Afternoon Comforts

Posted by Lucy Peters on May 08, 1999 at 11:06
Afternoon Comforts
Hullo everybody. Thank you for all the nice responses to my last post - when the despoilers aren’t about their destructive work (or are moderated out) this board is indeed a warm and friendly place. It seems apparent to me that almost everybody who is into this particular interest (I don’t really like the word ‘fetish’ as it has such strong associations with the more violent forms of perversion that I find rather repellant) is by nature gentler and less agressive than the norm. Which is nice.
Some good news is that I now have my own computer, thanks to a friend of cousin Tim’s who deals in (very) secondhand AppleMacs on the side. It is a rather battered Performa 630 and it is rapidly becoming my best friend. No, this doesn’t mean I now have my own Internet connection - I don’t even have a phone at my flat yet, let alone a modem! But it does mean that I can write my bits and pieces at leisure, put them on a disc and then just nip round to Tim’s to actually post them. Also, I can now download and archive other interesting posts instead of having to print them out all the time. Quite an advance for little old me.
I’m afraid I’m still not clear just how much this moderating business is going to affect what I can write about. To me, this whole fascination with going to the toilet in my pants stretches right back into my childhood, as a link - a sort of thread of continuity - with more carefree times. That’s a lot of the appeal. Certainly, I get as much pleasure as the next girl from the direct physical sensations I experience when widdling or - better still - making BM’s in my knickers. But, as with good sex, the physical aspect is only part of the whole. As with many of us here on this board, when I indulge my naughty desires I like to imagine I’m little again, and don’t have all the stresses and worries of everyday life (like trying to write a 3000-word grammatical and structural analysis of a Katherine Mansfield short story, which is what the rest of today holds for me!)
For this association to be meaningful, it’s important to me to relive those times when I was younger and enjoyed the same physical sensations of wetting and messing my pants. So it’s likewise difficult to write about these experiences out of context. I suppose that in many ways, part of me is still Lucy the unreliable toddler, or Lucy the rebellious six-year-old. And when I find myself with my knickers clinging wetly to my crotch, or with a nice big load of warm squashiness under my bottom, it’s that same little Lucy who just went toilet in her pants - again! (I did fall to wondering, in an idle moment the other day, just how many times I had actually wet or messed myself in my twenty-and-a-bit years. I didn’t come up with an answer, but I think I know now why the makers of washing powder make such healthy profits year after year!)
The way my lectures and tutorials fall out at the moment I have a lot of afternoons free between about twelve and three-thirty. This is very convenient, as I can come back here to the flat for two or three uninterrupted hours; a very good opportunity to revive some of these appealing aspects of my past. For, in common with a lot of children, I was always expected to have an afternoon rest or, later, a ‘quiet time’, just after lunch. And it was very often during this period - tucked up under the covers for a nap, or curled up on a rug in the garden - that I would fill my pants. In fact, that seems pretty general with kids, and if you read a bit of basic human biology (mass peristalsis and all that!) you’d pretty soon conclude that this is a highly-likely time of day for a BM to occur. (After a meal is almost always when things start to happen - but either mid-morning or early afternoon seem to be peak times for needing to make a bit of space in the system).
I have always had nice memories of the comfortable sensations of snuggling down or curling up in a very relaxed way, with no distractions to detract from the always-enjoyable business of having a nice healthy BM. I suppose I’ve almost come to associate these pleasant sensations of being warm, comfortable and undistracted with the feeling of the soft warmth making its way out into my pants. It’s never difficult to fill your pants in these prone positions (I usually curl up and lie on my side) and the lack of effort needed - maybe just the gentlest of pushes to help things on their way - adds to the sensations of relaxation and well-being.
With my new schedule finding me alone in the flat at just this time of day - coupled with being rather tired after my increasingly-hectic university life and the added burden of a part-time evening job waitressing in a (rather nice, as it happens) Italian resaurant - I soon started to take advantage of this little piece of precious time to lie down and relax, just as I did when I was little. And what could be more natural than to complete that nostalgic picture? Especially when the spring sun is warm in the sky, and I can curl up on a rug on the tiny patch of lawn beneath the flowering cherry-tree in the privacy of my pocket-handkerchief garden, and when the inevitable consequences of my lunch - not to mention the two meals that preceeded it - find me pleasantly full?
