…Or the delightful Mrs Smickersgill
What Colin wanted more than anything was a sandwich. Not just a ham or a cheese thing, a proper sandwich. Beef or pork, for choice, but he would settle for bacon at a pinch; something to fill him up, keep him going.
That was a lie. A complete lie. What he wanted more than anything was a woman; a willingwoman who would just do as she is told. About twenty-five would be good, and blonde. Slim body but with big (or at least biggish) tits preferable, but by no means essential.
He knew without thinking that he had more chance of getting a sandwich.
He was feeling fucked off. He hated this job. Hated it.
He had worked on the vans for fourteen years now. Before that he had worked in the glass factory. He hated that one too. At least the vans gave him the chance to be out and about on his own. Today he had seventeen drops to do, mostly small or smallish items. And not too bad a spread. If he knocked on he could be home with his feet up well before four.
He always liked to start with the furthest away and work backwards. It gave him a system, and then the drops got faster as the day went.
He looked at his watch, nearly nine. He could have that first one done by half-past.
He looked at the name Mrs. J. Smickersgill. Unusual name he thought, wonder what she looks like? Hopefully she would be blonde. Cute nose, full lips. And big eyes, he always like big eyes. What he wanted her to be, he thought, was a kind of blond Sandra Bullock, but with bigger tits and a Yorkshire accent.
But he had played this scene before. His deliveries were always a round of disappointments. Life was unfair. His life was unfair.
Just once he mused, it would be nice if life would just deliver on its potential. All he wanted was the no doubt fat and frumpy Mrs. J Smickersgill to be the vision he so pined for her to be.
Just fucking once.
But deep down he knew that would be asking too much. His kind didn’t get women like Sandra – blonde or otherwise.
What his kind got were sandwiches. And they were likely to be egg fucking mayonnaise at that.
He pulled into the avenue a few minutes before nine. Nice houses, small but detached with delicately-manicured gardens. A nice array of cars for a Tuesday morning too. Couple of Audis, couple of Jags, and a Beemer. Something about the road seemed to revive his hopes. Young families he thought, and what do young families have? Yes, that’s right….bored housewives.
Again, deep down he knew that the bored housewife syndrome was a myth. Well, as far as sex went. No matter how bored a housewife might be, she was still unlikely to want to relieve it by having wild wanton sex with a fifty-six year old delivery man with a bad back.
Number twenty-seven. He pulled up and looked at his list. The medium-sized box at the front, something from John Lewis. But it was light enough, and so hauled it off and carried it up the newly block-paved drive.
The morning was shaping up. The early clouds had burned off leaving a clear blue sky. Promising. He couple feel his spirits lifting. He could be out in his garden later if this kept up.
The white door, with expensive looking silver trimmings, opened before he had a chance to ring.
And there she stood.
Mrs. J. Smickersgill.
The sight took his breath away.
She was young, maybe twenty-five. And beautiful; golden hair framing a classical face with deep-blue eyes. English rose complexion. But if her features were beautiful, her smile pulled them all into the right places to take her into another dimension entirely.
She was, not to put too fine a point on it, the woman of his dreams. The woman who had haunted all of his wishings and hopings. Her pink and fluffy nightie was short and pleasingly filled out. The scoop neck showed a hint of cleavage which was but the tip of a some very desirable looking icebergs.
‘Its Mrs….but don’t worry.’ She flashed him a wide smile. Whatever did she mean? Mrs…but don’t worry….?
‘Come on in,’ she stood aside to allow his entrance. ‘Take it into the sitting room. Straight ahead.’
He could feel himself reddening as he passed her. There wasn’t much room and he could almost feel his desire coming off him like radiation. Surely she must know. She can’t just notknow. He knew he was about to make some kind of fool of himself. She was bound to catch him looking or something. They always did. He would have to be extra careful. But he could tell she was a nice person, a trusting person. He couldn’t let her down by showing himself to be a goggle-eyed slavering pervert.
Show respect no matter what, he thought as he placed the parcel on the floor in the centre of the room.
‘Looks like a nice day’, she smiled. She seemed entirely unself-conscious of her semi-dressed state, that he was a stranger and more than twice her age.
‘It does’, he replied. ‘if your not working.’ It was his standard response to the usual weather comment. ‘I just need a signature.’
She took the clipboard but made no move to sign. ‘Now, whats your name?’she asked, smiling that smile again.
His name? What did she want to know that for? Obviously just being pleasant. Nothing more. Despite the brief fillip to his hopes he told himself that this was what quality people were like. Friendly, open. Trusting. Only the riff-raff were gummed up.
‘Colin’, he replied. He kept his eyes on her face for an instant and then moved them sideways to the wall then down to the floor and then back to his feet. Carefully avoiding her body.
‘Well, Colin, today is a special day for me so I want to pass some of my good mood on.’
‘Oh yes? Your birthday is it’ Why did he say that? Was he stark staring fucking bonkers? If it had been her birthday she would have said that. If she said special day that’s just what she meant – a special day.
She smiled and tossed her hair. Colin almost fainted. He could feel his heart banging away in his chest. ‘No Colin, close though.’
