6 comments/ 91012 views/ 7 favorites Holding It In By: lesliejones I got home exhausted from my dinner with Brian. It had just been a long long week and the meetings had taken it out of me. The dinner had been pleasant—we both adored the tiny Japanese hideaway where we didn't even have to tell them what to bring us by now—and Brian had been darling. But I begged off going back with him and though I knew he was disappointed, I was just done in. Some of us, especially my girl friends, relax by spending a long, indulgent time in the bathtub, complete with scented candles and bath salts and oils, you know the whole routine. Even on nights like this one, though, when I was far too wiped to want sex, I knew I needed some stimulation down there if I was going to get unwired enough to sleep solidly that night. One of my favorite ways to accomplish this was soon enough started. I unlocked my apartment door and flipped on the lights and the AC. Camel polo coat and navy blazer were carefully hung in the hall closet and I proceeded into my bedroom and thence through my dressing room into my sanctuary—a well-appointed bathroom. Not that I'd ever admit this to anyone—or even tell anyone but you—but here is where I derive my strongest sexual excitement. I have made this into a bit of a ritual, the way we do with things that only are known to us. Instead of rucking up my grey flannel skirt, I carefully unzipped it and stepped out of it, placing it neatly on one of my several bureaus that line one wall in the spacious bathroom. As I then move back toward the comfortable toilet seat and prepare to sit, I slip my pale blue hicut panties down but only to just over my knees, as my legs spread to hold them there. Once seated, I feel my labia spreading as my bladder craves relief after all the water and a moderate amount of wine I enjoyed at dinner. I do not indulge myself that way yet, however. My daily workouts include ten full minutes of Kegels so I know I can readily hold off even as I feel that insistent urge to give in, to let the pee flow and relax. I suspect that much of my attitude goes way back to my childhood—when learning to control when you peed was as much a part of our education as fractions and grammar. Girls of our sort did not lose control but waited and learned how to hide any urgency to urinate. Now that I am rising rapidly in a large enterprise, I have seen how helpful my training has been. Increasingly men at the top level excuse themselves—doubtless the result of slowly expanding prostates—and I remain at the board table, smiling indulgently. Let the secretaries flee to the ladies room every hour or so—I can stay there with the big boys and not miss any of the crucial give-and-take that occurs during "potty breaks". My ritual includes carefully inspecting my panties—held below my knees—for any stains. I've never been a great wiper and since I love my luxuriant red bush and don't trim it, my pee, and yes, sometimes other things, do manage to withstand my use of toilet paper. As I stare into the white cotton crotch of my pale blue undies, I do see a tell-tale yellowish spot right up in front where my bush betrayed me yet again. And yes, there's also the still-visible spot from my last period arriving unexpectedly, diminished through washing, but still evident down there in the bottom of the gusset. Finding a spot—and even still seeing the evidence of my failure to anticipate my menses—means that I must further delay the moment when I may release the contents of my bulging bladder. Testing those PC muscles with a flex, I reach down with thumb and index finger and softly tease the very tip of my little nub just peeking out right at the top of my puffy labia. Like most women—except those who must sublimate to please men—most of my orgasms are from my clit. While I adore the marvelous feeling of fullness that a lovely thick penis inside my vadge can bring me, only a very few of my male lovers have been able to get me off through intercourse. I smile as I recall Brian's joining that elite number. It's the intimacy of sex that is so fulfilling. Someone who feels nice up close to you and that connection down there, being filled by someone whom you have grown to feel close to in all the other ways is inside you. Their explosive orgasming is only a small part of it for me, especially if I am going through one of my regular stages of withdrawal from the Pill. Actually, there's something quite charming about my using a diaphragm then. I'm quite good at inserting it and Brian is fascinated as I manage to do it so smoothly, right there in front of him, with none of that "excuse me I need to go to the bathroom" business that truly causes pre-coitus interruptus. It also makes me able to conceive of what it was like for my mother and her generation, for whom even being found using a diaphragm was enough to get you thrown out of the Seven Sisters—especially Smith, which then was not the lesbian citadel it now has become but was still quite starchy when it came to anything having to do with sex that