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(I'm trying to reinvent one of the best stories I've ever read that involved a regression experiment told from the doctor's point of view. The concept of this story is not my own, but this particular writing is. Since I cannot find the original version anywhere, I'm no Koschel or Narada, but I've decided to rewrite my own and I hope you all enjoy it.)
Sarah opened the door to her poorly furnished studio apartment and stepped inside, locking it behind her. She dropped her satchel next to the island in the kitchenette, which, in addition to being a food preparation area, was also a desk, an office, a dining table, an art studio, and essentially anything else that a flat surface could suffice for. It was Friday, which meant no classes for two whole days, and she could catch up on her various assignments that had been building up during the week.
She walked over to the pantry and opened the door to a disappointing sight. “Ramen again,” she sighed. Being a junior in college, she was pretty heavily in debt. You would never believe how much junk food she ate from her figure. Despite her poor diet, she was an athletic twenty year-old with sleek, chestnut-brown hair and piercing eyes that were the grey of sea-ice. She had a narrow waist with a bottom that let the many eyes that saw it on campus know that she did more than her fair share of squats.
She gathered the soup pouch and pot, and putting the noodles on to boil, took out her laptop to power it on while she used the bathroom. She pulled down her jeans and panties and relaxed, while a powerful stream loudly splashed against the porcelain and water. “God! I had to piss like a racehorse!” she thought to herself. Just as she was finishing up, she heard a chime from her computer letting her know she’d received an email. She wiped carefully, pulled her jeans and panties back up, took her dinner off the stove and sat down to see what she’d received. She clicked on the subject--Medical Testing Happening In Your Area! Subjects Entitled To Financial Compensation!—She was interested, but this definitely seemed like a scam, or at the very least, a spam e-mail. Either way, she opened it in the off chance that it could actually be something useful. After all, it was probably something like a survey, or a blood test, or some new sleep medication. Normal things.
Hello SARAH,
We are testing the physiological and psychological effects of encopresis in adult women. The trial lasts for seven days. You will be required to provide a stool sample each day and will be paid $500.00 per session. Each session lasts approximately thirty minutes, and you will be granted free access to all facilities and recreation in the testing area. WiFi provided. Please call the number provided for further information.
She immediately locked onto the dollar sign. “I could make 3.5K in a week for less than four hours of work!” She thought excitedly. That would definitely help her pay off some of her tuition and bills that had been accumulating since she began the previous semester. She quickly ate her noodles and then hurriedly dialed the number provided.
She put the phone up to her ear, still chewing the final mouthful of her dinner and waiting for the receiver on the other end to ring. Given the hour, she wasn’t even sure if someone would answer. After a single solid tone, she expected to hear a voicemail message, but the line simply went silent. She looked at the screen of her smartphone. “Call Ended.” “Oh well,” she thought. “It was all too good to be true anyway. They probably already found their candidates far earlier in the day.” Somewhat deflated that she’d be missing the opportunity to make some easy money, she reached into her green canvas satchel for her psych textbook and began to review her neuroscience material. She hoped that becoming a clinical psychologist would pay off one day, because school certainly wasn’t getting any cheaper.
As she lifted the heavy cover open to the proper page of the encyclopedic volume, she began to feel a slight churning in her tummy. Brushing it aside, she focused on the material. She would be busy this weekend. “Work now, play later,” she told herself. There was no time for drinking, or pot, and definitely not any for a boyfriend. “Single for life,” she teased herself, twirling a strand of hair between her left thumb and forefinger. Neurons, synapses, amygdala…Her eyes rapidly scanned over the key words, soaking them all in. Just then, a deep gurgle sounded itself from within, and with a stronger churning than before. It felt like something awful was growing within her. “Ok then, I can do this on the toilet just as well. What the hell did I eat, anyway?”
