Another Time; Another Life.

Another Time; Another Life.

Status: In Progress

Genre: Erotica

Details

Status: In Progress

Genre: Erotica

Summary

Billy leaves school aged 16, gets a job and a whole new world of experiences open up before him.

Summary

Billy leaves school aged 16, gets a job and a whole new world of experiences open up before him.

Content

Submitted: April 06, 2016

A A A | A A A

Content

Submitted: April 06, 2016

A A A

A A A


Another Time; Another Life.

The Man limped along the road, favouring his right knee as he headed for the carpark.

“Yes,” The Doc had told him after getting the x-ray and CT scan results back. “We can clean out all the loose stuff in the joint but in all fairness you’re 65 and given your history of years spent playing Soccer…”

“Football; it’s called football, its round, you kick it, clue’s in the name.” He said in a grumpy fashion, mainly because his knee was giving him grief, though to be fair, it was better than it was when he actually did it the previous Monday. That felt like somebody had stuck a knife in it.

“As I was saying, we can clean out all the rubbish in there, but we can’t un-strain tendons and ligaments…we can’t turn back the clock. You can go private if you want and pay for the same opinion and anyway by the time they do whisk you in, the pain and swelling will have subsided.” He passed over a prescription for anti-inflammatory

“RICE,” said The Doc, rest, ice, compression, elevation, then, once the pain has gone start a program of gentle exercise to build up the muscles round the knee, this will lessen the chances of you going over on it again.” Handing him an illustrated sheet of knee exercises.

“It won’t hurt you to join a gym either, keep the bone and muscle mass up, your Heart and Blood Pressure are all within limits…just. You won’t kill yourself if you go gently at the start, plus the usuals, eat less fat and red meat, more chicken, fruit and veggies, drink less, and I know you don’t smoke.”

He stood, offered his hand.

“You’re good to go, see the receptionist, Good Morning.”

Blood quacks, he thought as he walked along, think they’re fuckin Doc Martin now.

“Excuse me?”

I looked up to see a young girl with Tablet in one hand and an ID on a ribbon round her neck in the other. I peered at it, she leaned forward towards me holding it up as far as the ribbon would allow. I could see it clearly now and the view down her Tee Shirt, along with cleavage I could now see the Massey University logo on the ID.

The down blouse peek cheered me up so I asked, “How can I help you?”

“Hi, how are you, my name’s Nicky.” Then she launched into a spiel about Social History and collecting stories from Senior Citizens…I jumped in

“You mean, before you old farts drop dead, tell us your boring stories of how Browns Bay was when I was a kid?”

She laughed. “No, the Local History Society has tons of that stuff, what we, what I want, is the stories of the Immigrants who are here now, where you came from and how you came to be here and I can tell you’re one from your Pommy accent.”

“If we can sit in the shade, you can ask me whatever you like, while I take the weight off my knee.” I walked over to the bench sat and looked at her expectantly. Nicky came over and sat next to me, but only as close as strangers might.

Turning from pleasant to efficient she said, “You’ve seen my ID, would it be possible to see yours and take some details.”

I dug out my Driver’s License, she entered those details into the Tablet. “Can I take a photo?”

“Yeah, if you like, are you going to check me on axemurderers.com?”

 “Not quite, but we would like to know that you are who you say you are, these days you can’t be too sure. So before we give you access to our departmental website, we check.”

“I’ll explain the whole deal – We, well me really, would like you to sit down, say every couple of weeks or so and write down what you remember of your child hood days, the everyday things that are no longer, here, seen, done, or even exist now. Then email it in as an attachment. You’ll have a user name and password and you’ll be able to read other people’s contributions. You’d be amazed what memories that can trigger.”

I looked at her in a ‘you don’t want much do you’ manner.

She took it the wrong way….” Oh, sorry, you do have email access, don’t you?”

“Nooo, I’ve got carrier pigeons, you set up for pigeons?” before she could carry on…” Of course I’ve got email…sorry, must be turning into a grumpy old man, you were saying?” adding a smile.