might lead to unwanted consequences. As frosh, we all giggled rather than were shocked by reading the diaphragm scene in Mary McCarthy's The Group. What was it about Vassar that made it such a haven for delightfully unladylike behavior? From being the birthplace of the Daisy Chain—we needn't observe that none of you realized that it started out perfectly innocently, for something that now only connotes same group sex of the female persuasion—the school moved on to provide the setting for some of Shadow Lane's most lubricious passages. I went on teasing my clit, now risen out of its hood and quite a firm little item, by barely grazing the tip with my index fingertip. The warm lovely feelings were also rising in my groin and spreading through my torso. I maintained the steady rhythm of my ever so light touches and knew that that cheery first cum was almost ready. This was the test of my ability to hold it in—Brian had warmly commended me for being able to cum without releasing pee when I had refrained from going to the toilet before sex, saying he was sure that part of me must be male—and I knew it would be a challenge this time. My need to urinate was growing urgent right in line with my impending orgasm. While continuing the soft rhythmic motion of fingertip on clit, the index finger of my other hand slipped down my back and slowly penetrated my puckered anal rosebud. This usually was what I needed—the added stimulation of those nerve endings inside my rear opening took the sensations emanating from the front over the top. And so it did now. I felt myself carried off into that oh so brief but marvelous moment of sheer ecstatic delight. The pressure from my full bladder accentuated the orgasm and somehow I did hold on, despite almost feeling my muscles give way to the pressure for relief. I've been with women who waited too long and desperately pressed their palms against their crotches to somehow keep the pee from emerging. Amazingly, I've seen that work—probably because it's psychological as well as physiological. But now I had earned release. I was glowing from my cum despite having been exhausted before it. Too pooped to pop—that was what my sister always said, and now I laughed at the meaning she never had even conceived for her line. I spread my legs as far as the panties below my kneecaps would permit me and painfully relaxed my tense, over-pressed muscles. The yellowy stream surged out of me and hit the toilet water with a blast. I looked down—the world is divided between those who never glance into the toilet after using it and those of us who always review our products—as the foam grew on the surface during this one long pee. Before I reached for the tp to wipe my quim, dripping with more than the last drops of pee, I performed the next step of my bathroom ritual. That same index finger that had so shrewdly insinuated itself in my bottom to bring me off went back into my rear hole to see if what I thought I felt way back in there was going to emerge any time soon. I slyly grinned to myself as the finger encountered something quite deep inside there. Wiping front to back down between my legs so I wouldn't drip on the floor—so tacky—I prepared for what would be happening quite soon. But as I rose from the toilet seat to walk in halting steps—keeping those panties just below my knees—I reached the far wall, right opposite the toilet, and briskly slid down the quarter-sized black cover over the round notch there that would close off the remainder of my ritual from the tiny camera. I wasn't yet in the right mood to provide the video world with a woman's most personal moment in the bathroom. Holding It In This story involves strong excretory fetishes and bodily functions. Those who dislike this kind of thing should not read further. ***** Lynn Kenton was always nervous as she walked over to Andrea's house for her weekly meeting. The smartly-dressed, blonde, 42-year-old teacher invariably controlled her high school chem classes with a combination of wit, knowledge, and awareness of the latest trends sweeping through teenage lives. Little did any of her students realize that the assured lady felt she needed to visit her colleague, the demure 35-year-old Andrea Ames, the quiet but effective chair of the school's English department. Andrea enjoyed having friends and even some colleagues like Lynn report to her regularly for disciplinary sessions. The lithe brunette had a happy marriage, an adopted child—a little girl of 7, and also fulfilled her own needs as a switch by visiting her good friend, the Rev. Alicia Madison, when she felt she needed to be put through her paces for behavioral missteps. Andrea did, despite her quiet nature, exude an air of command, especially over her English department colleagues, including some men who were more than ten years her senior and had originally resented her being promoted over them. Now Lynn had arrived at the doorstep of Andrea's pleasant home, the latter's husband, a highly successful insurance agent, being conveniently away on a business