Battle of the Sexes

You want a story? I'll give you a bloody story, but I warn you now, if you're looking for a quick fix and cheap thrill, get yourself a fucking video. Make sure it's one of those Yank formulaic videos, you know the kind I mean; boy meets girl, girl goes down on boy, boy goes down on girl, they fuck, maybe a bit of anal if you're lucky, and he shoots his muck all over her chest/face/arse. Minimal speech, maximum use of ridiculously unconvincing groaning and moaning, but what the hell? You don't want to risk actually using your imagination now, do you?

For those of you still with me, I'll start my story. My name is Tom Johnson, and I'm an Englishman. Now I'm not talking your posh public schoolboy wanker who doesn't know the first thing about the realities of life and spends his time wishing we still had the Empire so he could fuck off and exploit a few backward nations. Nor do I mean one of these long-haired hippy fuckers who thinks we should all live together in love, and who look at a bloke like me; proud, hard-working who enjoys his beer, mates, birds and football and calls me a fascist just because he doesn't belong to anything and can't understand people who do. No, I'm a normal, working-class London lad. I was born and brought up in Wandsworth, South London and I work less than a mile from where I live now, and from where I was born. Why am I telling you all this? Because it's my fucking story, and I'll tell it how I like. If you don't like that, you can piss off. I'm not just a waffling cunt though, it does have a purpose, because what I'm going to tell you about won't have the same impact if you don't know what makes me tick.

Now my job is a decent one, but I have to work like a Trojan. I left school with fuck-all in the way of qualifications. Too busy playing football, getting into rucks with other schools, chasing birds and going in the pubs which would serve you under age so long as you paid up, shut up and knew to scarper if the old Bill came by. However, I got myself an apprenticeship with a mate of my uncle's, just before the whole apprenticeship idea went down the pan. He runs an engineering workshop, and I work there with him and two other blokes, making specialist parts for lathes, drills and the like.

Not your DIY tosser's Black&Decker you understand, this is serious kit. To keep costs down and to make sure we survive, we take it in turns to drive the delivery van. I don't mind it as it gets me out of the workshop and you get to meet new folk. I've scored more than once with some tart working in the reception at one of my drop-offs. Give them a good line, make them laugh and they're round your flat exercising their cheek muscles before you can say "blowjob"!

On the day in question I was going through the list of deliveries, making sure I'd run a route which would minimise time, and avoid the congested areas around rush-hour. Most of our drops are at other engineering companies, or car workshops and the like, so I'm a bit surprised to see an address near Edenbridge. That's serious money country - all manor houses, private golf courses and the like. I checked with the boss and he told me it's some eccentric rich bastard who builds his own engines from scratch. The boss hasn't a clue what he does with them, but he wanted a lathe bit made to exact specs, and wanted it delivered before he got back from Hong Kong, or Bangkok or some such place. Probably needs some time to relax after getting full-body massages off 14 year old Thai birds. I'm sneering at my mental image of this old wheezy posh cunt trying to get a hard on with some exotic bird, but truth be known I'm a bit jealous of someone who doesn't have to rely on picking up pissed slags in the curry house 'cos the good-looking tart in the nightclub reckons she's onto a better offer from some squaddie, just because the wanker's wearing a blazer.

The boss tells me this bloke's wife will sign for the part, and I'm not looking forward to having to deal with some snotty cow who'll no doubt be desperately denying she's hit 50 by smearing herself in a couple of hundred quid's worth of creams and lotions every day. Probably had so much plastic surgery you could build a spare human from what they've chucked away. And who'll treat me like some kind of peasant just because I don't pronounce all my aitches and I've got short hair and a Chelsea tattoo. Fuck 'em. I know deep down though that whilst I may not exactly tug my forelock, I'll be respectful; I've got a good job and one call from a rich slag to my boss and 10 years good work or not, I'll be out on my ear. It's dog eat dog, and the rich bastards have cornered all the Pedigree Chum.

When I get to the house I'm knackered. It's half three, and every fucking road I've driven down has had some blind cunt along it 15 minutes before, deciding now's exactly the time to have the mother of all pile-ups. It's a fucking conspiracy; "Johnson's on the van today, so let's all go out and drive like Belgians". I'm hacked off, and don't want to be out at Edenbridge at this time of day. The boss has called me asking what the fuck I'm playing at, and when I told him I hadn't even done Edenbridge he just laughed and told me to keep the van tonight and bring it in tomorrow. They're obviously knocking off early and no doubt will be off down the pub for a few wets, whilst Tom does the good work, and what's worse it's fucking hot. Even just in shorts and a t-shirt I'm sweating like a bastard here.

