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Poop Pants Stories

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Shit happens. Those of us with IBD or an ostomy know that it happens more often than not!

Name: Ruthe
How old am I: 26
Where am I from: I was born in Romania
Color of my iris: Enormous gray eyes
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I was twenty one years Forced perm story. I was in Custom erotic stories of my own movements and self. I had an accessible toilet. It was a sunny and clear morning in the Indian Himalayan foothills. I woke up promptly at six am to my host mother knocking on the window, bringing us morning tea. Sweet, gingery flavor enticed me out of the bed I shared Poop pants stories two other American girls.

I opened the shuttered window, thanked Binaji for the tea, and began to get ready to start the day. Binaji, our host mother, was the granpanchayat, or mayor, of the village Reetha. Posted high in the Himalayan foothills, Reetha is home to mainly agricultural families. Peaches, pears, apples, cucumbers, plums, and cabbages thrive on the tiered mountain sides.

That Stories of public masturbation of year, late July, the peaches were perfectly ripe. We came home each afternoon and she indulged in them with us, attempting to teach us Hindi and laughing at our inability to pronounce the eight.

Shit happens

I had so many questions I wanted to ask her: what is it like to be in a village leadership role, especially as a woman? How long has your family lived in this house? May I pet the dog? She spoke no English, and I spoke no Hindi. So we ate peaches and tried to come up with innovative hand gestures to describe our hopes, struggles, and the world around us.

The house was white with blue shutters. Built of clay, the floors, ceilings, and walls sloped away from each other. The first time I walked inside was for dinner. It was dark, and the only light in the Fathers horny wife sex stories room came from a shrine Binaji and her husband used for worship. A statue of Ganesha looked protectively over Spanking story forum room, ready to receive and ease all worries.

Binaji was in the kitchen.

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She motioned for us to move closer. I had to stoop my head to avoid bumping it on the clay ceilings above me. The kitchen was unlike any room I have ever been in before, and Embarrassing diaper punishment stories any room I ever will be inside again. It was dimly lit — the only real light source a small fire and an electric lantern in the middle of the room.

In the far corner sat a John d muscle stories electric stove and a set of pots and pans. Poop pants stories large cabinet stood next to it, so large it seemed like the room had been built around it — there was no way it could have fit through the stunted doors. The shelves overflowed with containers of spices and vegetables and flour. Although none of the containers had words on them, Binaji always knew just which one held what. In the corner closest to the door there was a small wood fireplace, and squatting down next to it was Binaji.

Years of smoke from the fireplace blackened the wall around her and the ceiling above. Small penis cuckold stories she moved, I saw a distinct outline of her shape forever immortalized in the wall behind her. She poked sticks into the fire to start a large enough flame, then rolled chapati and placed it on a small metal plate above the fire. With a hollowed out stick she blew on the flame to just the right height, and then grabbed the hot chapati with bare fingers and handed it directly to one of us.

It never failed to burn my sensitive hands. Our room was in a side Torture and rape stories, attached to the barn, separate from the main Petticoated sissy stories quarters. It was square, with a large bed in one corner. The walls at one point were blue, but were now faded to a slightly-teal white.

A flock of swallows had evidently occupied the room before we did. There were three mud nests inside the room, and the wall and floor beneath each was littered with stains of their excrement. As the three of us piled into the bed each night we could hear the cows sleeping soundly through our shared wall. When I woke Forced gay anal stories on that fateful morning, I was feeling a little off-kilter.

I was also starting to miss the comforts of home. As rewarding as it had been to challenge myself, I was getting Hot role play stories little tired with eating only potatoes and chapati. Apparently, so was my digestion system. Free gay male incest stories should really go to the bathroom.

The bathroom 7 minutes in heaven game stories in a small tin shed down the hill and around the corner. The shed was short — my head could touch the ceiling — and made of cement. The door to the bathroom was a piece of tin, with Poop pants stories in it just large enough to make you pretty sure others could see inside, and held closed by a short length of string clasped to a rusty nail in the wall.

The toilet itself was a ceramic hole in the ground, that required a person squat to use it. As I ran down the hill, I knew I was in trouble. One of the girls I was living with had already left the room to use the bathroom, and there was going to be a line.

I swatted past dancing butterflies and hopping frogs to the bathroom stall and banged on the door. I ran into the stall, squatted as fast as humanly possible, and ripped down my pants. But it was too late. The poop had already started, and it was not stopping anytime soon.

There I squatted, uncontrollable bowel functions on one end and a large spider inching closer and closer on the other, and I wondered at what point this had become my life. At what point did it become me who was off having adventures and diarrhea, and not someone else?

Really, anybody else? The program was perfect. Two months long, a relatively Wife fucks boss story area, a homestay component — Babysitter bondage story knew I would never be able to experience something like that if I tried to plan it myself. I probably knew, deep down somewhere, that I would never go someplace that challenged my way of living if I tried to plan it myself. My pants were a mess, not cleanable with the meager amount of toilet paper I grabbed in anticipation.

I needed to walk back up the hill to my room and to the potential of cleaner clothes. I had no choice. I pulled my poopy Poop pants stories back up, and stepped out of the stall. The air felt different. Or maybe that was just my smell.

I trudged up the hill and got to the room. Luckily, I had a stash of wet wipes and was able to get cleaned up pretty well. Unluckily, I had no access to garbage disposal. There is no Weird transformation stories garbage infrastructure in that area of rural India, and there was no way Foot smother stories was going to leave that particular garbage for my host family to dispose of themselves.

That meant I got to pack everything in my backpack. All of the Wheelchair wannabe stories paper and wipes, and yes, even the poopy pants, made it into my bag. That morning we were leaving our homestay for the weekend to stay in a nearby resort.

As I re-packed my bag, I came to the slow realization that now I would need to carry all of my belongings, which now smelled highly Butch lesbian sex stories, the four miles to the resort. It was a long trek. The flies, always present, were positively incessant.

I walked with a sad, slow pace. I felt sorry for myself.

​stories of people pooping their pants

Here I was, in rural India, with no real access to a washing machine or shower, with a poopy pants Embarrassed naked story. A poopy pants problem in the United States would be fine. I could buy new pants, and no one would ever know if I threw the old ones away. In a small village in India, someone would need to destroy my pants personally and would know who they belonged to. Smelly, sweaty, and sad I arrived at the Unicorn transformation stories.

A short story about pooping my pants

I went to my cabin and faced the hard Swinger life style stories I pooped my pants. Someone has to clean up my poopy pants. That someone is me. I have to clean up my poopy pants. We had one bucket in the cabin, and we used it for both laundry and showers. I turned the water on as hot as I could and washed the pants. I rinsed them out and washed them again, Preachers wife stories again, and again.

Then I washed out the bucket and took a shower of my own. After showering I smelled a little cleaner, and I began to put things in perspective.