She carried on explaining the process, adding defensively, “If you don’t have a scanner I can come over and copy any photo’s you wouldn’t mind me publishing.”

I did have one, but for some reason I let it slide. Winding up, she confirmed my email and that she would be in touch. We both went our separate ways, but I must admit she had me thinking.

Next morning, I checked my email and there it was. I opened it, followed the links, register here, user name there, password, confirm password, copy this word to prove you’re a real person etc. etc.

Until I was faced with a blank page…which despite my best intentions proceeded to stubbornly remain blank. I couldn’t even make a start by putting my Name at the top, they already had all that. At the bottom of the page was a box ‘save and exit’ I clicked it.

I always thought writing was easy, you just put down stuff, yeah but what? And in what order… fuck it, worry about it later, I thought. To be honest it wasn’t at the top of my ‘To Do’ list, I only said yes because a pretty girl asked me.

Anyway my knee did get better, turns out Doc Martin was right. I had my new fitness regime to throw myself into and I just plain forgot.

Two months or so later I got an email from Nicki, it was a bit brisk and sharp, all but giving me a right old bollocking for wasting her time and if I wanted to be removed from the list of contributors ‘click’ here.

I replied along the lines of ‘I tried honest, but nothing would come’ and ‘I’m not sure my meagre writing skills are up to it.’

Nicki replied; send it direct to me and I will tidy it up and post it for you.

So, glass of wine at my elbow I did.

I told of the far off days when TV was new and Radio was still, just, king. Of shops closing at 1pm on Wednesday, of steam trains, pounds shillings and

pence. Where every corner still had a pub on it and a cinema in the middle (nearly). Where not many had cars

or a phone. Of Good Friday where there was Nothing with a capital N…nothing to do,

nowhere to go, no meat to eat, even for Protestants. The dullest day in a dull black and white 1950’s world. All that and more besides. The events of

the day viewed from a kid’s perspective.

The next day I got a thank you from Nicki, just what we needed, how about stuff to do with ‘The Swinging 60’s? next. All that Free Love, sex and drugs

and rock and roll?

Give me the full unvarnished truth.

So I did.

They say if you can remember The 60’s you weren’t there. But I was and I can, well the bits I saw.

Spoiler Alert; Forget everything you have heard or read, it just wasn’t like that. Yes, there were changes and compared to what went before they were quite big, but it was from a very low base line looking back.

Think; now = 100%, 1963 = 3%, 1959 = 1%

I mean nowadays it seems everybody and their sister, especially their sister is sending pictures of their tits and pussy just for a laugh.

For instance, Porn Mags of the day didn’t even show a pussy, just a discrete, legs closed together Vee, no hair. As for the gynaecological bald pussy name the parts photo’s that get posted as selfies today…forget it.

Yeah I hear you say… what about all the stuff we read, those seminal 60’s films; Georgie Girl, The Knack, Alfie, IF. Swinging London, Pop Music, The Mersey Beat, The Pill, That Was The Week That Was, Kenneth Tynan saying ‘fuck’ on late night TV.

Then as now – Media Hype.

It did go on…mainly in London…for the select few (as always) The rich, the famous. Which, again then as now, means about 0.001%.

So what did happen ‘beneath those blue suburban skies of Penny Lane’?

I’ll tell you; You were expected to go to school, find a job, get married and have kids…In that order.

So this is what we basically did… but before hand, we did our level best to drink and shag, if we were lucky, our way towards those fine goals.

Although by virtue of passing ‘the 11+ exam’ I went to one of the top Grammar Schools in Liverpool, aka, I was one of the top 10%, the so called ‘elite’. It turns out while I was good I was only so good. A tendency to only try at the subjects that interested me, like Physics, Chemistry, History, Geography, which I finished near the top in class work marks and usually top in exam marks and a poor attitude meant in a none comprehensive strictly streamed school I was in the bottom stream of 5. Top 3 got the offer of 6th form, the bottom 2 - didn’t.

