by Sarah Steel
SPILT MILK
by
SARAH STEEL
Spilt Milk first published in 1999 by Headline Book Publishing. Published as an eBook in 2011 by Chimera eBooks.
ePub ISBN 9781780800523
mobi ISBN 9781780800530
www.chimerabooks.co.uk
Chimera (ki-mir'a, ki-) a creation of the imagination, a wild fantasy.
New authors are always welcome, or if you're already a published author and have existing work, the eBook rights of which remain with or have reverted to you, we would love to hear from you.
This work is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. The author asserts that all characters depicted in this work of fiction are eighteen years of age or older, and that all characters and situations are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.
Copyright Sarah Steel. The right of Sarah Steel to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This novel is fiction - in real life practice safe sex.
Contents
Spilt Milk
Servile Maid
Strapping Muscles
Sweet Misery
Scandinavian Mischief
Silken Manacles
Sadean Methods
Stern Matron
Severe Mentor
Strict Mistress
Spanking Memoirs
Spilt Milk
Easing back a fraction, so that his weight rested on his heels, he viewed the colours swimming before his lust-narrowed eyes: the white, the cream and the tiny gleam of wet pink. Grunting, he closed his eyes and lunged. She screamed out in raw pleasure. He felt the soft weight of her buttocks rasping his pubic curls. Opening his eyes, he silently named the colours: the white of the breakfast bar; the cream of her smooth cheeks; the wet pink of her rosebud sphincter revealed by his controlling hands that gripped and prised apart her fleshy buttocks.
Housewives. She was his third this morning. A hot little strawberry blonde, provocatively pony-tailed, who liked it across the breakfast bar. No preliminaries, no chat. He just came in, nodded, reversed his blue and white striped apron and unzipped. She squealed her token protest but parted her thighs for him even before her breasts squashed down beneath her, forcing the nipples to kiss the cool melamine.
He caught the whiff of her willingness as he planted his right palm down against her proffered buttocks, using his thick thumb to explore her sticky cleft. Then, using both hands to talon and control the satin flesh, he drove his hardness into her. As he plunged, pumping rhythmically, his thumbtips opened her pliant cheeks, prising her shadowed cleft painfully apart.
By the time they glimpsed the anal whorl, his eyes would be slits of concentration. Writhing and drumming her fists down upon the white melamine, the willing blonde moaned. They had done this so often now, they were as good as any married couple - they just didn't know each other's names. Both held back until they sensed each other's climax: up on his toes, he buried himself deep inside her tight warmth. She came softly, mewing like a kitten at its cream. Exploding, he jerked his head back. As usual, the pencil stub slipped from behind his ear and rattled on the Italian mosaic kitchen floor.
He scooped up his pencil stub, licked the dull tip and bent across the breakfast bar, elbows splayed, totting up a column of figures in his well-thumbed book. The naked blonde, standing behind him, snaked her arms around his hips, burying her breasts and belly into his hard back.
'Six quid,' he muttered.
'Six?' she murmured dreamily, fingering his sticky shaft playfully.
'Gave you an extra quart of cream, Saturday. Remember?'
'Mm.' She remembered.
'Want any yoghurt?'
She shook her head, declining this week's special offer, as she dragged her juicy labia across his striped apron. She always dried her slit this way, finding the rough cotton stretched across his firm buttocks delicious against her wet, silken flesh.
'Zip me up, then.'
Murmuring her protest, she obeyed with reluctant fingers. Pushing himself away from the breakfast bar, he stood up straight and deftly wrenched the milkman's apron around to cover the bulge in his denims. Winking, he lowered his face close to hers, licked her mouth with a slow, measured force, then slapped her naked left buttock sharply and strode out of the kitchen, leaving the pony-tailed blonde pressing an ice-cold pint to her left nipple - still peaking painfully after the milkman's delivery.
