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It was nice to get away from the desk. Away from the constantly ringing phone, away from the monotony of the PC screen, away from the idle office chatter.
Bob certainly did enjoy his daily mid-morning poo.
It was Monday, which made getting away from the desk all the more satisfying. After a relaxing and enjoyable weekend spent at home with his young wife, Mary, being back at work was particularly hard, especially when most of the day would be spent tidying up the mess-ups of the weekend staff.
Still, it wasn't the place to worry about such things. Bob was in cubicle 3 now, his favourite cubicle, as it was near the radiator, so was always warm. It was also almost a foot wider than the other two cubicles. There was also a funny little message on the wall;
"If U R from the ground floor, stay there 2 do your stinking poo!"
The childish tone of this, and the fact that it was written in pencil, always raised a smile.
Bob had been known to wait for cubicle 3 in the past, even if cubicles 1 and 2 were free. It was like a routine, and if it were changed, then all of the good things in Bob's life would be endangered. Only on occasions on which Bob had been really desperate, touching cloth, would he consider the other cubicles.
In fact, there was one day a few months ago, after he had been out for a particularly fiery curry the previous night, that he had had to use cubicle 1, or unload into his boxers. So cubicle 1 it was, and Bob had to face the consequences, whatever they would be. When Bob arrived back at his desk he noticed that the light was flashing on his phone. He had a message. Bob panicked, thought that something could have happened to Mary. He sat down in a hurry, bumping the desk hard with his hip. The cup of coffee that he had left half drunk on his desk toppled over, leaving a sticky mess on his keyboard, as well as a small warm wet patch on his trousers. The message on the phone was just a customer, querying the status of a delivery. None of this would have happened had he used cubicle 3, Bob was surer of this than of anything else in his world.
Bob wasn't worried about such things today though, as cubicle 3 was his, at least for the next ten minutes.
Bob had a copy of the 'Daily Star' with him, as always, and was glancing through the sports pages. As Bob read about a last gasp winner for United a hollow plop signalled the end of his dump. There was a little splash back too, the cold wetness on his anus made Bob wince.
Bob put his paper down, and preyed for a good clean cut. The paper supplied by his employers wasn't of the best quality, rough yet thin, and it needed doubling over. The last thing that you needed was a little tagnut going unnoticed, and getting spread about. It would then take several wipes to clear it all away, by which time Bob would become quite sore.
The initial wipe showed good news and bad. There was nothing to spread around, but a second wipe would be necessary, as the splash had left his bottom quite wet.
Bob tore off another couple of sheets of loo roll, and folded it over itself. Placing it in his left hand, he had another good wipe, then heard an unfamiliar sound, something hard striking the bottom of the toilet bowl. Bob withdrew his hand, and noticed that his wedding ring was missing. He stood up, and looked into the bowl, and there it was, lying in the bottom next to his poo.
Bob stood there looking for almost a minute, in absolute shock. The colour had run from his face. Bob saw Mary's face, just as she was on their wedding day. Bob saw the way she looked at him as she slipped the ring onto his finger. That very same ring was now lying in the bottom of a toilet, right next to a big poo. Whatever would Mary say if he came home without it? What would she say if she knew where it had been? He'd have to get it out.
Bob noticed the toilet brush sitting to the left of the loo. He grabbed its white handle, turned his nose up at the brown stains on the brush, and carefully placed it into the loo. Bob managed to drag the ring away from his poo, and out of the water. He moved to grab it with his hand, only to realise that he would have to touch the end of the brush if he did so. Bob considered it for a second, but there were strange colours on that brush, wrong colours, and Bob couldn't do it. He tried to scoop the ring right out of the bowl instead, but the rim simply wouldn't allow it.
Bob let go of the ring, and placed the brush away. He'd have to just stick his hand in there, and grab it. Surely it was better to put his hand in his own pooey water than it was to have the bristles of a pooey brush press into him. Bob unbuttoned his sleeve, and rolled it up as high as he could. He paused for a second, waiting for another solution to pop into his head. Nothing came, so he gulped, and thrust his hand into the bowl. He grabbed the ring between thumb and forefinger, and sat it on top of his newspaper. He grabbed the loo roll and pulled off several sheets. He wiped his hand and wrist, as best he could, preferring the roughness of the paper to having the dirty poo water on his arm. He then took more paper, and gave the ring a quick wipe dry.
