Anonymous
Thu, 12 Sep 02, 10:00 AM
Dear All,
Thank you for your kind remarks about my account of the occasion I wet myself so badly in the library. What made it more amusing – afterwards, for at the time I was terrified John and other people would find out that I was the one who had done a wee-wee during the talk – was that the next day, when lots of people were talking about it, a friend of John’s Aunt, who taught at the Girl’s Grammar school, said that the headmistress had actually wet her knickers on two occasions previously. One had been in class, when she was teaching a group of sixth form girls (top class in England, all about 17 or 18). She had set them some kind of test, and sat supervising it, so she couldn’t leave them. The girls noticed nothing until the test was over, and she sat at her desk and collected in the papers. But one sharp-eyed pupil glanced under the desk as she walked up, and noticed a pool on the floor. She didn’t dare say anything, but when they got outside the classroom quickly told the others. Instead of going off they hung about in the corridor and the yard outside. After a few minutes their headmistress suddenly hurried out, and dashed along the corridor and across the yard to the main building, her skirt lifted and her hand clasping the front of her generously cut navy blue knickers. Not only was the back of her tweed skirt obviously wet, she left a tail of drops and splashes along he corridor and across the yard. She didn’t stop to lock the classroom door and of course they all went back in to have a look. The wooden chair was very wet and there was indeed a puddle on the floor. She had clearly weed in her knickers copiously but not completely, could not hold the remainder, and was widdling continuously as she hurried back to her office. The other occasion had been at a long meeting of her school governors. Our friend Penelope has told us about an accident she had at a meeting of that kind. But of course the headmistress has even less chance of leaving the meeting to go to the ladies, and on this occasion had been unable to wait till the end of the meeting and went in her knickers as it proceeded. Apparently none of the governors knew but the school secretary noticed that her boss had a wet bottom as she went out and he suspicions were confirmed by a soaking chair seat and carpet underneath. She didn’t like her boss very much so was quite indiscreet about it. I wrote this down in my diary at the time, and looking back I realise the account of the first misfortune entry could just as well have been my own, twenty years later!
But I said I would tell you some more things that happened to me when John and I were courting. I think I should say that although I have always been at risk of wetting my knickers if I leave it too late, and likewise have always also wet the bed on and off, the only thing that makes me a frequently knicker wetter or bed wetter is stress, worry or illness or (occasionally!) a bit to much to drink. Otherwise it used to be quite infrequent; sometimes weeks and weeks would go by without my having a really bad accident in my clothes or wake up with a wet bed. But sometimes it has happened a bit more often, such as when I first went to boarding school – which is why I got put in the bedroom with other girls who wet themselves at night – and when I was having the babies, or doing exams, and on long journeys, or if I had been ill, or the dreadful time when John was very ill and died. And the winter I am talking about, between the excitement of falling in love with John, the worry about whether he would mind when he found out I wet myself, the strain of finishing my teacher training and the strangely sensation it produced in me when John used to wet his drawers – well, it happened more often – which made me even more worried about him finding out.
Let me tell you about the two times I wet the bed when I was staying with him. I spent several week-ends at his Aunt’s house. On one of the occasions I want to tell about, a cousin of hers was staying and she has the main spare room. John’s room was his office and he stayed there, so I was given a little room beyond the spare room. Well, I woke in the night needed to go to lavatory. But I couldn’t bring myself to walk through the room where a much older and rather fearsome lady was sleeping. So I just lay there and drifted off to sleep again. Inevitably, when I woke, I felt the familiar sensation of a wet nightdress and sheets. And I badly needed to go again. I felt I could hardly make matters worse, and I certainly would have done if I had got up and it became obvious to people that I had woken in the early hours of the morning with a wet bed, so I am afraid I just lay there an wee-weed on myself, wetting the bed again. It was funny feeling it run over my tummy and legs and down my side. And I felt so fearful, and excited and strange, I put my hand on to my wet nightie and stroked myself too it till I had pleasure, and dozed off again.
Now John, I knew had left very early to visit somewhere miles away, and as I had no class that Monday morning I was planning to travel back to London later. Well, when I woke – how wet the bed was ! – I heard the cousin getting up, going in and out of her bedroom, and eventually going down stairs,. Till then I didn’t dare get up and go through her room in case she realised how wet I was. I’m afraid as a result I was obliged to wet the bed yet again. I did try, I remember , to hold on, but it burst out of me and poured between my legs into my nightie and the sheet. Well, when I heard the cousin get dressed and go downstairs I got up, went and washed myself down in the bathroom and got dressed. The sheet, the under blanket and the mattress were soaked.
I went downstairs and sat at the breakfast table. I felt awful. I tried to make polite conversation but suddenly my shame came over me and I started to cry.
“What’s the matter, dear?” John’s Aunt.
