The Vicar's Daughter

My name is Rahab. It’s a Biblical name, but most people call me Rae. I had a very sheltered upbringing; my father was the vicar of Causton, a small English country town in Midsomershire.
Within his limits Dad was a good father. He made me work hard at school, he encouraged me to read widely, and he was always very patient answering my questions. But it was all in the world of the mind. The fact that his darling daughter had a bladder, bowels and a womb was something he could not really get his head round.
So the bodily aspects of my upbringing were all left to Mum. Sex was dealt with quite simply; it could be summed up in one sentence: “Wait till you’re married.” Sometimes I seemed to pick up the implication that there wasn’t that much to wait for.
The lavatory was a bit more complicated. [I should point out here that when it had to be mentioned, which wasn’t often; it was always called the lavatory. Words like “toilet” and “loo” were regarded as common and I was not supposed to use them. Mum could hardly tell me to wait till I was married for that, though I’m sure she would have liked to.
The basic message was pretty straightforward. Always go just before you leave the house – and then hang on like grim death till you get home again. Partly this was a matter of hygiene. Mum always felt that other people’s lavatories, and especially those in public places, could not be as sparklingly clean as ours at home, and so there was always the risk of “germs”. But even worse, having to ask to excuse yourself to use the lavatory was something embarrassing, slightly shameful, and much better to be avoided if at all possible. Much better to “hang on” till you got home.
Mum certainly practised what she preached. As the vicar’s wife, she was on dozens of committees connected to the church and various charities, and she must have spent thousands of hours attending meetings and drinking innumerable cups of tea. But as far as I could make out she rarely if ever relieved herself away from home. I remember when I was a small child lying in bed at night, I always knew when Mum had come home because I would hear the front door open and shut and then within a couple of seconds the bathroom door was shut (but generally not locked, presumably to save time). She must have sprinted up the stairs as soon as she got inside.
But I only once remember Mum being seriously distressed. We were going on holiday by car and we got stuck in a massive traffic jam on the motorway. We hardly moved for about two hours, and Mum was getting increasingly impatient, asking when we were going to move, although she never said why she was in such a rush. Eventually we got going again and when we stopped at the next service station, Mum jumped out of the car as soon as we came to a halt, and beckoning to me to follow her, she led me into the Ladies’. I went into the cubicle next to her, and long after I had finished, I could hear her fountain still continuing; it seemed to be going on for minutes and minutes. She must have had a bladder like an ox.
Because of my Mum’s warnings I only used the school lavatories in dire emergencies. It meant that I developed pretty good control, though I blame it on the fact that I was never any good at geography. We generally had geography as the last lesson in the afternoon, and by then all my mental powers was concentrating on keeping my sphincter closed.
I was an only child and went to an all girls’ school, so I had relatively little contact with boys during my teenage years. I belonged to a church youth club, but all the young men were terribly respectable and well behaved, In any case nobody was going to try it on with the vicar’s daughter.
Naturally there were no orgies or wild raves. The most exciting thing I remember was one Saturday afternoon when we took a minibus out into the countryside for a picnic. We cooked sausages and drank lots and lots of lemonade. From time to time one of the boys would very discreetly wander off into the woodland and return a few moments later. I saw some of the girls looking at each questioningly, and then rather sadly shaking their heads. On the way back some of the girls were obviously quite uncomfortable. Emily Rayworth was sitting on her foot, something Mum had very firmly told me I was never to do, however urgent the need. It was, she told me, not only vulgar but also “obvious”. [As for holding myself “there”, that was clearly out of the question.] The most I was allowed to do was to cross my legs in a very ladylike fashion.
So when I left home at the age of nineteen to go to university, it was all quite a shock. I very quickly came to realise just how innocent I was. I’m sure I wasn’t actually the only virgin in the University, but I felt as if I were. But I actually got on quite well with other students and made a lot of new friends, even if they found me a bit quaint and old–fashioned. I noticed that they all said “toilet” or “loo” and resolved to do the same, if it had to be mentioned.
I became particularly close friends with a girl called Jen. She came from a very different background to mine, from quite a poor family in the North of England. She was much more experienced and streetwise that I was, and she sometimes laughed at my innocence, but never in a cruel or sneering way. She was a very kind–hearted young woman, and I think she felt a bit protective towards me.
She was particularly amused to learn that I had never been in a public house. [We weren’t teetotallers, but a glass of sherry on special occasions was as far as it went.] So one Friday evening she took me to what she assured me a very nice pub on the far side of town. It was in fact much more agreeable than I had expected. There was music, but not too loud to prevent us talking. Jen told me a lot about her early years and about some of the young men she had been involved with. I told her about my childhood and adolescence and she was quite sympathetic when she realised how restrictive my parents had been.