Bob grabbed his paper, and flushed the loo. He left cubicle 3, and went straight over to the sink. Bob spent several minutes washing his arm and his ring, grimacing the whole time that he did so. Eventually Bob slipped his ring back on his finger. It wasn't the same moment of joy that he had felt just a few years ago when the ring had first been slipped onto his finger. In fact, he felt a bit dirty. Then he thought of Mary, and what the ring meant to him. It didn't matter where it had been, it was a symbol of the love that he shared with his wife, he had to forget about this toilet event, shift the focus to something else.
Cubicle 3.
It never would have happened if he hadn't have gone in there. He never used to be so relaxed about taking a dump at work, not until he discovered the warmth of cubicle 3, and how spacious it was. Had he stuck to cubicles 1 and 2 then he would never have started taking a paper in with him, he never would have been so relaxed, and allowed his ring to slip from his finger as it had done today.
Cubicle 3 had to be punished.
Bob went back in there, for the last time, taking his copy of the Daily Star with him. He dropped the pages in, one after another, shoving them out of sight with the toilet brush. Once all where in, Bob threw in some loo roll too, for decoration.
Bob knew that when someone tried to flush it, it would be blocked. They'd probably have to take it to pieces to fix it.
Then they'd see that it had been blocked deliberately.
Bob suddenly realised that he was the only Daily Star reader in the company. People made jokes about the fact that he read the Daily Star, due to the number of topless women in it. If they could identify that it was a ccopy of the Daily Star that blocked the loo, the finger would soon point at Bob.
He took off his wedding ring, placed it in his back pocket, he rolled up his left sleeve, and got down on his knees...
It was a long time before Bob was able to enjoy his mid-morning poo again, and it never took place in the perfectly fine, warm and wide, cubicle 3.
Bob certainly did enjoy his daily mid-morning poo.
It was Monday, which made getting away from the desk all the more satisfying. After a relaxing and enjoyable weekend spent at home with his young wife, Mary, being back at work was particularly hard, especially when most of the day would be spent tidying up the mess-ups of the weekend staff.
Still, it wasn't the place to worry about such things. Bob was in cubicle 3 now, his favourite cubicle, as it was near the radiator, so was always warm. It was also almost a foot wider than the other two cubicles. There was also a funny little message on the wall;
"If U R from the ground floor, stay there 2 do your stinking poo!"
The childish tone of this, and the fact that it was written in pencil, always raised a smile.
Bob had been known to wait for cubicle 3 in the past, even if cubicles 1 and 2 were free. It was like a routine, and if it were changed, then all of the good things in Bob's life would be endangered. Only on occasions on which Bob had been really desperate, touching cloth, would he consider the other cubicles.
In fact, there was one day a few months ago, after he had been out for a particularly fiery curry the previous night, that he had had to use cubicle 1, or unload into his boxers. So cubicle 1 it was, and Bob had to face the consequences, whatever they would be. When Bob arrived back at his desk he noticed that the light was flashing on his phone. He had a message. Bob panicked, thought that something could have happened to Mary. He sat down in a hurry, bumping the desk hard with his hip. The cup of coffee that he had left half drunk on his desk toppled over, leaving a sticky mess on his keyboard, as well as a small warm wet patch on his trousers. The message on the phone was just a customer, querying the status of a delivery. None of this would have happened had he used cubicle 3, Bob was surer of this than of anything else in his world.
Bob wasn't worried about such things today though, as cubicle 3 was his, at least for the next ten minutes.
Bob had a copy of the 'Daily Star' with him, as always, and was glancing through the sports pages. As Bob read about a last gasp winner for United a hollow plop signalled the end of his dump. There was a little splash back too, the cold wetness on his anus made Bob wince.
