Confessions of a Milkman

by Timothy Lea

  I look away while she gets to work with the knife because it gives percy uncomfortable twinges. When I glance back she is sitting on the edge of a chair with her legs apart and her feet stretched out. Her head is tilted back in satisfaction and her position reminds me of that of a cellist playing herself instead of her instrument. In and out goes the cucumber and it could give you a complex when you saw how much disappeared. I have my hands firmly round Topless’s belly and I am making sure that she can’t wriggle away from me as I build up the thrusts.

  ‘What’s happened to the tea?’ The bird in the sheet who first hailed me, appears in the doorway followed by an enormous bearded spade who is gleaming with sweat. ‘Grant has just finished serving community needs and he needs refreshment.’

  ‘You can say that again, Mabel,’ says the spade, rolling his eyes. ‘Call me Mr Wish Fulfilment.’ I glance down towards where most of the sweat is running and nearly, shunt Topless into the cooker. The cream-spattered dongler dangling below waist level looks like a demolition ball or the knotted fist of a well-developed fourteen-year-old. If I have caught it at an off-duty moment, who dares to think of the full erectile potential of this princely part? I reckon that if you fitted it into a golf bag you would have to carry the clubs under your arm.

  ‘I’m just putting the kettle on,’ says Starkers, gritting her teeth for a grandstand finish. ‘Anybody fancy a cucumber sandwich?’

  ‘It’s going to be more like puree by the time you’ve finished,’ says Topless peering between her legs. She reaches up and suddenly darts a finger where no lady has ever darted a finger before. ‘Eek!’ The effect whether intended or not is instantaneous. Half a level tablespoon of seminal fluid leaves my body as if shot by a gun and Topless jerks forward with my swollen dome ensuring that we travel together. Fortunately, she has removed her finger as the barrier between pleasure and pain has always been firmly established as far as I am concerned. For a second or two I feel like a piece of paper that has been held against an electric fan and then the honey flows in slow, shuddering, juddering spurts of tingling pleasure.

  ‘Grant is our coalman,’ explains the woman in the sheet.

  ‘Coalman, hole man,’ says the spade with a laugh. ‘Jeeze, the totty in this place really works you over man.’ He fills a kettle with water and puts it on the gas, shaking his head. Mabel reaches into a cupboard and brings out a tea caddy. Starkers bites the end off her cucumber and starts setting out cups and saucers on a tray and suddenly everything is getting quite domesticated. If it wasn’t for the nudity and the noise when I come apart from Topless I would think that I really had dropped in for a cup of tea.

  ‘Thank goodness you’ve joined the club,’ says Mabel, pleasantly. ‘We do need more men. An awful lot falls on Grant.’

  ‘Because I’m black,’ grins Grant. ‘Every girl wants to try it once.’

  ‘And when she’s tried it once she wants to try it again,’ says Starkers giving his ebony love trunk an affectionate squeeze and brushing it against her creamy snatch. ‘Don’t forget your old friends.’ She is on the point of tucking him away when the kettle boils and Mabel fills the teapot. ‘Take the tea round with Grant,’ she says to me. ‘He’ll show you the lay of the land.’

  ‘The lays of the land, buddy,’ says Grant putting sugar on the tray. ‘You ain’t seen so many women getting their rocks off.’

  ‘That was nice,’ says Topless, running her hand up my thigh ‘I’ll see you later at the cluster fuck.’

  I smile pleasantly at her little joke and open the door for Grant. He is certainly better built than the average British motor car, with slabs of muscle thicker than the tray he is carrying.

  ‘The room on the left,’ he says.

  ‘Tea up!’ I shout cheerfully. It is not the only thing. A whippet-thin geezer is serving dick to a lady sitting on the television set. She seems to like it in the mouth and in the other place as well to judge by the way she swings backwards and forwards.

  ‘Upstairs, Downstairs,’ says Grant. ‘You can see she’s a telly addict.’

  ‘Don’t let it get cold,’ I say putting down a couple of cups. ‘You must be kidding,’ says the bloke. ‘The sun will cool down before this lot.’

