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I'll show you mine, if you show me yours...


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Probably one of the stories I put on some forum I can't even remember the name of back between 05 and 07. Rambling run ons, disjointed scene transitions, anatomically impossible sex, the works. I could try to recreate one, the forum is probably long gone and the computer I wrote them on is long dead.

Edited by SandiaperSimon (see edit history)
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While I've posted them here, there's a reason I don't carry over the My Little Pony stuff I did in my early days anymore. Not that I don't recognize their importance in my history (though a few have specific "I am no longer proud of this story" disclaimers on FIMFiction), but aside from being short and lacking in original scenarios/detail, some of them just have really uncomfortable content that I wouldn't do anymore. Case in point, the Daring Do story.

I'm not all that happy with my early works on this site either, but I think my quality improved drastically once I branched out from ponies, and it's only gone up since then.

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I think the very worst omo fiction I have ever written is here:

The Walk Home...

It's a very, very 'guy goes Mary-Sue' vignette about a busy girl who walked home in the morning after a houseparty, dribbling-out a colossal 'wet patch' until her knickers were sagging below the hem of her skirt.

So she rinsed them out by pissing in them where she stood... 

All the while, with an internal monologue that is unmistakably a thirsty, thirsty guy who really doesn't know what a girl with a lively sex life is actually like. 

 

If you want anything worse, you'll have to persuade me to exhume the sweaty-lesbian-peeing-in-rubber-shorts... Thing... That I wrote when I surely knew better. But that's in a league of its own and you would have to (a) be a plausible participant in it and (b) wet yourself right in front of me, before I'd ever consider bringing that squelching monster into the light of day. 

 

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On 9/28/2020 at 10:37 AM, betanumeric said:

If you want anything worse, you'll have to persuade me to exhume the sweaty-lesbian-peeing-in-rubber-shorts...

I see your rubber shorts and raise you futuristic freeze drying underwear

 

"She let out a startled,“eep.” All the laughter mixed with her weak body was too much for her bladder. Sorry, Sinna. She had half expected it to puddle under her. What she had not expected was for the shorts to bulge out like a water balloon.

“What’s the matter, Mecha Becc- woah!”

So much for being more discreet than diapers.

She was too stunned to cover up, so she just sat there watching her shorts growing bigger and bigger. It even levitated her butt a few inches off the bed. She worried they were going to pop, but she also kind of wanted to poke at it. Was she ever going to stop peeing? At long last it stopped. Now what? They weren’t going to stay like this, were they? And then Becca felt it. The cold began to seep in. Her shorts began to quickly deflate, but they hadn’t sprung a leak. Instead a thin layer of white fog began to emerge from the fabric like warmed dry ice. It floated around her for a second before disappearing. And then it was like she had never used them at all. She stared up at her father before they both burst into laughter.  "   -The Sphere

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20 hours ago, SashaButters said:

futuristic freeze drying underwear

That's... Interesting.

Science fiction has some challenges for sensualists and erotic writing: there is going to be a point in the distant future when the lives and desires of our future selves are no longer recognisable, and we can't write the characters that elicit warmth and empathy and the sensations that elicit arousal...

Closer to the present, there will be a 'fix' for all bodily functions, and they stop being a useful prop in our kinks and fantasies.

Closer still and....

Speculative fiction: wet in the not-so-distant future

...And actually, the halfway-there aids to living are kinda fun.

However, this is a 'show me yours' thread on the topic of bad writing: and I was so wrapped-up in over-detailed rationalisations of the erotic fantasy that it ceased to be erotic, and it's about as fantastic as the maintenance manual for a potato peeler:

Quote

 

The year is 2080, and a woman who looks twenty years of age, or maybe twenty-five, returns to her apartment early in the morning; she tells the car to to stop ten minutes' walk from home and takes a stroll across the park.

Yes, she has been drinking; there's just a trace of unsteadiness - no hangover, she never gets them - and a bright-eyed hint that she took more than alcohol. There's a satisfaction to her, something too lazy to be a strut in the swing of her hips, telling anyone who has the wit to look she didn't spend the night alone, and thoroughly enjoyed it.

There is a reason she got out to walk, instead of staying in a public car: she's full and she doesn't want to pay a cleaning charge.

We say 'full' but nowadays they'd say "she needs to empty out"; and if I need to make it clearer to observers from another, less hygienic age: her shorts are full. They bulge in front of her and they are visibly rolling as she walks. She knows she's going to piss again, but that's okay now; she's on the grass, it's part of what the grass is for, and there's no law against it like there is for pissing on the sidewalk...

...And, sure enough and twenty paces later, she's walking with a stream of liquid running down her leg; she notices, and stops, and you could hear it if you were a little closer: she's pissing like a open tap into her shorts.

