You Will Never Work in This Town Again [Tier 3 Exclusive] (Patreon)

A note from the author: Trying something a little different with this story—no diapers. This is a dirty little story about messing one's pants. If you'd like to see more content like this—or if you never want to see a story like this again—send me a message and lemme know!

Bianca clutched her belly again. “I don’t know. Something’s going on in there.”

“Do you need to go sit down?” John asked. “Go to the bathroom? I might have some antacids in the truck if you want.”

“I think I’ll be fine,” she said. “I probably just ate something I shouldn’t have. Let’s just get this over with.”

John stepped back, hoisting the large video camera onto his shoulder, aiming it at Bianca and the elderly woman as they stood in front of a large field.

“And…3-2-1…go…”

“This is Bianca McBride, and I’m here today with Marge Erickson outside of the old Nash Brothers Farm. Three decades ago, fields like the one behind us now were responsible for the bulk of this region’s grain production, while providing hundreds of area jobs. Since the farm’s closure, these fields have remained vacant and unused. Now, developers are in a bidding war for this land. Marge, here, is from the local historical society and she has some other thoughts on how this land could be used. Maybe you could tell us about that?”

Bianca remained smiling as she held her microphone out towards Marge. But she felt another painful cramp in her gut, and her other hand quickly rushed to her belly to try and soothe it.

“These aren’t just fields,” Marge said into the microphone. “These are the foundations of our community. Every family who lives in the area now has roots in the workers who came to the Nash Brothers Farm for work. My father and my grandfather, both, worked here. To go and turn this land into expensive homes or businesses feels like erasing a part of our history. And so we, The Maple Ridge Historical Society, have started a petition to have this land preserved as a historic site.”

Bianca brought the microphone back to her face and opened her mouth. But no words came out, just a pained groan.

“Oh…my,” Marge said, putting a hand on Bianca’s shoulder. “Are you okay? Maybe you should sit down.”

“N-no, I’m okay. John, can you roll the tape back? Maybe we can start over?”

“We probably don’t have to start from the beginning. You could just start with the next question and we could edit it together in post-prod.”

“Thank god we’re not live,” Bianca muttered.

“We can wait,” Marge said. She pointed to a building off in the distance. “There’s a restroom over there, if you wanted to–”

Bianca shook her head. “Let’s just get this over with.”

She hated being so blunt, and it wasn’t lost on her that it might have come off that she wasn’t actually interested in Marge Erickson’s crusade to save a few dusty fields in the middle of nowhere.

But, also: Oh well. It was hard for Bianca to care about stories like these, even when her stomach wasn’t trying to kill her. She knew her place on suburban TV news. C-tier. Maybe D-tier. She and John were making content that’d be used to kill time if the 6 PM or 11 PM program ran short. If there weren’t enough health scares or car accidents, maybe this story would run. Or, it’d be cast aside and forgotten.

John just shrugged. “Whatever you want to do.”

“C’mon,” she said. “Let’s do this.”

The camera was back in position and Bianca took on the most professional stance she could, though one hand remained pressed to her belly. She held out the microphone towards Marge.

“Here we go,” John said. “3-2-1...go.”

“So, Marge, if the Maple Ridge Historical Society was successful with its petition and actually managed to prevent this land from being sold off, what would a historic site here actually look like?”

“Well, I’m not sure that we’ve thought that far ahead. One thing at a time, you know? First, we’d want to make sure that the land is kept out of the hands of folks who’d want to pave over these historic grounds. And then…”

Bianca interrupted with another groan. “Oh shit…”

“Are you okay, miss?” asked Marge.

“Fuck. I think I’m going to…”

She didn’t finish her sentence, but she didn’t have to. Bianca squatted down where she stood, dropping the microphone in the dirt as a loud, wet rippling noise came from her bottom. The searing pain in her abdomen had finally relented as she emptied her bowels into the seat of her tight white pants. For a brief moment, in between the uncomfortable cramps and the shame of facing John and Marge again, she felt relief.

