Laskaarg Uf Chanvool slithered silently across the floor of the engine room on four hundred and sixty-two pairs of boneless, muscular legs. Beside him the fusion engine feeder tanks hissed as they drew in a constant stream of interstellar hydrogen collected by the ship’s huge ramjet. Pausing briefly to check the instrumentation at the foot of the engine tower itself, Laskaarg continued on his way, leaving the room through the intelligent automatic door.
He entered the control room, where two other Urgtheans were poring over display screens. They each swivelled a couple of their fourteen eyes towards him as he approached. He greeted them with complex movements of his antennae and slapped each of them with the flat side of his anterior dorsal tentacle. They, for their part, returned the compliment with an accompanying clicking sound, as was customary.
The conversation that then transpired would mean nothing to anyone but another Urgthean, but the gist of their discussion was as follows.
“What-ho, Klurgalg and Tralgook,” said Laskaarg.
“Greetings, Laskaarg,” responded Klurgalg. “How is the engine? Has the feeder flutter resolved itself?”
“Absolutely, old boy. Top hole. Everything ship-shape and Bristol-fashion.”
“Excellent,” Klurgalg approved. “The Captain will be pleased.”
“Um, I say chaps, has anyone spotted my replicator by any chance?” inquired Laskaarg. “Silliest thing – I seem to have mislaid it somewhere.”
“I have not seen it,” intoned Tralgook.
“Neither have I,” added Klurgalg. “Did you look in the airing cupboard?”
“Why would he put it in the airing cupboard?” asked Tralgook.
“He would not,” said Klurgalg gravely. “That was a joke.”
“Oh, I see.” Tralgook now addressed Laskaarg sternly. “Now think, Laskaarg, where did you last have it?”
“Well dash it all, I’m blowed if I can remember,” sighed Laskaarg. “Oh wait, now hang on a tick – I definitely had it when we were operating on that alien.”
Klurgalg stared at him. “And afterwards?”
“Well, don’t you know, I think that might be it. I don’t remember having it afterwards.”
“You don’t think he could have left it … inside the alien?” ventured Tralgook.
“I consider that a distinct possibility,” said Klurgalg.
“Oh well fie and bother!” exclaimed Laskaarg. “If that doesn’t just take the biscuit. What jolly rotten luck, eh what? Do you think we should go back for it?”
“Out of the question. We are more than halfway home and behind schedule as it is.”
Laskaarg’s soft, segmented body quivered in annoyance. “Well gosh,” he said, “what a perfectly ghastly turn of events! It’s just not cricket. Still, never mind eh? Toodle-pip, chaps.” He gathered together his many limbs and slithered out of the room.
“Why is he talking like that?” asked Tralgook.
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” replied Klurgalg.
Becky peered through her microscope at the hydra, keeping one eye on it while the other kept glancing at the piece of paper on which she was drawing the tentacled unicellular animal. She quite enjoyed biology, and she had a natural artistic talent which she put to good use in making her scientific sketches as accurate as possible. So her hydra took on a vivid, lifelike look in her notes which, she knew, would ingratiate her with the teacher even if he generally did not award extra marks for pretty drawings.
“Hey Becky,” whispered Eric Regis, a ginger-haired boy whom Becky disliked intensely. He was not sitting next to her, but had merely stopped to talk to her as he walked past. “What’s this about you shitting yourself the other night?”
“What have you heard?” asked Becky coolly. She had had plenty of time to think up responses to questions like this.
“Well, I heard you crapped yourself and kept on crapping until you nearly drowned in it.”
Becky raised an eyebrow and stared at him. “Really, Bognor. And do you think that is remotely possible?”
“Well, no…” he admitted. “So what did happen?”
“Nothing at all,” said Becky airily. “I went to a party, got a little drunk, went home. I don’t know where these stories have come from but it’s quite obvious someone’s made them up. But I don’t care – who’s going to believe such a ridiculous lie anyway?”
Dissatisfied, Eric continued on his way, and Becky smiled to herself. But then her smile faded. Something was wrong. Deep in her bowels something was stirring, and a pressure began to build up against her anal sphincter. For a moment she considered bolting for the toilet, but then she changed her mind. What good would it do to hide away and conceal her condition from her classmates? She needed witnesses, and plenty of them, or nobody would ever believe that she had a serious problem.
So she stayed put, and relaxed her anus to allow her poo to come out. It was a big one, and she felt her anus being stretched wide as the turd began to emerge. Strangely, it did not hurt – her recent experiences had served to loosen her anus and she was no longer as tight as she had been before. She clapped her hands.
“Hey everybody!” she announced. “Listen up – I’ve got something important to say.”
Her surprised classmates turned to face her, as did her teacher, Mrs Williams, who frowned. “What is it, Becky?” she asked.
Becky continued to squeeze her poo out into her panties as she began to climb on to the workbench. “I want you all to be witnesses,” she said, “to an experience which I’ve had twice before. Now I know this sounds crazy, but … mmmmph … I think I was abducted by aliens who put something inside my rectum. Every so often, this thing kicks in and I find myself crapping endlessly. It generally takes some kind of inertial shock to make it stop, but in the meantime I’ve generated impossibly huge quantities of poo.”
“Becky!” snapped Mrs Williams. “Are you mad? Get off the bench immediately!”
“Let me finish!” insisted Becky. “I haven’t told anyone about it before because of course nobody would have believed me, well now you’ll see for yourselves that what I am saying is true.” She turned her bottom towards the front of the class and pulled her grey pleated skirt up to her waist, exposing her panties wherein a large bulge was forming. With a sigh of satisfaction, she pushed harder, anxious to show everyone the truth of her words. Her desire to be believed far outweighed any sense of humiliation from soiling her panties in front of her class.
“Becky!” squeaked Mrs Williams in horror.
“Please, Mrs Williams! You’ve no idea what it’s like to have something like this happen to you, and then to have nobody believe you. I know it’s disgusting, but I have to have witnesses! So just watch, and prepare to see the laws of physics completely thrown out of the window.”
In stunned silence, Mrs Williams and Becky’s fellow pupils stared at the growing bulge in Becky’s panties. Becky strained hard, forcing more poo into her panties, and grunting with the effort. She reached back with one hand and squished the poo against her bottom, so that she could force more out.
A little more emerged, and then it stopped. Her anus closed up. Her rectum was empty. With a sinking feeling, Becky realised that the pressure she had felt was merely the normal pressure of an overdue poo letting her know it was ready to come out. She had misread the signs – the endless poo had not, after all, returned. “Oh heck,” she whispered.