  ‘Where do all these women come from?’ I ask as we go out. ‘Around,’ says Grant. ‘Their husbands think it’s a kind of Womens Institute. All de girls sitt’n aroun’ an’ knittin’ and listening to lectures on basket weaving.’ He laughs and starts up the stairs. The ceiling to the left is shaking in time with a loud thumping noise and a thin rain of plaster is falling. ‘They get weavin’ all right,’ grins Grant. There is a noise like two hippos fighting over a water hole and when I poke my head round the bathroom door it is to find that the bath contains two birds and a bloke wearing all his clothes. ‘I only came to clean the windows,’ he says. ‘You haven’t got a bath bun, have you?’

  ‘It’s funny,’ I say as we go out. ‘That bloke reminded me of Robin Askwith.’

  ‘It’s difficult to say,’ says Grant. ‘I never seen him with his clothes on.’

  Upstairs, the noise is incredible. Like a torture test for bedsprings or a gang of blokes trying to tenderize elephant steaks with baseball bats. The cups of tea are slopping into the saucers with the vibration.

  ‘Sounds like Big Jeff is getting into his stride,’ grunts Grant. ‘This is where the girls like to dress up a bit.’ I see what he means when the door is opened. I don’t know if you ever take a gander at those shops which sell fancy underwear – if you are like me you take a quick peep before somebody reckons that you are kinky – but the birds in the bedroom have got all the kit. No holes barred you might say. The bodies are nothing to threaten Raquel Welch with but the fishnet stocking could clean up every cod off Iceland and there are enough satin bras to set up the fruit for a Lord Mayor’s banquet. Big Jeff is humping some old boiler who couldn’t touch her feet round his back if you gave her ten quid to try. Her fat little thighs tremble in the air and she is laughing and crying like a crazy woman. Her breasts have left her built-up bra and are floating round her chest like a bucket of blancmange. A pair of scarlet lace-trimmed panties still dangle from one of her toes. Two other birds are sharing a double-ended dildo and it could be said that a mood of easy intimacy prevails.

  ‘It’s amazing what goes on,’ I say. ‘A quiet street in Clapham and yet you could be—’ I break off as I realize that I can’t think of anywhere.

  ‘In your imagination,’ prompts Grant. ‘Nothing’s real about here. I’m not real, I came to deliver de coal the first time I came here. This is as much of a fantasy for me as it is for them.’

  The bird on the bed comes and her feet drop to bed level as she rides out her orgasm. Big Jeff lets her enjoy it and then withdraws slowly. I notice that his hampton is still in full working order. Glistening like a giant-size stick of rock with the pattern sucked off.

  ‘He’s saving himself for the grand finale,’ says Grant.

  ‘Grand finale?’ I say.

  ‘It’s a bit like a gang bang, man,’ says Grant. ‘But instead of us going through a chick, all the chicks go through us. They try to make us come. The art is to hold on to your seed for as long as you can. If you wilt then you’re out whether you’ve shot you’re load or you’re too knackered to keep it up. Last to come is Stud of the Month. The ladies have their own self-destructive little competition. The chick who can trigger off the most fellers gets a prize.’

  ‘And what’s that?’ I ask.

  ‘First crack at me during the next session of the society,’ says Grant modestly. ‘Mostly they go it alone so it’s not too bad but when they pair up you can have problems. The lesbians are the worst. They want to make you come so that they can prove that they could do it like falling off a log if they really wanted to. You know what I mean?’

  ‘Er – yes,’ I say, watching the naked lady who is greasing the bannister with what looks like half a pound of marge. Surely she can’t be – ‘Wheeeeeeh!’ She has. And on to
the curiously shaped knob at the bottom, too. I wondered why it was placed in that position. I must get out of this madhouse. Much of what is happening borders on the unwholesome. I will finish crashing the Rosie Lea, retrieve my clobber, say a polite ta and scarper over the fence at the end of the garden. I am prepared to go through so much for Meadowfresh but—

  ‘What are you doing here?’ The words come from the large fuzz-fringed cakehole of Desperate Dan, Sid’s mate from Universal Dairies. He seems to be filling the hall like he has been hammered into it to keep the walls apart and the expression on his face would make James Bond burst into tears. I look over my shoulder hopefully but it is clear that he is talking to me.

