It was a groan that distracted Alan from his reading and drew his attention to the woman in her late twenties, several seats down from him, who was doubled over, clutching her abdomen. The train had just pulled away from Pollock station, and it was a long way to the next stop. He closed his book without marking his place and put it away in his backpack.
The woman got up. She wore a white t-shirt tucked into tight, dark blue jeans. She had a jacket slung over one arm and a bottle of Gatorade in one hand. Her shoulder-length black hair was done up in a ponytail secured with a bright red band. Slender, she had meagre breasts, hips and buttocks.
Half-crouching, she shuffled down the carriage, past Alan, to the doors, where she stood bobbing up and down with her thighs pressed together, looking longingly through the windows.
The man across from Alan pulled his jacket over his nose. Alan's heartbeat quickened. His cheeks grew hot. He felt dizzy. He pulled out his mobile and began recording.
"Come on, driver!" said the lady beside Alan. "Open the door!"
A lady across the aisle giggled.
The woman unscrewed the cap on her Gatorade and took a sip. She shuffled back the way she had come, disappearing from view on Alan's mobile. He continued to hold the phone up in front of him, however, pretending to press buttons as though he were texting or browsing.
"Oh, come on!" muttered the man with his jacket over his nose as the woman came back into view, singing softly to herself. She stopped in front of the doors, swigged her Gatorade and then shuffled out of view again.
"Oh my God!" said the lady beside Alan. "Foooo!"
People began to get up and move towards the doors. The train slowed. The lady beside Alan started laughing. The woman reappeared. Reaching the doors, she turned and began to head back down the corridor. But as she passed Alan, the lady beside him laughed harder.
"It's not even funny!" the woman called over her shoulder, still shuffling ahead. "What are you laughing at? What's so funny?"
"Uh, I don't know."
The train stopped. The woman got off. Alan stopped recording. He spent the rest of the journey with his backpack on his lap.
That night Alan watched the footage on his laptop. He sat at his desk with his jeans and briefs round his ankles. He began rubbing himself.
You just crapped yourself on a train full of people. You tried to hold it in but you couldn't. And now you don't know what to do, so you walk up and down the aisle, spreading your stench over the whole carriage. Why aren't you crying? Why did you do it? Were you drunk? You didn't seem to be. Did you have diarrhoea? Do you have IBS? What will your husband say when you get home? There isn't a stain on your jeans; they're too dark. Why couldn't you be wearing white slacks? I bet you have white panties underneath. With a big brown stain in the crotch and up the seat. I'm using my X-ray vision. Yes, I can see your panties filled with shit like mud, like melted chocolate. You're leaking into them slowly, trying to hold back. People know what you've done; they're laughing at you; you'll never live this down. How will you explain this to your boyfriend? You walk in the door crying and say, "Honey, I had a bad day, I shit myself on the train"; and he hugs you and pats your back and says, "That's all right, accidents happen."
The footage ended.
What happened when you got off the train? I bet you couldn't hold it all the way home. I bet you let the rest of it out as soon as you stepped onto the platform. Or perhaps you got home and lost it just metres away from the toilet. No. You would've gone straight to the public toilets at the station and cleaned yourself up. Dammit, Alan, you should've got off when she did and followed her.
He pressed replay.
You're looking at the doors thinking Please let me out! when your sphincter finally weakens and you start pooing yourself for the first time since you were toilet trained. You regain a little control over your bowels and manage to hold some of it in but the damage has been done and any moment you could lose control and have diarrhoea running down your legs into your shoes onto the floor. Does anyone else know what I've done? Please, God! Perhaps if I keep moving, keep hopping from foot to foot it'll help me hold it. Clench your buttocks, press your thighs together, not that it'll do much good now, you dirty bitch. How did it all begin? You were just sitting on the train on your way home from work minding your own business when you got the sudden overwhelming urge to poop. The train had only just pulled away from a station, so you missed your chance to get off there and it's a long way to the next stop; you're not sure if you can make it but you have to. You're in so much pain you have to get up. You're not a sexy woman but you're a plain woman, an ordinary woman; this can happen to anyone. You start moving to ease the pain; you wait by the door so that when it opens you can be the first to get off. Please just stop and let me out! Oh, no!
SPURT
This isn't happening
SPURT
I'm a grown woman
SPURT SPURT
I've got kid's I'm trying to potty train and this is the example I set them
SPURT SPURT SPURT SPURTSPURTSPURTSPURTSPURT
My husband's going to beat me when I get home cause I'm such a dirty whore
"Haaaah!" Alan leant back in his chair. He had many panty-pooping videos on his computer, with hot models who couldn't act having staged accidents and crying with embarrassment. But this video was better. It was real. And reality is better than fantasy.
