it.’
‘Likes it? Likes what?’
‘Doing it in her pants. And having it there afterwards. She’s always doing it.’

It wasn’t until tea-time that Emma eventually changed Polly. Once her shorts were down you could see the big, flattened bulge in the seat of her white pants which was starting to stain through. There was firm brown mess squeezing out down the backs of her legs where she’d sat in it and squashed it all out - it showed plainly under the white cotton legbands of her knickers. The inside of the knickers wasn’t very white, though! Emma complained like billy-oh about having to clean Polly up, though I actually did most of it.

After a while, Emma got fed up with looking after Polly and cleaning her up after her numerous ‘accidents’. So I took over. It was a good job - really nice surroundings, quite handy (I could get there on my bike) and, to a teenager, the pay was pretty generous. And, unlike Emma, I didn’t mind Polly pooing her pants. It fascinated me.

Polly had, I think, already rumbled that my attitude to her toilet habits was different to Emma’s. The result was that she stopped using the bathroom at all - at least while I was looking after her - and did everything in her pants. Quite deliberately - there was no doubt of that. I watched her do it the afternoon of the very first day I was in charge, when she thought I couldn’t see her. She was in the conservatory and I was in the adjoining dining room, cleaning the silver (my employers believed in getting their money’s-worth out of their babysitters!).

I could see Polly out of the corner of my eye as I sat at the dining table with my tin of polish. She was busy playing with her dolls, which were ranged on the floor in a circle. Poly was sitting on a low stool and ‘teaching’ them. Then something in her attitude changed, and made me look at her. I don’t think she could see me in the relative darkness of the dining room, because she looked up and glanced around her. Then she parted her legs and sort of fidgetted forward on the stool. She sat there, quite still, with her hands up to her ears sort of holding her hair back as she stared down at her own crotch. Next moment, I saw a dark spot of wetness appear on the front of her blue shorts, a spot which spread rapidly as she let go. The pee trickled gently off the front of the stool and made a little puddle on the tiled floor of the conservatory.

I let her finish peeing, then I got up and went into the conservatory.
‘Polly!’ I said, in mock anger. ‘What have you done?’
‘Did a wee-wee,’ said Polly, entirely matter-of-factly.
‘But not in the bathroom,’ I said.
Polly shook her head.
‘Did it in my pants,’ she said. And turned back, unconcerned, to her dolls.
I decided I’d better at least pretend normal concern.
‘I think we need to change you,’ I said. ‘And mop up that puddle.’

So I led her to the downstairs toilet and shower room, and took her wet shorts and pants down and washed her and dried her. I sat her on the toilet, and left her there while I went to her room for dry clothes - a fresh pair of cotton knickers and a dress. I thought that dresses might be a good idea if she was going to make a habit of this, as at least then there was a chance that only her knickers would get wet. Of course, Polly hadn’t used the toilet when I got back downstairs.
‘Are you quite sure you don’t need to do anything on the toilet?’ I asked her.
Polly shook her head, so I dressed her in the pretty little dress I’d found her and pulled up her clean pants.

Polly resumed her games in the conservatory and I went back to my polishing. All was sweetness and light for an hour or so, until it was almost tea-time. Polly had stopped playing with her dolls and was sitting at a small table in the conservatory, drawing a picture, when I became aware that she had raised her head. Once again, she glanced about her. I waited to see what she would do.

For a couple more minutes, Polly sat at the table, fidgetting a bit, and not resuming her drawing. Then she suddenly seemed to make up her mind and, pushing her chair back, she stood up. She was in profile to me, and I could see her close her eyes and sort of screw up her face. Next moment, she gave a little grunt, then made an obvious effort, straining to push her bowel movement out into those pristine knickers. There was absolutely no doubt whatever that Polly was, quite deliberately, messing her pants.

It took Polly a good minute of effort to finish what was quite evidently a pretty substantial BM. Then, gradually, she relaxed and felt behind herself, prodding at the seat of her pants through her dress. Then, carefully and considerately, she held her frock out of the way as she lowered herself back down onto the chair. Even from where I was, I could hear a distinct sticky sound as she sat in the mess in her pants. Staring straight ahead of her, with a faint smile on her face, Polly wriggled in her seat, quite evidently revelling in the sensation of the warm softness filling her knickers and spreading out beneath her.