So I left school at 16. I had the (fall back) offer of an office job where my Dad worked in town… nah, too big a shadow. So what was left? An Apprenticeship. Back then there were still Factories that actually produced stuff, 100’s of them.

I applied to the newly created Merseyside Training Council. This was formed as part of the new Labour Government under Harold Wilson, who was also MP, for Huyton in Liverpool. About 200 of us had to take a written Maths and English test, not my strongest suits. I thought I had rid of all that school bollocks. I passed…seems some of that top 10% elite learning had taken without me knowing.

In the post test interview it turns out not only did I apply for the Northern Section but more had passed than there were vacancies for. Dejection; but no, wait, as you actually live in the Southern section we’ve found you a job there…if you want it? Where do I sign?

Tuesday after the August Bank Holiday 1966, being in possession of a freshly minted N.I. Number and N.I. card, which was taken from me, never to be seen again. your young hero, William Ralph Dean, rolled up to the front door of Steel Drum Ltd. in Speke.

I was, as was standard then for a Newbie, set to brushing up, shifting shit and rubbish and making tea. Plus, all the other usual ‘Comedy Gold / funny japes’…long weights, left-handed sawblades, etc. etc.

Friday Morning about 11.00, I was called into the Bosses office, given a letter telling me to report to the Tech College asap to sign on to start on Monday. Sign on what? Patiently The Boss explained that under this new scheme, instead of the old night school, 4 or 5 nights per week, which had quite a high drop-out rate, especially when the beer and girls factor kicked in All New Apprentices went to Tech College for a year then 1 day a week for the next 4 yrs.…Doh! More fuckin school.

The morning session 9-12 was for ‘Theory’, Maths, Production Techniques, Properties of Materials. The afternoon ran from 1 until 4, when we did the practical side of things. Learning to use the various machine tool without killing ourselves or somebody else. One day a week there was night school for Engineering Drawing Which was nominally 5.30 until 8.00pm. But the first evening the lecturer put it to us that if we started at 4.30 we and he could finish earlier. Which made sense as we had found the time from 4.00 till 5.30 dragging.

Once a week for an hour, because somebody in their wisdom decided that ‘Jack the Lad’ had to have exposure to something other than mechanical facts and figures. We had 1Hr Social Studies, none of which I remember, sometimes the Lecturer would just send us out to run off our energy playing Football

The term went from the beginning of Sept. until the middle of Dec. after which I went back to the factory for the 2 weeks before Christmas.

Here I ended, hit save and exit, sent it on to Nicky’s private email for editing. Then forgot all about it…

Until a few days later when low and behold, I was scrolling down the programme guide and saw one of those 60’s films; ‘Georgie Girl’. This will do me I thought and, forsaking the wine moved on to the Single Malt

It started off well enough, catchy tune by the Seekers, but after about 15 mins. I though, this crap, definitely not stood the test of time. In fact, it was poor. Was that cutting edge then? And my mind drifted back to those days. It’s amazing what Glenmorangie can flush out of your memory.

Out came the laptop and off I went adding to the narrative, as the memories flooded back.

 

 

Back then Women did a lot of menial repetitive jobs in factories and Steel Drum was no exception, with about 200 employees, 160 of them Women.

When a group of women get together, even in a factory, never mind a hen night, restraint is often not to the fore. You had to treat them like you had no fear, because once you let them get to you, the pack would savage you, so to speak. For a shy-ish fair complexioned young lad with a tendency to blush it was hard going.

The first thing was my name, I realised on the first day that admitting to the name Willie in a factory full women was not going to end well.

My options were Bill, Billy or maybe Liam as we were half Irish and Welsh as well as English, Celt, Roman, Saxon, French, Martian for all I knew…like it or not your average Englishman is anything but English, He’s a mongrel and all the better for it too.

Anyway the worst section was the ‘Bung’ section which was in a long thin cul de sac in the factory with only one way in or out. This was ruled with a rod of Iron by Big Aggie…Think Mrs Brown; only bigger and a lot rougher round the edges.

