suffering and agony

If anyone asked, you'd tell them it was chance. Chance that you'd managed to book this particular, expensive restaurant last minute (and certainly not months in advance); chance that your friend from college was unable to make it, leaving you with a standing reservation you didn't want to waste (and not that you'd never considered asking anyone else before offering the spot to your roommate); and chance that you both ended up in the corner booth with the plush velvet cushioning, completely outside your control (and not something you'd specifically requested).

It was chance that it happened to be Matt's birthday, chance that he was free and eager to attend, and total chance that Matt had been complaining about the pantry being empty all day, leaving him starving and desperate to wolf down any and all food placed in front of him.

If anyone asked.

You're glad no one has.

The belch that erupts from Matt's mouth is deep and rattling, billowing out around a mouthful of prime beef steak and asparagus. He sighs deeply, clearly relieved from the extra room in his belly, and continues chewing, paying no mind to the other patrons around him. "Excuse me," he adds, like an afterthought.

You flush, trying not to stare too openly as you cut delicately into your own meal. The table is fairly small and you can smell the waft of gas from Matt's burp from where you sit.

"This steak is so fucking good," says Matt, swallowing thickly around his mouthful and devouring another. "Too small though. I could eat six of these. I'm glad we had those— what were they?"

"Bruschetta," you reply, watching Matt swipe the back of his hand across his mouth. "Steak, blue cheese, and onion jam."

"Yeah, yeah, those were good! Can never have enough in a place like this. Guess you know me pretty well, roomie," he says with a smirk, reaching out to grab his expensive pint of beer. The dark liquid froths and ripples as he gulps down a few mouthfuls, other hand still hovering in the air with a forkful of food, and you're not surprised at the thunderous burp that follows his eager guzzling. At least he has the decency to turn his head.

"I'm glad you're enjoying it," you manage to say, trying to look calm and not like you're about to burn out of your skin. You'd picked this high end steakhouse knowing Matt would eat just about anything on the menu. Their impressive selection of locally brewed beer didn't hurt either. "I thought you deserved it for your birthday."

"Man, that's so nice of you." Matt smiles and leans back for a moment, taking a breather. You'd had to tell him explicitly that he needed to wear nice clothing, slacks instead of jeans, and a button down shirt, and he'd complied with extreme reluctance. For a man who basically lives in the nude, you imagine restricting clothing feels torturous.

And the clothing is certainly restricting the girth of his gut. As he leans back into the booth, you get a good look at how the buttons of his shirt look fit to burst off with how bloated he is. Patches of skin show in the gaps between buttons, heaving as he breathes. You swallow thickly and chance a glance up.

"Didn't realise you were so full," you say, with a casual tone you don't really feel.

Matt waves a hand. "Not full, just got a belly ache," he says, rubbing a shameless hand over his gut. He tenses for a moment, brows creasing, and your hearing zeroes in on the low, nearly subsonic blast of gas into the booth fabric. With the safety of the soft material of the booth, Matt clearly isn't holding back - the fart vibrates the chair so intensely you're not sure if you're imagining that you can feel it through the floor.

He slumps back all at once, breathing hard in clear relief. "Oooh, man," he pants, fanning a hand between his legs as the noxious gas cloud starts to seep up. "That'd be the blue cheese. Shit." He leans over a little and you hear another splutter of farts, the finish a little wet. "Ahh, yeah, definitely cheesy. Phew. Excuse me."

You swallow thickly and dare to glance around. Your table is tucked into the corner, as far away from anyone as you could book, but given the popularity of this restaurant, that doesn't mean much. There's another booth about 4 feet behind you hosting a group of people, some kind of business meeting from the looks of it. A large fern is the only barrier between you and the other patrons, and while the cushioned seating is doing a miraculous job at muffling Matt's noisy ass, his burps are more conspicuous.

"Are you... alright?" you ask, shifting your hips beneath the tablecloth. For completely unrelated reasons, of course.

Matt hums with his cheeks full, throwing his cutlery down with a clang, chewing vigorously through his mouthful of food. There's grease across his lips and droplets of sauce on his chin, shiny in the light of the restaurant. "Yeah, much better now. My guts aren't gonna be happy with me later though," he says with a laugh. You can't help but imagine what state he's going to be in when he gets home.

"Well, hope you've got some more room," you say, finishing off your own meal. "Because there's another course after this."

