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The Bridge - A new story written particularly with Narada in mind
Driving through the flat Norfolk countryside on a sunny, if windy, May Bank Holiday Monday, Anne reflected on the weekend that had passed. It hadn't been spent in quite the way she'd have chosen, if choice ever really entered into the equation but, every so often duty had to come before pleasure.
Visiting Mother was never easy, always more of a chore than a pleasure, and it had become harder as Mother had grown older and more cantankerous into the bargain. She'd been particularly difficult this weekend. Widow of a Baronet and well connected friend of a lady-in-waiting to the Queen, Elizabeth Glenning wasn't best pleased over her lack of an invitation to the Royal Wedding. Consequently she'd gone in for a big sulk and, as the only daughter free to visit, Anne had drawn the short straw. Julie, her witless elder sister, could always be relied upon to be unavailable when needed, and was holidaying in the South of France with her current partner. Brian, Anne's husband, was still as terrified of his mother-in-law as he'd been when they'd first met nearly twenty nine years earlier. Unsurprisingly he'd declined Anne's invitation to accompany her, citing 'constituency business' as the reason. Anne knew him well enough to not be in any doubt as to how he'd be spending the weekend in her absence, fucking his secretary, but she also knew that every bitch has her day and one day she'd have hers. She'd thought it inadvisable to bring Barnaby, her adult nephew, or Adam, his friend, with her. They both lived their lives around their penises, something which the liberal in her did nothing to discourage, but she suspected their masturbatory habits might prove just a little too much for Mother whose apparent shockability had grown rather than diminished with the passing years. Thus it was that she'd had the joy of spending the weekend with Mother by herself.
Mother's big sulk over the Royal Wedding was, in republican Anne's view, hardly justified. Mother had seen far more of the proceedings on her flat screen forty eight inch digital TV than she ever would have done inside a tree-lined Westminster Abbey. As someone who loved 'holding it' the only aspect of the wedding to remotely interest Anne was the fact that most of the guest supposedly had to be seated by 8.15am – nearly three hours before the hour long ceremony began. The thought that there might be more than a few full bladders in there wasn't far from her mind. However she'd obliged her mother by dutifully watching the televised ceremony with her, having taken care to imbibe copious amounts of coffee over breakfast beforehand. More to infuriate her ageing mother than because she needed to pee, Anne had jammed her right hand into her crotch area and kept it there as the service progressed. At first Elizabeth had pretended not to notice but she couldn't keep up the pretence long, least of all as Anne's hand showed no sign of moving. Scowling at her daughter, irritation eventually got the better of her.
“Anne, is that really necessary? It's hardly ladylike. If you must go, you know perfectly well where the lavatory is. Honestly!”
Her daughter's reply had been hardly less forthright.
“Mother, in case it's escaped your notice, I am a grown woman. If I need to go to the fucking toilet, I'll go. Meanwhile if I want to sit like this I will. In case you hadn't noticed, HMQ's wearing yellow, a most evocative colour I'd say.”
Elizabeth gave her daughter a withering look which betrayed her contempt without the need for words and they'd watched what remained of the ceremony in silence, although such was the atmosphere that one could have cut it with a knife.
Of course Anne had peed once the ceremony was over, but not in the lavatory of her mother's residence, South Balsham Manor. No, she'd enjoyed a deliciously naughty but amazingly powerful alfresco pee behind a hedge on one of the lanes leading out of the village. As is the lot of many middle aged people, Anne had an indisputable duty of care to her mother. She did not consider, however, that the duty extended to using her mother's lavatory. She had more pride than that. Besides, waiting until her bladder was incredibly full and then peeing where she shouldn't, made her amazingly horny. Often the exhilaration of such a powerful pee was followed by a masturbation session leading to the most wonderful climax. That particular April Friday afternoon had been no exception.
Was it merely the need to pee though, which triggered her arousal? Oh no. As an undergraduate at Cambridge, Anne had discovered the till then latent delights of holding on to full bowels for as long as possible and only going to poo when she wanted to, not when other people thought she should. Opportunities to indulge that pleasure since had been taken when available, although they'd been limited by what was for all practical purposes an 'arranged' marriage to Brian - a man who whilst kind didn't understand and regarded farting or worse, messed panties, as just plain dirty.
