Confessions of a Milkman Read online

  ‘We thought we might slip out for a swift half later,’ continues Terrible Ted lowering his voice. ‘Norman has got a wheeze.’

  ‘You won’t find a chemist open at this time of night,’ I say wittily. ‘No thanks, I think I’ll get an early night.’

  Miss Tromble has just started the laborious task of brushing the crumbs off her knockers and I know that she will soon rise – like something else not a million miles from the back of my fly. Honestly, Percy has fallen very deeply in love with Miss Tromble and is now trying to show his feelings in a brave attempt at a Hitler salute. I lower the feature on Princess Margaret – ‘The little girl who grew up’ – on to my lap – hoping that no harm will come to Her Royal Highness by my so doing – and stand up, pressing Percy back against my tum.

  ‘Sure you won’t change your mind? You could be in for a spot of fun.’ Another thing I can’t stand about Gunter is that he is very slow to take a hint.

  ‘No, thanks,’ I say. ‘I’m going to brush up on my milk grades. Good night.’

  I nod to the others and stroll out into the hall. There is a notice board there and I pretend to look at a poster about the local hunter trials whilst I wait for Miss Tromble to emerge. I had always thought that peeping Toms were dirty old men in plastic raincoats, not clean-limbed lads like myself. It just shows you that life is full of surprises, doesn’t it?

  After a few minutes, Miss Tromble emerges and pauses in the doorway. She looks towards me and her eyes seem to stare right through me. I feel myself blush and turn back to the dates of the hunter trials as if I am trying to memorise them. The way Miss Tromble looked at me you would think that she knew what was on my mind. A questioning, accusing look. What a despicable creature I am when you think about it – even if you don’t think about it. Setting out to spy on a woman removing her clothes. What total lack of human decency and moral fibre. How will I ever be able to live with myself if I go through with this vile act? Oh well, I will be able to tell in the morning. At least, I won’t have to wait too long.

  ‘Do you fancy a cup of coffee, Betty?’

  ‘No thanks, it keeps me awake.’

  ‘Right, if you hang on a moment, I’ll get that book.’

  ‘Thanks, Derek.’

  The man talking to Miss Tromble springs off so fast that he nearly splits his cavalry twills. So, the fair temptress is called Betty and has plans for kip. No time to lose. I stroll casually towards the front door and, once through it, hare round the side of the building. There is a light outside the cowshed and I have to go carefully to make sure that no one is watching from the main building as I slip inside. I suppose I could always say I was revising the number of teats on an udder if anyone asked me what I was doing. All the cows are in their stalls and a few heads turn to gaze at me suspiciously. Do I see reproach in those large, brown eyes? Probably not. Cows always look like that. Only one little number seems agitated and she has a calf. She shakes her head from side to side and suddenly lunges forward angrily. There is a snapping noise and her halter trails behind her as she escapes from her stall and charges at me. I have to step sharply to reach the ladder that leads to the loft. I suppose she must think I am after a veal sandwich. Mum’s teds close round my trouser leg and I have to wrench free to scramble into the loft. Blimey, it is tough being a peeping tom. People don’t realize. We ought to have a flag day.

  I shut the trap door and wait for my eyes to become accustomed to the darkness. The light from outside shows me the outline of the shutters and I move forward and ease one of them back a few inches. There is no sign of a light in Miss Tromble’s room and the curtains appear to be undrawn. Excellent. A seat in the undress circle and two class performers lined up for an unexpected audition for a large part – well, it will be large by the time I get a gander at the Tromble titties. I settle down beside the opening in the shutters and prepare to wait.

  Seconds turn into minutes as is their wont since time immemorial and I am just starting to get anxious when the light in Miss Tromble’s room goes on. The woman herself stands framed in the doorway and then closes the door behind her. I concentrate hard: don’t close the curtains! Tromble crosses to the window, looks out for several long seconds and then turns round towards the dressing table. Her hands go behind her back and to my great excitement, I see that she is undoing the catches on her blouse – no she isn’t, she is taking off a necklace. That’s right, girl. Drag it out a bit. She puts the necklace on the dressing table and then her hands go down to her waist. She fiddles with the side of her skirt and down it goes – even faster than sterling. She steps out of it and turns to take a coat hanger from the cupboard. Again she looks towards the window and I hold my breath. It is stupid, really, because there is no chance of her hearing me. Another pause and she hangs up the skirt and returns the hanger to the cupboard.