jaunt. She rang the bell and Andrea smilingly opened the door and welcomed her, as if this was merely a neighborhood stop-by to exchange gossip and cookie recipes. After they had sat in the living room chatting for a few minutes, Andrea motioned to Lynn to stand and arose herself. Lynn knew this was a moment always of supreme embarrassment when she would roll up her short skirt above her waist and lower her panties for Andrea's intimate inspection. Lynn couldn't help feeling the butterflies roaring across her stomach. She had brought this on herself: she came to see her friend Andrea to be embarrassed, shamed, even bruised. And it turned her on bigtime. She felt herself getting wet down between her legs. Which also reminded her that she would need to pee soon and she had been forbidden to do so for two hours before this session. She managed to hoist her plaid skirt—she had purposely dressed in a classically schoolgirl manner—above her waist and now felt totally abashed as she tugged her little white panties down below her knees. Andrea gazed at Lynn's neatly-trimmed pubes as she lowered her gaze to the visible crotch of Lynn's undies. Lynn had remember that on days when she was to see Andrea, she needed to place a small pantiliner in the crotch of her panties. The particular kind Andrea required her to wear would show any stain much more clearly than would be visible in the panty crotch itself. As Andrea fixed her eyes on the pantiliner, she commented to Lynn that there were a few yellow streaks where Lynn may not have wiped herself completely after peeing. There also were some uncolored stains that Andrea concluded had been left when Lynn had been thinking sexual thoughts and generated fluids from her vagina. "And my dear," Andrea said, lifting her voice, "do I see some cum stains on your little pantiliner?" "Yes, Miss Ames," Lynn responded in an effort to defuse what could be something that would mean severe punishment for her, "I did have sex last night with Bill and I suppose some of it took its time finding its way out of me this morning." Andrea merely nodded that she had heard the explanation and told Lynn to follow her to the "little girls' room" as Lynn hobbled along with her panties at her knees. Lynn felt an impending need to pee, brought on both by her following Andrea's strict orders forbidding her to use the toilet for two hours prior to her session and by the excitement that Andrea's scrutiny of her panties and intimate areas always stirred in her, which included filling her bladder. "Since you have stained the pantiliner in several different ways, dear," Andrea observed as they entered the bathroom, "you have earned yourself some punishment today, I'm afraid." "Oh, Miss Ames, I'm so sorry," Lynn exclaimed. "I'll be more careful next time." "You surely will, sweetie," Andrea smiled, "but now sit on the toilet and hold those labia apart for inspection." Lynn complied with the humiliating order and held her lower lips open, exposing her pink vagina, into which Andrea inserted her forefinger and ran it up the inside walls. She removed it and held it to her nose, commenting, "Very good, Lynn, you do have a pleasant feminine smell, not FDS or cum or some other awful thing." "Miss Ames," Lynn responded, "thank you for inspecting my naughty cunt. May I be permitted to pee now? I've followed your instructions and need to pee very badly." Andrea considered the request and much to Lynn's dismay but not very surprisingly based on her usual procedure, calmly issued the awful instruction to her sub, "No, it's not convenient right now. You will pull your panties up. Right now." Lynn had trouble holding back a sob at being denied relief as she felt her bulging bladder press on her urethra. This was going to be really hard to contain today, she thought. I hope I don't embarrass myself with an accident. She knew, too, that Andrea would punish her very severely for any failure to hold her water or even a tiny leak. "Now tell me about your week, sweetie," Andrea continued, as if the denial were the most routine part of their conversation. Lynn began by reciting to Andrea how many times she had had intercourse with her husband Bill that week. "We fucked three times, Miss, and yes, once he had me in my ass," Lynn said with a slight blush as she described the embarrassing picture of having her husband's cock deep in her anal cavity. "Did it come out clean, sweetie?" Andrea asked inquiringly. Thinking that this woman always knew what Lynn would find most embarrassing to relate, Lynn managed to sputter out that her husband's penis had emerged with some brown streaks. "So that means you hadn't made a doody before you let him fuck you in your ass?" Andrea asked, sounding like a concerned mother questioning her toddler about a daily bowel movement. "No, I hadn't gone all day and I didn't feel the need before we started making love," Lynn confessed, "so I was slightly ashamed when I saw how dirty I had made him," she admitted. Andrea reached into her handbag and pulled out a little red book. "I'm