Like many people turned on by that sort of thing, she didn't fully understand the reasons herself, only that doing it made her feel good and the more she did it the better it felt. There was undoubtedly a strong biological component, to be sure, in which the interactions of muscles and nerve endings played a part. There was also an element of defiance though – a desire to rebel and be different. In essence doing something which had shock value and was frowned upon by polite society. “Not ladylike” was the phrase her mother would use for such conduct.
It was easy enough to nurse a full bladder without betraying the extent of her desperation. Clutching herself was good for theatrical effect but it had limited practical value. Full bowels were harder to disguise though; that bloated look, the slightly awkward walk and, if nature's call was postponed long enough, the tell tale farts which left no doubt that something meatier than wind was making a bid for freedom.
She'd treated Farmer Appleyard to a delivery of fertiliser on her arrival the previous Thursday evening. As usual they'd chatted happily away and exchanged gossip whilst she, jeans round her ankles, had enjoyed the poo of her life on his ancient earth privvie, her turds noiselessly hitting the ash as, one by one, they were passed. She'd not had a poo since though and, although she'd eaten plenty, Anne's anus had remained tightly closed to the world.
Of course the situation hadn't escaped Elizabeth's notice nor was it likely to. She knew her daughter too well for that. Knowing what Anne did – or rather didn't 'do' – in no way aided Elizabeth's understanding of why she did it. So far as Elizabeth was concerned it was just plain dirty – in fact disgusting – for a woman who ought to know better and had, in fact, been brought up to know better. Anne didn't expect her mother to understand. Why should she? A little acceptance of the fact that it was part of who she was would be nice though. After nearly thirty years of war over the subject, she foresaw no sign of an imminent breakthrough though. It was in the spring of 1982 when Elizabeth discovered - to her horror – that her nineteen year old daughter loved 'holding it ' and didn't mind soiling herself. It was now 2011 and, apart from Anne's marriage to the kind but clueless Brian, nothing fundamental had changed. Anne was now forty eight and Elizabeth was pushing eighty instead of pushing fifty but the dynamics of their bittersweet relationship were essentially the same.
As she drove along the A17 towards Sutton Bridge, Anne recalled the conversation she'd had earlier that morning whilst packing for the homeward journey, when a couple of isolated farts had escaped from her posterior.
“Have you been to the lavatory, Anne?”
“No Mother. Why do you ask?”
“Well it's a long drive and there aren't too many places on that road where you can stop. Places a lady would wish to use, that is.”
“I'm well aware of that, Mother.”
“Well don't you think a comfort stop would be wise before you leave?”
“Mother, I've been driving down that road on and off for thirty years now. I think I'm more than capable of deciding for myself what's wise or not, don't you?”
“Very well, on your own head be it, Anne Timpson. I was only trying to help. Don't blame me if you get caught short.”
There it was that the conversation had ended. Elizabeth Glenning was no fool and she understood perfectly well the impossibility of making her grown up daughter use the lavatory if she didn't wish to. Anne, for her part, was no fool either. She knew only too well what her mother thought and was determined to safeguard her much cherished 'anal independence' as she called it. However the conversation had to take place. It was part of the ritualised bitchiness in the bittersweet relationship between mother and daughter. In a perverse way they'd both enjoyed it and would have been disappointed if the exchange hadn't taken place. Both strong willed women they were alike in their stubbornness and the opportunity for a little bitchiness was just too good to pass up. Despite the bonds of love, Elizabeth didn't greatly admire her daughter's habits but she admired and respected her stubborn, dogged determination to do her own thing. The feeling was, of course, mutual.
As she approached the swing bridge which gave Sutton its name and marked the crossing point of the River Nene, that natural boundary between Norfolk and Lincolnshire, Anne farted again. Another fart followed, then two more in quick succession. What had earlier been a comfortable feeling of fullness down below, a sensation of 'needing to go' but without being desperate, was turning into an unmistakable and urgent need to poo. Stuck in a line of traffic with no means of extricating herself from the queue had it been of advantage to do so, Anne felt a sense of excitement mingled with a little anxiety. Excitement because this was how it should be, the glorious sensation of needing to poo badly but having to hold because there was no chance of getting to a toilet anytime soon, even if one were available. Anxiety because these were expensive jeans – she'd bought them in Norwich two days earlier and they'd cost nearly eighty five pounds. Ruining a tatty old pair was one thing but ruining these would be a different matter.
