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Sunday, May 6, 2012

Lucy Peter's Home Farm Chapter Two

Part One
Part two. Enjoy.
Home Farm
By Lucy Peters 


Chapter Two: Cosy Evening at Home Farm

Once the video had finished, the three of us sat there in the semi-darkness for a couple of minutes before I said: “Let’s hope that this virtual poo they have here doesn’t give you a virtual nappy-rash.” We all giggled at that, and the slight tension in the air dissipated. Then the door opened, and Angela came in. “Hello, girls,” she said. “Did you enjoy the video?” “Yes,” I said. “Very much.” I had, too - watching Alice and Katie and Melissa mess their pants so many times in the film had made me long to feel the familiar warmth in my own knickers. “It was very interesting,” said Susie. “Mmmm.” said Claire, closing her eyes and clasping her knees. “Now,” said Angela, “I’m assuming you three are happy to ‘play’ together and be friends in the same nursery?” We all looked at each other then nodded, smiling shy smiles. “Good,” said Angela. “That will make for a nice weekend. A lot of our ‘children’ get as much enjoyment out of what the other kids do as from what they do themselves.” She was right again. I was dying to see Claire and Susie wetting and messing their pants. “Now, it’s time for you children to get changed,” Angela went on. “And did you fill in your forms yet?”

We hadn’t, so Angela left us to it while we all went over to the table and sat down to start ticking the appropriate boxes. The forms started off ordinarily enough with questions about diet, allergies, any medications being taken, prior visits to Home Farm or ‘similar venues’ (it was news to me that there were any!) and some other obviously market-research-oriented ‘How did you hear about us?’ stuff. The second page was far more interesting, as it dealt with ‘Nursery Preferences’. It started off by asking whether we had shaved our pubic areas, and suggested that we consider this if it had not been done ‘for reasons of hygiene’. Our nurserymaid would be glad to help if we needed it... I ticked the ‘shaved’ box. Well, you can’t be a convincing little girl with a bush, can you? Then the form really got down to business. Were we into wetting only or wetting and BM’s? (Resounding tick for the latter in my case.) How frequently did we want to have bowel movements? (Tick on one of five boxes ranging from once daily to very frequent - no prizes for guessing where my tick went!) Did we want small, modest or large BM’s? (grade one to five; I made it a five, naturally). Did we want our BM’s firm or soft? Another set of one-to-five boxes (One ‘firm’ to five ‘very soft, almost liquid) but you could tick more than one box - I went for two, three and four, as I’m a girl of catholic tastes in these matters.)

Angela came in just as we were all about the get on to the last part of the form, which asked about clothing preferences. “Don’t bother with that last part,” said Angela, looking over Claire’s shoulder. “It’s easier if you just pick out what you want to wear or ask me. With only three of you to look after this weekend, it won’t be a problem. There are plenty of clothes in the wardrobes and chests of drawers in your rooms, and more at the back of the nursery. Why don’t you get changed now? You can hardly be little girls when you’re all dressed as smartly and as grown-up as this.”

So we grinned and shrugged our shoulders and trooped obediently off into our bedrooms. I took off my smart skirt and sweater, then stripped right down to my panties. I opened the chest of drawers to look for underwear, and found a nice plain cotton vest with a pink teddy-bear on the front and a pair of matching knickers. I took my big-girl’s polka-dot hipster briefs off and snuggled my hairless pussy into the thick fleecy cotton of the waist-high little-girl knickers. They felt wonderful, and I longed to pee them. I slid back the wardrobe door and looked at the dresses and rompers hanging there. After a moment’s pondering, I went for a short red pinafore dress over a yellow T-shirt. I put these clothes on, added a pair of frilly-top white ankle socks and some pink jelly shoes, and admired the result in the mirror. Now most of me looked the part, but I still had on a little make-up and my hair didn’t look right. An Alice-band fixed the hair, and I carefully removed all traces of make up with tissues and cream. The reflection that gazed back at me now made me catch my breath. Was that adorable little girl really me?

