My Private Bathroom

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Big Dicks

Author’s note: This is largely a fetish story about people using the bathroom.

***

My name is Emily. I’m an anxious, awkward person who has trouble making friends.

In my mid-20s, I finally moved out of my parents’ place. I ended up in a cheap, roach-infested apartment on the outskirts of New Rochelle. Two other girls were already living there.

I paid more rent than my roommates, but I got a major perk in return: my room had a private bathroom. The other girls shared a bathroom in the hallway.

The apartment had constant maintenance problems. The air conditioning barely worked, and the landlord never returned our calls.

…And, for three weeks one summer, the hallway toilet wasn’t flushing right. You could pee in it, since the water was always running a little, but nothing larger than a square of toilet paper would go down. The only place you could safely poop was my private bathroom.

This was an interesting chapter of my life.

***

I’ve always had hangups around bodily functions. When I was young, somebody must’ve told me that girls don’t poop; I feel ashamed whenever I use the toilet, like I’m committing a crime. I can’t stand the thought of anyone hearing me in the bathroom – or smelling me – so I always wait until I have complete privacy.

I’m also pretty kinky, though, and all my hangups eventually turn into sexual fetishes. Even though I’m straight, I get turned on by hearing other women use the toilet. Men don’t interest me when they poop, but for a woman it feels dangerous… like she’s revealing a terrible secret.

At 9pm on the first day, I got a knock on my bedroom door.

My roommate Michaela was a tanned, dark-haired 29-year-old. She was a marathon runner, with powerful leg muscles and no body fat, and she wore tank tops and short shorts. The two of us were friendly, but we didn’t know each other very well.

“Hey Emily,” she said in a tight voice, “can I use your bathroom?”

“Oh, sure.” I stepped aside for her.

“Thanks.” She glanced at the floor, embarrassed. “I have to, um…”

My face grew hot. “Oh. That’s totally fine,” I said.

“Sorry. I’ll try to be fast.” She was blushing as she walked to my private bathroom.

The door was thinner than I’d realized. Even when Michaela closed it, I could hear everything.

Fabric rustled as she pulled her shorts down. The toilet seat creaked as she settled onto it. She sighed.

I stood, heart racing, and stared at the door. Was I really about to hear…?

Michaela farted softly into the bowl – two or three small releases in a row. She peed a little. Then silence.

A minute passed.

I sat down at my desk, holding my breath, and continued staring at the bathroom door. Waves of guilt and desire washed over me.

At last, I heard two quiet plops, along with another, messier-sounding fart. Michaela sighed again.

“…Hey, Emily?” she called through the door. “You there?”

I steadied my breath. “Yeah?”

“Do you have any candles?”

“No. Sorry.”

“Okay.” She laughed softly. “I’m a little embarrassed. You know, stinking up your bathroom…”

“It’s fine,” I said, keeping my voice light. “I poop in there, too!”

“Good!” Michaela laughed again, sounding more relaxed. “All right, I’m almost done.”

I heard her unroll some toilet paper. She wiped quickly, with faint rubbing sounds. When she finished, she flushed the toilet and washed her hands.

Her face was still red as she exited the bathroom. She shut the door tight behind her.

“Sorry,” she said quickly. “I hope it’s not too bad in there.”

“It’s fine. You can use my bathroom whenever you want.”

“Thanks.” Michaela smiled. “Okay – good night, Emily.”

“Good night.”

The moment she left, of course, I opened up the bathroom door and walked inside.

The air was warm in there. Michaela’s bowel movement smelled healthy, like a damp forest. I inhaled the odor deeply. The toilet had a thin brown streak near the bottom of the bowl, as if a long piece of poop had been dragged straight down.

I kept thinking about it later, when I lay in bed touching myself. I closed my eyes and imagined Michaela on the other side of my bathroom door… relaxing her bowels… letting a healthy poop slide out…

I can’t always cum when I masturbate, but that night I got off hard.

Beneath the covers, I felt powerless in the grip of a tremendous, long-lasting orgasm. My legs quivered and my hips pumped, and I bit my lip and struggled not to cry out. When I finished, I was nearly overwhelmed with emotion. Big, wet tears rolled down my face.

Still breathing hard, I passed out and slept like a baby until morning.

***

I had a habit of locking my bedroom door when I left the apartment. The next afternoon at work, I got a text from my other roommate, Claire.

“Hey, what time are you coming home?” she wrote. “I really need to use your bathroom!”

She added a poop emoji, just to make sure I got the message. Then she sent a laughing emoji.

“Sorry!” ümraniye masöz escort I wrote with a crying face. “Can you wait till 6?”

