'Delicates. Hand wash only'

My lacy white panty and bra set hung on the end of his rubber-gloved little finger. His thumb flicked over the wash labels.

In his other hand was a three-inch brush loaded with black paint. He prodded at the delicate underwear until they were no longer white. Poor panties - almost brand new too! Then he tossed them, landing with a splat, into the huge green bin. And this wasn't just any ordinary bin. For a start it's rectangular. And it's on wheels. It's made of food-grade moulded plastic and it's comfortably big enough for two to climb in. You get the picture? Let's call it the 'tub'.

I bought a lovely pair of sheer black stockings the other day. After carefully taking them out of their packet he filled each one with several ladles of sloppy porridge. Comically, the feet hung in huge onion shaped bulbs on the end of the spindly nylon legs. They went in to the tub too together with two bucketfuls of warm oatmeal. The matching suspender set joined them with barely a second glance.

He took my pristine-white work blouse off the hanger and again thumbed the collar for the washing instructions.

'Wash at forty degrees. Wash with similar colours'

With a thick black marker pen he drew a pair of big comedy tits on the front of the blouse with a set of matching wheel-nut sized nipples in red. So predictable! On the back, he scrawled a big cock and balls hanging down from the collar, with an arrow pointing down and wrote the words 'FUCK ME HERE' just above the bottom hem. Then it went in the tub, fluttering down onto the puddle of porridge.

'Dry Clean Only'

My lovely jacket and skirt went the same sorry way. Taking great pleasure in reading out the wash label on the jacket, he proceeded to work a kilo of lard and margarine into the outside fabric and the inner lining, properly smearing it into every seam. He totally fucked it. No dry cleaner would be able to touch that! Into the tub it went.

My accessories were next. Not a bad pair of shoes those. Patent leather - into the tub! Handbag - into the tub! The jewelry was a bit of a wrench. There were some quite pretty pieces but nothing sentimental - into the tub! I doubted I'd find them again.

He handed me a wooden paddle. It was time for filling.

Into the tub went bucket after bucket of dirt-cheap sloppy porridge. Gallons of it! He'd acquired five-dozen 'second-quality' eggs from the smallholding down the road all smashed and in they went, shells the lot! Then there was ketchup, used cooking oil, a jug of old gravy, about a gallon of tomato soup, long spaghetti, baked beans, the whole tin of black paint, more margarine and about ten bags of plain flour to top it off! All the while I was stirring it with the wooden paddle, occasionally bringing to the surface a remnant of my once-smart outfit! When it was about half full, probably about fifty gallons full, he closed the lid over the tub and pushed it out of the garage into the warm morning sun.

And then, somehow, we both went out to work for the day. Can you imagine my stomach butterflies sat at my desk in the bank?

Anyone for a Part 2 continuation of this? Please leave a comment. What else would you filthy sploshers have put in our tub?