Newly acquainted with the world of machines and spanners I was given unto the tender mercies of some old guy…well he looked old to me.

“Ere y’go Eric, a new lad for yer.” Said Norman the Foreman.

“What’s yer name?”

“W,” I began to answer, rapidly changing it to” Bill.”

“Cum ‘ed den Billy Ball Bag, grab dat tool bag an we’ll go an see what the fuck Big Aggie’s cryin about now.” And he strolled off, rolling a ciggie as he went, leaving me to run behind struggling with a 2ft. long oily, dirty, heavy and awkward to carry, canvas tool bag.

The cigarette, rolled, licked and lit, he looked behind to see where the fuck I’d got to and stopped.

“First lesson, King Billy on a white fuckin horse, never, ever, fuckin struggle, never, ever, even look as if you’re struggling, always look as if you ‘ave everythin sorted…Inspires confidence in the Hoccifers and other ranks...tells em, ders a man oo knows what the fuck ‘e’s doin. An dey leave you the fuck alone t’geronwithit… most times.”

He picked out of the bag a large hammer, well it looked large to me then, as I found out later it was your standard 2 and a half pound ball hammer. Hooked the hammer end through the two handles, then seemingly with no effort, swung the whole thing up so the hammer shaft, hammerhead and bag handles were tight on his shoulder, the bag supported with minimal effort, counter-balanced by a small downward pull of his hand, sauntered off ciggie in mouth, me in tow.

We walked down the long narrow length of the room, Eric being greeted along the way, me being either Ignored, stared at, then Ignored. A male voice rang out.

“Whose yer new boyfriend then Eric, y’gonna introduce me?”

“Never you mind Ronnie, keep yer mitts off.” Then to me “Don’t mind Ronnie, queer as a nine bob note, but ‘ee knows not to piss on ‘is own doorstep. Yer maidenly virtue is safe enough from him…It’s dees bleedin women yer ‘ave t worry about, ‘specially when they get sum ale down’m.”

We had passed a machine with nobody working it, so I asked, “Aren’t we going to fix the machine then?”

“Formalities Billy Smart, formalities must be observed,” he said in a mock pious voice. “We ‘ave to pay our respects to Big Aggie first… but don’t you call her Big Aggie or she’ll pull yer fuckin ed off.”

We walked up to the end, where a big woman was operating a small power press. “Orlright den Aggie, whatsya problem?”

A head, with the obligatory fag stuck in the mouth, topped off with scarf covered curlers, half turned to answer, still feeding and operating the press without looking at it.

“Nothin, apart from lazy cunts like you who can’t fix the machines properly, it’s that fuckin number 7 spottie, is me fucking problem, keeps goin outta adjustment, sort it willya…it’s not doin me bono any good at all.”

She stopped feeding the machine to looked at me, hard. But spoke to Eric.

“Who’s young fuckin Lochinvar here, I know him from somewhere?”

“Bill Dean, billy ballbag, billy butlin, answers to anything, when you can get a word out of him.”

“Hmm…any relation to Nellie Dean?”

“Yes Missus, I said minding my P’s & Q’s, she’s my Nanna Nellie.”

“Oi, Shirley,” she said to a young girl on the machine next to her, Get us another box of caps willya.”

“Yes Aggie,” she said, almost, but not quite curtsying as she hurried off.

“Don’t call me missus, makes me feel old, call me Aggie and tell yer Nan Big Aggie said hello.”

I bit back a ‘yes missus’ and added “ok.”

Just then Shirley came back with a box as big as a large biscuit tin and put it on the bench next to Aggie. “Shirl, show these two fuckwits what up with the welder willya, then get me 2 more boxes to be goin on with.”

But Aggie worrabout me bono?

“You just do as yer told, I’ll sort yer bono out.”

“Yes Aggie.” Again with the nearly curtsy. Then to us, “Come ed youse.” and walked off with us following.

“And fuckin fix it right this time yer lazy twat.” a loud voice followed us.

I said to Eric, “What’s a Bono?”