She had shit her pants. She could feel the warm mush spreading into any vacant space it could manage in her pants. Her face turned a pale white before her cheeks filled with blood. What did this disaster even look like? How would she even get home like this?

“Miss?” Marge Erickson asked again, true concern in her soft voice. “Are…you okay?”

“I…pooped my pants.”

***

“I…pooped my pants.”

Tears were in the woman’s eyes as she looked up at the camera. It was a weirdly powerful moment–the absolute and total obliteration of the young woman’s ego.

He held up the remote control to the TV, rewinding the video a little bit. He hit the play button, and let the scene play out again.

“Oh shit…”

“Are you okay, miss?”

“Fuck. I think I’m going to…”

He watched as she squatted down. The volume was turned up considerably. He wanted to hear it. That near-instantaneous release into her pants. You might not have been able to see the accident itself, but you almost didn’t need to. You could hear the mess being pushed into her pants. You could see it in her eyes. You could actually pinpoint the exact moment she gave up.

“This is incredible,” he said. “This was live?”

“N-no, sir,” Bianca said. She was sitting, staring down at the ground. She refused to watch the video again. Just hearing the audio from it made her want to cry.

“Thank goodness. Well, for you.”

She shrugged. Despite it having been the most humiliating day of her entire life, it still could’ve been much worse. It could’ve been live. Or, the footage could’ve actually aired.

Instead, as far as she knew, only a very small group of people were aware of what happened out at the old farm: herself, John, Marge Erickson, and now the station’s president, Mr. Prescott. Though, she wondered how he had found out about it. There was likely a missing link between John and Mr. Prescott. Maybe a few. It was best if she didn’t think about that.

“It was just an accident,” she said. “I think I ate something that disagreed with me that morning or something.”

“I heard you were going to resign,” he said to her.

“Well, sir, that’s kind of a hard thing to come back from. Even if the public didn’t see it, how could I ever live that down around the office?”

“Very few people know about the existence of this tape,” he said, pointing to the screen. Bianca quickly glanced up, seeing the paused face of her past-self in peril. Frozen in time a split second after filling her pants. “We’re lucky that it fell into the hands of the right people, and that those people knew to bring it to me.”

She fidgeted nervously as he spoke to her. She still wasn’t why she was called into his office, and his insistence on replaying the video where she shit her pants did little to solve that mystery. He had never spoken to her before.

Though, really, few had. She was at the bottom of the totem pole at Channel 12. She kept telling herself that this was just experience and that it would one day lead to bigger and better opportunities. But in her heart she knew she was just fooling herself. This position was a dead end, and the longer she stayed here, the harder it would be to find a better job later.

“I’m going to be blunt, Ms. McBride. I like your work here.”

“You like…the fact that I…crapped myself?”

He laughed. “Yes, I suppose I do. Your cameraman did a pretty good job of capturing the moment. I suppose I’d like to have seen your actual pants, but otherwise it was a pretty good show.”

She grimaced, not especially liking what she heard. His words weren’t making much sense to her, but they sounded gross.

“I want more,” he said.

“More? You…you want me to…do that again?”

“Exactly. And I want it to happen on live TV. I want you looking at the camera–facing out to the entire tri-county area–as you push another load into your pants.”

“I…” She laughed and shook her head. “I have no idea what to say to that. I don’t think I could do that. I don’t think I could ever do that.”

He leaned forward in his chair behind his desk and smiled. “I have two good reasons why you might want to consider my offer.”

She sighed. She was already drafting that letter of resignation in her head, trying to tip-toe around the fact that the station president was asking her to shit her pants on live television.

“Oh yeah?” she spat, sarcastically. “And what reasons are those?”

“For one, I have money. Lots of money. And I’m willing to give you a lot of money to make this worth your while.”

She laughed. “It’d have to be an absurd amount of money.”

He shrugged nonchalantly. “I think you’ll find that I’m quite amenable.”

“The second reason?”

He motioned back up towards the screen again. “I still have this video. Which…I could share. If I wanted to.”

“Are you kidding me right now? You’re going to blackmail me?”

