Your FC feels their stomach gurgle, and they push their ass against their chair as hard as they can, working to hold everything in
Their SO denied them a chance to shit this morning, telling them they weren’t allowed to release their load until they got home from work. It’s a game they’ve never played before, and this morning FC was excited about it. Now they’re regretting that promise as they release a series of uncontrollably bubbly farts, further staining their already soiled underwear (they hadn’t made it two hours before sharting the first time, and by now there’s a not insubstantial bit of mess squishing between their cheeks as they squirm urgently)
They’re lucky they have an office to themself, but of course they’ll have to walk past dozens of coworkers in an hour when they finally get off and they’re fairly certain the only reason they haven’t had a full fledged accident is that they’re sitting down. They’re pretty desperate to pee at this point as well, but relieving that need would require standing and walking past coworkers as well, and if they lift their ass off the chair they’re going to poop
Not that they aren’t pooping anyway: they let out another toot and feel a large log start to press out of their hole before they clench with everything they have and suck it back in. They’ve given up any semblance of trying to get work done and are just sitting holding their stomach with their pants unbuttoned, desperately fighting their guts
The log pushes out further on the next cramp, and clenching hard only manages to break the tip off, adding to the mess in their pants. 45 minutes and they’re already losing it: they’ve got only a minute or two between cramps now, and each one is more forceful than the last
The log pushes out again, this time getting far enough to mush against the chair before they stop it. At this point there’s really no arguing that they haven’t pooped their pants, but they have to do what they can to minimize the severity. There’s probably not much of a bulge yet; maybe if they hurry past their coworkers no one will notice. It’s close enough to five that they can probably get away with leaving, right?
It’s not even 4:30. They can hang on for a few more minutes, right? To distract themself, they pull out their phone and text their SO: “I’m already making a mess of my pants, I have to go so bad. Can I come home early?”
The reply is immediate: “Stay until 5:05”
They’re never going to last that long. Just the thought of it has their stomach cramping again, and a large amount of mess squishes out of them with a squelch. They clench as hard as they can and decide on damage control over pleasing their SO; it’s not like SO will know when they left their desk, and they’d much rather have the rest of this accident in their car.
Standing up is a bad choice: even though they instantly cross their legs and clench as hard as they can, they feel more mess pushing out, accompanied by some more bubbling farts, and their bladder starts to give out as well: a hot spurt of pee soaks their underwear. They fight it as hard as they can, finally getting enough control to unclench their legs and step towards the door. Even though it’s not a large office, by the time they’re at the door they have to cross their legs again desperately as more waste urges out
They stand there with their hand in the knob, poop slowly sliding into their pants, one hand pressed tightly to their now-damp crotch, for probably thirty seconds before they have enough control to straighten up and walk down the hall to the elevator
They make it only a few steps before they lose control again, but they can’t stop, power walking as quickly as they can even though pee is spurting out with every step and a log of poop is sliding further and further out of them. They have to wait for the elevator, and they clench their legs together as tightly as possible. It feels like there are a thousand eyes on them: there’s pee running down the inside of their legs and there has to be a bulge in their pants by now.
To their horror, another loud shart explodes out of them as soon as they step forwyard to get on the elevator. Thankfully no one is inside.
Once the doors shut behind them, their hands are in their crotch again, desperately trying not to make a puddle in the elevator. The stink of their mess is almost unbearable, especially as they keep letting out bubbly farts
They leave a trail of brown-tinged pee as they all but run through the lobby of the building to get out to the parking garage where their car is. Once they’re outside they stop fighting their pee, leaning against a pillar as they soak their pants, uncaring of the large puddle left at their feet.
They stay there for a few minutes as their stomach cramps again, pushing out another large explosion of mess. They’re tempted to just stay there and finish their accident, but the rest of the office will be coming out soon and they can’t be seen like this
They hurry to their car, farting with every step. Sitting in this mess sounds so repulsive that they hesitate on arrival to the car, not even trying to fight the next log of shit that pushes against their hole, even pushing a little to urge it along. There’s a loud crackling sound as they absolutely fill their pants. Some of it starts to slide down the back of their legs as it overwhelms their underwear
They finally get enough of a break to get in the car, and their mess seems to squish everywhere as they sit down. They close the door and roll down the windows to vent the smell before pushing again. The mess squishes up the back of their shirt as the ride out the next wave.
After that they still need to go, but a lot less urgently; they know their SO will be pleased if they aren’t totally empty when they get home, and it’s not so bad they can’t drive now. Plus it’s finally almost five: if they say traffic was good their SO will never know they left early
The need climbs as they drive home, to the point where they nearly pull over to finish up. But they power through it, and half an hour later they’re still successfully turtleheading the next log when they make it into their driveway.
Their SO is waiting by the door, and looks terribly pleased when FC has to cross their legs desperately to keep control as they get out of the car.
“God,” FC says. “I’m about to shit my pants.”
SO’s smile grows, and they come down to inspect FC’s current state. “Looks like you have already shit your pants to me,” they say. “Can’t possibly still need a bathroom after this.” They lay one hand on the bulge in the back of FC’s pants, and one on their stomach, pressing gently.
The log pushes out of FC, followed by a very very wet fart. FC clenches desperately against the last of the mess. “Please,” they say, “I have to go so badly, I’m not going to make it.”
“Come sit with me on the porch swing,” SO says, pressing more firmly against FC’s stomach. “It’s such a lovely evening.”
“Ung,” FC says, releasing what feels like the last of their mess loudly into their pants.
SO grins, and draws FC with them up onto the porch, pressing them to sit. There’s an audible squishing sound as their mess mushes underneath them, and their pants are cold and wet, but if their SO wants them to stay outside, outside they’ll stay.
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