“Oh, Miss Barlbury, I sobbed, “I wet the bed.” John’s cousin gasped and stared at me. I thought Miss Barlbury was going to be angry but she put her arm round me and said, “Don’t worry dear – you should have said you do that, I would have put one of the waterproofs on the bed. John and I do a wee-wee in out sleep sometimes.” And then she looked at me and said “Perhaps I shouldn’t have told you that….I don’t suppose you knew about John…don’t let him know I told you, will you.” Of course I knew perfectly well, but I said, “No – and you won’t tell John I wet my bed…? “Of course not dear.” I helped strip the bed and she rinsed my nightie and washed everything, and I departed to London.
The nest time it happened was two or three months later – I had been back once or twice, without mishap, not in the bed anyway. Each time, I was back in the usual spare room and I found that a rubber sheet had been put on under the sheet and under blanket. But I had had a difficult week at college and in teaching practice and had a couple of wet beds trough the strain – not to speak of a sizeable, fortunately unnoticed, wetting of myself one morning, of a bus to a distant school, leaving me to continue my practice lessons in wet combinations and knickers all day! Anyway, I had a nice week-end with John and was going to go back to London with him on Monday morning. It would have to be on the Sunday night that I slept very solidly, right through the might, so that on Monday morning I woke with the familiar sensation of wetness all round me. To make matters worse, it was still quite cold weather, and in addition to my nightdress I had kept my woollen combinations on underneath it. Combies, nightdress and sheet were all soaked, from tummy to knees. “Oh dear,” I thought, “what will John say?” Then I heard his Aunt go down stairs and start raking out the fire and lay breakfast. I quickly got up, took off my wet things, put on my knickers and dressing gown and went down to her and confessed. She came up and was very sympathetic – and of course the rubber sheet had meant the mattress was not wet – though of course the sheet and under blanket, not to speak of my clothes, were wetter than they would have been without it, as they always are – you end up lying in a pool if the wee-wee is a big one. “Aunt Martha” I said – this is what I now called her – “I had my combies on in bed, I’ve completely wet them…what can I wear…? She thought a bit, and said, “mine would be too small – “ and then she said “You’re just about John’s size – you’ve got woolly stockings, haven’t you.” “Yes,” I said. “Well” she said, I’ve just washed and dried a pair of John’s, and he has clean ones on yesterday, so he won’t need them…you’re nearly as tall as he is.”. So I was equipped with John’s combinations, and the legs, right down to the ankles, were concealed by my grey woollen stockings. Although I am nearly as tall as John, they were very baggy on me, but lovely and cosy. My knickers, liberty bodice and petticoat went over them; large though the knickers were they still felt full of combination! And so I sat beside John, all the way back, and worked through the afternoon, in his best woollen combinations! And Aunt Martha never said a word, and John knew nothing.
Love
Marjorie
Thank you for your kind remarks about my account of the occasion I wet myself so badly in the library. What made it more amusing – afterwards, for at the time I was terrified John and other people would find out that I was the one who had done a wee-wee during the talk – was that the next day, when lots of people were talking about it, a friend of John’s Aunt, who taught at the Girl’s Grammar school, said that the headmistress had actually wet her knickers on two occasions previously. One had been in class, when she was teaching a group of sixth form girls (top class in England, all about 17 or 18). She had set them some kind of test, and sat supervising it, so she couldn’t leave them. The girls noticed nothing until the test was over, and she sat at her desk and collected in the papers. But one sharp-eyed pupil glanced under the desk as she walked up, and noticed a pool on the floor. She didn’t dare say anything, but when they got outside the classroom quickly told the others. Instead of going off they hung about in the corridor and the yard outside. After a few minutes their headmistress suddenly hurried out, and dashed along the corridor and across the yard to the main building, her skirt lifted and her hand clasping the front of her generously cut navy blue knickers. Not only was the back of her tweed skirt obviously wet, she left a tail of drops and splashes along he corridor and across the yard. She didn’t stop to lock the classroom door and of course they all went back in to have a look. The wooden chair was very wet and there was indeed a puddle on the floor. She had clearly weed in her knickers copiously but not completely, could not hold the remainder, and was widdling continuously as she hurried back to her office. The other occasion had been at a long meeting of her school governors. Our friend Penelope has told us about an accident she had at a meeting of that kind. But of course the headmistress has even less chance of leaving the meeting to go to the ladies, and on this occasion had been unable to wait till the end of the meeting and went in her knickers as it proceeded. Apparently none of the governors knew but the school secretary noticed that her boss had a wet bottom as she went out and he suspicions were confirmed by a soaking chair seat and carpet underneath. She didn’t like her boss very much so was quite indiscreet about it. I wrote this down in my diary at the time, and looking back I realise the account of the first misfortune entry could just as well have been my own, twenty years later!
But I said I would tell you some more things that happened to me when John and I were courting. I think I should say that although I have always been at risk of wetting my knickers if I leave it too late, and likewise have always also wet the bed on and off, the only thing that makes me a frequently knicker wetter or bed wetter is stress, worry or illness or (occasionally!) a bit to much to drink. Otherwise it used to be quite infrequent; sometimes weeks and weeks would go by without my having a really bad accident in my clothes or wake up with a wet bed. But sometimes it has happened a bit more often, such as when I first went to boarding school – which is why I got put in the bedroom with other girls who wet themselves at night – and when I was having the babies, or doing exams, and on long journeys, or if I had been ill, or the dreadful time when John was very ill and died. And the winter I am talking about, between the excitement of falling in love with John, the worry about whether he would mind when he found out I wet myself, the strain of finishing my teacher training and the strangely sensation it produced in me when John used to wet his drawers – well, it happened more often – which made me even more worried about him finding out.