“Miss McBride, I’m sincerely hoping that it doesn’t come down to that. I’m just saying that my ownership of this video gives me a little bit of an advantage in our negotiations, don’t you think? Maybe it’d just be an easier conversation to talk about how much it would cost me to have you do that again.”

“Let me get this straight. You expect me to poop my pants again? On live TV? For your fucked up amusement?”

“Ah good,” he said with a smile. “We’re on the same page.”

“I’m not really sure what to say, Mr. Prescott. It sounds like my options are to either humiliate myself on live TV or to have you distribute a tape of me without my authorization.”

“You’re leaving out an important part,” he said.

“The money?”

“The money,” he repeated. “Take a look at this number. It’d be coming out of my own pocket.” He scribbled something down on a card and passed it across the top of his desk.

She took it and looked at the number. She sighed aloud, disappointed to see that the number written down had exceeded the minimum amount she thought she’d need to see for her to even humor this idea.

“Well fuck. Yeah. Maybe…I could do that.”

***

Two days later, and it was still all she could think about. The imminent humiliation on a scale she could barely imagine. And the money.

There had been no further conversations about it; just a concerning radio silence. Had Mr. Prescott changed his mind? Or would this drop into her lap when she least suspected it. Either way, until it came up again, it was a dark cloud that hung over her head. And until it did, it seemed like there was little else she could do beyond the things she normally did.

She was sitting at her desk, muddling through her next mundane story–a local man who, apparently, had been nominated as a candidate to the Clown Hall of Fame. He wasn’t even officially named as an inductee–just a nominee. This story would never see the light of day. It also felt like a subtle reminder that she was probably wasting her time on this station–maybe even in this career. Maybe getting paid to shit herself on live television really was a blessing.

The phone on her desk rang. It almost never did.

“This is Bianca.”

“Miss McBride? This is Candice on behalf of Mr. Prescott.”

Bianca knew who she was. Blonde hair and plastic chest. Rumor had it that it was Mr. Prescott himself who paid for that plastic chest. Though, in all fairness, Bianca never really had a problem if that was the case. If Candice wanted a nicer rack, and someone else was footing the bill, what was the issue?

“Hi.”

“Mr. Prescott was hoping you had some time to come up to his office?”

“Now?”

“Is now convenient for you?” she asked. “If not, I can see when he might have some other time available today, but he did state that it was important he talk to you soon.”

“Now is fine,” Bianca responded.

The walk to Mr. Prescott’s office was wrought with tense anxiety. Was this it? The terms of his perverse request? Or would he just be telling her that he decided against it? Maybe the tape of her messing her pants on the farm had leaked to people it shouldn’t have and he wanted to be the one to tell her.

“How are you feeling about tomorrow night?” he asked, once she was in his office, once again sitting on the other side of his enormous desk. He was leaning back in his chair, seeming to almost look past her instead of at her as he smiled.

“T-tomorrow?”

He laughed and nodded. “That’s right. What do you think? Ready for the big show?”

“I…I don’t know.”

She knew that, eventually, there was going to have been a conversation like this. Even moments before entering this office, she knew that this was likely why he wanted to see her. Still, nothing made his insane request feel quite as real as being given an actual date and time.

“You’ll be out live in the field. That old diner over on 12th is closing, so we were going to do a little story on that being some sort of, I don’t know…community fixture. Kind of a low stakes story, really. The kind of thing that we can afford to not pay too much attention to if there’s a, uh, distraction.”

She sighed, wondering if it was still worth it. It was a lot of money

“I’m going to be honest with you,” he said. “The staff is pissed about this.”

“Me? Being on air?” she asked.

He nodded. “Our producers like a well-oiled machine. And you, Miss McBride, are far from well-oiled. And the other reporters? They do not take kindly to having to share the spotlight with someone who they feel hasn’t earned it.”

“Oh…”

“Basically, if someone hands you a cup of coffee in the next two day, don’t drink it.”

“R-right, sir.”

“But really, none of it matters. You’re going to go on air, do your thing, make a few bucks, and make a dirty old man very happy.”