She clambered off the desk. “I’m sorry!” she said, white-faced. “I misread it. This is the first normal poo I’ve had in over a week – I thought it was going to be an endless one again.”
Mrs Williams had recovered herself. “Well I’ve never seen a stunt like this!” she exclaimed. “Becky, go and clean yourself up. You have a double cross. And go and see Mr Dean when you’re done.”
Utterly defeated and humiliated, Becky walked to the door, a little stiff-legged, trying not to allow any of the poo to fall out of her panties. Her classmates merely stared at her in astonishment. Later, they would recover from the shock, and then the mockery and persecution would begin. Becky left the room and sighed as she made her way to the toilets. This was so unfair!
Once safely locked in a stall, Becky took off her skirt and then her shirt, so that she would not get them messy. Gingerly she slid her panties down her legs, took them off, and emptied them into the toilet bowl. Then, pulling several handfuls of paper out of the dispenser, she wiped her bottom until it was clean. Her panties were filthy, so she dropped them in the toilet bowl and flushed them away with the poo. Now clean, she dressed herself, left the toilets and began to climb the stairs, heading for Mr Dean’s office.
“Come!” called Mr Dean after Becky had pressed the buzzer.
Nervously, she entered, and closed the door behind her.
“I’ve just had a visit from Mrs Williams,” said Mr Dean, frowning at her severely. “Would you like to explain to me just what happened in your biology class?”
“Yes sir,” said Becky. “But … what I have to say is going to be impossible for you to believe.”
“I have no doubt of that,” concurred Mr Dean, “judging by what Mrs Williams has told me. Nevertheless, I am prepared to listen, so fire away.”
“A few days ago, I had a dream that I was abducted by aliens. Naturally I paid it no heed, figuring it was just that – a dream. But the next day, when I sat down on the loo to … poo, I found that it wouldn’t stop coming out! If I tried to stop it, the pressure became unbearable and I had to let it go again. Pretty soon the toilet bowl was full and in a panic I rushed outside. I caught a bus, intending to go to the hospital, but the bus driver threw me off when he saw what a mess I was making. I found myself in a bad neighbourhood, and I got attacked and raped by a bunch of guys who thought my predicament was cool and covered me from head to toe in my own poo. I managed to get away and finally reached the hospital, but before I could get properly examined the flow stopped and so of course they didn’t believe me. I was sent home and my parents didn’t believe a word of my story either. Even when I showed them the toilet full of poo they just thought I had had friends round and had been playing some kind of disgusting game.
“A couple of days later I sneaked out of my house late one night to go to a party. Please don’t tell my parents about this – they don’t know. While I was at the party the interminable poo flow began anew. I managed to get to the lift with my friend Suzy but it was broken and we ended up trapped. Suzy managed to get out through the roof but she left me in there while she went to get help. By the time she came back I was up to my neck. We called an ambulance and I was taken to the hospital, but by the time I got there the flow had stopped again. So I cleaned myself up and sneaked back home. Today, in class, I thought it was happening again. Desperate for witnesses, I climbed on the desk and pulled up my skirt so that everybody could see what was happening. Only, of course, it turned out to be just a normal poo, so I didn’t prove anything.”
Mr Dean stared at her, with his elbows on his desk and his fingertips pressed together. “You must realise how that all sounds,” he said. “But according to your story you do have witnesses. Your friend Suzy, possibly some other people at the party, and the ambulance crew. Am I correct?”
Becky nodded. “But I doubt they’ll admit to having seen what they saw,” she said. “It’s like the airline pilot in Close Encounters of the Third Kind who sees a spaceship – when asked if he wants to report a UFO, he says no, he doesn’t. People don’t like to admit to seeing something like this in case the rest of the world thinks they’re crazy.”
“Convenient for your story,” said Mr Dean. “It makes it hard to disprove.”
“Inconvenient, more like,” responded Becky. “Makes it very hard for me to prove. But I guarantee, someday soon I will prove it. I don’t believe the thing inside me has gone away, and sooner or later it will kick in again. When that happens, I will make sure that I am seen by someone important, like yourself.”
“When it happens,” said Mr Dean, “please do me a favour and come straight to me. I don’t want another scene in class.”
Becky nodded. “That’s fine with me, sir,” she said. “And in the meantime?”
“In the meantime…” Mr Dean sighed. “Just try to stay out of trouble please.”
“Yes sir, I will,” Becky promised.
“Very well, you can go.”
Becky left, and Mr Dean shook his head in despair. “Why does my school get landed with all the sexual deviants?” he wondered aloud.
That night, Becky had a dream. She was on a school trip to visit a nuclear power station, and she and her classmates were dressed in white radiation suits with protective helmets. They were all standing in front of a large pool of water, into which red hot rods were being lowered and raised at regular intervals. A bespectacled nuclear physicist was droning on monotonously about fission reactions, but Becky was only half listening.
Then suddenly they were not at a nuclear power station at all, but a sewage farm, and the pool in front of her was not full of water, but semi-liquid poo. And somehow she was no longer wearing a radiation suit – it had miraculously metamorphosed into her blue and pink one-piece swimsuit. Her feet were bare. She looked around, and was surprised to see that her classmates had disappeared. So had the nuclear physicist. She was quite alone.
In front of her, steps led down into the muck, and she began to descend. The smell was powerful, but she breathed it in deeply, savouring its sickly aroma. She was now on the last clean step. She stepped forward, and her foot sank into the sludge, finding the next step. As the poo squelched deliciously between her toes, she shivered with pleasure. She continued to descend, sinking into the filth another six inches with each step. When the sewage came up to her mid-thighs, she stopped.
Reaching down with one hand, she scooped up a handful of poo and, with the other hand, she pulled open the front of her swimming costume. She carefully dropped the handful of poo inside, and it stopped to nestle against her torso just beneath her breasts. Scooping up more handfuls, she began to fill up the inside of her swimsuit, in both the front and back, until she was surrounded by a thick layer of poo that was held against her body by the stretchy material of her costume. Satisfied with her handiwork, she pulled aside the gusset of the swimsuit and slid two poo-covered fingers deep into her vagina. Then, slowly, she sat down, lowering herself into the sewage until it came up to her neck. She began to slide her fingers in and out of herself, while stroking her clit with her other hand. Increasingly aroused, she caressed her breasts, rubbing her hands up and down her body. She closed her eyes and moaned aloud.