She picked up the massive book, saving her page with her finger and began walking toward her bathroom just as the chipper, optimistic tune of her ringtone began to fill the tiny apartment. “Seriously? Now?” she thought. She was fully willing to ignore it so she could deal with the evil that was brewing within her thin frame, but just on the off chance it was important, she headed back to her work table. Sure enough, it was the number she had dialed before. The clinic. The phone slowly spun as it vibrated and she quickly snatched it up, swiping her thumb right across the screen to answer. Putting the phone up to her ear once again, she greeted the caller with a friendly “Hello.” The voice on the other end was deep. Resonant. . It spoke soothingly, but with an air of authority. The kind of voice that was difficult to ignore and even more difficult to oppose. “Good evening. This is Doctor Marschand. I was just leaving the office. Is there something I can help you with?” he asked. She paused. “e-E-mail...” She stammered and then trailed off. “Excuse me?” questioned the doctor. “I’m sorry!” she giggled nervously, still very much aware of her need to use the toilet. “I received an email from your office about some sort of experiment? My name is Sarah…with an H.” “Ah, yes…Sarah, with an H, of course!” he acknowledged. “I am going to speak directly for the sake of brevity. As you may well know, there is a large taboo surrounding bathroom use for bowel movements. We are seeking to study a large enough sample group so that we can find out what drives the human mind to be so reticent about the subject of toileting. Also, we are testing a new incontinence drug. We are fully aware of the potential for embarrassment, which is why we compensate our subjects so handsomely for their time. Your only requirement will be to take a dose of the medication, provide a stool sample and then answer a questionnaire.”
The doctor’s words seemed to go on forever. Here he was, medically discussing exactly what she wanted to do most in the world: take a giant shit. She began to lose focus as the cramps became worse. She was crossing her legs and putting her free hand tightly against her bottom, hopefully preventing any unwanted escapes. She was far too embarrassed to use the toilet while talking to a stranger, and she bobbed up and down in her kitchenette, struggling to sound as composed as possible. She wanted to hang up. She was deaf to the reverberating words. She wanted to throw the phone, tear her pants and panties down, and let loose with all she had. But she couldn’t risk that now. She needed a spot in this study and she was too shy to talk through it, so she waited. Once she checked back into the conversation, she heard the doctor’s voice question “Are you interested? Whatever she missed, she thought was likely inconsequential and could pick up along the way. Privacy agreements and what-not. All she needed to do was say “Yes!” Which she did emphatically and through somewhat gritted teeth. She was still standing in her kitchenette doing her little dance. She stupidly thought that trying to relieve the pressure through a small fart would have been a good idea. Slowly and with measured breath, she relaxed her hole ever so slightly. “I can do this,” she thought. Everything seemed to be fine, when suddenly, he felt a tiny hot squirt erupt between her butt cheeks. From the shock in her face it would be immediately apparent to anyone that she had just sharted, had anyone else been in the room with her, that is. While all of this horror was silently unfolding in Sarah’s little slice of heaven. The doctor’s voice was literally and figuratively miles away. Please come to our office downtown at 4:45 PM sharp on Monday. Please make every effort to have your bowel movements here or else we cannot pay you for research. Goodbye, Miss Sarah. Click. The line went silent. She slammed her phone onto the table with nearly enough force to break it and bolted for the bathroom as quickly as she could with a strange wide-legged, clenched cheek side-to-side hop trying to keep her panties clean—that is, if they weren’t ruined already.
Her hands were hummingbirds, deftly removing clothing and with the grace of a gymnast hopped out of her jeans and panties and landed squarely on the toilet, but before her milky bottom could even touch the seat, she was defecating fiercely. Once the first wave had passed, she was relieved to find that her miniature accident had stayed away from her white panties. She pushed a bit more, fully emptying herself of her discomfort and rather than dealing with a messy wipe, decided simply on a shower instead. After drying and redressing, she sat down to her work. The rest of her weekend was spent in silent solitude with her books, save for the ambient music playing softly through her headphones. The only difference however, was that she spared herself her Sunday morning bowel movement. She remembered what the Doctor had said. No results, no pay. She had to hold it until afternoon the next day…
Sarah opened the door to her poorly furnished studio apartment and stepped inside, locking it behind her. She dropped her satchel next to the island in the kitchenette, which, in addition to being a food preparation area, was also a desk, an office, a dining table, an art studio, and essentially anything else that a flat surface could suffice for. It was Friday, which meant no classes for two whole days, and she could catch up on her various assignments that had been building up during the week.
