Part II
In which our Hero
recalls a Particular Adventure.
***
What a grand thing was a pair of tits, and how he loved them!
Oh, now Stylesy, he was an arse man, and he would swear that nothing
could match a fine, big, woman’s arse for catching a man’s eye. But
Alfie’s argument with that was that it wasn’t often enough a man got a
look at any kind of a woman’s arse, leastwise not without paying for it
first, or unless he was happened to be standing in just the right spot
when a fit wind would take to blow. It weren’t worth the investment to
culture a taste for that sort of thing, in Alfie’s opinion.
And Matty, he would go all soft and sad and say how it was a sweet
smile and a pair of greeny-brown eyes as would always stir him up,
reminding him of his own Molly, dead these twenty-five years now. But
that were just sentiment, Alfie would have to say, and had no proper
place in a kind of logical discussion as they’d be having.
But tits…what man could argue against ‘em? If the women were there, so
were the tits, and nobody could tell him that a woman didn’t want him
looking, for all she might tie herself up in scarves and shawls and
lacy bits that, truth be told, only made the looking a lot more fun,
because tits, they wanted to be seen, too, and flog him if they didn’t!
Pushing up out the tops of dresses, peeking from the folds of lace,
jiggling so nice when she walked and laughed, spilling forward when she
bent in her work---no, there weren’t an argument anyone could make
against it. If anything made sense, it made sense to be a tit man. Tits
were better than a double ration of rum, better than fresh bread,
better than puddings with the fruits inside. Soft and pillowy, big and
bouncy---even the little ones could be right nice when they was shaped
just so, and fit in your hands like a couple of fresh eggs, still warm
from the hen. All-in-all, he reckoned he wasn’t too particular. He
wasn’t what Mr. Kennedy might call a Con O’ Sewer (Irish, that was, he
reckoned, and how it come to mean what it did, he couldn’t take the
time to ponder) but maybe he did like the big ones just a little bit
better. And of all the nicest and biggest ones he’d ever chanced to
acquaint himself with in a personal kind of way, he reckoned that he’d
always fancied Betty Brewster’s about the best of all.
“Oooh! No you don’t, Alfie Oldroyd!” she squealed when he pulled her
into his arms as they passed through the little dark, brick-lined
passage that went between the kitchen and the scullery. “What d’you
think you’re doing, then?”
“Aww, come on, you know, Bett!” he wheedled softly, pushing her back
against the brick, into a shadowy little alcove that might once have
been a place to stack some spare wood.
“You’re so pretty, Bett,” he whispered into her ear. She smelled sweet,
like milk and herbs, and a little smoky too, like bacon. “I ain’t
thought of nothing but you these three years past.”
And he meant it, too. Well, the part about her being pretty, he did.
She was a little plumper than he remembered, but that was all to the
good in his opinion. Her cheeks were still smooth and round and pink,
her big brown eyes with their long eyelashes still saucy and bright as
ever, and the black curls that peeked from under her white cap looked
so shiny and clean and soft, he couldn’t hardly wait to run his hands
through them. He wanted that almost as bad as he wanted to get his
hands on her big, soft bubbies, and that was a fact.
“Ow, how you do go on, Mister Oldroyd,” she scoffed, putting up her
hands to push against his chest. He was holding her so tight, though,
that her arms were held close to her sides, and the harder she pushed
against him, the more her big, beautiful tits were trying to push out
the top of her dress. He gave her an extra hard squeeze, and happily
watched them swell upwards, just wanting, just begging him to push his
face in between the two hillocky snow white piles. He bent his head,
and she giggled as his yellow curls tickled the underside of her chin
and his quick tongue darted out for a taste.
“Oh, go on with you!” she laughed, squirming and wriggling in a way she
had to know was stirring him up powerfully. “I’ve got work to do,
Alfie! I thought you was here to see your poor old mam, anyhow!”