"Fuck yes," Matt groans, clearly thrilled at the idea. He reaches over to chug the last of his beer, his third of the evening, and gives a hiccup-burp that jostles his whole body in the booth. You catch the briefest expression of surprise on his face as his body jolts, like an extra flinch, and you're not sure why until he says, "Ugh, I think I leaked."

You stare at him. "You... what?"

"Leaked. This beer is so good but I'm just about dribbling in these fancy pants." Matt shifts his weight in his seat, adjusting his waistband, and you realise what he means. Of course; in your apartment, the man barely even registers when his bladder is full before he's pissing - on the carpet, in the sink, beneath his desk, anywhere his dick happens to be facing. You can't see beneath the table, but you know he isn't wearing underwear beneath his slacks - without a barrier to soak up the mess, you can't help but wonder what the state of his pants looks like right now.

"Oh," you say, unable to come up with something more intelligent. "Did you want to use the bathroom? I think it's somewhere over there..."

"Nah, I'll be okay," he sighs, still adjusting his belt. You can feel his feet moving across the carpet near your own, and you wonder if he really is desperate, to be moving so much. "I'm not taking the chance of missing the next course! And I wanna order another beer, too..."

You sigh, resigning yourself to his squirming for the next half hour at least. It makes you wonder when the last time Matt had to hold his piss was. Or even when the last time he ever actually used a toilet was.

You're considering how you could subtly ask him when you feel a warm splatter of liquid against your ankle. It's just a few droplets, but it's enough for you to shoot a startled look at Matt. And there, his slowly slumping shoulders, tension leaking out of them, you realise with a flush that he's actually relieving himself onto the carpet. In the middle of a restaurant so expensive you had to save up to afford.

Matt sighs happily, eyes half-mast, and he rests his jaw on one hand. Both hands are above the table, and you try not to picture his cock tucked within his open fly, twitching as it flows freely. Hell, knowing Matt, he probably pulled his balls out for some air as well.

"Matt," you hiss, embarrassed and aroused all at once. You can hear the stream jetting into the carpet, gurgling and pooling as the leak becomes a torrent. "Matt."

"Hm?" He looks pleasantly dazed, no doubt bursting with fluid after all that beer. He sighs with his whole body, relief evident in every part of him. "God, that feels good..."

"It's— Matt it's getting on my leg."

"Huh? Oh, sorry."

He shifts a little and you can hear the splatter as the piss stream moves. It splutters, then strengthens once more, soaking across the fibres of the carpet.

"Be careful," you warn quietly, "the waiter—"

"How's everything going so far?"

Like magic, the waiter appears, a practiced smile on her face. You hear Matt's piss stream cut off abruptly.

You try to keep your expression schooled as you return her smile, giving a careful inhale. There's no scent of urine in the air that you can tell, but that might not be true in an hour. "Very well, thanks."

"Delicious," Matt enthuses, innocent as anything. Like his cock isn't out beneath the table. "Can I have another one of those beers?"

"Of course, sir, I'll get that for you right away. Your next course is on its way. Can I get another drink for you?" she asks you, and you open your mouth to answer when you hear a soft splatter. With a jolt you realise what's happening, and speak louder than entirely necessary.

"Yes, actually," you say, barely able to focus with Matt starting to piss again, hiding his toilet break beneath your conversation. "Do you have a recommendation?"

The waiter starts talking about possible drinks you might enjoy and you nod absently, hearing nothing except the trickle of liquid against carpet. Matt seems to be controlling himself enough that the sound is very quiet, not gushing against the floor like before, but the gentle stream just makes the release of his bladder last much longer. Eventually, right as you and the waiter settle on some kind of beer you've never heard of, you hear the last few splashes as he pushes out the final dregs of his urine.

"Wonderful," says the waiter. "I'll get those drinks for you. The next meal won't be long now."

She strides away, and you stare at Matt.

He lets out an exaggerated groan of relief. "Thanks a bunch for that, roomie," he says wholeheartedly, panting faintly in his relief. "Thought I was gonna burst. I hope the food won't be long," he adds, entirely unbothered by his public relief. "I'm starving."

Your mouth opens to reply, then closes, speechless. You watch him grab a portion of the tablecloth and swipe at his crotch, presumably wiping his cock on the fabric, and you can only hope your face isn't as flushed as it feels.

For the next two courses, you try to keep your expression as composed as possible while you watch Matt stuff himself to the brim. He pees twice more beneath the table, the beer making its way quickly through his system. His shirt grows tighter around his gut, visibly straining the buttons, and his gas only gets more frequent. Soon, he's burping through every other word while he talks about some drama between one of his co-workers and their wife.

