"Jack the Milkman"
by J.D. Savanyu
Cruising through Beverly Hills on a fine summer day, in a stupid Dairylea milk truck. I'm trying to become the next James Dean, but this is the only starring role I've managed to land so far. Slinging moo juice on doorsteps for all those goo-goo babies and their White Russian-loving parents. I drive down Sunset Boulevard at high noon, passing a dozen burlesque girly shows. I'll be hitting those theaters tonight, dropping dollars for a bunch of stacked titty-shakers. In the meantime, I gotta deliver the goods to earn my greenbacks.
I turn the radio dial to "Bo Diddley" by Bo Diddley, and deliver milk to fifteen houses before I reach 4005 Carmelita Avenue; a mission-style mansion owned by Jack McCarren, a hot-shot producer for RKO studios. That's where he keeps his blonde bombshell trophy wife. She hangs around the house all day, baking brownies and reading fashion magazines while her husband wheels and deals with Hollywood bigwigs. He's Jack, and so am I.
I pull their daily order out of the back of the truck: a bottle of whole milk for the man of the house, and a bottle of chocolate milk for the lady. I've never met a woman who can resist the siren call of cocoa. Their cute Papillon dog barks like hell at me on the front porch. That little pooch is a bat out of hell. She opens the front door and disciplines her precious pet.
"Sit, Elvis, sit!" she says sternly, and he reluctantly obeys. "You're a bad doggie, Elvis. Why can't you treat that nice milkman with a little respect?"
"You ain't never caught a rabbit, and you ain't no friend of mine," I reply, lamely attempting Mister Presley's Mississippi accent. She giggles and tosses her shiny blonde bangs. I usually push the bottles through a small milk door at the far end of the porch, but I give them right to her today, and she grins from ear to ear.
"Thank you kindly, Mister Milkman."
"You're welcome, Miss McCarren. By the way, I'm Jack. Just like your husband."
"I'm Dana, Jack Milkman," she replies playfully, giving her hips a nice little swing. She opens the chocolate milk bottle and starts chugging it right there on the porch. Brown fluid leaks between her bright red lips and drips down on her big white tits, half-covered by a pink blouse. Holy shit.
"Oh god, I love milk," she groans almost orgasmically. "I sucked my mother's tits until I was eight years old. Can you fucking believe that?"
"I sure can, Miss McCarren," I reply, a bit too sarcastically.
"Hey Jack, something's wrong with my refrigerator. Do you know how to fix those?"
"Sure. My father is the best refrigerator repairman in Los Angeles County. I'd be glad to check you out. I mean, check
it
out. Your fridge."
"Great, thanks. That'll save me a ton of dough on labor charges. Those unionized repairmen are getting just as greedy as movie producers."
She waves me into a hallway, and I follow eagerly. I'm not supposed to go into customer's houses, but this bitch is way too hot for professionalism. She's obviously a milkman groupie, and I want to give her a free sample of cream.
The Pappillon follows us through a big living room with high-end furniture and Academy Awards. Six movies which her husband didn't write, didn't direct, and didn't act in; but got more money from than all the writers, directors and actors. (The logic of Tinseltown in 1957.)
She leads me into a big kitchen with lots of high-end appliances, including a big pink Kelvinator Foodarama.
"It started acting up this morning, not keeping our food cold enough," Dana explains.
"Let's see here..." I open one of the two latching doors, and quickly discover the culprit. "Here's your problem. Real simple. One of your beer bottles tipped over in the back, and it turned the temperature dial to 'low.' That's an annoying design flaw with Foodaramas."
She giggles sweetly behind me. "It wasn't an accident, Jack Milkman."
"It... wasn't?"
She tosses her blonde hair again, and wraps her arms around my neck. Damn, I love chicks who cut to the chase.
"I know you want me, honey. I've seen you peeping at me through the window everyday, when you're sliding those bottles through the milk door."
Go for it, man. All the fucking way. If you don't, you'll be kicking your own ass for the rest of your fucking life.
"Hell yeah, I been sneaking lots of peeks at your big titties."
"Why don't you stop peeking, and start sucking?"
She whips those delightful double D's right out of her blouse.
"Holy fucking shit."
"Pretty please? My husband won't play with me anymore. He was so fun before we got married, but then it was just career, career,
career."
"You Beverly Hills sluts are the fucking best."
She laughs throatily, and I shove her left nipple into my mouth.
"Oh yes, oh my god. You're such a good milkman, Jack."
I shove her right nipple in my mouth while squeezing her left breast. I'm getting my money's worth out of this (even though I'm not paying a single penny.)
"Fuck yeah, keep squeezing them udders. I've been dreaming about this for so long, baby. Word from the bird!"
