Posted by Alex on September 12, 2000 at 04:30
The following account is, needless to say, a fantasy, except for a few things that are true. It is true, for example, that I have shit and pissed in my pants and am now sitting with a mammoth, soft, smelly poop filling my underpants, khaki shorts and, over those, a pair of blue jeans holding it all in. What follows is the fantasy I just used to help me get into this delightful state.
(Before proceeding, I wish to make it clear that I have made up this story for fun. It is not my intention for it to project, encourage or reflect any attitudes of sexual discrimination or disrespect towards female professionals, including. In real life I have been lucky to have been treated by several younger-generation woman doctors, whom I have confided in and found to be excellent in all aspects of their work, and for whom I feel only respect and serious admiration, and gratitude for their assistance and attention. I hope none of them would be offended by my erotic fantasy...)
Alex
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When I was assigned my new doctor, Dr. Allison Staines, she asked me to undergo a series of routine tests, explaining that she always likes new patients to start with an exhaustive check-up as a matter of course. Since Dr. Staines was a good-looking young woman with a captivating smile and a very reassuring manner, even though I am not usually keen on medical tests of any kind, I made no objection and obeyed her instructions.
First of all she examined me physically. I might have been more relaxed about posing naked in front of the good-looking doctor if I hadn't found her so attractive; the situation made me slightly nervous. She asked me to strip down to my underwear, touched and palped and looked everywhere, then asked me to lower my white cotton briefs a few inches. What she did next struck me as surprising, or at least unheard of to me: she raised the hanging crotch of my briefs and carefully examined the inside, passing an index finger over the faint skidmark that had, embarassingly, already found its way there, despite my strenuous efforts that morning to be clean. She also briefly observed, both on the inside and outside of my underpants, a very faint yellowish stain that, as always, adorned the front of my underpants where they touch the tip of my penis, and seemed to nod approvingly.
"Okay, nearly finished now, Mr. Jones," she smiled. But first I have a question that some people find rather personal, but I need to know. How often do you pass wind?"
I was momentarily dumb-founded, but she came to the rescue with her pleasant smile. "You know, fart. Not only counting when you're sitting on the toilet about to defecate, but also including when you're just going about your other business and just let out farts in your pants. Would you estimate that you drop from zero to three farts a day, or between four and, say, fifteen, or do you think you fart more often than fifteen times a day?"
"Sometimes I do more than fifteen," I said. "It depends..."
She made a brief note on the form in front of her on the desk.
"Now, did you remember to bring the extra pair of underwear as I asked you? Good. To complete the exam, I'd like you to go into the adjoining room for me and masturbate into your pants. It's important that you should come on the pants, so make sure your semen doesn't fly around when you reach ejaculation, but is caught in your briefs. You will leave the underpants, after you have come in them, here with me for analysis. Then you can go. Is that understood?"
There was a moment of embarassment when she entered the adjoining room a few minutes later to see if I had finished jacking off into my underwear. I had just had an orgasm, following all her instructions, and was still breathing rather heavily. She seemed to think it was alright for her to see me like this, having already seen my whole body, as is a doctor's prerogative. She asked me for my briefs and I felt slightly uneasy about picking up the limp white underwear with sticky blobs of fresh, warm cum in the fly and placing them in her outstretched hand. She made no fuss whatsoever about it, glanced into the pants, said a muffled "M-hmm" to herself, and sent me on my way with a further appointment for the following week. That appointment was yesterday.
Well, I was expecting a brief, routine visit, but was in for unexpected news. "Mr. Jones," she said in her calm, professional voice, "I will get to the point. You have a condition not many people have heard of, called flatulemia. It is not something people talk about often. It is a minor gastric problem with no serious effects, but if it continues untreated it may eventually become bothersome so it is a good idea to catch it now and get it out of your system, so to speak."
She paused and cleared her throat, as if calculating how to continue.
"There are two ways it can be treated. One is with medication, involving a series of injections. The alternative requires no drugs; this is known as the 'natural approach' and also among the medical profession as the 'brown pants method'. You will see why in a minute, and also why patients rarely discuss it with friends and family."
There was the hint of a coy smile on her face for a moment, then she resumed a businesslike mein. She cleared her throat a second time.
"Personally I am in favour of the natural approach for a number of reasons... But before we discuss that, I would like to take a look at how you are doing today. All you need do is stand up and lower your jeans and underpants to your knees.
This I promptly did, cursing myself for not having had a shower in the morning but pretending not to be worried.
She stood up and came round the table, and her hand went straight to the crotch area of my loose-fitting white underpants. She lifted and examined the material. To my chagrin, the inside of my undies were decorated with several thin brown streaks at slightly different angles. A circle on the front of my underwear had a faint yellowy hue, but this seemed to escape her particular attention. "Oh by the way, the semen test last week was fine," she mentioned absent-mindedly. She momentarily ran the brown-marked white fabric that had been enclosing my asshole between her fingers, then briskly told me to dress. "It's as I thought," she said enigmatically, then returned to her position at her desk, and waited for me to sit down.
"The aim of the brown pants, um, the natural method," she explained concisely, "is to give the stomach a hand by carefully expelling absolutely all the bubbles of gas that build up in the bowel system. We do this by passing wind. So, for a period of a week, I want you to work on a programme of intensive farting."