“You don’t think anyone else will trace this back to you?” she asked. “I assume you’re pulling the strings to get my live on air. And when I humiliate myself, won’t people just ask if you put me on there just to see…that?”

“You’re going to be the talk of this town. You might even go, uh, viral–as my granddaughter would say. My reputation will be just fine, thank you very much. If anyone asks, all I have to do is throw my hands up in the air and act just as frustrated as everyone else that the young woman I wanted to give a shot to embarrassed herself and my TV station.”

“You’re asking me to give up a lot here,” she said. “My dignity. My job. My…career.”

He laughed and shook his head. “Career? Miss McBride, I’m almost tempted to fire you right now so that you have no choice but to find a new job anyways. My offer–while humiliating for you–is your best chance at ever making a decent buck with your, what, communications degree?”

He was right. But she had known he was right even before the call came that he wanted to talk to her again today.

“Fine,” she said with a very firm nod.

“Yeah? You’re in?”

“All in.”

“Let’s do this,” he said, rubbing his hands together greedily.

***

It was a small crew–just her, John on the camera, an engineer named Randy, and a guy named Phil who was managing the sound. She had become accustomed to working with John for their small pieces on insignificant stories. Looking at him now, he almost seemed to be beaming. This was as much a taste of the ‘big time’ for him as it was for her. It was hard for her not to feel a little guilty about it. She almost wondered if she should tell him what was actually happening.

Of course, how did one bring something like that up? Oh, by the way, we’re only here because the station owner is paying me an absurd amount of money to shit my pants on live television. I’m going to be laughed out of town and you’ll probably go back to doing stupid stories about old farms and dog shows.

She opted to say nothing.

“We’ll set up over here,” Randy said, pointing to a clearing by the entrance to the diner.

Bianca’s gut rumbled a little. It was a familiar feeling–the slowly building cramps in advance of a television camera being pointed at her. It was only a short time ago, and the last time she was on camera, that she had emptied her bowels into her pants. And it looked like this time it would be no different.

“The lighting here should be fine,” John said. “What time are we on?”

“6:15,” Phil answered, checking his smartwatch as he said it aloud.

This time would actually be different though. For one, the things that would happen tonight would be live. And more importantly, this time wouldn’t be an accident.

From the time that Bianca had left Mr. Prescott’s office, she vowed not to use the toilet for anything other than taking a piss. By the time she went to bed that night, she could feel the growing pangs of urgency in her belly. By morning, they had become more demanding. Now, hours after that, she was hanging on for dear life. Any fears she had of ‘stage-fright’ while on TV were brushed away. Not only could she do this, but it was inevitable. Like or not, at this point her pants were going to get filled.

“You alright?” John had a concerned look on his face. Maybe her expression was similar to one he had seen not too long ago.

“Uhm…yeah,” she said nervously.

“But you’re feeling okay?” he asked.

She nodded. “Y-yes, of course.”

He shrugged, returning back to setting up the camera equipment. It was nice that he cared. But, truth be told, there was a nagging thought in the back of her mind that he couldn’t be trusted. Someone had given Mr. Prescott the tape from her first accident. And, as far as she knew, he was the only person who knew about it.

She wondered if that was why he was here now. Maybe he was acting as the hand of Mr. Prescott, feeding him what he wanted to see.

She laughed to herself. Paranoia. She had too much to worry about right now without getting bogged down by conspiracy theories too.

Another menacing grumble from her tummy. She could have, if she really wanted to, escape. The diner had to have a restroom she could use. She could relieve herself, come back, and give the report that everyone else at the station thought she was going to do. For a moment, she’d have achieved all that she wanted to–she’d be on the air, giving a live news report. Maybe she’d even impress the audience. Hell, she could impress the producers back at the station. Even if they stuck her back on her worthless stories after this, she could at least say that she had her moment in the spotlight and it wasn’t an embarrassing mess.

But no. This was happening. Mr. Prescott was going to get what he wanted. The arrangements had already been made. A small portion of his promised payment was already transferred, and the rest was just waiting on her to fulfill her, well, duties.

