Posted by Arthur Saxon on February 23, 2002 at 11:26
Just wrote this today - hope you guys enjoy it - and I'd welcome any feedback! :)
PALEONTOLOGIST’S PUBLIC PANTY-POOP
by Arthur Saxon [meganeura@hotmail.com]
The dig had gone splendidly. Tara Drummond and Cheryl Clark applied the last of the plaster to the huge skull piece they had found, and then trekked down the hill towards the camp.
“I think that’s my most complete find of an animal of that size,” reflected Tara. “I can’t wait to get to work on it back in the lab.” At thirty-five years of age, the petite blonde had more than ten years of field experience under her belt, and was becoming well-respected in the palaeontological community.
Cheryl, a pretty, thirty-year-old brunette whose buxom figure contrasted with her older friend’s slim physique, nodded. “It’ll be interesting,” she said. “Those projections on the premaxilla are fascinating – we’ll have to call it ‘Beardosaurus’ or something – what’s the Latin for ‘beard’?”
“I’ve no idea,” said Tara, chuckling as she pulled back the tent flap. “But it’s an amusing thought.” She ducked inside.
“Anyway I’m glad it’s over and we can get back to civilisation,” said Cheryl, following her friend inside. “Sometimes I think I’m too fond of my creature comforts to be a successful field palaeontologist.”
“You seem to have done all right so far,” remarked Tara.
“Yeah,” admitted Cheryl uncomfortably. She, too, had plenty of respect among her peers … but she harboured a guilty secret. “But you’ll notice,” she added carefully, “that all my digs are close to home, and never last more than a few days.”
Tara’s brow furrowed. “I hadn’t noticed,” she said. “But out of curiosity, why is that?”
Cheryl leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, “I need to get back to a proper toilet.”
Tara continued to look puzzled for a second, then her eyes widened. “Oh my goodness!” she said. “You mean, you haven’t been ... number twos ... for the past four days? But why not?”
“I can’t bear to do it outside, in a hole in the ground,” said Cheryl, blushing with embarrassment. “Peeing outside is bad enough – but I just can’t do ... the other.”
“I had no idea!” said Tara, quite shocked. “I don’t know how you can hold it in so long!”
Cheryl shrugged uncomfortably. “Well, it does get pretty difficult sometimes...”
At that moment they were interrupted by Bob Vincenze, a colleague from the institute. “Good news!” he said. “Don’t pack up just yet. We’ve just found another skull piece!”
“Great” exclaimed Cheryl, but then she looked worried. “Do we have time to get it out?”
“Of course! It’ll take another couple of hours, though, and by the time the plaster’s set it will be too late to go home, so we’ll have to stay here another night.”
“But we can’t!” exclaimed Cheryl. “We’ve got the Mesopteryx presentation to attend at the institute tomorrow at two o’clock. As one of the speakers I can’t afford to be late!”
“Calm down hon,” said Tara soothingly. “If we get an early start, we’ll be back in the city for noon. You can stop by your apartment, shower, change, and still be at the institute in time for the presentation.”
“I wish I had your optimism,” said Cheryl gloomily.
She followed them out and for a while forgot her worries in her excitement at the quality of the new skull piece. She and Bob dug it out, smothered it in plaster, and left it to dry. Later she, Bob and a volunteer hefted it on to the back of the truck.
That night, she had trouble sleeping. Her bowels were very full, and as she tossed and turned on her inflatable mattress, she had to clench her buttocks tightly against the rectal contractions that threatened to expel the enormous, hard-packed poo that had been building up over the last few days. Eventually, at about two in the morning, her bowels finally drifted off to sleep, and she followed soon after.
Four hours later Cheryl clambered out of bed in response to her alarm clock. It was getting light outside, and she was determined to make as early a start as possible. Forgoing breakfast, she supervised the packing of the truck, ensuring that the plaster-wrapped nodules would not move about in transit, then she rushed Tara and Bob into the front, while the volunteers piled into their own vehicles. As Cheryl sat down in the drivers’ seat, another contraction hit and she clenched her buttocks together again. The pressure in her colon was worse than ever – sweat broke out on her brow as she fought to stem the inexorable tide. Her fingers gripped the steering wheel so hard that her knuckles turned white, and she found herself holding her breath. Unable to exert enough pressure in her seated position, she lifted her bottom off the seat and curved her back so that her spine formed a straighter line with her legs. This made it easier to keep her anus tightly shut, aided by the musculature either side in her buttocks.