I swallowed and tried to take in what she was saying.
"It isn't so complicated," she tried to assure me. "However, since this treatment tends to be, er, incompatible with many kinds of employment, I would like you to take the week off work. Will that be a problem?"
"I don't think so," I mumbled.
"Okay, this is how it works. Today I want you to start on a diet with plenty of meat, fibre, nuts, etc. Have you been to the toilet today?"
The question hit me off-guard, not to say below the belt. I am a habitual panty pooper and wetter, so for me going to the toilet doesn't always involve the toilet, if you see what I mean! But of course that was not what she had meant. She wanted to know if I had pooped. Or peed, perhaps? I wondered which she was referring to.
Sensing the source of my uncertainty, she added straightforwardly, "to take a shit."
"Oh. No."
"That's fine. Eat what you like, but eat plenty. Refrain from pooping for the rest of today and tonight. That is your preparation." (Preparation for what? I wondered.) "The treatment proper begins tomorrow morning.
"Starting from when you wake up in the morning, you must concentrate on farting as much, and as many times, as possible. The whole idea is to get it all out of you. The more wind you can pass the better. That's the basic principle.
"Oh, and by the way, it's better to be dressed and pass wind into your pants; never fart sitting on the toilet with your pants down!" I must have looked stunned. "For your condition, you see, this is a bad posture, because even though you push wind out, some ends up coming back in through your open anus. Your ass hole," she added not unkindly, as if unsure whether I was acquainted with the technical term. "You really want to be sitting and with your clothes on for best results.
"Drink plenty of water, tea or coffee. Keeping your bladder full will to make you want to let go of your gases, because of the pressure. I suggest you pee once in the morning when you get up - otherwise you're going to get too uncomfortable and won't last long enough - and then refrain from going throughout the morning until you, er, absolutely must. And that's it, really," she concluded with a fetching smile, as if she had just finished telling what she had eaten for breakfast that morning.
For the first time I found myself asking what she HAD eaten for breakfast that morning! I started to get up, imagining what the content of her own bowel was like just then, as she sat in her tight-looking dark blue levis under her open doctor's apron, but I blocked out the temptation to go on thinking in that direction. But I was mistaken, she hadn't finished talking to me. And the best was yet to come.
"You will find," she continued, "that sometimes you seem to run out of gas, so to speak, and at that point you will know that if you try to fart, your feces will be expelled instead. In fact there will still be some farts left in you at this point, even if you only notice the poop, and we want to get those out too. There are also usually bubbles of gas hiding behind the fecal matter that is ready to emerge, and we don't want to miss them either. So in cases where youy feel the need, expel everything, but wait until the urge is quite pressing, and then ideally you should allow the excretion to take place slowly, gradually, little by little. Though some people do find it hard to discipline themselves at this point."
It was my turn to clear my throat. She said, "Yes, do you have a question?"
"Let me just see if I have this right," I said. "I have to fart and fart until I need to shit, then keep farting and shitting, but not all at once."
"If possible," she agreed.
"But you said I should stay dressed and fart in my pants, never on the toilet. What about when I am shitting?"
Did I notice the faintest trace of a blush there? No, probably now; her voice remained steady. "There are some patients who wear nappies for that. But they tend to get very full and somewhat uncomfortable and clumsy."
"What do the other patients do?" I wondered out loud.
"Not wear them. Choose clothes that are easily washable, or which you don't mind getting stained. Because they will."
I remained silent, unable to believe my ears.
"You may want to buy some extra underwear!" she added with a disarming smile. "When you have passed solid matter into your pants you may wash and change if you like," she continued giving her instructions, "but it isn't really necessary, and you'll just get more clothes dirty that way, because we want you to go on repeating the process, you see."
Incredible! I tried to take it in.
"We know from experience that, since you are to drink liquids and keep your bladder full, you will not be able to avoid wetting your pants when you get desparate and are pushing, but that doesn't matter, since we're going to get dirty anyway."
I loved the way she said "we're", even if it was only a manner of speaking!
"It's up to you, but jeans with tight white underwear are a good idea, that way the, um, contents of your pants are held in place, otherwise you may find it dropping out all over the floor and then you'll be stepping on it and tramping your shit all over the house. Briefs and jeans will avoid that. The jeans can take the wear they'll be getting better than most clothes, and white underpants can be bleached. "Do you want to do it this way, or do you prefer to try the injections?"
"I'll do it, er, the other way. Uh, I mean..."
"The brown pants method," she assisted.
"Yes. The brown pants method."
"Good. That's what I thought you'd do," she said casually. If only she knew I LOVED shitting in my pants, she'd have known my choice was inevitable. What a break!
"There's one more thing I ask of you. You're going to be off work, so it shouldn't be any trouble for you to come by the clinic each morning with your underpants from the previous day, with their contents intact. For me to see." Could she really be saying this with a straight face? Doctors are really something! "Just put them as they are in a plastic bag, trying not to disturb the, um, contents too much."
The doctor stood up and so did I. "Since you won't be beginning until tomorrow, I'll see you the day after tomorrow, then. With your little parcel," she gently jested, offering me her hand to shake. I shook it, and walked out of her office, dazed and excited.
"Flatulemia!" I chuckled to myself.
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Part 2 to follow. Did you like it? Please do write to let me know - it's so cool to get feedback and reactions.
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