“Hey there. I’m Barbara Blankenship,” an older woman said, emerging from the diner. She was the subject of the interview and the owner of the diner. “I’m glad everyone could make it out tonight. I’m excited to talk about our legacy to your viewers.”

“As are we,” Bianca said, likely sounding as deflated as she felt.

She felt disgusting. She’d feel even more disgusting soon, though in a different way. For now, she just felt like a terrible person. Poor Barbara Blankenship. Her diner was closing and all she wanted to do was talk about it’s local history–oblivious that a bomb was about to detonate in Bianca’s bottom.

Would Bianca’s pants be the legacy of Barbara’s diner? Bianca wanted to imagine that once she was in possession of Mr. Prescott’s money, she’d forget about ethical questions like this.

She looked down at her tight cream-colored pants. Not much longer and they’d be destroyed. Just as this chapter of her life would be.

From the newsvan, Randy was in contact with the studio about when they’d be live. Everything was in position. She stood in front of the diner with Barbara, just waiting for the signal.

Her bowels, at this point, could just barely be contained. The word ‘turtling’ came to mind. A disgusting idea, really–and she doubted that anything was actually starting to emerge from her behind. But it felt like it could. At any moment now, and with only the slightest amount of effort, this would be over and done. For better or for worse.

“Hey, we all ready to roll?” asked Randy from the van. “They’ll be ready for us in a minute.”

“Yeah, we’re good,” said John. He looked to Bianca. “Right?” There was something in his eyes that Bianca couldn’t place. Dread, maybe, that this would be a repeat of the previous story. Or, a knowing.

She nervously glanced to Barbara and smiled. “R-right. Ready to go.”

“Alright,” Randy said. “They’re patching us in. Three. Two. Go…”

At that signal, Bianca was on. Reporter Mode. It was an ironic shame, really. In a different world–one that wasn’t mired in studio politics, popularity contests and where the staff was valued by their actual talent–Bianca could’ve been far more successful. She was, at her core, good at her job.

Her stomach gurgled. Her ass cheeks puckered and tightened. She ignored it all as she smiled into John’s camera.

“Good evening, this is Bianca McBride, and I’m here–live–in front of the 12th Street Diner, a local fixture that has been enjoyed and appreciated for its 30-plus years in business. However, that impressive run is coming to an unfortunate end this week with the announcement that these doors will be closing for good on Friday. Here with me tonight is the owner of the diner, Barbara Blankenship. Barbara, how are you holding up right now?”

Bianca aimed her microphone towards the older woman. It was deja vu. It was almost the exact feeling she had while talking to the woman from the farm the other day. Madge? Marge?

She felt her ass muscles tense further. Any second now. Any second, she’d release, and all of this would be over.

“Well you know,” Barbara said into the mic, “it just felt like time. I’m getting older, the rent is getting higher. Things change, and sometimes you just know when something has run its course.”

Run its course, Bianca repeated to herself mentally. Like the shit I’ve been storing in my body for almost 24 hours now.

“And when the diner is actually closed, what will you do with yourself then?” asked Bianca.

“Well I can tell you one thing for damn sure. I’ll never make french toast again.”

This was met with amused chuckles from the news crew–Bianca included. And it was at this moment when she began losing her concentration and focus. It was going–soon to be gone–and there was no recovering it. Things were now slowly happening.

She did her best to move on, hoping she had at least another moment or two before things really got out of control. My last minute on the news.

“Well said. Any suggestions for the…uhm…locals who will be missing your diner’s coffee and breakfast in the…uh...morning?”

But this was the moment, and she was no longer able to carry on pretending to do a news report. It didn’t matter where she was, or who was watching. She was in the grips of something far more basic now. Guttural.

The world around her went blurry and faded into the background. She squatted down, completely relaxing her sphincter. With her hands on her belly, still holding the microphone, the audience caught the crisp and clear sound of the long rippling fart heralding the coming mess.

“Oh gosh,” Barbara said, dropping to her knees beside her. “What’s wrong?”

Bianca glanced up towards John, who still had the camera angled down at her. Of course, she thought. He knew this was coming.

