I was fucking desperate for a shag. That stuck up cow Verity had walked out on me when I tried to fuck her arse hole. It wasn’t as if that was the first time, but she’d complained before giving me the final finger that she’d refused so many times, hadn’t I learned.
Patrolling this convenience store in a small country town provided some nice visual sights of stuff I’d like to fuck. There are yummy mummys, smart single executives, college student, local housewives and hoi polloi. Decked out in short low cut dresses, mini skirts, tee-shirts and shorts in the summer, I got loads of sneaky views down blouses, the odd nipple impression and bits of up skirts. Winter, when I had started this security job, desirous of any income, having been made redundant in the town, had provided not only a meagre wage but also close up views of tight darker skirts, not much nipple and cleavage and lots of sheer tights or stockings and stilettos which as a consolation did show off nice legs.
Verity worked as an analyst at a mega international computer R&D headquarters on the edge of town in a converted and considerably extended lovely old mansion and seventy acre park. She was clever and at medium executive stage. We had met one evening, when I was playing cricket against her company team, over the booze and grub gathering in the lush club house afterwards. I went for her, as my philosophy is - go for the plain girls as they are gagging for it. Verity’s not pretty. She had a long horse face, a aquiline nose, great teeth with an over bite and mousy light brown hair. She certainly liked her booze and got very lairy and fucking noisy after a couple of glasses of white wine.
Her tits were OK but nothing to write home about – say apple like, I think 36B with pale areolae and nipples, a slender waist, athletic legs and a boot of a cunt, no big lips, but it would accommodate my big - and I mean big todger easily and her collection of massive dildos. I mean I’m no oil painting with thin, wispy, light brown hair, stylish specs and a thick, tall, frame, with a secret weapon. It’s not really a secret anymore – I’ve shagged around and I’m good at it. So has Verity and I miss her big twat. I’ve since heard she’s now the department bike. Maybe she was before we met – don’t know.
Apparently I have a nice smile I’ve been told by various girls I’ve fucked, that’s why they were attracted and I must have an engaging personality ‘cos I can start and hold a conversation with anyone regardless of age or sex. For instance, the school kids that fill this place, waiting for a bus outside to take them home get on very well with me. I’m a joker, tip them off where the good deals are and because I know the bus drivers well enough for them to hold the service if the kids are still getting sorted at our notoriously slow checkout. Alone, that little service of mine adds tremendously to my kudos.
I can’t move away, being devoted to caring for my dear old dad. He and I have a magnificent bond and for all his seventy seven years, he’s bright as a button, full of life, jokes and very gregarious. Dad exists on the state pension, plus an adequate company pension and owns out right, his large detached house with an acre and a half. Yes - I stand to gain this, we’ve sorted his will, there is no other family and in a sense I could be called happy, but to keep me top notch I need to fuck – often.
“Got to watch this lot Nev,” murmured Kevin Scholes, our manager, emerging from the back office as a couple entered the store. “The cops tell me there’s a bunch of diddycoys up Backdoor Lane, these could be some of them,” he added, while we strolled up the aisles towards the front doors.
“Yeah I’ll keep my eyes on them, but dodgy customers usually enter when we’re busy, to merge with genuine punters,” I advised.
“Yeah, you’re right mate, leave you to it,” he agreed to my experienced eye and wandering off.
The couple were certainly scruffy and shifty, checking all sorts of low value produce, the squat, swarthy bloke doing all the checking and the tall, willowy, raven haired, younger female tagging close behind. They both wore black bomber jackets. His was over dirty jeans and Timberland boots, I mean they’re not cheap. She had good, bare legs buried into black biker boots with laces half down, not a pretty sight. Her skirt was blue denim knee length. They both wore neckerchiefs, his the traditional red, with white spots, hers plain red. They were odd, but so far no problem. I kept a safe distance, then I got a little excited with a totally new experience in the ogling, leer sense.
