Poop Sex Blog

I feel strange recounting this story. At first, I didn’t want to do it, but my therapist suggested that I write an account of my early childhood, thinking that it might help me with my emotional problems. Although, I’m an adult woman now, I still have unusual sexual fantasies that I can’t let go of. And I’m not even sure that I want to be rid of them. Actually, my name isn’t Amy, but I decided to use an alias because I fear people might find out who I really am.

I had my first sexual feeling when I was nine years old. I remember riding on a see-saw with my best friend Judy and feeling a kind of ‘itch’ between my legs. It was a good itch, and I wanted to rub it to make it feel better. But being a girl, I was taught that touching “down there” was a naughty thing to do. I kept my feeling a secret from everyone, even Judy. At night, I would lie in bed and crumple the sheets into a ball and insert it between my legs. I had my first orgasm that way.

When I was twelve, my brother showed me some dirty videos that he had gotten from his friends. We locked the door to his room played them on his VCR. I saw my first naked man on a video. I pretended to be disgusted by it, but my eyes were glued to the screen. I remember thinking how odd it was for a boy to have a piece of flesh hanging between his legs. And it was so large too! How could boys stuff it in their pants without it being noticed, I thought. My brother had some other really weird videos too; like women peeing on each other. At first I thought it was sick but as I watched further, I couldn’t help from getting aroused. I guess my kinky nature came from watching those videos. I also got off by looking at my parent’s history book of painting; I called it “The Treasury of Filthy Art Masterpieces” because it had pictures of naked men and women in it. Boy did I get turned on by them. I would masturbate by inserting strange objects into my pussy, but only at night, in bed of course. I lost my virginity, so to speak, and broke my hymen by inserting a roll-on deodorant bottle. You know, the type that has a rounded end? Of course I performed my vaginal insertions when no one was around, usually when my parents were away on a trip or something. I would get hot just thinking about sticking something new in my cunt. I remember seeing a cucumber in a grocery store and an idea struck. I thought about it for weeks. When the time came and my parents and brother were away, I heated up a cucumber in a pot until it became warm, about as warm as a real cock might get. Then I sat in front of a mirror and pushed the cucumber into my cunt and pretended it was a man’s cock. God, it felt so good and hot in there. I wanted a real cock so bad.

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The bizarre news item reached even Newcastle. Michael Dawkins took one look at the article in the newspaper, then packed his bags and returned to London as quickly as he could. He knew what must have happened - his sister had used the spell book and fallen foul of the consequences. Well at least she was safe, now. But it was imperative that he find out exactly what spells she cast so that he could try to prevent further problems.

He drove to the hospital in which she was being treated, and demanded to see her. The staff were reluctant, but finally he was taken to her doctor, who was only too happy to see Michael.

“This,” said Dr Singh quietly, “is one of the most extraordinary things I have ever seen. You had better sit down.”

“It’s okay,” said Michael grimly, “I am prepared for an extraordinary story. Just tell me what happened.”

“Well, she was brought in here yesterday by police who found her lying in a sewer. You may have read about the…”

“I saw the article.”

“Quite. Well, what the article did not say was that she appeared to be heavily pregnant at the time. Yet when she began to deliver…” Here the doctor paused and wiped his brow unhappily.

“Go on,” prompted Michael.

“She … gave birth to some kind of creature that was made entirely of … well, of excrement!”

“Yikes!” Michael was shocked. “Poor Alison!”

“That’s only the beginning. Within a few minutes she had given birth to thirteen other creatures, all identical to the first. In shape they resembled human babies, but they were able to run around on two legs almost from the second they emerged.”

Michael sank into a chair. “Good Lord, this is worse than I thought. What did you do with these creatures?”

“Oh we decapitated them with the biggest knife we could find,” said Dr Singh cheerfully. “That stopped them moving well enough. Then we chopped them up and flushed them. Oh, except one, which we’ve kept for detailed examination.”

“So, is Alison okay now?” asked Michael.

The doctor shook his head. “A few minutes after the last ‘birth’,” he said, “she defecated, and her stool was similarly imbued with a life of its own. We chopped it up and flushed it, but I’m not convinced we killed it - the pieces were all still wriggling when they disappeared down the pan.” He sighed. “A little over an hour later, she defecated again, and the same thing happened. And an hour after that, and an hour after that. Fortunately she’s quite regular - we know when we need to get back in there and capture her expulsions.” He looked at his watch. “She’s due to defecate again in about thirty-five minutes. Heaven knows where it’s all coming from, and I’ve no idea how we are to stop it.”
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Alison Dawkins stared out of the car window at the passing beech hedge, trying to make out the identity of the birds on the lake beyond. It was hard to tell at this distance, particularly since she could only see them for a fraction of a second at a time. She had just about decided that they were mallards when a sharp instruction from her brother Michael jolted her from her reverie.

“Quick,” he said, “grab the forty miles per hour sign.”

She bent down and felt around under her seat for the A3-sized placards that he had made up. She pulled them out and flipped through them, looking for the one he wanted.

“Good grief, would you look at this idiot?” growled Michael. “Doesn’t he know what a de-restricted sign means, for heaven’s sake?” He changed down into third gear and cruised up to a few yards behind the bumper of the car in front, edging out towards the middle of the road in the hope that a break in the oncoming traffic would coincide with a long straight stretch. To his delight, after the next corner the road was clear for a couple of hundred yards.

“Okay, here we go,” he said. “Hold up the sign!”

As the car swung out to overtake, Alison pressed her sign against the window, while her brother hooted to get the attention of the other car’s driver. Peeping around the edge of the placard, she saw the elderly gentleman in question start in surprise as he read the message: “THIS IS NOT A 40 LIMIT, YOU IDIOT!”

Leaving the old man spluttering indignantly in his wake, Michael grinned as he quickly roared up to fifty miles per hour then changed up into fourth, still accelerating. “Finally!” he exclaimed. “Thanks Ali.”

Alison replaced the signs under her seat and returned to staring out of the window. Her brother glanced across at her. “You okay?” he asked.

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The alarm didn’t go off. By the time I awoke, it was nearly nine o’clock. If I pushed it, I could still get to my office by 9:30. I just started this new job the week before, so I was still on “probation.” And my new boss, Kevin Blake, who looked more like he belonged in Calvin Klein underwear ads than behind a corporate desk, seemed to be paying an awful lot of attention to me. I didn’t want to be late.

I dressed in a flash and tore out of the house, hoping that my morning breath would dissipate before I got to work. My BMW convertible got me through the traffic and into the parking garage in record time. Then, fate opened a parking spot on the first level, right by the elevators. It was going to be a good day after all.

I entered the elevator and punched twenty-six, the floor where my new firm SkyHi Technology had its offices. Expecting an express ride up, I was surprised when the elevator stopped on the first floor. The doors opened, and in stepped Kevin Blake.

“Good morning, Mr. Blake,” I greeted.

“Good morning, Tom,” he replied.

The doors closed as he stepped back and leaned against the back wall beside me. We both gripped our briefcases at our side; neither of us spoke.

Suddenly, there was a thump, and the car lurched to a halt. The lighted floor numbers glowed between the 20th and the 21st floors. Mr Blake opened the communications box and put the emergency phone to his ear.

“Yes, I see. So how long…? Well, please try and hurry,” he spoke into the phone. Then he turned to me. “They don’t know how long this will take, they called a representative of the elevator company, but they don’t know how long it will take for him to arrive. I guess we need to make ourselves comfortable.”

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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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