Sure enough, he had been to see his mother, and right well set-up she was! Had her own little set of
rooms in Little Lane where she took in a
little work if she wanted to, and had her a tidy little pot of savings
and even a pension what Mr. Figgers give her after them brats of his
and his fish-faced wife’s was all grown up and had took their places in
the family business. It was right generous of him, but Alfie reckoned
she deserved it, with what she’d been through raising all of them
miserable little sods. The older one was as old as he was now. Had to
be, of course, as that was how Mam had got to be the nurse in the first
place. Him and little Finchley Figgers sucking on a tit a-piece, as
Finchley’s own Ma hadn’t got anything of her own to give him, or so the
story was. Mam would always say it had been right Providential, the
Figgerses taking them on as they did, a young woman with a new babe in
arms and no husband, and who was turned off from her other situation so
unfair, and without a character. Right Providential, and, a right
comfortable life she’d got for herself, and for Alfie, too. She was
always wanting to remind him of where they might’ve wound up---easy
enough it would’ve been to fall into the gin slums and the rookeries of
St. Giles or its like and never come back out again. She’d seen it
happen before. Alfie had occasion to see things a little different, as
he were coming up, not that he ever told her the half of it, nor that
he even remembered that much of it now, seeing as he’d been taken to
sea when he was nine, and that had been his life, off and on, these
eighteen years past, and there weren’t much that could ever have brung
him back to the big brick house in Lombard Street ever since, excepting
his Mam and, of course, the business he was about just now.
“An’ I’ve seen her,” he mumbled, in answer to Betty, nuzzling his way
up, and then back down from her velvet-soft earlobe, to the hollow of
her throat, to the deep, smoky cleft between those irresistible bubs of
hers. “I’ve seen her,” he murmured against her neck. “An’ now I’m here
to see you.”
She scrunched her shoulders and tipped her head, in response to
the tickle of his lips, his whispery breath. “Come on Betty-Bett,” he
cajoled softly, “I ain’t got long. Tell me you didn’t half miss ol’
Alfie.”
He raised his head and looked her in the eyes as he pressed her back
against the wall, into the shadows. His hands moved up from her waist,
his thumbs pressing into the stiffness of her stays, rubbing in little
circles until he could feel the heat created by the friction of his
skin on the muslin of her dress, and knew she must be able to feel it
too, right through the cloth and her underclothes, all tingling and hot
on her sweet little nips.
“Al-fee-eee!” She complained, arching her back as she still tried to
push herself away from him.
“C’mon, tell me, “ he said, gazing into her eyes as he deftly slid one
rough hand down inside the tight bodice, and then, freeing the first of
two happy prisoners, bent his head once more to graze with his tongue
the fragile pink tip that immediately shriveled up just like a pudding
plum, and stood to just as sharp as a Marine in response. “Tell me you
ain’t missed this.” His lips closed over the hot, shrinking bud,
sucking gently, persistently, as his other hand stole on downward,
lifting her skirts, sliding up under her shift and above the woolen
stockings.
Eight months at sea. Three years since he’d been home to London. Sweet,
pretty Betty Brewster, she’d missed him, all right! She was as ready as
he was, slick as an eel, just let her say she wasn’t!
“Owww, Alfie, you’ll get me into trouble!” she whined, even as she
shifted her feet, spreading her legs wider, and choking on a little cry
as his fingers sought and found the center of her furry little seam,
sliding in between the folds like a hot knife through butter.
“Ooh!” She gasped, clutching at his head and holding him so hard that
it made it a little difficult to go about his business with her tits.
No matter, it was nice just to be there, with his face squashed against
those delicious, pillowy mounds, breathing the milky, bacon-y scent
that rose from her warm body, listening to her little squeaks of
pleasure while he diddled her down below. He could tell by the
squeaking, and the sound of her breathing, all raggedy and fast, she’d
soon be his for the taking.
“Come on, Betty, my Betty girl,” he mumbled again. “You’re gonna let
me, you know you are…”
“Not here, I ain’t!” she hissed, and she rose on her tiptoes, arching
towards him belly-first now as he gave her wet crack a long, slow lick,
back-to-front, and front-to-back again with a calloused forefinger.
“You…oh…ah! You’ll get us caught again and ooo…ngh! The l-last time you run off, and Cook had me over the chair with me skirts up
around me ears, wearing out me bare bum with her big wooden spoon!”
“Aw, Betty!” he exclaimed apologetically, and it was true, he did feel
a little sorry if she really had got a spanking on his account. But on
the other hand, that was a picture for a man to contemplate, weren’t
it? He wouldn’t mind having her over a chair himself about now, in
fact, but he reckoned he’d a better tool for the job than an old wooden
spoon!