Becky vaguely awoke. Blearily opening her eyes, she saw from her alarm clock that it was half past two in the morning. It occurred to her that something was wrong, though in her semi-somnolent state she could not think what it was. Then, with the familiar sensation of something thick, warm and soft passing through her anus, came the realisation that the infinite poo had returned. Already there was quite a large pile heaped over her crotch area – her panties had been pushed part-way down her legs. Her t-shirt was rucked up and she could feel poo smeared all the way up to her breasts and beyond. She truly had been rubbing it in during her dream.
‘They’ll have to believe me now,’ thought Becky dreamily. For a moment she wondered whether she should get up and fetch her parents, but then she decided against it. She was too tired to move, and anyway she would have an even more impressive case to present in the morning. Feeling rather horny on account of the dream, she began to masturbate, sliding around in the squishy poo and rubbing it into her pussy. If she had been properly awake she would not have even contemplated doing this, but she still felt as if she were dreaming – nothing seemed quite real. She reached her orgasm and relaxed, panting.
Beginning to doze off again, Becky turned on her side so that the poo would have more room to come out. She smiled with a vague sense of satisfaction, thinking that her parents would have no choice but to believe her now. Contented despite her messy situation, she drifted off to sleep once more.
Her alarm sounded. Becky awoke with a start, then reached over to switch it off. This got the clock rather messy – her hands were covered in poo. It now occurred to Becky to check on her situation. Her duvet, she discovered, had been lifted high into the air by a pile of poo that now buried her body from her breasts down to below her knees. She could barely move. The stench in the room was overpowering.
Quickly considering her options, Becky decided that the first thing she should do was to free herself from this faecal cocoon. After struggling for a minute or so, she managed to manoeuvre herself to the edge of the bed, whereupon she fell off. Into another pile of poo. It had apparently spilled over the edge during the night to form a heap eighteen inches high and three or four feet wide on the floor.
Getting to her feet, Becky removed her t-shirt and stood almost naked, wearing only her panties, which were now around her knees. She took them off. She looked at herself in the mirror. She was covered in poo from the neck down, and around her middle the cover was so thick that she could see no skin at all. And still poo was flowing from her anus – not very quickly, but steadily and with inexorable inevitability.
There was a knock on her door and she jumped. “Hello?” she said.
“Ah good, just checking you were awake,” came her father’s voice. “Your mother’s gone to work early, and I have to be leaving in a few minutes. Shall I put some toast in for you?”
“Um, no thanks Dad. But Dad?”
“Yes?”
“I have something to show you – it’s quite important.”
“Oh? Well sure … you want me to come in?”
“Um, give me a second,” said Becky, and she picked up a towel to cover herself. “Okay, you can come in.”
“Bother it, there’s the doorbell. I’ll be back in a tick, sweetie.”
Becky sighed as she heard her father’s footsteps recede down the stairs. She heard distant voices, but could not make out what they were saying. In the meantime her poo continued to ooze out of her bottom, and periodically broke off to add to the pile on the floor.
The footsteps returned. “Becky,” said her father, “I have to run. My ride’s here. He’s early, which is annoying, but I can’t really keep him waiting.”
“But Dad…”
“Sorry Becky, you’ll have to show me tonight. Have a good day at school!” The footsteps thumped down the stairs once more, and a moment later Becky heard the front door close.
“Damn it!” shouted Becky angrily. Now what was she supposed to do?
She looked at her clock. It was ten past eight. The first thing to do, she decided, was to take a shower. Then, somehow, she would have to get herself to school and report to Mr Dean, who could not now fail to believe her story. The school was only fifteen minutes’ walk away – ten if she took the short cut, so she had about half an hour to get clean and dressed. She would probably not have time for any breakfast. How she was to handle the poo she would generate following her shower, she did not yet know.
She reached behind her, grasped her emerging poo, and broke it off. Dropping it on to the floor, she wiped her feet clean on the carpet and hurried to the door. Fortunately the rate of flow was not as great as it had been on previous occasions, so she was able to get to the bathroom, climb into the bath, pull the shower curtain across, and start the shower going before the next section of poo broke off. It landed with a splat between her feet and she kicked it towards the plug hole. Then she began to wash herself, cleaning the poo from her body and then liberally covering herself with soap.
Normally she would have washed her hair too, but there simply was not time. Once she was completely clean (apart from between her buttocks, which were impossible to keep clean for more than a few seconds) she wiggled her bottom until the latest section of poo was shaken off. There was now a substantial heap of excrement in the bath, but there was little she could do about it.
She made it back to her room in plenty of time before the next lump fell. She towelled herself dry (taking great care around her buttocks) and then put a bra and shirt on. Then she put on her socks and shoes, though it was tricky to do this without getting any poo on them. She succeeded, however, and turned her attention to her skirt. This she put on very gingerly, then she gathered it up around her waist so that it would not get messy. Finally she took a clean pair of panties out of her drawer, and picked up her house keys from the top of the dresser. Her school bag was resting against the wall beside her bedroom door.
Shaking the next length of poo free, Becky quickly stepped into her panties and pulled them up tight. For a second, she felt almost normal. But her poo kept coming, pushing out into her panties, forcing the material away from her buttocks, and she knew she had to move quickly. She grabbed the school bag, left her room, closing the door behind her, and ran down the stairs. Opening the front door, she stepped through, then closed and locked it. Her poo was now a good seven or eight inches long and was straining hard against the fabric of her panties, so she reached her hand back, slipped it beneath the hem of her skirt, placed her palm against the bulge, and pressed it hard against her buttocks. The poo flattened out, and Becky smiled a little at the familiar sensation.
Hurrying on to the pavement, she began to walk towards her school, which was the best part of a mile away. Though there was hardly a plethora of pedestrians, there were always at least two or three who were near enough to her to spot any attempts to adjust the contents of her panties, so she decided that she would have to take the short cut. It was through a local council estate, and there were a couple of dark alleys which were likely to be deserted enough for her to be able to empty her panties unnoticed.
But there were still a hundred yards of pavement before she could turn off into the council estate, and her panties were beginning to sag badly. Left with little choice in the matter, Becky gritted her teeth and reached back once again, sticking her hand up her skirt to flatten the emerging poo. Her panties were now very full, and the sheer weight of poo therein was causing them to descend. Before she got to the council estate, she realised with sudden fear, her panties were going to fall.
In desperation, she tucked her hand into the waistband at the back of her skirt, and grasped hold of the top of her panties between her fingers. She knew she would look odd, walking along like that, but the alternative was to let her panties crash to the ground under a large pile of poo. She was already attracting some strange looks, but she ignored them. She quickened her pace.