Wankers! Mind you, I'd be the same if it was one of the others out here. But I'm not best pleased, especially when I find the house: it's got a drive the size of a fucking runway - and I'm not kidding. Sweep off the fine grade gravel, tarmac it, draw some white lines down the middle and you'd have Jumbo Jets mistaking it for Gatwick. The house at the end is surprisingly small, and I only say that because I was expecting Buckingham Palace. It looks to be about 7 or 8 bedroom sized, nicely done I have to say. Immaculate lawns and I'm feeling well out of place here. I'm not sure if I should use the front door, or if there's some tradesman's entrance at the back for pondlife such as me. Fuck it; my principles assert themselves and I pull up at the front door intending to ring the bell and take the piss out of the butler. A place like this, and they've got to have some stuck up cunt in a bow tie to serve them their brandy.

The door opens before I've got two steps away from the van, and it's no butler, it's quite obviously the wife. I'm struggling not to look like some cunt-struck schoolboy because there's no doubt about it, she's a looker. Probably 35, maybe even 40, and very good looking with it. To a 26 year old London lad with red blood in his veins and spunk in his bollocks she's well in the bracket, but I don't want to give the bitch the satisfaction. "Got a delivery for you" I say, not too surly, but hardly polite "Is it the bit for my husband's lathe? Your manager called earlier, and he's already apologised for your lateness"

Cheeky fucking cow! For one, he's not a manager; he's the boss, gaffer, the man, the geezer, but he's not some fucking suited financial whiz-kid manager! He must have put his phone-voice on for her. And I wasn't given a time for this drop anyway, so who the fuck is late? But like a good peasant I grit my teeth and politely ask where she'd like it dropped, hoping she'll say up her arse, though with her accent she'd probably refer to it as her posterior. I struggle not to grin. "His workshop is around the back. Drive around the far end of the house and I'll meet you round there" The door closes on me and I try and compose myself as I climb back into the van. She's got very carefully done dark blonde hair, curling in good natural waves down to her shoulders, a really smooth face, perfect teeth and what looks like a fit body. She's wearing one of those summer frocks that rich women and grandmothers wear, but it's got quite a low, square cut neck line and it was enough for me to have copped a look at a massive chest. She must have scaffolding supporting those things, never mind a bra. I'm at risk of getting a hard-on, and that would never do; can't let the slag know she's got to me.

I drive the van around the house. Bloody hell! It's as deep as it is wide, and all done in large sandstone blocks. Very nice. Very expensive. Rich bastards! There's a large gravel area at the back, a garage which looks big enough for at least 3 motors, a Mercedes SKL sat outside it. The woman's walking across from some huge great French windows, wide open to let the spring air in and get rid of the mustiness of generations of inbred toffs. The workshop is a brick building about the size of a modest bungalow. She unlocks a door as I pull up and switch the engine off. I haul the lathe bit and fitment out of the back, and lug it across to the shed. Walking inside I can hardly see after the bright sunshine outside. Stupid cow should put the fucking light on! My anger and resentment grow again.

Almost as I think it the light comes on and reveals a series of worktops and machinery, and about 3 engines in various states of completion. She smiles at me sweetly enough, and I swear she caught me staring at her magnificent cleavage as she turned. "I'll leave you to get on with it. I presume you know what to do. Come up to the house when you're done. No need to knock, just come in through the door on the far left as you look from here" Obviously this is the only entrance blokes like me are worthy of using. I grunt a reply and crack on with fitting his new toy.

Fifteen minutes work and Sir Cuthbert Rich-Twat's newest gadget is mounted and ready to carve some metal. I've mellowed a bit having got my teeth into doing some proper work. Have to admit to myself that apart from the crack about being late the lady's not exactly been rude. Just need to get a signature and be on my way. Should be back by five if the traffic's not too bad. Five thirty maybe. Grab a Chinese on the way back, nip into the off-license whilst they're carving up the cats and dogs out back, grab a six pack. Wednesday evening and there's a match on Sky; a chinky, a few lagers and a football game, then up the pub for a couple of pints. Sweet. It's not Chelsea tonight, but Leeds, doing the business for England against some Italian wankers.

