Deliveries Ch 02

I'll admit that the idea of having milk delivered to our home was a bit of a joke at first and what came later was not at all planned at the beginning. I mentioned it to my husband while he was eating his breakfast and he said, "Am I not paying enough attention to you dear?"

I took a sip of milk so that it left a milk mustache, then smiled at him. He almost snorted his coffee.

But I wasn't laughing the first time I saw the milkman step down from his immaculately hand rubbed 1955 Divco truck. His shirt and slacks and hat matched its powder blue paint job and his beard and the tattoos on his hard forearms matched its dark red pinstriping. I would have greeted him at the door that first day but I wasn't prepared. I just peered through the curtain. He bent and put two glass bottles and a paper bag in the aluminum box, walked back to his truck, and drove off.

"Aren't you looking darling today," said my husband that Friday as he ate his breakfast.

I was wearing a yellow strapless day dress with white polka dots, white stockings, saddle shoes.

"Thank you, dear," I said. "It's Ma Jong day with the ladies."

Once my husband had left for work I touched up my makeup and put the butter back in the refrigerator.

When the milkman opened the milk box, I opened the front door. He looked up at me in surprise, then smiled slightly and stood. He had a glass bottle in each hand, one milk and one cream, and a little paper bag pinched against the milk bottle with one finger. He had brass and silver rings on his fingers.

"Would you mind coming in for a minute?" I asked. "I have a question for you about my order."

"Of course you do." He smiled and I closed the door behind him.

He put the bottles and paper bag on the kitchen table. I put the bottles in the refrigerator and kept my back to him long enough for him to appreciate the view. My hair was tied in a ponytail. I have nice shoulders and my low dress back showed just the top of the tattoo I have there. The backs of my stockings had little poodles on them at the top of the calf. My husband had bought them for me. I wondered if the sight of me pleased the milk man. I wondered if he'd noticed that I'd taken care to match the style and era of his truck and his outfit.

I closed the refrigerator and turned back to him.

"So what can I help you with, miss?"

I looked him over. I looked him over again. I thought about the cream and butter he'd brought me and I got that feeling I get.

"I have to say, I'm really happy with your quality."

Did he know I wasn't talking about the dairy? That little smirk remained on his wide lips. He had a wolfish look about him. He had freckles. His blue eyes matched his milk man uniform.

I opened the paper bag, slipped out the block of butter wrapped in waxed paper, leaned forward, and put my elbows on the tabletop. My breasts hung against my dress. They're not small breasts. They make an impression. I unwrapped the butter from its waxed paper. I took my time about it and let him have a good long look. I had arranged myself in the mirror earlier and now I calculated that at this angle he could probably see halfway to my navel.

"This butter is excellent," I said. I scooped a bit with two fingers and rubbed it with my thumb. I smiled. "Do you guys churn it by hand?"

"Of course not," he said. That smirk was still there in his red beard. "We have ladies who do that."

"Of course you do," I said.

We regarded each other.

"So there's something else I was wondering if I could get from you," I said. "It's a type of cream. The problem is I'm not sure what it's called." I touched a buttery fingertip to my throat and looked away a moment, thinking. I glanced back at him. I thought I saw his eyes quickly returning from another visit to my cleavage.

"Is it a sour type of cream?" he asked. "Like quark? We do have quark now."

"I have no idea what that is."

"It's a kind of a very mild sour cream."

"Oh no no, the cream I'm thinking of isn't sour. It's a little sweet. And it's always served warm."

"Warm?"

"Yes. Maybe poured over some sticky buns or hotcakes? I just can't get enough of the stuff."

"Where have you had it?"

"Oh, I've had it all over. Especially when I go down south. That's where I usually get it. But I would love it if I could get it up here."

He regarded me for a moment. The smirk was gone and his eyes had narrowed in a way that made my stomach flutter.

"Miss, as it turns out I do think I know what you're looking for. And I do happen to have some I can give you."

It was my turn to glance down. I let him see me do it. I took my time about it. The front of his milkman trousers had a bulge lying leftward down his leg.

"I'm so happy to hear that," I said. "It's been too long since I've had it. And I do enjoy it so much."

He took a step toward me. "Well a pretty lady like you deserves to enjoy herself."

I smiled at him. "Are you just buttering me up?"

He shook his head. "No, but I will."

It was all the prompting I needed. I squatted in front of him and put my hands on his hips, which tilted toward me in response. I lightly stroked the bulge down his left leg, feeling out its dimensions. I looked up at him and batted my eyelashes and pursed my lips for him like a pinup girl, and I felt his cock give a twitch of acknowledgement under the fabric of his trousers. Then I pinched his zipper and pulled it down and reached in and drew him out.