Bob put his paper down, and preyed for a good clean cut. The paper supplied by his employers wasn't of the best quality, rough yet thin, and it needed doubling over. The last thing that you needed was a little tagnut going unnoticed, and getting spread about. It would then take several wipes to clear it all away, by which time Bob would become quite sore.
The initial wipe showed good news and bad. There was nothing to spread around, but a second wipe would be necessary, as the splash had left his bottom quite wet.
Bob tore off another couple of sheets of loo roll, and folded it over itself. Placing it in his left hand, he had another good wipe, then heard an unfamiliar sound, something hard striking the bottom of the toilet bowl. Bob withdrew his hand, and noticed that his wedding ring was missing. He stood up, and looked into the bowl, and there it was, lying in the bottom next to his poo.
Bob stood there looking for almost a minute, in absolute shock. The colour had run from his face. Bob saw Mary's face, just as she was on their wedding day. Bob saw the way she looked at him as she slipped the ring onto his finger. That very same ring was now lying in the bottom of a toilet, right next to a big poo. Whatever would Mary say if he came home without it? What would she say if she knew where it had been? He'd have to get it out.
Bob noticed the toilet brush sitting to the left of the loo. He grabbed its white handle, turned his nose up at the brown stains on the brush, and carefully placed it into the loo. Bob managed to drag the ring away from his poo, and out of the water. He moved to grab it with his hand, only to realise that he would have to touch the end of the brush if he did so. Bob considered it for a second, but there were strange colours on that brush, wrong colours, and Bob couldn't do it. He tried to scoop the ring right out of the bowl instead, but the rim simply wouldn't allow it.
Bob let go of the ring, and placed the brush away. He'd have to just stick his hand in there, and grab it. Surely it was better to put his hand in his own pooey water than it was to have the bristles of a pooey brush press into him. Bob unbuttoned his sleeve, and rolled it up as high as he could. He paused for a second, waiting for another solution to pop into his head. Nothing came, so he gulped, and thrust his hand into the bowl. He grabbed the ring between thumb and forefinger, and sat it on top of his newspaper. He grabbed the loo roll and pulled off several sheets. He wiped his hand and wrist, as best he could, preferring the roughness of the paper to having the dirty poo water on his arm. He then took more paper, and gave the ring a quick wipe dry.
Bob grabbed his paper, and flushed the loo. He left cubicle 3, and went straight over to the sink. Bob spent several minutes washing his arm and his ring, grimacing the whole time that he did so. Eventually Bob slipped his ring back on his finger. It wasn't the same moment of joy that he had felt just a few years ago when the ring had first been slipped onto his finger. In fact, he felt a bit dirty. Then he thought of Mary, and what the ring meant to him. It didn't matter where it had been, it was a symbol of the love that he shared with his wife, he had to forget about this toilet event, shift the focus to something else.
Cubicle 3.
It never would have happened if he hadn't have gone in there. He never used to be so relaxed about taking a dump at work, not until he discovered the warmth of cubicle 3, and how spacious it was. Had he stuck to cubicles 1 and 2 then he would never have started taking a paper in with him, he never would have been so relaxed, and allowed his ring to slip from his finger as it had done today.
Cubicle 3 had to be punished.
Bob went back in there, for the last time, taking his copy of the Daily Star with him. He dropped the pages in, one after another, shoving them out of sight with the toilet brush. Once all where in, Bob threw in some loo roll too, for decoration.
Bob knew that when someone tried to flush it, it would be blocked. They'd probably have to take it to pieces to fix it.
Then they'd see that it had been blocked deliberately.
Bob suddenly realised that he was the only Daily Star reader in the company. People made jokes about the fact that he read the Daily Star, due to the number of topless women in it. If they could identify that it was a ccopy of the Daily Star that blocked the loo, the finger would soon point at Bob.
He took off his wedding ring, placed it in his back pocket, he rolled up his left sleeve, and got down on his knees...
It was a long time before Bob was able to enjoy his mid-morning poo again, and it never took place in the perfectly fine, warm and wide, cubicle 3.
Page:
A story about poo.
Just before my teatime. Ta for that!
