Greater Expectations (14 page)

“Of course I am interested, that’s why I messaged you! How quickly can you be here?”

This must be fate. All my stars are aligning for once. Within 10 minutes I had her address and the directions directly to her door on my mobile phone. I hurriedly dressed and raced through the morning’s drizzle to my car. I was now a little damp but felt the familiar swelling at the thought of her being so too.

It wasn’t yet 9am.

The address was a tenement house set in a crescent that loops off a main road. It seemed a pretty nice area with excellent transport links for a daily commuter. Given the time of day, it was hardly surprising that there was plenty of room for parking. Most people would be at work or out on the school run. Either way, it was quiet enough for my liking and I pulled up just short of the house. I peered through my windscreen, between the sweeps of my window wipers, to see all the curtains and blinds st
ill drawn throughout the house.

She certainly enjoyed her privacy.

I ran from my car through the rain to the door, the weather affording greater anonymity for us both. Not that I really cared what her neighbours thought–that was her problem. So focused had I been on getting here that I hadn’t taken the time to think that this could actually be a ruse. I could be walking into a trap with men inside ready to beat and rob me. Not that I had much worth taking and she didn’t even know my name. Yet, much to my own surprise, I really didn’t care. I was thinking with my semi erect penis and, as they say,
“a standing cock has no conscience”.

I rang the bell, hands free and ready at my side. I would go down fighting.

The door opened slightly and one eye on half a head peered back at me. “You the PussyQuack?” she asked confidently, not a single sign of irony or shame. I felt the blood rush to my head. Both heads. Suddenly the absurdity of the name hit me. It was meant for an online profile, not to actually be said out loud.

“I bloody hope so or this is going to be one awkward fucking conversation.” I said through an embarrassed smile. My bravado fully intact if not my dignity.

She laughed and opened the door to let me in. “Yes, that is very true. You like?” As soon as the door was closed, she let her bathrobe fall to the floor. She was naked with the exception of a pair of black lacy holdups. My cock was straining against my zip as I reached up and cupped her full breast in my hand. She gave me no real chance to respond as she kissed me hard, her tongue suddenly jousting with mine. This was over in a matter of seconds when she broke away and took my hand to lead me into her bedroom. “I feel so overdressed.” My childish joke relayed a confidence that I certainly never felt and I quickly stripped off.

She never laughed.

Without saying a word, she pushed me back onto the bed and took me in her mouth. Between her licking and sucking, she told me in no uncertain terms that she loved to give oral but hated to receive it. That was just fine with me although I had never known of this before. Yet it soon became apparent that her idea of ‘oral’ was much the same as “Laura’s”. It was strange, but nice, to now have a reference for comparison. I knew that my time for this new all encompassing ‘oral’ was at an end when she put a condom onto me.

On reflection, this was the time when the wheels started to come off the wagon.

As she got up to get in the saddle, as it were, “Angela” took this opportunity to inform me that she cannot have sex facing a man. Any man. This included her own husband. She explained that she hates to see a man’s face during sex. Like,
really
hates it. Apparently it puts her off, seeing a man enjoying himself at her expense. It makes her feel like a prostitute. Surprisingly, these little nuggets of information were all things that she had omitted from her profile.

This was my “GET FUCKING OUT” moment, but I missed it.

Well, rather chose to ignore it.

Admittedly, I did think this somewhat strange but she had adopted the reverse cowgirl position and had guided me into her, so what else was I to do but enjoy? In any event, I was having sex so I really didn’t care. What she failed to tell me was that this meant she
only
liked that one position. After a while, I just lay there and watched her ass continuously pounding and gyrating up and down my cock. Now, don’t get me wrong, it was a lovely sight.

At first.

However, it’s a sorry sign when you start looking at the décor and thinking about what you would change. Just as I was starting to get really bored, she suddenly got more vocal. It was then that I saw her hand reach down to start playing with herself. “Do you mind if I orgasm?” she asked between her gasping and moaning. Why would anybody ask that?
“Mind? Of course I don’t mind. Was she joking?”
She had me feeling like a fucking super stud.

What she hadn’t told me was the consequences of such an orgasm.

I was up on my elbows and watching her reflection in the bedroom mirror, enjoying the full display of a woman in her sexual prime using and abusing me. It was fantastic. What a great way to start the week and fill out my day. She started to inform me, in intermittent bursts,
“I’m coming…I’m coming!”
It was obvious she had found a rhythm that suited her so there was nothing more for me to do but stay hard. I was beginning to wonder if I would ever actually come myself. The condom must have been super thick, as I could, quite literally, feel nothing from being inside her.