His tool reckoned about the same, and was making to get out and at it
some way or other. His fingers were all slippery as he reached for his
buttons. Frustrated, he yanked too hard and heard one go flying off,
plinkety-plinkety-plink, away across the worn stone floor.
“I said, not here!” Betty whispered fiercely, pushing him away from her
at last. With one hand, she quickly yanked up the front of her dress to
cover the exposed titty, and with the other she grabbed his hand. “Come
on!”
With that, she pulled him quickly through the passage, ducking her head
briefly into the scullery to check it was empty---which it was but for
one little maid that Alfie reckoned must be simple-minded, as she only
looked up blankly for a moment, her mouth hanging slack and her eyes
blinking, before going right back to her sweeping of the stones and her
soft, tuneless singing---as Bett dragged him across the room and
through the door that led to the service stairs.
There were four flights of them, and they were narrow, with multiple
turnings, and they nearly didn’t make it all the way to the attics, the
way they kept stumbling and falling atop one another, laughing and
shushing, kissing and grabbing, all the long way up. By the time they
finally made it to the little white room high in the attics, Betty had
lost her cap and her soft black curls had come a-tumbling down, falling
all over her shoulders and down in between those tasty titties that
were now rising and falling fast with her panting breath. She grinned
at him, her cheeks all red and her brown eyes twinkling, backing away
from him slowly, leading him towards her bed, a low, wooden frame with
a soft-looking tick, covered in real linen sheets and a thick, soft,
blue woolen blanket.
“Nice room,” he observed appreciatively, as he hurriedly yanked off one
shoe, and then the other, tossing them back over his shoulders. The bed
was good sized---he reckoned she must have to share it---and there was
a nice little window with some curtains, and a table beside the bed
with a candle stand and a washbowl with some pink flowers on it. But
the most interesting thing, he thought, as he peeled off his jacket and
began to strip his shirt off over his head---was the fairly big and
fancy looking-glass that was hung up in a place he’d never seen a
looking-glass hung before; not that he’d that many occasions to see
where folk would hang their looking-glasses, but he was fairly sure
that right over the head of the bed would be right inconvenient for the
general purpose of the thing.
“It is nice, ain’t it?” Betty agreed. “None of the other girls in the
house has one as nice.” She had been busy with her own clothing while
he’d been removing his, and she stood now with her back to the bed in
only her short shift, grinning at him. He grinned back.
“Oh, Alfie!” she sighed as he rushed, finally, to close the distance
between them, catching her up and bringing her down, the two of them
falling onto the bed that was as soft as it’s promise. Huzzah! All that
was between him and heaven now was a thin bit of cotton and the
half-knot of lace that gathered the neckline of the shift. Chuckling
softly, he bent his head and took one end of the lace in his teeth, and
as he pulled, bringing his head back, he couldn’t help but catch a
glimpse of himself in the mirror above the bed. Curious, that. Hung as
it was, canting slightly forward from the top on its brass chain, it
captured a perfect reflection of the entire bed, almost as if that was
the whole reason for it being there! Ho, ho—maybe it was? Well, he’d
sure never watched himself fuck before. This could be right
interesting! In the glass, he looked like some savage pirate, grinning
that way, with Betty squeaking and squirming underneath him and that
bit of lace caught in his teeth, the gold ring flashing in his right
ear. Ah, what a handsome, blue-eyed devil! No wonder she couldn’t
resist him!
He jerked back his head, loosing the knot, and then it was the simplest
thing in the world to push the shift down off her shoulders, freeing
her arms, and exposing, at long last, her great, gorgeous bosoms to his
happy gaze.
“Ahhh,” he breathed a sigh of pure joy. “There’s my pretty girls!”
So pretty. Smooth as cream, and white as milk. Soft and plump and
round, and he loved them more than he could even think, let alone
say. He bent to kiss them, to rub his face all over them again
and again. The rough of his unshaven cheeks burned a faint blush of
redness upon the dainty white, but Betty seemed not to mind, obliging
him with her little moans of pleasure as he licked and sucked and
teased and tasted, as greedily and as gratefully as a man half
starved---and he reckoned he was, at that.
