tagLoving WivesA Man Needs a Dog

A Man Needs a Dog


The latest in an occasional series on the sexual travails of honest northern folk. So pull up a chair, take off your cloth cap, take a sup of your ale and lend me your ear.

(Special thanks to Peter Tinniswood who introduced me to the endearing and wonderfully surreal Brandon family)

As stated in the preamble to my last story, This story has comedic and surreal undertones and draws certain well known stereotypes relating to people from the north of England. What surprised me is that some readers from across the Atlantic commented on the strangeness of the story. Perhaps they didn't understand what "This story has comedic and surreal undertones" means. The story uses the vernacular so no moaning about any apparent poor grammar.

Note: the reference in the story to Ernie's chat up line and his novel method of birth control are based on a real person who I knew at school.


"A man needs a dog," my old dad used to tell me.

"Yer what?" I asked the first time I heard this comment.

"Look lad, yer average woman is no doubt a fine thing. She'll cook yer food, clean yer house, give you yer conjugal rights if you're lucky and even have yer kids. When it comes to friendship and loyalty though, a dog wins every time."

Okay, I can see you're already confused, let's back up a few years.

Me? I'm Mort Ramsden. My full name is Mortimer, a family name passed down from generation to generation. I was born in a small town north of Bradford twenty five years ago into a family of five sisters. Yup you got it right, I had to live in a family overwhelmed by people of the female persuasion. It wasn't that bad if you could stand the long wait to get into the bathroom every day. (One day someone will work out what a woman does which takes an hour in the bathroom.) I found the easy solution was to get up early so I could conduct my daily ablutions first. The other big problem was trying to get in the bath when you had a dozen or more pairs of stockings hanging above it drying. It were enough to make a grown man weep and I frequently did. After five girls and no boys my dad swore off sex and started breeding racing pigeons.

"At least those buggers give a man a quiet life," he told me once.

My sisters were decent girls given the disadvantages of their gender. They had bumps in all the right places and understood how good Northern lasses behaved. They enjoyed their ale, a visit to the whippet races and a good night out on the pull. They knew it was unseemly to reveal too much leg or their nether regions when me and my dad were having our dinner. (A woman's twat is a fine thing to behold but not when you're eating)

My dad was and still is, a fine northern man with all the right qualities -- a fondness for huge quantities of the local ale, an appreciation of the fine art of rugby league (not that softie sport they play in the south) and the ability to appreciate a two day innings by Geoffrey Boycott. He worked as a labourer in Higsons, the local brewery. A tradition which had been carried down through the generations of my family since the brewery had been built.

Me mam is a fine northern lass well skilled in the crafts of cooking and keeping a house right tidy. The only downside to her was her a unnatural tendency to hug me to her voluminous breasts whenever I experienced moments of excessive stress when I was a little lad. Fortunately this experience didn't scar me psychologically; indeed it promoted my appreciation of the female chest.

Me? Well apart from the dangers posed by five sisters, I was a typical northern lad. I was passably good at school work and I decided to break the family tradition and apply for university. I considered all the usual options, you know: philosophy at Cambridge, Chemical Engineering at Bradford, mediaeval history at Oxford but my northern breeding prevailed. I chose the Pontefract Institute of Brewing and studied brewing technology. This red brick Victorian edifice had long been the centre of excellence and fount of all knowledge of the arcane arts of turning water and other ingredients into the finest drink known to man.

Before taking up my course I visited the local brewery and met with Mr Higson, the Managing Director. He graciously agreed to sponsor my life at university with the offer of a job should I get a top class degree.

To a good northern lad, beer is a vocation -- a matter of deep devotion. For this reason I took to my studies like a man possessed and gained a first class degree -- anything less would have been a betrayal of my origins and upbringing.

Professor Ernie Hemmings, my tutor had tears in his eyes as he congratulated me on graduation day. As a Yorkshire-man himself, he had followed my progress throughout my course with great interest. He blew his nose on his muffler and cleared his throat.

"You're the finest I've taught, lad." he said. "I anticipate that the beer industry will be a better place for you."