“Are you all right?” asked Bob in concern.
Cheryl grimaced, but nodded. After half a minute, the pressure subsided, and with a deep exhalation she eased herself down into her seat. “Sorry,” she muttered. She started the truck and they were off. It was a later start than she had hoped for, but she figured she could still get to the city by one o’clock.
The vibration of the engine during the journey ensured that no contractions occurred while the truck was moving. Two hours later, however, just before they reached the interstate, Tara requested a toilet stop. She and Bob disappeared (in different directions) while Cheryl drummed her fingers impatiently on the dashboard. A moment later, a new contraction hit, and once again she clenched her anus against the pressure. Squirming in her seat, she closed her eyes and gritted her teeth as she squeezed her buttocks tightly together. So hard did she squeeze, in fact, that her torso began to shudder uncontrollably. She exhaled sharply, out of breath, and panted hard for a few seconds while she fought to contain her monster poo. She could feel the tip of the behemoth start to push her anus open, despite all her intense efforts, and she forced herself to squeeze still harder.
At this moment Tara returned. “Jeez!” she exclaimed as she saw Cheryl’s state. “Just go behind a bush and get it over with already!”
“It’s ... okay ... I’m ... all right,” managed Cheryl as, with great relief, she felt the pressure slowly subside. She collapsed in an exhausted heap in her seat. Almost immediately the pressure began to return, but she kept her buttocks clenched and managed to hold it at bay for the time being.
Bob returned just then, and Cheryl gratefully fired up the engine again. They continued on to the interstate, and headed back towards the city. They had not been going half an hour, however, before it began to pour with rain. Cheryl flicked on the wipers, but the rain soon became so intense that even with the wiper blades going at double speed, visibility was poor.
“Slow down,” said Tara nervously.
“I don’t have time to slow down,” snapped Cheryl. “We’re still a good two hours from the city and it’s already past eleven o’clock.”
The issue soon became academic, however, for as the traffic grew busier, it also grew slower, and soon Cheryl was cursing at having to drive at forty miles per hour. Another contraction hit now, in spite of the engine’s vibrations, and she wished she had not eaten such a large supper the night before. Tears springing to her eyes, she battled hard against the titanic force threatening to punch through her tightly-clenched buttocks, and somehow managed to overcome it. She was not sure how many more of these battles she could win.
Fortunately, after half an hour, the rain eased off and the traffic began to speed up. They reached the city and made their way towards the institute. It was a quarter to two.
“I don’t have time to get to my apartment!” wailed Cheryl. “It’ll take ten minutes to get there, and another ten to get back to the institute!”
“Stop by my apartment then,” said Tara. “It’s on our way. You can go to the toilet while I fetch you some smart clothes. I know I’m smaller than you, but I’ve got an outfit that’s quite big on me – it should fit you fairly well.”
Cheryl nodded, and in two minutes pulled the truck up outside Tara’s apartment building. As she switched off the engine, she felt a new contraction coming on. Once more she tensed and clenched, bending all of her will toward preventing her poo from escaping into her panties.
Tara got out of the passenger side, and then paused to wait for Cheryl. “Are you coming?” she said.
Cheryl grimaced and spoke through clenched teeth. “I’ll be up in a minute – you go ahead.”
Tara shrugged and closed the door. Cheryl tried to move towards the door, but instantly regretted it – even that small movement had caused her poo to slide down her rectal passage a little. Her anus dilated, forced open from inside, and the tip of the poo emerged.
“Uuuuunnnnnnnggggghhhhhh!” Cheryl groaned, sliding down in her seat so that she was lying on her back with her knees bent almost double beneath the dashboard. She brought every ounce of her strength to bear, desperately trying to force her faecal matter back inside her body.