When I had finished dressing, I just stood there for a minute or two admiring the result and wondering what any of the various boys I went out with would make of this outfit! I lifted up my dress and looked at those adorable pants, just crying out to be weed or worse. Then, greatly daring, I opened the door and went back out into the playroom. Claire was already there, talking to Angela. She was wearing a light blue flouncy skirt with a soft fleecy cardigan top, and her long blonde hair was in plaits with blue ribbons. She too wore ankle socks and jelly-shoes. We grinned at each other. “Hullo,” I said, in my best simpering voice. “My name’s Amy. What’s yours?” Claire joined in the spirit of the game straight away. “I’m Claire,” she said, “And I’m four! How old are you?” “Er, I’m - well, I think I’m probably about four, too.” “And I’m six,” came Susie’s voice, from behind us. She was wearing blue dungarees over a yellow T-shirt, and her dark hair had a red ribbon in it.

“Very good,” said Angela. “You all look very sweet. Now, has anybody got anything they want to ask me?” “Umm,” said Susie. “It really doesn’t matter if we mess up these nice clothes?” “Not at all. You are all absolutely free to do just what you want to do. You can make puddles all over the place, wet your beds, make big jobs wherever - that’s what this is all about. Do exactly what you want and we’ll fit in around you. You can act just as if you really were little and not give it a thought.” “So we don’t have to wear nappies to bed, then?” said Claire. “Not if you don’t want to. Quite a lot of people really like to wet their beds.” She was right there. I did! “What do we do if we’ve wet the bed and need the sheets to be changed?” Claire wanted to know. “Just ring the night bell and one of us will come and sort you out,” said Angela. “So you don’t decide what we wear at all, then?” I asked “Only if you want me to play that role,” said Angela. “If you want me to be Nanny or Mummy or whatever and react to what you get up to, I’ll be happy to do that. Would you like that?” We looked at each other again. I nodded, and so did Claire. Susie looked doubtful for a moment, then said: “All right.”

 “Now then, are you ready for some supper?” asked Angela.  We all nodded. “Good. It will be along in about a quarter of an hour. Before I go, does anyone need the potty?”  We all looked at each other, then grinned and shook our heads. “Well,” said Angela, looking severe, “I do hope none of you children is going to make a nasty surprise in your pants for Nanny Angela.” And she went out of the room. We just kept grinning, then Claire said: “How is that now that I can just pee myself whenever I want to, I don’t feel the smallest need to go? Usually, I have the opposite problem.” “Do you?” I asked. “Really?” Claire nodded. “Yup. I do have a real pee-pants problem - I just have a very weak bladder. Most of the time, of course, it doesn’t bother me. I mean, I like it. But sometimes it can be a real pain.” “Boyfriends?” I asked. 

“Boyfriends. Work. Periods. The usual stuff,” said Claire. We all nodded agreement. There were always drawbacks.
“Were you ever properly trained, then?” asked Susie. “Well, yes and no,” said Claire. “I mean, I knew what I was supposed to do and so on. I just wasn’t very good at doing it. I wet the bed every night right through junior school, and I was always peeing my knickers. Even when I was at big school I wasn’t very reliable, but of course then it started to get embarrassing. So after a bit my mum got me some ‘discreet protection’ - sort of plain-looking knickers with a waterproof lining which you could wear over regular panties or with some special absorbent ones. I loved those, and so I’ve never really stopped peeing in my pants.” “Why do you bother to come here, then?” I asked. “Oh, lots of reasons,” said Claire. “Not to be alone, for a start. I mean, sometimes you think you’re a freak when you’re grown-up and you still wet yourself all the time. And it will be nice not to have to hide it. Or worry about doing it when you don’t really want to.”
“What about you, Susie?” I asked. “Were you a problem child too?” Susie grinned. “I still am,” she said. “Did you wet the bed as well, then?” asked Claire. Susie shrugged. “Sometimes,” she said. “Doesn’t everybody?” “So what did you do, then?” “I used to poo my knickers a lot,” said Susie, blushing slightly. I pounced on that. “How so?” I said. “It was silly, really,” said Susie. “I suppose it started with potty-training; my Gran looked after me when I was small because my Mother worked - so she was the one who got the job of getting me out of nappies. But I wasn’t very good at the potty business, and my Gran used to scold me a lot if I wet my pants; if I BM’d she went ballistic! Even while I was still wearing a nappies a lot of the time, she’d lay into me for messing. So then I started to hold on to my BM’s, and pretty soon I was in big trouble with constipation.” “A damaged toilet-trainer,” I said. “Poor child,” said Claire.