Everything played out in slow motion from that point. Barbara was to her side, asking if everything was okay. Her sphincter muscles had relaxed completely, offering a millisecond of calm relief before a day’s worth of held waste rushed from her body.

In her peripheral, Phil and Randy’s mouths were just beginning to hang agape. Whatever it was they thought was happening, it’d probably be worse.

Was John…smiling behind the camera?

With a grunt, her load was jettisoned into her panties. The dainty powder-blue undergarments were no match for her bubbling delivery. She felt it spilling out from the leg bands and into her pants. It was travelling down her left leg. The tight pants seemed to have little vacancy or give, forcing the squishy mass to spread in any direction it could. From her ass crack all the way down to behind her knee, she could feel the path the warm sludge had taken.

The bulk of her mess was lodged in the seat of her panties, and she ran a hand over her bottom to inspect the damage. She could feel the mound protruding from her pants. Not that she needed to check it, she could feel the extra weight between her ass cheeks.

The world around her was frozen. Or, at least, moving so slowly that she could barely tell. Her cheeks were red. Her eyes were watering. For the first time, she could smell what she had done, and it was worse than anything she could’ve imagined–a foul stench befitting the 24 hours the contents of her pants spent cooking inside of her.

Her career and reputation were likely over now. She was getting paid. And so, she thought, why not lean into it a little? She turned her body so that her ass faced the camera. She had no concept of time since she had begun to load her pants. Maybe it had all occurred within less than a second. Maybe this had all played out over the last five minutes. Maybe they were still live, and all of the tri-county area was getting a glimpse at her stained pants, textured with the lumps of her mess. Or, maybe the feed had been cut, and John was filming something that few would ever get to see in its entirety.

“I think I had an accident,” she said, aiming her words towards the microphone.

“Come on,” said a voice at her side. “Let’s get you out of here.” She expected it to be John, but it was Randy–looking extremely concerned.

“N-no, I’m…” She was going to say ‘fine,’ but there was no way that wouldn’t be a lie. She looked towards John, seeing that he was still holding the camera, aiming it at them. She could’ve sworn he was smirking.

“Wrap it up,” Randy said to everyone else. “We’re done here. Let’s get back to the station.”

“Miss?” asked Barbara, still at Bianca’s other side. “Come inside. I can help. Maybe I’ve got a change of clothes, or–”

“I’m fine,” Bianca said with confidence. She liked the way that it felt to say it, so she said it again: “I’m fine.”

She stood up, perfectly straight. Her mess felt frozen in place behind her–it had squeezed itself wherever it could in her tight pants, and now it wasn’t going anywhere.

She smiled.

If asked, she probably couldn’t have explained how she felt. She certainly couldn’t justify it with herself at that moment. But later, with hindsight, a word would come to mind that felt entirely accurate: Liberation. She needed to be free of this terrible job and free from the soulcrushing stagnation of her career. In her wildest dreams, she’d never have imagined that feeling coming from something as infantile as shitting her pants. But there it was. And she loved it.

“How much of that made it to air?” she asked.

“Uh.” Randy scratched his head, looking to Phil who had a solemn look on his face. “Probably more than anyone would’ve liked.”

“John, I told you to cut away,” Phil said. Why did you keep the camera on her for so damn long?”

John shrugged. He looked vaguely sympathetic, but it wasn’t at all convincing to Bianca. “I…guess I didn’t realize what was happening.”

“Let’s just get out of here,” Bianca said.

“Look, no offense,” Randy said. “But you…like, your pants…and I don’t know if you should get into the van…”

“Forgive my frankness,” Barbara said, “but you stink. Come with me. I have a place you can get washed up.”

Bianca didn’t really want to go anywhere, let alone with Barbara. But being reminded that she did, in fact, smell awful had made her reality sink in a bit. She couldn’t do nothing. She followed Barbara to the front door of the diner.

“Wait,” Bianca said. “Through the diner?”

“It’s not ideal,” Barbara conceded. “But we’ve already got some equipment packed up at the back door so…” She paused, regrouped, and tried another approach: “It’s not like everyone in the region doesn’t already know what happened to you.”

