Margery
Mon, 12 Dec 05, 12:33 AM
Hello all,
I felt so silly putting the wrong file on the site – meant to tell you about something that happened to my daughter Alice a few months ago, and told you something about myself instead. I’ve been looking up my diaries from this year but also a lot from the past.
I told you a long time ago about my grandmamma Emma, and how kind she was to me when I was younger and sometimes wet my woollen undies, or my bed. To comfort me she told me quite a lot about times when she had wet herself, as a girl but also in later life. Looking back I’m sure that although she had often been horribly embarrassed, like me she also got a secret pleasure out of wetting herself. She also told me that her own grandmamma on her mother’s side would sometimes not be able to hold on and would let go into the flannel drawers she wore underneath her crinoline or the long skirts and petticoats that became the fashion later. Grandmamma Emma said that she sometimes, when she was with her grandma. and was dying to relieve herself, her Grandmamma would whisper, “Do it in your drawers, dear, no-one will know!” Or even, “Do it in your drawers dear, I just have.” So he would. And sometimes there would be two puddles on the church floor, or the road-side, and a giggly old lady and a giggly young lady, walking as quickly as they could away from them. I’m pretty sure my own granddaughter Jessica enjoys wetting her knickers too. She was always a bit prone to it all throughout her childhood, and since she has left school – she is now at college – and started to go out “clubbing and pubbing” as she puts it, has frequently returned home, or arrived to visit me and her aunt Debbie, having wet herself en route. Not to speak of wet beds! She had actually taken to wearing warm knickers with elastic in the legs, like me, and told me “Well, granny, if you can’t wait and have to go, thick bloomers are just the thing to keep it a secret!”
The odd thing is the generations in between. Grandma Emma said her mother used to be very angry with her when she wet her drawers – and her mother got herself int0 a terrible state if she wet her own, which she, said,, happened often enough. My mother was a bit the same. I can remember her weeping when one day, at a village fete, she left it too late and wet her woollen combinations and vast knickers in front of a group of friends and neighbours. It didn’t stop her sending me home in disgrace when I did the same at a garden party, ten years later when the war was over, and I was on leave from the ATS – the women’s army service. I was always tolerant when my son Peter would forget himself, leave it too late or be too shy ot ask to go, and wet in his woollen pants and shorts or the long drawers he wore the years he was at boarding school – and with Alice too, when she would come home weeping form school because she flooded her panties and knickers. It didn’t stop her from being very fierce with the innumerable accidents grandson Peter had in his underpants or granddaughter Jessica in her panties and tights. And she can’t bear it when her own bladder lets her still lets her down in adult life.
What happened to Alice early this year was that she had got herself involved in a conservation that tries to preserve the old part of the town where they live. The local councillors had to visit some buildings because there were plans to alter them, and Alice represented her society. Unfortunately she arrived for the start of the trip at the last minute, got into their minibus, and set off without the opportunity to go to the ladies, which she very much wished to do. The walked in and out of the old houses, upstairs and downstairs, round the back and into the cellars, and Alice grew more and more desperate. There seemed to be nowhere to go, she didn’t like to leave the party, she tried to hang on, she moved her weight form leg to leg, she pressed her knees together, but before they had finished their inspection she suddenly wee-weed at length into her woollen panties, warm tights and interlock knickers.. She was at the end of the party traipsing through the old buildings, and just prayed that no-one would guess who had left a stream and a pool on the floor.
She said she wished she had completely wet herself, because her need was still pressing, and on the way back to the council house in the minibus she wet herself again. She knew it had gone through her undies and her skirt. As they went in to the council house she kept at the back at lunch time and made sure she always kept her back to everybody. Because her skirt was wet she was afraid that if she followed those who were going to the ladies her disgrace would be detected – and as she had wet herself so badly she couldn’t believe she would need to go again - she went into the committee room without going to the loo. As the meeting dragged on she realised her mistake, the pressure built up, her efforts failed, and this time her distress when he wet herself was so great that she attracted attention and the wet skirt, wet seat and wet carpet were obvious to all. She fled the room, somebody organised a car to take her home and she arrived back in floods of tears.
I was staying with her at the time, and Jessica was just back from college. Together we tried to comfort her, but she was miserable for days. And naughty Jessica, who wet her knickers watching the TV a couple of evenings later, and your naughty friend Marjorie, who wet her bed two nights running that same week, agreed she was making to much of it. As Jessica said, and who was I not to agree, nobody cared, and she might as well just have enjoyed it.
