Anonymous
Fri, 21 Nov 03, 6:19 PM
Dear friends
I promised I would tell you about the day my son Peter and I both wet ourselves at the school fete. Peter’s day school was a private school, and they used to run a kind of fête or open in the early summer that was partly fund-raising for things like the sports field and partly to show the school off to local big-wigs and potential parents. I had always taken a lot of interest in the school and Peter was a clever boy so when we had a buffet lunch before things got going Peter and I, like the parents of some other boys in the top class were invited to be present to chat to visitors. They had a sort of sparkling wine that was quite nice (not champagne!) and perhaps I had a glass too many. There was also a fruit cup which wasn’t really alcoholic – it had a small bottle of cider in it, and I caught Peter drinking a large glass of it and frowned at him. I was thinking it would be awful if he got a little intoxicated; I never thought about his bladder, or, to tell the truth, about mine.
I ended up after lunch acting as escort to the wife of a local business man who had given a considerable gift to the school. The pupils put on a gymnastic display, a short musical performance, and a one act play in the gymnasium. In the nearby rooms there were also displays of their work – photos of trips abroad, mountain trekking visits, and a display of science experiments. Peter was more or less in the charge of the last, with one of the science masters looking in from time to time. My protégée was interested in the display, the concert and the play, perhaps to stave off boredom, so I sat with her in the gym much of the afternoon, unfortunately on the front row. Inevitably the wine began to work its way through me, and I first uncomfortable, then aching to go, and finally almost bursting. It all came on s0o quickly! I felt it was impossible to get up make my way out of the gym before everybody, so I held my legs tight together and hoped it would all end soon. Eventually I realised it would not end in time. The weather was still cool and I had on not my heavy winter woollies but a lighter pair of woollen combination, a pair of white cotton knickers over my girdle and stockings, and a silk slip under my skirt. I crossed and uncrossed my legs and as I did so I suddenly felt a warm wet spurt into my combies. I could feel it trickling down through my hairs and between my legs, exciting me greatly as it did, but I was desperate not to have a large and shaming accident. Another trickle escaped me. The music finished and my charge whispered to me to ask what the play was about. I explained, but while I was distracted in doing so my poor bladder gave way again with a sizeable gush. I was fairly sure my bottom was now wet.
I decided on one last tactic to avoid disgrace. As I have so often done, I squeezed my thighs tight together and lifted my knees by raising my feet on to tiptoe as I sat, making a depression in my lap into which I went for as large a wee-wee as I dared. I felt the pool forming in my lap, and knew my combinations, girdle, knickers and stockings would be absorbing must of the outpouring. But these things are difficult to judge, and whole very little leaked through to make my bottom and the seat wet, there was enough to make a quite sizeable stain on the front of my skirt. I covered it up with my programme, and concentrated on holding in the rest. The play did not last long, but long enough for another overflow to take me unawares and run right through to my bottom.
The play ended, we had to stand up, and my misfortune was obvious to all. The wife of the charitable business man stared at me in amazement. Someone hooted with m=hysterical laughter and cried “She’s wet herself!”. Everybody within earshot looked at me. I was wet back and front. “Oh, Mrs Barlbury” said the headmaster’s wife! Another parent, a fellow teacher at the school where I now taught , said “Marjorie … you’ve wet your knickers again!” I just stood, and then two things happened in quick succession.
A grim looking science teacher marched in with Peter in tow, walked up to me, and said, “Mrs Barlbury, I think your son should be taken home.” The reason was obvious. A huge wet stain covered the whole front of his shorts, spreading between his legs down to his knees. “Oh, Peter” I said in dismay. “Mum” he wailed, in front of everybody, “I was the only one on the experiments, I needed a wee-wee so badly, I couldn’t wait, I did it all in my combies!” His dismayed was comic, and people started to laugh.
The second thing was that I could no longer contain myself either. I lost control, and a torrent of pee poured through my combinations, soaked my knickers, and ran all down my legs and over my shoes and made a pool on the gymnasium floor.
There was consternation and laughter and we were both hustled away and made our doleful way home. We were both mortified, though my shame was overlaid by the excitement that wetting myself publicly has always caused me. I was so excited that even after enjoying the event in retrospect in the usual way as I lay in the bed that night, I woke up in the morning having wet the bed in my sleep, and Peter did the same three nights running.
Peter survived the rest of the term with only minor accidents – had he continued to wet himself on the scale he had done it in class in the winter and at the fete we might have reconsidered out decision to send him to boarding school. But although this was his last year at day school, there was only one other such mishap in class after that, and only a few on the way home, doing his homework, or elsewhere. The wet beds grew fewer and so did the incidents where he would suddenly go pink, and scurry off to the lavatory, confessing afterwards he been taken short and dampened his underwear; or turn to me on the bus, or return from the pictures, the library or the theatre, or even from friends’ houses, and confess to me “Mum, I did a bit of a wee-wee, and made my combies wet.” By the time he went to boarding school, in the September of that year, weeks would sometimes pass with no more than the occasional dampness. Besides, his day school only took boys up to thirteen or so, and he was anxious to go somewhere new where his propensity to wet himself was not known. So we carried on.
I have been telling you all about Peter as a preliminary to describing how his wife Debbie cam into our lives, but when I recalled this incident in his last term I felt I must tell you all. It was shaming at the time, but remembering all that happened , I have relived it – with pleasure! – several times and hope it gives my friends here pleasure too. I have seen something similar happen to other people as well, on these formal occasions, including Debbie and my daughter Alice, have loved reading accounts of them on our site, and would delighted to read more.
What came about when Peter went away to school I will tell you on another occasion.