Let me tell you about the two times I wet the bed when I was staying with him. I spent several week-ends at his Aunt’s house. On one of the occasions I want to tell about, a cousin of hers was staying and she has the main spare room. John’s room was his office and he stayed there, so I was given a little room beyond the spare room. Well, I woke in the night needed to go to lavatory. But I couldn’t bring myself to walk through the room where a much older and rather fearsome lady was sleeping. So I just lay there and drifted off to sleep again. Inevitably, when I woke, I felt the familiar sensation of a wet nightdress and sheets. And I badly needed to go again. I felt I could hardly make matters worse, and I certainly would have done if I had got up and it became obvious to people that I had woken in the early hours of the morning with a wet bed, so I am afraid I just lay there an wee-weed on myself, wetting the bed again. It was funny feeling it run over my tummy and legs and down my side. And I felt so fearful, and excited and strange, I put my hand on to my wet nightie and stroked myself too it till I had pleasure, and dozed off again.
Now John, I knew had left very early to visit somewhere miles away, and as I had no class that Monday morning I was planning to travel back to London later. Well, when I woke – how wet the bed was ! – I heard the cousin getting up, going in and out of her bedroom, and eventually going down stairs,. Till then I didn’t dare get up and go through her room in case she realised how wet I was. I’m afraid as a result I was obliged to wet the bed yet again. I did try, I remember , to hold on, but it burst out of me and poured between my legs into my nightie and the sheet. Well, when I heard the cousin get dressed and go downstairs I got up, went and washed myself down in the bathroom and got dressed. The sheet, the under blanket and the mattress were soaked.
I went downstairs and sat at the breakfast table. I felt awful. I tried to make polite conversation but suddenly my shame came over me and I started to cry.
“What’s the matter, dear?” John’s Aunt.
“Oh, Miss Barlbury, I sobbed, “I wet the bed.” John’s cousin gasped and stared at me. I thought Miss Barlbury was going to be angry but she put her arm round me and said, “Don’t worry dear – you should have said you do that, I would have put one of the waterproofs on the bed. John and I do a wee-wee in out sleep sometimes.” And then she looked at me and said “Perhaps I shouldn’t have told you that….I don’t suppose you knew about John…don’t let him know I told you, will you.” Of course I knew perfectly well, but I said, “No – and you won’t tell John I wet my bed…? “Of course not dear.” I helped strip the bed and she rinsed my nightie and washed everything, and I departed to London.
The nest time it happened was two or three months later – I had been back once or twice, without mishap, not in the bed anyway. Each time, I was back in the usual spare room and I found that a rubber sheet had been put on under the sheet and under blanket. But I had had a difficult week at college and in teaching practice and had a couple of wet beds trough the strain – not to speak of a sizeable, fortunately unnoticed, wetting of myself one morning, of a bus to a distant school, leaving me to continue my practice lessons in wet combinations and knickers all day! Anyway, I had a nice week-end with John and was going to go back to London with him on Monday morning. It would have to be on the Sunday night that I slept very solidly, right through the might, so that on Monday morning I woke with the familiar sensation of wetness all round me. To make matters worse, it was still quite cold weather, and in addition to my nightdress I had kept my woollen combinations on underneath it. Combies, nightdress and sheet were all soaked, from tummy to knees. “Oh dear,” I thought, “what will John say?” Then I heard his Aunt go down stairs and start raking out the fire and lay breakfast. I quickly got up, took off my wet things, put on my knickers and dressing gown and went down to her and confessed. She came up and was very sympathetic – and of course the rubber sheet had meant the mattress was not wet – though of course the sheet and under blanket, not to speak of my clothes, were wetter than they would have been without it, as they always are – you end up lying in a pool if the wee-wee is a big one. “Aunt Martha” I said – this is what I now called her – “I had my combies on in bed, I’ve completely wet them…what can I wear…? She thought a bit, and said, “mine would be too small – “ and then she said “You’re just about John’s size – you’ve got woolly stockings, haven’t you.” “Yes,” I said. “Well” she said, I’ve just washed and dried a pair of John’s, and he has clean ones on yesterday, so he won’t need them…you’re nearly as tall as he is.”. So I was equipped with John’s combinations, and the legs, right down to the ankles, were concealed by my grey woollen stockings. Although I am nearly as tall as John, they were very baggy on me, but lovely and cosy. My knickers, liberty bodice and petticoat went over them; large though the knickers were they still felt full of combination! And so I sat beside John, all the way back, and worked through the afternoon, in his best woollen combinations! And Aunt Martha never said a word, and John knew nothing.
Love
Marjorie