Bob looked uneasily at her. “Um,” he said, “I think I’ll go and give Tara a hand.” He made a quick exit and hurried after Tara.
He caught up with her just as she was entering the elevator. “Cheryl’s really in a bad way,” he said.
Tara nodded. “Silly girl,” she said. “She’ll have an accident if she’s not careful.”
The lift stopped at Tara’s floor and the two of them hurried into her apartment. “I’ll get some make-up and stuff,” said Tara. “You grab my grey suit from the wardrobe.” She disappeared into the bathroom.
Bob opened the wardrobe and cast his eye over the array of clothes. Espying a grey jacket, he pulled it out, but the cross-piece of the wooden hanger was bare. “I’ve got the jacket,” he called through to Tara, “but there’s no skirt or trousers with it.”
“It’s a skirt – it’ll be there somewhere,” she called back to him. “You’ll know it when you see it.”
After a moment’s rummaging, he found a short grey skirt, which he pulled off its hanger. “Got it,” he said, not noticing that it was not made of the same material as the jacket.
“Good,” said Tara, coming through with a handful of things. She grabbed a white blouse from the wardrobe and picked up a pair of shoes off the floor. “Well, she’s missed her chance – we can’t afford to hang around. Let’s go.”
They returned to the truck, where Cheryl was just managing to get her poo under control. The contraction had ceased, the pressure had eased off, and she was now coaxing the turd back into her large intestine. Despite it having already partially emerged, she was gradually succeeding, and as Tara opened the drivers’ door, she managed to get her anus closed.
“Move over,” said Tara. “I’ll drive the rest of the way. You need to change and fix yourself up.”
Cheryl sat up and moved across to the passenger seat. Bob climbed in first, settling himself in the middle, then Tara got in and closed the door. She passed over to Cheryl a hairbrush, a damp face flannel, some face powder and a lipstick.
“Thanks,” said Cheryl. After her exertions, she was very grateful for the flannel at least – it would enable her to look a little less hot and sweaty. As Tara drove off, Cheryl removed her t-shirt and used the flannel on her face, chest, and under her arms. She felt rather exposed, sitting there in just a bra, but was far more concerned with making a good impression at the presentation than in preserving her modesty in front of other road users.
As she put on the blouse, she said, “Good grief, this is rather tight – I can’t even fasten all the buttons!” Her breasts were simply too big for the garment, and she could not pull it closed.
“Never mind, the jacket will cover it,” said Tara. “Just do up a couple of buttons above and below – nobody will be any the wiser.”
Rather dubiously, Cheryl did as Tara suggested and donned the jacket, then found to her satisfaction that her friend was right. The jacket could be done up in front to an extent which concealed the gap in the front of the blouse. Fortunately, as Tara had said, the jacket was not a petite fit and although it was tight on Cheryl, it did not look too small.
Cheryl now began to brush her hair vigorously. “Damn these tangles,” she muttered, wishing she had had a chance to wash her hair. However, it could not be helped. She did as well as she could, using the truck’s wing mirror, and then she dabbed on some face powder. “I won’t bother with the lipstick,” she said, noticing that they were pulling into the grounds of the institute. “Skirt please, Bob.” Then, “What the hell is this?”
Tara glanced across and gasped. “Bob!” she exclaimed. “That’s a party skirt! Didn’t you see the knee-length grey flannel one?”
“No,” said Bob crossly. “You told me to find a grey skirt. This is the one I found.”
“But does it strike you as appropriate for an institute presentation?” demanded Cheryl.
Bob said nothing and glowered.
“Damnit!” Cheryl swore. She pulled off her dusty denim shorts and pulled on the skirt. It was cotton, loose-fitting, and on the micro side of mini. “It’ll have to do,” she said to Cheryl. “Between this and my dirty shorts, I guess this wins out … just.”
Tara parked the truck and they tumbled out, making their way hurriedly towards the lecture theatre where the presentation was being held. Cheryl had not gone more than a few steps, however, before she realised that she was not going to make it inside. Each step caused her poo to push harder and harder against her anus, and soon the pressure became more than she could bear. She whimpered and stopped in her tracks, leaning against a pillar for support and crossing her legs. She relaxed her anus a little and chose instead to merely clench her buttocks, her goal being to allow the poo to emerge a little, just to ease the intolerable pressure, and then to force it back in after the contraction had finished.
