Piss Stories, Desperation, Omarashi
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The Toilet
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8 responses to “The Toilet”
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Thank you for sharing your story about your accident at school. I can’t imagine soiling myself in school like that, I’m sure it was embarrassing and took some bravery to admit.
Did anyone else besides the nurse find out about your accident? Your siblings or parents?
What really stuck out to me in your post was this: “I’m gonna say it right now: it didn’t necessarily feel… terrible when I had poop in my pants, as a matter of fact, it was… interesting. I was thinking of trying it again independently to see if I was just delusional or if I really felt it.”
I can totally relate to that comment/feeling.
I, too, am a long time lurker but your story inspired me to share my story as well.
My name is Kristina. I am 24 years old, married, no kids, 5’4″, around 125 lbs, graduated from college last year and got married this year to my college boyfriend, one cat, work at a boring office job and live in a tiny apartment but we’re happy. 🙂
My story happened about a year ago. My hubby and I had just gotten back from our honeymoon. I had been back at work for a week and the day had been long and busy and I hadn’t had time for an afternoon break. As a result I had been holding my bowels and bladder for some hours and was growing more desperate to relieve myself by the minute. Just before five o’clock I got a text from my hubby that he might be able to get off a little early so we could have some “alone time” before dinner. Since we had waited until our wedding night that part of our relationship was still very new and exciting and it immediately took my mind off of my need to relieve myself. Rather than using the work bathrooms I headed straight for my car instead.
After a few minutes driving, however, I was quickly reminded of my need – and badly. I squeezed as hard as I could and clenched every muscle in my lower body to hold in my pee and poop, but I knew I couldn’t wait much longer. I thought about stopping at a store or gas station to use the bathroom, but wanted to use my own toilet at home instead. I had to drive with one hand so I could hold my crotch to help hold my pee, but that didn’t help the back side and before long I was turtle heading and starting to panic. But I was only a few minutes from the apartment.
I made it to the apartment but still had to drive back to our building and go over multiple speed bumps. I had to decide between driving slow over them to avoid bumps that might make me lose control or going fast so I could get to the toilet sooner. I decided to go somewhere in between because I was about to lose all control. The first speed bump went OK, so I hit the second one a little faster. That caused a bigger bounce than I had expected and felt a spurt of pee escape into my pants before I could regain control. But it also caused my turtle head to push harder than I could control and I felt the turd “touch cotton” and push against my panties, only to be stopped by the car seat. It was a solid poo so it had no where to go and I just sat there, heart pounding, skin flushed hot and red, with a turd holding my anus open, pushing but not moving, knowing my panties would at least have a noticeable stain on them to go with the wet spot up front. I didn’t know what to do, my brain had almost shut down. Then suddenly I hit the next speed bump – I had been so out of it in a daze that I had lost track of time or distance but was still driving subconsciously. The next speed bump caused another spurt of pee, bigger, and I felt wetness on my fingertips and felt my anus push hard again but still the car seat stopped its momentum.
I shook myself from my daze. That was the last speed bump. I hit the gas and whipped into an open space near my door, grabbed my purse, used all of my willpower to suck the turd back up inside me and steel my nerves to run inside to the toilet and sweet relief. I jumped out of the car, slammed the door, and took off running – OK, waddling with my butt clenched and one hand in my crotch as fast as I could move – toward our door, which is thankfully on the first floor. I knew I only had seconds.
I got to our door, unlocked it, hurried inside, dropped my purse on the counter, and made a bee line for the bathroom. I was almost to the bathroom when I heard my husband call out, “Hey, babe,” as he came out from around the corner in the kitchen. I hadn’t even noticed his car and was hoping I would get home first so I could avoid having him see me in this state, on the verge of a total accident with some damage already done. I said, “No time, gotta go!” and shut the bathroom door behind me, my body barely holding on.
I turned towards the toilet when my body gave a mighty push that made me almost double over and I felt my skin go cold and I knew that I was literally a millisecond from having an accident and that there was nothing I could do to prevent it. It was going to happen, period. And so I did. My bowels pushed and my muscles did not respond to stop it and I felt the turd rush out, hit my panties, meet resistance, and my body pushed harder and my panties began to tent out as the poop began to spread and pile up in them. Time stood still for me. Another turd followed, softer but still solid, and the weight grew and my panties and pants began to sag until my bowels were empty and my panties were full. I then realized that I was wetting myself, the pee hissing into my pants and soaking down my legs and onto the bathmat underneath me. I turned and caught sight of myself in the bathroom mirror – wetness soaked down my legs and crotch. I turned around and saw the giant bulge under my soaking wet butt. I was hot and tingling and in shock and disgusted and amazed and surprised and curious all at the same time. It had been years since I’d had an accident and I had never pooped my pants that I could remember.
I was shaken out of my daze by a knock at the bathroom door. “You OK, babe?” It was my hubby. I was shocked back into reality. “I, ummm…” I stammered. “What? You OK?” he asked again. I said, “I didn’t… I had…” He said, “Can I come in, babe? Are you OK?” I wanted to shout “NO! DON’T COME IN!” but I just stood there still kind of in shock. The door nob turned, the door creaked open, and in popped my hubby’s head. “You OK?” I stood facing him, my tan pants obviously peed in. I mumbled, “I didn’t make it in time. I had an accident. I’m so sorry.” and I started crying. He pushed open the door and took me in his arms and held me as I sobbed, patting my back saying, “It’s OK, accidents happen.” Then he must have smelled because he asked, “Did you also… poop?” I just nodded on his shoulder, cried some more, and said, “Yes, I did.” He said, “It’s OK, let’s get you cleaned up.”
