It was generally unproblematic to break wind in the jacuzzi, but it was much, much less acceptable to follow through, as the signs posted all over the health club had made abundantly clear, entirely in vain.
Little Jamie was running around, Jayden was following him, Katie had just pooed in her nappy and now mother was calling for help from upstairs too, and if she was calling while the kids were going mad, that meant it was urgent. Now she saw smoke coming from the oven. Shit! She’d forgotten about their waffles. Oh, God. And it was raining. The washing had to be dry for this evening. Then her phone started ringing, and it was her boss. He never usually rang. Just as she was about to answer it, she heard a sharp rap on the front door and a face trying to poke through the letterbox. The bailiff! Oh, God. And he’d definitely seen her already. Her mum called again. She told Katie to just stay still for a moment. She thought of getting Jamie to bring in the washing but then almost laughed at the idea. She began to scurry upstairs. But then the smoke alarm went off, and it was piercingly loud. Suddenly, near the bottom of the stairs, she found herself losing control, and turd after turd plunged out of her arse, into and through her knickers and fell free to flop indecorously into the puddle of piss she had poured forth at the same time.
There was a huge, stinking brown smear all along the gusset of her knickers. For a moment, she simply could not explain it, before she suddenly recalled that she had been for a huge dump twenty minutes ago, quietly doing the saxophone bit from The Heat Is On and dancing as much as the cubicle allowed, and got so into the song that she had forgotten to wipe her arse.
He followed through into his own jodhpurs, the warmth of the preceding gruntwind compounded by the hot solidity of his luscious excreta, and the fine, hand-woven beige cotton assuming a dark, almost worrying brown hue from the turd, which was pressed in thoroughly thanks to his sudden sitting motion and the subsequent hour of demented twerking as the radio blathered about an aeroplane ‘hitting the Pentagon’ (as if).
He was absolutely tearing up the place with his dance moves. Oh, man – these squares had never seen moves like this. They couldn’t keep up. They’d cleared the dancefloor for him. He had all the space he wanted. He was strutting like a peacock. He was grooving like some kind of groovy dance god. He w- FLURP! Oh, no. There was no dancefloor. There was only his bedroom, if you could call a gap between two big bins with a cardboard roof a bedroom. He wasn’t strutting now. In fact, his sole concern now was to get up without smearing the turd into his clothes and sleeping bag worse than it already was.
He meant only to flatulate at her, but instead he fully discharged himself, most of his emissions admittedly falling to the floor, but also a goodly spray of near-liquid paste and poopsome chunks splattering onto her beige cardigan and her face, her eyes protected by the cucumber slices but the face pack soon becoming heavily stained with crud.
In his dreams, he was free, always free. He could go wherever he wanted, soar above any scenery, meet anyone, and unload his wanger onto whoever’s face he chose. Alas, in real life he was chained to a radiator, fed only turnips, and used as a spittoon, if by ‘spitting’ we also include anal extrusion.
“I love you, my darling. I always have. We will hold one another again…. in Elysium.” With those words he departed. Well, with those words and a huge efflux of solids from his rectum.
He was grunting, he was grunting, he was grunting, he was grunting, he w- oh! No. No more grunts. Now he was definitely turding himself.
He delved deep into her flanginal cavework, rooting around for a good place to deposit his spunk, finding one, unloading with a guttural growl, and then falling asleep on top of her before fouling himself just as he suffered a massive brain haemorrhage.