Chapter 2

Larry left the following Thursday for Denmark.

Friday morning about eight, Gert listlessly looked out her kitchen window. The street outside their suburban home was quiet, except for the occasional hum of a car slowly moving along the asphalt, the driver watchful at this hour for schoolchildren making their way to their places of study. Down to the left she saw the white truck of the milkman come to a halt in front of the Jefferson's house. Four kids there. Lots of milk to deliver. She and Larry had no children yet. They'd talked about it, but neither were ready. No children, and Larry hated milk. Hence no milkman ever came to their door.

Gert thought about that. The thought was one element among several others, the others having driven her from her bed at an unusually early hour for her, the others having to do with Gert herself and her capabilities to grow intellectually and Crap. Pure crap. Be honest with yourself girl. It had to do with what Larry had said. It was the night before last. They both' were slowly sipping kahlua on the rocks, their favorite after-sex liqueur, a drink that added to the feeling of being fully satisfied, body and soul and flesh and bone.

He had been talking about his job. He sold and oversaw service on electric power generators for the international division of his company, but that wasn't what he had been discussing with Gert. He was afraid-deathly afraid-that the company might offer him a promotion that would keep him home all the time instead of his present one that kept him country-hopping at least one week out of every two on an average.

"If s not that I don't like being home, Gert. You know that. It's just what I think our marriage would be missing if-well, you know. A marriage needs freshness, newness, to keep it from going stale. Without these trips of mine-"

Without these trips of his. Well, he was right, wasn't he? Weren't those trips important to their marriage-and the "souvenirs" he brought back each time?

Larry had presented it that way over eighteen months ago when he had returned from Somaliland where one of his business associates had introduced him to a young but very experienced girl "to entertain him during his stay." He had come home from that trip surprising Gert with his first try to enter her behind. Stomach to stomach had been their bedroom mainstay with an occasional-very occasional-mouth-to-cock-and-cunt variation. He had primed her first by introducing a well-Vaselined finger, slowly, gently into her rectum while they were screwing in the conventional way. She was startled at first and tried to move his hand, but he stopped her with a forceful thrust into her cunt that made her forget the other arena of interest. It had taken over a half hour of gentle prodding before he told her what was next. He rolled her onto her stomach and relaxed her by running his cock down her back, separating her buttocks as he came to the crack, grazing his penis over and into the ravine teasingly, coaxingly, knowingly. She had seen him reach for the jar of Vaseline and wondered briefly what its purpose was. As he slathered the yellow, greasy substance onto the full length of his maleness she started to protest. Playfully pushing her face into the pillow, he daubed a fingerful around the anal entrance. He massaged her buttocks until he could feel the tension leaving her body ebbing, draining until she was as ready as she was going to be.

Poised over her he reached his hands under her stomach and gently lifted the lower part of her body to receive him. He toyed with her breasts with one hand and stimulated her clitoris with the other. His mouth drew slow circles on her back, his cock drawing closer to its target. When she was about to come from the clitoral stimulation he rammed it into her, thrilled with the shrieking cry that he. knew so well. She had come the instant he entered her.

The ramming, reaming cocking he had given her that night had netted eight big ones-eight orgasms in just about that many thrusts.

Later they talked about where he had gotten the idea, and he gingerly explained how he could not refuse the well-meant hospitality of his business associate.

"Seems it would have been tantamount to telling him I didn't want to do business with him," was the way he put it and, although she was more than slightly jealous, she had to admit that she had liked the end product (pun intended) and further rationalized that he'd never see the girl again anyway so it was really no skin off her back, so to speak. Subsequent trips and experiences she asked no questions about, though Larry usually explained in detail how he had acquired the knowledge. She was no longer jealous of the black, yellow, slim, big-breasted, small-boned, wide-hipped, or whatever sexually arousing females that she knew occupied her husband's evenings and sometimes weekends. The souvenirs were most welcome.

But now, the importance he was attaching to those trips bothered her. "Without those trips of mine-" he'd said.

She had interrupted him. "Other couples don't seem to have to import all sorts of foreign ideas to their bedroom. Don't get me wrong, Larry, I'm not knocking it. God, how could I ever do that? But other couples-"

"Other couples-well, some couples-are highly imaginative in their own right. But it takes imagination on the part of both partners, Gert."

There was a note in his voice she didn't think she liked.

"Larry, are you saying you're dissatisfied with me?"

"Gert, I'm not saying anything of the kind. All I mean is-well, let's face it. If it weren't for those trips of mine and the ideas I get from them, all you'd ever be doing is laying on your back all the time."

All you'd ever be doing. ... Crap!

