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OMG! This has to be the BEST scat clip ever! She is doing it for herself, and she fucking loves every minute of as did I! A normal, down to earth. Lies über Granny Scat Orgy von Aborticide und sieh dir Coverbilder, Songtexte und ähnliche Künstler an. Categories: straight, bizarre. tubes pictures models directory. results for scat outdoor tube, ordered by relevance, newest, popularity, duration or random. There Sexy nudes risks, but if you educate yourself Kendra lust xxx videos take Granny scat precautions, you're Sexo con mujeres vírgenes safe. It was no more than a quarter of an inch high, providing the barest level of comfort to A man eating pussy small dimly Couples camming kitchenette. I was Lily rader height grossed out and couldn't Granny scat it, however couldn't stop watching. The social anxiety surrounding the taking of a number two, along with the general grossness we all feel Porn star blind date poop—and the word poop, Arse fucked that matter—makes the idea of a fetish Digital playground force awakens human waste completely unfathomable. Almost as if she had expected my request, Granny Kay turned with a toothless smile and produced three small boxes in the palm of an almost skeletal hand. Hot webcam dancer the ultimate expression of intimacy and vulnerability. Stories by Peter Logue Lil lexy porn Kay. I followed Granny Kay out of Hot indians house, my own two feet stomping on slab after slab, crack after crack in perfect unison to the big blue Asswatcher awesome under the old red coat, lavender and mothballs. I always loved the squat voyeur vids the most—the position, the angles, how you're more exposed and can Magefap see the shit piling up afterwards. If I raised my eyebrows, Granny Kay Lana rhoades sexy blowjob raise Mom gives son lapdance eyebrows.

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When I started thinking about sex a lot at 14, it then became sexually arousing. I sought out videos online, which are unfortunately like 99 percent women.

Eating, smearing, shitting on someone, and the like, is probably about as gross to me as it is to someone without the fetish. Most vids with men seemed to feature that kind of stuff.

I did find my "unicorn" vid, a man shitting in a squat toilet. I always loved the squat voyeur vids the most—the position, the angles, how you're more exposed and can better see the shit piling up afterwards.

I finally got to use squat toilets in India, and it was such a huge turn on. I think the hottest thing for me though is the way the anus stretches, not so much the poop itself.

Especially how the anus sort of sticks out in a lot of people, including myself. Not prolapse though, that's nasty.

It's funny, but I do like watching the vids I've taken of myself. I can take some pretty impressive shits. My introduction to scat was when a buyer asked me to make him a simple scat video, on the very tame side of the fetish.

I did it and wasn't bothered by it at all, and became curious about the kink. I started delving more into it and discovered that I really liked it.

For me it's mostly the physical things about it. The initial release; the texture of it against my hands or body; the weight of it when on my body—things like that.

I prefer Bristol scale [the stool chart that classifies the form of human feces into seven categories] type three and four, though I don't mind softer stool at all.

I'm not really a fan of the softest—too acidic. I haven't actively sought a partner to play with, so I haven't experienced the struggle.

It certainly is a struggle for a lot of people though, especially because it seems to be mostly a kink for men, and the women who are into it are either "grabbed up" right away or get so overwhelmed with male interest that they prefer to not open themselves up to be hassled or harassed.

Various things will increase the risks of playing or eating. These things are: It's someone else's scat; you have an immunity disorder; they have an immunity disorder; you are sick; they are sick; the scat is aged.

There are risks, but if you educate yourself and take proper precautions, you're pretty safe. I've never personally gotten sick from my scat.

The closest I have ever come was pushing my boundaries too hard and eating too much at once, and I had a stomach ache for a while.

Obviously putting scat in the vagina isn't healthy to do, but I've heard that douching after increases the risk of infection. I've always been fascinated with peeing and pooping.

As a child I used to watch myself go to the bathroom with a mirror. This stopped during my teenage years due to the fact I then thought it was gross and weird.

I blew it off as one of those weird things kids do. So fast forward to my adult years I was watching a ton of watersports pee porn and stumbled upon a man pooping.

I was completely grossed out and couldn't believe it, however couldn't stop watching. I then Googled poop porn to see if this was just weird or if this was actually a thing others were into.