Just before my teatime. Ta for that!
It was nice to get away from the desk. Away from the constantly ringing phone, away from the monotony of the PC screen, away from the idle office chatter.
Bob certainly did enjoy his daily mid-morning poo.
It was Monday, which made getting away from the desk all the more satisfying. After a relaxing and enjoyable weekend spent at home with his young wife, Mary, being back at work was particularly hard, especially when most of the day would be spent tidying up the mess-ups of the weekend staff.
Still, it wasn't the place to worry about such things. Bob was in cubicle 3 now, his favourite cubicle, as it was near the radiator, so was always warm. It was also almost a foot wider than the other two cubicles. There was also a funny little message on the wall;
"If U R from the ground floor, stay there 2 do your stinking poo!"
The childish tone of this, and the fact that it was written in pencil, always raised a smile.
Bob had been known to wait for cubicle 3 in the past, even if cubicles 1 and 2 were free. It was like a routine, and if it were changed, then all of the good things in Bob's life would be endangered. Only on occasions on which Bob had been really desperate, touching cloth, would he consider the other cubicles.
In fact, there was one day a few months ago, after he had been out for a particularly fiery curry the previous night, that he had had to use cubicle 1, or unload into his boxers. So cubicle 1 it was, and Bob had to face the consequences, whatever they would be. When Bob arrived back at his desk he noticed that the light was flashing on his phone. He had a message. Bob panicked, thought that something could have happened to Mary. He sat down in a hurry, bumping the desk hard with his hip. The cup of coffee that he had left half drunk on his desk toppled over, leaving a sticky mess on his keyboard, as well as a small warm wet patch on his trousers. The message on the phone was just a customer, querying the status of a delivery. None of this would have happened had he used cubicle 3, Bob was surer of this than of anything else in his world.
Bob wasn't worried about such things today though, as cubicle 3 was his, at least for the next ten minutes.
Bob had a copy of the 'Daily Star' with him, as always, and was glancing through the sports pages. As Bob read about a last gasp winner for United a hollow plop signalled the end of his dump. There was a little splash back too, the cold wetness on his anus made Bob wince.
Bob put his paper down, and preyed for a good clean cut. The paper supplied by his employers wasn't of the best quality, rough yet thin, and it needed doubling over. The last thing that you needed was a little tagnut going unnoticed, and getting spread about. It would then take several wipes to clear it all away, by which time Bob would become quite sore.
The initial wipe showed good news and bad. There was nothing to spread around, but a second wipe would be necessary, as the splash had left his bottom quite wet.
Bob tore off another couple of sheets of loo roll, and folded it over itself. Placing it in his left hand, he had another good wipe, then heard an unfamiliar sound, something hard striking the bottom of the toilet bowl. Bob withdrew his hand, and noticed that his wedding ring was missing. He stood up, and looked into the bowl, and there it was, lying in the bottom next to his poo.
Bob stood there looking for almost a minute, in absolute shock. The colour had run from his face. Bob saw Mary's face, just as she was on their wedding day. Bob saw the way she looked at him as she slipped the ring onto his finger. That very same ring was now lying in the bottom of a toilet, right next to a big poo. Whatever would Mary say if he came home without it? What would she say if she knew where it had been? He'd have to get it out.
Bob noticed the toilet brush sitting to the left of the loo. He grabbed its white handle, turned his nose up at the brown stains on the brush, and carefully placed it into the loo. Bob managed to drag the ring away from his poo, and out of the water. He moved to grab it with his hand, only to realise that he would have to touch the end of the brush if he did so. Bob considered it for a second, but there were strange colours on that brush, wrong colours, and Bob couldn't do it. He tried to scoop the ring right out of the bowl instead, but the rim simply wouldn't allow it.