She had no such
troubles judging by the noise.

All at once, she yelped and lunged forward, grabbing my ankles tightly, her nails digging into my flesh. She drove her buttocks deep into my waist and I could feel her clench and throb around my cock in what could only be presumed to have been her orgasm. There was a definite wetness on my lap. I could hear the squelching and it was getting cold where my thighs were exposed to the air. It was at this point that I realised she was a squirter. I grabbed her ass and raised my hips as I pushed myself deep inside her, trying to enjoy the friction while I could and, hopefully, prolong her orgasm. At least, that’s what I wanted her to think. In reality, I was trying to use what was left of the friction to come myself.

Then it happened.

If I were forced to guess, I would say that I must have hit her G-spot. I couldn’t say for definite because there was nothing to feel through my wrapper. Not that I could be certain as I cannot ever recollect hitting a G-spot before. Yet another sexual experience that has eluded me until now.

My research was going well.

Suddenly she gasped deeply and seemed to tense every muscle in her body. Her head was buried between my knees and I could see our copulation in its full glory. She proceeded to shake quite violently then lurched forward and bit into the duvet while emitting out a
low guttural scream.

Then, she physically
shat
.

Only, not in the conventional sense. Hers was an explosion of diarrhoea that shot out of her ass faster than a bullet from a gun. Unable to control myself, my jaw dropped open in shock and horror as I watched this stream come straight at me. It was one of those times where my brain reacted faster than my body and I could see what was inevitably going to happen but I was still all too powerless to stop it. My head screamed at me,
desperately pleaded with me–
close your mouth!
–but I was too late.

I nearly choked to death
on the majority of her deposit.

As it hit the back of my throat, my natural reaction was to swallow. I felt the warm lumpy liquid run smoothly down towards my stomach. Gasping for breath, what was still in my mouth dribbled out and escaped onto my body. My stomach heaved and I retched but nothing came up. Retching again, I looked for a towe
l or something to be sick into.

Still nothing came up.

After a few more minutes of retching, it became painfully apparent that my body simply refused to return “Angela’s” present. Inexplicably, I managed to summon the strength to compose myself and take stock of the situation.

It was only th
en that I noticed she was gone.

Standing to get dressed, I could feel the diarrhoea getting dry and crispy on me. Then the smell hit me, and my knees collapsed. Sitting back on the bed, gasping and panting, fighting to cont
ain myself from retching again.

Only now I could taste it!

That taste shall haunt me forever.

Yet still my body refused to yield. Composing myself for the second time, I noticed that the linen closet was ajar. Selecting a towel from the bottom of the pile, I wiped myself down as best I could. The badness in me ensured that I folded it back up and replaced it just where I found it. I hope it takes her weeks to discover out what I have done. Better still, I h
ope her husband finds it first.

Let her explain
that
.

My clothes were thrown on faster than they had been discarded not yet an hour ago. In order to not draw any further attention to myself, I silenced my keys by holding them tightly in my hand and made my way out of the bedroom. It was only then that I could see that the bathroom door was closed and all but certainly providing “Angela” sanctuary. There was nothing else to be said so I crept past and slipped out her front door.

Her back door wasn’t an option.

Never was I so thankful for a downpour. The rain embraced me as I wandered slowly back to my car, looking to the heavens and enjoying every last drop. Taking refuge in the drivers seat, my clothes were soaked through and clung tightly around me. Only then did it become apparent that the rain had betrayed me by rejuvenating the remnants of “Angela’s” anal orgasm. I drove home with every window open but the stench was unrelenting and the taste.

Oh, dear God, that taste.

Even now, hearing the term “sickness and diarrhoea” makes me gag, everything being all too vivid for me.

It was only after my second shower that I began to feel somewhat clean on the outside. Still, my paranoia ensured that I would have a third before bed. Maybe even a fourth, the smell and taste still seems to be lingering. My misery was complete with the realisation that in today’s tryst I had broken my promise to Penny, not to meet anyone from the site.

Now I had double the reasons to b
e angry and bitter with myself.

19

The Highlander

Saturday 28th February

My week had been spent desperately avoiding everyone I knew and ignoring all texts and phone calls for fear of blurting out all the grisly details of my rendezvous with “Angela”. Try as I might, there was no way of stopping the whole scenario replaying on a continuous loop in my head. To make matters worse, my shame was complete by my own irrational paranoia in thinking that everyone I looked at could see the full feature in all its Technicolor glory by merely looking into my eyes. So now I was also avoiding eye contact with absolutely everyone. I’m sure that some day, a day far from now, I will be able to laugh at the whole experience. Some day. I am alm
ost definitely certain of that.