On Tuesday, it was a perfect spring day (it’s making up for it by blowing a gale and raining like billy-ho today; this is England, after all!) So I put on my favourite short sun-dress (it’s pale turquoise blue with a flower print, and I’ve had it since I was twelve; I’ve grown up a bit since then but out hardly at all - I’m very petite for my age) and a pair of little-girl cotton knickers and went to lie down on that inviting rug. As when I was little, I took a book to read, although it was something a little bit more demanding than Winnie-the Pooh, my childhood favourite. But poo of another sort soon preoccupied me; it was bliss to just lie there, sucking my thumb nostalgically and ever-so-gently, ever-so-slowly, easing the warm, soothing softness of my BM out into my knickers.
There was a dreamlike quality to the whole episode, but also a heightened sensation of what was going on. I was somehow very aware of the soft texture of my cotton panties against my skin under that short dress - it was rucked up anyway, and as I had my back to the sun I could feel its’ warmth on my thighs. I could also feel the hot wetness in my crotch where I had just dribbled a little wee-wee, and the slight pressure of the elastic legbands around my sun-warmed thighs. All my nerve ends seemed to be tingling with anticipation as I felt my BM start to move, and as the first long, sticky shaft slid oh-so-slowly out until it nudged the inside of my knickers, the sensations in my rear were simply amazing.
I’ve never had a boy enter my rear passage for sex - yet - but I imagine that the stimulus given is very similar to what I feel when I poo my pants. You just don’t experience the same sensations when having a BM on the toilet, because with the normal gravity-assisted position and without the impedance of a pair of pants to slow the progress of the evacuation down, the whole process is over too quickly to savour. Quite a few posters to this board have described the intense pleasure of achieving a state almost of equilibrium - where the resistance of the garment is just enough to hold the BM half-in and half-out - and thus prolong the time in which the hieghtened sensations are experienced.
I love to take as long as possible doing my big jobs for exactly this reason - I think the ‘desparation’ type of knicker-messing (hold on until you bust then fill your pants in one big rush) misses out on a whole world of subtle sensations and little nuances of tactile pleasure that a more relaxed and contemplative approach makes possible. In sexual terms, it’s like comparing an in-and-out back-to-the-wall quickie with a whole night’s tender lovemaking. I know which I prefer!
There’s so much to savour in a slow, gentle relaxed BM. Especially, as on this occassion, it’s not only a good big one, but also just the right texture and consistency - akin to nice soft clay. When the tip of that first long snake of smooth, warm poo-poo collided with the seat of my panties, it slowed down even more then stopped as it pushed the soft cotton out into a nice dimple and finally a taught little peak that I felt with my fingers. I lay like that for a long minute before increasing my effort gradually, until the BM started moving again with a long, low sticky sound that I wish I could write down, but can’t. The warm softness started spreading down under me as the rest of that first lump came out. As I was lying on my left side, I could feel it all lying against the back of my left bottom cheek and sneaking down the top of my leg; the tip of it was lying just inside the elastic leg of my knickers.
I lay there for a while then, just savouring the sensation of the warmth and stickiness against my skin, trying to imagine what the back of my knickers looked like. I explored the rounded, resilient bulge in the cotton with my fingertips, remembering that this particular pair of pants had pictures of pink teddy-bears printed on the seat. They would soon be brown bears now! Then I rolled over on to my back, drew my legs up, and shuffled my hips down slightly. That had the effect of pushing my bottom firmly into the seat of my knickers, spreading the warm stickiness suddenly out beneath my. This is also a very good position for pooing in, and I was soon busy easing the second instalment of my BM out into my nice messy knickers.
The way I was lying had taughtened the material of my pants across my bottom, so I had to push a bit harder to get the rest of my BM out. This made it possible to prolongue the process even further - I would start things moving, then relax as the resistance of my knickers blocked progress; the emerging poo-job would retreat slightly, so I would lie there and savour this for a few moments before having another little strain. Gradually, half an inch at a time, with the effort needed increasing as the BM progressed, I eased, then pushed and finally forced a second big mass of warm clay-like poo-poo out into my knickers.