She reached the road that led into the estate, and hurried down it while reaching back under her skirt with her free hand to re-flatten her poo. The back of her panties were now holding an almost impossible amount of poo, and in order to balance the load she realised she would have to transfer some of this to the front of her panties. She stopped in the middle of the pavement, put her hand between her legs, slipped it inside her panties, and grabbed a huge handful of poo. She tucked this into the front of her panties so that it was nestling against her pussy, then went back for more. When she had packed a large amount against her pubic mound and along her gusset, she wiped her hand quickly against the outside of her panties. This got some of the poo off, but she knew she would have to find some tissues or an outdoor tap.
Without looking back (she felt sure people must have been watching her little performance), she scurried along the road and turned into an alley that led between two sets of houses and into a little parking area. In the alley, finally out of sight of all but the most curious voyeurs, she pulled her panties down and emptied them. They were absolutely filthy now, their inside coated with poo. Nevertheless, she pulled her panties up tightly, feeling the sticky material cling to her bottom. Her pubic hair was saturated with poo, and she pressed the material of her panties against her mound, rubbing it around a little as she did so. As more poo emerged to fill her panties, Becky squished it and spread it around, squatting on the ground with her back to the alley wall. She had plenty of time, she reflected – it was only a seven minute walk from here to the school, and she had nearly fifteen.
The sensation of having her panties full of poo, Becky reflected idly, was beginning to feel almost normal, even pleasant. The way her panties, lubricated by warm, soft poo, rubbed against her clitoral area was somewhat stimulating, and the feeling of having something thick and moist constantly sliding through her anal sphincter was rather sensual. She pulled her gusset aside and began to rub her clitoris with one hand, while the other continued to squish her faeces around through the messy material. As more poo continued to come out, the back of her panties filled to capacity, and then began to overflow. Becky gasped with pleasure, and as her orgasm approached, she grabbed handful after handful of poo and mashed it into her pussy. ‘I could get to like this,’ she thought.
But time was running short again. She stood up, pulled her panties halfway down her thighs, and used her bare hand to scrape out most of the poo. The panties were now completely brown, soaked through with faecal matter, and as Becky continued on her way they gradually began to fill up again. But Becky hardly cared. Every half-minute she would reach back and squish the new stuff, sometimes pulling some of it forward to the front of her panties. Fortunately there was nobody about to witness her activities.
And then Becky froze. Directly in her path, staring at her intently, was a thick-set rottweiler. It was growling slightly. Becky had never liked big dogs, ever since one had bitten her arm when she was only four years old. This one was a monster, and Becky was almost paralysed with fear. She glanced around for a suitable refuge, and saw the wooden back door of one of the council houses. She quickly made for it and tried the handle. It turned, and the door opened. With a sigh of relief she entered the house.
It was quiet inside. Becky’s panties were full again, and she knew she could not afford to stay here for more than a few seconds, so she re-opened the door a crack and looked out. The dog was still there, and it was watching the door. Her heart sinking, Becky closed the door and began to walk through the house, hoping to get out through the front door. She could feel her panties beginning to drop under the weight of poo within, and she quickly shoved her hand down the waistband of her skirt, grabbing the top of her panties to hold them in place.
A short, burly man in his early thirties suddenly appeared through a door ahead of her. He stopped and stared at Becky in surprise and annoyance. “What the hell are you doing in my house?” he demanded. “Who are you?”
“I’m really sorry,” said Becky in a rush, “but there’s a big dog out there and I had to run in here to get away from it. Please could I just leave through your front door?”
“A rottweiler?” asked the man.
“Yes, that’s the one,” confirmed Becky, desperately hoping he would let her out soon – her panties were getting over-full.
“Ah, that’s Hurricane. He belongs to next door. Anyway, I don’t appreciate you just barging in here, but I guess you can use the front door to leave.”
“Thank you,” said Becky gratefully, and began to walk past him. But the movement was too much for the huge load in her panties. A resounding ‘splat!’ accompanied the descent to the floor of a sizeable lump of poo.
“What the heck is that?” demanded the man. “You just shat yourself?? My God, what a stink!”
“I’m sorry!” wailed Becky. “I couldn’t help it.”
“Well you can damn well clean it up before you go,” said the man angrily. “Fuck! What’s the matter with you?”
“I can’t stay to clean it up,” said Becky. “I’m pooing all the time! If I stay any longer, you’ll have more of a mess than this.”
“Huh? What do you mean? Don’t be ridiculous.”
There was another splat.
“Fuck!!” repeated the man, staring at it. “Right, that does it young lady, you don’t leave here until that’s picked up and the carpet disinfected.”
“Listen, I told you I’m pooing all the time! It doesn’t stop! Every minute you keep me here, more poo is going to pile up on your carpet. Look, just let me go, and I promise I’ll come back this afternoon to clear it up.”
“Don’t be daft,” said the man. “I’m not going to have a stinking pile of crap on my carpet all day. Just go upstairs, get some fucking toilet paper from the bathroom, and get to work!”
Becky ground her teeth in annoyance. “Do you want proof, is that it?” she asked. “Well then, look!” She turned around, lifted her skirt, and pulled down her panties.
The man took one look at Becky’s bottom and the contents of her underwear, and retched. “Oh my God!” he cried. “You have a serious problem!”
“Yeah, tell me about it, now can I go or do you want this pile to build up more?”
“Go, just go! Get the fuck out of here!” The man pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and clamped it to his nose and mouth.
“Thank you!” Becky ran past him to the door at the other end of the hall. Opening it, she hurried through, and found herself on the pavement of an unfamiliar road. She knew that the school lay somewhere to the right, but in that direction the road ended in a cul-de-sac. There was, however, an alley that led between two houses which might, she reasoned, lead through to the main road. Dropping a fresh lump of poo, she trotted towards this alley and entered it, but soon it bent around to the left, which she was not too happy about since it was now leading her in the wrong direction. Nevertheless, she followed it, only to find that it terminated in a dead end – a tall wire fence beyond which was a scrapyard. Sighing, she emptied out her panties and began to climb the fence – surely, she thought, a scrapyard would have an entrance on to a main road. She crested the top and jumped down, hearing a tearing sound as she did so. She dropped into the yard, landing on a loose pile of car parts. This made quite a clattering sound, and she looked around guiltily to make sure nobody had heard her. The tearing sound, she discovered, had been her shirt – it had got caught on a bit of stray wire at the top of the fence. Now her shirt had a three-inch tear in it, and she cursed in annoyance.