The woman got up. She wore a white t-shirt tucked into tight, dark blue jeans. She had a jacket slung over one arm and a bottle of Gatorade in one hand. Her shoulder-length black hair was done up in a ponytail secured with a bright red band. Slender, she had meagre breasts, hips and buttocks.
Half-crouching, she shuffled down the carriage, past Alan, to the doors, where she stood bobbing up and down with her thighs pressed together, looking longingly through the windows.
The man across from Alan pulled his jacket over his nose. Alan's heartbeat quickened. His cheeks grew hot. He felt dizzy. He pulled out his mobile and began recording.
"Come on, driver!" said the lady beside Alan. "Open the door!"
A lady across the aisle giggled.
The woman unscrewed the cap on her Gatorade and took a sip. She shuffled back the way she had come, disappearing from view on Alan's mobile. He continued to hold the phone up in front of him, however, pretending to press buttons as though he were texting or browsing.
"Oh, come on!" muttered the man with his jacket over his nose as the woman came back into view, singing softly to herself. She stopped in front of the doors, swigged her Gatorade and then shuffled out of view again.
"Oh my God!" said the lady beside Alan. "Foooo!"
People began to get up and move towards the doors. The train slowed. The lady beside Alan started laughing. The woman reappeared. Reaching the doors, she turned and began to head back down the corridor. But as she passed Alan, the lady beside him laughed harder.
"It's not even funny!" the woman called over her shoulder, still shuffling ahead. "What are you laughing at? What's so funny?"
"Uh, I don't know."
The train stopped. The woman got off. Alan stopped recording. He spent the rest of the journey with his backpack on his lap.
That night Alan watched the footage on his laptop. He sat at his desk with his jeans and briefs round his ankles. He began rubbing himself.
You just crapped yourself on a train full of people. You tried to hold it in but you couldn't. And now you don't know what to do, so you walk up and down the aisle, spreading your stench over the whole carriage. Why aren't you crying? Why did you do it? Were you drunk? You didn't seem to be. Did you have diarrhoea? Do you have IBS? What will your husband say when you get home? There isn't a stain on your jeans; they're too dark. Why couldn't you be wearing white slacks? I bet you have white panties underneath. With a big brown stain in the crotch and up the seat. I'm using my X-ray vision. Yes, I can see your panties filled with shit like mud, like melted chocolate. You're leaking into them slowly, trying to hold back. People know what you've done; they're laughing at you; you'll never live this down. How will you explain this to your boyfriend? You walk in the door crying and say, "Honey, I had a bad day, I shit myself on the train"; and he hugs you and pats your back and says, "That's all right, accidents happen."
The footage ended.
What happened when you got off the train? I bet you couldn't hold it all the way home. I bet you let the rest of it out as soon as you stepped onto the platform. Or perhaps you got home and lost it just metres away from the toilet. No. You would've gone straight to the public toilets at the station and cleaned yourself up. Dammit, Alan, you should've got off when she did and followed her.
He pressed replay.
You're looking at the doors thinking Please let me out! when your sphincter finally weakens and you start pooing yourself for the first time since you were toilet trained. You regain a little control over your bowels and manage to hold some of it in but the damage has been done and any moment you could lose control and have diarrhoea running down your legs into your shoes onto the floor. Does anyone else know what I've done? Please, God! Perhaps if I keep moving, keep hopping from foot to foot it'll help me hold it. Clench your buttocks, press your thighs together, not that it'll do much good now, you dirty bitch. How did it all begin? You were just sitting on the train on your way home from work minding your own business when you got the sudden overwhelming urge to poop. The train had only just pulled away from a station, so you missed your chance to get off there and it's a long way to the next stop; you're not sure if you can make it but you have to. You're in so much pain you have to get up. You're not a sexy woman but you're a plain woman, an ordinary woman; this can happen to anyone. You start moving to ease the pain; you wait by the door so that when it opens you can be the first to get off. Please just stop and let me out! Oh, no!
SPURT
This isn't happening
SPURT
I'm a grown woman
SPURT SPURT
I've got kid's I'm trying to potty train and this is the example I set them
SPURT SPURT SPURT SPURTSPURTSPURTSPURTSPURT
My husband's going to beat me when I get home cause I'm such a dirty whore
"Haaaah!" Alan leant back in his chair. He had many panty-pooping videos on his computer, with hot models who couldn't act having staged accidents and crying with embarrassment. But this video was better. It was real. And reality is better than fantasy.
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