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Hi There,
don't know if its ok to post stories from other sites or if it is a repost...but I found this one and wanted to share it here. Enjoy !
Spur Of The Moment
By: lucypee
Written on November 29th, 2010
Usually, when I want to go potty in my pants, it's as part of my 'little girl' fantasy (alright; escape from reality). I dress up in childish clothes – one advantage of being a size 8 runt! – and pretend I'm a naughty seven-year-old who can't be bothered to go and use the bathroom like a big girl... Then I happily wee and/or do-do my little girl knickers or trainer-pants. Lovely! The only snag is I can't really do this at home in my grotty attic bedsit because the bathroom is one floor down and I share it with two other people – neither of whom I wish to meet with my hair in bunches while wearing, a teddy-bear T-shirt, frilly ankle-socks and wet short-shorts with a prominent bulge in the seat!
No. Little-girl messy moments are away fixtures, usually when 'house-sitting' for some rich Oxfordian. That's an occupation that gives me free run of some pretty nice houses, as well as access to super bathrooms with power-showers and all mod cons and usually a state-of-the-art washing machine that makes short work of poopy undies. Just now, though, none of my regulars are away from home (roll on January and the ski season!) so I'm getting by on a mix of freelance editing work and the old stand-by, waitressing – eked out with the odd bit of 'domestic helping', usually cleaning or ironing. Meet Lucy the reluctant char-lady!
Which is how Friday found me wandering around a very swish flat off the Banbury Road, duster in hand and tin of Pledge at the ready. As is often the case with me (in common with a good percentage of the female sex, it would seem) I'm having mild problems with my waterworks just now. Sometimes, I seem to be perpetually busting to wee, and dribbles and spurts are inevitable – which is how I came to find myself dusting with rather damp knickers under my dark blue dungarees. I'd been caught a bit short on my way up to North Oxford and by the time I arrived at the flat I was absolutely bursting and had already done several good involuntary spurts into my panties. I suppose I should wear pads or something but actually, as we all know, I don't actually mind wet knickers. And as I'm not into expensive or glamorous underwear, then the odd drop of piddle in my 'sensible' plain cotton briefs is neither here nor there anyway. In fact, I rather enjoyed looking at the wetness in my panties as I sat on the loo and – somewhat reluctantly – peed into the bowl. I'd far rather have done the whole lot in my pants!
Forty minutes later, I'd whizzed round with the Dyson and was about a third of the way through a liesurely tour of the flat with the polishing-cloth when I started to feel the need for a wee again. Not only that, but I could feel that things were getting ready to happen in the back-door department as well. What I should have done then, of course, was been a sensible big girl and taken myself off to the bathroom and used the toilet in a proper grown-up manner. But I actually rather like the feeling of really needing to wee, so I thought I'd hold on until I'd finished the dusting. Well, well before I'd finished in the (huge!) living room I'd started spurting more pee into my wet cotton knickers, which were becoming quite seriously soggy. I reached down and found the crotch of my dungarees was getting a bit moist, too. That didn't really worry me; they are a deep navy blue and the odd damp patch hardly shows. And, as I said, the feeling of wet pants is no drawback so far as Lucy is concerned.
So I continued dusting and dribbling, enjoying the warm, wet sensations growing in my undies. By the time I'd moved on to the study, the wet patch on my dungarees had grown quite big and the odd dribble had run down my legs. Reluctantly, I put down the polish and duster and made my way too the loo. I unfastened the straps of my dungarees and let them drop round my ankles. I looked in the big bathroom mirror and saw that my knickers were pretty wet: the grey area of dampness arching out from the crotch and spreading right across the seat. In fact, they felt fully as wet as if I'd just peed right in them under a skirt – so I thought 'what the heck' and sat on the loo without taking them down. Then I happily weed straight through them – which didn't actually make a great deal of difference to how wet they were! So I just dried them a bit with a wad of loo-paper, pulled my damp dungarees back up, and went back to my dusting.
I had got as far as the sideboard in the dining room when I realised that my other need was also getting to the point where I was going to have to do something about it quite soon. I stood there for a moment, half-pushing at my full bottom, testing how ready I was to go, trying to gauge what sort of a bm it might be when it arrived. Vital questions, you'll agree? To which the answers were: ready to go right now, and that this was going to be a really nice bm – a fine platoon of chunky chocolate soldiers, not soft enough to be really squidgy and messy but not too firm either, the sort of poo that would probably squash out nicely in the seat of a pair of panties and spread nicely under the bottom, slightly sticky as it caressed the skin... The sort of bm, in other words, that would be utterly wasted down a toilet.
Reluctantly, I realised that I was going to have to do just that. I could hardly fill my pants while I was out working, could I? I put down the duster and tin and had taken a couple of steps towards the door when something went 'click' in my head and a sudden impulsive though popped out. A thought that said, effectively: Why not? There's no-one else in the place, a brace of bathrooms handy, and I almost certainly had a spare pair of knickers in my bag. Wise dribbling girls like me always keep a spare pair of knickers in their bags... And, right on the impulse, I gave a firm – if experimental – push at my bottom. At once, I felt my tender little back passage open up and the first chunky chocolate corporal stick his head over the pararpet, so to speak. I tensed, held him there for a moment, then found I couldn't resist the urge to push just a bit more. Next moment, I felt the familiar warm stickiness of that first heavenly lump nestling in the seat of my everyday cotton panties, the white cotton ones with the turquoise trim at the legs and waist and the word 'Smile!' printed on the front.