going to have to enter this as a demerit," she announced. "Anal intercourse while retaining bm," she intoned and wrote that into the book. Lynn was feeling the increasing pressure on her bladder and kept moving her legs so nothing would leak out. "So you really need to go now?" Andrea asked in a motherly way. "Oh, yes, Miss, I'm really needing to pee, sooo badly," Lynn said in almost a cry. "Well," Andrea responded, "you will have to hold it until you get permission and you've been quite naughty staining your pantiliner, not to mention your husband's cock, so you will have to wait some more." She ushered Lynn back into the bathroom but this time ordered her to get into the bathtub on all fours, with her skirt still above her waist and her panties pulled up. Andrea increased the humiliation factor by urging Lynn to push her pantied bottom out. Andrea leaned over and began to run her nail softly down Lynn's furrow over her panties through her crotch. Lynn felt the finger stirring up her sensitivity in her cunt and began to panic about holding her pee in much longer. Put into this stressful position, Lynn felt her sphincter loosen for a moment and a spurt of yellow pee gushed into her panties and even started to drip down into the tub when Andrea immediately saw it. "Did you have an accident, sweetie?" she asked as if this were the most normal thing in the world that might happen. Sobbing and fearful of how she would be punished, Lynn managed to gurgle a faint yes and started to cry softly. Andrea now decided to increase the shame Lynn would feel by telling her to go ahead and let the rest of her pee out into her panties. Lynn was both relieved but horrified that she would be peeing her panties and in this awful position on all fours. Andrea watched with growing excitement as the yellow liquid filled the crotch of Lynn's tiny white undies and then seeped right through in a stream from the bottom onto the tub base. Finally, the long pee ended and Lynn already felt awful as the pee in her panties and all over her nether regions began to smell and make her feel clammy. Not wanting to leave her in that condition, Andrea took a small cloth and pulling down Lynn's soaking undies, began to softly wipe her bottom and crotch clean. The cloth passed right through Lynn's now excited furrow and dabbed at her risen clit. "Now I think I better examine that naughty tushee of yours," Andrea remarked as she put a dab of vaseline on her forefinger and slowly inserted it into Lynn's tight anal rosette. Lynn felt the insinuating finger and aside from continuing to feel shame, which excited her no end, she enjoyed the feeling of being probed in her erogenous area right inside her anal opening. When Andrea's finger moved inside, before very long it felt the tip of what clearly was an oncoming bowel movement almost ready to emerge from Lynn's bottom-hole. "Somebody is going to go number two very soon," she commented cheerfully as Lynn cringed to hear that her body would again betray her into major embarrassment. Andrea withdrew her finger and held the soiled finger in front of Lynn's nose in the tub as Lynn's face blushed even more red now. "Did that make you need to make a doody now?" Andrea inquired, using the childish word to make Lynn feel even more humiliated. "Yes, Miss Ames," Lynn managed to murmur, "I'm afraid I need to go there now. May I sit back onto the toilet?" "No, my dear," Andrea replied with a grin, "you can push it out right here. I do hope it isn't too messy although it did feel nice and firm when my finger touched it inside you." Lynn grunted and slowly a long dark brownish and quite firm log slid out of her cute anal rosette. Finally it narrowed to a point and dropped on the floor of the tub. Andrea took a few sheets of toilet tissue and scooped it up and deposited it in the toilet. "Now I will wipe you, sweetie," Andrea said, further shaming Lynn who was both excited and humiliated to the nth degree. The dominant teacher took some more cushioned toilet tissue and carefully wiped Lynn's anus and the area around it quite thoroughly. She then motioned Lynn to lift her legs so she could remove the panties which were still wet from Lyn's peeing in them. Andrea now sat on the toilet and motioned to Lynn to get across her lap. That done, Andrea began to spank Lynn much as a mother might punish a little girl who had wet herself. "You need to make sure you hold your pee in better, sweetie," Andrea cooed as she punished and watched Lynn's nates turn from light pink to a rosy hue. Then Lynn was ordered to get up and follow Andrea to the bedroom. Once there, the younger but far more dominant woman made her assume the diaper position lying on her back with her legs up, exposing her vulva and anus both to Andrea's eye and likely, further punishment. "Your coochie was very naughty, Lynnie," Andrea intoned as she reached for her soft whip and Lynn cringed as she anticipated being punished right on her most sensitive place. Andrea snapped the soft little whip three times vertically on Lynn's open