“Bonus, Billy be damned,” he said,” They get a bonus based on how many pieces they do and that’s why they’re both worried about it, it’s worth a few bob if you’re quick.”

All it turned out to be was loose nuts and a worn thread. We tightened up the nuts, tested it – OK.

He put two fingers in his mouth and whistled loudly, gave a thumbs up, then shouted over the noise “OK Aggie.” We got a raised hand in acknowledgement.

“What do we do now?” I asked

“We walk away Billy William, we walk away.” And off he went rolling another fag. I picked the tool bag up in correct hammer through handles fashion and followed, it was easier.

Eric made a note in the Log Book…No. 7 spot welder; Bung Sec. need downtime, new threaded rod and locking washers and Initialled it E.D. “That’ll be a nice Saturday morning job for us.” he said in glee.

“This Saturday, it’s Christmas Eve?”

“So it is too, even better, we’ll have the place to ourselves, no bosses or bloody women. Any road is that a problem - ‘Ave you got to go to Blacklers Grotto and sit on Santa’s knee?”

“No but…”

“But me no buts Billy Bunter,” he was obviously in a competition with himself to see how many different ways he could call me Billy, I had counted six. “Time and a half, son, can’t beat it, just remember no canteen, bring sarnies.”

 

All that week I got a guided tour of the Factory, including every hiding place in it, where you could keep out the way. It was explained to me that although Foremen and those who needed to know, knew were they all where and if nothing was broken down they did a Nelson blind eye thing…so long as you didn’t abuse it. But Eric told me, don’t make a habit of hiding in one spec all the time, rotate them in a random fashion, don’t form a pattern – and Never, let the big Bosses know…they want their cake and eat it.”

“Howd’ya mean?”

“The Bosses want it both ways Puffin Billy, they want all the machines running, but don’t see that if they are, it means you’re doing your job properly and technically there’s nothing for you to do, there is of course, but Bosses can’t bear the thought of you doing nothing – even if there’s nothing to do…does their ‘Ed’s in.”

He took me into small Boiler room in the bowels of the factory where Cyril the greaser was based, who also doubled as the factory barber for all the older guys, like Eric who had their hair cut in the old fashioned Army – ‘what’s under yer ‘ats yer own’ short back and sides. Every second Friday morning at 11 O’clock sharp he would disappear down stairs to the boiler room and re-appear, looking like an extra on that ‘Peaky Blinders’ show. No change this week, if anything it was even shorter on the back and sides, no doubt in honour of the Christmas – New Year break.

Friday Lunch time, being the last proper working day before the Christmas Break there was a Christmas Dinner in the canteen with all the usual stuff. Crackers, paper hats, Sprouts, Turkey. All the men over 18 were given a bottle of Teachers Whisky, all the women a bottle of Sherry. The few under 18’s, Me and a dozen or so girls (the nearly curtsying Shirley amongst them) got a Christmas Card with a one pound note in it…gift vouchers not having been Invented then…but a Pound note is an all access gift voucher – you can exchange it anywhere – for anything AND get change. As my wages were the princely sum of Three Pound, Sixteen Shillings and Eight pence, one Pound was a decent bonus.

These Bottles where your ‘Christmas Box’ and supposes to be taken home to be enjoyed in the bosom of your family, a good many of them didn’t make it out of the canteen door unopened.

After the pudding (and Sherry and Whisky) came ‘The Grand Draw’ – The Christmas Raffle’, star prize a monster looking Turkey. Plus other prizes in descending order, Selection Boxes, Boxes of Milk Tray, Kids toys, a hamper of goods or two.

Then in came ‘Young Mr. Grace’ to thank us for our efforts and tell us ‘we’ve all done very well.’ I have never seen such crawling in all my life by the everyday Top Bosses as they drew the round brass tokens, which had stamped upon them your clock number. Anyway the Raffle is drawn, prizes distributed by ‘Young Mr. Grace’, forelocks tugged. Then comes the Big Prize, a 20 lb. Turkey, this is drawn by Y.Mr.G. in Person, and the winner is…Four, Two, Oh…420?, lots of blank looks, then I remember. Shit, that’s me. Thinking about it years later, well now, tbf, I reckon my tag, with me being the latest recruit was just thrown on the top with all the others and that Y.Mr.G. just picked up the first one he saw.