Love,
Margery
I felt so silly putting the wrong file on the site – meant to tell you about something that happened to my daughter Alice a few months ago, and told you something about myself instead. I’ve been looking up my diaries from this year but also a lot from the past.
I told you a long time ago about my grandmamma Emma, and how kind she was to me when I was younger and sometimes wet my woollen undies, or my bed. To comfort me she told me quite a lot about times when she had wet herself, as a girl but also in later life. Looking back I’m sure that although she had often been horribly embarrassed, like me she also got a secret pleasure out of wetting herself. She also told me that her own grandmamma on her mother’s side would sometimes not be able to hold on and would let go into the flannel drawers she wore underneath her crinoline or the long skirts and petticoats that became the fashion later. Grandmamma Emma said that she sometimes, when she was with her grandma. and was dying to relieve herself, her Grandmamma would whisper, “Do it in your drawers, dear, no-one will know!” Or even, “Do it in your drawers dear, I just have.” So he would. And sometimes there would be two puddles on the church floor, or the road-side, and a giggly old lady and a giggly young lady, walking as quickly as they could away from them. I’m pretty sure my own granddaughter Jessica enjoys wetting her knickers too. She was always a bit prone to it all throughout her childhood, and since she has left school – she is now at college – and started to go out “clubbing and pubbing” as she puts it, has frequently returned home, or arrived to visit me and her aunt Debbie, having wet herself en route. Not to speak of wet beds! She had actually taken to wearing warm knickers with elastic in the legs, like me, and told me “Well, granny, if you can’t wait and have to go, thick bloomers are just the thing to keep it a secret!”
The odd thing is the generations in between. Grandma Emma said her mother used to be very angry with her when she wet her drawers – and her mother got herself int0 a terrible state if she wet her own, which she, said,, happened often enough. My mother was a bit the same. I can remember her weeping when one day, at a village fete, she left it too late and wet her woollen combinations and vast knickers in front of a group of friends and neighbours. It didn’t stop her sending me home in disgrace when I did the same at a garden party, ten years later when the war was over, and I was on leave from the ATS – the women’s army service. I was always tolerant when my son Peter would forget himself, leave it too late or be too shy ot ask to go, and wet in his woollen pants and shorts or the long drawers he wore the years he was at boarding school – and with Alice too, when she would come home weeping form school because she flooded her panties and knickers. It didn’t stop her from being very fierce with the innumerable accidents grandson Peter had in his underpants or granddaughter Jessica in her panties and tights. And she can’t bear it when her own bladder lets her still lets her down in adult life.
What happened to Alice early this year was that she had got herself involved in a conservation that tries to preserve the old part of the town where they live. The local councillors had to visit some buildings because there were plans to alter them, and Alice represented her society. Unfortunately she arrived for the start of the trip at the last minute, got into their minibus, and set off without the opportunity to go to the ladies, which she very much wished to do. The walked in and out of the old houses, upstairs and downstairs, round the back and into the cellars, and Alice grew more and more desperate. There seemed to be nowhere to go, she didn’t like to leave the party, she tried to hang on, she moved her weight form leg to leg, she pressed her knees together, but before they had finished their inspection she suddenly wee-weed at length into her woollen panties, warm tights and interlock knickers.. She was at the end of the party traipsing through the old buildings, and just prayed that no-one would guess who had left a stream and a pool on the floor.
She said she wished she had completely wet herself, because her need was still pressing, and on the way back to the council house in the minibus she wet herself again. She knew it had gone through her undies and her skirt. As they went in to the council house she kept at the back at lunch time and made sure she always kept her back to everybody. Because her skirt was wet she was afraid that if she followed those who were going to the ladies her disgrace would be detected – and as she had wet herself so badly she couldn’t believe she would need to go again - she went into the committee room without going to the loo. As the meeting dragged on she realised her mistake, the pressure built up, her efforts failed, and this time her distress when he wet herself was so great that she attracted attention and the wet skirt, wet seat and wet carpet were obvious to all. She fled the room, somebody organised a car to take her home and she arrived back in floods of tears.
I was staying with her at the time, and Jessica was just back from college. Together we tried to comfort her, but she was miserable for days. And naughty Jessica, who wet her knickers watching the TV a couple of evenings later, and your naughty friend Marjorie, who wet her bed two nights running that same week, agreed she was making to much of it. As Jessica said, and who was I not to agree, nobody cared, and she might as well just have enjoyed it.
Love,
Margery