My name is Jim and I live in Birmingham in the UK. I make my living as a self-employed milkman. My round is in one of the posh suburbs to the South of the city. My customers are mostly bank managers, accountants, lawyers and the like, the sort of people who think they are too good for the likes of me. Balls to them, as long as they pay me that's OK. The only real downside to the job is getting up at 4 a.m. especially when you are on the nest and the missus is sort of warm and soft and juicy next to you. Then you have to go out and face the cold dark of winter. Mind you, summertime is great and any time of the year is good when it gets to 10 a.m. and you can knock off for the day. Saturday is a little later though, cos that's the day I go round again after and collect the weeks money.
Here is something that still bloody amazes me. Some bloke you just met in the pub asks what you do for a living and when you tell him, the first thing he says is something like, "Blimey I bet you get a few nice shags from all those lonely housewives. Wish it was me." Load of cobblers that is. Yeah it happens. Once in a blue moon it happens. Usually when it does it is some lonely old slapper whose husband neglects her and who is still half pissed from the night before, reeking of booze and ciggies. I wouldn't touch one like that, even with your dick mate.
Usually, but not always. Sometimes it is different. Let me tell you what happened to me.
One of my good regular customers is a Mrs. Angela Smythe. She is about forty-five and a little chubby but really smart and very attractive. Her husband is called Arthur and he is, would you believe it, a bank manager. She and I have become quite friendly over the months. Every Saturday when I knock on the door she opens it dressed in a smart housecoat and we chat a bit like this:
"Good morning Mrs. S, how are you today, looking well as always."
"Good morning Jim, I am very well, thank you for asking. Here is your money for the week." She always gives me the money in an envelope and it is always the right amount. Then I thank her again and off I go. You get the idea? This is a classy bird.
And so it goes until just three weeks ago. I turn up on her doorstep on the Saturday morning as usual and we go through the usual spiel, except something is not quite the same. Then it hits me. Her housecoat, which is usually buttoned right up to her neck, has the two top buttons undone. I almost do a double take when I spot this, I swear I can see her tits almost as far as the nipples. Fucking hell, I never had her figured for a goer. Only a few seconds pass before I look up at her face again but I know that she knows I have been looking. It must be all over my face. We finish our business and, as I am turning away she says, "Are you married Jim?"
"Yeah, ten years now."
"She is a lucky lady." And then she closes the door.
That's it. My whole day is shot to shit. My bollocks are in an uproar. Even as I walk away I can feel my dick stirring. The thought of her keeps bothering me all through the week, especially when I am delivering to her house. Did I imagine it or was she coming on to me? Nah she is much too classy a bint to get hot for a milkman. On the other I'm not a complete fucking idiot either and I'm sure we weren't just paying for the milk that last Saturday.
So the next Saturday morning here I am knocking on her front door again. I reckon this is where I find out just what the hell is going on. The moment she opens the door I know. She says the usual things but her body is talking a whole different language. No housecoat today, oh no. She is wearing a full-length sort of gown thing open enough at the front so that I can see the curve of her tits again. It is made of the sort of material that you are not sure whether you can see through or not but you wish the fuck that you could. As her body moves the gown clings and releases and it is quite plain that she is naked underneath. Also she is wearing some classy perfume that I don't recognise but I know it has cost her old man an arm and a leg. She must know what sort of effect she is having on me but she gives no sign at all. Doesn't even blink while I stumble and mutter through our usual chat like a bloody idiot. Then suddenly there I am staring at the closed door. She has gone.
"Fucking cockteaser." I mutter under my breath as I go back to my wagon. As I get in I can feel my dick stiffening in my trousers. I take a good look around checking to see that no one is watching and then slip my hand into my waistband and stroke myself a few times remembering what she looked like and imagining what was under that gown.
The next week drags by. I can't get this bird off my mind and I am so horny I could fuck a goat. My missus gets a good shag just about every night. She doesn't say anything though, just counts her blessings and enjoys it. She is a diamond.
The days drag by until, finally, Saturday comes round again and I am standing on the Smythe's front porch and knocking on their front door. I reckon I am ready for anything but when Mrs. Smythe, Angela, opens the front door I am gobsmacked, totally speechless. She is wearing nothing but a nightie which, while not totally see-through, is pretty flimsy. It is also pretty short, only just coming down to below her arse. She doesn't give me a chance to say anything just looks me in the eye and says, "Hello Jim, I seem to have left my money upstairs, come with me and we will go and find it."