But it was true, wasn't it? Ever since their marriage, he had been the one to suggest, to try, to innovate. She, on the other hand....

God, was there something wrong with her.

But how was a housewife supposed to expose herself to new ideas, anyway? Larry's new ideas came from a variety of circumstances, a variety of women, a variety of gimmicks like that doll. Where A flash of white caught her eye across the street. The milk truck had moved to the house across the way. She looked at her own reflection in the door window-pane and ran a hand through her hair to smooth it. She realized she was wearing nothing but a flimsy thigh-length nightgown tied together at the front. She smiled at her reflection hesitantly.

A milkman?

How trite, how really cliche.

But think about it. She really couldn't run around town trying to pick up interesting types of men in order to gain interesting types of experiences. But the home, the typically, oh-so-typically suburban home, was a place to which many interesting types of men came as part of the normal routine. Well, they were potentially interesting. And the normal routine might well become abnormal. And the things they brought with themes, think about it. But think fast because there he was now, coming away from Ferguson's house across the street and She opened the door. "You, there-milkman!" she called.

And she knew that this was going to be the start of something.

As he stumbled into the kitchen, she wasn't sure she had picked the right man to start with. He was the frumpiest looking milkman she had ever seen. Not that she'd spent an awful lot of time looking at milkmen. But this one didn't have much hair, and he was short enough so that she could examine each square inch of his sparsely thatched dome. And his middle hung over his belt in a way that matched the manner his jowls hung over his collar. He looked to be in his mid-forties, and for a moment Gert had a real doubt. She dismissed it. The noble experiment had to begin somewhere, sometime, with someone, here and now; he would have to do.

I'm Mrs. Ross," she said, toying with the drawcord that kept the front of her nightdress together. "I need a few things."

"Y-yes'm!" he said, his face seeming to change colors.

She opened the refrigerator door, standing between him and the light so that he would be sure to get a full view of her fullness. She bent over, feeling the bottom hem of the nightie move upward on the base of her buttocks. "Let's see now," she said.

"Gulp," he said.

She straightened and turned to him, but not before she'd unfastened the draw cord and allowed the front of the nightie to separate.

"Gulp," he repeated. Again his face changed color.

"I think ... yes, I think I'd like something really special this morning. Twelve quarts of cream. Yes, they will certainly help me get out of my despondent mood. Do you think you could run along like a good boy and get them for me?"

She brought her elbows into and under her breasts and squirmed at the pressure.

"Tw-rw-tw-"

"Twelve quarts of cream."

His face colored settled on something between crimson and purple. She stepped toward him. Her extended breast nipples almost touched his lips.

"What's your name, milkman?"

"G-G-Gil, ma'am. Gil."

"Well, Gil, I'd appreciate it if you'd hurry. I'm simply aching all over for ... for that cream of yours."

"Y-yes'm."

He backed out of the kitchen, almost tripping over the doorsill. Turning, he started to his truck at a walk, then picked the speed up till it was a fat-bouncing, jogging trot. Gert swallowed. He was not Adonis, no Larry, that was for sure. But, she reminded herself, the noble experiment....

The cartons jiggled nervously in their carrying case as Gert smiled a combination reassurance-invitation smile.

"Now, Gil, I'm going to take a milk bath," she said. "Or I should say cream bath. You will carry that upstairs for me."

Pocketing a wrapped quarter-pound stick of butter, she moved behind him. Gently nudging his rear with her two outspread hands, she edged him toward the staircase in the next room. His stiff-legged gait told Gert that he wasn't yet sure he was anxious to comply. But he would be, she thought, he would be.

At the top of the stairs she directed him toward the bathroom off the main bedroom. A double gulp told her he had deposited the container and re-entered the bedroom. She stood before him, her robe draped across a bedside chair. Slowly turning full circle on the balls of her feet, she half closed her eyes, and ran her fingers through her hair, across her breasts and down her stomach and hips. She paused, facing him full now, hearing his heavy breathing. She started a circular motion with her fingers, moving them closer and closer to the wet lips of her front entrance, then stopping, cupping her hands as if offering him a drink.

"Would you like to help me with my problem, Gil?"

"I-er, I don't know if-"

"If you can? Why, Gil, I've watched you for days. Really I have-weeks, if you must know. And I know you're just the man I need. Need, Gil. Come fill my need."

He took a hesitant step toward her, she having to make up the rest of the distance between them. When there was no more distance between them, she moved slowly around him so that her two cupping hands could not massage both herself and him.

"You're perspiring, Gil! Why, of course! It's those clothes you're wearing. How do you expect to accomplish anything in those clothes?"

