Saggy Tits

Daphne Blake when almost asleep would think of being with a guy with his fat cock stuffed into her mouth while his fat cock was up her ass. Okay, she knew that was an impossible simultaneous feat even for the most acrobatic of men with an over-size dick but it sure beat the hell out of dreaming of scoffing cream cakes. The former fantasy was better for her figure; possibly.

Daphne would then finger herself off to sleep. The 29 year old suppose some women might get themselves off in a cream cake or chocolate fantasy.

With a face pocked by freckles, a slightly crooked by thick-lipped mouth and saggy breasts, Daphne was all too aware that she wasn't cunt fodder for the guys as the guys tended to look elsewhere but she still managed to hook a few to keep her believing in sex as an ideal recreational activity. It sure beat the hell out of women's cricket or showering with a team of mannish women hockey players. She knew this because she played women's cricket and was unfortunate prey in the showers after hockey as she was the most feminine member of the team; they all had saggy tits.

On the way to work on Monday Daphne stopped at the trash can to toss out the two cream cakes she'd seen her mom put into her lunchbox; she stopped and bought an apple and an orange, feeling virginal in a manner of speaking. The word processing pool's new supervisor began work that morning so yet another bitch in a long line of bitches was expected.

"It's a guy," she was told by red-faced workmates. She hadn't listened so wondered why they were so excited. "His name is Roger – he's in with the office manager."

Roger? Daphne assumed it was a guy. Gosh, the way these women acted whenever they sighted a man walking through the room one would think they never received a good routing. God, they were thinking of pack-banging the poor weasel. Daphne decided she may as well join is because she still would be indicted as being in the room and failing to stop the mass seduction in working hours or at least calling for help. But then if she called Mrs Williams the office manager would be in for her bit anyway.

Mrs Williams' door opened and she came out followed by a tubby, broad-faced guy with pink cheeks and a charming smile. Everyone was terribly disappointed: he was under 5ft 6in (Daphne's height while some of the girls were six footers) and there was no outline of a bulge.

"This is Gregory," Mrs Rogers said. "For you information he volunteered to take our typing test and recorded 370 keystrokes a minute with an 0.25% error tally. Most impressive."

Well apparently the idea of a pack banging went out the window as the girls looked at him in awe – having a supervisor who could actually type at better than a moderate pace was practically unheard of in this office – the guy was a genius. They others crowded around him while Mrs Williams began her rounds to scream a few women into tears.

I held back from him and began working, picking up the occasional invitation by some of them, "Would you like to date me?" Really, some of these women never lift their minds above their pubic bone and that's the married ones.

It was never acknowledge, apart from in my paypacket, that I was the most accurate typist in the pool which is why I got to do our law office's statistics and monthly financial reports and the managing partner's complicated reports; his PA did the straight typing as she was primarily employed for her beauty and tits rather than typing skills – well it was common knowledge."

"Wow."

I arrested my flying fingers in mid-flight. "Yes?"

"Hi, I'm Gregory Pugh. I'm..."

"Yes, our new boss. I heard Crap-face introduce you."

"Crap-face – is that what's she called?"

"Yeah, and your nickname will probably be short-ass."

"And yours?"

"Saggy Tits."

He actually blushed, the darling.

"I really must say..."

I said don't bother, it was true. If he didn't believe me he could take a look.

"I really must say..."

I said oh well he needn't bother; I was used to being overlooked by men. How I managed to reach the age of twenty-nine and not be a virgin never failed to amaze me.

I paused for breath and he said he really must say I seemed to be awfully frank.

"I usually admit my cock-ups."

"Cock-ups – that is an unusually frank word for a woman to use."

"Perhaps," I said. "I find it terrible difficult to use the phrase I make mistakes – that reluctance is ingrained in us by our mothers."

He shuffled his feet. "Look, have you any idea of the real meaning of cock up?"

"Vaguely. Let me know if you're interested."

Gregory Pugh turned the color of puce and raced back for the safety of his desk which faced us. We sat very close in three rows of three so the typing around me had stopped during my intercourse – er discourse – with our supervisor.

Belinda our self-appointed leader said I had handled him brilliantly and no doubt in his mind I was leading the charge to be first to get his cock up. She commanded us to resume work.

Leaving work that afternoon I was walking past the refuse bin where a street derelict hand two cream buns in his filthy mitts; I was filled with delight knowing I had performed my social duty to the less fortunate in our community for the entire week.

"Hold up," someone called. The tramp took off and I turned and saw Mr Pugh advancing.

"Hi Gregory – come to get your cock up?"

"Really Daphne," he said. "Is there need to be so frank?"

"How can I be Daphne as well as Frank?" I asked.

Clutching at that straw as people around us were staring at us Gregory laughed and said it was amazing to meet a woman who could joke. The men nearby laughed and the women walked away with their noses in the air.

"Look," he said. "I have been thinking about your comment of having saggyy tits. My mom has a friend who is a corsetiere; you may be interested in an introduction to solve your perceived problem."

"No thanks, Gregory. Like some men, I never wear any underwear."

"Not even panties?"

"No Gregory – take a look if you don't believe me."

Gregory was such a darling; he said, "I don't think many women would escape having saggy tits if they didn't wear support."

"Thank you Gregory. For that supportive comment I shall buy you a drink or coffee; your choice."

We went to a bar and drank ourselves into a very happy mood. He took me to his apartment and we fucked until we fell asleep and I awoke in the morning to find his dick in my mouth and his finger up my ass. Well, a compromise but the closest to my dream I'll ever get.

* * *

Oh, you want the sequel to that little piece of non-literary smut?

I could say up yours, but here's what happened.

The truth was Gregory was a two-finger typist with an error rate of about 45%. Gregory's real name is Alan B. Pugh, a top romantic, action adventure novelist who worked with us in the pool for three weeks to use as a secondary setting in his next novel; his mission was to find out how many of the nine girls he could screw and how we filled in our boring days when the pressure was off. He assured me working his way through the girls was necessary for research and he couldn't believe a guy like him could score eight out of nine.

We married of course and now most of his heroines never wear underwear and they fuck until they drop. We have homes in Malta, the Bahamas, Port Douglas in Queensland and San Francisco. Our regular office is a room he hires in a bar-brothel in San Francisco where I sometimes help out if they're short of girls – working in the bar I mean. Alan soaks up the atmosphere and the tales and coarse expression he hears find their way into his manuscripts; some nights we do research watching the couples at it in the brothel and both of us have really benefited as will have Alan's readers.

I have just finished typing the final draft of my First Thirty Years memoirs. I wrote the first draft and handed it to Alan to knock into shape. Look out for it in top bookshops; the publisher has approved the title, 'Saggy Tits Get Their Man'.

THE END