HISTOR-RECTUM-ME

Oct. 14, 2002

Type: discussion

BlankHISTOR-RECTUM-ME

I remember looking at a horse turd when I was a slip of a lad; my family was
on holiday. We, my mother, father, sister and I, spent our family break
mostly wandering around the countryside on enforced walking adventures. I
recall it vividly and the cottage we were staying in did not have a
television, which caused much stress for my sister Annie and I. we were
immensely disturbed of the fact that we were missing all our favourite
children's programs.

Dad was keen on walking and always said that it would do us the world of
good if we followed suit. Annie and I were not as infused by the idea but he
still dragged us out into the painfully boring, countryside all the same. I
never did appreciate the nature scene; there was never any people to
accidentally bump into, no policemen for mimicking silly walks. Not enough
streets and houses for us to play knock down ginger in, no shops to steal
sweets from, just very slow tractors.

Anyway it was a scorching hot day in the year 1976, the Indian Summer. There
was a draught across the whole country and we were roasting like bacon under
the blazing sun. We came across this field and there it was a massive turd
and it smelled wonderful. Flies buzzed around our heads as we all flicked
them aside. The horse that had laid the shit stood proud, it was taller than
my dad and he was six foot odd. Everyone laughed and made the usual jokes
about the size of the horse's dick as it hung, unselfconscious, vulnerable
and bare. I was more interested in its droppings, hypnotized as another turd
escaped from the horse's ass and plopped onto the dry grass, scorched by the
sun.
It fascinated me so much so that my father had to drag me away from the
scene as I moaned loudly. He had a different agenda planned, so we had to
carry on with the days booked mission, the family's official expedition.

That night in our rented cottage a few hours after everyone had finally gone
to bed. I sneaked down the stairs out of the back door and followed the lane
for a while, until I came across the field where we had seen the horse
earlier that day. My small frame climbed over the steel gate and jumped into
the field. There was no sign of the creature so I began collecting as much
horse shit as possible and placed it all in one big pile. After spending
about half an hour building a heap of horse shit in the middle of the field
I decided to undress.
It was very warm and the excreta glistened under the silvery, shine of a
crescent moon. My naked, white body stood above the mass, pausing
apprehensively. I took a deep breath and smelled the aroma on my hands and
stood still captured by the moment, excited and nervous at the same time. I
slowly knelt and dipped my hands into the half-crusty, slimy solution and
then dipped my nose into it. Then immersed the rest of my body into the
abundantly large amount of horse-shit.

As I rolled around in it, experiencing its voluptuous stickiness, my mind
flashed back to the memory of my father's mud wrestling videos. Of course he
was not aware that I knew of their existence, but you know kids, they can
instinctively discover all the best hiding places.

I stumbled across them on one of my 'seeking out the family secrets',
adventures. Amongst numerous nude magazines, condoms, straps and other
strange and fascinating objects I found three videotapes. The covers
displayed females fighting in mud; these images immediately caught my eye. I
ran downstairs, drew the curtains so no one could see from outside and
placed one of the videocassettes into the video player. The video player was
not like the digital ones that we use theses days, although it was exactly
like the one they had at my school. It was big, clumsy, and noisy and it
didn't always work. This time it did work and the visuals that appeared onto
the screen at first made me laugh. The sight of full grown naked, woman who
were probably the same age as my mother, throwing each other around in mud
seemed hilarious and pointless at first. Suddenly my attention focused on
the mud that the two females were playing around in. A close-up of one of
the women's buttocks filled the screen. I paused the frame and looked more
in detail at the image before me; I began to feel a slight tingle in my
bones. I could just make out her bum-hole as her bare ass was covered in
mud. Then it hit me; they were fighting in pretend shit.

