Go to Biology class

You see your friends, Chloe, Jessie and Beth, chatting together in the hallway, but Millie isn’t with them. At least they’re all acting and wearing the same as always.

“Hey, girls!” you say as you enter the circle. They turn around to look at you, trying to wish you happy birthday all at the same time. Then, for a second, they all look at your skirt.

“Oh, yeah! Told you!” Jessie says, triumphantly.

“Aw, nuts. Why’d you have to wear a skirt?” Beth asks you.

“What’s wrong with my skirt?” you ask, perplexed.

“Nothing, really,” Jessie answers. “We were just trying to guess what you were gonna wear on your big day before you got here. Just your ol’ skirt, huh? Anything under there?” she asks, grabbing it by the hem and trying to lift it up.

“Whoa! Hold on!” you blurt out, caught by surprise. You slap away her hand and take a step back, and then you notice they’re looking at you like you’ve been possessed. After working through it for a second, you realize what’s wrong: it’s likely that, once you’re 18, whatever you wear (or... don’t) on your hips and legs is probably just an unremarkable piece of conversation, underwear and all. “Um... sorry. I woke up a little off today. It’s just panties, I guess.”

Beth lifts your skirt so they can all take a peek. Even if they’re your friends, you can’t help looking away and blushing.

“Ooh, black lace! Hot!” she says. “Still, I expected you to go totally bottomless,” she adds, letting go of your skirt.

“Can’t wait till I’m 18,” Chloe interjects. “I wanna get rid of all my pants, skirts and panties completely. I’ll just burn them in a big bonfire on my birthday. Poof! No bottoms ever again. So comfy.” Beth and Jessie give a murmur of agreement.

“Anyway, where’s Millie?” you ask, trying to change the topic. You haven’t entirely grown used to the new normal yet, so you’re still a little uncomfortable.

“Huh. You’re right. It’s not like her to be late,” says Chloe, thinking. After a second, she continues, “Well, anyway, did you guys hear about...?”

At this point, the conversation turns to other, more normal subjects. You and your friends kill time until the beginning of the first class of the day: Biology.

Two minutes after the bell rings, you’re still chatting with your friends when you hear your teacher, Mrs. Summers, coming through the hall outside the classroom door. You can tell it’s her by the clacking of those boring black loafers she’s always in. A hush unrolls through the room just before she enters.

“Good morning, everyone,” she says routinely, striding in with a pile of books between her arms.

“Good morning, Mrs. Summers,” everyone intones in response.

Although she’s wearing practically the same outfit as always—a brown cardigan, an old-fashioned button-up shirt, her hair tied up in a bun, the loafers—one crucial detail is different: her skirt. Namely, the fact that she isn’t wearing one. Only a pair of plain granny panties, off-white from use, stand between the world and her private parts.

“Okay, class. Today we’re starting with a review of anatomy, and later we’ll be introducing some more advanced anatomical structures. Before we start, any questions from last class?” After a moment of no reply, she continues, “We’ll start off with the urinary tract. Can anyone tell me the four organs that comprise it?”

After a general silence, Jeff, one of the smarter kids, raises his hand. Of course.

“Yes, Jeff,” the teacher says, pointing at him.

“The kidneys, the ureters, the bladder and the urethra, in that order,” he answers.

“Correct. How much urine can the bladder hold?”

After another short silence, Jeff raises his hand again, excitedly.

“Anyone else?” She looks around the room, but nobody takes the bait. She looks back at Jeff. “Yes?”

“In adult males, the maximum carrying capacity is around 500 milliliters, while adult females have a higher carrying capacity, of about 1000 ml.”

“Correct,” Mrs. Summers says. Go figure. You always thought it was about the same for both genders, even if biology was never your strong suit. “How often do males urinate?” she continues.

“The normal frequency range for adults is three to six times a day, and more frequently for children and the elderly.”

“That’s right. What about females?”

“The normal range for adults is about forty to a hundred times a day, not including sleep. For children, it’s the same as males.” Wait, really?! That’s got to be wrong.

“Yes,” she confirms. Holy shit, so it’s true. Before you can even math it out, she marches on. “So why is there such a disparity?”

“Because females have higher rates of urine production, as well as weaker urethral sphincters.”

“Technically correct. However, the difference isn’t large enough to explain the disparity. Then why?”

“There’s speculation, but one important factor is said to be the effect of social norms on behavior.”

“Please explain.”

“Well, newly adult women, of course, are still adapting and will retain much of their previous sphincter strength. It’s only older adult women who, through lack of use, lose almost all control of their sphincters. Conceivably, if they continued to use their sphincters as before, one could imagine they’d have almost as much control over them as men. That’s one aspect.”

As Jeff continues his diatribe, your gaze happens to land on Mrs. Summers’ lower half. Unexpectedly, you see a growing wet patch on her gusset, then a few drops and a growing stream flowing from under her, noisily splashing the floor beneath. Just out of curiosity, you look around the room—as expected, nobody seems the least bit concerned about the fact that Mrs. Summers, the stodgy, prudish teacher, is pissing herself in front of the entire class. The teacher herself acts as if she’s not even aware, more interested in Jeff’s answer than anything.