One thing was certain – the traffic wasn't moving. Obviously the bridge was open to let a vessel – or maybe vessels – through. Now desperately in need of a toilet, Anne was in no doubt that she wouldn't get near one anytime soon. More farts followed and Anne wound down the car window in search of some fresh air. She was smelling for England and still the traffic wasn't moving. Always lucky here herself in the past, she'd heard anecdotal stories that this bridge wasn't a good place to get stuck if one needed a pee, but no one she knew had ever recounted any tales of needing to poo whilst waiting to cross it. Now, she was experiencing that particular pleasure for herself.
Although turned on by her state, Anne wished she'd had the good sense to take Mother's advice and relieve herself before leaving the ancestral home. Infuriatingly Mother had been right – as she always was. Anne wondered what it was about that inter-war generation which meant that they were invariably right. Was it something to do, she wondered, about them having lived through the Battle of Britain and the Blitz? Perspiring slightly and gritting her teeth as more farts escaped, Anne cursed her own stubbornness. Was it really worth risking a brand new, expensive pair of jeans just because she loved 'holding it' and couldn't let the opportunity pass her by?
Gasping for breath, Anne glanced at her watch. She'd been sat in stationary traffic for forty minutes. Slowly but surely, the traffic began to move. Obviously the river craft were through the bridge and it was back down. Alas the traffic wasn't the only thing moving. Down below, Anne felt that familiar sensation known as 'turtle's head' and as she drove over the bridge, Anne realised from the feeling in her panties that she was 'touching cloth' – another equally delightful expression which she'd first encountered some years earlier. Unable to fight the need to relieve herself any longer, Anne relaxed as the inevitable happened and, unable to wait a second longer if she'd tried, she filled her black maxi panties. What came felt fairly solid and, even though it was the end of her panties, with soaking and careful washing the jeans might just live to see another day. Turning down the A151 which would lead her through Cambridgeshire and homeward, Anne decided that she wasn't going to stop off anywhere to get cleaned up. Oh no. Brian wouldn't be around when she got home but Barnaby and Adam would. As soon as they realised she'd messed herself, their cocks would be hard and, oh boy, they'd both be excited. They both knew about her 'tendency' and both were easily excited by it. The car seat would be okay – experience had taught her the wisdom of having a plastic sheet to protect it – just in case.
The End
Visiting Mother was never easy, always more of a chore than a pleasure, and it had become harder as Mother had grown older and more cantankerous into the bargain. She'd been particularly difficult this weekend. Widow of a Baronet and well connected friend of a lady-in-waiting to the Queen, Elizabeth Glenning wasn't best pleased over her lack of an invitation to the Royal Wedding. Consequently she'd gone in for a big sulk and, as the only daughter free to visit, Anne had drawn the short straw. Julie, her witless elder sister, could always be relied upon to be unavailable when needed, and was holidaying in the South of France with her current partner. Brian, Anne's husband, was still as terrified of his mother-in-law as he'd been when they'd first met nearly twenty nine years earlier. Unsurprisingly he'd declined Anne's invitation to accompany her, citing 'constituency business' as the reason. Anne knew him well enough to not be in any doubt as to how he'd be spending the weekend in her absence, fucking his secretary, but she also knew that every bitch has her day and one day she'd have hers. She'd thought it inadvisable to bring Barnaby, her adult nephew, or Adam, his friend, with her. They both lived their lives around their penises, something which the liberal in her did nothing to discourage, but she suspected their masturbatory habits might prove just a little too much for Mother whose apparent shockability had grown rather than diminished with the passing years. Thus it was that she'd had the joy of spending the weekend with Mother by herself.
Mother's big sulk over the Royal Wedding was, in republican Anne's view, hardly justified. Mother had seen far more of the proceedings on her flat screen forty eight inch digital TV than she ever would have done inside a tree-lined Westminster Abbey. As someone who loved 'holding it' the only aspect of the wedding to remotely interest Anne was the fact that most of the guest supposedly had to be seated by 8.15am – nearly three hours before the hour long ceremony began. The thought that there might be more than a few full bladders in there wasn't far from her mind. However she'd obliged her mother by dutifully watching the televised ceremony with her, having taken care to imbibe copious amounts of coffee over breakfast beforehand. More to infuriate her ageing mother than because she needed to pee, Anne had jammed her right hand into her crotch area and kept it there as the service progressed. At first Elizabeth had pretended not to notice but she couldn't keep up the pretence long, least of all as Anne's hand showed no sign of moving. Scowling at her daughter, irritation eventually got the better of her.