vulva and the older woman could not help screaming as she felt the strokes on her cunt. Another stroke aimed up at her clit and Lynn now let out a loud scream that prompted Andrea to warn her about making so much noise. Andrea put the little whip down and now proceeded to apply her thin cane to Lynn's bottom as she held Lynn's legs up and aimed above her anus on Lynn's commodious bottom. Soon the thin red stripes appeared on the alabaster skin. Lynn screamed some more while Andrea thought about how she liked this cane. She did not strike hard, knowing that the snap would sting and that the sting would keep being felt by Lynn. Finally the punishment was over and Lynn was allowed to lie down on the bed. Andrea quickly stripped off her dress, bra, and panties as well as the thigh-hi hose. She lay down next to Lynn and held her tight as she began the make-up part of the session. She took Lynn into her arms and softly caressed Lynn's well-developed breasts until the nipples rose and Andrea could tweak the firm projections. Lynn applied a kiss to her domme's lips and Andrea responded by inserting her tongue deep into Lynn's waiting mouth. Now Andrea reached down and began to use her fingers to stimulate Lynn's vagina by inserting two or three fingers and then grazing the tip of Lynn's prominent clit on each insertion and removal of the fingers. She quickly brought Lynn to orgasm, which was not noisy but definitely felt and appreciated by the recipient. Then Andrea propelled herself up on her knees and turned so her bottom was in Lynn's face. Lynn knew she was expected to lick her superior's bottom and insert her tongue deeply into Andrea's tight anal opening. She bent forward and began laving her tongue around the rosebud and gradually it opened to her as her tongue moved past the sphincter ring into Andrea's rectum. Fortunately, Andrea was not waiting to defecate and had cleaned herself well so the taste Lynn experienced was mostly just a tad musky. Lynn cringed at the idea that she was licking this woman's ass but she had already been shamed and punished so that this ultimate humiliation was hardly registering in her consciousness. Besides the orgasm Andrea had induced by attending to Lynn's vagina and clit had rendered Lynn far more quiescent now. After Andrea experienced a most satisfying cum from Lynn's anal stimulation, she relaxed, again held Lynn in her arms, and told her she hoped Lynn would improve her performance on the intimate examinations next time. "I want you to keep your pantiliner from each day next week and bring them with me for me next time," Andrea advised her. "And as punishment, you will be wearing the short skirt for the next few days." She pulled out a 10-inch plaid skirt and bade Lynn to put it on after handing some clean white panties to replace the ones still soaked with Lynn's pee. Lynn cringed and pleaded not to have wear the shameful skirt, "Miss Ames, everyone will be able to see my panties when I wear that. Please don't make me do it." Andrea decided to relent, if only because she did not want Lynn to get into trouble at school if the principal were made aware that the popular chemistry teacher was wearing skirts so short that her undies were on view to everyone. "All right," she finally said, "you will only need to wear the skirt when you are not in school. So you will put them on in the rest room before you leave school in the afternoon. I'd suggest you not go to the teacher's room to change and leave until most everyone has left for the day." Holding It In Ch. 02 [This story focuses on natural bodily functions, so if those disturb you or you disapprove of discussing them, please stop right here.] When I described in the first installment how I trained myself to hold it in, I couldn't bring myself to venture further at the end to describe what I felt was a woman's most intimate moment on the toilet. Before releasing my bladder, I did admit to inserting an index finger in my anal opening to check if anything was likely to emerge from there. But the whole experience is too embarrassing for many women—and most men—to discuss. But I do behave similarly when I feel a major movement coming on. It of course is an entirely different feeling from needing to pee. You sense some pressure in the rear and then, strangely, it tends to diminish, as if your body were saying that if you wish to ignore the signal that you need to defecate, it will desist from issuing those signals. Yet then the real experience starts. It may take an hour or several hours but all of a sudden, you feel a very sharp pang back there and now it is not far inside your anal opening. For the first time there is the distinct possibility that you may not be able to control this. You may shame yourself, as a grownup, by yes, shitting your pants. The pressure grows stronger and becomes painful. Your sphincter is being stretched and called upon to perform yeoman service. In my case, I know that there is a very major movement pushing in there to emerge and that it will be quite long, thick, and firm when