I was smiling to myself as I turned and went back to my dusting, still smiling as I polished the sideboard and grinning happily as I pushed impulsively at my bottom and did another big juicy poo in my pants, revelling in the soft crackling sound of the firm fudge filling the seat of my wet knickers inside those damp (and conveniently loose-fitting) dungarees. I carried on polishing, enjoying the sensations of the warm stickiness piled up in the back of my ordinary big-girl knickers. As I buffed the table I slowly pushed the third instalment – the main one, the stoutest and longest-limbed member (the sergeant?) of my small, smelly army – out into the by-now-bulging backside of my girly briefs. The long poo-lump pushed against the stretched-out cotton, then folded sideways and spread stickily out over the sensitive skin of my girly bottom. A few minutes later, a last small, rude private barged his way noisily into the sagging seat of my well-pood knicks – and I was standing in the middle of someone elses's (very posh) dining room with the poncy lavender pong of Pledge mingling with the rather earthier aroma of a juicy pants-full of best big-little-girl big jobs.
I finished the dusting and polishing whilst enjoying the warm, sticky sensations of a very satisfactorily-messed pair of knickers. Greatly daring, I dribbled more wee into my wet crotch. Even more daring, I went into the kitched to make myself a cup of tea – then carried it it over to the table and sat myself comfortably down in my poopy pants on the smooth,hard seat of a trendy Scandinavian wooden chair. Those firm-but-yielding contents spread and squashed their way wonderfully all over my backside with a sticky crackling sound as the poo-bulge in my pants was flattened. Heaven! In fact, I was able to enjoy my wet and dirty knickers for another hour and more as I emptied the dish-washer, tidied the kitchen and cleaned the en-suite bathroom. Only when I got to swabbing the main bathroom – the last job on my list – did I reluctantly part company with my tactile brown baggage – but not before I'd squatted in the shower (sans dungarees!) and peed streams through my hapless smiley panties one last time! Finally, it was time to empty my military friends down the pan and sluice out my mucky knickers with a hot burst of power-shower. I purloined a bin-liner to cart them home in and pulled on my spare briefs (pale yellow, pink trim; message: Have fun!) . As I let myself out of the flat, I realised that housework would never be quite the same again!
Lucy
don't know if its ok to post stories from other sites or if it is a repost...but I found this one and wanted to share it here. Enjoy !
Spur Of The Moment
By: lucypee
Written on November 29th, 2010
Usually, when I want to go potty in my pants, it's as part of my 'little girl' fantasy (alright; escape from reality). I dress up in childish clothes – one advantage of being a size 8 runt! – and pretend I'm a naughty seven-year-old who can't be bothered to go and use the bathroom like a big girl... Then I happily wee and/or do-do my little girl knickers or trainer-pants. Lovely! The only snag is I can't really do this at home in my grotty attic bedsit because the bathroom is one floor down and I share it with two other people – neither of whom I wish to meet with my hair in bunches while wearing, a teddy-bear T-shirt, frilly ankle-socks and wet short-shorts with a prominent bulge in the seat!
No. Little-girl messy moments are away fixtures, usually when 'house-sitting' for some rich Oxfordian. That's an occupation that gives me free run of some pretty nice houses, as well as access to super bathrooms with power-showers and all mod cons and usually a state-of-the-art washing machine that makes short work of poopy undies. Just now, though, none of my regulars are away from home (roll on January and the ski season!) so I'm getting by on a mix of freelance editing work and the old stand-by, waitressing – eked out with the odd bit of 'domestic helping', usually cleaning or ironing. Meet Lucy the reluctant char-lady!
Which is how Friday found me wandering around a very swish flat off the Banbury Road, duster in hand and tin of Pledge at the ready. As is often the case with me (in common with a good percentage of the female sex, it would seem) I'm having mild problems with my waterworks just now. Sometimes, I seem to be perpetually busting to wee, and dribbles and spurts are inevitable – which is how I came to find myself dusting with rather damp knickers under my dark blue dungarees. I'd been caught a bit short on my way up to North Oxford and by the time I arrived at the flat I was absolutely bursting and had already done several good involuntary spurts into my panties. I suppose I should wear pads or something but actually, as we all know, I don't actually mind wet knickers. And as I'm not into expensive or glamorous underwear, then the odd drop of piddle in my 'sensible' plain cotton briefs is neither here nor there anyway. In fact, I rather enjoyed looking at the wetness in my panties as I sat on the loo and – somewhat reluctantly – peed into the bowl. I'd far rather have done the whole lot in my pants!