“Are you okay?” asked Tara, who had stopped when she saw Cheryl in trouble.
“Go on in,” groaned Cheryl. “Tell them I’ll be right there.”
Tara nodded and rushed into the building. Bob, noticing that Cheryl’s obvious distress was attracting attention from passing students and visitors, edged away from her. Then he, too, turned and dashed indoors.
Cheryl bit her lip and grunted with effort. A couple of inches of her poo had emerged, she judged – rather more than she had intended, but still she hoped to get it back inside. It was currently sandwiched between her buttocks, but it had not yet touched her panties.
Then the pressure intensified and she moaned in pain. Clutching her abdomen, she bent forward to rest her shoulder against the pillar. In doing so, she unwittingly revealed the lower part of her panty-clad buttocks to the growing crowd gathering behind her, but she was far too preoccupied to be aware of this. Her tired, aching buttocks were no longer equal to the struggle, and in despair she felt her poo begin to slide inexorably out of her rectum and into her panties.
Yet her despair was tinged with relief. Her pain was beginning to ease. The horrible pressure that had tormented her all morning, that had been causing her such discomfort, was lessening. Slowly she relaxed, stopped fighting the flow. She had done her best – what more could she have done? Now it was time for nature to take its course.
The poo reached silk and began to press against the material, raising a collective gasp from the crowd behind Cheryl. The onlookers could not believe their eyes as the attractive brunette’s white panties, fully exposed to them, began to tent outwards, bulging with poo. The bulge grew larger, and larger, causing Cheryl’s panties to be pushed further and further away from her buttocks.
Cheryl, resigned to her fate, could now only think of getting rid of the monster. As her sense of relief grew so intense as to be almost sexual, she uncrossed her legs and started to bear down, to push, to force the giant turd out of her rectum. The pleasure this brought was sensational, and she moaned softly.
Her panties were now grotesquely distended, and the crowd behind Cheryl were staring, speechless, fascinated and repulsed by the site as they might be at the scene of a car crash. It was guilty viewing, but compulsive. If just one of them had tried to talk to Cheryl, to utter a word of indignation, or comfort, or amusement, it would have instantly been the end of the show. But thus far, all were keeping quiet, and Cheryl had no idea that her outward appearance was anything but that of a woman leaning against a pillar, out of breath.
She realised, however, that she would have to take some kind of action now. Her panties could not be pushed any further outward without falling down. The resistance from the stretched material pushing back against her poo had caused the flow to all but cease. Her anus, held open by the thick pole of hard-packed excrement, was not about to close now, nor did she want it to – she was desperate now to finish what she had started. Forget the presentation – she could not think of attending now. She would simply finish her poo and make her way to the nearest toilet as best she could.
Yet what could she do? Immediately a number of potential options presented themselves. The first was that she could perhaps squash the poo somehow, to make it shorter, which would make more room for the rest of the poo. But how could she squash it? With her hand? Ugh! She was not keen on that thought – it would make her hand all messy and smelly. With the ground perhaps? Should she sit down on the poo? She was standing on the steps leading up to the institute – perhaps she should simply sit down here on one of the steps, get up, and continue pushing the turd out thereafter?
But what if she left a mess on the step? What if someone were to see her stand up, leaving a brown smear behind? That would never do! Another option would be to clench her anus in order to break the poo, then re-arrange it somehow in her panties so that she could lay another one by its side, or behind it, or something. That option might be achieved without having to touch the poo with her hand, even through the silk material of her panties.
While she pondered this dilemma, the crowd continued to watch. As more men and women passed by, they too stopped and stared, their mouths dropping open in shock and disbelief. One young man had pulled out a camera and was snapping away, taking pictures from several different angles, even getting down on to his knees so that he could see further up Cheryl’s microskirt. Another man, a second-year student, now fished in his bag for a digital camcorder.