it eventually appears. There's some pleasure to be had from the sensation of holding it in. The pressure ebbs and then returns with a vengeance. Now your sphincter is being painfully stretched and you start to think for the first time that you are going to lose control, wherever you are. I force myself to engage in contemplating whether the panties I have on will hold what may emerge at any second from the anal opening I am so striving to keep closed for just a little bit longer. If I didn't get such a charge out of putting myself through this ordeal, I likely couldn't engage in dominating other women by restricting their use of the toilet and then supervising in minute detail how they eventually are permitted to urinate and defecate. For instance, I will first allow them to sit on the toilet seat with their panties still up. This has the effect of spreading their bottom cheeks and allowing their anus to open as well, with the horrid possibility of their losing control in their panties looming more and more prominently in their mind. Her mind, naturally, is concentrating ever more exclusively on her anus. My dominance here now inspires me to feign sympathy for her plight so I sweetly allow her to lower her panties. She now expects that she is so close to gaining relief. After she looks at me with pleading eyes asking for that elusive permission to release, I smile sweetly again as I issue the order she dreads the most: "Pull your panties up." This whole scene may strike you as cruel and sadistic, both of which it is, but I believe my redemption from those nasty charges comes in my own willingness to subject myself to the same treatment. I will sit on the toilet, feeling the pressure intensify, and keep my panties up. At some point, I will lower them—the way I do when I need to pee, by pulling them down to just above my knees, so that I am staring at the crotch. Again, if I see stains in my panty crotch—whether they be from pee, menses, or actual skid marks—I impose more discipline on myself by postponing the grant of permission to open my sphincter. I do inform a submissive who is being put through this exercise that if she moans too much or makes too much of a fuss, I will have her get up from the toilet seat and place herself in the diaper position to be caned. Alas, I do not feel very capable of spanking or caning myself (Yes, it is possible but not very simple or effective.). So instead I may warn myself that if I fail to hold it in and lose control on the toilet or in my panties, I will arrange to have a domme with whom I'm friendly put me through my paces. I doubt that anyone will ever admit that there is a weird pleasure to be gained from holding it in. But there is. Eventually the pain grows in intensity and frequency as the movement pokes into the sphincter, demanding to proceed out my anal gateway. There are instants of shooting pain each time the movement presses more forcefully against my controlling muscle. I start to wonder if I can indeed keep it in for much longer. This is bliss. The whole process of holding it in relates closely to what I regard as the combination of pain and pleasure that informs the most satisfying kinds of sex. I've found that my male partner is never so stimulated toward both as when I have him don mesh-front panties and relax in an all-fours position while I run my nail over the panties from the base of his scrotum up his shaft to the sensitive glans. An added fillip to his pleasure comes from the likelihood that the mesh will at some stage get caught in the small slit at the tip of his member, which provides the pain portion of this exercise. The pain segment can also be provided by application of the cane or hand to the bottom cheeks. A light caning interspersed with my running that finger up his panty-covered penis completes the picture. For me, the equivalent would be light—very light!—fingering of my clit while softly spanking me or even using the cane lightly on my bottom or running its tip between my legs in my furrow will perfectly combine pleasure and pain. This all can occur when I'm holding it in, since the possibility that I may fail and go in my panties while this is happening looms as excruciatingly embarrassing. I prefer that holding it in as a dominating technique retain its adult characterization. There's enough mental stimulation to be had from having to control both urinary and anal sphincters while being sexually stimulated. Some do feel that since losing excretory control is something that is usually limited to one's pre-adult life, it becomes especially humiliating if a grown man or woman is required to ask permission using terms like "wee-wee" or "plop-plop" to describe what he or she needs to do. I do get turned on by having to ask or having someone I'm dominating ask permission "to make a doody" because that was a term used when I was first learning control. Focusing on holding it in often is accompanied by a tendency, one that I certainly possess, to look into the toilet after excreting to see what my waste products