It had been a long time, after all. It wasn’t a thing he’d brag to his
mates about, but the fact of the matter was, he liked women. The fact
was, he really liked ‘em, and not just because they let him do things
with them sometimes, the way Betty would. He’d always liked Betty a
whole lot, and that was the truth, and it weren’t just her nice tits
and being able to fuck her and such. He liked how she liked to laugh,
and the way she’d tease him, and how she was always interested in his
stories, and how she’d look so happy when he’d come to see her, even if
she’d scold him and pretend she wasn’t; he liked how she seemed to care
for real whether or not he’d ever been hurt, and, for all that, whether
or not he lived or died, just like a regular good mate. He guessed he
did think of her as a mate, really, and he reckoned once a man had a
woman for a mate, it wasn’t so easy to use another woman like she
weren’t anything more than a hole in the mattress. Not that he didn’t
still do it from time to time, but it never felt right, all the same.
Betty’s tits were splendorous, filling his hands and then some as he
cupped them together. They swelled between his fingers and spilled over
like bread dough left too long on the rise, and he squeezed them
gently, kneading them, playing with them, simply enjoying himself as he
hadn’t enjoyed himself in a good long age. He didn’t half wish he could
just shove his great, thudding cocker right in between ‘em and have it
off that way, that was how much he loved those titties. But that
wouldn’t really be fair, would it? Maybe Bett would let him finish up
there, later? If he could remember to get out in time, that was, which
was always the trick, for damned sure. And Betty was making no bones
about what she wanted now, hitching up the hem of her shift so it
joined the top bit, all bunched around her waist, and hooking her legs
around his thighs while she moved her body underneath him in a way that
was sending him half crazy.
“Come on Alfie, my love,” she panted. “Don’t make me wait!”
Not an instant later he was inside. He savored the brief moment of
resistance, the delightful sense of squeezing himself into a tight spot
where he was much too big to go---he wouldn’t be bragging, mind; it was
just the simple truth he’d got a big one. It was the way the Lord liked
to even things out, he’d always reckoned. Some fellows, like Mr.
Hornblower, He give the big brains, and then there was the simple sods
like him that He gave other things. That was only right and fair, to
Alfie’s way of thinking, and he’d never had cause to question Him in
His wisdom.
“Ooooh!” Betty crooned in his ear as he began to move inside her, slow,
loving the slick, close feel of her cunny stroking and squeezing him.
With all the months at sea, a man could almost forget how cozy and
sweet a cunny could be. Or if he remembered, he’d do better to forget
it if he could, because that way lay madness. But now was the time to
feel everything, to know it all, to fuck for all he was worth---now! He
plunged, increasing the pace, strengthening the power of his thrusts.
He was sunk deep, well up to his balls in the hot and the wet, in the
sweet, sucking grip of her. He groaned. Rising on is hands, he caught
another quick glimpse of himself in the glass, red in the face, biting
his lip, just as her hands reached up to him.
“Alfie! Oh…good…Christ!” Betty cursed, and drawing his head down onto
her breast, bit the top of his ear. “Oh, lor! Oh, God, Alfie! Nobody
fucks me like you do! Nobody! Ah! Oh! Ahhhh---!”
Jesus! He didn’t think he’d ever seen a woman come so fast or so hard!
And never mind---he wasn’t ever going to get out of her in time. Her
knees were up around his ears, and now her hands were grabbing at his
arse, her fingers bruising his flesh and the nails digging into him.
Never mind, he was going too, and she was howling as he came into her
that first time, and himself, he damn near passed out atop her once
he’d let fly, the cum bursting out of him like grape from a
double-shotted nine-pounder. As it was, he’d no control left, he was
like one of them flying fish that sometimes leapt across the bows and
landed on deck, flipping and flopping helplessly until somebody or
other would either club ‘em dead or take pity and pitch ‘em back over
the side. He was all done.
Well, he sure as hell thought they were done, but damned if it wasn’t
more than ten minutes later and she was nudging him up, getting on her
knees and turning her backside to him, looking over her shoulder and
winking at him from under a tangle of wild, black hair, and coaxing
him: “Come on, Alfie, do it to me this way, now.”