Cheryl had almost made up her mind to try the clenching option, when she misgave. What if one of the pieces fell out of her panties through a leg-hole while she was walking to the toilets? Would it not be better to keep the entire mass of poo in one piece if possible? After a few moments’ consideration, she realised she would simply have to bite the bullet and use her hand. But how to do so without being obvious about it? She quickly discounted putting her arm around behind her back and putting her hand up her skirt – this would look extremely suspicious and she did not want to attract any unwelcome attention.
Instead she settled on a tactic which, once she had weighed it up, seemed quite clever to her. She moved her feet a few inches apart to make more of a space between her thighs, and began to reach her hand back between her legs. In this way, she hoped to press against the poo with her fingers, flattening it and spreading it around in the back of her panties, while the back of her skirt concealed from the general public what she was doing. She still had no idea that the skirt had ridden up so far at the back. Leaning forward as she was, the skirt’s hem at the front was still at a decent height (if rather inappropriate for an academic setting).
The crowd behind, which by this time numbered close to twenty individuals, were now treated to the sight of Cheryl’s fingers creeping back through her legs. They watched, goggle-eyed, as she shuffled her feet still further apart to give her hand more room to manoeuvre, and then cupped the tip of her bulge with her fingers. Rooted to the spot and struck dumb with amazement at the unfolding spectacle, they hardly dared blink while she pressed inward to squash the poo contained within the once-pristine white garment, now bearing a small brown stain at the apex of the bulge. The man with the camcorder was by now filming over the shoulder of the woman in front of him, and he zoomed in on Cheryl’s fingers as they continued their work.
In order to get her fingers into the best position for squishing the poo, Cheryl found she had to bend her back slightly, which had the effect of revealing more of her underwear to the spectators. Still utterly oblivious to her audience, she pressed and squished, crushing the thick column of excrement, working it to one side or the other, flattening it, spreading it out, filling the back of her panties with a shapeless mass of poo. When the material of her panties formed a uniformly curved surface, she surreptitiously withdrew her hand. Pleased with herself, she found her hand was not as messy as she had feared – her fingers were a little sticky and a little yellowish-brown, but a tissue would fix that. She rummaged in the pocket of her jacket, but could not find one. Yuck – now what? How could she clean her fingers? Then it occurred to her that she might use her panties. They were messy already, so it would not matter. She reached down again, put her hand up the front of her skirt, and wiped her fingers on the clean silk at the front of her panties.
Then she started pushing again. The great brown column, still unbroken, continued to slide through her distended anus with a soft, wet, crackling sound. She closed her eyes and smiled to herself with a feeling almost of contentment as the flattened poo in the back of her panties was pushed outwards, becoming like the cap of a giant mushroom whose stalk was growing longer and longer by the second.
Her legs apart, her back arched slightly, Cheryl pushed for all she was worth. The sensation was sheer bliss as the slick, firm log smoothly caressed the flesh of her anal sphincter on its way through to the outside world. The unbearable pressure which had utterly dominated her thoughts until a couple of minutes ago was lessening constantly, though the fact that it was still present in any degree was testament to just how much she had been holding back.
The crowd barely breathed. All were transfixed as the shape of Cheryl’s panties grew and changed. From a tent, pushed out at one point by a single pole, it had transformed into a balloon, a smoothly-rounded bulge of now-discoloured silk, sagging ever further downwards with each passing moment. The man with the camcorder had followed the photographer’s example, now, as he crouched as low as he could in order to get the best close-up of Cheryl’s bottom and hugely-loaded panties.
Cheryl could now tell by the resistance to her pushing that she needed to flatten the column again. The feeling of great weight in her bowels was now much reduced, but still her poo had not come to an end. Rather reluctantly, she reached back between her legs again and started pressing inwards, this time with the flat of her palm. Her anus twitched as it sought to clench against the reversal of pressure, but she managed to avoid breaking the poo, instead bearing down on her poo even as she pushed against it with her hand.
The excrement squished every which way. The sticky mush that had been spread around in the first operation now spread out still further – around the sides of Cheryl’s bottom, up to the top of her buttock cleavage, even beyond her coccyx, and forward along the gusset of her panties, towards her pussy. In the area around her anus, of course, the mass of squashed poo was becoming thickest, and Cheryl found that even her spread palm was sinking into the squishy mass.