He was so nice and gentle and understanding as he helped my slowly pull off my soaked pants and then my very full panties, with its ball of brown, smelly poop the size of a grapefruit hanging in them after it briefly stuck to my butt and then dropped off into the panties as we lowered them down. I dumped the poop into the toilet, dropped the soaking, soiled panties into the trash can, and began wiping poop off of my butt and thighs. Hubby turned on the shower for me to warm it up and helped me out of the rest of my clothes. I asked him to join me to help. So we got into the shower, he helped was me clean, and then we, well, I thanked him profusely for his help and kindness.
Now, the reason I say that I can relate to Mavis’s comment “I’m gonna say it right now: it didn’t necessarily feel… terrible when I had poop in my pants, as a matter of fact, it was… interesting. I was thinking of trying it again independently to see if I was just delusional or if I really felt it.”
A few days after my accident I thought back about it and realized that I shared the initial feeling that Mavis had – that it wasn’t necessarily unpleasant and that it was, in fact, pretty interesting. I mulled it over and dismissed the thought, but it kept coming back to me. Every once in a while I would be on the toilet having a BM and would think back to my accident and the feeling of it filling my panties and would get a tingle and my heart would beat faster. Finally, a few weeks later, I could take it no more. One day while hubby was out playing golf and I was home alone, I deliberately stood in the bathtub in just a pair of old panties and, after much pushing and convincing myself, I pooped my panties on purpose and found that I kind of enjoyed the sensation, the weight, the warmth and smoothness. From that point on for almost a year now I have deliberately held my poop and had “accidents” when home alone about two or three times per month. Sometimes the holding leads to close calls at work or out shopping or even at home waiting for hubby to leave, and I’ve wound up with more than a few skid marks before intended and one time had a legitimate accident in a store bathroom while trying to hold it for later.
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Reading Meghan’s story of having to go while she was playing the cello mad me think of some of the times I’ve had to go in rehearsal or performance. Oratorio & concert work is so much harder than opera & musical theater because you can’t move around or leave the stage, but have to sit or stand very still. It doesn’t help that they put water under your chair, which I always drink in addition to all the other water I have leading up to a performance. I remember doing my first Creation and about halfway through the first half, I had to pee like a racehorse! I was sitting down, and I remember twisting my back a little so that I could push my bladder down into my chair and relieve the pressure. I was trying not to squirm around a lot so that the audience could tell what was wrong. When I stood up to sing, I felt the pressure so much that I almost peed my pants then and there but somehow I used willpower to squeeze it back. As I did my aria, I was less conscious of the need because I was focusing on my singing, but it was still there. As soon as intermission came and we had exited the stage, I shot off to the bathroom. As we were walking off and I was walking slowly and exaggeratedly pulling my legs over my crotch under my gown trying to hold it in, The alto soloist (who had basically nothing to do but sit there the whole time and then do one tiny ensemble, so I guess she was looking closely at me)said to me “you have to pee pretty bad, huh?” so I guess she could tell – I hope no-one else could. I ran to my dressing room and hit the toilet, but as I opened the door my bladder got excited and started to spill. I rushed in and it wouldn’t stop so I had to crumple up my fancy taffeta gown to hold myself as I ran to the toilet (luckily I was not sharing a dressing room.) I was wriggling and jumping around as I lifted my gown and lowered my panties, peeing myself the whole time. By the time I sat down, my panties were soaked, and I still had at least 2 minutes of hissing pee left, I was so desperate. Worse, I realized that I had not lifted all of my gown out of the way in my big rush, and it got soaked with pee and the water in the toilet. I didn’t know what to do. I had brought another gown there so I could decide which one to wear, but I thought it would be weird to wear a different one for the second half. So I took my gown off, gently sponged it off in the sink, blotted it dry with paper towels and ironed it with my iron to get out the creases. This took almost the whole intermission and it was still a bit damp. I had to pee again by then and I had the feeling that I still would have to in the second half, so I got three maxi pads from the dispenser and put them on stacked on top of each other (my gown was full so it didn’t show.) Well, good thing. I had to go even more urgently in the second half and in order to be able to stand still and sing, I had to keep letting squirts out when I was sitting (done very carefully in case it all came out.) After the performance, I could feel the pads were soaked and I still had to go really bad. But when I got backstage, there were a bunch of people wanting to talk to me – an old teacher, an arts reporter and some manager who was interested in hiring me. I wanted to say “Just let me run to the bathroom and then I’ll talk to you”, but I didn’t. I sat down in a chair, crossed my legs hard (looks weird in a full gown) and chatted to them, feeling more and more urine leak out every minute. I was worried it was going to run down my leg when they finally let me go. Then my boyfriend showed up. I walked with him to my room, telling him how bad I had to pee. When we got there, he opened the door and I fled to the toilet. I asked him to hold my gown out of the way so it wouldn’t get soaked again. (This was the first time he saw me pee and I didn’t care, I was so urgent.) It was another long hisser, and I was sighing with relief, and he said, “Boy, you REALLY had to go, didn’t you?” Some singers I know use Depends, and I’ve tried but somehow the feel or thought of it throws me off when I’m trying to be a sexy diva and I hate being wet even in a diaper.
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