She put up her hands to hang onto the sturdy wood of the bed frame. She
tossed her hair back and winked at him again, wiggling her bum in a
naughty invitation that no man he knew of ever would or could turn
down. “Come on, lovely. You know what I like.”
What he liked, he thought, as
he moved up behind her, sliding his
hands over her the generous curve of her rump to grasp her just below
the waist---was the way that looking- glass over the bed was giving him
such a nice view of those fine bubs of hers, dangling down just like a
pair of luscious, ripe fruits. Like fat, juicy apples hanging from the
tree, they swayed voluptuously when she wiggled, forward and back, and
side to side. Sweet temptation, and sure enough, his prick was as ready
as the rest of him to be led straight back into sin.
Nicely greased as she was, he slid in like nothing, and in no time he
was humping away again, hard and fast. His arse was pumping, his balls
were swinging, and in the glass, he watched joyfully as Betty’s
glorious big tits bobbed crazily, like floats on a chop. Her eyes were
closed tight and her brow knitted in concentration, and she urged him
on, her words coming in breathy bursts, with pleasing little grunts in
between.
“Huh! Yes! Alfie! Huh…huh..Do it…huh…hard! Huh! Harder!”
“You want old Alfie to fuck you hard, huh? Is that what you want?” He
giggled a little madly, happy to oblige her, putting his whole into
the effort. He reached forward and down, taking her tits in his hands
and squeezing them, hanging on tight while he rammed her with his big
old spar.
“Ooh! Yeah! Huh! Yees…Alfie! Like…that…Ohhhh!” She hollowed her back,
shoving her big bum back into him. He let go her tits and wrapped his
arms tight around her hips, lifting her back end right up off the bed,
driving her now like she was a wheelbarrow. She hung onto the bedstead
as if for dear life, the knuckles of her hands gone white.
“Yeah, you like that, don’tcha?” he huffed, and he couldn’t help
stealing another glimpse of himself in the mirror. He grinned. His eyes
were wild and blue, his bared teeth flashing white in his flushed face.
“Don’tcha?”
“Yes…oh…yes!” Betty gasped. “Yeah…huh! I…Ohhhhhhhhhhh!”
He nearly dropped her as she suddenly jerked in his arms, and as it was
he didn’t stop her bonking her forehead on the bedstead. But Betty
didn’t seem to care, she was coming like thunder, her legs flailing,
her body twisting, crying and squealing like a stuck pig.
That was enough for him. A couple more good thrusts and he threw back
his head, squeezing his eyes shut, feeling his balls shoot up into his
belly just before he exploded again. He managed to yank it out of her
just in the nick this time---for all the good that would do, but a man
oughtta make the effort, if he could. Courtesy, was what it was.
Betty was giggling softly, sighing happily as he slumped atop her. He
laughed too, and raised his head and opened his eyes, looking again
into the mirror and saw again a reddened face…
Only it weren’t his own!
“YOU!” Finchley Figgers face went from red to purple as he advanced
into the room, his meaty fists clenching as he came. Behind him in the
open doorway cowered the little simple-minded kitchen maid Alfie had
seen downstairs, her mouth hanging open, pale eyes round with alarm.
Alfie was on his feet in an instant, placing himself between Betty and
what he saw as certain harm, meaning to give her as good a defense as a
naked feller could. Even if he didn’t rightly know just what was going
on, his own anger was rising fast. This was a hell of a surprise!
“Mr. Finch!” Betty exclaimed, hopping off the bed. “It ain’t what you
think!” She was yanking on the blue blanket, pulling it up across her
if to cover herself.
“Oh, spare me, Betty!” Figgers roared. “And for Christ’s sake, don’t
bother with that! It’s not as if I haven’t seen all you’ve got to
offer!”
“Oh, but Finchy, lovely, you don’t understand! It weren’t nothin’---“
Betty came out from behind Alfie, holding out her hands, a placating
smile on her face, just like she was trying to be friends with a dog
what looked like he’d bite.
“Shut up! You’re a little slut, Betty!”
Alfie sure didn’t like the way he said it, as if that was something
bad! Old Finchley hadn’t changed, he thought, unless it was to get
uglier and fatter. Everything about him seemed to bulge, from his
fishy-blue eyes to his thick red lips, to his enormous belly and his
big fat arse that seemed about to strain his skin-tight white britches
and orange-and-purple striped waistcoat to busting open just like a
rotten fruit.