After this revelation my interest for excreta became an obsession, my
attention for shit references started go wild and innuendoes flourished, as
well as taking the odd sneaky trip to my parents bedroom when the rest of my
family was out. Television was my lifeline in my youth, there were plenty of
films and adventure serials on the box that gave me constant information and
pleasure, feeding my new found very secret hobby. The Amazing Adventures of
Tarzan was one of my favourites, serialized on BBC1 every Saturday morning
and Tarzan always seemed to in some kind of kinky scrape. He would be
half-naked, swimming and splashing around in dense, insect, infested water
and looking pretty sexy, or he would be wallowing in my most cherished
medium - mud. Whenever I saw someone being swallowed by quicksand on the
television, my nerves tingled and I would imagine that it was shit and that
it was I who was in it, with my naked, vulnerable flesh being engulfed.

It was still dark and I had just finished fantasizing in the now very
sloppy, horse excreta. It was time to get back to the cottage before anyone
had twigged on that I was missing. I gathered up all my clothes and walked
my naked frame along the windy path, keeping close to the hedges, blocking
possible winds and reducing the chance of being seen.
When I got back I had a quiet bath and went straight to bed. In the morning
I sat with my family at the breakfast table, the memory of what I had
experienced in the field was still with me as if it had happened only ten
minutes ago. I felt a tremendous urge to share what I had done early this
morning when everybody was asleep, but I realised if I didn't want to be
hurt it was best to keep most good things to oneself. Maybe you can only
share your secrets with a certain someone who does similar things. I cracked
the hard-boiled egg with a teaspoon, feeling a little tired yet excitement
of my discovery blew away all the weariness.

PRESENT (IS) TENSE

I'm in a bit of a pickle at the moment; in fact I'm in deep shit, literally.
You see I've been transmuted into a dog turd. Now this was my own decision,
I've always wanted to know what it was like to be a piece of shit and now I
know. The problem is that I have been patiently waiting to be turned back
into my original form. It was only meant to take fifteen minutes at the most
and it definitely feels as though I have been in this form for hours.
Something strange is happening; not just the predicament of being a piece of
dog shit but not having the ability to see or hear causes unrest. So I have
no way of knowing what is happening, can't see a bloody thing and my sense
of smell is of course no longer with me. Yet there are plenty of images
buzzing around in what I suppose is my consciousness, but how? I have no
head to contain a brain, are the chemical compounds which previously existed
in my head now a part of the turd I inhabit?

http://www.furtherfield.org/mgarrett/shit.htm

Comments

2002-12-10 01:00, marc garrett

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BlankHISTOR-RECTUM-ME

I remember looking at a horse turd when I was a slip of a lad; my family wa=
s on holiday. We, my mother, father, sister and I, spent our family break m=
ostly wandering around the countryside on enforced walking adventures. I re=
call it vividly and the cottage we were staying in did not have a televisio=
n, which caused much stress for my sister Annie and I. we were immensely di=
sturbed of the fact that we were missing all our favourite children's progr=
ams.

Dad was keen on walking and always said that it would do us the world of go=
od if we followed suit. Annie and I were not as infused by the idea but he =
still dragged us out into the painfully boring, countryside all the same. I=
never did appreciate the nature scene; there was never any people to accid=
entally bump into, no policemen for mimicking silly walks. Not enough stree=
ts and houses for us to play knock down ginger in, no shops to steal sweets=
from, just very slow tractors.

Anyway it was a scorching hot day in the year 1976, the Indian Summer. Ther=
e was a draught across the whole country and we were roasting like bacon un=
der the blazing sun. We came across this field and there it was a massive t=
urd and it smelled wonderful. Flies buzzed around our heads as we all flick=
ed them aside. The horse that had laid the shit stood proud, it was taller =
than my dad and he was six foot odd. Everyone laughed and made the usual jo=
kes about the size of the horse's dick as it hung, unselfconscious, vulnera=
ble and bare. I was more interested in its droppings, hypnotized as another=
turd escaped from the horse's ass and plopped onto the dry grass, scorched=
by the sun.
It fascinated me so much so that my father had to drag me away from the sce=
ne as I moaned loudly. He had a different agenda planned, so we had to carr=
y on with the days booked mission, the family's official expedition.