His cock was a lovely long and upward curving thing, strung with veins and topped with a thick red head. I freed his heavy balls from his briefs and let them fall onto my lips, and I drew on one with a gentle suction until it popped into my mouth. As I traced a line up the underside of his shaft with the tip of my tongue, I watched his face. He squinted at me, appraising me. I wondered, as I wrapped my lipsticked mouth around his cock, what he might like. I had a hunch. I put my hands on his hips. The sight of my red nails on his pale blue trousers and his trousers open for his cock and balls to jaunt out made me queasy with lust. I held his cock head in my mouth, gently circling it with my tongue, and I looked him in the eyes to signal that he should proceed as he pleased. He cupped my face in his big hands and pushed ahead. He was eager. His cock grazed along the roof of my mouth. I extended my tongue to afford him more space as he reached my throat. A few inches remained. He held my head in his hands and I held his cock in my mouth and he held my gaze. His cock felt hot and smooth and hard. I blinked at him and held my breath.

When he started to fuck my mouth he did it with a slow thrilling deliberateness. At each stroke he pushed as much of his length into my mouth as I could hold, and then paused, and then pushed in just a little bit more. Each time, a slick and stringy saliva would well up. When he drew out and rested his head against my lips, I would kiss it and catch my breath before the next plunge. I let my mouthful of saliva drool down his shaft and dangle from his balls and my chin.

After a few minutes of this I had spittle running down my neck and into my cleavage and the front of my day dress was strung with saliva. "You're making such a mess of me," I said. I glanced over at the tabletop. "Do you like making a big mess of a pretty woman?"

"Oh yes I do," he said. "It looks so, so good on you."

"Well go on and make a mess of me then, milk man. Don't be shy about it."

He gave me that appraising squint again. He reached down and hefted my breasts in my spit spattered dress front. He cupped their undersides and lifted them. I looked up into his eyes. He wrapped his long fingers around the undersides of my breasts and gave them a breathtaking sneeze and he dragged me by that grip back down onto his cock for another noisy suckle. Then he leaned down and peeled the shoulderless dress off my breasts. I knelt in front of him glazed in spittle, breasts bared, dripping. I batted my eyelashes.

He picked up the paper bag on the table and upended it. The waxed paper-wrapped block of creamery butter thumped onto the tabletop. He looked at me and said, "Is this what you want?"

I just raised my eyebrows at him, both of my hands stroking his shaft like a butter churn.

He unwrapped the butter. He picked it up in his hand. He squeezed off a fistful of it. I watched him warm it between his palms. Then with the squashed hand-warmed butter he took hold of my breasts and slicked them, from the underside upward, lifting them in his hands, letting them fall. He kneaded them in his hands. He extruded them through his hands. He pinched my nipples and greased me up and down. I was gasping at the feeling and matching the pace of his hands with my own hands running up and down the length of his cock.

Then he squatted and nestled his cock and balls between my breasts and lifted them around himself. He began to slowly fuck my buttered tits. At the top of each stroke, the head of his cock would poke up out of my greased cleavage and I would circle my tongue around it or suckle it. With one hand I kept a firm grasp on his balls. With the other I lifted my skirt and pulled aside my panties and fervidly rubbed my clit. Soon there was liquid butter dripping down my belly and I buttered my pussy with it and ran my hands back and forth over myself thrilling at the slick feeling. He was panting and moaning with each thrust against me. He kept closing his eyes, then opening them again to watch the movement of my mouth and my breasts with a mesmerized expression. His mouth hung open. His brow was furrowed. There was a sheen of sweat on his cheeks and forehead.

I whispered, "I remembered the name of that cream I love." I leaned back a little.

Then he spasmed and pulsed and filled the cup of my cleavage to brimming with it. His cock's head twitched in a trembling hot pool of it. I milked another drop out of him with my thumb and I bent my head and kissed it from the tip of his cock. Beads of cum stood white on my greased skin. He let my breasts slip out of his hands and it all spilled down my belly and over my bunched dress.

He sank to his knees between my open thighs and kissed my mouth. I was still holding his buttery cock. He twitched in my hand. He was still hard. I kissed him and left red lipstick on his lips and a drop of cum in his red beard.

He started to speak. He reached for my pussy. I stopped his hand. I put a finger to his lips.

"I would love some more of that," I said. "Bring it to me next week."

When my husband arrived home, the first thing he said was, "It smells delicious in here. What have you been cooking today, darling?"