Nobody appeared, so she began to walk through the piles of scrap, looking for the exit. She had not gone far when she heard a sound that sent a shiver down her spine – the growl of a dog. She turned around slowly, and her heart sank as she saw a Doberman trotting towards her. She began to run, and the dog barked as it set off in hot pursuit. Becky screamed and accelerated, but it was hopeless – the dog had soon outrun her and, leaping up at her back, it knocked her to the ground. Becky rolled over on to her back, terrified, then she heard a man’s voice not far away.
“Hey Judas! Whatcha got there mate?”
The dog barked at the sound of his master’s voice.
The man now appeared, walking towards Becky. “Well hello there!” he said. “Looks like Judas has caught a burglar!”
“I’m not a burglar!” protested Becky. “I’m just looking for the way out!”
“Way out?” The man raised an eyebrow. “How did you get in? one wonders.”
“I climbed the fence. I was trying to take a shortcut,” said Becky. She could feel her panties rapidly filling with poo and knew she could not hide it for very much longer. She sat up, and the dog growled at her. “Could you call the dog off, please?”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” said the man. He was in his fifties, and possessed just three teeth, which he displayed to effect in a broad lecherous grin. He was staring at Becky’s legs.
Becky noticed her skirt had ridden up almost to her panties, and she quickly pulled it down. Her panties, she knew, were no more than a brown sticky rag, and she was anxious not to reveal her plight to this pervert. “Please let me go,” she said. “I have to get to school by nine o’clock.”
The man looked at his wristwatch. “No chance of that,” he said. “Still, I’ll think about letting you go, but you’ll have to play a little game with me first.”
Becky’s heart sank. “What kind of game?” she asked.
“Oh, it’s quite simple,” said the man. “I’ll ask you some trivia questions, and for each one you get wrong, you have to remove an item of clothing.”
“You sick bastard!” exclaimed Becky. “I’ll do no such thing!”
The man shrugged. “Fine, then I’ll just go back to the office and let you and Judas get acquainted.”
“No! Wait,” said Becky desperately. “Okay, what if I get a question right?”
The man grinned. “If you get three right,” he said, “then I let you go.”
Becky could feel poo oozing out of her bulging panties. She did not dare stand up now, for she knew that she would be leaving a pile of poo on the ground that the man could not fail to notice. “Okay,” she said. “Ask away.”
“I’ll let you choose a category,” he said. “Silent movies, astronomy, classical music, or romantic poetry.”
“Good grief, what kind of a security guard are you?” inquired Becky in disbelief. “Oh, go on, classical music I suppose.”
“Good!” The guard seemed pleased. “Question one: which English composer, born in 1659, composed the opera Dido and Aeneas?”
Becky shook her head. “I haven’t a clue. That’s a hard one!”
The man chuckled. “That was an easy one to begin with. It was Henry Purcell. Please remove one item of clothing.”
Becky sighed, and removed one of her shoes. She wiggled uncomfortably on her bottom – the poo was becoming so compressed that it was pushing back rather hard on the excrement trying to emerge. She leaned over on to her right buttock, planting her right hand on the ground and bending her legs for balance, so that her poo was more easily able to flow out of her anus.
The man smiled. “Okay, I’ll give you a slightly easier one. Which Hungarian virtuoso pianist developed the symphonic poem?”
Becky frowned. “Well I haven’t a clue what a symphonic poem is, but I’ve a feeling Franz Liszt was Hungarian, and I know he was a damn good pianist.”
“Excellent!” The man clapped his hands. “Liszt it was. One down, two to go. In which country did madrigals originate?”
“What the hell are madrigals?” demanded Becky. “I don’t know – Germany?”
“Oh dear oh dear, you’re not doing very well are you?” sighed the security guard. “Remove another item, please. The answer was Italy.”
Crossly, Becky took off her other shoe. She could feel that her over-full panties had been pushed to one side, and her poo was now flowing directly on to the ground to form a pile against her bottom. She hoped this awful quiz would be over soon.
“Good, good,” the man approved. “From what choral work is the line ‘O Fortuna, velut Luna, statu variabilis’?”
“You really are an evil sod,” muttered Becky. “Oh wait, hang on – is it from Carmina Burana by Carl Orff?”
“It is indeed!” The guard nodded. “Very good. You only need one more correct answer. What nationality was Richard Strauss?”
“Um, Austrian I think,” replied Becky.
“Wrong!” The man laughed. “Johann Strauss was Austrian – Richard was German.”
“Hey, that’s not fair!” complained Becky. “Weren’t they father and son?”
The man shook his head. “They weren’t related,” he said. “Come on, another item please.”
Becky ground her teeth in annoyance as she took off a sock.
“In what year was Mozart’s The Marriage of Figaro first performed?”
“Good grief!” Becky scowled. “You are seriously going to get into trouble for this. 1762?”
The man laughed. “Mozart was only six in 1762! No, the answer was 1786.”
Becky resignedly removed her other sock. “You’d better give me an easier one now,” she warned. “I have no wish to let you see any more of me than this.”
He shrugged. “That’s up to you, isn’t it? Next question: How many symphonies did Dmitri Shostakovich compose?”
“Now you’re just getting silly,” grumbled Becky. “I haven’t the foggiest. Nine?”
“Fifteen. The shirt please?”
The pile of poo squelched around her buttocks as Becky undid a couple of buttons and pulled the shirt over her head. Briefly she sat down flat on the ground, and the poo squished in all directions, coating her buttocks and upper thighs. Clad now only in her bra, skirt and what used to be a pair of panties, she gestured for the man to ask her another question.
He was ogling her chest, and was clearly becoming aroused. But he shook himself, and said, “How old was Frederic Chopin when he died? If you’re within two years, I’ll give it to you.”
“No idea. Fifty-two?” Becky hazarded.
A broad grin broke out on the man’s face. “Thirty-nine,” he said. “The skirt now?”
Becky shook her head. “Bra first,” she said, “but please, make this next one easy, okay?”
The man nodded, staring eagerly at Becky’s chest. With a sigh, she reached behind her back, undid the clasp, and slipped her bra off her shoulders. She put it down beside her.
“Wow,” breathed the security guard in awe.
Becky could see that her skirt was bulging from beneath, and she knew that at any moment the poo would be oozing into view. “Next question please?” she prompted. “An easy one, remember.”
“Um, okay. Which composer first used the diminished seventh in his compositions?”
“Hey, that’s not easy!” Becky protested.
“Of course it is! It’s common knowledge!” countered the man.
“Well not to me. I have no idea! Vivaldi?”
“Nope, the answer is Beethoven. The skirt now, please.”
“Bollocks!” exclaimed Becky angrily. “Vivaldi died before Beethoven was born, and he used diminished sevenths!”