It protested with a shrill whine at its top speed of 8 m.p.h. and exposed him to frost, wind and rain - but he wouldn't swap his milk float for a chauffeur-driven Rolls. As milk rounds went, this one on the Beechwood Estate didn't earn much, he thought, nursing the sluggish float between a Volvo Estate and a lazily parked Merc. But the perks - he grinned and tossed his head back. All the husbands on the Beechwood had vanished on the 7.20 to Waterloo, leaving it all to him: like a fox in an unguarded henhouse. The husbands - big earners in the City - came back on the late train, richer but tireder men. Good luck to them. He wouldn't swap his milkman's apron for a striped shirt. He liked things the way they were. The Beechwood was an ideal hunting ground for a fit young man. All those young, neglected housewives.
Nosing the float out of the avenue, he stamped on the accelerator. The needle flickered to 6 m.p.h. as he cruised down the cul-de-sac. This was his favourite run. Ferndale Close. He thought of his four pairs of fresh boxer shorts nestling in the chilled box on the back of the float. He loved the kiss of cold cotton against his hot balls. He had five special deliveries to make in Ferndale Close - not on the same day. Not that he couldn't manage it: it was just that he liked to spread the pleasure. Tuesday was number six, the brunette. Blue-eyed, small-breasted but mad for it. He made her greet him naked except for a pair of black court shoes - sexily kitten-heeled with gold buckles across squared toes. He would deliver the two pints slowly, carefully - maddeningly slowly and carefully - as she shivered from both the cold, raw morning and her hot, raw arousal. Shivered, naked, in the open doorway, shielding her nipples and pubis from neighbouring windows. He liked that, making her stand and squeal in the cold. When he had stepped inside, she always slammed the mullioned glass front door with a gasp of relief, legs together, black court shoes pressed together, thrusting her buttocks up against the cold glass.
'Where?' he always asked.
She would point, in silence. Up the stairs, to the bathroom. Or straight into the dining room. Never, it suddenly came to him, the bedroom. He'd take the brunette in the bedroom one Tuesday. Soon. And pull out just in time to spurt all over the satin sheets. Then wipe her face in it.
Last week, it had been right then and there in the hall. Pinning her down firmly, her arms spread out across the carpet, he had ridden her with brutal relish, sinking down to mouth her apple breasts. Soon, her court shoes were raking his thighs as they had both come savagely. Before he had left, he'd ordered her to roll over. Intimately inspecting her reddened, carpet-burnt buttocks, he'd palmed the punished cheeks slowly, making her come again. She'd watched him go in sullen silence - but, as the left toe of her black court shoe ground down into the carpet, her sparkling blue eyes had blinked pure gratitude.
Number eight was kinky. Definitely kinky. He liked a bit of kinky, just like he enjoyed cold sliced beetroot with hot shepherd's pie. She always dragged him to the lounge and made him sit down in a large chair - a cream job with Suffolk roses. She would inch up her skirt and sit, stockinged l
egs astride, on his lap. Knickerless, she squirmed as she impaled herself on his throbbing shaft facing his feet. The TV would be on. Usually the weather on BBC1. She loved it that way. Gripping the sides of the chair with whitening knuckles, she rode him furiously while the isobars on the screen tightened into a vortex around the eye of a storm. Spasming, she would scream, the concentric lines on the TV weather map pulsing in time to the contractions of her muscled warmth around the thick hardness buried inside her.
Obeying her frantic instructions, he would whip it out just before orgasm - shuddering as the engorged knout swept up along the hot silk of her cleft - to splash her between the shoulder blades with gobbets of quicksilver. She would scream softly as he rained down upon her, quickly going down on all fours - just as the main news headlines flashed up - begging him to tongue her wet fig. He usually managed to lick her into ecstasy by the time the regional news bulletin came on, her groans of pleasure drowning out the traffic report.