look like. Someone once suggested to me that there are two groups of people: those who look and those who can't abide the idea of seeing their waste once it is in the toilet. In that vein, I recall using toilets in Germany and Austria equipped with a shelf on which your feces would land (along with your urine) so that you could carefully examine them before flushing. This is admittedly consistent with the traditional near-obsession with excretion found in some of the more lurid writings from those places. In engaging in holding it in for as long as possible, I may even subject myself to what some dominants enjoy using as a disciplinary device: setting particular and limited times when a submissive is permitted to use the toilet. It is best if these are well-spaced during the day and frequent enough to make retention a challenge rather than an impossibility, which would be the situation were you to impose restriction as severe as limiting toilet use for any purpose to once a day. Someone who knows that they will be allowed relief at the hour will start to squirm if they need to go badly and it is still five minutes before the appointed hour. Then, when permitted to sit on the toilet and lower panties, the dominant may inspire fear by declaring that unless the submissive begins to pee (or defecate) within a set time, such as one minute, permission will be withdrawn and the now-horribly frightened sub will be made to wait for possibly several more hours. My own submissive side—and I believe we all have some of both in our make-up—encourages me to subject myself to anything that I intend to impose on a sub. So I will tell myself that I am not permitted to use the toilet until a certain time, and I will find myself exhibiting the classic signs of distress as I wriggle in an effort to control my sphincters. I stimulate my mind during this effort by remembering every teacher who was probably into this kind of thing and showed it by refusing us permission to go to the girls' room. You might wonder whether I have ever walked the walk as well as I talk the talk. Have I lost control in my panties—letting go into the toilet just doesn't make the grade here—while trying to hold it in? It's likely that it happened when I was quite young and don't entirely recall, but a few years ago, I was out driving. I had neglected to respond to the first signals my body gave me that I needed to have a bowel movement. As I drove on, the urge became ever stronger. Traffic also intensified. All too soon I began to accept the wretched fact that I was not going to get where I was headed in time, and that I was going to make a jobbie in my panties, to use one of the favorite expressions for this event. As I neared my destination, I felt the intense pressure on my anal sphincter surge and finally overwhelm my desperate attempts to hold back the relentless pushing of my movement. Finally, it burst out into my panty crotch (I had pushed up my skirt to try to keep it from being stained) and I felt the warm ooze fill my panties, followed by the unmistakable stench. So much for the occasionally valid—but not then—maxim that your own never stinks. It does. I didn't want to go home because I might have to face my family in the shameful state I had brought upon myself. Instead, I sought out a good friend and carefully extricated myself from the car seat and walked very slowly up to her front door. She was a close enough friend that I could readily confess to her what had happened. As I related the sorry tale, she smiled but with a sympathetic smile that only a true friend would have for me. She comforted me not as a child but by stating that when you have tried to hold it in for a long time, excretion may indeed be involuntary. She refrained from chiding me for failing to use whatever ladies' room I had passed up. As it happened, there had been one at the gas station where I stopped with hope that was dashed when I saw the wicked "Out of Order" sign on the door. I hurried into her bathroom and taking care not to soil her carpeting or anything else, I dexterously slid my shit-filled panties down my legs and lifted them over the bowl to empty them into the water. I squatted over the bowl, toilet seat pushed up out of the way, to make sure that I rubbed off any pieces or traces of my movement that had been on my bottom, between my legs, or pressed into my pubic hair. Then I removed my skirt and squatted in the bathtub to wash my lower regions. I winced as I saw the water in the tub become tinged with the color of my movement. But soon I was able to watch it all go down the drain, making sure no pieces were trapped in the outlet. Then I applied some liquid soap to myself, happily washing those same places, including inserting fingers into my vagina to clean any traces that might have slipped inside me. My friend picked this moment to knock on the door, and I couldn't not let her enter, so she saw me in my squatting position with my fingers in my cunt. "I'm glad you're able to enjoy this experience," she said with a sly wink.