“How dare you?” he yelled at Betty. “After all I’ve given you, after
all I’ve done! I ought to wring your neck, you little whore!”
Now Alfie was mad. “Hey, now---“ he said, stepping forward with balled
fists, ready to punch the bastard’s fat face in for him. It wouldn’t be
the first time, either.
“You!” Finchley hollered again. “Why aren’t you dead yet? How is it
possible anything as stupid as you hasn’t managed to get itself
killed?”
Oh, that was it. Alfie bent forward and charged, plowing into that big,
purple-and-orange belly headfirst, knocking an explosion of air from
Finchley’s startled lips, and sending him reeling backwards to thump
heavily against the wall. He only saved himself from falling by
grabbing onto the edge of the door, which swung under his weight,
slamming shut right in the face of the little kitchen maid, and no
doubt pinching a few of his pudgy fingers. Finchley howled,
recovering himself quickly and coming straight for Alfie, who stood his
ground, naked as a peeled egg. Betty squealed as Figgers took a big
swing at Alfie’s head, but Alfie had dodged Style’s paw enough times
that it was second nature to him, and he ducked neatly out of the way,
then popped back up and landed a smacker right on Finchley’s jaw. This
time the giant went down, landing so hard Alfie could swear he felt the
whole house shake.
Finchley was down, but he weren’t out. He was rolling and flailing on
the floor like a turtle turned on it’s back, but Alfie knew it was only
a matter of time before he’d be back up.
“C’mon, Bett!” Alfie urged. “Let’s get out of here!” He saw his shoes,
and shoved his feet into them just as they were, bare, and hastily
grabbed up his clothes, bundling them in his arms. Finchley groaned and
fumed, and struggled, clutching at his jaw.
“Come ON!” Alfie said again, reaching for Betty’s hand. But she had
dropped to her knees on the floor.
“Ow, now Alfie what’ve you gone and done? You didn’t have to hurt him
like that!”
Alfie blinked, unbelieving. “I---?“ he stammered, pointing. “He---!”
Betty was bending over Figgers, grabbing him by the arm, helping him to
rise. “Oh, Finchy, Finchy, my love, you’ll be all right! Your Betty’s
here!”
Alfie shook his head hard. What the hell---?
And then Finchley was getting to his knees, his face livid, glaring up
at Alfie, “I’ll kill you myself, you little fucker!” he screamed. “Just
wait until I get my hands on you!”
Alfie wasn’t going to wait. He headed for the door, and in a moment, he
was hurtling down those four narrow flights of stairs. Damned if old
Finchley wasn’t cursed light on his feet for a fat bastard! Alfie could
hear him coming down fast, right on his heels, screaming curses. It
seemed to take forever before he squirted through the kitchen door, his
feet hitting the smooth stones and---whoop! Sliding right out from
under him! Some grease, or a bit of peeling or something, it must’ve
been, but down he went, flat on his arse, and in a flash, Finchley was
on top of him. Again, Alfie’d fought much bigger fellas before, and he
knew how to get an advantage. He managed to get out from under, but
then, something went wrong, and Finchley had him again, this time on
his belly. A big knee was pressed into his back, and felt like it would
crush him, and one arm was being pulled back and twisted painfully.
“Owwww!” Alfie yelled, struggling helplessly. “You FUCKER! Let GO! Yer
gonna pull my arm off!”
“He’s coming round again, Doctor Studley,” said a voice out of nowhere.
A smooth, calm, posh-sounding voice that Alfie had never heard before.
“Well, hold him still, Nettles, for God’s sake!” said another voice,
posh, too, but not so calm. “With any luck, the pain will send him
unconscious again in a moment! I’ve almost got it—damn, he’s bloody
strong, isn’t he? The musculature of the shoulder is rather well-
developed, and it’s making this a devil of a job!”
“ARGHHHH!” Alfie yelled again. He fought to rise.
“Hold him DOWN, Nettles!”
“Yes, sir. I am holding him, sir. He is
very strong. It is
remarkable, isn’t it? He is so very like---“
“Yes,” said the second voice, edged with a grim determination, just
before the whole world went silent and black.
***
Go to
Part Three
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