“I hope so!”

Claire was a dark-skinned black woman with a French accent. I think she was Caribbean, but I’m not completely sure. She spent a lot of time cooking spicy food in our kitchen, wearing cute, pastel-colored dresses. She wasn’t overweight, exactly, but she had a round butt and very generous breasts. I’d always liked her.

When I came home, she greeted me at the door. “Thank goodness!” she exclaimed, bouncing in place. “I’m so poopy, I’m about to blow up!”

Claire had a funny way of talking. I couldn’t help laughing as we climbed the stairs to my room. She was giggling, too.

“Don’t make fun of me!” she cried in mock-offense. “I was very uncomfortable today!”

“Gosh, that sounds awful.”

When I unlocked my bedroom door, she thanked me quickly and dashed to the bathroom. The door slammed shut behind her.

I heard her butt slap down on the toilet seat. There was one second of silence, and then –

My eyes went wide.

An earth-shattering emission seemed to shake the whole house. It sounded like a single, powerful blast – gassy and wet – that continued for five straight seconds. I heard distinct splashes as each chunk of Claire’s waste hit the water.

I stood frozen, listening. I could feel my armpits sweating.

Only a short time passed, though it seemed to last a lifetime. When the eruption ended, I heard Claire sigh.

“Ah… whew…”

She wiped, unrolling huge amounts of my toilet paper, and flushed twice. Then, without washing her hands, she flung the door open.

I stared at her, blushing, although she showed no signs of embarrassment. She just patted her soft belly with relief.

“Much better!” she declared. “I felt like a tube of toothpaste!”

“Sorry,” I said. “I won’t lock my door any -“

Just then, the smell from the toilet reached my nostrils. It was a strong, spicy stink that flooded the whole room. I struggled not to react visibly, but my nose still wrinkled a little.

“I’m sorry about the smell,” she said, watching my face. “I haven’t been eating so healthy this week.” She turned and started walking away. “Anyway, I’ll see you later.”

“Bye.”

I stood for a while after she left, inhaling the smell of that powerful shit. I was deeply aroused, I realized.

It was Claire’s confidence – her lack of embarrassment – that had gotten me so excited. When she looked at me and acknowledged the stink… well, it felt dominant, like something a man would do.

I didn’t take my clothes off, but I couldn’t help touching myself as I sat at my desk. I ate dinner alone and watched TV on my laptop, one hand between my knees, as the odor slowly faded from the bathroom.

At 9pm, I got another knock on my door. I paused my TV show.

“I brought candles,” Michaela said, smiling. Tonight she wore cotton pajama pants along with her usual tank top. Her black hair hung loose to her shoulders. In her hands, she held a matchbox and two tealight candles.

I felt happy to see her. “Two nights in a row?” I asked.

“I usually go the same time every night.” As she walked past my desk, she glanced at my laptop. “What are you watching?”

I tried describing my show, a foreign soap opera. Michaela just nodded.

“Sounds cool,” she said politely. “Anyway, I don’t mean to keep you.”

She disappeared into my bathroom, and I heard her pajama pants rustle.

Reluctantly, I unpaused my TV show. The sound prevented me from hearing Michaela’s poop, although my heart raced from just thinking about it. She’s a few feet away from me, I thought, taking a nice dump…

After a few minutes, I heard her voice through the door. “Hey, Emily?”

I paused my show again. “Yeah?”

“I think you’re out of toilet paper.”

“Oh, shoot!” Claire must’ve used it all, I thought. “Give me a minute!”

I ran out, grabbed a roll from the hallway closet, and rushed back. Breathing hard, I knocked on the bathroom door.

“I’ve got more,” I said, “I’m opening the door, okay?”

“Okay.”

I cracked the door. My eyes caught a glimpse of Michaela’s bare ass on the toilet seat and her pajama pants in a pile on the floor. Her fresh, healthy smell reached my nose.

Then her hand reached out. I tossed her the toilet paper and closed the door.

Above the sounds of my TV show, I heard Michaela strike a match. She flushed, washed her hands, and emerged from the bathroom sighing.

“Thanks for the assist,” she said.

“Don’t mention it.”

She stood in the center of the room for a moment, watching the soap opera on my laptop. “What exactly is happening here?” she asked.

I started explaining the plot, and she sat down on my bed. We watched a few minutes in silence together.

“This actually isn’t bad,” was Michaela’s verdict.

“You can watch more tomorrow night,” I said.

“Maybe.” She smiled. “It might become a ‘regular’ thing ümraniye olgun escort for us.”

“Very regular,” I agreed. We both laughed, blushing.