That night in our rented cottage a few hours after everyone had finally gon=
e to bed. I sneaked down the stairs out of the back door and followed the l=
ane for a while, until I came across the field where we had seen the horse =
earlier that day. My small frame climbed over the steel gate and jumped int=
o the field. There was no sign of the creature so I began collecting as muc=
h horse shit as possible and placed it all in one big pile. After spending =
about half an hour building a heap of horse shit in the middle of the field=
I decided to undress.
It was very warm and the excreta glistened under the silvery, shine of a cr=
escent moon. My naked, white body stood above the mass, pausing apprehensiv=
ely. I took a deep breath and smelled the aroma on my hands and stood still=
captured by the moment, excited and nervous at the same time. I slowly kne=
lt and dipped my hands into the half-crusty, slimy solution and then dipped=
my nose into it. Then immersed the rest of my body into the abundantly lar=
ge amount of horse-shit.

As I rolled around in it, experiencing its voluptuous stickiness, my mind f=
lashed back to the memory of my father's mud wrestling videos. Of course he=
was not aware that I knew of their existence, but you know kids, they can =
instinctively discover all the best hiding places.

I stumbled across them on one of my 'seeking out the family secrets', adven=
tures. Amongst numerous nude magazines, condoms, straps and other strange a=
nd fascinating objects I found three videotapes. The covers displayed femal=
es fighting in mud; these images immediately caught my eye. I ran downstair=
s, drew the curtains so no one could see from outside and placed one of the=
videocassettes into the video player. The video player was not like the di=
gital ones that we use theses days, although it was exactly like the one th=
ey had at my school. It was big, clumsy, and noisy and it didn't always wor=
k. This time it did work and the visuals that appeared onto the screen at f=
irst made me laugh. The sight of full grown naked, woman who were probably =
the same age as my mother, throwing each other around in mud seemed hilario=
us and pointless at first. Suddenly my attention focused on the mud that th=
e two females were playing around in. A close-up of one of the women's butt=
ocks filled the screen. I paused the frame and looked more in detail at the=
image before me; I began to feel a slight tingle in my bones. I could just=
make out her bum-hole as her bare ass was covered in mud. Then it hit me; =
they were fighting in pretend shit.

After this revelation my interest for excreta became an obsession, my atten=
tion for shit references started go wild and innuendoes flourished, as well=
as taking the odd sneaky trip to my parents bedroom when the rest of my fa=
mily was out. Television was my lifeline in my youth, there were plenty of =
films and adventure serials on the box that gave me constant information an=
d pleasure, feeding my new found very secret hobby. The Amazing Adventures =
of Tarzan was one of my favourites, serialized on BBC1 every Saturday morni=
ng and Tarzan always seemed to in some kind of kinky scrape. He would be ha=
lf-naked, swimming and splashing around in dense, insect, infested water an=
d looking pretty sexy, or he would be wallowing in my most cherished medium=
- mud. Whenever I saw someone being swallowed by quicksand on the televisi=
on, my nerves tingled and I would imagine that it was shit and that it was =
I who was in it, with my naked, vulnerable flesh being engulfed.

http://www.furtherfield.org/mgarrett/shit.htm

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<DIV>
HISTOR-RECTUM-ME
 I=
remember
looking at a horse turd when I was a slip of a lad; my family was on holida=
y.
We, my mother, father, sister and I, spent our family break mostly wanderin=
g
around the countryside on enforced walking adventures. I recall it vividly =
and
the cottage we were staying in did not have a television, which caused much=

stress for my sister Annie and I. we were immensely disturbed of the fact t=
hat
we were missing all our favourite children's programs. 

