1. Tartan Blanket


    Date: 9/9/2016, Categories: Cheating, Author: marlowe, Rating: 6, Source: LushStories

    everyone using the facilities. The humorous remark of the boss telling him they were looking for someone who didn’t bite their finger nails did little to help the mindless hours and boring days sitting on a wooden stool inside a cleaner’s cupboard, peeking through a grille in the door, a furtive voyeur waiting for the ‘phantom crapper’ to decorate one of the toilet cubicles. A week had passed. There were lots of visitors in and out of the toilet. There were lots of bladders emptied and plenty of bowel movements, but unfortunately no desecrated toilets. It was late one Friday afternoon when the sound of heels tapping across the ceramic floor tiles broke the boredom. He peered through the grille in the door. He couldn’t believe his eyes. Nicola Thompson, a young and very attractive girl from the admin office walked into a cubicle and closed the door. A few minutes later the door opened and she was gone. He slipped out of the cupboard and opened the toilet door. The walls of the cubicle were smeared in human faeces and a signature of brown hand marks decorated the inside of the door. He quickly retreated back to the cleaner’s cupboard returning to the cubicle with a bucket of water, a cloth and a bottle of disinfectant. It took less than ten-minutes to clean the cubicle and return to the sanctuary of the cupboard. He never asked her why. Only a psychiatrist could tell her that. “Is that another new shirt you’re wearing? I hope you’ve written your name inside,” his father ...
    chuckled, blowing smoke against the windscreen. “Oh Fuck,” he cursed silently. Not the story about writing their names inside their clothing. He knew that if he didn’t change the subject quickly he was going to hear the story for the millionth time. But all he could think about was Nicola Thompson desecrating the toilet cubicle and he had no intention of betraying her dark obsession to his father. “I knew you would do well son,” he smiled, tapping his fingers across the steering wheel. “Did I ever tell you the story about when you were all growing up and you wondered why I had written your names inside your clothing.” He frowned. He cursed silently. He knew he couldn’t prevent the inevitable narrative. His father’s declaration was always said with conviction and guidance. “It will encourage you to strive for better things in life,” he said, a thin smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “If your names on the outside of a building you are considered a rich man. If your names on the inside of a building you are known to be a working class man. But if your name is on the inside of your clothing, you will always be classed as a poor man.” It went quiet for a few minutes, his father deep in thought, puffing away on his cigarette, another philosophical statement hanging on his lips. “From the day we’re born we travel on the conveyor belt of routine. Working class. Middle class. Upper class. Rich and poor, all striving for better things in life. The only thing in common is that we all ...
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