  Now she is standing there in blouse and tights. She looks like an enormous button mushroom. She starts to pull down her tights and sits on the edge of the bed to finish peeling them off. She certainly believes in keeping the best till last. I can’t quite see what colour knicks she has on but it looks like white. I will soon know for sure because her hands have gone up to her neck and she is slowly unbuttoning her blouse. She is facing the mirror as she does it but as she slips off the blouse she turns round and – blimey! talk about carnival night at the suet pudding factory. Her top bollocks look ready to run riot at any minute. I don’t know where she gets her bras but they would serve as sling shots in a pumpkin-hurling contest.

  The blouse is folded up and put in a drawer and Miss Tromble stands in front of her mirror in bra and panties. What a lovely sight. I am practically chanting ‘off! off! off!’ and I have to confess that wicked percy has found a friend in my naughty fingers. The moment I take him in hand, so to speak, the future does not seem quite so relentlessly unrewarding. A crafty joddrell is a lot better than being left feeling pious and frustrated and – like the man says – you don’t have to look your best.

  I press my eyeballs nearer to the crack in the shutters and watch, hypnotised, as Betty Tromble bends forward and reaches behind her back. I suppose she does that to stop the bra being ripped from her fingers when she releases the catch. It could burn the flesh right down to the bone. She turns round with the bra between her digits and I suck in breath sharply. By the cringe! What a spectacle. That great, white, flowing mass. I feel like Fred Niagra looking upon his falls for the first time. Wild, untamed, laughing contemptuously in the face of bra manufacturers throughout the world. Imagine your Marquis of Lorne trying to keep its head between that lot. I notice that she has to lift them one at a time. Who says this country is on its knees? Betty Tromble’s knockers may be, but the spirit that made a pair like that should have no trouble knocking off a few thousand Hillman Avengers when the need demands. Forty-six inches if she is a day, and British through and through. I am just about to burst into ‘There’ll always be an England’ when she slips off her knicks and exits left.