“E-yar.” I shout and put up my hand.

Y.Mr.G. cries, “Well done young…and he looks round for somebody to supply him with a name. My Boss who is up at the front gives a loud whisper, “Billy, Sir, Billy Dean.”

“Come on up Young William, to the victor goes the spoil’s.” He Shakes my hand, then plonks this monster Turkey in my waiting arms.

“Thank you Sir, Merry Christmas Sir.” I manage to mumble.

Y.Mr.G., then picks up a glass of something from the trestle table and gives us a toast, “Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to you all.” Takes a swig and retires off away to the Boardroom or someplace, while the rest make inroads into the bottles they were not supposed to open.

I staggered back our table, to all sorts of comments…”Whatcha gonna do Billy? eat it, climb it or fuck it”…and that was just the women.

“Well said Eric, what are you going to do with it?”

For once I wasn’t lost for words, maybe helped by free donations of Sherry during the dinner. (quite the connoisseur me, QC Sherry in an enamel mug.)

“Fucked if I know, we’ve already got one.” What am I going to do with it I thought, when I finished here at 4.45 I was off to the Match, which had been brought forward to Friday evening as they knew that Christmas Eve was always poor for attendances, what with everybody running around before the shops shut. I wasn’t even sure they’d let me in, season ticket or not carrying a 20 lb. Turkey and I said as much. I was also supposed to go to my ‘Auntie May’ in Walton for my tea before I went to The Match…She was one of those ‘Aunties’ who weren’t your Aunt, just a woman of a certain age who my Mum knew.

“Leave it with me.” Said Eric and he went off somewhere. Some minutes later he came back. ” Take it over to Big Aggie, She’ll give you a quid for it.” So I did.

“Nice one Billy,” She said, “I’ll find a good home for this, plenty of people got more kids than money this Christmas. Come round to my place about 3.00 and I’ll give you your quid.”

To this day I don’t know what made me do it, Sherry, Christmas Spirit, low cunning or me being a decent sort back then, whatever it was the words were out of my mouth before I knew it. Pulling out the, by now, crumpled up Christmas Card with the pound note still in there, I said.

“Nah, don’t bother, I’m loaded, Christmas innit, didn’t cost me nowt, me mam’s already got one, they wouldn’t let me take it in the Match anyroad, you ‘ave it.”

She gave me a look, then said,” Merry Christmas to yer, Billy Dean, yer Nan would be proud of yer.” And offered her hand, a hand the size of a small Ham, we shook, well she did, I just held on.

“You come round at 3 any way, I’m sure I can sort you out with something better than a quid, that you will be able to take into the match. Remember 3.00, don’t forget.” And let go of my hand.

Pretty soon people started drifting away back to their various departments, for more drinking. The Foremen and such, had gone off to the Boardroom, all the better to leave the workers to it. Also they were out of the way if anybody got too pissed and wanted to punch somebody.

I got to Aggie’s section just before the automatic 3 O’clock buzzer went, the double doors were closed to and the party was in full swing. I opened the door and went in. I saw they were all down the far end sat round a couple of tables, the tops of which you couldn’t see for bottles, cups and glasses. I noticed a few things, Ronnie the poofter had gone, Big Aggie wasn’t there and I was the only male in the room.

Aggies 2IC; Margret, who was never going to see 45 again, was a skinny peroxide blonde, with tits like a dead-heat in a Zeppelin Race, called out to me.

“Cum ‘ed Billy get yer self a bevvy, it’s Christmas, shove up girls, find him a seat, Shirley, you can sit on his knee.” Shirley stood up, the others shoved up and I sat down in a corner, Shirley plonked herself on my knee. Somebody thrust a cup of something in my hand.