They approached thick as a plank, pretty, skinny Nadine at the checkout, who scuttled off with fright as soon as they neared and as if magic, scrawny old Isabel appeared to resume duties. The woman opened her bomber jacket and dug out a leather bag hung round her neck. He put their meagre selection on the roller, while she delved into the bag, but the prize sighting of the day was a very thin off white tee-shirt, over big tits and it looked like she was smuggling peanuts under it, such were her nipples.
I sauntered nearer, to an adjacent unmanned till, as if checking some point of sale items on a rack for the impulse shopper, to ogle the female and make my day. She unearthed her cash, then I spotted that her boobs didn’t move or bunch up, with all the arm movement around them. They were big, solid, like traffic cones and pretty obvious, they were fucking falsies. The bloke spotted me spotting them and scowled, stuffing their purchases in a shop bag which they did pay for and they left.
“Funny lot Nev,” Isobel snickered, wiping the roller. “Never see them round here before, nice jackets both of them eh? Scholesy reckons they could be diddycoys – do you?”
“Dunno,” I answered, trying to see past her where the couple went, but didn’t. I wandered off and waited for the horde of school kids, it was four fifteen and I was off duty at six.
I have dismissed the idea of chatting eighteen year old Nadine up, who had taken refuge behind the soft drinks cabinet, having tried several times. She smoked like a chimney, was always as nervous as hell, oblivious to my charm, humour and smile, taking after her father, with reference to humour I would add, who I had worked with as a systems engineer at a medium but well founded and funded local firm, until they were taken over by a Jap outfit, who then ruthlessly got rid of key personnel like me, throwing us on the scrap heap at, for instance, my age, thirty one. Her dead beat father remained.
The one time she gave me a frisson of interest, was when I had by chance and duty to be on the spot when she slipped on some spilt stuff in the storeroom, having held the door open for her while she carried a new batch of plastic bags out. She was given the task by Kevin to give the stupid girl something to do and I was tipped the wink not to help carry the albeit light stuff, a keep her busy ploy. Nadine slipped, fell in two motions, by dropping the bags first then part landing on them, breaking her fall and ended up laid spread eagled in front of me. I went to help the stricken, sore bum girl and got a super view under her uniform of white smock, beneath which, she wore a light grey skirt. In full exposure while she whimpered, I stooped to help, while telling other staff that I was dealing with it, I saw her white plain panties. Just the slightest glimpse, into one side, they weren’t tight, but I heaved her up, not wanting to be caught in what could be deemed, in this reserved district, peeping – and I was. She did manage to thank me in a surly way and limped off.
In my work schedule I had a day off and moonlighted now and then for a small shop and post office in a tiny hamlet a short walk away. The old woman who owned it is a friend of the family, a long term friend of my deceased mum, I think they were at school together and that’s way back - round 1957 or so. Mrs Pettifer was a real sweetie, an ex-school teacher, with severe sharp features, a tiny mouth under a button nose and scrimped sharply back, silver hair.
When she knew she had big delivery vans due in and being very careful and precise about her goods, she quite rightly worried about the front shop and of course the post office being unattended, therefore over the years she had it down to a fine art. Olive, for that’s her name had the suppliers eating out of her frail bony hands, so she had got them to agree to fixed days when the truck would come. However when that happened, if that was the case she would call on me, if I was off duty or old Joe Hampshire, who lived next door to her premises, just to stand guard and call for her to come through from her store and serve. She would pay me, as I was currently her favourite, with cash sometimes or free stuff from the shop. Dad would get his tobacco from her, other stuff and sit and chat outside in the sun.
It was one of those days. The Warburtons big bread van was due in and she was out back sorting some empty plastic pallets to go back, while I watched the business. That morning, there had been Jennifer Laurence with her baby buggy in for some stamps, Minnie Drover posting something abroad and George Mooney who brought his mother in for some bird food. It was all regular stuff, trade brisk in terms of footfall but how the fuck Olive kept going I don’t know, guessing her Post Office salary would deal with the limited requirement.
.... There is more of this story ...