Forty minutes later, I'd whizzed round with the Dyson and was about a third of the way through a liesurely tour of the flat with the polishing-cloth when I started to feel the need for a wee again. Not only that, but I could feel that things were getting ready to happen in the back-door department as well. What I should have done then, of course, was been a sensible big girl and taken myself off to the bathroom and used the toilet in a proper grown-up manner. But I actually rather like the feeling of really needing to wee, so I thought I'd hold on until I'd finished the dusting. Well, well before I'd finished in the (huge!) living room I'd started spurting more pee into my wet cotton knickers, which were becoming quite seriously soggy. I reached down and found the crotch of my dungarees was getting a bit moist, too. That didn't really worry me; they are a deep navy blue and the odd damp patch hardly shows. And, as I said, the feeling of wet pants is no drawback so far as Lucy is concerned.
So I continued dusting and dribbling, enjoying the warm, wet sensations growing in my undies. By the time I'd moved on to the study, the wet patch on my dungarees had grown quite big and the odd dribble had run down my legs. Reluctantly, I put down the polish and duster and made my way too the loo. I unfastened the straps of my dungarees and let them drop round my ankles. I looked in the big bathroom mirror and saw that my knickers were pretty wet: the grey area of dampness arching out from the crotch and spreading right across the seat. In fact, they felt fully as wet as if I'd just peed right in them under a skirt – so I thought 'what the heck' and sat on the loo without taking them down. Then I happily weed straight through them – which didn't actually make a great deal of difference to how wet they were! So I just dried them a bit with a wad of loo-paper, pulled my damp dungarees back up, and went back to my dusting.
I had got as far as the sideboard in the dining room when I realised that my other need was also getting to the point where I was going to have to do something about it quite soon. I stood there for a moment, half-pushing at my full bottom, testing how ready I was to go, trying to gauge what sort of a bm it might be when it arrived. Vital questions, you'll agree? To which the answers were: ready to go right now, and that this was going to be a really nice bm – a fine platoon of chunky chocolate soldiers, not soft enough to be really squidgy and messy but not too firm either, the sort of poo that would probably squash out nicely in the seat of a pair of panties and spread nicely under the bottom, slightly sticky as it caressed the skin... The sort of bm, in other words, that would be utterly wasted down a toilet.
Reluctantly, I realised that I was going to have to do just that. I could hardly fill my pants while I was out working, could I? I put down the duster and tin and had taken a couple of steps towards the door when something went 'click' in my head and a sudden impulsive though popped out. A thought that said, effectively: Why not? There's no-one else in the place, a brace of bathrooms handy, and I almost certainly had a spare pair of knickers in my bag. Wise dribbling girls like me always keep a spare pair of knickers in their bags... And, right on the impulse, I gave a firm – if experimental – push at my bottom. At once, I felt my tender little back passage open up and the first chunky chocolate corporal stick his head over the pararpet, so to speak. I tensed, held him there for a moment, then found I couldn't resist the urge to push just a bit more. Next moment, I felt the familiar warm stickiness of that first heavenly lump nestling in the seat of my everyday cotton panties, the white cotton ones with the turquoise trim at the legs and waist and the word 'Smile!' printed on the front.
I was smiling to myself as I turned and went back to my dusting, still smiling as I polished the sideboard and grinning happily as I pushed impulsively at my bottom and did another big juicy poo in my pants, revelling in the soft crackling sound of the firm fudge filling the seat of my wet knickers inside those damp (and conveniently loose-fitting) dungarees. I carried on polishing, enjoying the sensations of the warm stickiness piled up in the back of my ordinary big-girl knickers. As I buffed the table I slowly pushed the third instalment – the main one, the stoutest and longest-limbed member (the sergeant?) of my small, smelly army – out into the by-now-bulging backside of my girly briefs. The long poo-lump pushed against the stretched-out cotton, then folded sideways and spread stickily out over the sensitive skin of my girly bottom. A few minutes later, a last small, rude private barged his way noisily into the sagging seat of my well-pood knicks – and I was standing in the middle of someone elses's (very posh) dining room with the poncy lavender pong of Pledge mingling with the rather earthier aroma of a juicy pants-full of best big-little-girl big jobs.
I finished the dusting and polishing whilst enjoying the warm, sticky sensations of a very satisfactorily-messed pair of knickers. Greatly daring, I dribbled more wee into my wet crotch. Even more daring, I went into the kitched to make myself a cup of tea – then carried it it over to the table and sat myself comfortably down in my poopy pants on the smooth,hard seat of a trendy Scandinavian wooden chair. Those firm-but-yielding contents spread and squashed their way wonderfully all over my backside with a sticky crackling sound as the poo-bulge in my pants was flattened. Heaven! In fact, I was able to enjoy my wet and dirty knickers for another hour and more as I emptied the dish-washer, tidied the kitchen and cleaned the en-suite bathroom. Only when I got to swabbing the main bathroom – the last job on my list – did I reluctantly part company with my tactile brown baggage – but not before I'd squatted in the shower (sans dungarees!) and peed streams through my hapless smiley panties one last time! Finally, it was time to empty my military friends down the pan and sluice out my mucky knickers with a hot burst of power-shower. I purloined a bin-liner to cart them home in and pulled on my spare briefs (pale yellow, pink trim; message: Have fun!) . As I let myself out of the flat, I realised that housework would never be quite the same again!
Lucy