“Another factor,” Jeff continues, “is the effect of gender roles on behavior. Because bladder and bowel control are associated with masculinity and childhood, women are socially encouraged to abandon the use of their sphincters.” By now, Mrs. Summers’ outpouring of piss has grown into a torrent, drenching the entire lower half of her panties. Streams are running down her thighs and legs, filling her loafers. “This social norm is practically universal across cultures, with only a few isolated tribes encouraging women to retain excretion control. Some consider this to be unusually cruel behavior.”

“All right, that’ll do. This is Biology, after all, not Social Studies. We’ll finish with the urinary tract later. Thank you, Jeff.”

“No problem, Mrs. Summers,” Jeff says, beaming.

“Now, let’s move on with our review. Let me draw a diagram of the respiratory system,” she says. As she turns around to write on the whiteboard, her cascade of urine draws an arc around her on the floor. For a few moments, the only sounds in the room are the squeaking of the marker and the waterfall of urine crashing against the wall below the board. By the time she finishes drawing the basic diagram, however, her Olympian piss has dwindled to a thin trickle. She forces out two final spurts of piss through her wet, newly see-through panties.

“Who can name the main organs of the respiratory system?” she asks, looking over her shoulder, still facing the whiteboard.

Before Jeff can raise his hand, you hear two timid knocks. A moment later, someone opens the door and enters. It’s Millie! And she’s wearing her normal uniform, too, skirt and all.

“You realize you’re interrupting my class, Ms. O’Donnell,” chides Mrs. Summers. Everyone is dead silent.

Millie looks up sheepishly at the teacher. “I’m really sorry, Mrs. Summers,” she apologizes.

“It’s highly unusual of you to be late, let alone this late. Did something happen?” the teacher asks, this time a little less sternly.

“I’m having a medical issue. I...” Millie hesitates.

“Is it serious?”

“I’m not sure. I... haven’t pooped since I woke up,” Millie says. “I don’t know what’s wrong.”

A worried mumbling spreads through the classroom.

Beth raises her hand. “Can I take her to the nurse’s office?” she offers.

“I don’t think that’s necessary. Is it, Ms. O’Donnell?” Mrs. Summers asks.

“I think I can manage. Maybe if—oh, God.” Millie grabs her belly. “I think I’m gonna poop.”

“Yes, please. Let it all out,” Mrs. Summers says in encouragement. “In fact, I think I’ll join you, if you don’t mind.”

“Thank you. I’d appreciate that,” says Millie in a strained moan.

Both Millie and Mrs. Summers—still facing the whiteboard with her back to the students—bend over slightly, arcing their backs with their butts out. Whining and looking pretty much like she’s trying to push out the worst turd of her life, Millie lets out a long, strident fart, lasting several seconds. The echo has barely died down when you hear a long, but lower-pitched breaking of wind, this time coming from the teacher’s more voluminous ass.

After some more farting on both their parts, it takes a few seconds before you see the beginning of a lump poking the inside of Mrs. Summers’ semi-transparent underwear. While you frantically try to keep up with events, Millie gasps in pain, attracting your attention to a long, dark, dry mass growing longer and longer under her skirt behind her. She must not be wearing anything under there, you guess.

The rest of the students are totally unfazed by what, despite the rest of today’s events, is still a shocking spectacle to you. Everyone waits politely for Mrs. Summers to shit herself, amassing a growing lump that starts to pull down on her panties by its sheer solid weight; and for Millie to finish laying down right on the classroom floor the longest, thickest, driest turd you’ve ever seen. After a while, Millie is done, left panting even as Mrs. Summers effortlessly continues to fill her underwear with poop.

“Good going, Millie!” yells Jessie. The other students give a small cheer. “Feeling better?”

“Yeah, definitely,” she replies, moving to fill her empty seat.

“Do we... Do we need to clean that up?” you ask, gesturing toward Millie’s boa constrictor of excrement.

“Why would that be necessary, Ms. Rivera?” says Mrs. Summers, meaning you. “You know as well as anyone that Ms. O’Donnell’s mass will dissolve within the hour. As will mine,” she adds, starting to produce yet another turd inside her panties, further weighing them down. These now hang so low that the top of her ass crack is visible above her panty line.

“Never mind,” you say, unconvinced. It’s still hard to accept a reality that contradicts everything you ever learned about something so basic as going to the bathroom. At this rate, you’re not entirely sure you’ll make it through the rest of the day without going crazy.

“If we’re all in order, I’d like to continue with my class,” says Mrs. Summers. “Like I was saying...” she goes on, her shit-filled bottoms swinging heavily.

Throughout the rest of the class, the teacher’s panties slide lower and lower under the weight of the poop within them, riding so low as to expose her trimmed vagina to the world. Despite this, even the male students seem completely uninterested, inured to the sight of the female genitals after a lifetime of exposure. Eventually, just like Mrs. Summers said, the giant lump slowly disappears, leaving her panties hanging mid-thigh, clean once again. Given all this, you do your best to pay attention to the actual lesson, without much success, until the bell rings.

“Don’t forget to complete the last two pages of the unit. See you on Wednesday,” yells Mrs. Summers over the throng of students leaving the room, while pulling her panties back up around her hips.

This is going to be a long day.