Jack the Milkman

"Jack the Milkman"

by J.D. Savanyu

Cruising through Beverly Hills on a fine summer day, in a stupid Dairylea milk truck. I'm trying to become the next James Dean, but this is the only starring role I've managed to land so far. Slinging moo juice on doorsteps for all those goo-goo babies and their White Russian-loving parents. I drive down Sunset Boulevard at high noon, passing a dozen burlesque girly shows. I'll be hitting those theaters tonight, dropping dollars for a bunch of stacked titty-shakers. In the meantime, I gotta deliver the goods to earn my greenbacks.

I turn the radio dial to "Bo Diddley" by Bo Diddley, and deliver milk to fifteen houses before I reach 4005 Carmelita Avenue; a mission-style mansion owned by Jack McCarren, a hot-shot producer for RKO studios. That's where he keeps his blonde bombshell trophy wife. She hangs around the house all day, baking brownies and reading fashion magazines while her husband wheels and deals with Hollywood bigwigs. He's Jack, and so am I.

I pull their daily order out of the back of the truck: a bottle of whole milk for the man of the house, and a bottle of chocolate milk for the lady. I've never met a woman who can resist the siren call of cocoa. Their cute Papillon dog barks like hell at me on the front porch. That little pooch is a bat out of hell. She opens the front door and disciplines her precious pet.

"Sit, Elvis, sit!" she says sternly, and he reluctantly obeys. "You're a bad doggie, Elvis. Why can't you treat that nice milkman with a little respect?"

"You ain't never caught a rabbit, and you ain't no friend of mine," I reply, lamely attempting Mister Presley's Mississippi accent. She giggles and tosses her shiny blonde bangs. I usually push the bottles through a small milk door at the far end of the porch, but I give them right to her today, and she grins from ear to ear.

"Thank you kindly, Mister Milkman."

"You're welcome, Miss McCarren. By the way, I'm Jack. Just like your husband."

"I'm Dana, Jack Milkman," she replies playfully, giving her hips a nice little swing. She opens the chocolate milk bottle and starts chugging it right there on the porch. Brown fluid leaks between her bright red lips and drips down on her big white tits, half-covered by a pink blouse. Holy shit.

"Oh god, I love milk," she groans almost orgasmically. "I sucked my mother's tits until I was eight years old. Can you fucking believe that?"

"I sure can, Miss McCarren," I reply, a bit too sarcastically.

"Hey Jack, something's wrong with my refrigerator. Do you know how to fix those?"

"Sure. My father is the best refrigerator repairman in Los Angeles County. I'd be glad to check you out. I mean, check it out. Your fridge."

"Great, thanks. That'll save me a ton of dough on labor charges. Those unionized repairmen are getting just as greedy as movie producers."

She waves me into a hallway, and I follow eagerly. I'm not supposed to go into customer's houses, but this bitch is way too hot for professionalism. She's obviously a milkman groupie, and I want to give her a free sample of cream.

The Pappillon follows us through a big living room with high-end furniture and Academy Awards. Six movies which her husband didn't write, didn't direct, and didn't act in; but got more money from than all the writers, directors and actors. (The logic of Tinseltown in 1957.)

She leads me into a big kitchen with lots of high-end appliances, including a big pink Kelvinator Foodarama.

"It started acting up this morning, not keeping our food cold enough," Dana explains.

"Let's see here..." I open one of the two latching doors, and quickly discover the culprit. "Here's your problem. Real simple. One of your beer bottles tipped over in the back, and it turned the temperature dial to 'low.' That's an annoying design flaw with Foodaramas."

She giggles sweetly behind me. "It wasn't an accident, Jack Milkman."

"It... wasn't?"

She tosses her blonde hair again, and wraps her arms around my neck. Damn, I love chicks who cut to the chase.

"I know you want me, honey. I've seen you peeping at me through the window everyday, when you're sliding those bottles through the milk door."

Go for it, man. All the fucking way. If you don't, you'll be kicking your own ass for the rest of your fucking life.

"Hell yeah, I been sneaking lots of peeks at your big titties."

"Why don't you stop peeking, and start sucking?"

She whips those delightful double D's right out of her blouse.

"Holy fucking shit."

"Pretty please? My husband won't play with me anymore. He was so fun before we got married, but then it was just career, career, career."

"You Beverly Hills sluts are the fucking best."

She laughs throatily, and I shove her left nipple into my mouth.

"Oh yes, oh my god. You're such a good milkman, Jack."

I shove her right nipple in my mouth while squeezing her left breast. I'm getting my money's worth out of this (even though I'm not paying a single penny.)

"Fuck yeah, keep squeezing them udders. I've been dreaming about this for so long, baby. Word from the bird!"

She takes off her chocolate-stained top and slips her hand between her legs under her black skirt; flicking her bean and moaning like all those ladies I've seen in "blue movies" on Sunset Boulevard. The Papillon barks up a storm, assuming that I'm attacking her. She throws a dog biscuit on the linoleum floor to make it shut up.

"Have a nice Milkbone, Elvis. Hey, speaking of milk..."

She opens the refrigerator, pulls out the bottle of white milk, and dabs a little on each nipple.

"Lick it off, Mister Milkman. Like a fucking pussycat."