Bob let go of the ring, and placed the brush away. He'd have to just stick his hand in there, and grab it. Surely it was better to put his hand in his own pooey water than it was to have the bristles of a pooey brush press into him. Bob unbuttoned his sleeve, and rolled it up as high as he could. He paused for a second, waiting for another solution to pop into his head. Nothing came, so he gulped, and thrust his hand into the bowl. He grabbed the ring between thumb and forefinger, and sat it on top of his newspaper. He grabbed the loo roll and pulled off several sheets. He wiped his hand and wrist, as best he could, preferring the roughness of the paper to having the dirty poo water on his arm. He then took more paper, and gave the ring a quick wipe dry.
Bob grabbed his paper, and flushed the loo. He left cubicle 3, and went straight over to the sink. Bob spent several minutes washing his arm and his ring, grimacing the whole time that he did so. Eventually Bob slipped his ring back on his finger. It wasn't the same moment of joy that he had felt just a few years ago when the ring had first been slipped onto his finger. In fact, he felt a bit dirty. Then he thought of Mary, and what the ring meant to him. It didn't matter where it had been, it was a symbol of the love that he shared with his wife, he had to forget about this toilet event, shift the focus to something else.
Cubicle 3.
It never would have happened if he hadn't have gone in there. He never used to be so relaxed about taking a dump at work, not until he discovered the warmth of cubicle 3, and how spacious it was. Had he stuck to cubicles 1 and 2 then he would never have started taking a paper in with him, he never would have been so relaxed, and allowed his ring to slip from his finger as it had done today.
Cubicle 3 had to be punished.
Bob went back in there, for the last time, taking his copy of the Daily Star with him. He dropped the pages in, one after another, shoving them out of sight with the toilet brush. Once all where in, Bob threw in some loo roll too, for decoration.
Bob knew that when someone tried to flush it, it would be blocked. They'd probably have to take it to pieces to fix it.
Then they'd see that it had been blocked deliberately.
Bob suddenly realised that he was the only Daily Star reader in the company. People made jokes about the fact that he read the Daily Star, due to the number of topless women in it. If they could identify that it was a ccopy of the Daily Star that blocked the loo, the finger would soon point at Bob.
He took off his wedding ring, placed it in his back pocket, he rolled up his left sleeve, and got down on his knees...
It was a long time before Bob was able to enjoy his mid-morning poo again, and it never took place in the perfectly fine, warm and wide, cubicle 3.
Bob certainly did enjoy his daily mid-morning poo.
It was Monday, which made getting away from the desk all the more satisfying. After a relaxing and enjoyable weekend spent at home with his young wife, Mary, being back at work was particularly hard, especially when most of the day would be spent tidying up the mess-ups of the weekend staff.
Still, it wasn't the place to worry about such things. Bob was in cubicle 3 now, his favourite cubicle, as it was near the radiator, so was always warm. It was also almost a foot wider than the other two cubicles. There was also a funny little message on the wall;
"If U R from the ground floor, stay there 2 do your stinking poo!"
The childish tone of this, and the fact that it was written in pencil, always raised a smile.
Bob had been known to wait for cubicle 3 in the past, even if cubicles 1 and 2 were free. It was like a routine, and if it were changed, then all of the good things in Bob's life would be endangered. Only on occasions on which Bob had been really desperate, touching cloth, would he consider the other cubicles.
In fact, there was one day a few months ago, after he had been out for a particularly fiery curry the previous night, that he had had to use cubicle 1, or unload into his boxers. So cubicle 1 it was, and Bob had to face the consequences, whatever they would be. When Bob arrived back at his desk he noticed that the light was flashing on his phone. He had a message. Bob panicked, thought that something could have happened to Mary. He sat down in a hurry, bumping the desk hard with his hip. The cup of coffee that he had left half drunk on his desk toppled over, leaving a sticky mess on his keyboard, as well as a small warm wet patch on his trousers. The message on the phone was just a customer, querying the status of a delivery. None of this would have happened had he used cubicle 3, Bob was surer of this than of anything else in his world.
Bob wasn't worried about such things today though, as cubicle 3 was his, at least for the next ten minutes.
Bob had a copy of the 'Daily Star' with him, as always, and was glancing through the sports pages. As Bob read about a last gasp winner for United a hollow plop signalled the end of his dump. There was a little splash back too, the cold wetness on his anus made Bob wince.