But she had felt that hard thing with her fingers. It was a big, bulging thing, not long, but fat, thick, squat like the rest of him. And shuddering, also like the rest of him. She'd have to act a bit faster than she wanted to.

With a shove from her, he toppled and his back bounced on the bed. His mouth opened to say something but she was upon him before the word or cry or wail got up to his throat. 'I'll help you, Gil-with the clothes-but then it's your turn. Remember that."

Moving to his side, she began unbuttoning the shirt buttons beneath his already opened jacket with her left hand. She released his cock from its fabric prison and moved both his pants and jockey shorts over his hips. He took part in the business now, kicking his shoes off with his feet. Her hands had continued working his pants downward, breathing hard as she focused on his maleness. She had been right about it. Not overly long-but the thickness of it! A veritable feast.

She pulled him to a sitting position better to remove his jacket and shirt, at the same time moving her head down the length of his body until her mouth had reached cock level. He shuddered as she gave him a flickering tongue and then slowly moved upward along his body, mounting him at face level. Mouths joined, she trapped his prick between her legs. She squeezed his prick and squirmed atop him. Her tongue exploring the insides of his mouth, until suddenly it was no longer just she doing him but he tongue-pushing back into her, grasping her back with his hands, pushing upwards with his prick trying to insert it, struggling.

Abruptly she slid down him, her head at his chest level, her opening past his throbbing cock which now lay pinned between her belly and his. He was ready now for the next stage.

"Gil, I'm a girl who likes to be played with first. Do you know what that means?"

His hands on her back tightened, trying to pull her upwards again, but he didn't have the leverage. "Pl-please, I-"

She looked at him hotly and moved her belly teasingly on his cock. "Oh, we're going to fuck ail right, don't you worry about that. We're going to fuck like crazy. You want that, don't you, Gil? You want to fuck me like crazy, don't you?"

"S-sure I d-do, I do."

She lifted herself from him. "Well, then, first you're going to have to interest me-the way a milkman should, the way only a milkman can, really. I want you to tell me a story, Gil, about how the milkman makes his rounds,"

"Huh?" His expression was one of confusion.

"Like this, Gil."

She rolled onto her back beside him. "Now watch the fingers. I want you to tell me all about how in the early morning the milkman pads on quiet feet, slipping in and out of houses. Slipping in and out of his truck. Slipping...." Her finger actions matched each verb.

"See, Gil. Make your fingers do the talking. Try it now." She took his hand to replace her own on her body.

He nodded dumbly, but his hand and quivering voice picked up the thread of the story from where Gert had left off.

"Uh, well ... he slips in and out of the houses, . just like you said-is that okay?-uh...." He thought for a moment, then started again: "But first he has to ... to go to the dairy! Right, he has to go to get the milk in the first place. Uh...."

"Does the dairy have a back entrance?" Gert prompted.

"A back entrance? Well, yeah, but-oh, you mean your-"

She smiled patiently at him. "It's your story, Gil, but a back entrance at that dairy would be sort of nice at this point."

"Well, okay, but I never did that before-I mean, with a girl's-er, rec-rec-rectum."

"Say asshole, Gil. It's easier."

"Er, yeah-"

"Gil, you've stopped making your rounds!" His hands jerked into motion. "He slides in and out of-"

"Gil, is that all you do-slide? One would think milkmen do other interesting things like prod and search and ram and lift. Now get to work!"

Very rapidly Gil went to work:

"Uh, he goes to the dairy-he goes into the back entrance of the dairy and searches and searches for his orders for the day. 'Ram, ram' he goes through the back door searching, hunting-and then he gathers up the bottles and places each of them in carry-all cases. One, two, into the case, three four five-uh-oh, this one doesn't fit, have to jam it."

Gert almost cried "Yippee!" as her student was now catching on. She almost cried "Mercy!" when she felt his three fingers enter her rear, including the thumb-and jam he did. And what followed was just fine, just fine. She learned all about how the milkman loaded thirty-four delicious cases of milk and cream, nine bottles to a case-three hundred and six strokes-some in the cases behind the milkman, some to the front of him. All the time his trembling cock brushed lightly against her outer thigh, dripping hot sticky cream, softly lathering her.

At a verbal pause Gert stretched an arm across the bed, reaching into the nightie pocket for the butter she'd brought upstairs with her.

"You haven't said anything about the butter," she said, holding the stick aloft as she unwrapped it. "Nice, warm greasy dairy's best butter. As a reward for your story, let me tell you about warm yellow butter. This butter, this particular stick, is so nice."

