Chapter 2: It Must Be Something In The Water

Skingsley in the Spring sunshine is to Skingsley in the rain as chalk is to cheese. There was an unmistakeable bounce in my step as I strode out to my small white van (which had no logo on the side to advertise the fact that it didn't belong to the ACME Water Softener Company). I had five calls to make, and all of them were within a mile or so of Louise Woods's house. No time wasted driving around, looking for little boxes optimistically named 'Mon Repos' and 'Dunwerkin'.

The major difficulty about writing a story based on the day-to-day activities of a water-softener installer is that after a while, the days tend to sort of merge into one another. I will, therefore - to cut a long story short - tell you only about the interesting bits.

The most interesting bit about that Tuesday morning was Linda Shoesmith, a tall, dark-haired, very attractive and amazingly well-developed woman of about twenty-three or four. Her husband, or I guess I should say, partner, worked in the city, at an insurance office or something. Linda was bored, broad-minded and perpetually horny, as I discovered within thirty seconds of dumping my toolcase and the carton containing the water softener on her kitchen counter.

She suggested a cup of coffee 'before we start', then stood so close her tits were mostly somewhere behind me. They were monumental. I mean, I like them big, but even I know where to draw the line. There must have been something wrong with hers. Tits like those shouldn't be allowed. Not only did they occupy the whole of her rib-cage from just below her shoulders down to her navel, they stuck out fully ten inches in front of her. I could guess at her bust measurement, but I won't. (Yes, I know that will infuriate the sort of reader who reads this sort of story, but guesswork never was any sort of reliable guide in these matters. Tell you what, if you're very good, we might get to measure them later on in the story, if I remember to fit it in somehow).

The coffee was again the excellent Dutch brand, which I rather hoped I would be drinking a lot more of over the next couple of weeks. Linda's installation was a little tricky - although she offered me every assistance - and what would normally have taken fifty minutes actually took almost two hours. I was exhausted and drained as we sipped our post-installation coffee in her kitchen afterwards, and she checked her diary for a suitably vacant time for the return visit.

A call like that can set you up for whatever the rest of the day has to offer, or it can leave you feeling down for the next three or four hours. Perhaps it was the effect of the coffee, but within minutes of closing Linda Shoesmith's front door, I felt ready to take on all comers.

It must be time for another one of those little author's asides which are so tending to break up the narrative flow round here. I did not screw Linda Shoesmith. All these sleazy, twee little double-entendres are not my style. If I fuck a woman, I will tell you. You will be the first - or more likely, the third - to know. I repeat, I did not screw Linda Shoesmith.

She screwed me. I never had to move a muscle. Quite how she managed to be so ... well ... physical ... with all that lot hanging from her chest, I do not know, but no doubt it's a question of sustained practice. We performed our act on the living room carpet. The television was on, but I cannot for the life of me remember anything about the show. For me, this is a damning indictment of the quality of British daytime television.

What I do remember was Linda's mountainous breasts flopping massively against my face every time she bucked like a top of the range rodeo rough-rider mounted on my (admittedly no-more-than-average) prick. I never saw Linda's face throughout the entire process, although afterwards - when she had rolled off with a sigh - we kissed wetly and noisily for a while as she tried to remember if she had asked me my name. To be on the safe side, she had addressed me as 'sweetie' from start to finish. No doubt, the carpet-cleaning man would be coming later in the afternoon.

The only other call which has any bearing on the story was the last one of the day, a Mrs Sargent, whose home seemed to be overrun with teenage kids. She explained that they weren't all hers, although she didn't seem totally certain which ones were. There were at least four boys, and what appeared to be half a dozen averagely pretty young girls, mostly called - as far as I could tell - Caz, Baz, Daz, Maz, Taz and Raz.