'One extra pint today - and double-cream!'
Enoch crunched the scribbled note in his hand, put it in his pocket and grinned: Mrs. Howell was one of his favourite customers and he never let her down. Carefully, he twisted the solid brass handle and eased the heavy oak door aside, shushing it sternly when it creaked on its hinges. He looked over his shoulder, not expecting to see anyone on the lane at this early hour, but better safe than sorry. Nothing stirred in the grey dawn except a robin, hopping over the well manicured lawn, looking for breakfast.
"The early bird catches the worm," he said to himself, closing the door behind him and looking up the stairs to his right.
"
This
early bird needs more than a worm to satisfy her appetite," an educated voice said in a husky tone.
Startled, Enoch looked behind him where she was waiting, clad in a flimsy nightgown that lay half-open exposing a creamy expanse of thigh and a sensuously curved breast. His grin widened and he stepped forward, parting the delicate lace curtain aside to run a hand across her smooth stomach and around her slender waist, pulling her towards him.
"I know what you need," he whispered, taking a firm handful of her pert bottom.
She wiggled seductively in his arms, rubbing her crotch on his growing erection, sighing happily at the solid sensation of it on her bushy mound.
"Something hot, thick and creamy," she breathed in his ear, nipping it playfully between her teeth.
Enoch buried his face in the crook of her neck and kissed the soft skin gently, inhaling the light fragrance of her perfume and the deeper musk of her arousal mixed with night-sweat from her slumber, an intoxicating blend that hardened his desire for this middle-aged mother of two. Her kids had left home several years before he arrived in the village, although she didn't mind telling him of their success in London where her husband also worked as some high-flying lawyer, too busy to take care of her most basic need, though he kept her in a lifestyle that suited her expensive tastes.
"I got just what you ordered right here," he said, unzipping his trousers.
"Mmmmmmm," she purred, wrapping her slim fingers around his thick shaft, "Is that
all
for me?"
Enoch rubbed her juicy slit with a knowing finger and slid his other hand up to cup her breast, teasing the nipple into a hard button. Mrs. Howell arched into his body and moaned softly, encouraging him to suck it while she stroked him from tip to root.
"Of course," he said, transferring his attention to the other teat, "this is a special delivery; just for you (and all the other horny white bitches round here).
"God, I love this cock," she groaned, rubbing the enlarged head on her swollen clit. "This big beautiful black cock!"
'They all say that,' he thought, feeling her slide smoothly down to her knees. "Suck on it," he said aloud, his voice roughened with desire for her warm, wet mouth.
Her moan vibrated through his shaft as she took the head between her lips and he groaned in reply, twisting her hair between his fingers, forcing her mouth open to accept his hard cock.
She looked up at him with an expression that would've amazed her husband and shocked her friends who thought of her as Vera the housewife, Vera the staunch supporter of the local Rotary Club; Vera, the well spoken advocate of the Countryside Alliance. Only Enoch ever saw Vera the Whore, the cocksucking whore who delighted in gobbling the contents of his well hung balls; one hand cupped the large, hairy sacs as though weighing the potential amount contained within, the other disappeared between her parted thighs, rubbing briskly.
"Fuck my mouth," she crudely demanded when he pulled out to wipe his spit-slick length over her face.
Vera loved the way he made her feel so uninhibited, so
slutty
, and had craved his physical presence ever since she'd laid eyes on him. Their previous milkman, old Ted, had collected his money every Saturday for forty five years in the village before retiring last year, and had introduced Enoch as his replacement on Ted's last round. Her greeting had been cool, her handshake perfunctory, as it was with all tradesmen, but she found herself intrigued nonetheless; his polite manner and dignified approach melted her icy reserve, and after a few months, she began to wonder if it was true:
were black men as big as they said?
Oh, she watched the chat shows, read the gossip columns on idle afternoons and knew how they bragged that 'once you go black, you never go back'.
Her chance to find out came by accident; a simple misunderstanding. Vera had innocently asked if he could deliver chocolate milk and became flustered by his raised eyebrow in response. She'd blushed to the roots of her carefully dyed blonde hair when he asked how many times a week would she like it and avoided his deep brown eyes that seemed to know what she'd been thinking.
"Once a week is fine," she'd said, "I like a warm drink at night, before bed, to relax me."
"I'm sure you do."
