Holding It In Ch. 02

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[This story focuses on natural bodily functions, so if those disturb you or you disapprove of discussing them, please stop right here.]

When I described in the first installment how I trained myself to hold it in, I couldn’t bring myself to venture further at the end to describe what I felt was a woman’s most intimate moment on the toilet. Before releasing my bladder, I did admit to inserting an index finger in my anal opening to check if anything was likely to emerge from there. But the whole experience is too embarrassing for many women—and most men—to discuss.

But I do behave similarly when I feel a major movement coming on. It of course is an entirely different feeling from needing to pee. You sense some pressure in the rear and then, strangely, it tends to diminish, as if your body were saying that if you wish to ignore the signal that you need to defecate, it will desist from issuing those signals.

Yet then the real experience starts. It may take an hour or several hours but all of a sudden, you feel a very sharp pang back there and now it is not far inside your anal opening. For the first time there is the distinct possibility that you may not be able to control this. You may shame yourself, as a grownup, by yes, shitting your pants.

The pressure grows stronger and becomes painful. Your sphincter is being stretched and called upon to perform yeoman service. In my case, I know that there is a very major movement pushing in there to emerge and that it will be quite long, thick, and firm when it eventually appears.

There’s some pleasure to be had from the sensation of holding it in. The pressure ebbs and then returns with a vengeance. Now your sphincter is being painfully stretched and you start to think for the first time that you are going to lose control, wherever you are. I force myself to engage in contemplating whether the panties I have on will hold what may emerge at any second from the anal opening I am so striving to keep closed for just a little bit longer.

If I didn’t get such a charge out of putting myself through this ordeal, I likely couldn’t engage in dominating other women by restricting their use of the toilet and then supervising in minute detail how they eventually are permitted to urinate and defecate. For instance, I will first allow them to sit on the toilet seat with their panties still up. This has the effect of spreading their bottom cheeks and allowing their anus to open as well, with the horrid possibility of their losing control in their panties looming more and more prominently in their mind.

Her mind, naturally, is concentrating ever more exclusively on her anus. My dominance here now inspires me to feign sympathy for her plight so I sweetly allow her to lower her panties. She now expects that she is so close to gaining relief. After she looks at me with pleading eyes asking for that elusive permission to release, I smile sweetly casino siteleri again as I issue the order she dreads the most: “Pull your panties up.”

This whole scene may strike you as cruel and sadistic, both of which it is, but I believe my redemption from those nasty charges comes in my own willingness to subject myself to the same treatment. I will sit on the toilet, feeling the pressure intensify, and keep my panties up. At some point, I will lower them—the way I do when I need to pee, by pulling them down to just above my knees, so that I am staring at the crotch.

Again, if I see stains in my panty crotch—whether they be from pee, menses, or actual skid marks—I impose more discipline on myself by postponing the grant of permission to open my sphincter. I do inform a submissive who is being put through this exercise that if she moans too much or makes too much of a fuss, I will have her get up from the toilet seat and place herself in the diaper position to be caned.

Alas, I do not feel very capable of spanking or caning myself (Yes, it is possible but not very simple or effective.). So instead I may warn myself that if I fail to hold it in and lose control on the toilet or in my panties, I will arrange to have a domme with whom I’m friendly put me through my paces.

I doubt that anyone will ever admit that there is a weird pleasure to be gained from holding it in. But there is. Eventually the pain grows in intensity and frequency as the movement pokes into the sphincter, demanding to proceed out my anal gateway. There are instants of shooting pain each time the movement presses more forcefully against my controlling muscle. I start to wonder if I can indeed keep it in for much longer. This is bliss.

The whole process of holding it in relates closely to what I regard as the combination of pain and pleasure that informs the most satisfying kinds of sex. I’ve found that my male partner is never so stimulated toward both as when I have him don mesh-front panties and relax in an all-fours position while I run my nail over the panties from the base of his scrotum up his shaft to the sensitive glans. An added fillip to his pleasure comes from the likelihood that the mesh will at some stage get caught in the small slit at the tip of his member, which provides the pain portion of this exercise.

The pain segment can also be provided by application of the cane or hand to the bottom cheeks. A light caning interspersed with my running that finger up his panty-covered penis completes the picture. For me, the equivalent would be light—very light!—fingering of my clit while softly spanking me or even using the cane lightly on my bottom or running its tip between my legs in my furrow will perfectly combine pleasure and pain. This all can occur when I’m holding it in, since the possibility that I may fail and go in my panties while this is happening looms as excruciatingly embarrassing.