“Anne, is that really necessary? It's hardly ladylike. If you must go, you know perfectly well where the lavatory is. Honestly!”
Her daughter's reply had been hardly less forthright.
“Mother, in case it's escaped your notice, I am a grown woman. If I need to go to the fucking toilet, I'll go. Meanwhile if I want to sit like this I will. In case you hadn't noticed, HMQ's wearing yellow, a most evocative colour I'd say.”
Elizabeth gave her daughter a withering look which betrayed her contempt without the need for words and they'd watched what remained of the ceremony in silence, although such was the atmosphere that one could have cut it with a knife.
Of course Anne had peed once the ceremony was over, but not in the lavatory of her mother's residence, South Balsham Manor. No, she'd enjoyed a deliciously naughty but amazingly powerful alfresco pee behind a hedge on one of the lanes leading out of the village. As is the lot of many middle aged people, Anne had an indisputable duty of care to her mother. She did not consider, however, that the duty extended to using her mother's lavatory. She had more pride than that. Besides, waiting until her bladder was incredibly full and then peeing where she shouldn't, made her amazingly horny. Often the exhilaration of such a powerful pee was followed by a masturbation session leading to the most wonderful climax. That particular April Friday afternoon had been no exception.
Was it merely the need to pee though, which triggered her arousal? Oh no. As an undergraduate at Cambridge, Anne had discovered the till then latent delights of holding on to full bowels for as long as possible and only going to poo when she wanted to, not when other people thought she should. Opportunities to indulge that pleasure since had been taken when available, although they'd been limited by what was for all practical purposes an 'arranged' marriage to Brian - a man who whilst kind didn't understand and regarded farting or worse, messed panties, as just plain dirty.
Like many people turned on by that sort of thing, she didn't fully understand the reasons herself, only that doing it made her feel good and the more she did it the better it felt. There was undoubtedly a strong biological component, to be sure, in which the interactions of muscles and nerve endings played a part. There was also an element of defiance though – a desire to rebel and be different. In essence doing something which had shock value and was frowned upon by polite society. “Not ladylike” was the phrase her mother would use for such conduct.
It was easy enough to nurse a full bladder without betraying the extent of her desperation. Clutching herself was good for theatrical effect but it had limited practical value. Full bowels were harder to disguise though; that bloated look, the slightly awkward walk and, if nature's call was postponed long enough, the tell tale farts which left no doubt that something meatier than wind was making a bid for freedom.
She'd treated Farmer Appleyard to a delivery of fertiliser on her arrival the previous Thursday evening. As usual they'd chatted happily away and exchanged gossip whilst she, jeans round her ankles, had enjoyed the poo of her life on his ancient earth privvie, her turds noiselessly hitting the ash as, one by one, they were passed. She'd not had a poo since though and, although she'd eaten plenty, Anne's anus had remained tightly closed to the world.
Of course the situation hadn't escaped Elizabeth's notice nor was it likely to. She knew her daughter too well for that. Knowing what Anne did – or rather didn't 'do' – in no way aided Elizabeth's understanding of why she did it. So far as Elizabeth was concerned it was just plain dirty – in fact disgusting – for a woman who ought to know better and had, in fact, been brought up to know better. Anne didn't expect her mother to understand. Why should she? A little acceptance of the fact that it was part of who she was would be nice though. After nearly thirty years of war over the subject, she foresaw no sign of an imminent breakthrough though. It was in the spring of 1982 when Elizabeth discovered - to her horror – that her nineteen year old daughter loved 'holding it ' and didn't mind soiling herself. It was now 2011 and, apart from Anne's marriage to the kind but clueless Brian, nothing fundamental had changed. Anne was now forty eight and Elizabeth was pushing eighty instead of pushing fifty but the dynamics of their bittersweet relationship were essentially the same.
As she drove along the A17 towards Sutton Bridge, Anne recalled the conversation she'd had earlier that morning whilst packing for the homeward journey, when a couple of isolated farts had escaped from her posterior.
“Have you been to the lavatory, Anne?”
“No Mother. Why do you ask?”
