Thursday in Jeans

This is a story which I wrote some time ago and have posted elsewhere online. If you’ve already come across it, I crave your indulgence. However if you’ve not come across it before, I hope very much that you’ll enjoy it.



A thin white film covered the surrounding fields and fresh white snowflakes landed on Anne’s windscreen as fast as her wipers could clear them. The road ahead was coated in a light brown sludge. Although the gritters had been out in force overnight on the main roads they’d given remoter ones such as this a miss. Given a choice in the matter she’d rather have stayed at home in these conditions and kept the car off the road until it had all melted. 

However Brian had to attend a conference in Zurich and instead of spending sixty pounds on a taxi he’d insisted on being driven to the airport by his wife. Anne had agreed, secure in the knowledge that when the credit card bill arrived after her next shopping spree he’d quickly realise that it had been a false economy. What a day though! Why was it that she always seemed to end up driving in atrocious weather? Exactly three weeks earlier on a tempestuous January Thursday she’d driven Barnaby, her nephew, back to university through gale force winds of 70 mph and more. A Cambridge graduate herself and a jealous champion of that establishment, Anne found that taking Barnaby back to Oxford pained her somewhat. Having deposited him at his halls of residence with a huge fruit cake and a bottle of Australian Shiraz with to wash it down, she’d taken a leisurely stroll on the lawns behind his college and, unbeknown to Barnaby, left a small, discreet damp patch on them as a token of her mild disapproval. After all, it wasn’t as though she hadn’t driven for hours through motorway traffic without peeing.

That Thursday, notable for its high minds and their widespread destruction, so confidently predicted by the Met Office, had been three weeks ago. Now it was another Thursday on which widespread snow, forecast for most of the preceding week, had arrived as billed and caused every bit as much chaos, albeit of a different kind. As she drove steadily through the falling snow, Anne heard a rumbling sound coming from her bowels and sensed an increasing fullness in her back passage. It might be snowy outside but things were about to get windy in the car. She recalled how earlier that morning she’d been lifting a suitcase into the boot when an isolated but tell-tale toot had escaped from her shapely, jeans clad posterior, and the conversation with Brian which had followed 

“Have you been to the loo, Anne? It’s a long drive you know.”

“I peed earlier in the shower. I’m fine” 

“That’s not what I asked. It’s more the other that I was thinking of. I know you won’t admit it but I’ve got a feeling you’ve not moved those bowels of yours for a day or two and I don’t want you getting caught short. There aren’t exactly that many places to stop.”

“Brian, you’re starting to sound like my mother. For goodness sake!”

“Well maybe your mother has a point, Anne. Perhaps you should listen to her more often.”

Anne took a deep breath and glared at her husband.

“Brian, I’m a grown woman. If, when, and where I decide to take a shit is my business, no one else’s — including yours — as I’ve explained a thousand times before.” 

“But you’d feel better if…”

“But nothing, Brian. Button it. Now you’ve got to be checked in by eight in order to get on that plane and we’re not going to make it if we don’t get a move on. Now no more talk about the state of my bowels please. By the way, as you’re not back until Tuesday I’ll expect a decent bottle of perfume on your return and some nice continental chocolates wouldn’t go amiss either.”

“Yes Miss.” Sarcasm didn’t come naturally to Brian but it could surface on occasions when he was feeling rather hen-pecked.

That, however, had been at five thirty when it was still dark and most sane people with a choice in the matter were still tucked safely in their beds. It was now ten past nine and Anne was quietly congratulating herself on a job well done. She’d delivered Brian to the airport for seven fifty, guaranteeing that he’d just make the check in time, albeit by the skin of his teeth. 

Mission accomplished, Anne further congratulated herself that despite the isolated toot whilst helping Brian pack, she’d not farted once on the way to the airport. Since kissing him goodbye and returning to the car she’d been more relaxed though and she felt the pressure building against her anal sphincter. Brian had been right as he so often and so infuriatingly was. In fact he’d been spot on. She’d not been for a poo since Monday and a quick dump, if that wasn’t too much of a contradiction in terms, before setting out would certainly have been a good idea. However two things had been at stake. Firstly there was her much cherished ‘anal independence’ as she called it; the freedom she’d discovered at university to fart freely and to use the loo when and where she wanted rather than have her toilet habits dictated by the prudery of other people. Secondly, there was the tremendous erotic feeling that went with having full bowels and really needing to go. It always made her incredibly horny and intensely aroused. It was therefore a feeling that was worth hanging on to for as long as possible. Brian knew nothing about this feeling though and she doubted whether he’d understand if she plucked up the courage to tell him. During the day whilst he was at work she regularly put off visits to the loo until really desperate and masturbated as her desperation increased or when she’d finally unburdened herself. Sometimes she put off going too long and didn’t make it to the loo on time – more often than not a semi deliberate choice. She did however try to avoid accidents where they weren’t appropriate, not always successfully though. Surfing the net she’d even discovered a few on-line forums which catered for people just like her. She’d even registered for some of them, albeit under a different name she hoped no one would recognise, just to be on the safe side. There was no way of knowing how some people might react to knowing what turned her on so a degree of secrecy was perhaps advisable.