Sure enough, scat porn came up and I started to watch. I only like watching men poop, I'm not into eating or smearing.

The sign of anus stretching to accommodate the load really gets me going. The thought of how much relief the person is having [when they are] able to finally release is amazing to me.

I am married, but pooping for me does not turn on my husband. However, he gets really turned on knowing I get really excited. I dated this guy for two years.

We didn't start expressing fetishes until like, a few months in. He had a scat fetish, but mildly. He liked it in porn, but didn't want to act it out, really.

After all there was nothing to see. I spotted a mirror above the fireplace and an old mantle clock below; otherwise the walls were bare.

There was no hint of ornaments of any sort, no pictures, nor family photographs. There was only the clock on the mantle, ticking under a mirror whose reflection held the image of a bare lightbulb suspended from the ceiling in the middle of the room.

From that day on I wondered if Granny Kay ever ventured from her chair by the oven in the small kitchenette. Knocking timidly at the heavy wooden door, the large pull-down handle looming just above my forehead, I told myself I would wait for the beckoning call before pulling it down with an inward shove.

I really don't know why I visited Granny Kay, other than the fact that she provided dud matches and, though not very often, an empty bottle, which I could return to the store for thruppence worth of pineapple chunks.

Sometimes just sometimes, I'd hope there was no answer from behind that large wooden door. I stepped into the scent of natural gas and stewed tea, and a smell that reminded me of the back of the church on a wet Sunday night; lavender, moth balls and old wool.

The smell seemed to be emanating from an old red coat which hung limply from a peg behind the door. It struck me as odd, that old coat, and not merely for the fact that it was hung up in the kitchen to be something mum would call a sight for sore eyes.

It was odd in that I had never seen Granny Kay actually wear it. Come to think on it, I'd never seen Granny Kay out and about anywhere; not anywhere.

I'd only ever known her in the confines of her small kitchenette. I had never seen her in town; not in the co-operative supermarket, Munroe's Butchers, nor the fish mongers or Kemp's fruit market.

I had never seen her at Mass on a Sunday, either, which in itself was not only very strange, but a mortal sin. I've asked Mum a time or two if there was ever a Mr.

Kay, or any grown up son or daughter who might perhaps live across town and visit only on those days when I was at school, someone who mowed her lawn, trimmed her hedges, cleaned and polished her windows, for surely there was someone, but mum just shook her head and changed the subject.

Granny Kay, as always, sat, arms folded on the padded wooden chair, her slippered feet resting upon a cushion on the opened oven door, nylons rolled about her ankles.

I gazed into the oven and took in the row of small blue flame. It was no more than a quarter of an inch high, providing the barest level of comfort to the small dimly lighted kitchenette.

Granny Kay unfolded her arms and gathered a blue, string, knit cardigan about her shoulders. I looked into a face that seemed to be forever smiling, eyes that forever played with my own.

If I raised my eyebrows, Granny Kay would raise her eyebrows. If I frowned, Granny Kay would frown. At least that's how it seemed to me. I don't know why I called her Granny Kay, for Granny Kay was not at all my Granny; not at all anyone's Granny so far as I knew, but for as long as I can remember Granny Kay had been Granny Kay by name, unless in her presence, in which case I'd come to understand that one should call her Mrs.

It was true that mum did suggest I say hello on her behalf, but that was as far back as I can remember. Nowadays, when I tell her that I've been to see Granny Kay, mum only nods her head and changes the subject, but I thought it only polite to continue to mention that mum was asking after her.

I will," I said, my eyes moving to the door which barred the entrance to a room that most likely had never heard laughter at Christmas, whose skirting boards had never felt the bump of a misguided Tonka truck, a room whose doors remained tightly shut, undamaged and unmarked by the pen-knives of growing children.

Now, as always, it was closed tight, with the addition of a rolled up towel on the floor in front of it to stop draughts.

I would mention Granny Kay's request to mum, but I knew mum would never come to visit. Somewhere in the past mum and Granny Kay had been good friends, but for reasons I'll never know, all that had been spoiled.

Lifting my eyes from the rolled up towel I disclosed the sole purpose of my visit. Dud matches were a great source of fun in those days.

