Vic adjusted her beige pants as much as possible and tightened her belt one more button than usual for her; she noticed it clinging around her swollen belly, “this belly that’s not mine,” a topic Vic often brings out after lunch. It was uncomfortable, yes, but it gave her a (false) sensation of safeness. MPH… She grunted, more distressed about what was going on behind her pants… Inside her. Vic turned to her husband, staring at him, as he remained seated on the comfortable hotel’s bed, picking up both Vaseline and the few suppositories remaining in that newly opened package. Her eyes showed both uneasiness and annoyance, but her husband was successfully shrugging it off. -So, what am I supposed to do now? Guessing… corner time? -She asked, with a not very subtle condescending tone. She perfectly knew the answer.

-If you know, why do you ask? - Michael answered back in an even more patronizing tone.

OOGH…. Vic exclaimed, but she did what she knew she had to: placed herself in the corner, facing the pale-green wall, close to the window, where she could at least pick a glance at the sea. Menorca, beautiful, she thought: loves to spend some days abroad there. From the 5th floor of that hotel close to the sea they were hosted, she could see, HD, the radiant day they enjoyed, the beach, the sea, boats, people… All of that they also get to enjoy the next days. But, of course, none of those precious thing Vic observed from her damned spot could make her forget a bit about her ass being severely (in her opinion) disciplined. Punishments, always, of course, after 15h coffee¡ Michael, such a pain in her ass (literally)¡ Overreacting, as usual, her beloved husband, she though; anyone can forget his/her wallet, right? A normal slip, sh*t happens… Yeah, a bit worse if that happens in a crowed-to-the-top beach restaurant, and, well, if she also forgot her purse, full of documents, passports, room key…. Yeah, Michael did have to run 15 minutes, at 37ºC, and they were INCREDIBLY lucky the waiter picked up the purse and kindly guarded it. Yes… They were lucky to avoid a whole lot of paperwork just to get back home. Sweat, Michael was? Vic started feeling hot too, the temperature in her backside scaling little by little, but steadily. UF… What were those suppos made of?

Vic laid off a moment in the (fresh, something she really liked) wall, breathed deep, and adjusted to the increasingly intense sensations making their appearance in her lower belly. She noticed the lube melting off around her bottomhole because of her heat, something she wasn’t particularly enjoying, but she also noticed, and disliking it even more, the 5 glycerine suppositories, just unpackaged from their weird white box and introduced, one by one with care and steadiness, in her rectum, disappearing into nothingness between her cheeks. MPH¡ Obviously, and she’s very much aware every time she has to pull down her panties, some suppositories are agreed and accepted when, admitted by her, she “messes up badly;” but, as expected (beforehand), she was having trouble leading with this new brand Michael picked up in the drug store: those were making double the effect, maybe because they were indeed more glycerine-composed, maybe because SHE thought likewise, or, well, both. Vic also hoped her husband didn’t pick up she was struggling more with these butt ticking-bombs, or she was certain another box was traveling back home to be used when her memory slips backfired again. Better not¡

Some minutes passed by; Vic unable to guess how many; and looking at the window sideways was becoming less appealing to Vic; her inner world taking the centre stage by force. The temperature raising in his asshole was so intense her cheeks were drenched in water just by extension, the unbearable itching didn’t let her catch a breath, and her bowels were starting to wake up, much to the woman’s annoyance. Vic no longer watched the sea, her eyes turning to the open bathroom door and the white, immaculate (still) toilet singing her like a siren, she just counting down every second closer to sit and let go. ¿Coffee, 15h? Disgusting how f*cking well it worked on her system. Husband, on the computer, checked visually on her from time to time, already alert of her wife’s closeness to her limit: subtle (and not so subtle) movements, legs closed, sights louder and more often: he knows Vic can’t stand still when needy. Vic, likewise, knew perfectly Michael was aware of the point she was in the going-potty scale (and that was high and raising), and that, that point, was as good as any other for an update. Vic, stern on her punishments, rarely asks for freedom before she’s too desperate, but the more often she talks, and refers to her urges, the closer to explode with violence she’s getting to. -Babe, I have to use the bathroom, I won’t hold it much longer… How much time have I left? - She asked. Michael gave her the answer: 8 minutes. Not bad, but less than agreed: 15 minutes, minimum (it can be more), a time Vic was not so sure she would make clean. She fanned herself, and insisted, that, so much, she had little chance to hold it in -UF… I’m not sure, Michael. I am… quite urged already, you know.

-I had to run 15 minutes too, remember? - He answered. Damn.

-OH, don’t be like that…- She answered back – I already said I was sorry¡ Things happen, you know that…. – Insistence got her nowhere, as Michael wasn’t giving up just yet. And she was certain he wouldn’t in a little while, so she just sighted deep and resigned to wait some more minutes. -Okey, whatever…. But I don’t want to mess my panties- She sentenced. Vic, gathering all her strength around her asshole, counted every second off her waiting time. Desperation, however, was getting the best of her: visibly potty-dancing, no longer shaming around bending her legs, a hand well placed upon her butt. To free some of the pressure she was surrendering to, Vic pushed lightly and…. PPPRT¡ She managed to expel one LOUD fart, also packed with one hell of a smell. Michael, of course, turned back to both sound and smell, but managed not to say anything but making a disgusted face before Vic replied beforehand -What¡? I’m pooping myself here¡ What do you expect after 5 suppositories… and a coffee…. MPH – A moan, another noisy ass-blast. -UH…. Michael, really, I’m SO close to poop myself. Can I use the bathroom, PLEASE? - That was NOT a question. Vic was freed from the spot, dashed like her life depended on it to the bathroom, unbuttoned her belt (increasing her urge in the process), lowered her pants just before knees, lifter her silk, green blouse and let herself fall right into the toilet bowl. Michael watched her no problem from his spot, but Vic cared not, now, or ever. -Oh, Jesus…. - She grabbed her hand, relaxed her asshole, and…. OH. That unpolluted, marbled, white bathroom amplified tenfold the Rock concert Vic gave from her now tight-less asshole. -PLOP… PLOPMHH… PLOOOP…. - Tout, tout…- PLUP-PLOMPF…. PLOUUF… SPLAAAHHH… PLIC. One by one, Vic kept freeing one non-existing suppository after the other, alongside everything the coffee already called into her rectum. Absolute relief. -Damn…. What punishments my man gives me…. - She said aloud, but in a tone perfectly chosen to be heard by his punisher. Vic chatted with her husband a little bit, between fart and else; the very least, Vic got an idea about a place they could have a walk, close to the hotel and the beach, from the spot she was to stand. -Babe, how about a little walk around the block? We have to let this air a bit, it stinks pretty bad- She said, wafting the smell and finally wiping. Proposal accepted, but… A reminder about not forgetting anything else? Of course. Vic had it clear -I would not dare.