“Well, I had problems right until after I had to start school,” said Susie. “Really bad problems. Medicine, suppositories, being flushed out, everything. It made my life miserable. And I got quite ill. So my parents decided to educate me at home, and they hired this woman called Heather to teach me and look after me. That changed my life.” “How so?” demanded Claire, sitting on the edge of her seat. “Well, Heather was really nice. She was very sympathetic and understanding, and the first thing she did was to set out to cure my BM problem,” said Susie.  “How?” demanded Claire again. “The way she did it was really simple,” said Susie. “She changed my diet quiet a lot, and gave me some homeopathic remedies to make sure my BM’s didn’t get all hard. And then she told me how it was so important to do my BM that it didn’t matter when or how I did it. Even if I went in my pants.” “And did you?” I asked. Susie Nodded. “The very next day,” she said. “Heather was teaching me to read when I sort of got the urge, so I told her I needed to go, and she said: “Don’t wait - just go right now. Use your pants as a nappy.” “So you did?” “I did,” said Susie. “Apparently I just squatted right there and then and pushed a bit and filled my knickers without any problem at all.”

 There was a brief pause while we digested this information.  “And afterwards?” asked Claire. “Did you go on doing it?” Susie nodded again. “Yes,” she said. “The first few times I told Heather I needed to poo, she said ‘go right on, use your panties,’ so I’d just strain and poo in my knickers. It felt so good to go, especially after all my problems. But I soon realised I liked the feeling of pooing my pants as well. So I kept on doing it. “Didn’t Heather mind?” asked Claire. “She didn’t seem to,” said Susie. “Every so often, I’d ask her if it was all right to go, and she’d say: ‘You can do it in your panties if you can’t wait.’ So I did.” “Gosh,” said Claire. “You were lucky to have someone like that. My Mum put up with me peeing but she never liked it much, and she’d have freaked if I’d messed myself.” “Didn’t you?” I asked her. Claire shook her head. “Not so I can remember,” she said. “But maybe soon...” “I still do if I can,” said Susie. “What about you, Amy?”

“Well,” I said. “I was a bit of a problem child, too.” “Did you wet your bed?” asked Claire. “All the time,” I said, “When I was little. But I was definitely a ‘late trainer’.” “How late?”  “Umm, pretty. My parents were too busy to look after me, so I was left to various nannies and child-minders and au-pairs. I suppose that it wasn’t really anyone’s job to train me. I was in nappies a lot of the time until I was nearly five. Less bother, I expect. So I kept right on using them - and no-one seemed too bothered, to be quite honest. No-one bothered with me much at all. Eventually, some unfortunate girl decided I ought not to start school in nappies, so she started to dress me in trainer-pants or knickers, and stick me on the potty. Pretty desultory toilet-training.” “Did it work?” asked Claire. “Sort of,” I said. “I mean, at that age I could control things pretty easily. So if it suited me I used the potty or the toilet. If it didn’t suit me, I went in my pants. Simple, really.”

Just then, Angela came in with a tray of drinks and crisps. She put it down on the table, and we tucked into fruit drinks and the sort of cheesy wotsit snacks that small children love. “How often did it suit you to use the potty?” asked Claire, as I shoved a handful of crisps into my mouth. “Well, when I was at school,” I said. “I mean, most of the time; you could get away with the odd ‘accident’. But the teachers freaked a bit if you did it too often - especially BM’s. So I’d save my BM’s while I was in school and then mess my pants on the way home. Usually right outside the garden gate. But if I was just at home playing - well, I’d go in my pants most times. Often, I couldn’t be bothered to go to the loo, or I’d do it because I felt like it. I was a pretty awful child, really - but then, nobody seemed too bothered about what I did. except the poor girls who had to clean me up and do all the grotty washing.”

