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He’d barely made it back onto the tour bus, and already Sung’s stomach was groaning and gurgling something awful. He could feel the way the fabric was being pulled taught over his abdomen, the straps of his uniform digging into the littlest bit of pudge found there. He wasn’t big by any means, but the junk he’d been eating over the past few days had left him more bloated than he typically was. Hopefully it wasn’t as visible to the audience as it was to him.
It wasn’t like he didn’t know the suit was tight. He just wasn't really… thinking about it. Until he had to go.
The jokes and skits were preplanned things, obviously, something silly that matched the energy just to make people laugh, maybe pad out the show a little and give everyone a couple of moments to breathe between tracks. It wasn’t supposed to… he didn’t mean for it to… he wasn't trying to be sexual about it. At least, not at first.
He gave a weak groan and let out another, shorter fart. He’d been subtly trying to relieve a bit of pressure all day, but it was hard to find a moment to do so when they smelt so strongly. Anyone who came back to the bus would know it was him, and that was…
He adjusted his length beneath the spandex, not quite ready to fully touch himself but very thankful he hadn’t worn a cup to the performance. He winced just imagining the thing digging into him.
God, he’d been half-hard on stage all night. He always felt a little hot under the collar performing, the adrenaline and the attention getting to him. Meowch liked to make fun, call him an “exhibitionist,” and truth be told it wasn’t entirely false— the GIFsets of him rolling his hips or running a hand down his front during shows were proof enough of that.
Something about his usual antics combined with the new ”jokes” had left him more bothered than he’d expected, though. He hoped the first few rows weren’t bothered by the faceful of bulge they'd been receiving. …Eh, they were probably fine.
A rolling roar left his gut again and he ran a hand across the front of his belly, lying back-down on his makeshift bed with his legs bent at the knees. It felt good, taking the pressure off like this. He let out a few more bubbling farts, some seeming slightly too wet. He couldn’t help but keep letting them off, though. After holding so many in during the show, it felt incredible to force out all that gas that groaned in his stomach.
Maybe he should have felt bad about it, getting off on the things their fans found innocuous. But he just couldn’t help it. His mind was racing with all the things he could’ve, should’ve, done on stage. Would they have found it funny if he’d intentionally let out a low toot into the mic, a real one, taking the opportunity to extend the bit? Would they have gaped if he’d doubled over on stage and let out more than just gas?
And if he’d done it… would he be able to hold himself back from touching himself? He knew in reality he would be horrified, but something about the fantasy was inexplicably arousing. Would they be able to see how hard his dick was, like after all those “jokes?” Would they have laughed and taken videos of him jerking off on stage after having shit his pants?
Would they have liked it?
At that moment, it happened. He knew the instant he’d gone too far, trusted one fart too many. His body instinctively tried to tense up again to hold it in, but ultimately was unable— a thick squirt of shit escaped his hole. It squished hot and mushy between his cheeks, and without even knowing it his toes curled, palm now frantically rubbing himself through the front of his suit.
The fabric across his ass would be stained, he could tell by the feeling alone; it was already ruined. There was no point in holding it in anymore.
He pushed.
All at once, with a sloppy-sounding gurgle of gas, the seat of his uniform was filled with his mess. The stench in the bus magnified as Sung almost arched off the thin bed, face burning and chest heaving from the strain of pushing and the desperate movements of his hand over his cock. He found himself intentionally grinding down, unable to control himself. The more he squirmed, the more his shit mushed against his cheeks as it began to creep up his ass towards the proper back of his suit.
This is what he should have done on stage. Everyone should have seen him like this.
His dick pulsed hard beneath the fabric and he continued to stimulate himself, alternating between rubbing with the flat of his hand and doing what he could to stroke himself fully. Finally, a needy, breathless groan left him as he came, eye squeezed tight and mouth left open. A wet spot began to form under his hand, cum soaking into the fabric and creating a hot, sticky patch where the tip of his cock had been resting.
Once everyone came back from grabbing dinner, he was gonna need a damn good explanation for this.