Love
Margery
I promised I would tell you about the day my son Peter and I both wet ourselves at the school fete. Peter’s day school was a private school, and they used to run a kind of fête or open in the early summer that was partly fund-raising for things like the sports field and partly to show the school off to local big-wigs and potential parents. I had always taken a lot of interest in the school and Peter was a clever boy so when we had a buffet lunch before things got going Peter and I, like the parents of some other boys in the top class were invited to be present to chat to visitors. They had a sort of sparkling wine that was quite nice (not champagne!) and perhaps I had a glass too many. There was also a fruit cup which wasn’t really alcoholic – it had a small bottle of cider in it, and I caught Peter drinking a large glass of it and frowned at him. I was thinking it would be awful if he got a little intoxicated; I never thought about his bladder, or, to tell the truth, about mine.
I ended up after lunch acting as escort to the wife of a local business man who had given a considerable gift to the school. The pupils put on a gymnastic display, a short musical performance, and a one act play in the gymnasium. In the nearby rooms there were also displays of their work – photos of trips abroad, mountain trekking visits, and a display of science experiments. Peter was more or less in the charge of the last, with one of the science masters looking in from time to time. My protégée was interested in the display, the concert and the play, perhaps to stave off boredom, so I sat with her in the gym much of the afternoon, unfortunately on the front row. Inevitably the wine began to work its way through me, and I first uncomfortable, then aching to go, and finally almost bursting. It all came on s0o quickly! I felt it was impossible to get up make my way out of the gym before everybody, so I held my legs tight together and hoped it would all end soon. Eventually I realised it would not end in time. The weather was still cool and I had on not my heavy winter woollies but a lighter pair of woollen combination, a pair of white cotton knickers over my girdle and stockings, and a silk slip under my skirt. I crossed and uncrossed my legs and as I did so I suddenly felt a warm wet spurt into my combies. I could feel it trickling down through my hairs and between my legs, exciting me greatly as it did, but I was desperate not to have a large and shaming accident. Another trickle escaped me. The music finished and my charge whispered to me to ask what the play was about. I explained, but while I was distracted in doing so my poor bladder gave way again with a sizeable gush. I was fairly sure my bottom was now wet.
I decided on one last tactic to avoid disgrace. As I have so often done, I squeezed my thighs tight together and lifted my knees by raising my feet on to tiptoe as I sat, making a depression in my lap into which I went for as large a wee-wee as I dared. I felt the pool forming in my lap, and knew my combinations, girdle, knickers and stockings would be absorbing must of the outpouring. But these things are difficult to judge, and whole very little leaked through to make my bottom and the seat wet, there was enough to make a quite sizeable stain on the front of my skirt. I covered it up with my programme, and concentrated on holding in the rest. The play did not last long, but long enough for another overflow to take me unawares and run right through to my bottom.
The play ended, we had to stand up, and my misfortune was obvious to all. The wife of the charitable business man stared at me in amazement. Someone hooted with m=hysterical laughter and cried “She’s wet herself!”. Everybody within earshot looked at me. I was wet back and front. “Oh, Mrs Barlbury” said the headmaster’s wife! Another parent, a fellow teacher at the school where I now taught , said “Marjorie … you’ve wet your knickers again!” I just stood, and then two things happened in quick succession.
A grim looking science teacher marched in with Peter in tow, walked up to me, and said, “Mrs Barlbury, I think your son should be taken home.” The reason was obvious. A huge wet stain covered the whole front of his shorts, spreading between his legs down to his knees. “Oh, Peter” I said in dismay. “Mum” he wailed, in front of everybody, “I was the only one on the experiments, I needed a wee-wee so badly, I couldn’t wait, I did it all in my combies!” His dismayed was comic, and people started to laugh.
The second thing was that I could no longer contain myself either. I lost control, and a torrent of pee poured through my combinations, soaked my knickers, and ran all down my legs and over my shoes and made a pool on the gymnasium floor.
There was consternation and laughter and we were both hustled away and made our doleful way home. We were both mortified, though my shame was overlaid by the excitement that wetting myself publicly has always caused me. I was so excited that even after enjoying the event in retrospect in the usual way as I lay in the bed that night, I woke up in the morning having wet the bed in my sleep, and Peter did the same three nights running.
Peter survived the rest of the term with only minor accidents – had he continued to wet himself on the scale he had done it in class in the winter and at the fete we might have reconsidered out decision to send him to boarding school. But although this was his last year at day school, there was only one other such mishap in class after that, and only a few on the way home, doing his homework, or elsewhere. The wet beds grew fewer and so did the incidents where he would suddenly go pink, and scurry off to the lavatory, confessing afterwards he been taken short and dampened his underwear; or turn to me on the bus, or return from the pictures, the library or the theatre, or even from friends’ houses, and confess to me “Mum, I did a bit of a wee-wee, and made my combies wet.” By the time he went to boarding school, in the September of that year, weeks would sometimes pass with no more than the occasional dampness. Besides, his day school only took boys up to thirteen or so, and he was anxious to go somewhere new where his propensity to wet himself was not known. So we carried on.
I have been telling you all about Peter as a preliminary to describing how his wife Debbie cam into our lives, but when I recalled this incident in his last term I felt I must tell you all. It was shaming at the time, but remembering all that happened , I have relived it – with pleasure! – several times and hope it gives my friends here pleasure too. I have seen something similar happen to other people as well, on these formal occasions, including Debbie and my daughter Alice, have loved reading accounts of them on our site, and would delighted to read more.
What came about when Peter went away to school I will tell you on another occasion.
Love
Margery