Number Eleven was a riot. Ten minutes at each heavy breast - sucking and nibbling the hard nipples - then a brisk three-minute knuckling between her wet thighs and she would be purring like a Daimler - and revving like a Jag. She always kept her tights on. Dark, honey bronze with a glossy sheen. He loved rubbing his shaft against them. Especially the darker band stretched above her hips. Dark as chocolate. He called her his little Mars Bar as he sucked and bit. Sucked and bit gently at her tiny clitoris trapped behind the shining nylon that imprisoned her pubic nest. His little Mars Bar. She came silently. Never a murmur, but he always knew. She would bury her naked breasts into his upturned face as, holding her nylon-sheathed buttocks, he hugged her to him like a prize.
Friday morning was number fourteen. Number fourteen liked it on her knees under the dining room table. He would shuffle up behind her and thumb her panties down, pausing to savour her swollen cheeks. That was exactly how she liked it. Kneeling, trapped under the dining room table. He would spank her bare bottom seven, maybe eight times, as he rode her. Clawing for the table leg, she would make a pretence of scrambling to escape - earning a second flurry of searing swipes across her reddening cheeks. The punishment stilled and silenced her - besides, trapped under the table, there was no way out. Restricted, spanked and helpless, she had to submit and surrender to him.
Today was Friday. He palmed his spanking hand into his milkman's striped apron. Suddenly he winced, remembering how, last week, he had almost done his shoulder in, lunging under the heavy oak tabletop. Silly bitch. He would redden her bare cheeks good and hard today. Why couldn't she have it on top of the table, or in the hall? Still, he grinned, drawing up to a gentle stop, there was nothing quite like giving it hot and strong to a freshly smacked backside. Yanking on the handbrake, he scooped up a bottle of gold top.
Stepping down from the float, the milkman shivered with pure delight. The wet asphalt felt soft beneath his trainers. Firm but pliant, like the bodies of the housewives in Ferndale Close. He strode along the pavement, his breath visible in the cold morning air. He strode with an unconscious swagger: cock of the walk.
The door to number nine inched open shyly, like the legs of a young music teacher on her honeymoon. He saw it open more boldly. He broke his cocksure stride and turned. Number nine - his was a black Lotus, hers a white Mondeo - didn't get their milk delivered. Probably did a big midweek shop out on the edge of town and stocked up the fridge. But the door was definitely open, and open for him.
He paused, turning towards the door. A mature woman, forty-something - but, he thought appreciatively, as fit as she was luscious - beckoned to him. The gesture of invitation caused her white towelling robe to gape open, then part. He saw that she was naked underneath. His shaft stirred, thickened and rose to salute the heavy breasts, white belly and broad hips. He could certainly slip this a quick red top, he thought with a grin.
'Milkman.'
'That's me.'
'Can you spare me a moment? I don't like to ask, but—'
His eyes widened, then narrowed immediately, as she shrugged, her heavy breasts bouncing softly.
'My husband's gone.' Three words that spoke volumes.
'No problem. I'm your man.' He nodded curtly.
'How kind,' she murmured, allowing him a quick full-frontal before belatedly gathering her robe around her nakedness. 'Do come in.'
His pace - like his pulse - quickened. His brain spun, sending him almost tipsy with lustful anticipation. He'd give this beauty a right ride. Suddenly, he remembered his dad's Ford Zephyr. Big, brassy beast of a motor. Classy, though. Sensual upholstery to slide into, slick gears and plenty under the bonnet when the moment came. His palms were wet with excitement, he almost dropped his bottle despite his firm grip.
'Through here.' The plummy, modulated tones of middle class suburbia beckoned. 'You're just in time.'
He almost ran into the spacious kitchen; finding her naked, legs apart, her feet buried in the discarded robe. Her bottom - heavily swollen and ripely curved, the cleft gaping temptingly - caused his throat to tighten.
'I want you naked,' were her only words.
It was not, he sensed, an invitation: it was an instruction. His thickening shaft twitched, thrilling in response to her stern note of easy authority. Accustomed as he was to the young, submissive housewives he took in his arrogant stride, the presence of this dominant, mature nude electrified him. Tearing off his apron and kicking off his trainers, he knew he was in for the ride of the year.