  ‘Hi,’ I say, wishing my voice hadn’t decided to break at that moment. ‘They wanted some milk so I—’

  ‘This is my territory.’ Desperate Dan steps forward and puts a menacing hand on the bannister. Unfortunately, the bird has just started greasing it again and he slips and stumbles. I sense that this does nothing to improve his temper and turn to Grant for support – before I end up with the kind that needs a harness to keep it in place.

  ‘Ah, there you all are. You’ve arrived just in time, Dan.’ Mabel comes out of the kitchen rubbing her hands on a Kleenex. ‘Yoo hoo, girls. It’s time for our fantasy fornication fest.’

  ‘Er—hem,’ I murmur. ‘Time I was getting along. I’ll drop by for the empties on – on second thoughts you can hang on to them. They’re great for soaking paint brushes or—’

  ‘Yellow, huh?’ sneers Desperate Dan. ‘When it comes to a showdown you’re off like a super-charged piss. No wonder Meadowfresh are such a load of wankers.’ A crowd of clearly excited birds are beginning to assemble in the hall and it is clear that Desperate Dan’s words cannot go unanswered. ‘We can hold our own with anybody,’ I say looking him straight in the second shirt button.

  Dan laughs scornfully. ‘Just what I said. You have to hold your own. Nobody else is going to. Either that or you need a pair of splints.’ He turns to the birds. ‘Come to Universal, girls. That’s where the action is.’

  ‘No aggravation, boys,’ says Mabel, wagging a finger. ‘Why don’t you settle this thing like men?’

  This suggestion meets with a resounding chorus of approval from the surrounding birds and before I can shout for help I am swept through the door into the living room. The furniture has been pushed back against the wall and a large sheepskin rug covers the centre of the room. I find myself standing back to back in the centre of the room with Grant, Big Jeff, the bloke who was dishing it out on the telly and another herbert who looks as scared as I do. Desperate Dan is stripping off his clobber to reveal a beer belly and a dongler like one of those things you hang on to in the tube.

  About twenty birds divide their attention between us and Mabel, who is squinting at a stop watch, says, ‘Right! Ready, steady, gonads!’

  Like a pack of hounds they are on us. I have not seen anything like it since the start of the Olympic marathon – which I would willingly be running in. A solid – well, solid in places – wall of female flesh drives us back to back with a stinging slap. One woman’s north and south plunders my lips whilst a pair of hands grabs my dick giving one of the blokes a blow job whilst her mate licks like it is the village pump. I stagger back and stumble over a bird who is already down on her hands and knees giving one the blokes a blow job whilst her mate licks his orchestras. I don’t have much time to look because no sooner have my shoulders touched the ground than I receive a mouthful of berkeley from an anonymous donor known to me only by the mole in her fuzz and the high pitched squeaks she lets out while she presses down with her snatch. Her knees are on either side of my nut and I have less chance of getting up than a mad elephant in a mink farm. Whilst I fight for breath a lot of that very same commodity is being deployed around my mad mick. At a guess – since I can’t see through the lady currently brillo-padding my teds – I would say that there were two pairs of lips engaged in lifting my giggle stick into the vertical. What a sensation. It is like sticking it in a jar of butterflies.

  At the rate I am going – or rather, the rate I am being gone over I would reckon that my chances in this trial of strength were thinner than a whippet’s twinkle, but deliverance arrives in the shape of the sad-faced bloke who collapses after a stand up quickie against the electric fire – quite who turned it on is something I never find out. This sets the seal for what is to follow. That it is a dirty contest goes without saying, but the lengths that some of the contestants go to are not just the ones being candle-snuffed by cakeholes and cunts as soon as they rise above the level of the carpet pile.

  After a few lunges I get smart. Big Jeff, Grant and Desperate are sorting out most of the action and I move round the rug like a hepped up caterpillar delicately darting my tongue where it will earn a favourable response but wriggling percy away from any permanent entanglement. The scene on the rug is like a game of spillikins played with earth worms and I have never had a more detailed gander at the female anatomy. I used to think that all fannies were the same but when you are pressed up against a roomful of them you realize how wrong this is. Some of them are clefts like the notch in a creamless doughnut. Some seem to be worn outside the body – I think of sea anemones and underwater plants with waving tendrils. Some are like half-opened flowers responding to the morning sun. Some are covered in hair so thick that you can hardly see them – they seem like a shadowy pattern on a caterpillar’s back. Others are surrounded by the merest wisps of sandy coloured candy floss. Some stick their tongues out at you. Some bulge like well-stacked wallets.

