I’ve never been able to explain my fetishes to ‘normal’ people with traditional sexual interests. I can’t explain why I get aroused when I wet myself. I don’t know why I get more pleasure from sitting down in my own mess than I’ve ever got from putting my penis in someone’s mouth. I have no way of justifying the things I’ve done in pursuit of sexual exploration and there is no rational explanation for my bizarre sexual desire.
I stopped trying to rationalize and justify what I was doing a long time ago. My early experiences were tainted with guilt, shame and disappointment, but even the consequences, the negative emotion and difficult experiences wasn’t enough to stop me doing it again. I quickly accepted that it wasn’t a case of logic or judgment. I couldn’t control or influence what did or didn’t excite me and I couldn’t just turn off my sexual desire.
I stopped worrying about whether what I was doing was socially acceptable. I stopped applying my moral judgment and learned behavior to my sexual exploration. I was prepared to push my sexual boundaries as far as I could on the understanding that I wouldn’t do anything that would disrupt, harm, influence or impact another person.
I learned to balance my ‘normal’ life, my friends, my job, my family commitments and my other interests with my secret, reclusive and impractical sexual practices. I carefully planned everything, including buying clothing, towels, furniture and bedding specifically for my experimental sexual exploration. I carefully planned my washing routine to ensure I didn’t draw too much attention to myself. I prepared everything I’d need to clean up, dispose of any evidence and protect my surroundings before I did anything fetish related. If I knew I was going to have a suitable opportunity to enjoy myself, I’d make sure I told everyone I’d be unavailable. I wasn’t prepared to risk one of my friends, or a family member turning up at my house while I’m pleasuring myself, covered in my own shit.
I’d plan my diet to ensure I didn’t waste an opportunity, which has ultimately resulted in me being able to dictate when I ‘need’ to poop. I can go for three days without feeling the need to poop or suffering any discomfort while I’m doing the ‘normal’ day-to-day things, but the moment I get enough space and privacy my body starts signaling that it needs to poop.
I had everything worked out. A normal, socially acceptable day-to-day existence carefully providing cover for and facilitating a dirty, exciting and incredibly satisfying secret ‘sex life’. I’d avoided relationships on the basis that I was capable of satisfying my own sexual urges and I didn’t want a relationship to impact the balance I’d worked so hard to maintain. I continued like that through my teens and into my early twenties, completing my degree without ever being caught or arousing suspicion.
I was pretty comfortable with my sexuality by then. I’d experimented enough to know exactly what I liked, how to satisfy my sexual desire and how to do it without being caught. I’d stopped feeling guilty about the things I did and I’d learned to deal with the less pleasant parts of my fetishes that used to disgust me. It started feeling increasingly routine and mundane. The sexual satisfaction was less intense than it had been and I wasn’t as excited by it all as I used to be.
I started actively trying to make it more exciting. I took more risks, I wore other people’s clothes and started using increasingly risky opportunities and environments. On one particular evening my housemate had gone to stay at his girlfriends place. Before he left he packed up a few of her bits and pieces that were lying around our house to take with him. As he was throwing some of her clothes into his bag he unknowingly dropped a pair of her panties. Before he’d even left the house I was imagining what it would be like to poop in them.
I was too busy fantasizing to think it through properly and minutes after he’d left I put them on without a second thought. I through a pair of my joggers over the top of them and went into the garden for a cigarette while I waited for my body to give the signal. The pressure started to build as soon as I lit my cigarette, and I was fighting to hold on before I’d finished smoking it. A dozen other houses overlooked our garden, and I could see one of my neighbors looking out of his window as I struggled to keep everything in. I wasn’t willing to shit myself in full view of our neighbor so I sacrificed the remainder of my cigarette and headed back in as quickly as I could. I only just managed to get the door closed behind me as I bent forwards, straining to stay in control.
The bathroom was too far away. I couldn’t risk being in a room with carpet when I let go because I’d probably piss all over the floor and I was a bit worried that the panties were too small to contain everything. I didn’t want to get poop on my joggers, so the only option was to take them off and stay in the kitchen. I barely managed to get them round my ankles before I started to lose control. I leaned forwards, resting my elbows on the kitchen counter, finally relaxing.
As I felt the back of the panties start to stretch I gently pushed. The back of the panties were instantly filled. Warm soft poop forced its way between my legs, stretching the elastic away from my legs and smothering my balls. I let out a gentle moan as I forced the last bit out into the panties before taking a moment to catch my breath. As I’m standing there in the kitchen, aroused, wearing a pair of someone else’s panties which I’ve intentionally pooped in for my own sexual pleasure I hear a car pull up on the street. Next thing I know I hear someone unlocking our front door, followed by my housemate’s voice informing me that he’s just nipped back to get his coat.
The only thing I have time to do is pull the jogging bottoms up over the poop filled panties and hope that he doesn’t notice. As he walks towards the kitchen he makes a bit of a general remark about the smell, Thankfully, he doesn’t need to get too close to me to reach his coat. He moans briefly about the time he’s wasted having to come back, throws his coat on and heads for the front door, shouting ‘bye’ as he leaves. It wasn’t until I’d had a moment to calm down that I realized just how horrifying it nearly was. There’s no acceptable explanation for intentionally shitting in a pair of his girlfriend’s panties. If he’d been a few minutes later I could have been sitting down in those panties, stroking my throbbing cock with shit smeared all over the place.
Thankfully I didn’t get caught, but it was close enough to make me think about the stupid risks I’d been taking. The reality of using someone else’s clothes for my dirty, messy, unsavory sexual pleasure was a bit of a wake-up. From then on I tried to be a little bit more responsible…