"And I saiooouuuurd, bro you can't keep ranting about your mari- uuooorp - marital p-brrrrrrrp-problems on Facebook," says Matt, taking a breath and belching proper into his fist, sounding like an absolute pig. Your blood throbs between your legs. "Whew, 'scuse me. Like, obviously her friends are going to see it - why wouldn't they?"

You make an acknowledging noise, hardly listening at all as you watch him shift in his chair. He farts twice in quick succession, then visibly lifts his leg to strain out a beefier one. It drones on and on, gooier with every second, and starts fanning the air by his crotch before it's even finished. "Ahhh, shit," he groans, settling back down. He pats his ballooned gut, whining a little. "Man, I need to make some room after all this food."

"Oh?" you manage. The noxious gas cloud drifts over to you, sharp, cheesy, and revolting, and you struggle not to wrinkle your nose. Or breathe in deeper.

"Yeah. My guts are stuffed. Think I'm starting to grow a tail here," he adds, adjusting his hips in his seat with a grimace that leaves no question as to what he means. You swallow, trying not to imagine the thick head of a turd poking out between his cheeks - something you've seen too many times before - and you glance around.

"Um, I mean I can get the check?"

"Yeah, that sounds good. Fuck. I need to pee again."

"Not yet," you hiss at him, waving down a waiter. The floor under the table is soaked enough as it is. "Wait till we get outside."

Matt groans like you've asked him to run a marathon, but he manages to keep it together while you pay, lying to the waiter about a spilt beer on the carpet. You can see him shifting out of the corner of your eye, and you force yourself not to watch. Part of you, the part you try to keep hidden but keeps fighting its way to the surface whenever Matt's around, wonders how badly he needs to shit. Whether he might drop trou before you even make it home.

You try not to flush too obviously at the thought.

Once you step out into the dark evening air, Matt beelines down the street, his centre of gravity tilted back a bit to counterbalance the full drum of his belly. You hurry along to follow him towards your car, but are surprised when Matt stops at a bus stop beneath a street lamp.

"What are you doing?" you ask, glancing up and down the road. It's a quiet, mostly residential area, interspersed with the occasional restaurant to cater to the wealthy homeowners nearby. There's no one around, but you still find yourself worrying when Matt reaches for his zipper.

"Just need to take the edge off," he says. His voice is casual, as though this is something people say everyday. "I won't be able to make it to the car like this."

He punctuates his statement by shoving his fly under his hairy ballsack - just how you imagined - and unleashing a yellow torrent against the inner corner of the bus stop shelter.

"Fuuuuuuuck," he sighs, head tilted back in utter relief. A beefy fart erupts in the next second, blowing out with the relaxation of his muscles. His stream is powerful enough to help you understand just how badly he needed to go, drizzling onto the asphalt like a burst main, and it occurs to you that the Matt in the restaurant may have actually been holding back. "What the hell do they even put in that beer? Feels like I've got a six-pack in my bladder."

He farts on his next exhale, a gusty drone layered with bass, and you're certain your cheeks are bright red at the crass display. The puddle beneath him is growing to a conspicuous size.

"Matt, come on..." you find yourself saying, even though your eyes are locked onto the head of his cock, enamoured by the way it spews urine like it physically can't empty out fast enough.

"Almost done." Matt rubs his belly beneath his shirt as he allows his bladder to empty completely. He squeezes the tip of his dick, tugging out the last dregs. After a few spurts, he finally stops peeing.

"Ugh, shit," he mutters after a moment, his tip still dribbling onto the ground. His cheeks are visibly flexing, clenching within the confines of his pants.

"What?" you say with some alarm.

"Hold on. Can't suck in my tail." His pants slip down just enough to reveal his fuzzy ass, visible in the light from the street lamp. He reaches back to pull aside one cheek.

There, wedged within his puckered asshole is the head of his post-dinner dump. It's as impressive and girthy as Matt's turds always are, splitting his hole open a few inches as it fights it's way out. You're briefly glad for the good lighting because it allows you to see the smears left in Matt's crack from the protrusion. It's a wonder that the bulk of his load is still inside him.

With the way he's opening his ass like this, you can only think of one thing that he could be doing.

"Matt."