“Well it's a long drive and there aren't too many places on that road where you can stop. Places a lady would wish to use, that is.”
“I'm well aware of that, Mother.”
“Well don't you think a comfort stop would be wise before you leave?”
“Mother, I've been driving down that road on and off for thirty years now. I think I'm more than capable of deciding for myself what's wise or not, don't you?”
“Very well, on your own head be it, Anne Timpson. I was only trying to help. Don't blame me if you get caught short.”
There it was that the conversation had ended. Elizabeth Glenning was no fool and she understood perfectly well the impossibility of making her grown up daughter use the lavatory if she didn't wish to. Anne, for her part, was no fool either. She knew only too well what her mother thought and was determined to safeguard her much cherished 'anal independence' as she called it. However the conversation had to take place. It was part of the ritualised bitchiness in the bittersweet relationship between mother and daughter. In a perverse way they'd both enjoyed it and would have been disappointed if the exchange hadn't taken place. Both strong willed women they were alike in their stubbornness and the opportunity for a little bitchiness was just too good to pass up. Despite the bonds of love, Elizabeth didn't greatly admire her daughter's habits but she admired and respected her stubborn, dogged determination to do her own thing. The feeling was, of course, mutual.
As she approached the swing bridge which gave Sutton its name and marked the crossing point of the River Nene, that natural boundary between Norfolk and Lincolnshire, Anne farted again. Another fart followed, then two more in quick succession. What had earlier been a comfortable feeling of fullness down below, a sensation of 'needing to go' but without being desperate, was turning into an unmistakable and urgent need to poo. Stuck in a line of traffic with no means of extricating herself from the queue had it been of advantage to do so, Anne felt a sense of excitement mingled with a little anxiety. Excitement because this was how it should be, the glorious sensation of needing to poo badly but having to hold because there was no chance of getting to a toilet anytime soon, even if one were available. Anxiety because these were expensive jeans – she'd bought them in Norwich two days earlier and they'd cost nearly eighty five pounds. Ruining a tatty old pair was one thing but ruining these would be a different matter.
One thing was certain – the traffic wasn't moving. Obviously the bridge was open to let a vessel – or maybe vessels – through. Now desperately in need of a toilet, Anne was in no doubt that she wouldn't get near one anytime soon. More farts followed and Anne wound down the car window in search of some fresh air. She was smelling for England and still the traffic wasn't moving. Always lucky here herself in the past, she'd heard anecdotal stories that this bridge wasn't a good place to get stuck if one needed a pee, but no one she knew had ever recounted any tales of needing to poo whilst waiting to cross it. Now, she was experiencing that particular pleasure for herself.
Although turned on by her state, Anne wished she'd had the good sense to take Mother's advice and relieve herself before leaving the ancestral home. Infuriatingly Mother had been right – as she always was. Anne wondered what it was about that inter-war generation which meant that they were invariably right. Was it something to do, she wondered, about them having lived through the Battle of Britain and the Blitz? Perspiring slightly and gritting her teeth as more farts escaped, Anne cursed her own stubbornness. Was it really worth risking a brand new, expensive pair of jeans just because she loved 'holding it' and couldn't let the opportunity pass her by?
Gasping for breath, Anne glanced at her watch. She'd been sat in stationary traffic for forty minutes. Slowly but surely, the traffic began to move. Obviously the river craft were through the bridge and it was back down. Alas the traffic wasn't the only thing moving. Down below, Anne felt that familiar sensation known as 'turtle's head' and as she drove over the bridge, Anne realised from the feeling in her panties that she was 'touching cloth' – another equally delightful expression which she'd first encountered some years earlier. Unable to fight the need to relieve herself any longer, Anne relaxed as the inevitable happened and, unable to wait a second longer if she'd tried, she filled her black maxi panties. What came felt fairly solid and, even though it was the end of her panties, with soaking and careful washing the jeans might just live to see another day. Turning down the A151 which would lead her through Cambridgeshire and homeward, Anne decided that she wasn't going to stop off anywhere to get cleaned up. Oh no. Brian wouldn't be around when she got home but Barnaby and Adam would. As soon as they realised she'd messed herself, their cocks would be hard and, oh boy, they'd both be excited. They both knew about her 'tendency' and both were easily excited by it. The car seat would be okay – experience had taught her the wisdom of having a plastic sheet to protect it – just in case.
The End
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