She nudged him over onto his back, his pudgy prick standing at a forty-five degree angle to his body. Grasping the thick root with the hand that held the butter, she squeezed, wrapping the butter around the prong, evenly distributing the oozing yellowness up and down and around the length of his throbbing shaft. She worked it then with long languorous strokes, the friction of her hands on his hot cock melting the mass, dripping it onto his stomach. That thick hot cock. Ah! And Gert had decided where she wanted it-if it would fit.

"You've never fucked a woman up the ass, have you?" she asked in a whisper, bringing her face over his, her breasts pressing into his writhing torso. She knew the answer from his earlier remark, but the gleam in his eye told her that he was anxious to give it a try. Pivoting on his body, her behind facing him now, but not stopping the firm sliding insistent motion of her right hand on his swelling, bursting, too, her left hand supped his taut, full balls and slipping greasy fingers down his crack, lathering the distance with the melting butter. His moan was delicious to hear.

Then, without missing a stroke, she sat on him, impaling herself on the greasy oozing buttered stick.

The entry was easy-much easier than she would have thought: She could feel the cock already beginning to expand to fill the walls of her upper rectum. A pound of flesh was squeezing into her tight receptive ass, melting the stick, until she wanted to scream in ecstasy. Her sphincters contracted, giving his tool an expelling ride outward, but he caught her to him and thrust deeper into her again and again until she felt herself getting dizzy from the effort of keeping her head in the air.

Grasping his hips, she rolled herself over onto the bed, holding him in place. She was about to lower her body flat onto the bed when he lifted her torso with both hands using her cunt as hoist for his petard-like fingers, ramming into her rear with all his force. He rammed and rammed and ground and drove into her with his might until she felt she couldn't stand the frenzy building within her. Ah, for someone who'd never pronged an asshole before, he was doing-ah!

His hands worked furiously at her front, his reaming rod pierced her rear, his balls against her buttocks, the weight of his body grinding her breasts into the soft-hard surface of the bed. Writhing and moaning with the pain-pleasure of his swift-climbing thrusts she felt the storm fury mounting. Her upper limbs numb, her lower ones tingling, quivering with the sensation of rough hands kneading, entering, sliding into her, her muscles pressing to keep them imprisoned within her, fighting the natural squeezing of her anal muscles, trying to maintain a rhythm.

Front back front back squeeze relax squeeze. She was afraid of losing some of it, any of it, front or back or back or front, until her mind forgot to think but numbly-calmly accepted the explosion that came from within him and passed into her and moved up upward toward that approaching plateau which with one more grasp would be hers and she grasped it and held onto it-the place that said it all, that was it all. And she laughed, a from-the-womb laugh that told her she had reached her goal safely and surely.

"That was ... was good!" Gil decided. He was now standing by the side of the bed looking down at Gert, who in turn rested upright, her back against two fluffed-up pillows. She inhaled deeply on her cigarette and smiled back at him.

"You liked it?" she asked.

"I sure did, but there's just one thing."

"Namely."

"Well, all this stuff we been doing. I just realized

... well, that I ... I mean, we ... haven't done it regular." He was looking down at her cunt. "You know what I mean."

Her smile broadened, but her eyes focused on his limp, at-rest phallus. "I know what you mean, but are you sure?...." She let her voice trail off.

He too looked down at his tool. "I don't know. I'd like to, really, but I really don't know if I can."

At which point Gert remembered all that cream in the bathroom. She jumped lightly from the bed. "But I know that I can. Gil, follow me."

"All this lovely cream," she said when they were both in the other room. "Good quality stuff?"

He looked at her questioningly as she placed the plug snugly into the bottom of the tub. "Good? Sure. We take pride in-"

I'm sure you do. But if it's not the best, it might not work for what I have in mind. Here, let me take that now."

And her left hand grasped his limp maleness.

He shook his head slightly. "I'm not sure-"

"But I am. You just watch now."

And he did, as by his cock she led him closer to the tub, until hand and cock were beyond its edge, gently pulling him so that finally to keep his balance he had to place his hands on the tiles on the other side.

"Perfect, now we won't spill a drop," Gert purred, as she slowly poured the first quart of cream over his dangling prick, rubbing some of it into his flesh as she did so. With appreciative eyes he watched her fingers play in the white liquid that dripped from him into the tub below.

"Isn't this nice?" she asked him, without waiting for an answer, continuing: "Milk baths are supposed to be restorative in nature. Let's see if it can restore a little life to that juicy meat of yours."

And, sure enough, with her carefully massaging fingers and all:

Quart number two brought a couple of throbs and a sharp intake of breath from Gil.

Quart three elicited a tightening from just over the scrotum.

Four and five expanded the prick to almost full size.

Seven had the tool at maximum readiness.