She brought her hand back, wiping it thoroughly on her panties as she continued to push in earnest. As she rubbed her pussy through the silk, trying to get every trace of brown slime from her hand, a tingle of electricity ran through her body and she shivered with pleasure. Absent-mindedly she continued to stroke her pussy while she defecated, savouring the feeling of her poo’s warm, gentle massage on her anus and the innermost flesh of her buttocks.
Breathing hard, she carried on filling her panties, her long discharge of excrement by now nearing its end, though it was not all out of her yet. She fancied it was getting easier, that the poo now emerging from her anus was softer than it had been before. In truth it was, and the wall of more solid faeces that it ran up against as it left her rectum caused it to spread out straight away. She would not have to do any more squashing.
The crowd had long since passed the point of no return. If any of them had been considering calling a halt to the proceedings, either by criticising, warning, or ridiculing Cheryl, they no longer considered it now. They felt as if they were watching an attempt to break a world record: just how much poo could one woman generate? And how much could a pair of silk panties hold?
This latter question was rapidly becoming of the greatest import. For under the great weight of Cheryl’s poo, the panties were sagging heavily. From one side of her buttocks to the other, they were bulging unnaturally. The poo within now extended across the entire back of the garment, and was beginning to push the elastic leg-bands away from her skin. If it had not been for the fact that they were fairly new and the elastic of the waistband was still strong, they would by now certainly have dropped to her ankles and spilled their contents. But so far they were holding up, although it was by no means certain that they would continue to do so. The gusset of the panties was hanging down an inch below her crotch, now, and the man with the camcorder, who had by now come around to one side, could see the actual poo contained within, though none had as yet spilled out.
And still Cheryl was not finished. There was no stopping her now. Panting in near-ecstasy, she could feel the end was imminent and figured there was no point in cutting off the flow just before it was due to stop anyway. The faecal matter that she was expelling at the moment was very soft, and it was mostly flowing downwards. The firmer poo with which the back of her panties was packed had formed a kind of bowl-shape, like a corrie at the top of an Alpine mountain, and the softer stuff was being directed down and forward towards her pussy. Like a river of lava it flowed, riding atop a flattened mass of harder poo along the gusset, which she was still cupping with her hand.
Then, abruptly, the flow ceased, and Cheryl’s anus closed. She stood motionless for a moment, still panting hard. Behind her the crowd was tense, expectant, watching the enormously-bulging panties, wondering whether they would fall. For indeed they were dangerously over-loaded. The waistband at the back had now sunk below the top of her buttock cleavage, and had just peeped into the crowd’s view. Thirty-four people stared, breathless with anticipation, waiting for the inevitable disaster to strike.
Cheryl straightened up slowly, trying to compose herself. As her jacket and skirt descended over her bottom, they caught on the obscene mound of her over-filled panties, and rucked up. Still the panties did not fall, but although Cheryl was now standing fully upright, they were still in full view of all behind her.
Her legs feeling rather weak and shaky, Cheryl began to climb the steps … very carefully. Any sudden movements, she realised, would be disastrous. So she took small steps, kept her hands pressed to her sides (thus keeping the waistband of her panties in place), and maintained as smooth a gait as she possibly could. In this way she reached the top of the steps without incident, and walked slowly inside.
The crowd was left stunned, and bereft of speech. After a moment, however, the camera and camcorder were put away, and gradually the onlookers dispersed. This had been the most surreal experience they had ever had. None of them knew Cheryl, but each had a feeling they would remember her for a long time to come.
Inside, Cheryl made her way slowly towards the toilets. She glanced at the clock on the wall. It was three minutes past two. Immediately she began to plan. It would take her about fifteen minutes to clean up, she guessed. Well, she was scheduled to speak first, but it was not essential for her to do so. Let Roger or Annie do their piece first. She would be late, but it would not be a huge disaster.
As she passed the door to the theatre, however, Roger suddenly appeared. “Cheryl!” he hissed at her. “You’re late! Come on.” He grabbed her arm and pulled her towards the door.