Angela returned with the rest of our supper, a real ‘kids meal’ of vegie-burgers and french fried potatoes with chunks of tomato and cucumber, followed by bananas in custard (which I love) and jelly. We three sat there and ate our way through this very non-gourmet food. As I swigged back the last of my juice, I found that I was starting to need a pee, and I wondered if the other girls did too. The answer to that came when we got up from the table, when Claire and I saw straight away that Susie had a wide wet patch on the seat of her rompers. She’d obviously wet her pants while we were sitting down eating our supper, without giving a hint of what she was doing.  “Susie did wee-wee,” I said, in my best little-girl voice. “It just came,” said Susie, offhandedly. Claire was sitting cross-legged on the floor, staring at her own crotch. Susie and I looked too, and saw the puddle growing under her as she let go in her pale blue cotton knickers. “Claire’s doing a wee-wee too,” she said, conversationally. I looked around. In the corner of the room was a large-sized kid’s blue plastic potty. So I decided to be a ‘good girl’. I toddled over to the potty and, carefully holding my red dress out of the way, sat down on it with my pants still on. Then I relaxed and next moment was dribbling warm, satisfying pee into the thick cotton gusset of those pretty panties. I soaked them thoroughly, the warm pee running round under my bottom until the seat was dripping.

Claire and I compared notes - or rather, pants - and talked in whispers about what bad girls we were. Susie was standing on her own by the play table with a preoccupied look on her face. Then I saw her tense slightly and give a little grunt to herself; her cheeks flushed a little pinker. I nudged Claire, and we both watched as Susie strained to make a poo-poo in her pants. There were some faint sticky noises which came from inside Susie’s rompers, and she grunted again. There was a muffled ‘pfft!’ and another slightly sticky noise. Then Susie relaxed, and felt behind herself.  “Done poo-poo,” she announced. “Did lots of poo-poo. Made a big smelly.” And indeed, there was no mistaking that this was ‘the real McCoy’, not some synthetic substitute BM.
Angela came in then, and sniffed the air. “PU!” she said. “Who’s gone pooey in her pants?” Claire and I both pretended to look pleased with ourselves while Susie hung her head. Angela went over to her, and felt the seat of her rompers. “Wet and smelly,” she said. “And I thought you were the big girl.” “I had to go,” said Susie. “It’s bad for me if I don’t do my poo.” “Well, yes, that’s right,” said Angela. “Have you finished?” Susie nodded. “Do you want clean pants now?” Susie shook her head. “All right,” said Angela. “Does anybody else need clean knickers?” Claire and I both looked guilty. Angela came over and lifted our dresses and checked on our pants. “You pair of piddlers,” she said. “Come on, let’s find you some dry pants.”
So Claire and I followed here into the nursery area. She made us take our shoes off, then pulled our wet pants down while we giggled and simpered like two four-year-olds. She wiped us clean, dried up, powdered us and pulled on clean pants. Mine were white with little blue flowers; Claire’s had a picture of Minnie Mouse on the back, “There,” said Angela, letting Claire’s skirt drop. “Dry and comfortable. I wonder if little miss potty-pants wants changing yet?” “Angela,” I asked, “Did you put any of the special poo-poo in us that time?” “No, darlings,” said Angela. “We don’t put those in until you’ve had a natural poo-poo first, like Susie has. Come on Susie, let’s change your smelly knickers.”

Susie put on a good show of being shy, but she came in to the nursery and stood there while Angela undid the clasps of her rompers and let them drop. There was a good-sized lumpy bulge in the seat of Susie’s white cotton schoolgirl knickers, and we could see the tip of one piece of poo just poking out at the leg of her pants. Angela lowered the sagging panties carefully to keep all the mess inside, then emptied them into the toilet. Susie’s poo was firm and healthy, a good normal BM.  “Goodness me, Susie,” said Angela, busy with the wipes, “You certainly needed to go.” Susie just stood there with her head bowed as Angela cleaned the brown smears from her small, neat rounded bottom. “Now come over here so I can wash you properly,” said Angela, leading Susie to the tiled area and reaching for the little rubber tube. Claire and I looked at each other. “Shoo, you two,” said Angela, looking over her shoulder. “Go on out into the playroom and let me sort Susie out in peace.”