It doesn't seem to bother her: that might surprise you.

Those shorts are outwardly dry, even while she's pissing down her leg: they look like retro denim hotpants, and they feel like denim to the touch, but they are definitely not denim. Inside, they are wet against her skin and they should definitely not be: she's overloaded them. I mean, completely overloaded: piss is running up against an unresponsive underlayer and flowing down her skin, when it should have stopped in place with the cuffs pulled tight, pooling up before it's taken up and separated into concentrated yellow paste and water gel, conducted to the outer 'denim' fabric for accelerated evaporation; and all of it discreetly out of sight.

Discreetly, that is, if you don't drink so much that it can't evaporate away and it ends up in a bulge too big to hide. And, eventually, too big to take another spurt without it overflowing.

She stands with her legs apart, completely unembarrassed; she is unable to stop and it would never have occurred to her to try. A little stream showers down, splashing in a puddle on the grass; but most of it just wets her legs and rushes through her sandals.

When it stops - or rather, when she's pissing just a dribble and she isn't quite aware of it - she touches a stud on her shorts. The bulge diminishes, and clean water flushes down her legs, washing off the piss, adding to the puddle in the grass; a bigger puddle than you would expect: water storage takes less volume with a 'smart material' and on demand the storage gel releases many, many bladders' full of water purified from piss.

The shorts contract down to her backside and her crotch, clinging to a thoroughly agreeable figure: they're holding onto the urea and the bile salts, but that takes hardly any volume; and they cling tightly as the underlayer dries her off and moisturises her skin.

Finally, we have the picture of a fit young woman in hot denim shorts, walking in no hurry home, and stopping at the coffee kiosk. The boy who runs the counter serves her capuccino, asks if she's had a good night out, and is entirely unfazed by what he saw her do: it's the park, and nothing awful or illegal ever happens here.

They would both be amused by any comments from their unhygienic ancestors; or grossed out and just a little shocked, if we attempted to impose an unpleasant opinion on them, based on the strange and ignorant beliefs of half a century before..

Lets cut to the chase: She's not incontinent - they have no use for the word outside of textbooks for a doctor visiting an undeveloped country - and she hasn't had an 'accident'. There is no such thing as 'continence' and there is nothing accidental in her body pissing where and when it pleases: it's what bodies do.

Nobody has ever, ever told her to 'hold her wee'.

As an adult, she's vaguely aware that she probably can - and she played a kind of game of it when she was small - but she's never really tried to, and she's never actually had to.

It's embarrassing to overload and 'empty out' in someone's house - well, in most rooms in someone else's house - and quite offensive to do so in a public footway; but the counters at work, and the workstation at college, and the recliner in her home have plug-ins and it isn't something that she often has to think about. Nevertheless, it's quite unusual to drink as much as a man and overload anything that isn't just a small bikini - and they're not coming back into fashion anytime soon - and anything decent you can wear in public can take all the piss it's reasonably possible to put in it, unless you're drinking to excess.

 

 

What follows next, in that vignette, is an excrutiatingly pedestrian and pooterish over-explanation as to how our society might get from here to there... Short version: diapers eventually get the 'holy grail' of making shit disappear through a mesh, cleaning the wearer's skin perfectly and sealing it all away, and the advertising industry gets us all onboard with kids wearing them later, and later, and...

And eventually it just doesn't matter any more. It's just *easier* to run a household with kids, and a preschool... and then a reception class, and then a junior school. And, and, and... With the advertising industry working hard on the hygiene angle, we make as big a change in attitudes as the Victorians did, when the dangerous and unhealthy eccentricity of bathing daily with soap became the accepted norm.

At some point, I remembered to give my heroine a name: Suzy, and started writing about her again...

And she shat herself:

Quote

 

Suzy chats to the counter-boy for a minute, and finishes her coffee - that's what he's there for, machines make better coffee than he ever will, but people do not stop and talk and buy a coffee just for a machine - and sets off for home again. As she steps down from the bar-stool at the counter, she's pissing in her pants again - she notices, this time, briefly looking down to check her underwear is working; and forgets about it immediately.

When she gets home she'll just have time for an hour's sleep - she can wear her shorts or not, every sexually-active adult has bedsheets just as capable as anything they're wearing - and then she'll take a shower. Or maybe put her shower-pants on and shower first...

Did I mention shower pants? Just as she is in a state of perfect hormonal balance, sunny and affectionate just like the day she ovulates - if she ever chooses to do that, and no way in hell will she repeat the unpleasant experiment of permitting menstruation - her gastrointestinal tract is working perfectly, efficiently, not absorbing excess calories, always taking in the necessary vitamins and minerals; and on a timer. 