“The hell he did,” retorted the man.
“He did too! What about his concerto for four violins in B minor? The second movement opens with a bloody diminished seventh!”
The security guard frowned, puzzled. He seemed to be thinking to himself. Eventually he looked up. “You know, you’re absolutely right,” he said. “My source was obviously mistaken. Okay, that question is null and void.”
“What??” Becky was incensed. “I got it right!!”
The man shook his head. “No you didn’t,” he said. “Well, you may have done, but it’s impossible to know. You’ve proved me wrong, sure, but that doesn’t mean you’re right. I’ll have to think of another question.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” Becky insisted. “Call off your dog and let me go.” She began to reach for her clothes.
The dog growled and made as if to snap at her hand, which she hastily withdrew. “Call him off, please?”
“No no no. You’ll have to keep answering questions,” said the man. “Judas, guard!”
The dog advanced, baring its teeth at Becky. She began to back away in fear.
“What the heck?” The guard had spotted the pile of poo, which Becky had just inadvertently revealed. “Did you just do all that?”
Becky continued to back away. “Just let me go!” she cried.
The dog began to run forward, barking twice.
“Stay, Judas!” ordered the man curtly, but Becky had already got to her feet and was running away as fast as she could. “Hey, your clothes!” called the man, but Becky was by now out of sight. “Oh hell,” said the man, “I guess you’d better go and stop her. “Go seek, Judas! Seek and guard!” As the dog bounded off after Becky, the man picked up her clothes and began to follow at a more leisurely pace.
Becky did not look behind her until she reached the fence that she had originally climbed over. With a strength and speed that only adrenaline could provide, she scaled the fence and practically fell over the other side. Unfortunately, the bit of stray wire that had snagged her shirt earlier now got caught on her skirt. As she fell, she was brought up sharply by the skirt, and found herself suspended upside-down with her head knocking against the fence. At that moment, Judas arrived and threw himself against the fence, barking at her with saliva flying from his jaws. Becky screamed in terror.
She fumbled frantically at the button and zip on her skirt, and after only a couple of seconds managed to undo them both. She fell to the foot of the fence in an untidy heap, now dressed only in the brown, sticky, poo-filled piece of cotton rag that had once been her panties. Winded by her fall, she struggled to her feet. The first thing she checked was whether she was still defecating – sudden inertial shocks had a way of halting the endless flow of poo from her rectum. However, this was not the case now – not only was she still pooing, but the rate had more than doubled, perhaps more than tripled. Within a few seconds her panties were full again and she emptied them out.
Meanwhile, the dog was leaping up against the fence, apparently attempting to scale it himself. When Becky noticed this she backed away in fear, then turn and ran down the alley. She followed it, dropping lumps of poo as she ran, until it opened out into the cul-de-sac. Becky paused, nervous of being seen by all and sundry in this condition, but she was by now simply desperate to get to school and show herself to Mr Dean. Gritting her teeth, she ran out on to the pavement and began to jog towards the main road which, she guessed, was at the far end of the cul-de-sac. Her breasts bounced uncomfortably as she ran, so she held her left arm across them to hold them in place. With her right hand she grasped the back of her panties so that they would not fall down. In this manner she ran all the way to the end of the cul-de-sac, ignoring the occasional shouts that followed her. By the time she reached the next road her panties were full again, but she did not bother to stop and empty them. Instead she turned left and continued running, while her overloaded panties spilled poo that was flung every which way with each step. It splattered the backs of her legs from thigh to ankle, and every time she passed somebody else on the pavement they leaped back to avoid the flying pieces of poo.
She soon reached the main road, which was busy with both traffic and pedestrians. Becky tried to avoid meeting anybody’s eye as she was honked at by cars, and shouted and jeered at by men and women alike. Shutting these things out of her mind, Becky simply concentrated on running to school. Nobody tried to stop her, and most people actually tended to clear out of her way as she jogged down the pavement. It was not long before she was approaching her school. Her feet were sore from having run so far without shoes, and her abused panties had lost virtually all their elastic and were hanging loosely around her bottom, still full of poo but now sagging badly at the front so that her pussy was partially uncovered.
Running into the schoolyard, she hurried to the front door and dashed inside, closing the door behind her. A quick look around told her that she was alone in the main corridor, so she trotted towards the toilets, ducking as she passed each classroom door. She knew she was leaving a trail of lumps of poo as she went, but she could not do anything about that right now. Reaching the door to the girls’ toilet, she hurried inside, found herself a stall, and locked herself in it.
Panting with exhaustion, she sat down on the loo and closed her eyes in relief. She had made it. Now all she had to do was go upstairs to see Mr Dean. But first she must just get her breath back. She took off her panties and tipped out most of their contents into the bowl beneath her. Then she leaned back against the cistern and attempted to relax. Her poo was flowing, still at a steady pace, into the toilet bowl, but she knew it would be a little while before it filled up. So she idly began to stroke her pussy while the endless turd extruded through her anus. Now that she was safe and sound, she could concentrate on how nice it felt, how erotic, how sensual…
She started to masturbate, and recalled to her mind the incident in which she had been stuck in the lift, with her poo pouring out of her at a great speed, steadily growing deeper on the floor, until she was buried up to her neck. It had been horrible at the time, but now it seemed like a bizarre but erotic dream. Uttering a low moan, Becky began to rub her poo-covered panties over her breast while she caressed her clitoris. Then she rubbed it downwards, leaving a trail of poo that ran from her breast down her belly to her pussy. She began to slide two fingers into her cunt, and with them went part of her panties. This gave her an idea, and she started to push her poo-soaked panties into her vagina. Slippery with her excrement, they slid in easily, and soon she had stuffed the entire garment inside her, along with all the poo that it still contained.
Overwhelmed with lust, she remembered how the flow of poo had increased when she had strained as if attempting to force a poo out under normal circumstances. Closing her eyes and smiling to herself, she began to strain again, pushing her poo out as hard as she could. To her great satisfaction, she felt the flow rate increase still further, and when she opened her eyes to look down, she saw the bowl already more than half full and getting fuller every second. Still masturbating, she relaxed, and was glad to see that the rate remained at its new level. She began to strain again, and the poo started flowing even faster – as fast, in fact, as it had been flowing when she had got stuck in the lift.
“Oh yes,” she whispered in ecstasy, “come, my babies, come out of me and let me feel you.”