Jen was drinking pints, but I was a bit worried about getting too intoxicated, so I stuck to halves. In the course of the evening Jen drank four pints and I drank four halves. Jen went to the Ladies’ twice, but I didn’t go at all. I was still pretty shy about excusing myself, and since I do have quite a strong bladder, thanks to all that experience of holding it, I wasn’t feeling too uncomfortable. But I was feeling a distinct need, and if Jen had gone again before leaving the pub, I should have gone with her. But she didn’t, so I followed her outside. I suppose I was slightly tipsy, and I just didn’t think of two things. The first, which I should have known is that what is a quite containable need when you’re sitting down gets a lot more urgent when you stand up. And secondly, of course, I didn’t realise that beer quickly creates a much more urgent need than other drinks. So by the time we were on the pavement outside, I was absolutely desperate. Of course any normal person would have said: “Hang on a minute – I forgot to go to the toilet so I’m just going to pop back inside.” But I would have been far too embarrassed, even with Jen whom I regarded as my best mate. So I decided I should simply have to hang on till we got back to the halls of residence. It would only be about fifteen minutes on the bus.
Then we found we had missed the last bus. We were going to have to walk all the way back; it would take a good hour. [For us poor students, a taxi was out of the question.] So we set off walking.
When we had been going a few minutes Jen announced that she was “bursting for a piss”. Of course I should have replied “Me too”, and then we could at least have discussed what options were open to us. But I was far too embarrassed, so I just mumbled “oh dear!” and nothing more was said.
About ten minutes later we walked past an alleyway running behind a row of shops. “Keep watch for me,” said Jen, “I can’t wait any longer.” It took me a few seconds to realise what she was going to do, as she walked over to a dustbin, behind which she pulled down her jeans and underclothes, and then squatted down. I kept my eyes skinned for any passers–by, for I felt it would have been a total disaster if anyone had come upon her while she was in that position. But from the corner of my eye I also looked at Jen. I had never seen a woman urinate in the open air before and I was fascinated to see her release her stream. There must have been a huge quantity bottled up inside her, for it just came and came, forming a huge puddle on the ground which slowly trickled away into a rainwater grid. The sound of running water was sending shudders through my bladder.
Eventually she dried up, wiped herself on a tissue which she put in the dustbin, straightened her clothes and walked over to me. “Don’t you want to go?” she asked in a very considerate tone, “you haven’t been all evening.”
My bladder was screaming at me to say yes; I had never been so desperate in my life. But I was scared. What would happen if I wet my shoes, or worse, my jeans? I wasn’t even sure if I could keep my balance in the position I had seen Jen adopt. What if I fell over in my own water?
“No,” I lied, “I’m fine.”
Jen snorted: “Lucky old you. You must have hollow legs. I’m always getting desperate on the way home from the pub, and it’s not always easy to find somewhere to go.”
We walked on. Jen seemed to have taken on a new lease of life after relieving herself, and she was chattering away in a very chirpy fashion. But I was in such pain that I found it hard to follow what she was saying. When she noticed I wasn’t really listening, she asked if I was all right, but I just said I was tired and a bit muddle–headed from the beer. Jen was a bit intoxicated, so she just chattered on without taking much notice whether I was listening or not.
We were about twenty minutes away from the halls of residence when it happened. I was having spasms of really acute need every two or three minutes. And they seemed to be getting worse. Eventually one was so bad that I could feel liquid squirting into my panties. I strained every muscle in my body to clench myself closed again, and succeeded in stopping the flow, though it hurt incredibly. Jen must have noticed me twitching, but I just said I was feeling sleepy. Despite all my efforts it happened twice more before we got to the halls of residence. Jen asked me back to her room for coffee but I said I was too tired. I hoped I hadn’t offended her, but I could only think of one thing. My room was on the floor above hers, and I practically ran up the stairs – leaking a bit more as I did so. At last, at last, I was in the toilets. I more or less leapt into a cubicle, not bothering to lock the door, and pulled down my jeans. The relief was astounding. The stream seemed to go on and on as though it would never stop, and my body felt amazingly fresh and empty.
Then I inspected the damage. My underwear was absolutely sodden. There was a small damp patch on my jeans, but it had been a dark night, and I doubt if anyone would have seen it. But I felt utterly humiliated. I was nineteen, a university student, living away from home, and I had just wet myself like a little child.
I went back to my room, sorted my clothes for the wash, and went for a good long shower. Then I went to bed and cried myself to sleep.
Of course I soon got over it. I don’t know if Jen had noticed anything, but she didn’t mention it and I was in no mood to confess. Anyhow life was quite hectic. I was working hard at my course, which I was finding very interesting, and I also had a part–time job to make a bit of money.
