Poop Sex Blog

Boycott shampoo! Demand the REAL poo!

thanks Bestscat.com for provided poop pics

I named my cats Dildo and Sex Toy. I don’t know why. One was a female cat with her parts “altered” so that we would have no kitties, the other a male cat with all his toys intact. I somehow felt it was cruel to castrate a cat for the fact of his being born male. I find it odd that anyone bothers to alter the males since they can’t have unwanted kitties. Anyhow, that was a digression. This is about how I took Tiffany against her will, I think.

Tiffany was my next-door neighbor. Call her the haughty chick. She had that air of better than thouness about her. She wore high fashion clothes. She wore dark shades. She held her nose at that aloof angle. She usually dressed in mostly black. She may have worked. It was hard to tell. She drove a snotty red convertible. She dripped trust fund from her pores. Her dog was the haughty dog. It was one of those ultra purebred schnauzers. It held its nose high in the air and pooped ever so delicately as not to stain its own fur. It would strut out Tiffany’s front door, look about, sniff the air, gloat at neighbor dogs, strut to a spot on my front stoop, then deposit its business. Of course Tiffany couldn’t care less that we lived in a town with a pooper-scooper rule. Your dog poops, you clean up. That was the rule. No exceptions. The haughty dog, as I took to calling it, pooped on my porch day after day. Did Tiffany once come over and clean up the poopie mess? No.

This is one of those stories that makes you wonder about big government and where our taxes go. Animal control told me they could do nothing unless they witnessed the haughty dog in the act. Animal control has one officer who rides around in his truck when the mood strikes him. Local police said they could only write a misdemeanor citation if they witnessed the act and they had no plans to stake out my neighborhood to watch a dog poop. I left Tiffany more than one note politely inviting her to clean up after her dog, and the notes went unanswered. Most times Tiffany watched the haughty dog poop on my stoop from the safety of her own front door. I got the impression after a while that Tiffany actually had trained the haughty dog to poop on my porch and in my yard to save Tiffany the trouble of having to clean up the mess in her own yard. What a bitch.

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These videos caps are taken from full length poop movie > Click here to download

Dylan Saunders sat back into his overstuffed leather recliner, in the darkened den, watching the final minutes of his latest production unfolding on the screen of his expansive television. On the screen, twenty year old Trish Abrams, a slim, petite redhead, with thin, wire-rimmed glasses, sat nude atop a toilet, her face, a contorted mask of determined effort. A sound, like that of crackling fire logs, soon emitted forth, ending in a final muffled thud, as Trish released a long-winded, conclusive grunt.

Gasping slightly from the exertion, Trish slumped, pushing her delicate glasses further up the bridge of her nose with one finger. She remained seated atop the toilet for a while more, looking around her, but seemingly acting oblivious, while the camera continued its jerky movements, spanning in for closeups of her body, as its unseen owner circled slowly around her.

Finally, Trish raised herself from the toilet. She was rather diminutive in stature, her physique almost devoid of feminine curves, making her seem almost boyish in appearance, had it not been for her wavy, cascading sheen of fiery red hair. The camera’s capturing lens, scanned her body, scrolling down her small, round breasts, their peaks accented by rosy-pink nipples, dipping down across the flat plain of her belly, ultimately ending at the juncture of her thighs and the nestled, bare smoothness of her perfectly groomed vagina. The exposed expanse of her flesh was covered with a light speckling of freckles, which went as far as adorning the pale globes of her buttocks, displayed in all their splendor into the camera’s frame, as Trish turned around to step aside.

No words were spoken throughout, no contact, whether physically or verbally, was to be established between the female participant and the cameraman, this being done in the purpose of retaining an atmosphere of intimacy, a sense of voyeurism, giving the impression that the participant was alone during these most private proceedings.

The camera then focused on the vacated toilet, zooming in on the bounty of the freshly deposited contents within. The bottom of the bowl, presented a stark contrast of brown against gleaming, white porcelain, a clashing metaphor of pure sanitation and waste, its shades varying from those of rich, dark chocolate to the lighter color properties of toffee. Its textures were just as diverse, a mixture of clustered fragments, tapering off to smoother, lightly creased folds. The heaping mound was an intricate design of accumulated coils, making it almost impossible to discern where one began and the other one ended, with the sole exception of one upraised tip, which protruded proudly above the surface of the murky water.

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