Posted by Impurath on May 11, 2003 at 22:23 [126.96.36.199]
One thing that has turned me on more than anything else about pooing my own pants is the smell. That stench, so repulsive and deathlike, that is what I crave. It is what other people would find most disgusting about my little secret. For me however the smell of a fetid dump always makes me rock hard.
Poo, glorious poo. Although I am from Latin America, I have strong religious beliefs and attend a temple weekly. Naturally a house of holiness is the most embarrassing, horrible, awful place to shit oneself. This is something I have noticed every time I have attended.
The old carpets and worn paper smell of the place would make me hope and desire in my well-hidden lust for a chance to fill this place with my horrible scent, to mark it forever with an act that is unforgivable. I cracked a smile and thought, We'll see which forces of nature or the gods are most powerful in me.
I picked a target date. Two days before, I purged myself with laxatives and high-fiber and water diet, shitting it all into a sailor costume. The smell was small but foul, like the worked over remnants of a corpse in the desert sun. When I knew I was clean, I began alternating peanut butter sandwiches with bean and chicken burritos, topping each off with a Budweiser. Then some bacon. Cream cheese. Broccoli, and soymilk. A gurgling began in my gut, and I felt my testicles tense up at that thought.
All the day after that I conserved water, but ate eggs and fish and chick peas, waiting until the early morning to drink enough water that I felt like pissing again. But I held it. A slight trail of sulfurous repulsive stench crept out of my ass, and I could tell when I passed people they would be sniffing the air a minute and a half later as the unwell smell approached them. Heh, heh. I hate people so this was important to me.
When I got into the building that morning, I was wearing tight jeans and a leather executioner's shirt. I had no disguise and so everyone could see my face. I was smart however and did not go to my usual congregation. Thus what happened next was anonymous for me, shocking strangers I will never meet again.
Squeals of gurgle fought in my stomach. A groaning recognition of inevitability let go somewhere deep within me. I clenched my ass cheeks and held in a fermented liquid so corrupt it would send people away from the lord. I held it. The service began and I started to regret my plan. It felt like I was inflated with something poisonous, something I had to get out of my body. Toxins re-entered my blood stream and I turned greenish, all of my energy going into not shitting myself right there. I knew I had to go through with my desires.
The group chant began, with the priests intoning one side of a devotional and the audience reading back the other half of each line. I knew this one, and I had picked the service for it, as planned by the detailed calendar in the office. My stomach was empty but felt as if something rancid were near at hand, and its flopping agony felt in me as a slow nagging feeling. I put down the event program and got ready for my move. At the end of every round of these question-answer things, the priest asks people to stand up and recite a sacred syllable or two individually. When this began I made eye contact with the priest nearest me, and stood a little taller, my slimy buttocks pressed together where sweat and leaking poo had formed a thick liquid. The priest called on me.
Instead of answering with something from a holy book, I said simply, "I shit myself in public places and cut loose." It was orgasmic, and I blew a quick load into my pants staining the zipper area with a creamy mucus. Not only was there a moving bowel sensation like none I had ever had before, there was also a foul stench and even more, an impressively loud pooing noise! In the absolute silence of an audience expected sacred syllables, the resounding silence was like an admission of confusion and everyone was staring at me, the only one standing.
"Oh my god," said some woman behind me. "He's got crap in his pants." I could feel every eye in the place move downward from my head to look at my ass with its tight jeans and splatter of stain, a greasy trail running down one leg and fecal liquid creeping out the top of the jeans in back. "Do you need help?" someone called. I slid out of my seat, now destined for alcohol and lysol cleaning, and called out, "No! Your disgust is all the help I need!"
I got into the parking lot and walked slowly toward my car, not hurrying at all. A few stragglers saw my distant, fixed expression and then inevitably began pointing and staring, as shit slowly worked its way down the comparatively loose pantslegs and into my shoes. Squish at the toes. In the last stretch before my car, and I had planned this, I passed the daycare center where outdoor the little children were playing in a sand-lined area of outdoor park equipment. It got quiet as I walked past, at this point leaving little brown dollops down the sidewalk. Finally one little boy slid from a swing and ran inside crying "He pooped his pants! He pooped his pants!" as I started smiling.
My car seat was lined with newspaper and a plastic bag to protect it from the onslaught of stench. I drove home with the car windows up, smelling myself and wondering how they kept going with the service after that. By the time I got home I was hard again.
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