So we wandered back into the big playroom, and went to watch the TV. But there was nothing suitable for four-year-olds on at that time of night, so we took it in turns on the rocking horse. I was rocking and Claire was watching me, when I noticed that she was starting to look a bit uneasy. “Is something the matter?” I asked her. Claire nodded. “Need to go potty,” she said. “Number one or number two?” I asked, still rocking. “Number two,” said Claire. “Well, go on, then,” I said, letting the rocking horse slowly come to a stop. Claire was looking worried. “How do I do it?” she said. “Do I squat or something? It feels all wrong to do it standing up.” “It feels all wrong *not* to do it standing up,” I said. “Only grown-ups do it sitting down. But you can squat if you want.”

So Claire held her frock up clear of her Minnie-Mouse panties and squatted, a look of earnest concentration on her face. “Do I push?” she asked. “Just do it as if you were on the toilet,” I said. “It’s easy. You just push a bit and it comes out.” So Claire took a deep breath, and started to strain. She bit her lip, and went very pink. Pee started to dribble from the front of her pants. “It’s coming,” she squeaked. Next moment, there was a long, sticky squelch, and the seat of her pants bulged suddenly outwards. Claire grunted to herself, and the bulge got bigger. She took another breath, grunted again, and - with a resounding sticky squidgy noise, pushed a third instalment out into her sagging knickers. Then she relaxed, put a finger in her mouth, grinned at me coyly. “Oops,” she said. “Did number two in my pants.” “You certainly did,” I said, staring at the bulge under her bottom, and at the stain that was rapidly spreading all over poor Minnie Mouse. “You messed your knickers right up.”  Claire stood up carefully, and gingerly felt the big soft smelly bulge in the seat of her pants. Then she let her dress drop, and took a couple of tentative waddling steps. “Oooer,” she said. “It does feel funny. Nice funny.” Then she stopped, and gave a squeak. Next moments, a big brown-gold lump slid slowly out from under the hem of her short dress, leaving a long streak on the back of her leg, and falling onto the floor with a soft ‘plop’.
I decided to be a naughty little tell-tale. I ran to the nursery where Angela was just clipping a clean pair of rompers onto Susie. “Nanny Angela,” I said, in my best excited-little-girl voice, “Claire did a great big poo-poo in her pants and now it’s all getting out on the floor.” “Oh dear,” said Angela. “We can’t have that. What messy little girls you all are!” “I’m not,” I simpered. “I haven’t made a messy in my pants.” “Yet,” said Angela, picking up a big roll of tissue and striding off to the playroom.

Claire was still standing in the middle of the floor with a small smelly pile behind her. Angela went over to her, and lifted her dress. “Oh Claire,” she said, when she saw the big, stained bulge in the seat of Claire’s knickers. “You certainly have filled your pants. What a mess! Couldn’t it wait?” Claire shook her head. “Oh well, never mind,” said Angela. “Come on, let’s come and clean you up. You go into the nursery while I deal with this little mess here.” Claire waddled off to the nursery, holding her dress up and with her messy panties sagging between her legs. Susie looked at me, and grinned.  “For a beginner,” she whispered, “That was a pretty good effort.”
Susie and I went over to the far side of the playroom and sat on two of the beanie-bags. “Don’t you need to go poo?” asked Susie. I shook my head. “Not yet,” I said. “I do,” said Susie. “I can feel it all ready to come.” “Angela put some things in you?” I asked. Susie grinned. “She must have done,” she said, and shifted her position on the beanie-bag so that she wasn’t sitting right on her bottom, but sort of over to one side. Next moment, there was a faint, soft, sticky sound from inside Susie’s clean rompers - a sound that came again, twice, three times. “I’m a bad girl,” said Susie, looking pleased with herself. “I poo’d my pants again.”

By the time bedtime came around, I was the only one not to have dirtied even one pair of panties. Trouble was, I just didn’t need to go, and until things had ‘happened naturally’ I didn’t qualify for any of the ‘nursery aids’ that, Susie said, felt just like the Real Thing. I went to bed in a nightie over a pair of thick cotton trainer-pants. Susie was wearing Little Mermaid pyjamas with ordinary panties underneath, but Claire had a proper white terry-towelling nappy with pink see-through plastic pants under her shortie nightdress.  “See you in the morning,” we all said as we trooped off to out little-girl rooms. “Sweet dreams.” “Wet dreams, more like,” said Susie.

Part 3

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