As she drove carefully along the slushy, sleety road, Anne cut a smelly, tell-tale fart which had been brewing for a while and another, equally smelly one followed. Others then followed, not particularly loud ones but real stink bombs nevertheless, making the car begin to smell badly. Anne wound down her window for a breath of fresh air, quickly raising it again as she was struck by the temperature outside. She was beginning to feel desperate whilst really enjoying the sensation of increasing fullness in her bowels. This was how it ought to feel! 

Much as she enjoyed the sensation, Anne soon realised that if she didn’t get to a toilet quickly she’d end up in a mess sooner or later. As that realisation dawned, she found herself a few miles outside Woodchester, in fact slightly to the north of that ancient city. Her home in the quiet market town of Attleton Market was still a good half hour’s drive away and getting there without messing herself would be impossible. Much though she disliked using public loos she realised that stopping off for a shit in Woodchester was her only option if damage to her jeans and the car seat were to be avoided. 

With Attleton Market fifteen miles to the south of Woodchester, Anne rarely had reason to approach the city from the north and it was something she’d not done for many years. That northern half of the city comprised a mixture of light industry, residential property of an indeterminate age and the sprawling campus of the vast university where she’d lectured for a few years when it was still the polytechnic. Getting closer to the heart of the city she noticed the contrasts of the gleaming state-of-the-art modern General Hospital, the bleak Victorian façade of Her Majesty’s Prison and the soaring spires of the Cathedral drawing ever closer. It was quite unlike the busy commercial area to the south with its shops and offices which Anne was far more familiar with. 

Now farting more insistently and getting smellier by the minute, Anne turned into College Road which ran behind College Green, the enormous grass sward behind the Cathedral. She had to find a loo quickly and knew that there were clean, modern, recently re-furbished toilets at the end of College Green, just by the Cathedral Close. Pulling up outside the Bishop’s Palace, Anne got of the car and walked as briskly as she dared across College Green towards what she hoped would be a source of much needed relief in the nick of time. As she arrived at the entrance to the ladies, Anne’s heart sank. A large sign read ‘CLOSED DUE TO VANDALISM.’ Using the disabled loo was out of the question as she didn’t have one of the special keys required to gain access and, as she paused to ponder whether it would be worth risking popping in the gents, a long, final fart broke forth followed by a familiar crackling sound. A warm, sticky sensation followed by the ripest smell yet, and Anne realised that she was filling her panties. Damn! So near and yet so far. Realising that the battle to hold on had been lost, Anne allowed her bowels to empty completely, allowing her knickers and jeans to take the strain.

Things hadn’t quite worked out the way she’d planned but it was still possible to salvage some of the situation. With a resolute sense of purpose she headed towards the newsagents and the end of College Road, taking care not to slip in the thin but still troublesome snow. At least she could take action to protect the car seat. Gratefully she pushed open the shop door.

“Two copies of the Woodchester Mercury please.”

The elderly man behind the counter wiped his spectacles, raising his eyebrows as he did so.

“Are you sure? I’m surprised a fine looking lady like yourself wants to be bothered with a rag like that. If you want my opinion it’s only fit for bog paper – if you’ll excuse me saying so.”

Anne smiled nervously, well aware of the smell emanating from her person.

“Even the Woodchester Mercury has its uses sometimes. Look I’m in a hurry if you don’t mind.”

The newsagent sighed, wondering about the smell which was brewing but not saying anything for fear of offending his customer.

“Very well madam, two copies. That will be eighty pence.”

Anne paid up and waddled back to the car. As she did so a delightful thought crossed her mind. The sixty quid Brian thought he’d saved by making her drive him to the airport instead of hiring a taxi would just about cover the cost of a new pair of jeans and a box of her favourite maxi knickers.


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  1. Thanks for posting. I had read this story on another site, some time ago, and love the Anne series.

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