  ‘Urrrrrrr!’ That was the epilogue for the bloke who was on the tele – having it off on top of the telly. There is some argument as to whether the score should be awarded to the bird who was buffing his bollocks or the one who was clambering up his slippery pole and doing more slipping than climbing. It was definitely a team effort as the four bints pinning down his arms and legs would be swift to acknowledge. I leave a heated discussion taking place over the poor sod’s desemerized dongler and try and crawl behind a settee.

  ‘No you don’t!’ A slippery little bird with a body like a skinned rabbit grabs hold of my leg and tries to pull me back on the rug. I feel like a wrestler struggling to make the safety of the ropes. She slips her hand between my legs and launches herself up my body so that she is nuzzling my shoulder. ‘You don’t want to get away, do you?’ I don’t know what she is doing to the bit behind my flowers and frolics but it clearly has a very positive effect on the hampton. I can feel this by the pressure against the rug. Perhaps I have been using the wrong tactics. If I can tuck percy away in this little charmer he may be safe from the rest of them. I let the bird transfer her lips to my mouth and turn her light body over so that I can break her half nelson on my hampton. Scrambling between her legs I bend them back so that her feet are hanging over her shoulders and lay my cock against her belly. I press it down and my knob rubs against her fuzz and suddenly dives into her twat like a rabbit into its hole. A shuddering groan behind me comes from Big Jeff who has over-responded to three ladies who have been tickling his cluster with ostrich feathers. The things they get up to, some of them. That leaves two down and three to play – Grant, Desperate and myself. Grant is not holding anything back and has two birds lying on top of each other with their thighs overlapping. A few thrusts in one and then he rises up and gives the other a going-over. Other birds are flopping about him and trying to get their hands on his dick but it is like trying to lassoo a conger eel. Desperate has taken cover in Mabel – something she offers a lot of. She reminds me of a welsh dresser stacked with suet puddings. Desperate is in her like a pencil stuck in a mound of plasticine and is lashing out with his elbows in a very unsporting fashion. He is definitely the winning type, not prepared to abide by the mood of light-hearted frivolity that prevails amongst the rest of the contestants. The bird who has turned the hair dryer on my orchestras, for instance – ooh! Madam, please! What a strange sensation – esp
ecially when I get a blast up the khyber. That can’t be in the Marquess of Queensberry rules. I lunge forward and bash into the fire irons – despite the fact that there is an electric fire, Mabel has a little shovel, a brush and a pair of tongs.

  ‘WOWWWWHHHHH! ! !’ That sounds like Grant and – yes! the contest has taken a dramatic and unexpected turn. Even as I watch I see the giant black hampton blunder into an unaccommodating wall of flesh and collapse like a stricken airship. Timber! Stand by with the Kleenex and a steel comb for the sheepskin rug. Now it is only Desperate and me and the honour of Meadowfresh is at stake – not to mention the customers I will be able to pull in if I can best the beast. I try to think of empty milk bottles and dented yoghurt packs but it is not easy to keep my mind off the business at hand. Half the birds in the room seem to be pressed up against me and they are feeling my action man kit like they are testing it for ripeness. The bird nursing my dick has the drawing power of a Dyno-rod demonstrator and it seems likely that a few million sperm cells will be passing out shortly before I do. There is no time to lose. I turn my head with difficulty and see that Desperate is now on his back with Mabel balancing on the thick shaft of his hampton. His balls bounce together like those perpetual motion jobs that hang from pieces of string. How vulnerable they look. I stretch out my hand to get a better grip on the rug and my fingers blunder into the coal tongs. Surely I couldn’t—? or could I? No sooner has the idea occurred to me than I find my fingers closing round the tongs as if programmed by some mystic force – Claygate, maybe; or perhaps Sid. After all, Desperate did belt him. I insinuate my arm between a pair of legs, over another body and there we are. The curved bits of the tongs strategically placed to close round the swinging goolies. Just a tiny squeeze and – ‘YOOOOWWWWWHHHHH! ! ! !’ Oh well, it was his fault. If he hadn’t lashed out and caught me up the backside I wouldn’t have forgotten what I was doing and squeezed so hard.