I grab the paperwork from the cab and stroll across the gravel towards the house, boots crunching loudly, almost cheerful now. The door opens and I'm stood in a kitchen which is by far the largest I've ever seen. There're three tables in there, only one with chairs around it so the other two must be for food preparation when they have their thirty-guest dinner parties. There's no sign of the lady, so I wander toward the door at the far end. It opens into a corridor with a thick carpet, some fucked up design on it. Probably Persian, or something. I don't fucking know. It looks expensive to me, but who am I to tell?

There are doors leading off all the way up to the front door, and I haven't got a clue where she is. I think about shouting but can't make up my mind what to say. I don't know her name as the invoice only has the address on it. I can't exactly bellow "Lady!" around the place, and I can't bring myself to stand there calling "Hello?". I'd feel a right wanker. Looking up the corridor again I notice the next door up is ajar. I'll have a look in there and if she isn't in the room I'll go back and just wait in the kitchen, or parlour or whatever these people call it.

I look inside the room and she's there alright, sat facing away from me on a sofa. I can see the back of her head, and she's doing something 'cos her head's bobbing up and down. Not much, but there's definitely movement. What the fuck is she doing? Curiosity leads me into the room. The door opens wide with only a whisper across the carpet, the thick pile soaking up any sound my boots make. From closer I can see right down her top, and her breasts are heaving. They're so tight against the dress I can't see any detail, but it's a good view. Just a glimpse of a white bra. As I get closer I see her legs, wide apart as she's slumped on the sofa, the dress pulled up and both hands up inside it. I can't fucking believe it - this posh slag is strumming the cat's whiskers - she's masturbating and my cock reacts immediately.

I'm dumb-fucked. What the hell do I do now? I consider the respectful cough, but she'd go fucking mad. She'd probably have me sent to the Tower of London, let alone fired. I back out very slowly, entranced by what I've just seen, but convinced I've got to get out of there. Back in the corridor I hate to admit it, but I panic and almost leg it into the kitchen. Fuck! I've left the door wide open, but I'm buggered if I'm going back near that room. That's jail bait in there. All she'd have to do is call the Bill and they'd have me down a cell in two shakes, giving me a good kicking for daring to approach the ruling classes - fucking coppers doing their loyal servant bit and keeping the working man down for their masters. Cunts. But I don't fancy it. I sit down on one of the chairs, my back to the corridor in some kind of denial of what I'd seen, and wonder how long she's going to be. If I wasn't so rattled it'd be funny, and I raise a smile thinking about telling my mates later. "Did everything look good?" She's used some kind of stealth mode and crept right into the kitchen without me realising. And what's she referring to? I'm like a rabbit caught in the beam of headlights, just waiting for some farmer boy to unleash a barrel full of lead pellets into me. I've turned in the chair to look at her, but I can't fucking speak. "Oh dear, cat got your tongue? Shame, you looked such a confident young man. Still, looks deceive" all this with such a superior smile I could have smacked the bitch.

"My husband's lathe. Is it all sorted, looking good?" she repeated the final words as if talking to a five year old. "Er..yes. Fine. Um, just need your signature madam" there, she'd won. I'd stammered, stumbled and then crowned my humiliation by using the respectful term I'd sworn I wouldn't. "Oh dear. You ARE a disappointment" but she takes the form and leans over the table to sign it with the pen I offered her. What the hell was she talking about? Disappointment? How? I can't bring myself to think that this rich upper-class woman had been hoping I'd try it on.

The penny drops as she reads through the invoice, probably checking we're not ripping off her husband. She's rubbing my nose in her inaccessibility - she knows fucking well that I can't touch her and she's flaunting that fact. Well, come the fucking revolution I'm going to be straight down here with a Chelsea firm and the lads can go through her til she fucking bleeds. If she likes to pretend she likes it rough, we'll see how she feels when reality bites her in the arse. Literally. Mind you, I'm now getting a dream view down her top - and I get a good view of her bra, stretched to hold her breasts.