He thrust a fine, traditional flat cap into my hand. "This was mine when I was a master brewer. It saw me through many years of honest and fruitful toil. I want you to have it and wear it with pride. Go forth and do great things."

I choked up. This man had been my mentor and confidant and to receive such a prize was a wondrous thing.

Of course I wasn't a boring swot the whole time at college and I had a decent social life. I dated a few lasses and lost my virginity to a sylph-like goddess called Gwyneth from Llandudno. I would like the think that the first time was magical but in reality we were both virgins with precious any knowledge of the art of screwing and it was all rather fumbled, quick and messy. Like all good students we persevered and over the months we were together we became pretty proficient at the horizontal mambo. We continued our bed time researchers throughout our courses and parted the best of friends at the end, both content with the fruits of our bed time studies.

I were right impressed with young Gwyneth, here was a lass who was happy to spend many hours fornicating without once going all dewy eyed and making veiled suggestions of matrimony. I remember once asking whether she had any northern blood in her because she was the equal of any of the lasses in my hometown. She sadly shook her head, telling me, "no I'm and a hundred percent Welsh through and through." I shed a tear of happiness as she nevertheless graciously accepted my complement.

I remember my graduation day with deep fondness. I thought I would explode with pride when I mounted the stage to receive my degree, Mum and dad were in the second row, mum in her favourite pink twin set and her string of pearls; dad, with his muffler tucked around his neck, clutching his flat cap, his eyes brimming with tears of happiness.

I joined Higson's as an assistant brewmaster. My interview with the company board had been a foregone conclusion.

There were five people in the board room that day. Mr Joseph Higson, the Managing Director, Mr Cyril Higson, the Financial Director, Mr Amos Higson, the Marketing Director, Mr Beavis Higson, the Brewmaster and Miss Gladys Higson, the Company Secretary.

The board room was redolent of the late 1800s. The walls were lined with oak panelling, and a number of fine portraits adorned the room. Most of the portraits were of members of the Higson family, all fine men usually portrayed clutching a mug of foaming ale and with a sleek whippet at their feet.

The board members were sat around a large oak table, each with a pint pot of tea in front of them. They all smiled as I entered the room. The sight and smell of the room was redolent of an ancient northern tradition. I felt my heart pound at the sense of history in the place.

"Hello lad," Mr Jospeh Higson greeted me and gave me a mug of tea. "Sit down and take your cap off.

I realised at that moment that this was an informal meeting. Etiquette demanded that your flat cap could only be taken off if the meeting was informal. Mr Higson looked at my cap laying on the table.

"Is that Ernie Hemmings' cap by any chance?" he asked.

"Yes sir," I replied. "He gave it to me as a graduation gift."

He wiped a tear from his eye. "I thought I recognised the bite marks in the peak. He had that eaten by the winner of the 1959 whippet premier league. That's a great honour lad, he must think a lot of you."

"How was Ernie?" Mr Beavis Higson asked. "I haven't seen him for years.

"He's in fine fettle, Mr Higson," I replied.

"Nay lad, call us Gaffer," he replied with a smile.

You could have knocked me down with a feather. Only a select few got invited to call the boss, Gaffer. Damn me, I was privileged.

Mr Joseph Higson held up a beer stained sheet of paper in his hand.

"Good, lad. He tells me in this testimonial here you're mustard at brewing. In fact, the best he's seen. Now that's good enough for me -- Ernie is the best there is."

The board members all nodded with a smile. Mr Joseph Higson supped his tea.

"I want to take you on as Assistant Brewmaster. OK lad?"

I took a quick sup of tea to calm my nerves and hide my surprise.

"That would be right acceptable, Gaffer," I replied.

"Good lad, you start on Monday."


I still remember the tear in my dad's eye when I entered the brewing hall on the next Monday wearing the coveted white overall and, of course, Ernie Hemmings' flat cap. Labourers wore brown overalls, only the elite staff wore white. It still brings a lump to my throat when I remember the way dad and his workmates called out in appreciation. "Well done lad!", "You do a crackin' job" and other kind words of encouragement. I felt that I was suddenly a member of a new family.