And then there were the boys. I gathered from what Jen and others said that I was actually quite good–looking and sexy, though I’d never really thought of myself that way. Certainly a lot of young men wanted to make my acquaintance. The problem was what happened next. I’d more or less made up my mind, on an intellectual level, that I wasn’t going to wait till I was married, but I was still very nervous. I wanted to take it slowly, but most of the boys were far too impatient – if I wasn’t ready by the second date, they started looking elsewhere. I discussed it with Jen. She had lost her virginity at fourteen, and had slept with seventeen different men – but her advice was very sensible. She told me not to go quicker than I felt comfortable with, and that any man who was worth having would be willing to be patient with me. She also gave me some very practical tips on birth control. But as the end of my first year approached, I was still a virgin.
Then I met Mark. He was a couple of years older than me, and very knowledgeable, so that he was really interesting to talk to. He was very kind and sensitive, and though we didn’t discuss it explicitly, he seemed to understand my situation. Jen met him and seemed to approve.
When the summer vacation arrived, Mark suggested we should go to France for a couple of weeks. He had a small car and we would travel around; he tempted me with long accounts of all the splendid sights to be seen. I’d never been abroad before, apart from a few days in Belgium on a school trip, so I really liked the idea. I was a bit nervous about telling my parents, but I managed to imply that a whole group of us were going, and I got their blessing.
We crossed the Channel and spent the first night in a small hotel. We shared a room, but nothing much happened. Mark was very gentlemanly, and went to read in the toilet while I changed into my nightclothes. We slept on the bed side by side, but Mark seemed content to go no further than a bit of gentle cuddling.
The next day we set out across country, travelling on second–class roads – Mark knew the area well. After about four hours we stopped in a small village and had lunch in a little restaurant. I’d gone to the toilet when I got up, but not again after breakfast, though I had two cups of really delicious coffee. So I already needed the toilet, but it wasn’t urgent. We had bowls of soup – a local delicacy – a glass of wine each, and some coffee. By now I needed the toilet quite badly and I knew I should have to go before we travelled on. I had of course excused my self in Mark’s presence quite a few times, but I still felt mildly embarrassed about it. So as we finished our coffee I was quite pleased when Mark got up and made his way to the door marked TOILETTES. So now all I needed to do was get up and go when he came back.
A couple of minutes later Mark returned. He smiled at me and said; “I’m afraid the toilet’s a bit primitive, Rae.” I thought nothing of it and walked through the door and down the stairs. I wasn’t quite sure what he meant by primitive, but was expecting one of those old–fashioned overhead cisterns with a long chain. So when I opened the door of the Ladies’ cubicle I got quite a shock. There was no toilet there, just a shallow porcelain pan on the floor, with a hole in the middle, and two raised patches on either side of it.
I though maybe I had gone into the gents’ by mistake, but I checked the door and it definitely said DAMES – which even my limited French told me, meant Ladies’. I now vaguely remembered some of my friends who had been to France taking about French toilets where you had to squat, but I had never thought much about it.
So I had to work out what to do. My need was quite pressing, so I couldn’t just put it off till later. And I would have been far too embarrassed to explain the situation to Mark and ask him to find me a “proper” toilet – if indeed that had been possible. So I was going to have to go here. I tired to visualise what Jen had done in the alleyway. Then I put my feet on the raised patches, pulled down my jeans and underwear, and hoped frantically that I wouldn’t wet my clothes.
Of course I was feeling very tense and nervous. So tense that nothing would come. I tried to relax – but trying to relax is a bit of a contradiction, and still nothing came. I tried pushing, as I would do if I were squeezing out every last drop in preparation for a long journey. But whatever I did there was no result. Though I had a burning need to “go”, not a single drop came out.
I don’t know how long I stayed there, but my leg muscles were getting tired with squatting, and still nothing would come. Mark would be wondering what had happened to me. Despite the fact that I was in real discomfort there was nothing to be done. I pulled up my clothes, washed my hands and went back to Mark.
“All right?” he asked. “Fine,” I lied.
We got back in the car. I was aching to relieve myself, and just hoped we would stop again, for afternoon tea, before too long. We drove on, through some stunningly beautiful countryside. I wasn’t talking much, and Mark asked if I was feeling all right, but I just said that the beauty of the landscape overwhelmed me.
After a couple of hours Mark stopped the car. We were on a small country road, and there was virtually no other traffic. Apart from some cows in the remote distance, there was no sign of life. “I’m a bit tired,” he said. “Let’s rest for a while”. We got our of the car and he beckoned to me to lie down on the grass beside him under the warm summer sun.
I was getting very worried. My desire for a toilet was now almost beyond containing, and there seemed no prospects of finding one for quite some time. Should I explain the situation to Mark? I was still pondering this, and wondering how to put it, when he reached over and began to touch the top of my leg very gently. But I was so tense with needing to relieve myself that I just winced and pulled away.
Then I looked over and saw Mark’s face. He wasn’t angry, but I could tell he was deeply, deeply hurt. He had been so patient, so considerate with me, and now I seemed to be rejecting him. I felt awful. I wondered what Jen would say. She always recommended being frank. And I decided there was no alternative but to be honest.