Dad w=
as keen on
walking and always said that it would do us the world of good if we followe=
d
suit. Annie and I were not as infused by the idea but he still dragged us o=
ut
into the painfully boring, countryside all the same. I never did appreciate=
the
nature scene; there was never any people to accidentally bump into, no poli=
cemen
for mimicking silly walks. Not enough streets and houses for us to play kno=
ck
down ginger in, no shops to steal sweets from, just very slow
tractors. Anyway it was a scorching hot day in the year 1976, the In=
dian
Summer. There was a draught across the whole country and we were roasting l=
ike
bacon under the blazing sun. We came across this field and there it was a=

massive turd and it smelled wonderful. Flies buzzed around our heads as we =
all
flicked them aside. The horse that had laid the shit stood proud, it was ta=
ller
than my dad and he was six foot odd. Everyone laughed and made the usual jo=
kes
about the size of the horse's dick as it hung, unselfconscious, vulnerable =
and
bare. I was more interested in its droppings, hypnotized as another turd es=
caped
from the horse's ass and plopped onto the dry grass, scorched by the sun.<B=
R>It
fascinated me so much so that my father had to drag me away from the scene =
as I
moaned loudly. He had a different agenda planned, so we had to carry on wit=
h the
days booked mission, the family's official expedition. That night in=
our
rented cottage a few hours after everyone had finally gone to bed. I sneake=
d
down the stairs out of the back door and followed the lane for a while, unt=
il I
came across the field where we had seen the horse earlier that day. My smal=
l
frame climbed over the steel gate and jumped into the field. There was no s=
ign
of the creature so I began collecting as much horse shit as possible and pl=
aced
it all in one big pile. After spending about half an hour building a heap o=
f
horse shit in the middle of the field I decided to undress. It was very =
warm
and the excreta glistened under the silvery, shine of a crescent moon. My n=
aked,
white body stood above the mass, pausing apprehensively. I took a deep brea=
th
and smelled the aroma on my hands and stood still captured by the moment,=

excited and nervous at the same time. I slowly knelt and dipped my hands in=
to
the half-crusty, slimy solution and then dipped my nose into it. Then immer=
sed
the rest of my body into the abundantly large amount of horse-shit. =
As I
rolled around in it, experiencing its voluptuous stickiness, my mind flashe=
d
back to the memory of my father's mud wrestling videos. Of course he was no=
t
aware that I knew of their existence, but you know kids, they can instincti=
vely
discover all the best hiding places. I stumbled across them on one o=
f my
'seeking out the family secrets', adventures. Amongst numerous nude magazin=
es,
condoms, straps and other strange and fascinating objects I found three
videotapes. The covers displayed females fighting in mud; these images
immediately caught my eye. I ran downstairs, drew the curtains so no one co=
uld
see from outside and placed one of the videocassettes into the video player=
. The
video player was not like the digital ones that we use theses days, althoug=
h it
was exactly like the one they had at my school. It was big, clumsy, and noi=
sy
and it didn't always work. This time it did work and the visuals that appea=
red
onto the screen at first made me laugh. The sight of full grown naked, woma=
n who
were probably the same age as my mother, throwing each other around in mud=

seemed hilarious and pointless at first. Suddenly my attention focused on t=
he
mud that the two females were playing around in. A close-up of one of the=

women's buttocks filled the screen. I paused the frame and looked more in d=
etail
at the image before me; I began to feel a slight tingle in my bones. I coul=
d
just make out her bum-hole as her bare ass was covered in mud. Then it hit =
me;
they were fighting in pretend shit. 
After=
this
revelation my interest for excreta became an obsession, my attention for sh=
it
references started go wild and innuendoes flourished, as well as taking the=
odd
sneaky trip to my parents bedroom when the rest of my family was out. Telev=
ision
was my lifeline in my youth, there were plenty of films and adventure seria=
ls on
the box that gave me constant information and pleasure, feeding my new foun=
d
very secret hobby. The Amazing Adventures of Tarzan was one of my favourite=
s,
serialized on BBC1 every Saturday morning and Tarzan always seemed to in so=
me
kind of kinky scrape. He would be half-naked, swimming and splashing around=
in
dense, insect, infested water and looking pretty sexy, or he would be wallo=
wing
in my most cherished medium - mud. Whenever I saw someone being swallowed b=
y
quicksand on the television, my nerves tingled and I would imagine that it =
was
shit and that it was I who was in it, with my naked, vulnerable flesh being=

engulfed. </DIV>
<A
href="http://www.furtherfield.org/mgarrett/shit.htm">http://www.furtherfi=
eld.org/mgarrett/shit.htm</A></BODY></HTML>

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