***

I’m a light sleeper. At about 6am, I heard my bedroom door creaking, and I blinked awake.

“Claire?” I asked groggily.

My full-figured roommate was creeping into my bedroom, trying to be quiet. She wore sweatpants and a t-shirt.

“Sorry,” she said softly. “I drank coffee. I need to shit really bad.” She paused. “I would have knocked, but I didn’t want to wake you up.”

“You should knock first,” I said quickly. Last night I had been masturbating again, completely naked, for almost a full hour. “Definitely knock.”

“Okay.” Claire nodded at me. “Sorry. I’ll only be a minute.”

She disappeared into my bathroom and shut the door. Moments later, she began releasing a noisy, bubbly poop into my toilet. It lasted only five seconds again: a single, sticky-sounding rush. Then she sighed in relief, and I heard the toilet paper spinning.

“Sorry I woke you up,” she said again when she opened the door.

“No, it’s -” I sat up in bed, rubbing my eyes, before I remembered that I was still naked. The bedsheet fell down around me, exposing my breasts.

I gasped. As I scrambled to cover myself, Claire’s eyes darted across my body. She smiled.

“Very sexy!” she laughed. Casually, she turned and walked away. “Anyway, I’ll see you later, Emily.”

“God – sorry!” I stammered. “Sorry. Bye!”

I fell back onto my pillow, still covering my breasts with both hands. My face burned, and my heart was pulsing wildly.

Then Claire’s smell wafted out of the bathroom, just as powerful as yesterday, and I let it fill my lungs.

***

Claire seemed to have no regular bathroom schedule. Sometimes I would come home from work and discover her stench in my bedroom, and all my toilet paper would be gone. Other times she’d appear late at night, or early in the morning. Sometimes she went twice a day, and sometimes she’d vanish for two days at a time.

Michaela, on the other hand, pooped like clockwork. She knocked on my door every night at 9pm, and she spent about five minutes moving her bowels.

I masturbated constantly during those few weeks. I touched myself every day, even during my period. I was consistently getting off, too. I had these big, primitive orgasms like a cavewoman, and I absolutely loved it.

After a few days, I started fantasizing about having sex with my roommates. I was straight, but I sometimes got “girl-crushes” on women, especially when they triggered one of my kinks. One time, years ago, I had even hooked up with a woman – drunkenly kissing and fingering her – and I dreamed about touching Claire and Michaela the same way.

Claire was a sexy, voluptious woman with no shame about her body. In my fantasies, she’d laugh as she pushed me down onto the bed and groped me.

And Michaela… when I masturbated, I imagined the way she’d blush as she leaned towards me. Our lips would barely touch. Slowly, our fingers would interlock. Then, I’d feel her breath against my neck…

Even at work, I got aroused just thinking about it. I sat squirming at my desk, counting the minutes until I came home.

***

When Michaela finished pooping in the evenings, she would sit down for a while and watch TV with me. Soon, we started opening up to each other. We became friends.

Michaela was lonelier than I would have guessed. Most of her friends had gotten married by now, and they were all moving away and getting pregnant. Somehow, at 29, Michaela had never had a serious boyfriend before. She felt hopeless about her future.

“I’m not good with intimacy,” she explained. “I always push people away. That’s how I end up alone…”

I told her my awful life story as well. Listening, Michaela reached out and touched my arm.

We would sit on the edge of the bed, only inches apart, as we watched TV. When we talked, we would glance sideways to make eye contact. Through the bathroom door, I could faintly smell the candles that she left burning.

And sometimes she touched me. Whenever we discussed an unhappy topic, she would make quick physical contact – brushing her fingers against my hand or elbow. My skin always tingled at the connection, and my heart jumped.

Kiss me, I would think. Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me…

Then she’d pat my shoulder as she stood up. “Okay. See you tomorrow night, Emily.”

“Good night, Michaela.”

I’d go to bed buzzing with desire. I masturbated like a teenager every night, using just my fingers.

Once, naked beneath the covers, I came so hard that I started crying like a baby afterwards. I couldn’t help it – sex makes me emotional sometimes. I ended up sobbing for 10 minutes, soaking my pillow with tears, until I fell into a restful sleep.

***

One morning, Claire caught me pooping. I was sitting on the toilet, playing games on my phone, when I heard her walk into my bedroom.

I instantly froze. “Claire?”

She ümraniye ucuz escort knocked on the bathroom door. “Emily, are you in there?”

My chest tightened. “Can you come back later?”

I was in the middle of a difficult bowel movement. Pooping is often a struggle for me, and my bathroom anxieties didn’t help.