For now, it would be a secret that belonged to us, “Angela” and I.

My miserable week was complete when told by the office that the only shift available for today was a 5am start at SuperShopperz. Of course, this was also a “stand-by” shift where I am there on the off chance that one of their own full-time drivers calls in sick. This is normal practice at larger supermarkets, covering their bases as it were. There was to be three of us but they refrained from telling me who the other two drivers were. This is also a prudent ploy on the agency’s part as, if they were drivers I really didn’t like, then I would just refuse the shift and take the day off.

This was also common practice among
the drivers.

A stand-by shift is one of the hardest for any agency to cover as nobody likes waiting around for a job that may never materialise. It doesn’t help that we are only guaranteed to be paid for a minimum 8 hours because we all want the longer hours. Longer hours equalling more money as they also attract overtime rates. However January and February are our quietest months and so the choices are simply this shift or no shift, and it really is that simple. Having already had a shift cancelled this week, not to mention the fact that I welcomed any distraction from being home alone with my “memory”, I took the shift.

Thankfully, it proved to be absolutely the right decision.

I walked out of the light snow and into the transport office to report for duty a full 20 minutes before I was due. Insomnia being the sole reason for my promptness as I still just could not sleep. If this keeps up then I shall have to go see the doctor. I am loath to use an appointment and so deprive someone who is in genuine need of medical attention for something this trivial, but this is getting serious. However, I shall give it a few more days before doing something so drastic. Or I might just buy a bottle of Scotland’s favourite drinking water on the way home. A drunken sleep isn’t all that peaceful or relaxing but it will knock me out for a few
hours. That’s maybe all I need.

I hope so anyway.

“Did you shit the bed?” Trevor, the transport manager on duty asked by way of reference to my early arrival. Thankfully I realised quickly enough that the question was a joke and so caught myself from saying
“No, but she did and how the fuck did you know?”

I found myself looking anywhere and eve
rywhere except directly at him.

I also forced myself to laugh at his “joke”. All truck drivers, especially agency drivers, will attest that Transport Managers have incredible power over our everyday lives and can be great allies or complete bastards, all depending on their mood. I find it’s always best to be on a constant charm offensive with them, even at 5am in the morning. I took a seat and made myself comfortable, waiting to see who my companions for the next 8 hours were going to be.

As usual, Taylor’s laugh was to be heard long before he appeared.

Even at this early hour, it reverberated around the room the instant he opened the door to the transport office and it raised my spirits immediately. The other childlike laugh that accompanied his was no stranger to me either as both he and Ed ambled up and reported in. Trevor said to them both “Take a seat with your mate” and nodded in my general direction. They both swung round and their faces lit up when they saw me.

For one shocking moment, I Illogically thought they were reading my thoughts and watching my mental horror show. I really need to get a grip on my own reality.

“Alright son, what’s new?” Taylor said this as he took his seat directly opposite me, Ed sidled in beside him. They both had their backs to the transport desk. I knew their ploy although, to be fair, it is more instinctual than deliberate. Any work to be served up would, in theory, be given to the driver that they can see without having to refer to the duty roster. In this instance, it was me. Not that it made much difference, I had made the mistake of being the first to report in so I
would be first sent out anyway.

“As you can see, I’m just living the dream.” I said with an equally sarcastic smile. “No doubt, like you two, I could have done without this shift today. Here’s hoping all their own drivers are fighting fit.” I meant it. Having Taylor and Ed to keep me company would ensure that this shift would fly in and it would also be fun.

I needed fun.

“I just asked son and Trevor says everyone has turned up so we should be out of here by 11am.” Even although we are guaranteed 8 hours, if there is no work after 6 we are normally sent home. Taylor took a sip of coffee from his thermos cup as he said this. These cups are becoming increasingly popular with drivers.

“You know the old joke about the thermos flask don’t you?” Their blank expressions told me they didn’t. “No? A man is in work with his new thermos flask and his workmate asks what it does. Ah, see, it’s amazing. It keeps hot things hot and cold things cold” he replies. The next day, the man sees his workmate with his own new flask. “Ah, you bought one then I see. So, what have you brought with you?” His workmate replies “Two cups of coffee and some ice cream!”