At the end of that first afternoon, I knew three things: Cleaning silver is mind-numbingly boring; Polly went toilet in her pants because she liked the feeling it gave her; and I was going to have a lot of washing and clearing-up to do. That was certainly true - next morning, Polly hardly waited for me to arrive before messing her pants, just standing in the middle of the kitchen floor and letting go. She did have the grace to put a finger in her mouth and to look at me coyly from beneath lowered brows as she pushed the BM’s out into her knickers. I pulled out the back of her shorts and pants to check what sort of state she was in - and found a moderate pile of firmish brown paste nestling between the cheeks of her neat round bottom.

I decided not to change her straight away - after all, who was I to spoil her fun? So I let her play in the garden with her messy knickers under her shorts for a while - and thereby saved myself some extra work, as not half an hour later Polly squatted down in the corner of the sandpit and not only peed her pants but also strained away and quite evidently added to the mess. The expression on her face as she did this was as near blissful as anything I’ve seen. I remember thinking to myself then: ‘Maybe that is what having sex might be like.’ I now know I was quite close to the truth in that thought!

The quite evident enjoyment Polly got from going to the toilet in her pants made me think quite a bit. I remembered how jealous I’d been of my little sister when I was about nine or ten, because she was small and could get away with ‘accidents’. I rembered too, then, how I had longed to do it myself. And now, here I was, five years later, still jealous of a younger child who could go to the toilet in her pants if she wanted to.

But then, if Polly could do it, why couldn’t I? I was still living at home, but there were lots of times in the summer holidays and even in term-time when I was in the house on my own. If I cleaned myself up and washed my pants out before anyone else got home, no-one would ever know. So, as I watched Polly happily pooing her pants every day, I sort of half made my mind up to try it if I got a chance. I also started going to bed with a pair of my thick school knickers on under my pyjama trousers, and lying there, wondering what it would feel like to do my jobs in them. I would rub myself up to little trembly climaxes through the double layer of cotton at the thought.

I started to take a lot more notice of my actual bowels then. I’ve always found actually doing my jobs an especially nice feeling, and as I sat on the loo each day, I’d imagine what it would feel like if, instead of dropping into the water with an embarrasing splash, those big lumps of warm softness were piling up in my pants, all comforting and sticky under my bottom. And what it would feel like to sit in a good pile of soft warmth, feeling it all squeeze out under me unitil it was trying to get out of my nice white knickers.

But the summer holidays were nearly before I finally found out what it felt like. Somehow, I never quite found the right opportunity, until one Saturday I was on my way home from looking after Polly when I realised that I needed the loo quite badly. Beacause we’re a bit on the green and vege side at our house, I always need to go twice a day, but that morning I had been late getting up, and I hadn’t had time. So now I really needed to do it, and as I hurried uncomfortably home, I realised this was my chance to try doing it in my pants; I knew that the rest of the family had gone off on a trip to the coast and wouldn’t be back until quite late, so I’d have plenty of time to clean up and so on.

By the time I got in, I knew I’d have to make up my mind pretty quickly if I was going to do it. Part of me was sort of saying ‘Don’t be silly, it’s horrid and messy and really stupid,’ and the rest of me was thinking ‘I really want to go, and this is my chance.’ I was wearing my ordinary pants - quite skimpy cotton briefs - under jeans. I didn’t think those would be the best thing to wear, so I went quickly up to my room and put on a pair of my school knickers - thick white cotton pants that came up right round your waist - and a short sun-dress that I’ve really grown out of.

By now, I was getting quite uncomfortable. I made my way out into the garden, which is fortunately very private. I just sort of stood there in the middle of the terrace for a moment or two, then I thought ‘what the hell; I needn’t ever do it again if I don’t like it.’ So I just sort of relaxed, expecting it all to come. But it didn’t. So I took a deep breath, and, like Polly, started to push. I felt things stirring then, and automatically tensed up and stopped it. Then I pushed again, a bit harder, and gradually I felt the first lump start to come out of me. I tensed up again, and it slipped back inside me. I paused for a moment, then took a really deep breath and gave a short, hard push.