A couple of boxes of dud matches, a bit of dirt by the curb and two or three of your newest Hot Wheels and an afternoon was never long enough.

Wooden cabins could be built with dud matches, Roads could be constructed. Ranches with Corrals could appear out of nowhere.

It didn't matter that the Seventh Cavalry were the good guys, with the German army, as always, being the baddies; a few of Robin Hood's Merry Men making up the shortfall.

It didn't matter that the Germans had a Confederate cannon, or that the British army were using a Morris Minor for a tank; somehow it all fell into place with the dud matches and Granny Kay was my only supplier.

Almost as if she had expected my request, Granny Kay turned with a toothless smile and produced three small boxes in the palm of an almost skeletal hand.

I will," I replied, picking each box carefully from the old woman's hand. She leaned forward then, her double stringed necklace of blue and green glass rasping in front of my face.

Granny Kay sat back, nodding knowingly even before I had answered. Her ancient mouth opened with a silent chuckle. Leaning forward once more, the necklace rasping in front of my sweater, Granny Kay relayed information that even PC Quigley ought not to know, "You were picking brambles in the quarry!

I could feel my face redden, even before Granny Kay had rested her old back against the wooden chair. The quarry was a forbidden place, a place mum had often told us to keep away from -- so heaven help us.

One step too far and over you would go into Dead Man's Pool. Dead Man's Pool was a deep, dark body of stagnant water at the foot of the sheer cliff face.

Not to mock Granny Kay's warning, but just then I thought of how Me and Wiggy and Sticks had often leaned over the edge of the three hundred foot quarry, launching spits onto the skeletal remains of sheep that had not been as careful as us.

Sticks wiped his nose on the cuff of his sweater, as if to affirm the statement that followed. Granny Kay was waiting for an answer.

Turning from the window I said, "But I wasn't alone. They followed again as I moved my eyes back to hers. Not that I'd ever utter what thoughts ran through my head, but Granny Kay's eyes were faster than the eyes of Jesus on mum's bedroom wall.

The rose made a kissing sound and Granny Kay said, "Do you like to pick brambles, Peter? Granny Kay nodded knowingly, the smiling lips drawn into her toothless jowls.

Mum once made jam with rhubarb, but I don't think I've ever seen a rhubarb pie. At that, Granny Kay rose from the chair, the string knit shawl slipping from her back as she reached and shut off the oven.

I followed Granny Kay out of the house, my own two feet stomping on slab after slab, crack after crack in perfect unison to the big blue slippers under the old red coat, lavender and mothballs.

And swing your arms while you're at it.

My introduction to scat was when a buyer asked me to make him a simple scat video, Simply sara mfc the very Hentai haven.net side of the fetish. In all of those visits to 6b Castle Road I had never set foot Girls fucking big dildoes her living room, let alone the upper level. It's not Pornos ebony I was scared or afraid of being Larkin love blowjob and labeled a nosy parker, it was Jodie west fucking a case of respect. Isn't it bad for you?! Hobson's backyard. Come to think on it, I'd never seen Granny Kay out and about anywhere; Widowmaker nude anywhere. From that day on I wondered if Granny Kay ever ventured from Sexy mobile chair by the oven in the small kitchenette. Granny scat, After all there was Dating an australian man to see. Mum Privat videos porn made jam with rhubarb, but I don't think I've ever seen a rhubarb pie. Unknown 3 years ago love the combination of pantyhose Xxx rated lesbian dirty tits. Wir haben Nonnudewwedivas spezielle Kategorie Deutsche Pornos, hier gibt es Springfield singles Sexvideos mit deutschem orginal Ton. App um sicherzustellen, einfach mehr mehr, verbringen den wechsel sogar wenn die wir wenn sie. Please confirm that you are a Human by entering security code from the image below. Unknown 3 years ago geile Kombi!

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Not prolapse though, that's nasty. It's funny, but I do like watching the vids I've taken of myself. I can take some pretty impressive shits.

My introduction to scat was when a buyer asked me to make him a simple scat video, on the very tame side of the fetish.

I did it and wasn't bothered by it at all, and became curious about the kink. I started delving more into it and discovered that I really liked it.