“Will you be much longer?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I replied shortly. “I might be.”

“Okay, I can wait.” I heard Claire chuckle through the door. “I’m glad I’m not the only person who shits around here!”

Despite my nerves, I forced a laugh. “Michaela goes every night, don’t worry.”

When Claire had walked in, I’d been forcing out a dry, thick segment of my waste. It abruptly broke off, and I released an audible fart. I winced in embarrassment.

Claire ignored the sound. I heard her lean back against the bathroom door.

After a short pause, she asked, “You don’t have a boyfriend, Emily, do you?”

“Um…” I furrowed my brow, but something in Claire’s voice told me she needed to talk. I cleared my throat and said, “No, I don’t.”

In truth, I hadn’t had sex in over three years, let alone get a boyfriend. I was recovering from a rough period of my life.

“How about you?” I asked slowly.

“Yes, I have a man back home,” she said. She sighed. “But he’s still getting a visa. I haven’t been with him in six months. We try talking on the phone, but…”

Claire trailed off. Even through the door, I could hear the pain in her voice.

“That must be hard,” I said.

“Yes…” She hesitated a moment. “I get very lonely.”

She fell silent. I had pinched off my poop and was trying to wipe as quickly and quietly as possible.

“Sorry,” was all I could think to say.

“It’s just difficult being alone.” She sighed again. “I’m a woman, you know?”

I paused mid-wipe, frowning. “What do you mean?”

“Women are not meant to be alone,” Claire said matter-of-factly. “We have empty places inside us. Right? I’m speaking about the womb, the vagina. The woman’s heart is the same way. We cannot survive on our own.”

“…I see.”

I’m actually a feminist, and I think women can be self-sufficient. I didn’t want to argue with Claire right now, though. I just bit my tongue and finished wiping.

When I opened that bathroom door, I found her sitting on the floor. I helped her to her feet.

“I hope it’s not too bad in there,” I said.

Claire gave me a long look. “It’s all right, Emily. Thank you for listening.”

Then she walked into the bathroom and took a wet, noisy shit. I sat on the bed and listened.

***

As Michaela pooped that night, I heard her sniffling in the bathroom. When she came out, she looked like she’d been crying.

I paused my TV show. “Is something wrong?”

“No, it’s…” She waved her hand and sat beside me on the bed. “Just having one of those days,” she said.

“Well – okay.”

I unpaused my soap opera, and we watched it together for a few minutes. Michaela wore a red tank top and pajama pants that evening, and her dark hair hung loose past her shoulders. In the dim light of my laptop screen, she looked beautiful.

Soon, I heard her sniffle again. Glancing over, I saw a wet tear glistening on her cheek.

I paused the show once more. “All right,” I said, “what’s going on?”

“Well… it’s my little sister.” Michaela looked away from me. “She just announced that she’s pregnant. She’s 26 years old. Married.”

“Oh,” I said cautiously. “Good for her?”

“Yeah. And I’m… almost 30. All alone.” She glanced at the floor. “I must be such a disappointment.”

I touched her arm gently. “Come on,” I said. “You’re an amazing person, Michaela.”

Instead of replying, Michaela leaned into me. We hugged for the first time. She pressed her face against my shoulder, and I felt the wetness of her tears. Carefully, I rested my hands on her lower back.

“It’s all right,” I said softly.

I’d never had close female friends before. This was the kind of situation I dreamed about – a moment of intimate vulnerability.

My body hummed with sexual tension, of course. Michaela was pressed against me, soft and warm, and I held her close.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured into my shoulder. “I’m PMSing, so everything’s got me…”

“It’s all right.” I rubbed my hands gently on her back, feeling her bra straps.

Michaela gradually calmed down, though we continued holding each other. We talked in soft voices for a while, almost whispering. Our faces were only inches apart.

“You’re still young,” I murmured. “You’ve got a whole life ahead of you.”

“Thank you.” Michaela smiled through her tears. “Thanks for being here.” Our eyes met, lingering, as I held her shoulders.

Acting on instinct, I leaned forward and kissed her.

For a quarter of a second, I felt the softness of Michaela’s lips… the slick chapstick she wore…

And then she jerked backwards as if I’d slapped her, and I realized I’d made a terrible mistake.

“Emily!” she exclaimed. “What the hell?”

“Oh god,” I gasped, “I’m sorry -“

She scrambled across the bed, away from me. “I didn’t know you were -” she stammered. “I’m not like that!”

“I’m not like that!” My brain locked up. “I just, I -“

“I have to go.” She jumped shakily to her feet. “Sorry. I’ll talk to you later.”

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