That did it. I did a little spurt of pee, and what felt like a huge lump shot out of me and landed in the seat of my pants. I could hardly feel it lying there, with only a small sticky tip just nudging my bottom. When I felt it through my knickers with my fingers, it wasn’t all that big - and I was still uncomfortable. I needed to do more - a lot more, I hoped. So I took another long, deep breath, and this time started to push steadily. Gradually, I felt this really big lump start to come; I just kept pushing, and it just kept coming; it seemed to go on almost for ever, and it gave me the most intense and wonderful feelings as it eased out, pushing the first lump out of the way, and sort of coiling down across my bottom and a little way down my left leg. It made a distinct sticky sound as it slid out of me - exactly the same sound I’d heard so many times coming from Polly.

I stopped then, and went back inside the house to my bedroom. I stood sort of half-back-on in front of the long mirror on the front of my wardrobe, and lifted my frock up so that I could see my knickers. There was quite a noticeable bulge under my bottom where the two lumps had pushed the white cotton of my pants out. Still looking in the mirror, I took another deep breath and pushed again, harder this time. Almost horrified, I watched the bulge in my knickers grow as another long soft sausage slid endlessly out of me, with those wierd-but-nice feelings growing all the time. This lump made a long, soft, sticky rasping squelching noise as it came, just like Polly’s jobs did when she really filled her pants.

I still wasn’t quite finished, but I decided to save the last instalment for later. For quite a while I just stood there, savouring the strange but somehow delightful sensations under my bottom and staring at the big bulge in the seat of my school knickers. It felt exactly as if someone was pressing warm, soft mud gently against my skin. Then I had the sudden and overwhelming desire to sit in that bulge, squash it out, feel the warmth and the softness spread out under me. I grabbed the little hand mirror off my dressing-table, and went back out into the garden, walking rather awkwardly with all the stuff in my pants. I remembered Polly’s exagerated waddle when she’d done a big load in her pants, and smiled.

In the garden, I walked over to the low, wide brick wall that bordered the terrace and hoiked my frock up out of the way. Then, slowly, I sat down. The feeling as my weight came onto that great lump of warm softness and gradually flattened it against the brick of the wall was indescribable, and the sticky squidging noise that accompanied the mess spreading out made it even better. Because I had walked from my room, the lump had settled right under me, and when I sat in it it went up behind me a bit, into the crack of my bottom, but mostly down under my legs. I felt it squeeze out under my left thigh as I wiggled in it, and when I lifted my leg and used my mirror to look, there was a big brown smear showing under the edge of my white school knickers.

I got off the wall then, and sat on the paving of the terrace with my mirror propped against the side of the wall and my frock up so that my pants showed. I wiggled my bottom in the mess, then, sitting over on one side so that my bottom was slightly off the ground and taking a deep breath, I pushed as hard as I could. I did a long spurt of hot pee that really soaked the gusset of my pants and then, with a loud sticky squelch, I felt a last lot of really soft stuff force its way out. To my delight and amazement, some of it squeezed out at the left leg of my knickers.

I sat there for a long time, just feeling the softness under me and staring at the smears showing at the legs of my pants. Then I walked around the garden a bit, feeling the mess in my pants moving around and gradually freeing itself from my bottom until it was all in lying in the sagging seat of my knickers. I sat in it again, then went back to my bedroom, and stood in front of the mirror once more with my frock up. It was more than obvious what I’d done; not only were there smears showing at the legs of my knickers, but there was a big mottled golden-brown stain right across the seat of them. They were utterly, utterly filthy - but somehow that didn’t bother me.

Even the clearing-up and the washing didn’t bother me either. I went into the bathroom to do it, and sat on the loo for quite a while with my knickers round my ankles, just staring at all the goo in them. I was quite sorry to see it all flush away down the pan, and as I washed out the grotty knickers I was already planning the next time. And I knew that I’d never be cross with Polly, ever again.

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