She took a step closer and folded her arms which lifted those icebergs up and doubled that exposed cleavage. ‘You look like you could use a cup of tea. Would you like one?’
Like one? Of course he’d like one. Anything to extend this drop.
He was actually more of a coffee man but….well he was more of a coffee man but now he wanted tea. Tea and nothing else would do.
Mrs S disappeared into the kitchen and he heard the kettle being filled. She then came padding back. ‘I will tell you what Colin, I was just about to have a bacon sandwich, would you like one too?’
All at once Colin felt he must have slipped into a parallel universe. One where all his dreams and fantasies were coming true. Of course, it was just coincidence, and being coincidence, the spell would break at any moment. Sad but true. Such was life.
But in hope he called back, ‘Well, y-yes. Would love one. Thanks.’
He could hear kitchen sounds, metal on metal, doors opening and shutting. He could almost see her flitting from place to place in there, that nightie hanging off her. God, he’s give anything to be in there with her.
He looked around the living room. It was very nice. Understated. Stylish but minimal. A woman with taste.
With that thought he felt a stab in his heart. She was a stylish woman yes, with a stylish home. But she was also a married stylish woman with a married stylish home.
Real life hit him hard. It wasn’t unexpected. He knew it had to come, had been waiting for it. Why ever did he hope? He really should know better.
Right then, just as his spirits were sinking to the usual (default) level, they soared again as Mrs Smickersgill re-entered the room. She was still in her nightie, still had that smile decorating her face. What do you like on the bacon buttie Colin? Brown sauce, red sauce or grated cheese?’
Grated cheese? Whoever heard of that? He was a solid brown sauce man, but didn’t mind the occasional ketchup experiment, but grated cheese? But then again, if she was offering grated cheese, then that was very probably her own choice, exotic though it may be.
So it was no contest. ‘Grated cheese, please.’ He grinned. ‘Every time.’
He was rewarded by her smile again, as she turned to the kitchen. He couldn’t help but notice the bum neatly outlined beneath the nightie. Lovely. Just the right size, just the right shape. Just like the rest of her. ‘Sit yourself down Colin, I won’t be a minute.’
Colin sat down on the sofa and wondered about the package he had brought. And then he thought about the rest of them sitting waiting on this van. Fuck them, he thought. They could get delivered when they got delivered. And fuck the gardening too, and the four o’clock finish. Why worry about the those when he could sit here with Mrs. J Smickersgill drinking tea and eating bacon sandwiches? Even if they had got grated cheese on.
Could this, he asked himself, be The One? The one that all delivery men dreamed of. The one he had waited for? The one that surely must come some day. Maybe today the stars were aligned. This was it.
And even if not, he would still get a sandwich. The thought cheered him. And cheered him even more to think that it wouldn’t be egg fucking mayonnaise either.
The smell of bacon reached him. There was no smell quite like it. But today it barely registered. All he could think of was the prospects of him getting more than just a buttie. Long odds yes, but chance favours the prepared mind and all that.
He had been married thirty-six years. Hs wife was the same age he was. But he had long ago ceased to find any attraction in her body. It wasn’t exactly that she had gone to seed, more than everything about her seemed just saggy. Not just saggy, but saggy and getting saggier.
Gradually his garden had taken over as him main ‘home’ interest. Increasingly he had started to fantasise about his work.
In some respects it wasn’t just fantasy.
One drop that he always really appreciated was the one where there was an instruction that the recipient would be out and that he could find the key somewhere and just drop it inside the door. Usually there was a time factor included. He would always make sure he called when they were out.
He loved that feeling of being in somebody’s house alone. There was just something so…intimate in having the run of a a strangers house. Even for just a few minutes. He could understand the thrill than burglars must get over and above anything they might actually steal. His first few, quite a long time ago now, he just went and had a look through the underwear drawer of the the house. Some of course, were more ‘exotic’ than others but even the most mundane underwear gave him the thrill of intimacy. He would check the size and style of the bras, check the photos on the walls. After all feeling a woman’s bra is second only to feeling her actual tits.
He never stole. Too obvious, too dangerous. His job was too precious to him. Not for the money but for the access it gave him.
But underwear draws soon began to pale for him. Soon the feel of bras and panties, occasionally suspender belts and the occasion sex-toy ceased to light up his insides. They became routine. They became almost normal. They became mundane.
What they became was not enough.
What he needed was something more.
Mrs J Smickersgill entered bearing before her a tray with two mugs and two rather large-looking bacon sandwiches. A big smile all over her face. ‘Here we are, sorry it took so long.’ She placed the tray down on the coffee table before him. It was a low table and as she set it down the front of her nightie fell forward, away from her body affording him a full view of her breasts. Big, tanned and perfect. In that moment time seemed to stand still. Everything seemed frozen.
To Colin the word ‘breasts’ did not – could not – cover the sight before him. These were not breasts…these were tits. Truly magnificent tits. Tits the like of which he had never beheld before. They were tits to marvel at, tits to wonder at.
What they were, were tits he just had to possess.
Read part two of this story HERE
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