It's part of the morning routine: put on shower pants, wash and spray and dry, rinse out with a mouthwash even smarter than her underwear, run the fashion gel into her hair, put the pants in the disposer - they've had time to pick up the load, emulsify and package it, clean and moisturise her skin.

Yes, she shat her panties in the shower and she thinks nothing of it - no adult gives it any thought, it's part of the routine, it's effortless, and odourless, and inoffensive; and ninety seconds after shitting, her backside is cleaner than your skin has ever been.

It's what shower pants are for and everybody uses them.

If she ever thought about it, and if she remembers the gross stuff that they taught in history at school, it's way cleaner than the... Thing.... they did before hygienic garments. 

The thing that you do every day.

Unless Suzy did something utterly disgusting when she was a child, it is entirely possible that she has never encountered her own shit outside of a carefully-sanitised biology class.

Nevertheless, the the gastrointestinal timing is a little less precise than her reproductive hormones: the latter is a matter of maintaining a steady state, and the former manages a complex organ with a distributed nervous system of it's own and - in Susan's case - an irregular and very varied diet. UBM's - unscheduled bowel movements -  are a thing: mostly, material is only moved into the rectum once a day, generating the desire to defaecate (or a responsive state to the evacuation signal from her shower pants); but sometimes she will feel a need to go at other times off day...

...And that's what Suzy's feeling now. 

Like most adults, she can hold it 'til she gets home; like everyone she's ever met (except the girl at college who did that Third-World 'Natural Body' religion stuff) she's wearing clothes that mean she doesn't actually have to.

A sexually-active adult wearing clothing with intent to show off her assets and availability won't want a tell-tale bulge right where she wants the men (and women) in her life to look; and it's considered slovenly to defaecate outside your own apartment.

But, fuck it, it's an effort to hold in and Suzy can't be bothered. So she stops, breathes in, bears down, and shits her pants, visibly relaxing as she does so.

This would have been an unimaginable thing, disgusting and appalling, forty years before; but now it's just a thing she does.

It's lazy and she shouldn't, but she can. 

She does. The shit pokes out between her buttocks, a telltale shape in her shorts if anyone is looking - and a pair of joggers are, although they're probably more interested in each other than in an attractive woman -  it forms a lump and swells out into a bulge, rounding out and smearing out around her backside, a long expulsion and a very visible movement. Audible, too: a slop and squelch and slither, repeated with each not-quite-voluntary effort: you'd hear it in a quiet room, and maybe over conversation if you were standing next to her. 

She doesn't care: maybe her friends know her well, and they don't mind about that kind of thing; maybe they do and Suzy's careful what she does in front of them - but her fiends are not here right now. 

The mass of shit is sliding down under its weight, as it is squeezed flat by the fabric; the bulge stops moving, and it softens, spreads out as it passes through the fabric of her panties, becoming an emulsion of encapsulated particles. 

It's still quite obvious that she has shit in public. 

The bulge will shrink and redistribute itself: the particles are giving up their water to the discreet bladder bulge in the front of Suzy's shorts. Her panties - the liner for her shorts - change from 'silk' to coarse-weave, then to felt and fuzz - briefly, they are like a deep-pile carpet, tickling as they clean her perfectly: wet, for a moment, then dry, then silk again, sensual against her skin. 

She stands still while it's happening - it's uncomfortable to walk while dealing with a bulge, and something might squeeze out - but the necessary minutes pass; and, now she's finished, it is as if she had done nothing. 

If her figure wasn't already perfect, the gels and the emulsions would distribute themselves so as to flatter her and draw attention where she wants it drawn - the sanitary capabilities of clothing are their least interesting feature - and, as Suzy's panties have detected that she is a little bit slick, and a little bit 'full' in the labia, they have drawn her shorts into curves that accentuate the movements of her backside, and drawn up around her crotch to show a 'camel toe' which -  in addition to feeling quite indecently pleasant as it moves with her - is advertising that she's open to suggestions.

Subtle signals; the things her clothing did to help her when she was quite blatant in pursuit of  entertainment for the evening are best left to the imagination: for part of the night, she and her companion had swapped control codes, in the middle of a crowded party.

She smiles, thinking about that.

Suzy pisses while she walks, again, but everybody does that without noticing; she gets to her apartment, and wears her shorts to bed: there's a setting we won't talk about that helps her get to sleep.

 

 

Thankfully, I stopped at that point.

 

And yes, I've done the  'rubber-shorts-bulging-out-with-piss' thing, too, in a depraved pen-sketch that falls outside the boundaries I've set for this  "You show me yours"  topic. 

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