  What a lovely performance. Even better than I had dared hope for. I gaze down and see my knob glistening in the darkness. Its small mouth is twisted up questioningly. Is that all? Very likely, and probably best to indulge in a hand shandy whilst the memory of all that pulsating flesh is still strong in the mind. Still, you never know. It might be worth hanging on a few minutes more. Miss Tromble – or do I know her well enough now to call her Betty? – has probably only popped off to clean her teds and have a pre-kip tinkle. She will be back before you can say unemployment benefit – yes, here she comes, trembling like a stack of blancmanges. She feels under the pillow and produces a long black nightie which she raises above her head and slips over her shoulders with a delicious wriggle – oh! Percy nearly came apart in my hands. I will just see Betty into bed and then give him his head – I would give him my head if I was a monkey. The object of my giggle stick’s ill-concealed affection picks up a book – I can’t read the title – switches on a bedside lamp and follows her knockers to the door where she turns
out the main light. The room is now bathed in a sexy glow and I can see the outline of Betty’s body through the veil-like flimsiness of her free-flowing nightie. Oh! I wish I was in there – everywhere. The room, the nightie, Miss Betsy Tromble. I can almost hear the bed creak as she gets into it. She pulls the sheet up underneath her knockers and opens her book. She has to hold it out in front of her or it would be obscured by her manchesters. She must have strong wrists – and talking about strong wrists, time to build up mine with a handy J. Arthur. It is not often that I have recourse to the five-fingered widow but I don’t spurn her services when the need arises – sperm but not spurn. I am just about to shake hands with myself when I glance across the courtyard and see Betty putting down her book and glancing towards the door. Can there be someone without apart from me? Miss Tromble gets out of bed and proceeds to answer my question. For some strange reason she stops in front of the mirror to primp up her hair and then she swiftly crosses to the door and opens it. Hardly have her fingers closed round the knob than Gunter materialises beside her as fired through the keyhole from a gas cylinder. Horrible, smarmy berk! What is he brown nosing round there for? Probably going to ask some stupid question about – blimey! I don’t know whether I say it out loud or not but you could knock me down with a feather. Betty and Ted Gunter are kissing each other! Not so much kissing as trying to eat their way into each other’s faces. It is horrible. He must have chloroform breath. Her great knockers are buckling against his chest and he has to lean right forward to get at her cakehole. But getting at it he most certainly is. I would never have thought Ted Gunter could have kissed like that. Now look what he is doing! His horrible germans are molesting Betty’s mammaries. I can distinctly see him squeezing her strawberries. What is even more repulsive – she seems to enjoy it. Her head is shaking from side to side and her own hands go up to cover Gunter’s on her breasts. The filthy animal plucks open a few buttons and starts gorging his disgusting north and south on her knockers like one of the school’s Friesians working over a field of clover. Oh no! It is too horrible to think about, let alone watch. How could she possibly prefer that creep to me. And not an inkling of her obscene passion has she revealed. How mean and sneaky – oh! Before my horrified eyes, Betty starts to make a clumsy assault on the front of Gunter’s cavalry twills. With her head tilted back she plucks open the fly and feeds out his cock. What injustice. Why should that idiot get landed with such a length of hose pipe while I have to be content with Mr Average proportions – fifteen and a half centimetres of terribly willing flesh currently doing stark raving nothing? Oh no! It gets worse. Miss Tromble trembles and slowly sinks floorwards, risking getting one of Gunter’s shirt buttons up her hooter as she goes. Her face remains buried in his dicky dirt until she is kneeling with her lips inches from his fast-expanding hampton – correction, forget about the inches. Miss Tromble slowly closes her chops round his love lolly and starts revolving her nut like she is trying to exercise her neck muscles. How disgusting! I can hardly bear not to tear my eyes away. Now she has pulled his trousers and pants down to knee level and is milking his balls like she is ringing a peal on a set of bells. Stop! This thing has gone far enough – I am referring, of course, to Gunter’s cock. It is expanding faster than Britain’s debt to the International Monetary Fund. I have never seen anything like it – even in the magazines Dad used to keep in the hallstand. And quite a lot of those were syrups – renowned for their natural sense of rhythm and jumbo sized tonks.

  Not content with what he is getting, Gunter has his hands round the back of Betty’s head and is pulling her on to his hampton like he wants to see if he can get it out of one of her earholes. Talk about Deep Throat, this is more like an intravenous rib count. How can she possibly lap this guy up so much? – and I mean lap. Now she looks as if she is trying to swallow one of his balls. I gaze down at once proud percy and he is indeed a sorry sight. A horn all forlorn. Mr Gunter’s merry mouthful being taken out for a late night nosh-up is more than he can stand.

  Miss Tromble is certainly making a meal of it. I have never known a bird so addicted to guzzling the gonads. Even Gunter must be ready to move on to the next course because he unbuttons his shirt and steps out of his pants and trousers whilst Betty Call-Me-Jaws Tromble continues to stay latched to his chopper. Get your socks off, Gunter! Have you no sense of decency? The man looks like a refugee from a blue film. Pressing his partner back against the floor he kneels astride her treasure chest and slaps her knockers on either side of his hampton. It is like watching someone make bread – enough to feed Birmingham. Whilst I am watching Gunter make a pig of himself I am amazed to see Hollis and Keen come in carrying a tin of beer and a couple of pint mugs. They prop themselves up against the wash basin whilst Gunter leans forward with his hand against the floor and gives Miss Tromble another mouthful of what she likes best after Jimmy Young. Don’t tell me that all three are in on this – and even worse – that they invited me along and I turned down the invitation? How could she fancy Hollis, currently pouring beer all over the floor as he tries to get it into a glass. And Keen? Two natural contenders for nana of the year if ever I saw them. It is enough to make you trade in your prick for a skein of wool and a couple of secondhand knitting needles.