Bianca didn’t have much of an argument against that. She sighed, accepting her fate once more. Soon, it’d all just be memories while she enjoyed her money.

***

Her fingertips rapidly orbited her clit until she gasped and moaned into the otherwise silent apartment at her climax. She was thinking about that day in front of the diner. The thought of her warm mess expanding into her panties and spreading through her pants always managed to turn her on. Yet it was the memory of walking through the diner after, following Barbara to the office with the private bath in the back, that got her to completion.

One could argue that it was more humiliating to have pooped her pants on live television to an audience of tens of thousands–if not more. But Bianca never saw those people. She didn’t get to see their reactions or hear the conversations they had about her after. Supposedly a clip or two from the broadcast had even managed to go viral, but again, it was to an unknown audience.

None of that compared to her shameful march through the diner. Those poor patrons, and their final meals at the diner, ruined after a woman in obviously loaded pants walked past them, surrounded by a cloud of her toxic stink. The looks of disgust she saw in some of their eyes. Amusement in the eyes of others. Knowing smirks. Curiously raised eyebrows.

The thought of it, now, drove her wild.

She got her money. She wasn’t rich now, by any means. But it was enough money to act as a reset button for her. She moved away. Took a vacation or two. Got a new place to live in a new town and was working on building a new life for herself. Her name had trended for just a moment as the clip of her pooping her pants went viral. A popular late-night talk show had used the clip of her saying “I think I had an accident” for longer than the audience probably thought it was funny. Now, unsurprisingly, the only people who cared were online deviants who liked their women with filthy bottoms.

Liberation.

Her ‘accident’ at the diner was not the last time she made a mess in her pants. Something had awoken in her–or perhaps she just wanted to relive that experience of feeling freedom seep into her panties again. She had thrown away many pairs of panties. And pants.

***

“I appreciate you agreeing to meet with me,” Mr. Prescott said, stirring his coffee in the small cafe.

“I’m surprised you flew this far just to talk to me,” Bianca responded. “You could have just called.”

“I could have. But I worried that a phone call would fail to communicate my sincerity when I make another request of you.”

She laughed. “I suspected that’s what this was about. Would you like more?”

He nodded, eyebrows raised a little in surprise at her candidness. “Yes, I suppose I would.”

“I’m not on TV anymore.”

He shrugged. “You don’t have to be. But…I’d still like to see you work your magic.”

“Am I good at it?” she asked, smirking.

“Seems kind of strange to say someone is better or worse at that than someone else. And yet there’s nobody I’d rather see in that position than you.”

“You want to see me do it again?”

“I’ve given you a lot of money, haven’t I? I’d love to hear you say what it is.”

She smiled, knowing that the words would come pretty easily: “You want to see me poop my pants? Fill my panties?”

He released a content sigh and nodded. “The possibilities are endless, aren’t they? How humiliated are you willing to be for my amusement?”

“Well I need a job…”

“You give me what I want,” he said. “I’ll make sure you don’t need a traditional job.”

“I’m okay with that,” she said.

“I have ideas.”

She laughed. “Go on.”

“Shopping malls. Amusement parks. Movie theaters. We could be having a lot of fun together.”

She didn’t bat an eye. “I’m in.”

“That’s what I wanted to hear.”

“I have some ideas too,” she said.

“Go on?”

“I was just thinking that if I’m going to go and poop and my pants like a toddler, I should probably just go ahead and use something like a…”

“Diaper?”

She laughed. “We had the same idea, I see.”

“I’m very pleased to see we’re on the same page, Miss McBride.”

She squirmed in her seat a little as she mindlessly stirred her coffee. She wished she could say that this was just a coincidence–but she had prepared a little for this meeting. There was a familiar discomfort in her bowels.

“I could start now,” she said.

“Oh? You mean–”

“Right here, right now. I could totally fill my pants.”

“Please. Do that.”

A wide smile spread across her face as she leaned forward in her chair–giving her ass a little more clearance. For the first time, she was very happy with her career path.