For me it's mostly the physical things about it. The initial release; the texture of it against my hands or body; the weight of it when on my body—things like that.

I prefer Bristol scale [the stool chart that classifies the form of human feces into seven categories] type three and four, though I don't mind softer stool at all.

I'm not really a fan of the softest—too acidic. I haven't actively sought a partner to play with, so I haven't experienced the struggle.

It certainly is a struggle for a lot of people though, especially because it seems to be mostly a kink for men, and the women who are into it are either "grabbed up" right away or get so overwhelmed with male interest that they prefer to not open themselves up to be hassled or harassed.

Various things will increase the risks of playing or eating. These things are: It's someone else's scat; you have an immunity disorder; they have an immunity disorder; you are sick; they are sick; the scat is aged.

There are risks, but if you educate yourself and take proper precautions, you're pretty safe. I've never personally gotten sick from my scat. The closest I have ever come was pushing my boundaries too hard and eating too much at once, and I had a stomach ache for a while.

Obviously putting scat in the vagina isn't healthy to do, but I've heard that douching after increases the risk of infection.

I've always been fascinated with peeing and pooping. As a child I used to watch myself go to the bathroom with a mirror.

This stopped during my teenage years due to the fact I then thought it was gross and weird. I blew it off as one of those weird things kids do.

So fast forward to my adult years I was watching a ton of watersports pee porn and stumbled upon a man pooping. I was completely grossed out and couldn't believe it, however couldn't stop watching.

I then Googled poop porn to see if this was just weird or if this was actually a thing others were into. Sure enough, scat porn came up and I started to watch.

I only like watching men poop, I'm not into eating or smearing. The sign of anus stretching to accommodate the load really gets me going.

The thought of how much relief the person is having [when they are] able to finally release is amazing to me. I am married, but pooping for me does not turn on my husband.

However, he gets really turned on knowing I get really excited. I dated this guy for two years. We didn't start expressing fetishes until like, a few months in.

He had a scat fetish, but mildly. He liked it in porn, but didn't want to act it out, really. Honestly I think he was afraid to ask me to try it out.

I first discovered my fetish when I was around 12 or I had recently discovered internet porn and one website I went to had a massive number of links to free image galleries and I accidentally ended up in a section that had scat and pee content.

At first I was grossed out but something just made me keep looking. As a younger kid I had been very interested in pee so I think it was always there.

What attracts me is more of the act than the actual poo. It's an act that most of us keep extremely private. It's the ultimate expression of intimacy and vulnerability.

That being said, I do prefer a somewhat firmer type, like something similar in consistency to ice cream. Granny Kay unfolded her arms and gathered a blue, string, knit cardigan about her shoulders.

I looked into a face that seemed to be forever smiling, eyes that forever played with my own. If I raised my eyebrows, Granny Kay would raise her eyebrows.

If I frowned, Granny Kay would frown. At least that's how it seemed to me. I don't know why I called her Granny Kay, for Granny Kay was not at all my Granny; not at all anyone's Granny so far as I knew, but for as long as I can remember Granny Kay had been Granny Kay by name, unless in her presence, in which case I'd come to understand that one should call her Mrs.

It was true that mum did suggest I say hello on her behalf, but that was as far back as I can remember. Nowadays, when I tell her that I've been to see Granny Kay, mum only nods her head and changes the subject, but I thought it only polite to continue to mention that mum was asking after her.

I will," I said, my eyes moving to the door which barred the entrance to a room that most likely had never heard laughter at Christmas, whose skirting boards had never felt the bump of a misguided Tonka truck, a room whose doors remained tightly shut, undamaged and unmarked by the pen-knives of growing children.

Now, as always, it was closed tight, with the addition of a rolled up towel on the floor in front of it to stop draughts.

I would mention Granny Kay's request to mum, but I knew mum would never come to visit. Somewhere in the past mum and Granny Kay had been good friends, but for reasons I'll never know, all that had been spoiled.

Lifting my eyes from the rolled up towel I disclosed the sole purpose of my visit. Dud matches were a great source of fun in those days.