I slot oyna prefer that holding it in as a dominating technique retain its adult characterization. There’s enough mental stimulation to be had from having to control both urinary and anal sphincters while being sexually stimulated. Some do feel that since losing excretory control is something that is usually limited to one’s pre-adult life, it becomes especially humiliating if a grown man or woman is required to ask permission using terms like “wee-wee” or “plop-plop” to describe what he or she needs to do. I do get turned on by having to ask or having someone I’m dominating ask permission “to make a doody” because that was a term used when I was first learning control.

Focusing on holding it in often is accompanied by a tendency, one that I certainly possess, to look into the toilet after excreting to see what my waste products look like. Someone once suggested to me that there are two groups of people: those who look and those who can’t abide the idea of seeing their waste once it is in the toilet.

In that vein, I recall using toilets in Germany and Austria equipped with a shelf on which your feces would land (along with your urine) so that you could carefully examine them before flushing. This is admittedly consistent with the traditional near-obsession with excretion found in some of the more lurid writings from those places.

In engaging in holding it in for as long as possible, I may even subject myself to what some dominants enjoy using as a disciplinary device: setting particular and limited times when a submissive is permitted to use the toilet. It is best if these are well-spaced during the day and frequent enough to make retention a challenge rather than an impossibility, which would be the situation were you to impose restriction as severe as limiting toilet use for any purpose to once a day.

Someone who knows that they will be allowed relief at the hour will start to squirm if they need to go badly and it is still five minutes before the appointed hour. Then, when permitted to sit on the toilet and lower panties, the dominant may inspire fear by declaring that unless the submissive begins to pee (or defecate) within a set time, such as one minute, permission will be withdrawn and the now-horribly frightened sub will be made to wait for possibly several more hours.

My own submissive side—and I believe we all have some of both in our make-up—encourages me to subject myself to anything that I intend to impose on a sub. So I will tell myself that I am not permitted to use the toilet until a certain time, and I will find myself exhibiting the classic signs of distress as I wriggle in an effort to control my sphincters. I stimulate my mind during this effort by remembering every teacher who was probably into this kind of thing and showed it by refusing us permission to go to the girls’ room.

You might wonder whether canlı casino siteleri I have ever walked the walk as well as I talk the talk. Have I lost control in my panties—letting go into the toilet just doesn’t make the grade here—while trying to hold it in? It’s likely that it happened when I was quite young and don’t entirely recall, but a few years ago, I was out driving. I had neglected to respond to the first signals my body gave me that I needed to have a bowel movement.

As I drove on, the urge became ever stronger. Traffic also intensified. All too soon I began to accept the wretched fact that I was not going to get where I was headed in time, and that I was going to make a jobbie in my panties, to use one of the favorite expressions for this event. As I neared my destination, I felt the intense pressure on my anal sphincter surge and finally overwhelm my desperate attempts to hold back the relentless pushing of my movement.

Finally, it burst out into my panty crotch (I had pushed up my skirt to try to keep it from being stained) and I felt the warm ooze fill my panties, followed by the unmistakable stench. So much for the occasionally valid—but not then—maxim that your own never stinks. It does.

I didn’t want to go home because I might have to face my family in the shameful state I had brought upon myself. Instead, I sought out a good friend and carefully extricated myself from the car seat and walked very slowly up to her front door. She was a close enough friend that I could readily confess to her what had happened.

As I related the sorry tale, she smiled but with a sympathetic smile that only a true friend would have for me. She comforted me not as a child but by stating that when you have tried to hold it in for a long time, excretion may indeed be involuntary. She refrained from chiding me for failing to use whatever ladies’ room I had passed up. As it happened, there had been one at the gas station where I stopped with hope that was dashed when I saw the wicked “Out of Order” sign on the door.

I hurried into her bathroom and taking care not to soil her carpeting or anything else, I dexterously slid my shit-filled panties down my legs and lifted them over the bowl to empty them into the water. I squatted over the bowl, toilet seat pushed up out of the way, to make sure that I rubbed off any pieces or traces of my movement that had been on my bottom, between my legs, or pressed into my pubic hair. Then I removed my skirt and squatted in the bathtub to wash my lower regions.

I winced as I saw the water in the tub become tinged with the color of my movement. But soon I was able to watch it all go down the drain, making sure no pieces were trapped in the outlet. Then I applied some liquid soap to myself, happily washing those same places, including inserting fingers into my vagina to clean any traces that might have slipped inside me.

My friend picked this moment to knock on the door, and I couldn’t not let her enter, so she saw me in my squatting position with my fingers in my cunt.

“I’m glad you’re able to enjoy this experience,” she said with a sly wink.

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