The level of poo in the toilet had now reached the seat. Smiling happily, Becky lowered her bottom down into it, causing it to overflow on all sides. Her pussy descended into the muck and disappeared, the muck sliding into every crevice. Her hand buried in poo up to the wrist, she continued to masturbate, feeling her orgasm rapidly approaching. Delirious with pleasure, she scooped up handfuls of poo and rubbed them into her breasts, coating them in a layer of excrement an inch thick. Eventually, she moaned aloud as her loins exploded in an orgasm that sent shivers through her entire body.
“I love my poo,” she whispered. And, for the first time, it occurred to her that maybe she did not want to be cured. If she went to see Mr Dean now, he would send her to the hospital, support her story, and make sure that she was thoroughly examined and, if necessary, operated upon. Whatever was inside her would be found, and removed, and her adventures would end. Did she really want that?
But what of the alternative? If she did not go to see Mr Dean, what would she do? Should she try to get home, stop the poo herself somehow, get changed into a clean uniform and come back to school? What excuse would she have for her lateness? And how would she explain the piles of poo in her bed, on her bedroom floor, and in the bath? And how, in the first place, would she get home?
In the end, the desire to be believed, and to be vindicated, won out. Getting to her feet, Becky wiped most of the poo from her breasts and belly, as well as from her pussy and bottom. Not all of it, though – she quite enjoyed being covered in poo and she knew she had the perfect excuse. All she needed was to keep defecating until Mr Dean saw her.
Poking her head out into the corridor, Becky emerged from the toilet when she saw that the coast was clear. She ran up the stairs, poo pouring from her anus all the way, forming an almost unbroken trail behind her. Once on the next floor, she hurried to Mr Dean’s office and pressed the buzzer.
There was no reply, but the door was ajar. Becky tentatively pushed it further open and peered into the room. It was empty. Mr Dean had apparently stepped out for a moment. Becky entered and stood in the middle of the office, where she began to build a rising pile of poo behind her feet. She closed her eyes and smiled, savouring the delicious feeling of her faeces spewing out of her at ten or eleven inches per second. On a sudden impulse, she spread her feet apart and reached into her vagina, pulling out the panties she had stuffed in there. She dropped them on to the pile of poo beneath her, and smiled to herself as they were quickly covered. Then she reached behind her and caught her turd as it came out, breaking off a foot-long section which she cradled carefully in both hands. Then, with careful precision, she placed the tip of the object at the entrance to her vagina and started to push it inwards, guiding it inside her body and working it deeper and deeper until two thirds of it had disappeared. This was as far as she could push it, though, so she merely mashed the rest into her pussy.
Her panties were now nowhere to be seen, but Becky pushed her hand right into the great pile of poo on the floor, and felt around until she discovered them. She pulled them out and then stepped into them, pulling them right up tight against her bottom. Of course, they soon filled up and overflowed, but they were hardly in a state to catch much of anything anyway. The poo merely thundered against the material then poured sideways out of one of the leg holes.
“Becky!! Oh my God!!” Mr Dean stood in the doorway, horrified at what he saw.
Becky jumped, startled, and put one arm over her breasts while her free hand held up the back of her panties. “Hello, sir. You told me to come and see you if my … problem … happened again.”
“But … but … I didn’t believe you!” stammered Mr Dean. He pulled out a handkerchief and held it to his nose. “Good Lord, look at the state of my office! And look at you! What happened to your clothes?”
“That’s a long story sir. Would you like me to tell it to you, or would you prefer to call an ambulance and get me out of here as soon as possible? I take it you will corroborate my story now?”
“Um, of course, of course.” Mr Dean stood transfixed for a moment, then he strode across to his desk. Picking up the phone, he dialled 999. “Hello, yes, ambulance please,” he said, and he gave the school’s address. “I have a young lady here with a very severe bowel problem. Um, trust me, it has to be seen to be believed… Well I can’t tell you exactly what’s wrong, because I don’t exactly know myself. Just get someone here as soon as you can please.” Then he put the phone down.
“Thank you sir,” said Becky. “You know, I’ve been to the hospital with this problem twice now, and each time it has stopped before I got a chance to show anyone.”
“Well don’t worry about that,” said Mr Dean grimly. “If it stops, I’ll not let them fob you off. I’ll back up your story and we’ll have the testimony of two sets of ambulance men, hopefully. Now suppose you tell me how you lost your clothes and got in such a state? Actually, don’t – do you think you could go back to the loo? I’d rather that pile on my carpet did not grow any larger.”
“Certainly sir,” said Becky, and she hurried out of the room and made for the upstairs toilets. There she sat down and began to fill up another bowl.
She was approaching another orgasm, with poo flowing steadily over the top of the toilet, when she heard Mr Dean’s voice from outside.
“Becky,” he said, “the ambulance is here.”
Becky got up and exited the toilets to find Mr Dean standing outside with a large travel rug. “Here,” he said. “It doesn’t matter if this gets messy, but I think you should cover yourself, eh?”
“Thank you sir,” said Becky, taking the rug and wrapping it around herself. She followed the headmaster down the stairs, still trailing poo all the way, and together they walked out of the school into the yard where an ambulance was waiting. The crew were not the same as last time – this time there was a man and a woman – and Becky smiled nervously at them as she approached.
“What’s the problem?” asked the woman.
“Endless poo syndrome,” replied Becky.
“As you can see,” added Mr Dean, “she is defecating continuously. Where it is all coming from, I cannot imagine.”
The woman looked first puzzled, then astonished, as she stared at the pile already forming behind Becky’s feet. “Oh my goodness!” she exclaimed. “Um, well you’d better get in then.”
“I’ll be coming too, if you don’t mind,” said Mr Dean.
“Sure,” agreed the woman. “Hop aboard.”
This time, the trip to the hospital went smoothly. No sudden shocks caused the flow of poo to stop, and when Becky walked into the casualty department she was still excreting as prolifically as ever. She and Mr Dean were asked to wait while the ambulance woman went to speak to one of the doctors. A moment later, she returned with a man whom Becky recognised immediately.
“You!” she said, frowning.
“Now now, Miss Booth,” said the doctor. It was the same balding Indian doctor who had been so mean to her on her first visit. “What have you been up to this time?”
“Look, you bastard!” Becky dropped the rug and turned around, bending over and spreading her buttocks so that the doctor had a clear view of her anus.
The doctor’s jaw dropped. He stared in utter disbelief at the torrent of poo that was flooding from Becky’s rectum. “Great heavens above!” he whispered. “Miss Booth I believe I owe you an apology. Please, follow me – this quite clearly warrants immediate attention. Nurse Gregson, please prepare emergency room number four, and have two of the porters on standby with wheelbarrows.”
“Wheelbarrows, Dr Singh?”
