Path: not-for-mail
Newsgroups: alt.support.boy-lovers,alt.callahans,alt.support.incest,alt.sex.stories.d
From: PhoenixWench <fritz@spamexpire-200812.rodent.frell.theremailer.net>
Subject: Pinching a loaf for Christmas
Message-ID: <9be0c02782d1b15d5e6e39cf0175f326@msgid.frell.theremailer.net>
Date: Sat, 13 Dec 2008 19:28:04 +0100
Mail-To-News-Contact: abuse@dizum.com
Organization: mail2news@dizum.com
Bytes: 3475
Lines: 46
===================
Dylan Saunders sat back into his overstuffed leather recliner, in the
darkened den, watching the final minutes of his latest production
unfolding on the screen of his expansive television. On the screen,
twenty year old Trish Abrams, a slim, petite redhead, with thin, wire-
rimmed glasses, sat nude atop a toilet, her face, a contorted mask of
determined effort. A sound, like that of crackling fire logs, soon
emitted forth, ending in a final muffled thud, as Trish released a
long-winded, conclusive grunt.
Gasping slightly from the exertion, Trish slumped, pushing her
delicate glasses further up the bridge of her nose with one finger.
She remained seated atop the toilet for a while more, looking around
her, but seemingly acting oblivious, while the camera continued its
jerky movements, spanning in for closeups of her body, as its unseen
owner circled slowly around her.
Finally, Trish raised herself from the toilet. She was rather
diminutive in stature, her physique almost devoid of feminine curves,
making her seem almost boyish in appearance, had it not been for her
wavy, cascading sheen of fiery red hair. The camera's capturing lens,
scanned her body, scrolling down her small, round breasts, their peaks
accented by rosy-pink nipples, dipping down across the flat plain of
her belly, ultimately ending at the juncture of her thighs and the
nestled, bare smoothness of her perfectly groomed vagina. The exposed
expanse of her flesh was covered with a light speckling of freckles,
which went as far as adorning the pale globes of her buttocks,
displayed in all their splendor into the camera's frame, as Trish
turned around to step aside.
No words were spoken throughout, no contact, whether physically or
verbally, was to be established between the female participant and the
cameraman, this being done in the purpose of retaining an atmosphere
of intimacy, a sense of voyeurism, giving the impression that the
participant was alone during these most private proceedings.
The camera then focused on the vacated toilet, zooming in on the
bounty of the freshly deposited contents within. The bottom of the
bowl, presented a stark contrast of brown against gleaming, white
porcelain, a clashing metaphor of pure sanitation and waste, its
shades varying from those of rich, dark chocolate to the lighter color
properties of toffee. Its textures were just as diverse, a mixture of
clustered fragments, tapering off to smoother, lightly creased folds.
The heaping mound was an intricate design of accumulated coils, making
it almost impossible to discern where one began and the other one
ended, with the sole exception of one upraised tip, which protruded
proudly above the surface of the murky water.