I gladly obey her order, lapping up that pasteurized homogenized Vitamin D-enhanced goodness. She expresses her gratitude quite audibly.

"Fuck yeah! You're the bee's knees, daddy-o!"

"You ain't seen nothin' yet, baby. I can really razz your berries."

"Ooh, you talk real macho, Jack. Let's see if you carry a big stick."

She drops to her knees on the linoleum, unzips my white milkman pants, and pulls out my big Johnson.

"Damn, boy, that's a five-alarm fire hose. But I'm not the kind of girl who backs down from a challenge."

She slides it between her heavily lipsticked lips, nice and slow, easing into the intimidating task.

"Fuck yeah, bitch," I growl triumphantly. "I can't get enough of you milkman groupies."

She laughs against my thick Hungarian sausage, and I force her farther down the shaft.

"Come on, all the way in. All the fucking way in."

She manages to go balls-deep without gagging. That's another reason why I love nordic blonde chicks.

"Good girl. I know you want some milk, but you have to earn it."

"Mmm-hmm!"

She bobs her head up and down enthusiastically while humming loudly. I fiddle around with her shiny golden bangs, trying like hell not to bust a nut so soon. She pulls out a minute later and grins playfully.

"I better lube this up with a little moo juice."

She splashes that cold milk on my hot manhood, and dives right back in.

"That's the best banana split I ever had."

"Mmm-hmm!"

"I'm gonna put a fucking cherry on top."

I grab her head and fuck her face, feeling like the next James Dean (in a dorky white Dairylea uniform instead of a bitchin' black leather jacket.) I take off my vest and shirt and unfasten my belt, sending my white work pants down to my white work boots.

"Come on, squeeze those big boobs on that big dick. Titty-fuck me real good."

"Yes sir. One vanilla milkshake, coming right up."

She squats on the floor and makes my penis disappear in that warm pillowy softness. She doesn't skimp on the squeezing like most other girls.

"Hey waitress, I never heard of a milkshake without milk."

"Oh, how silly of me," she giggles. She pours that cold white stuff all over her tits, and my cock screams in perverted pleasure. This is the best fetish fun I've ever had. She bounces her tits on my totem pole in a rapid blur, and little drops of milk fly all over the place.

"Shit, bitch, you keep going like that, I'm gonna give you a real milkshake."

"Not yet, Jacko. I wanna take a joyride on that far-out love stick."

She takes off the rest of her clothes, and so do I. Then she takes me by the hand and leads me into her living room.

"How about some fantabulous tunes for fucking?"

She opens a mahogany cabinet, pulls out a Chuck Berry record, plants the diamond needle on "Maybellene," and shakes her milky tits to a thumping tune about a "Cadillac doin' 'bout 95."

"Hell yeah, that's my kinda jam," she beams.

"Rock n' roll is here to stay."

"Damn right. Dance with me, boy."

I wiggle around butt-naked with Jack McCarren's wife, bumping into an Oscar for Best Picture. We gradually move closer together, and our dancing turns to fucking. An all-out thrust-fest.

"Oh my god, yes! Pound that fucking pussy!" she screams over the off-key caterwauling of Mister Berry. I spank her ass nice and hard, and she moans in approval.

"That's right, I'm a bad cheating girl. Spank the shit out of me!"

I spank her ten more times on each cheek, then I pick her up, plop her down on top of the record cabinet, and fuck her in the upright missionary position. The cabinet is filled to the brim with with vinyl discs, but it's not heavy enough to keep from sliding back to the wall and banging repeatedly against the plaster.

"Oh shit, yes, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me!" she screams loud enough for her celebrity neighbors to hear. I spank her ass even more.

"Who's your favorite Jack?"

"You're my favorite Jack!"

"Don't fucking lie to me, you fucking gold-digger."

"You're way better than fucking windbag producer I married."

I smack her tits over and over, and she works her clit with her right hand. "Maybelline" reaches a conclusion, and "Sweet Little Sixteen" begins.

"Call me James Dean, bitch."

"Fuck me harder, James Dean! Punch that bike up to ninety!"

I fuck her as hard and as fast as I can, bringing her to a staggering squirting orgasm. Ten seconds later, I'm ready to blow.

"Get ready for your fucking milkshake."

"I want that shit right in my mouth."

She drops to her knees on the purple shag, tosses her blonde hair, tilts her head toward a Waterford chandelier, and opens her mouth nice and wide.

"Squeeze that udder, bitch. Jack the milkman."

She jacks it like she means it. I jizz like a maniac, nearly knocking her teeth out. She plays around with my load while I flail for breath, swishing it outside her mouth with her tongue and fiddling that slimy stuff around her fingers. Then she grabs the milk bottle, takes a big sip, and gargles it with the cum. A big disgusting frothy mess oozes out of her mouth.

"You're crazy as fuck, Dana."

"It took you that long to figure it out?"

I got thirty more milk deliveries to make today, and time's a-wasting.

"That was so fucking worth the risk of getting fired."

"No doubt, Daddy-o. But don't worry about the other end of the deal. Jack won't give a shit if he finds out I'm cheating on him. I heard it through the grapevine that he's banging Marilyn Monroe."

"God damn. Talk about The Seven Year Itch."

"More like The Two Year Itch. An eye for an eye, a blonde for a blonde."