“Yes, wheelbarrows! Would you like me to draw you a picture?”
Mr Dean turned to Becky as the nurse hurried off. “Well,” he said, “you’ve convinced the doctor. Will you be okay from now on?”
Becky nodded. “Thank you sir,” she said. “I’ll call my parents after I’m done here.”
Mr Dean left, and Becky followed Dr Singh down the corridor. “You are making quite a mess, Miss Booth,” the doctor observed. “But do not worry – it will all be cleared up in no time. The main thing is to get you opened up as soon as possible. Have you ever had a general anaesthetic before?”
“Yes, once,” said Becky. “I had a hernia operation when I was seven.”
“Good, good. Here we are. Now, please get on to the table and lie on your side, with your bottom right at the edge of the table. Hopefully we’ll soon have that wheelbarrow here to place beneath you.”
Two women now walked in, clothed appropriately for the operation, complete with masks which they were no doubt grateful for. Nevertheless, what little was showing of their faces betrayed their disgust at the sight and sound that greeted them upon their arrival. One of them approached Becky with a hypodermic needle.
“Give me your hand please,” she said to Becky.
Becky presented her hand, and the woman injected it. Unconsciousness followed swiftly…
Several hours later, she awoke in a hospital bed. Groggily she opened her eyes, rubbed them, and looked around. She was in a ward with six or seven other female patients, but there was not a nurse in sight. Becky tried to struggle into a sitting position, but her abdomen felt weak and a little sore, and she gave up. A few minutes later, however, a nurse came in.
“Ah, you’re awake,” she said. “How do you feel?”
“A bit woozy, and a bit sore,” replied Becky. “Can I speak to Dr Singh?”
“Certainly,” said the nurse. “He told me to fetch him when you awoke. He’ll be right with you.”
The nurse disappeared, and two minutes later Dr Singh entered the room.
“Good afternoon, Miss Booth,” he said. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine,” said Becky. “Was the operation a success?”
Dr Singh looked a little troubled. “Well … not exactly,” he said. He drew the curtains around Becky’s bed and sat down on a chair. “When we took a look inside you, we found something most unexpected. Most strange indeed.”
“What?” asked Becky in alarm.
“Oh please, do not worry yourself.” The doctor held up a calming hand. “You appear to be fully functional, despite…” He sighed. “Miss Booth, it would appear that you have recently been operated upon. I can think of no other explanation for what we found.”
“Operated upon?” echoed Becky.
“Have you recently had any abdominal surgery at another hospital?”
Becky shook her head.
“I thought not. This is not any kind of surgery I have ever seen before. But I am extremely puzzled as to how it could have happened…”
“Last week,” said Becky, “I think I was abducted by aliens. I had a dream, you see… Normally I would have assumed it was only a dream, but so much weird stuff has happened since then…”
The doctor looked at her gravely. “I remember you saying this the last time you were here,” he said, “though of course I dismissed your words as foolishness. Now, I am not so sure.”
“But what did you find?” demanded Becky.
The doctor ran a hand over what was left of his hair. “Your internal organs have been completely restructured,” he said. “Your stomach, intestines, and kidneys are completely gone, and some kind of artificial system has been put in their place. Your liver is still there, as is your spleen and a couple of other organs, but most of it is just clean gone. And what’s there now is … well, I hardly know how to describe it. There are sacs, pumps, tubes, and valves, all interconnected and fitting neatly into the space your missing organs left. They are all made of some kind of, well, I don’t know, I suppose the only way to describe the material is to call it ‘organic plastic’. I can’t think of another way to phrase it. It’s artificial, or appears to be, yet it displays organic properties. At any rate, I did not dare to mess with it, so I have no idea what was causing your … problem. But while we were probing around in there, the flow just stopped by itself.”
“So … you didn’t actually fix anything?” asked Becky.
“I’m afraid not,” confessed the doctor. “I wouldn’t know where to begin. We figured out a couple of things – for instance that your bowels have been replaced with a fairly heavy-duty one-way system that allows a lot of matter to be propelled outwards without rupturing any of the … equipment. This is why you were able to defecate so much so fast without any of it backing up. To be honest, the implications of all this are just enormous. We should keep you here indefinitely, get the government involved, put you through hundreds of tests, hypnotise you to see what exactly went on the night you were abducted, and so on.”
Becky’s jaw dropped in alarm. “I can’t go through all that!” she exclaimed in horror.
“Well, like I said,” continued the doctor, “we should do all that. But personally I would rather not. The implications of this run far deeper than I want to get involved with. This may be the first concrete proof of extraterrestrial life, or on the other hand there may be a more down-to-earth explanation. But the controversy could ruin a career like mine, and I don’t want to run that risk.”
“But,” said Becky, puzzled, “what do you suggest?”
Dr Singh shrugged. “Well, obviously it is up to you,” he said, “but if, for instance, you wished to keep this as quiet as possible, then I would do my best to help you achieve that.”
Becky shook her head. “It would get out somehow. And my parents will want an explanation for the pile of poo in my room.”
“I will speak to them,” said the doctor. “I will tell them the truth of what has happened, but I am sure they will appreciate the benefits of keeping it a secret. However, the rest is up to you. If your problem starts up again, discretion would be advisable, and I would ask you please to try to fix it yourself – there is little I can do about it really.”
Becky thought hard about this. “And my headmaster?”
“He will most likely be even less keen for this thing to go public. I will talk to him.”
“Thank you,” said Becky. “Well, I will go along with that. I don’t want to be subjected to all kinds of tests. If it can be kept quiet, and I am not at all sure that it can, then that is the best option, I think.”
Dr Singh nodded and smiled. “If anybody else talks to the papers,” he said, “do you really think they will be believed?”
Becky considered this. “Probably not,” she conceded.
“Exactly. Now, can you give me a phone number on which I can reach either of your parents?”
“My mum should be home by now,” said Becky, and she gave him her home number.
“Excellent. I’ll call her now and get her to come and see you. It will be a couple days before we let you go home, though, and I think you should stay home for the next week, to give you a chance to heal. There will be a small abdominal scar, but nothing too noticeable.”
“Okay. Thank you, doctor.”
Dr Singh left her bedside, and Becky pondered what he had told her. Her internal organs replaced? This was a frightening thought. But they seemed to be working… Perhaps they were an improvement? What had her abductors been trying to do? Why had they done this to her? Would she ever get any answers?
One thing was certain, though – her endless poo adventures would probably continue for the rest of her life. Contemplating this, Becky lay back on her bed, a smile coming unbidden to her lips…