  Even as the horrible thought permeates my down-the-drain I see Hollis handing down his pint to Gunter for a quick guzzle and lazily stepping out of his round the houses. The Terrible Trio must have been at it since Night One down at the farm to build up such a mood of casual intimacy. By the cringe! It is enough to make you stop watching The Archers. If I had known that Doris and Dan were up to these kind of tricks I would have sprayed my old man with weed killer. How could they, I mean Gunter, Hollis and Keen – not Doris and Dan – have been so much faster on the uptake? It is a bit frightening when you think about it. I thought I was like a greyhound to the nooky. It is clearly not the case. Whilst I am reacting in inhibited fashion to a spot of upper class bridge work others are slamming their nuts into the grinning void – like young Hollis for example. Hardly have his shiny grey worsteds disgraced the carpet than he has said goodbye to his battleship-grey long johns and sunk up to his knees in Axminster. A quick forward shuffle and the bowsprit of his mad mick is steaming between Miss Tromble’s swiftly opened thighs – she must have radar to see him through Gunter. As the back of her calves bounce off the new entrant’s shoulders, Hollis drives home his dick and holds her scotch eggs apart like he is frightened they might slam shut and carve off his nut. What an amazing turn up. I would have reckoned that the only way he could tell his old man from a carrot was to put it into a vegetable blender and see what colour the juice came out.

  Gunter, Hollis and Keen. It sounds like a vaudeville team or a steel works. Hollis hands his pint to Gunter and the rude sod swigs it whilst Tromble continues giving him a blow job. How unrefined! You would never catch me carrying on like that. Any guzzling noises I made always arrived naturally without the help of a keg of Watneys. There seems to be no romance left in the world. I can’t understand how Miss Tromble can lend her body to such proceedings. She is obviously much less couth than I took her for. I feel betrayed as I watch her slurping away on the end of Gunter’s joint. What can make a woman carry on like that with three such desperate geezers? If I were triplets I could understand it. There is nothing wrong with a cluster fuck if the cluster has a little lustre. This lot make the Three Stooges seem like the ushers at Princess Margaret’s wedding.

  Keen has now started to take off his clobber but there is no sense of urgency about him. He folds his clothes and places them neatly on the end of the bed, stopping for a pull at his beer between each garment he takes off. I reckon they must have done this before. Probably why Gunter invited me along – to add a bit of variety. But could I have brought myself to perform in such circumstances? – too blooming true I could! Show me an opening and I would not be circling round Betty Tromble’s like that daft twit Keen. What are they up to now? Gunter has removed his gleaming dome from Tromble�
�s cakehole and Hollis has withdrawn from her nether regions. Together they draw her to her feet and Hollis slides behind her, cupping her breasts in his hand like a flesh bra. Keen latches his lips on to the erecting nipples and tugs them out gently, drawing his head back until the extended flesh is forced to drop from his lips and the breast falls back on its owner’s chest – what a wonderful way to crack walnuts.

  Gunter has lain back across the bed and for a moment I think he must have flaked out. Not our boy Gunter. His hampton is still soaring ceilingwards and it is towards this mighty offering that Tromble is steered by Hollis and Keen. I am reminded of Black Magic ceremonies and of Dad and Uncle bringing Aunty Glad home from the plumber’s arms – no, I don’t mean a pub. That plumber caused Uncle Jack a lot of embarrassment before he ended up with a one-inch nut threaded on his giggle stick. Gunter’s plates of meat are on the floor like he has a backwards handstand in mind and Betty runs her fingers up his slippery pole and gives his goolies an affectionate squeeze. Satisfied that the equipment is in working order she positions herself astride his legs and pots his yellow so that two white balls are trembling at the entrance to her centre pocket before you can say Joe Davis – you can see she has played this game before. Secure in the saddle, she leans forward and her champion knockers become a filling between her chest and Gunter’s – you can see the white flesh spilling out like cream cheese from a sandwich.

  The two love birds kiss memorably and Betty starts to rock backwards and forwards like Lester Piggott coaxing a Derby winner round Tattenham Corner. It is all very affecting and none seems to find it so more than Hollis. Pausing only to shiver his timber with a few strokes of the wrist, he steps between the legs of his two partners in ecstasy and lowers himself to a kneeling position. Surely he can’t be intending to? – Oh, he has. Right up to the pollen bags. Betty Tromble buckles for a moment but then returns to rearranging Gunter’s features with her kisser in an even greater display of liberated passion. She clearly thrives on this kind of treatment. What a carve-up. I never knew things like this went on south of Dollis Hill.