“I can’t,” objected Cheryl, resisting. “I have to go to the toilet.”
“You can go after your speech,” said Roger firmly. “They’re all waiting for you in there – come on!” He pulled her inside.
All eyes were on the two of them as they appeared at the back of the theatre. The place was packed – rumours had been flying about this presentation and much curiosity had been aroused. Cheryl gulped and hoped that she did not smell bad enough for the audience to notice her as she passed. Roger strode down the aisle ahead of her, and she followed as quickly as she dared.
Her walk would look funny, she knew, with her arms pressed to her sides and her knees slightly bent to avoid any bouncing. But that could not be helped – it would be a far greater disaster if her excrement-laden panties fell to the floor halfway down the aisle. As she went, gasps went up behind her as the assembled students, lecturers, visiting academics and invited members of the public and press were treated to an unimpeded view of her massively full silk undies. Cheryl, focused completely on the task of getting to the stage without losing her panties, did not notice their audible reactions. She pressed on slowly, while the mess in her panties oozed forwards along her gusset with each step. Her clitoris was sliding rhythmically amid a soft cushion of poo, sending rather distracting messages radiating outward from her crotch.
As she reached the foot of the stage and turned left, making for the steps, she saw a television crew stationed in front of the foremost seats before the stage. She grimaced, realising she would have to climb the steps right in front of them, wearing this ridiculously short miniskirt. Great. She sincerely hoped that her panties were not sagging so low that they were visible beneath the hem of the skirt – now that was a scary thought!
The steps were rather steeper than those at the building’s entrance, and she took it as slowly as she dared without seeming like she was having difficulties. Behind her, the cameraman’s jaw dropped as his camera’s field of view was filled with a pair of bare legs topped with massively bulging panties. He quickly panned up to her head as soon as he had recovered from the shock, but too late – this was going out live.
Cheryl saw an empty chair next to where Roger had just sat down, and she froze. How could she possibly sit down? The poo would certainly not remain confined to her panties if she did. It would go everywhere! Then she noticed Roger gesturing impatiently towards the lectern, and she breathed a sigh of relief as she realised she was expected to speak now. As confidently as she could, she walked up to the lectern and stood before it. Taking a deep breath, she put herself into Lecturer Mode and grasped the sides of the lectern. This meant letting go of her waistband, unfortunately, but at least she wasn’t moving so she figured her panties should stay in position. The lectern was not strictly necessary, of course, since she had no notes, but it was comforting to have something between her and the audience, even if the lectern’s slim wooden stand did little to shield their view of her miniskirt.
Roger and the other speakers, however, sitting in a row at the back of the stage, had a clear view not only of her rucked-up miniskirt but also of what lay beneath. They stared in utter shock at Cheryl’s vastly distended and sagging panties. Roger opened his mouth to speak, but words failed him. What was he to say? ‘Excuse me Cheryl, but you seem to have crapped yourself’? Live on national television?
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” began Cheryl smoothly. She was beginning to relax. The audience looked rapt with attention, which was a good sign. She hated to see people look at their watches or fidget. These people were all focused completely on her.
“You will have heard the various press reports on the subject of a little animal called Mesopteryx,” she said. “What you have heard, however, will not have even remotely prepared you for the truth. This discovery, to my mind, is the most important palaeontological find since Archaeopteryx, an animal to which Mesopteryx is, of course, related.” She shifted her weight from one foot on to the other. The movement pressed her clitoris into the mushy poo beneath, and she shivered. Then the waistband of her panties slipped a fraction of an inch, and her heart leaped into her mouth. She tried to keep her voice steady as she continued.
“The question that has been on everybody’s mind, of course, is that of the fossil’s date. Early results indicated the base of the Cretaceous, although as you all know there has been some controversy about that result. I am here now to present, amongst other things, evidence that Mesopteryx is, in fact, a late Jurassic animal. Though it is not as primitive as Archaeopteryx, it does, in fact, pre-date that animal!”
