You flash a toothy, bashful grin to your coach as he berates you from the side, both of your hooves pounding the pavement as your strong, honed butt cheeks slowly slide apart, farting along every step of the way. You look to and fro, your mane flying in the wind as you continue on. The farting is loud enough for onlookers to notice. You jog along as you see people looking at you from the side as you pass. You couldn't deny it any more. You were pooping in the race. Still ahead of the others, you push on, an accept that your tight track shorts were bulging underneath your tail, bouncing along as you continue the race. Everyone was watching, and everyone could tell what you did as you can't help but do even more business in your pants.
You remember them saying "Have a good breakfast! It's very important!", apparently the breakfast may have been too decadent. You try to keep a smile on your snout as you run through the street, a strong squooshing at your bottom. Luckily for you, it wasn't too mushy. It felt more like a football in your track shorts. You still had to go more, but kept a good lead on the others, who had not doubt seen your loaded jog. You kept running and you kept going, pushing your white briefs to their limit. It feels like your underwear may give out. You know you could get in big trouble if a coach catches you dropping big horse apples onto the road.
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