Eat My Caviar - Garden Pooty 2 - Try not to get caught

While staying in the countryside, I couldn't help but feel a pang of longing for the excitement I craved from my fetish. The serenity of the surroundings, with its chirping birds and rolling hills, seemed to dull the edge of my desires. Nevertheless, I was determined to find some thrill amidst this vanilla paradise.

One morning, as I ventured out for a walk, an idea struck me. I knew there was a farmer in the area who grew some of the most exquisite fruits and vegetables. He often hosted guests and tourists who were eager to taste his produce. But what if I was the only one interested in tasting a different kind of delicacy?

I arrived at the farmer's field, blending in with the other day-trippers. My heart raced as I saw him approaching, an older man with a kind face and weathered hands. He introduced himself and began explaining the different crops he had grown. My eyes wandered over to a lush patch of tomatoes, and an idea began to form in my mind.

Under the guise of admiration, I complimented the farmer on his produce. He beamed with pride, pointing out the rarest and most delicious items in his garden. As our conversation turned to more intimate topics, I casually expressed my interest in trying something unique. His face lit up, and he suggested that I try his prized caviar tomatoes - only four of them grown this season.

Feeling a surge of adrenaline, I thanked him and quickly excused myself to a secluded area of the garden. Unbeknownst to the farmer, my real intentions were far from tasting his tomatoes. Instead, I squatted down and released a thick, steaming pile of shit onto the ground. My heart pounded as I stood up and began unwrapping the delicate tomato from its leaf.

The salty-sweet taste of the caviar exploded in my mouth, and the sensation of guilt and pleasure tangled within me. Just as I was savoring the last bite, I heard a rustling noise behind me. My heart leapt into my throat, fearing that the farmer had caught me in the act. But it was only another tourist, oblivious to the scene playing out before them.

I quickly wiped my hands on a nearby leaf and joined the group, trying to act casual despite the lingering scent of my shame. As we walked back to the farmer's house, I couldn't help but wonder if he would ever find out the other delicacy that had truly come from his garden. Would the secret of my scat fetish be exposed? Or would I continue to sneak around the countryside, finding new ways to satisfy my taboo desires?