A murmur ran around the room. Despite the mental image of her loaded panties that most of them could not get out of their heads, they appreciated that this news was big. Cheryl smiled at their reaction, and then froze as her panties slipped down a little further. She would have to do something, and quickly.
“It is plain that flight pre-dates Archaeopteryx, and that in Archie’s day, elsewhere in the islands of Europe there were birds that flew rather better than he did,” she said, as she reached down with both hands and, with what she hoped was a nonchalant movement, grasped hold of the sides of her panties through the material of her skirt. She hoisted her panties upwards, and in doing so tucked a little of that cotton beneath the silk and elastic of her panties. Hopefully this would prevent further slippage.
Unfortunately it also had the effect of raising the hem of her skirt, not only at the sides but also at the front. The audience members in the foremost few rows, save for those directly before her whose views were obstructed by the lectern stand, could now see a tiny white triangle that was the front of her panties, peeping beneath the hem of her skirt. The television camera could also see this, though he hurriedly zoomed in on Cheryl’s face so that only her upper body would be visible to the viewers.
Cheryl continued with her presentation, speaking for twenty minutes before finally concluding, “My colleague, Roger Asquith, will now tell the story of our find. Thank you very much.”
The applause was enthusiastic and sincere. Her speech had been intriguing and full of revelation, and had held their attention despite the distractions she had unwittingly offered. As she turned to walk back to her seat, she presented the audience with another view of her panties, filled to capacity with her mushy poo. The applause died away almost instantly.
Cheryl could not avoid sitting down now, she knew. She had been thinking about this all through her speech. The solution, she had decided, was simple. Once she sat down, she would not get up until everybody else in the room had left. Then she would leave the room with her chair and hurry to the toilets to clean it and herself up.
She turned around and lowered herself gingerly on to the chair. Her poo-packed panties hit the seat first and began to squish as she put more weight on them. Long before her buttocks had reached the chair, poo splurged out of the sides of her panties and began building up in little piles beneath the sides of her bottom. With a squelching sound, she eased her full weight down on to the chair and felt the huge mass of poo ooze and slide sideways and forwards, favouring her pussy with a moist and tender caress.
As she settled and leaned against the back of the chair, her buttocks and pussy cradled in a soft, warm mass of poo, she noticed with alarm that her skirt had ridden up in front. Looking down, she could not quite see her panties, but she knew that anyone in front of her, including the cameraman, would be able to.
Quickly she clasped her hands in her lap to prevent anybody from seeing her panties. In this position, she told herself, she would remain until everybody else had gone. Smiling politely and trying not to think about her predicament, she sat through first Roger’s speech, and then Annie’s, and then David’s. When David sat down, she breathed a sigh of relief.
“Does anybody have any questions?” asked Roger, getting to his feet. “Yes, the lady in the third row.”
“Thank you, I have a question for Dr Marshall,” said the lady in the third row. “Could you explain what the climate was like in Mesopteryx’s time and location?”
Annie got to her feet and walked forward to the lectern. “Yes,” she said, “it was fairly warm and wet, with lush vegetation…”
As Annie continued, Cheryl fidgeted nervously. She hoped she would not be asked any questions – this eventuality had not occurred to her.
Her hope was in vain. “I have a question for Dr Clark,” she heard a voice say. She turned with a desperate expression to Roger, her eyes pleading with him as the question was asked.
He frowned at her, but nodded. “I believe I can answer that one,” he said, getting to his feet, “if Dr Clark does not mind?” He turned towards her, and she waved him on gratefully.
After that it was plain sailing. Roger cut the questions short soon afterwards, and the audience members filed out. Most of the speakers, too, left the stage with all speed.
“What the hell happened?” demanded Roger in a fierce whisper.
“I told you I needed the toilet but you pulled me in anyway!” Cheryl responded, equally fiercely. “I just couldn’t get up again – I couldn’t!” She shook her head despondently, then added, “Thanks for covering for me though.”
Roger threw up his hands in exasperation and marched off the stage. A minute later, Cheryl was alone in the theatre. She heaved an enormous sigh of relief as she got up stickily.
“Whew!” she breathed. “I can’t believe I got away with that!”
THE END
Email: meganeura@hotmail.com