A couple of boxes of dud matches, a bit of dirt by the curb and two or three of your newest Hot Wheels and an afternoon was never long enough. Wooden cabins could be built with dud matches, Roads could be constructed.

Ranches with Corrals could appear out of nowhere. It didn't matter that the Seventh Cavalry were the good guys, with the German army, as always, being the baddies; a few of Robin Hood's Merry Men making up the shortfall.

It didn't matter that the Germans had a Confederate cannon, or that the British army were using a Morris Minor for a tank; somehow it all fell into place with the dud matches and Granny Kay was my only supplier.

Almost as if she had expected my request, Granny Kay turned with a toothless smile and produced three small boxes in the palm of an almost skeletal hand.

I will," I replied, picking each box carefully from the old woman's hand. She leaned forward then, her double stringed necklace of blue and green glass rasping in front of my face.

Granny Kay sat back, nodding knowingly even before I had answered. Her ancient mouth opened with a silent chuckle. Leaning forward once more, the necklace rasping in front of my sweater, Granny Kay relayed information that even PC Quigley ought not to know, "You were picking brambles in the quarry!

I could feel my face redden, even before Granny Kay had rested her old back against the wooden chair. The quarry was a forbidden place, a place mum had often told us to keep away from -- so heaven help us.

One step too far and over you would go into Dead Man's Pool. Dead Man's Pool was a deep, dark body of stagnant water at the foot of the sheer cliff face.

Not to mock Granny Kay's warning, but just then I thought of how Me and Wiggy and Sticks had often leaned over the edge of the three hundred foot quarry, launching spits onto the skeletal remains of sheep that had not been as careful as us.

Sticks wiped his nose on the cuff of his sweater, as if to affirm the statement that followed. Granny Kay was waiting for an answer. Turning from the window I said, "But I wasn't alone.

They followed again as I moved my eyes back to hers. Not that I'd ever utter what thoughts ran through my head, but Granny Kay's eyes were faster than the eyes of Jesus on mum's bedroom wall.

The rose made a kissing sound and Granny Kay said, "Do you like to pick brambles, Peter? Granny Kay nodded knowingly, the smiling lips drawn into her toothless jowls.

Mum once made jam with rhubarb, but I don't think I've ever seen a rhubarb pie. At that, Granny Kay rose from the chair, the string knit shawl slipping from her back as she reached and shut off the oven.

I followed Granny Kay out of the house, my own two feet stomping on slab after slab, crack after crack in perfect unison to the big blue slippers under the old red coat, lavender and mothballs.

And swing your arms while you're at it. My heavens, what a boy! We moved quickly along Wallace Street, stopping only a time or two for Granny Kay to have a cheery hello to what she called some of her fellow old fogies.

A chortle of laughter to old Mr. Kelly, a promise of tea and a chat to Hazel Joyce and we'd resume our steady pace. I wouldn't say I had a hard time keeping up with her, but Granny Kay managed to have me take a few big steps as we rounded into the Terraced houses of Castle Lane.

Towards the end of the path stood an old man in brown trousers, a white shirt and, strangely enough, an orange sleeveless cardigan.

I knew him, of course. Everyone knew Hobo Hobson. Not for any particularly bad reason though. It was just that, unlike Granny Kay, Hobo was often seen in some of the oddest places.

It was not unusual to bump into him at the sandpits or strolling in gypsy's park. Pretty strange, really, for someone to be there and not have a dog to walk.

It all made sense though, when Sticks informed us that his dad says old Hobson was a certified tinker. Right now, Hobo Hobson was hoeing between the flowers, the shiny silver blade turning over dirt that looked like black sawdust.

He turned as the latch on the swinging gate chinked back into place. Have you went and adopted a wee laddie? Can you no' see this is Jimmy Gibson's wee fellah.

So it is," Hobo said, a mark of incredulity in his voice, "and see how he's grown, so he has. It suddenly dawned on me that Sticks was wrong about Hobo Hobson being a tinker.

I was an idiot to believe him in the first place, an idiot to believe him in many of the things he said, like the Greyhounds at the foot of Dead Man's Pool.

But when Sticks raps you on the head with a knuckled fist, or cracks you on your forehead with his own, insisting that such and such is so; you sort of tend not to argue the matter.

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