“Cheers Billy, drink up, Aggie said we had to look after you, for that Turkey, cum ed lad, drink up your mother’s ruin, It’ll put lead in yer pencil.”

Being half pissed I was past blushing, I raise my cup, took a swig and nearly choked, it was all Gin, nothing in it, no Orange or Tonic or even water. They soon forgot about me, but Shirley didn’t, she was wiggling about on my lap, pushing her tits against me while nibbling at my ear. This of course, gave me an instant hard on. She moved one leg a bit and it was stuck right in her arse or was it pussy, I couldn’t tell. It was a tight, nylon overcalled Vee shape niche, whichever hole it was pushing up into didn’t really matter, my dick sat right in it and didn’t seem to mind a one bit.

Soon I gently eased my hand up to her tits, rubbing with a small back and forth motion, I could feel he nipple harden under the overall. This encouraged Shirley to leave my ear and start chewing on my neck. I took this a green light to attempt further progress. Popping one press studs, I slid my hand under the overall and into her bra. This really set her squirming about on my dick, which was sending me excited messages, along the lines of – whatever you’re doing keep doing it, we like this.

Then a voice cut through my bliss.

“Oi Shirley stop that, get off his knee.” My hand shot out of her overall of its own accord, hoping that nobody saw what it had been up to.

“Right.” Said Margret, “It’s time for his present, get his kecks down.” Four sets of strong arms gripped both of mine and my jeans pulled down. Such was the state of my alcohol and nipple befuddled brain I didn’t protest too strongly.

 

(I found out in the new year that the original plan was your standard initiation / humiliation…a quick handful of grease or similar put down my trousers)

 

“Get yer Swarfega ready Shirl.” I heard as my underpants joined my jeans round my ankles.

“Fuckin ‘ell! what you been doin to him, look at the state of that dick, that’s too much for a young girl like you to handle, gimme that tin, this is a job for a married woman.”

Margret pushed the disappointed Shirley out of the way and knelt down in front of me. Holding my dick in one hand she started with a gentle wanking movement

“This is too good you girl or to waste Swarfega on.”

Letting go of my dick and balls to use both hands she delved into her low cut top heaved out first one large tit then another.

“Gimme a cup.” she commanded and one was thrust in front of her.

“Now we’ll let the dog see the rabbit.” With a swift practiced movement, popped out her false teeth, put them in to the waiting cup, taking my dick in her mouth, started sucking and bobbing up and down, one hand wanking the base the other fondling my balls.

As is the way with young inexperienced lads, in a couple of seconds I felt myself starting to cum…and so did she. Pulling her mouth off my dick she buried it between those blue veined tits as I started to cum, my hips thrusting in time to my squirts I covered her, neck, chin face and hair with squirt after youthful squirt. All to the cheers of the watching factory girls.

The 3.15 end of break buzzer went then, breaking the spell.

That seemed to be the signal for the festivities to finish. There was a rapid sobering up as bottles were stashed into bags and the women made a dash to be first in line to collect their wages and holiday pay.

Margret and I were last to leave, she because of the need to clean herself up from my efforts and put her teeth and tits back in to their respective holders. Me because of, well because of my wonder at the whole incident.

I went back to the workshop to find it empty. I got my coat and made my way to the clock out /pay station. The form was you lined up, clocked off, then made your way to the next window, gave your number – 420 in my case, took your wage packet, signed the bottom of the time card which was placed in a tray ready the office to work out next week’s wages. In the rack with my card was a note from Eric: 8.00; don’t be late, bring sarnies.

I wasn’t and I did.

 

I looked at the time, twenty-five past fuckin twelve. I also looked at the lower level of the Bottle. Time for bed, I hit save and exit, then send; off it went and off I went – to bed.

 

The next morning, I saw my laptop still sat there next to the half empty bottle…Shit, did I really send all that…I had. So much for my new career of Amateur Historian then.

Or so I thought.

 

 

 

 


© Copyright 2017 E.M. Ockleshaw. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments:

Comments

avatar

Author
Reply

More Great Reading

Popular Tags