'I want a pint,' she remarked.
'Can spare that,' he grunted, unbuckling his belt and dragging down his denims. 'Gold top?'
'Out of you, young man,' she warned, glancing down over her shoulder at his nodding spear. 'Not from your float.'
He tossed his head back - sending the stub of his pencil flying - and brayed his disbelief in nervous laughter, 'Nice one, lady. Like your style.'
'Oh but I mean it,' she whispered, turning to face him. He saw that she had donned yellow rubber gloves. The thumbs, tips just touching, rested deep in her pubic nest. She strummed her labia slowly, rhythmically.
'Hell, lady, have a heart. I'll do my best, but a full pint—'
'It's what I asked for and it is exactly what I'll get. Kneel,' she thundered, jabbing her finger to the floor.
He grinned, genuflecting. 'Like me to get you going, eh? Like a bit of mouth down south—'
'Kneel,' she ordered, her tone crisply severe.
Eager to taste the new delights of domination, the naked milkman sank down into the soft cork tiling.
'He's ready,' the heavily breasted nude called out, casually stroking her slit with a rubber-sheathed fingertip.
'What the hell—' he gasped.
Three naked matrons, superbly ripe in the full flowering of their forties, padded into the kitchen in silent menace. He staggered to his feet, suddenly self-conscious and slightly alarmed. He covered himself with cupped hands.
'Kneel, and get those hands behind your back. At once,' the nearest nude barked. She was blonde, grey-eyed, and generously bosomed. His nostrils caught her perfume - Orange Water. It failed to mask his own perspiring fear.
'That's right,' the grey-eyed blonde whispered as he obeyed.
'Struggle, and you'll get five years.'
He closed his eyes and groaned. What chance would a milkman have, found naked by the police, in a kitchenful of middle class crumpet, with all their money, brains and sharp barrister friends. Five would be a result - seven years would be more like it. He shuffled on the cork, pressing his knees together, wishing his proud cock would shrink.
They circled him, studying him intimately. 'Quite the little Samaritan, aren't you, milkman?' the woman who had enticed him in through the front door said softly, her mocking tone sugaring a darker note of malice. 'See to all the little needs of the pretty young housewives hereabouts, don't you?'
He bowed his head to avoid her piercing gaze and remained silent. She inched closer, planting her legs apart, bringing her nest three inches from his
face. His mouth felt dry; he tried to swallow. He glanced up, his eyes sweeping over her rounded hips, flat belly and resting on the superb swell of her breasts.
'Don't you?' she insisted. Her breasts wobbled deliciously as she placed her rubber-gloved fingers under his chin and tilted his face up to meet her stern gaze.
He sensed the score. They were jealous. Jealous of the younger wives getting it regularly. They wanted some of the action themselves. He relaxed, grinning. 'I do my best to keep the customers satisfied.'
It was a mistake, that. Her angry eyes told him. His answer had been a mistake, and he knew it. The cock of the walk had just stumbled - crowing was not a good move.
'Oh, I am sure you do,' the naked beauty purred. 'We are mothers.'
His vanity still held the whip hand over common sense. The chicks have given me a great press to the mother hens, he thought. Now they'll all want servicing, too. Beechwood Estate was getting a bit too much. Especially Ferndale bloody Close. Look at the thighs on that one. Built like a Buick. And the grey-eyed blonde-ruddy chassis on her like a Volvo saloon. He swallowed as the ripe buttocks to his left joggled.
'Mothers-in-law. Mothers of the husbands,' his tormentress continued fingering his cheek with her rubbered finger, her words breaking into his whirling thoughts.
Husbands. His heart skipped a beat. Were there a couple of them waiting with baseball bats next door? Between clenched buttocks, he felt his anus shrivel and tighten.
'Mothers of the wronged husbands—'
'But—'
'Silence,' she snapped, stuffing three rubbered fingers in his mouth. 'In fact,' the dominant nude continued in a casual aside, 'you'd better gag and bind him. He'll probably squeal under the whip.'