Posted by Donnie on October 01, 2000 at 15:14
I apologize for the delay in getting this out...I've been very busy with work and, ahem, "other things"...
Accident on the IRT, part 2
In the first part, Francine suffers extreme desperation on a long subway ride in New York City. We pick up our story as she begins to lose the battle.
Francine sat in the crowded subway car, silently cursing herself. She had gotten herself into a mess - literally.
It had been the first day on her new job in Brooklyn, far from her northern Bronx home. The longer evening commute had coincided with her regular bowel movement, and she was trapped on the train ascending the east side of Manhattan. She'd had little choice but to try and hold it in...but that struggle had come to an embarassing end. An S-curve in the tracks nearly caused her to fall off her seat; in righting herself she'd relaxed her sphincter, thus leading to her predicament.
The #5 train stopped once again in the tunnel, near the top of the S-curve. A #2 train, from the west side, was in the 149th Street station ahead, and Francine's train had to wait for it to clear. Delays no longer mattered to Francine, however, for she had begun to fill her underwear with soft, sticky, stinky poop. Her evening mess was always large, requiring at least two toilet flushes and lots of wiping...it would be nasty if she did the whole thing in her clothes. And once she started to poop she couldn't stop!
"My clothes..." she thought. Francine had dressed conservatively for work at the law firm:
a gray jacket and matching skirt, white blouse and bra, and smoke-colored pantyhose under which she wore her usual full-cut white cotton underpants. She never went without these kind of panties; perhaps her accident would stay inside them.
The first bit of poop was a long, thick stool that may have measured 8 or 9 inches, if it had been in a toilet. It of course was constrained by her clothes and the hard plastic subway bench, smearing over her bottom and between her legs. Francine could have stood up to reduce the damage, but she didn't want to draw attention to herself. The train, as always, was packed, and she hoped that no one would notice where the smell was coming from.
The train finally pulled into 149th Street, where a few people left Francine's car. After that first load of poop her stomach had stopped hurting. "Hopefully, I'll be able to hold the rest of it until Dyre Avenue, and I'll be okay."
She thought about getting off at the next stop, Third Avenue. But again, she didn't know the area; it was surely dark by now, and the South Bronx wasn't a very nice place. At least the train would begin another express zone there, and her stop would be about 15 minutes away.
However, as soon as the doors closed at Third Avenue, a massive cramp racked Francine's entire body. With the spasm she doubled over and lost all control of her bowels. The second wave of mushy poop sent up an overpowering stench; now there was no question as to the source of the smell, as other passengers moved away from the young woman. Those who could actually walked through the end doors to other cars (not very safe to do on a moving IRT train!), adding to her shame.
Francine's mind flashed back to the last time she'd had an accident. She was 10 years old; she and her family were riding the subway home after a day at Coney Island. Francine had eaten too much ice cream and too many Nathan's hot dogs, and ended up having diarrhea in her panties eight times along the way. The car they had been in was a Redbird, just like this one.
And here she was now, at age 23, messing all over herself once again on the subway and ruining her clothes. She couldn't stop...the waves just kept coming. The growing mass escaped the leg bands of her panties and oozed into her hose, smeared her crotch area, and went far up her butt and even onto her belly. The smell was overwhelming. At least the previous accident was mostly liquid and was absorbed by her thick little girl's panties. This was a very nasty creamy mess that would take forever to clean up.
At last, the train arrived at East 180th Street, the end of the express zone. The car emptied, except for Francine and a middle-aged blonde woman...Francine didn't understand why this woman didn't move to another car. With the car nearly deserted, Francine started to sob openly. But Dyre Avenue was now only four stops away - IF the train wasn't taken out of service to be cleaned up after her accident. Then an annoucement came over the P.A. system: "Due to delays on the line, this train will run non-stop to Dyre Avenue. Please transfer to a downtown train at Dyre Avenue for the next three stations." YES! Francine thought. She'd get home to her bathroom and shower about five minutes sooner. The train left East 180th Street for its final sprint north through the Bronx, with a very messy and smelly Francine and an odd lady aboard...