Eight brought some come-juice to the fore, while the cock's owner squirmed as if trying to cut himself loose.

Nine and a peck from her lips on his bare buttocks brought a sudden violent throb from the tool in her hand.

Checking Visually at ten and another throb, she saw that some of Gil's own cream had joined that of his dairy's.

Eleven brought an eyes-closed moan and Twelve Dropping the empty carton on the floor with its eleven predecessors, Gert grasped his cock with all ten of her fingers and stepped around him into the tub.

"Ready?" she asked.

She did not need his eager nod to tell her that he was. With surprising agility he was in the tub beside her, following her down to a squatting position. "Now, Gil, on your back. I'm going to fuck the bejesus out of that creamy cock of yours."

A moment's indecision came over his face; then he was down, buttocks sliding on the slippery porcelain bottom of the tub. From her still squatting vantage point Gert looked with pleasure at him. His body had displaced just enough of the cream so that, besides his head which rested on the tiles above the tub, only his thick prick ascended from the white fluid like a pylon in a milk-white sea. It was a darling scene.

"Yum," she said, and, slipping her crotch back over and past his knees, she dove down mouth first at his cock.

"Oooooo," Gil said as she made contact. "That's good."

"But this will be better," she replied, and squoosh! went the cream as she lifted herself upward and forward, then downward and backward to impale herself on the upright stake.

Squoosh! went the cream again. "Oooo!" went Gil.

"Ohhh!" went Gert. The first taste of the rigid thickness was delightful to her cunt which, as it moved upward and downward along the rod's length, created waves that slapped rhythmically against the sides of the tub and that rolled pleasurably over her back and buttocks and into the crack of her ass and-oooo!

As he was pumping now too, meeting her down-pushes with up-pushes, and as they pounded each other's flesh the cream, the cream, the beautiful cream, was squooshing and splashing and oozing and caressing, and all was at a frantic peace in this wonderful world of bare-assed bathing.

"Yuggubah!" Gil cried. Or something like that, Gert wasn't sure. But "yuggubah" was as good a word as any to describe what she was feeling. Ah, this cream-what an idea. Water was too-well, watery-and milk was, too. But the creamy, creamy cream that squooshed and splashed and slathered and slid and slipped and slimed and stuck and-yuggubah!

Around her inner thighs, between her breasts, but especially around his tool as they plunged their lower selves together and apart, the lubricious lubrication seemed to rise in temperature-or was it hers, rather than the tub's or the cream's, which was rising? And before she had a chance to really consider the question seriously, much less answer it, she had the distinct impression that it didn't really matter very much. Because Socking it, sucking it, shucking it, shocking it-she rose up, her hands planted on the tub bottom:

Y-y-y-yu YUG-GU-BAHHHHHHHHH. In her ecstasy, she fell upon the mass of soft flesh beneath her, rolling, tossing, thrashing, coming, coming, all come already and still rolling tossing thrashing-still?

She lifted up again with curiosity.

His face broke the surface of the liquid and spewed out a mouthful. Fortunately he had the sense of etiquette to turn his head first. As he gasped for air, Gert thought to herself how really funny he looked. But it was time to be solicitous. After all, he had done his part and rather nicely at that. She decided to tell him so.

"Gil, that was simply marvelous. I've never had a fuck like that before. Really."

"Me neither," he said. He paused to catch his breath. "Re-really."

She smiled at him as she helped him to a sitting position. "Well, what now? Do you have any other good ideas?"

"Other-? Urp! Well, I'd sure like to. Yeah. But ... I gotta go-to work, I mean." As they stood together, Gert saw his face looked anxious.

She nodded. "I can understand that, but don't you think you ought to shower first?"

His look now was One of distrust. "Shower here, with you?"

She laughed. "I see. You'd like a little privacy. All right. I'll use the other shower." She stepped out of the tub. "Just pull the plug and all that sticky cream will go away and you can get clean as a whistle."

She skipped lightly out of the master bath and down the hall toward the other upstairs shower, dripping white cream along the wood floor as she did so.

Gil, she thought to herself. Gil of the thick prick. Before he left he'd probably ask her when he could drop in again. She shook her head. Never, is what she ought to tell him. But Never burn your bridges, Gert girl. Especially nice thick ones.

No, she'd tell him that when ever he was passing by on his early morning rounds, if the kitchen light was on....

Sure. She never got up that early normally, and whenever she did want a little diversion, on would go the light. Easy. The hot little old kitchen light.

Hot?

She stopped dead in the hall. Lord? She should have mentioned to Gil that the hot water faucet in the shower was a tricky thing, that unless you did it just so, a stream of scalding Her train of thought was broken off by his agonized scream.