Hi, my name’s Morag and I’m from a little town in Scotland (originally at least – I now live in England). I went to an all-girls public school (boarding) from the age of 12 until I was 18, and it was during that time that I got into panty-pooping. The first time I did it was when I was 15. I had fantasised about it for weeks but chickened out every time, until one day when there was hardly anybody else in my boarding house I went into the toilets, lined my knickers with several thicknesses of toilet paper, and then I sat down and did it. It was so exciting that I masturbated right then and there. But the smell was pretty bad, so I emptied it all out and cleaned up. Later, in my room, I masturbated again because the memory of it was such a thrill. Over the next few weeks I did it several more times, and once I even did it without paper, which was an even bigger turn-on but a lot worse to clean up. Sometimes I liked to put the lid of the toilet down and then sit down on it, so that it all squashed against me. That was fun, but it made the smell worse and the clean-up more difficult, so I didn’t do that very often. One thing I did enjoy doing was holding it in for as long as possible – sometimes for 5 or 6 days – before I let it out. The feeling of desperation, and only just managing to keep it in while in class, was really exciting.
Anyway that’s the background to my story. A year later I was still doing it, sometimes with paper and sometimes without, but always in my knickers – I had made it a rule never to do it straight into the toilet. I had also taken to wearing thongs most of the time, which I found felt really nice – I would wear a thong for 3 or 4 days after a poo, and then change into ordinary knickers when I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I had to wash the thongs myself, of course, since I was a wee bit embarrassed about wearing them. The other girls all wore ordinary knickers and I had to be pretty secretive about my thongs. Windy days were sometimes a bit traumatic!
One day the queen came to visit the town near our school. It was quite a big thing for the town, and they pulled out all the stops to make Her Majesty feel welcome. They even arranged for the local schools, including mine, to parade along the streets in our Sunday best. For us, that meant a white blouse, school tie, kilt, grey socks and black shoes. My own kilt was quite short – it was three or four inches above the knee, I suppose. It was a curious double-standard, because our everyday (navy blue) skirts had to be below the knee, but our kilts were allowed to be above the knee. I don’t know why, but we never really questioned it – it was just a quirk of the rules.
That morning I put on a thong, even though I felt very full. It had only been four days and I was confident I could hold it in until that evening at least, if not the next day. We had two lessons and then we all assembled in the quad and boarded buses that took us into the town. We’d rehearsed the parade the week before, so we all knew where to go. We got into our positions, lined up by houses and years, and we marched through the streets to the town square, led by our pipe band. We formed up in neat rows and columns in the square, and then we waited. And waited.
God knows what had happened to the queen. Half an hour after she was due, we were all getting pretty fidgety. Some of the girls needed the toilet by now, and they were being directed by one of the teachers to the public toilet at the side of the square. I was pretty desperate myself, and I realised I might not last until we got back to the school. I was annoyed about having to waste my poo, but eventually I gave up and went to ask the teacher if I could go to the toilet. She nodded and told me to hurry.
When I got inside, I pulled up my kilt, pulled down my thong, and relaxed. At once some gas escaped, and I felt a little better. Figuring I could now hold out a bit longer, I went back out and took my place in the parade. Twenty minutes later, the queen still had not arrived, but I was desperate again. I decided to go to the toilet again. Feeling on the verge of pooping, I stepped out of line and went to ask the teacher, but she got annoyed with me and wouldn’t let me go again. She told me the queen would be here soon, and she wanted everybody in line.
Trying not to look as uncomfortable as I felt, I returned to my spot. Then I couldn’t hold it any longer, and I tried to release some gas, but all that happened was that my poo started coming out. I desperately tried to stop it, but it was too late and it started coming out into my thong. Since my thong was wedged right between my buttocks, the poo hit the material immediately and started pushing it out. I knew of course that my thong was far too narrow to contain the poo, and I was panicking, with visions of it dropping to the tarmac between my feet.
Anyway there was no stopping it now. It felt huge – really wide, and fortunately very solid. I say fortunately because if it had been any softer, bits of it might have fallen off on to the ground by now. As it was, I was terrified that this would happen anyway. Still it kept coming, and then I felt a wet snap against my left buttock as my thong slid to one side of the poo. There was now nothing to stop the poo from falling, and I was on the verge of tears. I knew that at any moment, the weight of the poo would cause part of it to fall to the ground.