Bob put his paper down, and preyed for a good clean cut. The paper supplied by his employers wasn't of the best quality, rough yet thin, and it needed doubling over. The last thing that you needed was a little tagnut going unnoticed, and getting spread about. It would then take several wipes to clear it all away, by which time Bob would become quite sore.
The initial wipe showed good news and bad. There was nothing to spread around, but a second wipe would be necessary, as the splash had left his bottom quite wet.
Bob tore off another couple of sheets of loo roll, and folded it over itself. Placing it in his left hand, he had another good wipe, then heard an unfamiliar sound, something hard striking the bottom of the toilet bowl. Bob withdrew his hand, and noticed that his wedding ring was missing. He stood up, and looked into the bowl, and there it was, lying in the bottom next to his poo.
Bob stood there looking for almost a minute, in absolute shock. The colour had run from his face. Bob saw Mary's face, just as she was on their wedding day. Bob saw the way she looked at him as she slipped the ring onto his finger. That very same ring was now lying in the bottom of a toilet, right next to a big poo. Whatever would Mary say if he came home without it? What would she say if she knew where it had been? He'd have to get it out.
Bob noticed the toilet brush sitting to the left of the loo. He grabbed its white handle, turned his nose up at the brown stains on the brush, and carefully placed it into the loo. Bob managed to drag the ring away from his poo, and out of the water. He moved to grab it with his hand, only to realise that he would have to touch the end of the brush if he did so. Bob considered it for a second, but there were strange colours on that brush, wrong colours, and Bob couldn't do it. He tried to scoop the ring right out of the bowl instead, but the rim simply wouldn't allow it.
Bob let go of the ring, and placed the brush away. He'd have to just stick his hand in there, and grab it. Surely it was better to put his hand in his own pooey water than it was to have the bristles of a pooey brush press into him. Bob unbuttoned his sleeve, and rolled it up as high as he could. He paused for a second, waiting for another solution to pop into his head. Nothing came, so he gulped, and thrust his hand into the bowl. He grabbed the ring between thumb and forefinger, and sat it on top of his newspaper. He grabbed the loo roll and pulled off several sheets. He wiped his hand and wrist, as best he could, preferring the roughness of the paper to having the dirty poo water on his arm. He then took more paper, and gave the ring a quick wipe dry.
Bob grabbed his paper, and flushed the loo. He left cubicle 3, and went straight over to the sink. Bob spent several minutes washing his arm and his ring, grimacing the whole time that he did so. Eventually Bob slipped his ring back on his finger. It wasn't the same moment of joy that he had felt just a few years ago when the ring had first been slipped onto his finger. In fact, he felt a bit dirty. Then he thought of Mary, and what the ring meant to him. It didn't matter where it had been, it was a symbol of the love that he shared with his wife, he had to forget about this toilet event, shift the focus to something else.
Cubicle 3.
It never would have happened if he hadn't have gone in there. He never used to be so relaxed about taking a dump at work, not until he discovered the warmth of cubicle 3, and how spacious it was. Had he stuck to cubicles 1 and 2 then he would never have started taking a paper in with him, he never would have been so relaxed, and allowed his ring to slip from his finger as it had done today.
Cubicle 3 had to be punished.
Bob went back in there, for the last time, taking his copy of the Daily Star with him. He dropped the pages in, one after another, shoving them out of sight with the toilet brush. Once all where in, Bob threw in some loo roll too, for decoration.
Bob knew that when someone tried to flush it, it would be blocked. They'd probably have to take it to pieces to fix it.
Then they'd see that it had been blocked deliberately.
Bob suddenly realised that he was the only Daily Star reader in the company. People made jokes about the fact that he read the Daily Star, due to the number of topless women in it. If they could identify that it was a ccopy of the Daily Star that blocked the loo, the finger would soon point at Bob.
He took off his wedding ring, placed it in his back pocket, he rolled up his left sleeve, and got down on his knees...
It was a long time before Bob was able to enjoy his mid-morning poo again, and it never took place in the perfectly fine, warm and wide, cubicle 3.
Page: