My wife's company sent her on a training session for a week
leaving me on my own to fend for myself. I'm a man about the house; I can put up shelves and shit, but the kitchen is not my domain. Raised by a single mother on Tesco Value ingredients, I simply don't give a toss about how food tastes and will comfortably survive on bowls of plain boiled pasta for days on end if it gives me more time to do more interesting things.

And that's what I did. Spaghetti, fusilli, penne, Bob the Builder pasta shapes; I just boiled it up and shovelled it into my mouth to keep my essential organs working until the wife returned.

The plan backfired around day 4, when my pasta intake finally required egress from my bowels. For half a week my intestines had been pumping away, ramming the waste matter into my colon in the vain hope that it would pass smoothly out the other end. But no. Like a log jam on the Mississippi, the shit backed up into a poo of epic proportions; long, thick and solid like those olde worlde cast iron bollards that market towns erect on pedestrian-only streets.

I waddled to my porcelain throne with a thick novel, safe in the knowledge that my turd-time would be uninterrupted in my eerily quiet, wifeless abode.

I read a dozen pages before my sphincter had dilated enough for the end of the turd to make its appearance. But unlike a child sliding happily down a helter skelter, my pasta poo had the same crushing strength of a glacier trudging relentlessly down a mountain valley. I strained. Sweat broke out. Still the mighty pillar of shit pressed on, stretching me wider. I gasped, dropping my book and losing my page. More pressure. I tried squeezing my sphincter, hoping to slice this mighty log into smaller oreo-sized wafers, but it was too thick, too solid for that, and my feeble muscle could do little more than make a ribbed indentation on the surface.

Still the shit ploughed on. It felt like trying to put a condom on a traffic cone, or having a colonoscopy performed by Wizbit. I gripped my ankles, core muscles clenched in a desperate attempt to vacate by bowels. Onwards it ploughed, inexorably heading downwards into the still pool of the toilet bowl. I panted, ground my teeth, breathed in through my nostrils and with one final bellow like an enraged bison, I called forth all my strength and hurled the last of the poo out of my arsehole.

There was no satisfying splash. No plop marked the turd's final passing. Instead, a careful listener may have heard a whistle as the air rushed in to fill the vacuum inside my bowels. I sat, shuddering, waiting an eternity for my muscles to relax enough for me to sit up straight. The turd stood proud and upright, tip gently kissing the inner rim of the toilet bowl like a brown totem to Golgotha. It was over.

Three days later, I picked up my wife from the airport. She was happy to see me, but annoyed that she had to lift her own gargantuan suitcase into the back of the car, as I'd "hurt a muscle exercising" while she was away. It was only at home later in the bathroom, while I took a shower and she brushed her teeth, that she caught a glimpse of my poor tattered anus in the mirror and choked on her toothpaste.
( Grrrmachine the indifference engine, Wed 2 Dec 2015, 8:54, 10 replies)

Repost but relevant
A few years back a fellow b3tan and I decided to knock together a few smoke bombs. I ordered some potassium nitrate and fuse wire from eBay and mixed it at a 3:2 ratio with some sugar. We put it in a pan at a very low heat and stirred continuously until it was the colour and consistency of peanut butter. We then spooned it into bits of toilet roll tubes cut into three with foil wrapped around the bottoms. We poked a hole in the still malleable paste with a pencil. When they were solid (which doesn't take long) we put a piece of safety fuse in each held in place with a bit of cotton wool. We set one off in the garden and they worked very well. Loads of thick white smoke and the reaction was volatile enough to burn the foil. Once we had used them all up we decided to make some more. Same recipe except this time I cranked up the heat to speed it up. I remember stirring and suddenly feeling a tiny sticking sensation like striking a match and then the contents of the pan exploded in my face spraying molten sugar and thick white smoke everywhere. Somehow I was unharmed and thanks to the stone flooring in the kitchen the floor was ok where I had dropped the pan. The kitchen sides had a few speckles where the molten sugar had melted them but it was pretty much ok. We opened the back door and waited outside for the smoke to clear, except it didn't. I went back inside and opened every window and door and stood out the front to convince the neighbours the house wasn't on fire. After about half an hour the smoke had almost cleared and I had managed to clear all the mess off of the kitchen floor. All seemed well then the wife arrived home. "Why are all the windows open she asked" We told her we were just airing the house out she eyed us suspiciously and said she was going to make a cup of tea. We had gotten away with setting fire to her kitchen! She went to the kitchen and opened a cupboard to get the tea bags.

It was full of thick white smoke.
( Peej, Mon 30 Nov 2015, 14:40, 1 reply)

Quite literally
I live in one of those American states with unusual bylaws (illegal to be dead on a Tuesday etc) and as a result I am actually married to my cat Miss Tabitha.

A few weekends ago, Miss Tabitha had to spend some time at the vet with an aggressively infected anus (this particular vet is married to a gorilla, hence his infected anus)) and so I was left on my own for a few days. I hasten to add that Miss Tabitha was suffering from no sexual ailments. Rather, one of her rear legs had become detached after she'd fallen into the gears of a threshing machine. Unfortunate, but not the first time. It was, in fact, the last of her legs. Miss Tabitha was now a quadriplegic, but no less loving. Just less mobile.

Anyway, I was left alone for the weekend and had to fill the gap left by her absence. Initially, this meant shitting in the garden, climbing the curtains, jumping in and out of a cardboard box, and watching lethargically as mice infested the kitchen. This soon became boring.

I'll admit, I've not always been faithful to Miss Tabitha, especially when she was reduced to two legs. So it was natural enough when the neighbour's cat – Elvira – came prancing along the garden wall like a charcoal-grey slut that I would insouciantly open a can of sardines and waft their scent out of the window.

Well, I can't tell you how her tail quivered as she lapped up that fish. It was barely ten minutes before I had her strapped into the sex swing and we were at it like two porn stars in a bucket of coke, one of her paws on my prostate and another rubbing Nutella. It sounded like the violent death of a violinist in my garage!

Of course, it all ended badly with the premature arrival of Miss Tabitha, who was delivered 'paper-boy style' from the vet – flung over the garden fence in a cardboard tube. She rolled straight into the garage and came to a rest at my feet, her eyes goggling at the spectacle before her: Elvira's fur matted with lube, Nutella and semen, and me with a dong like a well-used scratching post.

Divorce was a foregone conclusion, but I'm happy now with a lovely racoon called Kimberley who'll let me do anything if I feed her cashew nuts.
(EarlOfHernia, Tue 1 Dec 2015, 14:29, 6 replies)

Aryan master race
My wife had moved out temporarily as a preliminary to the divorce and I was at a loose end for a while. Having long been a fan of eugenics, I decided to make good use of the break to create a genetically superior master race from the comfort of my own living room/kitchenette.

The first step was to put an ad on Gumtree: "Wanted: physiologically perfect human specimens wanted for Nazi-style Aryan Master Race breeding experiment. Applicants must be of startling physical attractiveness and willing to mate on demand. No ethnics, please."

Thanks to the subsequent media furore and pending prosecution for racism, I managed to gather a lot of applications. And so it was that on the following Saturday morning, my living room/kitchenette was populated by a cast of near-perfect breeding pairs standing naked and ready. I had to turn the thermostat up to 27, but the results would be worth it. My breeders were:

Judy Suckitt (not her real name): a part-time pornographic actress and kindergarten assistant
Clint Fuhrer: a barista.
Arabella Pootington-Snethers: daughter of the fourth Earl of Rutland (fourteenth cousin of Eva Braun)
Derek Marbles: a semi-professional librarian with a cock like a fire hose

The instructions were quite clear. I would play some stirring music (Wagner, Mumford & Sons, Coldplay etc) and they would shag until they passed out, sustained by regular vitamin shots and high-energy sports drinks. After nine months, they would deliver their perfect progeny to me as the first steps in my master race. The number of infants would initially be limited, but I find it pays to make a start. Nothing great was ever achieved quickly - just look at the career of Cheryl Cole-Verisimilitude-Verbieres-Ronaldo.

Well, it didn't go as well as I'd hoped. Turns our that Clint was of the bender persuasion and was interested only in suckling at Derek's swollen tip. Arabella insisted on hearing nothing but Mumford during her reverse cowboy and briefly refused to perform. Ms Suckitt, having ignored her GCSE Biology lessons appeared to be under the impression that babies are made by anal, and a good quantity of viable semen was expended in her rectum. It proved quite unusable, even when recovered with the Dyson.

Given more time and better breeders, I feel sure I could have started my own master race, but a long-standing prosecution for public defecation interrupted my plans and I was obliged to continue my plans on paper only.
(EarlOfHernia, Wed 2 Dec 2015, 16:15, 7 replies)

Swedish women's naked gymnastics team
So I made the spare bedroom available on Airbnb, thinking that I might make a few quid while the missus was away. First booking: the Swedish women's naked gymnastics team.

I didn't know that until they arrived at the front door, all wrapped in skintight Lycra and carrying holdalls. Every one of them was a stunner – lithe, toned, lissom, but also busty and with buttocks plumped from years of doing the splits and straddling horses etc. I'm afraid I got a boner with the force and immediacy of an airbag deploying (and also with a slight puff of powder – I'd recently put some lavender-scented talc on my balls).

I was just making a real fire in the hearth when they arrived downstairs naked. Would I mind applying a fine sheen of baby oil to their naked and perfectly-formed bodies, they enquired. It was part of their training regime or some shit. Speechless with and almost blind with lust, I watched them roll out their yoga mats and recline for their oiling. Never had I seen so many perfect breasts. I'd not experienced so much shaved clam since my visit to a Heston restaurant in London. Some of them lay face down, legs slightly parted and their magnificent rumps raised in provocation.

By now, my erection was like a ski pole in my pocket. I set to work on the first girl, rubbing the slick oil into her silky-soft-but-muscular buttocks, each querulous stroke of my hands revealing a glimpse of perfect pink labii or winking anal knot. Nipples stood erect. Thighs parted.

I felt a hand gripping my urgent tool through my tartan jim-jams and Helga, their leader, untied the drawstring with expert fingers. "What have we here?" she said, in what was essentially a rhetorical question. Before I could answer, her head descended on it like a sword swallower and the questing helmet disappeared into the roiling cavern of her energetic tongue. I felt a hurricane building in my vesicles.

"What about the rest of us?" complained the others, now glistening like a sea of tits and ass. Their nutritionist, Eva, took a syringe from her handbag and jabbed it into into my rear. "Don't worry," she said, "it's just a little concoction I've developed: caffeine, glucose, essential vitamins and Viagra".

In my innocence, I didn't even ask why such a shot might be required by a travelling gymnastics team. To be honest, I was distracted – they were taking it in turns to fellate the tip of my quivering majesty. Two or three of them were lapping at it, with another couple gnawing gently on my nuts (now talc-free).

As if on cue, they then arranged themselves into some kind of human pyramid which was a bewildering array of shining torsos and damp orifices. They taunted me to fill as many holes as I could and I gamely leapt upon the pyramid with Pythagorean enthusiasm, sinking balls-deep into whatever enclasping hotness my rubious shlong encountered. Throats, rectii and uteruses all welcomed my frenzied thrusts. Hands gripped it. My own knuckles, meanwhile, were shining with the baptismal ardour of half a dozen g-spots.

By this time, my nut-sack was so full of impending seed that it looked like a lightly-furred cue ball. I could see my own reflection in it. If I didn't release soon, Id certainly go mad or haemorrhage.

"Choose one of us!" pleaded Mara, "And release that geyser of hot jizz!" They were my guests and it would have been rude not to. I was attempting to make a decision when they leapt free free of their pyramidal form and wrestled me on to my back. Before I knew what was going on, they had set up a bizarre and frankly incredible relay in which they would each do the splits directly onto my granite pillar (held at precisely the right angle by Mara). Thus it was that, every second or so, a different cervix would bang against my ardent crown until I felt the maelstrom coming.

At the point of no return, Mara – who had denied herself the relay-splits waved off the other girls and applied her full lips busily to the drenched rod. As the fountain arced forth across the taut bow of her lurid tongue, she swallowed the shaft entirely and I pulsed deep in her oesophagus with a taurine roar. Her lips gripped the base of my cock and she gently squeezed the draining plums

Swedes lay all about the room in their shameless nudity, their hair and faces wet with passion, their thighs besmeared with amorous unguent, their exercised genitals perspiring gently.

Naturally, it was exactly at that moment, as Mara was withdrawing Excalibur from her throat with a viscous vacuum of resistance, my wife walked into the room with a "Doh, what a scatterbrain! I forgot me keys . . ."

Fortunately, I managed to persuade her that I'd been helping Mara dislodge a bit of gristle from her throat and the others had shed their clothes as a protest against global warming. It was all fine. That night, I made a reservation for the Czech women's bisexual naked synchronised swimming team
(EarlOfHernia, Thu 3 Dec 2015, 11:44, 14 replies)

Just want to thank everyone at QOTW for voting my great original story about Mrs Thatcher into the newsletter
I couldn't have done it without you guys.
( Zuowan, Sat 5 Dec 2015, 1:20, 1 reply)

Hired a detective.
Outward Bound course, my arse.
(Tugnut Ex of this parish, Fri 4 Dec 2015, 19:05, Reply)

there ain't no sunshine when she's gone
I live in Dundee
( cumquat may will not be commenting further on the allegations, Thu 3 Dec 2015, 11:29, 3 replies)

( drimble he'd been white, he'd been black, Mon 30 Nov 2015, 23:50, 5 replies)

Went and got drunk, felt guilty for leaving the dogs at home all afternoon, so bought them and me a kebab each.
Garlic mayo dog lamb puke is hard to get out of the sofa cushions.
( Windy Pig I'm naturally quite suspicious about the moon., Mon 30 Nov 2015, 14:21, 1 reply)

had a wank

(Baggenfrock get fucked, Mon 30 Nov 2015, 14:20, 2 replies)