Because I was lying on my back, hardly anything went up behind my bottom, as it does when I mess my pants squatting or sitting. Instead, this second big mud-pie stayed right in the seat and crotch of my knickers, pressed firmly against my skin by the taught cotton. That felt wonderful; I enjoyed the contact on my sensitive skin for a long moment, then slowly lowered my legs and changed my position so that I was once again pushing my nether regions into the seat of my pants - a seat now completely full of soft warm poo. I felt the elastic of my panties pull away from my left thigh as the first lump was pushed further down the back of my leg. The warm, sticky sensation had now spread right across my bottom as I moved my hips slightly from side to side, and soon I could feel more poo squeezing out of my knickers under my right thigh. I love to feel the stickiness of my poo on the backs of my legs, and to know that the evidence of my transgression is showing at the edges of my pants.
I lay there, savouring these sensations, for about a quarter of an hour, then rolled back onto my side and - thumb in mouth - went into a sweet, dreamy doze with my pants full, just as I had so often done as a child. I slept for about half an hour, when my bladder woke me. It was really nice to come up from my little snooze to the feeling of the messy mud-pie packing my knickers. The poo felt firmer, more clay-like now - mainly because my knickers had soaked up the liquid contained in my BM, which the warm sun had then evaporated. I rolled back onto my back, spread my legs slightly, and relaxed my bladder, letting my wee-wee spurt and dribble into the crotch of my dirty drawers. I did just enough to soften my poo-poo again, enjoying a last few minutes of wiggling luxuriantly in the hot, wet stickiness in my seat. Then it was time to go indoors to inspect the damage, and start on the clean-up. I sat up, feeling the mess spread even further under me, then reluctantly got to my feet, letting my dress - still rucked-up round my waist out of harms way - drop to cover the evidence betraying the mess in my knickers.
My panties stayed stuck to my bottom as I went back into the flat, and the slippery, squashy poo worked its way up my crack as I walked. Standing looking over my shoulder, with my back to the long bathroom mirror, there was nothing to see until I cautiously raised the hem of my frock. The first thing to show was the thick smear across the back of my left leg, where the mess had squeezed an inch and more down my thigh from beneath the pink leg-trim of my panties. A smaller smear decorated my right thigh, and as I gradually lifted the dress the seat of my hapless panties was revealed, stained completely brown under my bottom and between my legs so that the pattern of pink teddy-bears could not be seen. Higher up my seat the stain was speckled and blotchy, and the poor teddy-bears were covered in a chocolate-caramel rash. To finish the job off, I stepped into the shower-tray, spread my legs, and watched in the mirror as my brown-stained pee-pee started to course slowly down my legs, growing into a hot stream that poured from the gusset of my messy knickers, spreading the stain even further. When my piddle eventuallly died away, there was no doubt whatever that little-girl Lucy had well and truly wet and messed her pants.
Big girl Lucy spent some time cleaning up, plenty of wiping followed by a long, hot shower for me, and a thorough rinse-out the hapless panties using the shower head over the toilet (I’ve got the process off pat - plenty of practice, you see) followed by a soak in a discreet bucket of nappy sanitising solution before washing. I may be messy but I’m not unhygenic! I washed my dress and the rug out just to make sure, and hung them out to dry while went off back down the hill to the campus and an afternoon job-to-stay-awake seminar on descriptive prose. I seem to be getting quite a bit of practice at writing that lately - but not on the sort of subject we normally cover at university!
Just before I sign off and devote my attentions to Katherine Mansfield being rude about the Germans, a couple of points for discussion occur to me. These are - the difference that the actual type of knickers or pants and other clothes you’re wearing make to the context and sensations of soiling (such polite English understatement!), and the nicest or most comfortable positions in which to do the deed. I have some definite ideas on these points, and if I get a chance I’ll post something on the subject soon. But now I must get on with the politically-incorrect prose of Ms Mansfield. A student’s lot is not an entirely happy one...
Lucy

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