She walked over to the pantry and opened the door to a disappointing sight. “Ramen again,” she sighed. Being a junior in college, she was pretty heavily in debt. You would never believe how much junk food she ate from her figure. Despite her poor diet, she was an athletic twenty year-old with sleek, chestnut-brown hair and piercing eyes that were the grey of sea-ice. She had a narrow waist with a bottom that let the many eyes that saw it on campus know that she did more than her fair share of squats.
She gathered the soup pouch and pot, and putting the noodles on to boil, took out her laptop to power it on while she used the bathroom. She pulled down her jeans and panties and relaxed, while a powerful stream loudly splashed against the porcelain and water. “God! I had to piss like a racehorse!” she thought to herself. Just as she was finishing up, she heard a chime from her computer letting her know she’d received an email. She wiped carefully, pulled her jeans and panties back up, took her dinner off the stove and sat down to see what she’d received. She clicked on the subject--Medical Testing Happening In Your Area! Subjects Entitled To Financial Compensation!—She was interested, but this definitely seemed like a scam, or at the very least, a spam e-mail. Either way, she opened it in the off chance that it could actually be something useful. After all, it was probably something like a survey, or a blood test, or some new sleep medication. Normal things.
Hello SARAH,
We are testing the physiological and psychological effects of encopresis in adult women. The trial lasts for seven days. You will be required to provide a stool sample each day and will be paid $500.00 per session. Each session lasts approximately thirty minutes, and you will be granted free access to all facilities and recreation in the testing area. WiFi provided. Please call the number provided for further information.
She immediately locked onto the dollar sign. “I could make 3.5K in a week for less than four hours of work!” She thought excitedly. That would definitely help her pay off some of her tuition and bills that had been accumulating since she began the previous semester. She quickly ate her noodles and then hurriedly dialed the number provided.
She put the phone up to her ear, still chewing the final mouthful of her dinner and waiting for the receiver on the other end to ring. Given the hour, she wasn’t even sure if someone would answer. After a single solid tone, she expected to hear a voicemail message, but the line simply went silent. She looked at the screen of her smartphone. “Call Ended.” “Oh well,” she thought. “It was all too good to be true anyway. They probably already found their candidates far earlier in the day.” Somewhat deflated that she’d be missing the opportunity to make some easy money, she reached into her green canvas satchel for her psych textbook and began to review her neuroscience material. She hoped that becoming a clinical psychologist would pay off one day, because school certainly wasn’t getting any cheaper.
As she lifted the heavy cover open to the proper page of the encyclopedic volume, she began to feel a slight churning in her tummy. Brushing it aside, she focused on the material. She would be busy this weekend. “Work now, play later,” she told herself. There was no time for drinking, or pot, and definitely not any for a boyfriend. “Single for life,” she teased herself, twirling a strand of hair between her left thumb and forefinger. Neurons, synapses, amygdala…Her eyes rapidly scanned over the key words, soaking them all in. Just then, a deep gurgle sounded itself from within, and with a stronger churning than before. It felt like something awful was growing within her. “Ok then, I can do this on the toilet just as well. What the hell did I eat, anyway?”