The three of us laughed so loud that we got our first warning to keep quiet, always a good start to a day. Mind you I was more laughing at them than with them. Not that it mattered, I was just glad to be laughing. We headed out into
the cold for some “fresh air”.

This is Taylor talk for a smoke.

Ed is a quiet man at the best of times but when we three are together he goes practically mute. I wasn’t much in the mood for talking for fear of betraying myself and so it seemed that we were both quite happy for Taylor to take centre stage. He did so with unfaltering aplomb. I really have no idea where he gets his stories but they are always entertaining and today proved no different.

Apparently, just a few days ago he had been talking a friend of his back home who mentioned that he had been having major problems with his heating. He had called Scottish Gas and they arranged for their enginee
r to come out and fix it. Now–according to Taylor’s pal–the man was described as, “the stereotypical Highlander son. Bright red hair, big bushy beard that snaked down and weaved together with his chest hair, and wearing a work shirt that struggled to button.”

As he had suspected, the engineer merely confirmed that the problem was with his boiler in the kitchen. He had taken the liberty of bringing a replacement with him and so immediately set about making the switch. It was no small effort and he had been working at it for most of the morning and now it was coming up to lunchtime. Unsurprisingly, by this time, Taylor’s mate was feeling rather peckish and decided he could no longer wait to eat. He also didn’t want to leave a stranger alone in his house. So he casually strolled into the kitchen and told the engineer he was going to make a plate of tomato soup and asked if he would like one too. It was more a case of simply being polite than
being an actual genuine offer.

“That would be great
,” said the grateful engineer.

That’s when
the wheels came off the wagon.

Just as the soup came to the boil, there was a blowback from the boiler that managed to set the engineers beard
on fire!
“So the engineer turns around son. My mate is completely confused as to what is happening and so momentarily stunned. All he can see is this guy dancing around his kitchen, panicking and screaming that his beard is on fire. Without thinking, my mate grabs the pot from the stove and
throws it into the face of the engineer!
Can you imagine that son?

He said it looked like the man was covered in blood. The poor man. His beard catches fire and all he’s thinking is to put it out only to turn and get scalded with boiling soup.

Talk about it not being your day.”

We were laughing so hard and causing such upset in the transport office that Trevor sent us away to the canteen for breakfast. Walking outside, Taylor continued “Aye son, my mate says that the big engineer then turned wild and chased him all over the village. He said it was like running away from a zombie. He was going to kill my mate. He never caught him mind you, thank God, but he is terrified to phone back Scottish Gas to complain that his boiler still hasn’t been fixed for fear that they send the same big fella back.” I was still happily chuckling away to myself with the vision of this scenario as we made our way to the canteen for a long and lazy breakfast.

It was nearing our home time when it suddenly all kicked off at the transport desk. Trevor was debriefing another driver from our agency when an issue came to light. An issue that, in isolation, was actually quite funny. Yet, as with most transport offices these days, it was blown completely out of all proportion.

It transpired that Marc, our agency driver, had been delivering to Whitechapel in the north side of London. Rather than using the map that the company can provide on request, he had opted to use his satnav. It was an easy enough delivery and hardly warranted the use of such sophisticated technology but Marc had a tendency to rely upon it, such was his want. Now whether it was tiredness or just simple incompetence, only he knows. However, everything had been going fine until Marc went through the Blackwall Tunnel.

He realised all too late that his satnav had frozen.

The Blackwall Tunnel is something of a logistical anomaly insofar as its height limit southbound is 15’6”, more than enough for a standard truck, but it is only 13’3” high northbound. As such, Marc had no option but to continue on to the M25 and detour over 40 miles back through the Dartford Tunnel. Therefore, he was over an hour longer for his journey, late for his delivery, and his embarrassment complete by being reprimanded by a transport manager who has never driven a truck in his life, shouting at him in front of his peers.

There really was no need for such behaviour. Trevor obviously does not grasp the concept that mistakes can happen and this was not deliberate. Yet he wouldn’t let it go and banned Marc off site. As an agency driver, when you are banned off one site by a customer, you are placed on a list that means you are banned from ALL of their other sites. As this was one of the agency’s biggest clients, Marc’s earning potential was now severely restricted.

It was a gross over-reaction but Trevor obviously relished the attention and power judging by the snide grin on his face. Marc walked away with as much dignity as he could muster. I shouted at him to give me a call for a pint later. He turned, smiled at me, and boldly stated, “Will do mate”. Taylor shouted that he and Ed would tag along and get his number from me. Marc was now the d’A
rtagnan to us Three Musketeers.

Furious, Trevor ordered us all home.

Result.