They're awesome, white and soft looking, very inviting. My mind sees them in the flesh, released from the bra and somehow defying gravity. Must be a pump-up job, along with the thigh-sculpture, the face-lift and the rest of it. Can't see any scars, but a bird like this can afford the top surgeons, not some Asian blagger down Hampstead giving it large with his degree from Popadom Uni. I'm groping them in my fantasy and I'm too late to react as she looks up, and definitely catches me looking this time. "What's your name?" Shit! Here we go, although her tone was friendly enough "Tom"

Fucked if I'm giving her more than that "Well Tom, you seem to find my breasts fascinating. And you are a very attractive young man, at least for a thug, but then I like thugs" my head's spinning, my mouth's gone dry and this tart is playing with me. She's got to be, waiting until I touch her and get my DNA on her dress then scream rape and see Tom banged to rights. She's going on: "But you seem a bit shy, and if I'm going to fuck a stranger I like it rough. I just don't think you're up to it. Sorry, but there it is, or rather there it was - gone!" and she giggles. Sounds like chimes in a breeze and I'm starting to realise how much I'd love to give her the good news - really fuck her hard, make the bitch scream in pleasure, then tell her she's shit and she can keep her money, her house and the fucking Merc and walk out. But it's not happening, I'm starting to reply, but what's coming out is bollocks...

"I just didn't want to push it, you know, I think you look great but... I never thought you'd fancy a bloke like me" what the FUCK am I waffling about, I'm like a fucking school kid when he suddenly realises he may be on for his first shag, "Sorry Tom. Chance has gone" and that musical laughter rains down on me again, mocking "unless..." She pauses and looks at me as if I'm some exhibit in a modern art gallery, trying to work out what the fuck I'm meant to be, whether she likes what she sees or not. Her left hand reaches up and across and slides the dress strap off her right shoulder, taking the bra strap with it. Her hand goes down inside the front and I'm really struggling not to let my jaw drop open as she scoops her right breast out. Unlike my fantasy this breast droops a bit, but no more than you'd expect for such a mass of flesh.

Her nipple is standing out proud, flushed red, and suddenly my confidence starts to return; she's as turned on as I am. "You could have had this to play with all evening, if you'd impressed me" she's still taunting and the thought crosses my mind that she either loves living dangerously or she's fucking stupid - some blokes I know would have knocked her out by now and fucked her senseless, before robbing the house and legging it. "Still Tom, you can touch it if you want" and she's still not showing any emotion, just lightly speaking as if she's offering me a cuppa. My hands aren't exactly clean after setting up her Lord and Master's lathe and a day spent driving and delivering, but she seems to like her lovers a bit grotty, so I reach a hand out and cup her breast. Just out of curiosity I take the weight and am amazed her breast doesn't droop further - it's bloody heavy. I move my hand around so the nipple is against my palm and it's one of the firmest I've ever felt. My fingers gently squeeze the breast and I slide the fingers together until they meet at the nipple, lightly pulling on it before I remove my hand and take a step toward her.

She giggles, gives a girlish shriek and runs out into the corridor. Part of me says just walk away, but I remember the line about hell having no fury like a scorned woman, and besides, I'm thinking through my dick now. Following her I somehow know she'll be in the first room again. Sure enough she's stood just inside the room, staring at me with a fixed smile and an intense look in her eyes. "You said 'unless..'." I begin quietly "unless what?" more challenge in my voice now, as she relinquishes control to me. Not sure how I know that's what she's doing, but I'm sure. She backs away from me, still with this weird intense smile on her face, no fear at all. She backs up to the end of the sofa and stops, the backs of her knees against the sofa arm. I've advanced toward her, and almost know what I'm meant to do.

The breast is still hanging out and it gives her a vulnerable, disheveled look. "Unless you can shock me!" she gushes - excitement in her voice mixed with what sounds like triumph. Shit! She's still playing with me, and she's got me reacting exactly how she wanted. I'm humiliated but this time it comes out as anger. I reach up to push her but she leans away, overbalances and turning as she falls ends up bent over the sofa arm, her head on the sofa, her full buttocks staring me in the face. My mind is whirling as I reach for the dress hem and flick it up over her back, almost in the same movement hooking her white panties and pulling them down to her knees. One hand on each buttock cheek, pulling apart and without really thinking I'm staring at an opened anus. Her ringpiece looks inviting, although if I stopped to consider it I'd wonder why I'm thinking that. But I don't hesitate and bend my head toward it, mouth gone from dry to soaked, saliva running over my tongue. I touch the tip of my tongue against her ring and feel her flinch.