"It's fine," he tells you, even as his knees bend with the force of his clenching. You realise that he's not pushing the turd out like you feared, but instead is trying to pinch off the inch or two that had poked out of his hole during dinner. It's clearly a hard battle, the wide, slightly dry tip not yielding easily to the forceful flexing of Matt's rim. But with a grunt and a final harsh clench, Matt manages to slice off the head, wiggling his ass a bit to allow the lump to fall to the concrete with a dense thud.

"Ahh, there. A little better." He straightens up with a final shake. He seems to still be struggling with he urge, the way his ass flexes periodically proof of the loaf baking inside him. "Ugh, my ass is full," he complains, reluctantly doing up his pants. "You think I could get away with laying some cable right here? It's not like anyone would know that it was me."

You don't tell him that you'd love to watch him relieve himself wherever he likes all damn day - you're trying to act normal, damnit, which means no public defecation. Or, no more public defecation.

"You shouldn't," you tell him, which makes him groan. "I think you've left enough of a mark as it is."

"Fine. Then take me home, so I can choke our pipes with this monster."

He waddles towards the street where you parked the car, his gait belaying his full colon. You follow him slowly, shooting once last glance at the small (but significant) present he left behind.

"There's probably an empty cup in the car," you offer, which makes him perk up. "You know. If you need it."

"Think I'm gonna need more than a cup for what I've got coming," he grunts, rubbing his belly.

You flush, and decide not to comment.

When you get to the car, Matt's cheeks are clenched tight. His face is clenched in a grimace, a barely there potty-dance making him wriggle while you struggle to get the car open. There are distinct farts every few seconds, pressurised and clearly heralding a much more solid arrival.

He's undoing his pants again the second the car opens. You scramble for the large soda cup you're sure you left beneath the seats somewhere, seeing Matt's pants go around his ankles and his ass hanging over the edge of the seat, and knowing you've only got a few seconds before—

"Sorry roomie, no way I'm holding it all the way home," he moans, knees coming up, pucker already doming.

Cardboard finally brushes your fingers and you latch onto the cup, shoving it unceremoniously beneath Matt's hole just as a deep brown, cracked turd bulges out of him. The harsh crackling noise is nearly drowned out by Matt's pleased groan, his face screwing up in concentration as he works to let himself free of his waste.

You can feel, through the thin barrier of the cardboard, the warm, heavy pressure of the ridiculously girthy log beginning to settle into its new home. From your perspective, closer than you've ever been to Matt when he's emptying himself, you can see the way his sphincter pumps out each inch of shit with steady dedication, the pink flesh of his hole flexing with every bump and fissure of the tree trunk turd that's coming out of him.

The log breaks off with a wave of stink, more still wedged inside of Matt's ass. You crinkle your nose, and try to cross your legs like you could hide the throbbing arousal there.

"Ah, fuuuuck," he sighs, head tilting back in his relief. "Oh, it's a thick one..."

He pushes, grunting unashamedly. His second log definitely won't fit, the dense tip hitting the first and beginning to curl. It's beginning to change colour, the last inches a lighter brown than the first six.

"I don't think anything else is going to fit," you manage to say, with astonishing calm. Like holding a makeshift toilet to your roommate's ass is something you're used to doing, instead of a deeply hidden wet dream come true. You shift your hands on the cup. It's growing hot against your palms. "Can you hold the rest?"

Matt's groan displays his disapproval of this idea.

"Really?" he says. It's almost a whine. "I gotta shit so bad..."

"It won't fit," you repeat, nudging the cup against his cheeks. The second turd breaks off with some maneuvering, only just settling within the confines of the cardboard.

Matt groans in dismay, but he obediently attempts to suck the rest of his load back in. There's more than a smear of brown that gets caught between his cheeks, but Matt either doesn't notice or doesn't mind as he straightens up in the seat and pulls his pants back up.

"Fine," he grumps, then takes a look at the cup that's barely wide enough to fit his deposit. "Heh. There really isn't any more room! Ugh, I still gotta shit so bad, but I think that first turd was the most eager to get out."

Matt rips an unceremonious fart against your upholstery as you gingerly hand him the container, infusing the car with even more shit stink. He finds the lid and presses it on, then chucks it in the cup holder with little care for the bulging loaves inside.

"Alright. Time to drive," he says with a lazy wave of his hand. Another brassy rumble splatters against the seat, distinctly wetter than the last. "We're on a time limit here roomie, you better get me home fast or else I'm offloading dinner in your footwell."