Then I was saved by a miracle – the queen finally showed up. We heard cars, and somebody said “She’s coming!” For a moment everybody was distracted and looking out for the queen’s car. I took this opportunity to bend over slightly and put my hand up the front of my kilt. I grabbed my thong and replaced it over the rounded end of the poo, and then I pulled the poo forward, directing it along the gusset of the thong. I then gave a quick push, and a few more inches emerged. I guided the poo so that it slid forwards between my ‘nether’ lips, and then straightened up again. I looked around guiltily, and found that Wendy, the girl to my right, was staring at me, but everyone else was looking forward at the posh cars that were driving by. I caught a glimpse of the queen – she was waving, kind of, but looked a little bored, I thought. Then she was gone, and we were all left thinking “Was that it?”
“What were you doing?” asked Wendy. I was embarrassed and muttered something about adjusting my underwear. I was lucky that a fresh breeze was blowing, and Wendy was upwind of it otherwise she might have figured out what was going on. I heard some of the girls to my left commenting on the smell, though.
Now that the queen had been and gone, I was hoping to get to the toilet a.s.a.p. I was still ‘going’ in my thong, and my poo was by now pushing up against my clit. I was worried about what was happening at the back – I hoped the thong was still centred under the poo where it was still coming out of me. But I couldn’t get away – the teachers now told us we had to march back to the buses, and off we went.
Actually the march wasn’t too bad – much of the poo was wedged between my nether lips and held in place by my thong, and this helped to keep the rest of it in place where it lay along the back. I tried to keep my bottom open so that the poo wouldn’t break off, but this proved impossible while marching. As we went, I thought about what I would do when we got to the buses. There were no toilets there, but a big hedge surrounded the car park and I figured I could just slip behind it and let the poo fall out of my thong without anyone seeing.
I was still feeling uncomfortable and desperate to get rid of the rest of my poo. It wasn’t that I couldn’t hold it – I’d made enough room to last me a while – but what was still inside me was positioned awkwardly or something and it was giving me a cramp. When we got to the car park I walked carefully towards a gap in the hedge and, anticipating the end of my troubles, started releasing the next bit of poo. As I neared the hedge I lifted the front of my kilt and, reaching inside my thong, pulled the first poo forwards and up so that it reached almost all the way to the top of the thong at the front. Then I dropped the front of my kilt and pushed out the second poo into the space I had now created at the back of the thong. It was pretty big and I could feel my thong being stretched further and further away from my bottom.
I was almost at the hedge when a shout from Mr Donaldson (one of the teachers) stopped me. “Where are you going? Get on the bus,” he snapped. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him my predicament, but then I could hardly get on the bus in this condition. I resolved to make a break for it. I started towards the hedge again at a quicker pace, ignoring his shouts behind me. I got through the gap, but on the other side I almost ran into a guy who had obviously been cutting the grass on the bank. He was sitting on his mower, drinking from a box of fruit juice or something. He sort of smiled and nodded to me as I stopped short, and then I heard footsteps behind me and Mr Donaldson caught up with me.
“Bus! Now!” he shouted.
I began to cry, but his booming voice scared me and I couldn’t tell him my problem. With poo still coming out of my bottom, I walked back to the bus and waited behind the other girls as they climbed on board. When my turn came, I wondered if perhaps I could just let the poo fall on to the tarmac, but when I looked across at the other bus, I saw Mr Donaldson glaring at me. I lifted my foot on to the first step, and then drew my other leg up. As I did so, however, my anus involuntarily clenched shut, and my heart leapt into my mouth as I expected the poo to fall on to the step and betray me. But somehow it stayed in place, balanced on my thong, and I gingerly climbed the second step. The doors swished shut behind me and the bus driver smiled at me sympathetically, seeing my tears. I started walking slowly and carefully down the aisle, but all the seats were taken except for a couple near the back. The other girls began commenting on the smell. I heard someone say “Jeez, who guffed?”
I sat down, squashing the second poo against my bottom. The first poo was nestling between my legs and rising up to the waistband of my thong, and it actually felt quite nice although I was in no mood to enjoy it. I wondered if I could contrive to be the last person to leave the bus when we got back.
But any hopes I had that I might get away with it were quickly dashed. Immediately people began complaining about the smell, and soon Miss MacBride came back to see what was going on. The other girls had figured out the smell was coming from me, and they told her I had ‘shit myself’. I was crying by that point, but the bus was moving and we had to wait until we got back to school before anything could be done.
When the bus stopped in the quad, Miss MacBride took my arm and marched me off the bus before any of the other girls. It was horrible – I was crying, poo was falling from my thong and splatting on the floor, and the other girls were laughing and mocking me. I was taken to the toilets and told to clean up, which I did as well as I could, although my kilt was in a bad state.
I never did live down that incident. For a while I gave up panty-pooping, scared that I might get caught out again, but eventually my desire got the better of me and I resumed my activities. I had some other unplanned accidents, but never again in a thong.