Diary of a Holiday

Diary of a holiday


Note:  Fiction, though the guy really was in front of me at the airport.  Some fairly graphic scat towards the end – may not be to everyone’s taste.



At airport, in departure lounge and in front of me on steps to plane – very fair hair, white t-shirt, trousers same colour as hair.  Good-looking face, slightly unshaven – hint of ginger in the stubble.  Swedish?



Morning.  What about lunch at that café by the woods, then a jog in the woods?  The woods are a cruising area – not planning on that, but if it happens…   Dress in jeans, old shirt, grey fly-front boxers, tracksuit bottoms and t-shirt in shoulder bag.

Lunch.  At the café, same guy in front of me, same clothes, shoulder bag like mine.  Chooses a bowl of figs in honey from the cabinet, seems to half-look at me.  I like figs, but never normally eat – they go straight through me.  I choose the figs.

3pm.   Walking in woods, feel my stomach cramp – those figs are about to give me the runs.  Toilet at changing rooms by old  games pitch on  on the hill – head for it.

He’s there!  Standing by the toilet door, waiting for me?  He smiles slightly as I walk up to him, turns the door handle to show it’s locked.  Then turns to face the door, arms up, bracing himself, legs apart and slightly bent.  Sudden movement in his trousers at the seat – slight bulge and sag, a hint of damp.  I know he’s shat his pants.

I step up close behind him – hands sliding down his t-shirt, round his butt, to where it’s soft and warm and damp.  Right hand round the front, undo his zip.  His package warm and firm inside his underwear, the soft of shit around his balls.  He pisses, hot and wet against my hand, his undies warm and sodden, piss-wet running down his legs.

Undo his trousers, take them down around his thighs.  There’s shit inside the seat, right to the zip.   My hands move to his hips, lift his t-shirt up his back – the tail at back is soiled with fresh-wet brown.

Undo my  jeans.  That sets my guts off, massive cramp against my hole.  Then the relief – I feel it open, start to shit my pants – soil myself, my boxers full of soft wet mess, the warmth of shit around my balls and down my thighs.

His briefs are white, with light-grey nameband waist – slight stains on clean parts, looks like they’ve been shat before.  He’s shat them from the waistband to the crotch – white cotton turned to wet-brown bulging stain.  The fabric’s sagging down between his thighs – can see his shit-filled hair and underside of balls.  He shits again, soaking through his pants and dribbling down his thighs.

I move my legs between his, push my jeans down – he looks down and can see the shit inside.  Bends further, arse out pushing gainst my crotch.  His warm wet fig-shit soaking through my boxers brings me hard – unbutton fly, I’ll fuck him with my boxers on.

Hook hands inside his waistband, pull his undies down.  Another squirt of shit, hot diarrhea down both our thighs.  My cock explores his crack and then his hole – exquisite hot wet mess-lube draws me in.  I fuck him, holding tight and thrusting deep.  Not just my cock – my arsehole cramps and spurts between each thrust, shitting my boxers as I fuck.  I cum inside.

We stay in same position, gasp for breath.  His cock is uncut, rock-hard, dirty when he turns, his brown-shat briefs inside his trousers round his knees – his fig-shit runs bent over filled and soaked them at the front.  He pulls them up, the mess around his cock.  I pull my jeans up, his shit mixed inside with mine.  They’re tight against my boxers – spreading the arse-bulge to the waistband, leaking down my legs and through the fly.

I think that’s it, but no – he takes my hand, leads me round the corner to another door.  This one is open – derelict inside, a  damp old mattress on the floor.  He lead me onto it, tuns face to face.  Then suddenly his arms are round me, holding tight.  Our lips touch, kising, then his tongue thrusting in my mouh, and mine in his.  His hands shit-slippy on my shirt, then underneath and taking off – mine lift his t-shirt o’er his head.  Then tongues down throats, and hands to waists – unzip each other, feel the warm wet mess inside.  Trousers and jeans down, then our underpants, our clothes together shit-filled on the mattress floor.  Naked, erect, and soiled from waist to toes – and patches of each other’s  on our stomachs, chests and backs as filthy hands explore. 

He pulls me down, we lie on mattress and our shit-filled clothes, writhe naked, straddle, piss and shit and fuck.  He into me, then me in him, then him long slow and deep inside my hole.

We finish, lie together panting in our mess.  He kisses, rests his head upon my chest and goes to sleep, his hand on my manhood mine between his buns.

For just five minutes, then he wakes.  One shower works, though only hot-day warm – we wash together quickly, shower each other down and towel dry.  Then to our shoulder bags – trackies and tee for me, sweatpants and nothing else for him.  About to put them on, he pauses, looks at my filthy boxers then at me.  I nod, he puts them on – high compliment, I sense he’s not done that before.  I put his briefs on, full of piss and shit – choosing to have his bowel contents on my my just-showered skin.

Then trackies, sweatpants, tee-shirts on.  We step outside, a brief embrace, then jog our separate ways.  Clean on the outside, each-other’s-shat beneath.


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