Chapter 29: Samantha

Sharon Smith, Samantha's mother was very young when she married, and the boy she married was no more mature than she. If they had not been careless enough to start a pregnancy they would never have married. It was not even that Eric, Samantha's father, was a randy teenager; it was her mother whom instinct urged to mate as often as possible. The arrival of Samantha only slowed Sharon's urges for a few months. Once the baby was weaned, Eric was being begged for sex on a nightly basis, more at weekends.

Age did not slow the lady down either, though she never fell pregnant again. By the time she was thirty she had given up on Eric as a husband who could satisfy her, and had started to eye other possible providers of sexual pleasure. It really became possible for her when Eric got promoted at work. He was a lorry driver, and was upgraded from local deliveries to long-distance work, which entailed nights away from home.

Sharon was in the house with Eric many miles away and Samantha at school one Friday when the milkman called to be paid. She answered the door in a bathrobe, because she was about to take a shower.

"What? It's only Friday?" she asked, "You usually call on Saturdays."

"I'm off to an away football match tomorrow, so I will be delivering at six in the morning, like a normal day, and I'm doing the collection today instead."

Seeing Sharon suddenly deep in thought he hastily added, "It doesn't matter if you haven't got the cash. Next week will be fine."

"It wasn't that," said Sharon, "Come in and I'll find my purse."

The milkman stepped into the kitchen and Sharon went off to find her purse. When she returned, the robe was much more loosely tied, giving him a quick glimpse of thigh and the inner curves of her breasts as she walked. When she leant forward to pay him the view down the front of the robe was comprehensive, and it was all he could do to drag his eyes away. When he did so he realised that Sharon knew exactly what he had seen.

"Like the view, do you?" she asked, smiling.

"Er ... sorry missus," he stammered.

"Don't apologise. If I didn't want you to see them I would've kept them hidden."

Tentatively he reached forwards and Sharon turned sideways slightly so that his hand slid into the robe and cupped one breast. Just then there was a little knock at the door and the next door neighbour walked in.

"Ooh, sorry. Didn't know you had company."

Sharon could hear the nudge, nudge, wink, wink in her neighbour's voice and was very grateful when the milkman said, "Ta, Mrs. Smith," turned to the neighbour and said, "I'm ready to come round your house now."

As the two of them went off giggling slightly at the innuendoes, and with him explaining for the umpteenth time that morning why he was collecting a day early, Sharon fell to musing on the possibilities.

The following Wednesday, Eric left at midday to go up North with a load.

"By the time I've off loaded it will be too late to do anything," he said, "Then tomorrow I've got a cross-country load, then I expect I'll have to work back. So I'll see you tea-time day after tomorrow."

That night Sharon plucked up the courage, fuelled by her need for real sex, and left a note for the milkman with the empty bottles which read, "If you want a cup of tea, come in quietly. Don't knock or you'll wake the child."

At six the next morning she was sitting in the kitchen when she heard the milkman deliver her bottles and pick up the empties. Quick as a flash she had the kitchen door open and took his hand.

"Come in," she said, "You must be frozen. Come in and warm up a bit."

"No. I'm late as it is. Can I come back about ten o'clock when I've finished the round?"

"People will see you, and they'll talk. Make it eleven tonight," said Sharon, "The kid'll be fast asleep by then."

Promptly at eleven that night the milkman slipped into the kitchen to find Sharon in her robe again, but it was not fastened at all and he could clearly see most of both breasts, the profusion of pubes and the glistening crack. Finally he was sure that he had not misread the signals. In a matter of seconds he was naked and had Sharon lying on the kitchen table impaled on his prick. Heedless of her pleasure he pumped and huffed and came, leaving her high and dry.

Quickly dressing, he said, "That was great, love. When can we do it again?"

"I'll have to see," Sharon said, "My old man's back tomorrow, but I'll leave you a note."

With a quick peck on her cheek he was gone, and Sharon sat at the kitchen table, his semen leaking from her vagina, and wept.

'I'm a tart now. That was the first time I've had an other man since we wed, and for what? I'm hornier than ever, and I don't even know his name. What a waste of time, ' she thought, 'Next time it'll be someone who'll think about my pleasure as well.'

She sat up with a start, 'I've decided there will be a next time, have I?' she mused, knowing that there would be.

She started thinking seriously about taking a lover, but the only men she ever came in contact with were in very public situations, shopping mostly, when there was no opportunity for private conversation, let alone anything else. She tried responding when the butcher started flirting with her, only to realise very quickly that he flirted with all the customers, and that it was just his way of selling meat.

When the milkman came to collect the money the next Saturday morning, he asked in a very conversational way how her husband was getting on in the new job. Then he asked if her man was going to be away again in the coming week, and she accepted that he was all she could get for the moment.

Tuesday night, he came in to the house at ten o'clock, which was the earliest she dared let him in. A neighbour might be watching, or the child might still be awake. She told him plainly that she wanted a man who could satisfy her and his 'wham, bam, thank you ma'am' method was no good to her. He tried to hold back, and she did achieve a decent orgasm then, so a further date was made.

This went on for some time, but Sharon had not realised how noisy she could be, and inevitably the young Samantha heard them. She knew full well what her mother was doing, the sex education lessons at school were very explicit, and she just wanted to be left out of it.

It was the milkman who was Sharon's downfall. Eric's schedule was changed unexpectedly and he came home at close to midnight on a night when he was supposed to be miles away. As he walked in to the house he could hear Sharon's little cries and found the pair on the kitchen table with Sharon's legs high and wide, and the milkman's hairy arse bouncing between them.

'Curious, ' he thought, walking unnoticed back into the living room, 'that's some bloke shagging my wife, and I don't care. It doesn't make me angry, and it doesn't make me excited. I would quite like to watch, but it's only like coming across any shagging couple of strangers and treating it as a live show. I wonder why?'

He went upstairs and methodically packed his clothes in a suitcase. A large black plastic bag held all his shirts and underwear. Samantha was woken up when he came in and started rummaging in the wardrobe. As he went back downstairs, she crept on to the landing, a silent witness to what followed. When the volume of cries from the kitchen increased until Sharon reached a climax, Eric timed his entry to perfection. Sharon was lying on her back sprawled wide on the table and the bloke was bent double retrieving his underwear from the floor.

"Hello," said Eric, conversationally, "Good fuck was he?"