September Sunday Morning – Scat Fetish

It was 1969. Man had reached the moon back in July. However it was now a Sunday morning in late September. Hubby had taken the kids out somewhere for the day, returning the favour she’d done him yesterday, and 37 year old Anne had the house to herself, ostensibly to allow her to do some lesson preparation. Her job as an infants’ teacher wasn’t too demanding but it did require a little preparation and she did it best when undisturbed. She’d made a good start at 8.45 but it was now 11.35 and she’d just packed her case away. Job done. So far the only break she’d taken was to make herself a coffee and cut a slice of that rather rich fruit cake at 10.30. She’d needed it too. In fact she’d not even had a loo break, not that it bothered here in the slightest. Her early morning pee at 7am, the first for 12 hours, had been absolutely amazing, emptying her bladder completely, and she’d not expected to need a mid morning wee.

Picking up a magazine and flicking through it she became aware of a different but familiar and quite pleasant sensation. Anne’s bottom felt full and it wasn’t surprising since she’d not done a poo since Thursday lunchtime, a memorable event in itself as she’d nearly clogged the staff toilet at school. It wasn’t that she was constipated or anything like that – oh no. She just enjoyed holding it in for as long as she could until she was really desperate and it was making a serious bid for freedom. Sometimes she’d misjudged her ability to hold it in or the determination of her poo to get out and she’d had accidents. One such accident had happened a year or so earlier at school, luckily only half an hour before the end of afternoon lessons, but the headmaster hadn’t been pleased and he’d made it quite plain to her that if she needed to go for a shit she was to use the staff toilets, preferably at break or lunchtime, not fill her knickers.

Opportunities to hold it for as long as she’d like tended to be fewer than Anne would have wished, partly on account of her job but partly due to her family responsibilities too, although she had been known to be a smelly girl sometimes in the holidays. One such incident had been whilst visiting Hubby’s family in August, only a month ago. That too had been a Sunday morning. She’d farted for nearly half an hour and when she finally went to the outside toilet it had been only just in time. It was about the closest she’d been to pooing herself without actually doing it. Looking back she felt a little guilty about it. Her nephew had been present and she couldn’t help wondering whether or not she’d set him a bad example – or whether it was something he’d still remember years later. Although she felt he was over protected and rather spoilt, Anne loved him though and certainly wished him no harm. There was no point in reproaching herself though. What was done was done.

Now it was another Sunday morning and she was on her own territory. That familiar fullness of the bum had ripened and she was farting again. They were smelly ones too. It was just as well Hubby and the kids weren’t around. Ever since they’d first met at teacher training college 17 years earlier, when she was 20 and he 23, he’d been aware of her ‘tendency’ but he didn’t really approve and felt it was beneath her. As a believer in the age of chivalry he’d always been kind and sweet, never making a fuss. In fact on more than one occasion he’d helped her to get cleaned up when she’d had rather bad accidents, simply through not going when she should have done.

Not once had he said, “Why didn’t you go earlier?” or “Really dear!”

For all of that, she didn’t want to rub his nose it though and she didn’t want to set the kids too bad an example.

She’d had plenty of practice at hiding her ‘tendency’ and trying to limit its more extreme indulgence to occasions when she had the right sort of privacy. Keeping it below the radar of parental authority and the vigilant nose of her house matron at boarding school had been a constant challenge when she was younger. Going to teacher training college as an 18 year old in 1950, she’d discovered freedom on a scale not known before. Clothes were no longer rationed, knickers were cheap – if poor quality – and she’d intentionally ruined more pairs that she’d cared to admit. Her unbridled freedom lasted until the autumn of 1952 when a boyfriend arrived on the scene, the same person who would become Hubby a few years later and, at length, make her the proud, busy mother that she now was.

Anne crossed and uncrossed her legs as she farted, her mini skirt revealing the clean white knickers she was wearing. Well they had been clean when she’d put them on! She was really making the living room smell now and her desperation was increasing. It felt fantastic though and she had no intention of relieving herself until she was really desperate. Oh boy she was smelling badly and not caring one jot about it! Anne picked up another magazine and continued farting. Nothing felt better than holding a good poo in when she needed to go really badly and the feeling which had actually been bewing for some time was now getting intense.

As the clock struck twelve Anne realised that she’d have to make a decision about the outcome she wanted. Should she fill her knickers as she had done so often? It was a tempting thought but one she resisted slightly as it meant a big clean up. Should she go to the toilet, right at the last minute, making it but only just? Somehow the idea didn’t appeal. Anne knew what she’d do. She’d get out the chamber pot ‘potty’ that she’d purchased for emergencies and as a source of easement if they were watching a long film on the TV. Anne dug out the chamber pot, discarded her mini skirt, pulled down her knickers and had the most amazing poo. By the time she’d finished it was nearly full to overflowing. Admiring her handiwork and recording it on film for posterity.

Anne decided it was time to wipe. As she did so she reflected on her last ‘naughty’ poo back in August when visiting relatives and the thick, meaty, golden brown turds which had effortlessly cascaded out of her bum as she sat on that outside toilet. She was pretty sure that her nephew would remember her doing all those desperate farts and holding it in for what to him must have seemed ages before going just as he thought she was about to mess herself. Whatever he thought of her now – and he’d little reason to admire her on the face of it – she loved him and believed that one day at any rate he would love her too. She also thought that in the fullness of time he’d understand about her tendency. She didn’t know how or why but she had good intuition. Somehow she just knew it would happen.

 

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