“I’m so sorry, Mark,” I said, “I really didn’t mean to be unfriendly. It’s just that I’m absolutely bursting to go to the toilet.”
Mark smiled, looking very relieved. “Well that’s no problem,” he said, “there’s absolutely nobody about. You can go in those bushes over there. Then come back and we’ll have a cuddle.”
My embarrassment was nearly as painful as my bladder, but I’d started so I had to go on. Blushing and rather hesitantly, I explained to him that I had never ever relieved myself in the open air, that I didn’t know how to do it, and that I was scared of wetting my clothes or my shoes.
Mark looked puzzled. “But you used that squat toilet at lunch–time,” he said. “It’s just the same as that. Go behind a bush and imagine you’re in a squat toilet.”
I must have been as red as a strawberry, but I explained to him that I hadn’t been able to go at lunchtime, and that that was why I was so desperate now.
“You poor lamb”, he said, kissing me very gently on the forehead, “no wonder you were so quiet in the car this afternoon. But you must go. Try again; I’m sure it’ll come this time. You can’t go on holding it for ever.” A spasm in my tummy reminded me just how true that was.
Then a mischievous look came over Mark’s face. “If you let me watch, I’ll tell you if you’re doing it right.” Part of me was terribly shocked– what would Mum say about this? But I was very desperate, and I was touched by how considerate Mark was being. And I could feel taboos that had been with me for twenty years beginning to crumble around me.
We walked over to the bushes and found a spot that was concealed from the road, just in case another vehicle came past. Then I undid my jeans and lowered them, pulled down my underwear and squatted.
“Feet just a bit further apart,” Mark advised, “then you won’t wet your shoes.” I did wonder how many other women he had watched urinate, but I was so grateful for the advice I didn’t bother about it. I was all ready now, but still nothing came. I felt frantic, and I was staring to cry. There was a burning pain in my gut, but not a drop would come.
“Don’t get upset,” said Mark, “just relax and it will come in a minute. “Shut your eyes and imagine you’re on the toilet at home.” So I shut my eyes, thought of home, and in a few seconds I could feel the stream begin. It came on and on – and on. I opened my eyes and saw it flooding out of me. The ground was dry but not baked hard, so it quickly absorbed the liquid. I felt waves of bliss through my body. And as I finished I realised something very strange. I’d often felt relief at getting to a toilet after a long wait. But this was more than relief– it was pleasure. I had enjoyed it. Some thing which for nineteen years I had been taught to think of as shameful and embarrassing, never to be spoken of, was actually enjoyable.
Mark pulled a large leaf off a bush and handed it to me. “Guaranteed not to sting,” he grinned. I wiped myself and pulled up my clothes. As I did so, Mark looked at me and said “Watching you has made me want to pee. Do you want to lend a hand?”
He unzipped his trousers. Of course I wasn’t totally innocent. I had a rough idea of what men had between their legs, but I’d never seen one close up. But Mark took hold of my hand and placed it on his member. I held it tenderly between my fingers and he began to urinate. Very gently I moved it from side to side and watched as the stream of water shifted. It was like watering the garden with a hosepipe, something I’d always enjoyed doing. He went on and on for quite a while – he must have been nearly as desperate as I had been. Then as the last drops came out, I felt his member stiffen and swell in my hand.
With difficulty Mark put it back in his trousers, and led me back to where we had been before. We lay side by side and he began to caress my legs and lower body. Empty and relieved, I didn’t wince this time. And very slowly, very considerately, very patiently – but very firmly, Mark took the virginity that I had had for far too long.
Afterwards we slept in the warm sun. I had a strange succession of dreams, some of them going back to my childhood, others a version of today’s events. But something quite tumultuous was going on in my head. One of my lecturers had explained to us something called “permanent revolution” and I felt as though that was happening to me. It was as if I had swum across a river of fire. I was a changed woman, and I would never be the same again.
I felt Mark gently rousing me. “Come on, wake up, Rae,” he said, “We’d better get going. We have to find somewhere to spend the night.” I stood up. And I could scarcely believe what I heard myself say.
“I think I’ll just have another pee before we get back in the car.” And I trotted over to the bushes, squatted down and relieved myself. It wasn’t a long one this time, just a short squirt, but it meant I wouldn’t be uncomfortable in the car. Indeed, I wasn’t ever going to be uncomfortable again. Not if I could help it. I was a new woman and unnecessary waiting was a thing of the past.
We found a nice little guesthouse in a tiny village. The toilet was a hole in the floor, but that didn’t worry me – I was quite an expert by now. And over the next few nights I started getting expert at something else.
When I got home I told my parents about some of the historic churches Mark had shown me. Some other things I didn’t mention.
By: Jay–Gee