She picked up the massive book, saving her page with her finger and began walking toward her bathroom just as the chipper, optimistic tune of her ringtone began to fill the tiny apartment. “Seriously? Now?” she thought. She was fully willing to ignore it so she could deal with the evil that was brewing within her thin frame, but just on the off chance it was important, she headed back to her work table. Sure enough, it was the number she had dialed before. The clinic. The phone slowly spun as it vibrated and she quickly snatched it up, swiping her thumb right across the screen to answer. Putting the phone up to her ear once again, she greeted the caller with a friendly “Hello.” The voice on the other end was deep. Resonant. . It spoke soothingly, but with an air of authority. The kind of voice that was difficult to ignore and even more difficult to oppose. “Good evening. This is Doctor Marschand. I was just leaving the office. Is there something I can help you with?” he asked. She paused. “e-E-mail...” She stammered and then trailed off. “Excuse me?” questioned the doctor. “I’m sorry!” she giggled nervously, still very much aware of her need to use the toilet. “I received an email from your office about some sort of experiment? My name is Sarah…with an H.” “Ah, yes…Sarah, with an H, of course!” he acknowledged. “I am going to speak directly for the sake of brevity. As you may well know, there is a large taboo surrounding bathroom use for bowel movements. We are seeking to study a large enough sample group so that we can find out what drives the human mind to be so reticent about the subject of toileting. Also, we are testing a new incontinence drug. We are fully aware of the potential for embarrassment, which is why we compensate our subjects so handsomely for their time. Your only requirement will be to take a dose of the medication, provide a stool sample and then answer a questionnaire.”
The doctor’s words seemed to go on forever. Here he was, medically discussing exactly what she wanted to do most in the world: take a giant shit. She began to lose focus as the cramps became worse. She was crossing her legs and putting her free hand tightly against her bottom, hopefully preventing any unwanted escapes. She was far too embarrassed to use the toilet while talking to a stranger, and she bobbed up and down in her kitchenette, struggling to sound as composed as possible. She wanted to hang up. She was deaf to the reverberating words. She wanted to throw the phone, tear her pants and panties down, and let loose with all she had. But she couldn’t risk that now. She needed a spot in this study and she was too shy to talk through it, so she waited. Once she checked back into the conversation, she heard the doctor’s voice question “Are you interested? Whatever she missed, she thought was likely inconsequential and could pick up along the way. Privacy agreements and what-not. All she needed to do was say “Yes!” Which she did emphatically and through somewhat gritted teeth. She was still standing in her kitchenette doing her little dance. She stupidly thought that trying to relieve the pressure through a small fart would have been a good idea. Slowly and with measured breath, she relaxed her hole ever so slightly. “I can do this,” she thought. Everything seemed to be fine, when suddenly, he felt a tiny hot squirt erupt between her butt cheeks. From the shock in her face it would be immediately apparent to anyone that she had just sharted, had anyone else been in the room with her, that is. While all of this horror was silently unfolding in Sarah’s little slice of heaven. The doctor’s voice was literally and figuratively miles away. Please come to our office downtown at 4:45 PM sharp on Monday. Please make every effort to have your bowel movements here or else we cannot pay you for research. Goodbye, Miss Sarah. Click. The line went silent. She slammed her phone onto the table with nearly enough force to break it and bolted for the bathroom as quickly as she could with a strange wide-legged, clenched cheek side-to-side hop trying to keep her panties clean—that is, if they weren’t ruined already.
Her hands were hummingbirds, deftly removing clothing and with the grace of a gymnast hopped out of her jeans and panties and landed squarely on the toilet, but before her milky bottom could even touch the seat, she was defecating fiercely. Once the first wave had passed, she was relieved to find that her miniature accident had stayed away from her white panties. She pushed a bit more, fully emptying herself of her discomfort and rather than dealing with a messy wipe, decided simply on a shower instead. After drying and redressing, she sat down to her work. The rest of her weekend was spent in silent solitude with her books, save for the ambient music playing softly through her headphones. The only difference however, was that she spared herself her Sunday morning bowel movement. She remembered what the Doctor had said. No results, no pay. She had to hold it until afternoon the next day…
Thanks.................
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