I immediately presented myself, as instructed, at Mr Joseph Higson's office.

"Ee lad it's right good to see thee," he said with a smile. "Sit yersen down lad. "

I sat down in a leather chair beside his desk and his secretary, Enid, brought me a mug of tea. A young lass was sat in another leather chair facing me.

"This here is Mary Truman," Mr Higson, told me. Mary was a petite lass with long brunette hair, a beautiful face, slim build and decent jugs. She were right tasty.

"Shes to be your assistant."

I looked at the lass in deep admiration. Mary Truman was the grand-daughter of the Percy Truman, the finest blender the company had ever had. His discerning palette had led to the development of some of the finest brews the company made. He was the sensai of brewing -- the man whose sense of taste surpassed all others. I had heard that Mary had inherited some of his skills. A woman who had such a great sense of taste for beer was truly the most eligible girl in town -- and she was going to work for me.

"Mary is coming on fine," Mr Higson continued. "She's gaining great skill for tasting and blending but I think that combining your skills with hers will be the dream team. We're expecting great things from you."

Mary smiled at me and blushed. Damn she was cute!

Our roles in the company covered several areas. Firstly we were responsible for quality control. That meant that we had to sample and taste test each batch of beer. Now you might think that that's the perfect job but unfortunately if you supped each batch you'd soon be too drunk to work. Rather like coffee and tea blenders and of course wine tasters, all we could do was swill the beer around our mouths and spit it out.

My main job was to devise and formulate new types of beer. Apart from our normal bread-and-butter beers, we had a nice line in special and seasonal ales. These were normally bottled or supplied in small barrels. It was Mary's job to use her tasting skills to decide if these new creations were any good.

As you can imagine we worked together very well.

It was very pleasing on my eyes to see young Mary every day. She was a slim girl may be 5 foot three tall with a fine pair of tits. I've never been one to try and get a woman's size but I would say each of boobs was a good two hands cupped together size. They had this lovely way of gently bouncing as she walked. Her other key feature was her rear -- she had an extremely fine ass.

I had had a pretty full and satisfying sex life and I had sampled the wares of quite a few nice lassies. While they were all fine for an evening's misbehaviour, none of them had pulled my emotional strings. Only one girl had up to then captured my stalwart northern heart -- Shirley Henshaw.

Shirley's family had lived next door to us for years. Shirley and I had played together and had gone to the same primary school. Shirley was a tiny, cute, blonde haired girl who immediately captured my soul. Shirley was a feisty, outspoken and fun to be with. She was a polite, generous girl who would lend a hand to anyone -- there wasn't an ounce of malice or harm in her. Shirley was pretty well the most popular kid at school.

I remembered well an encounter with Shirley. I was seven years old at the time and it was on the day that the doctor and nit nurse visited the school. All of the kids at school were expected to receive an annual check-up to ensure that we were both fit and we didn't have nits (that's fleas to ordinary people) in our hair. We all had undressed down to our pants and vests and were queued up in the corridor waiting to be called into the room where check-ups were made. Shirley was stood in front of me and I noticed with more than a little delight her cute lacy vest and Navy blue knickers. Being a typical Northern lad I had the irresistible urge to hook my finger around the elastic in the waist of her knickers, pull back and release the elastic. Naturally, that's exactly what I did!

The elastic hit her naked butt with a loud thwack. Shirley gave a shriek of pain and outrage, turned and with a fluid movement punched me square in the mouth. I went down in a heap to the sound of the kids laughing and Shirley calling me a dirty sod.

The teachers were not best pleased with my actions, but were obviously very impressed with Shirley's right hook. From that moment on Shirley and I became firm friends and quite inseparable.

"Wouldn't it have been easier just to say hello," Shelley told me later. "It certainly would have been a lot less painful." Any girl who could punch like that was just perfect in my eyes.

We became an unofficial item until we were twelve years old. Shirley had been an early developer and by that age she had already grown a fine pair of C cup boobs. It did my ego no harm at all to be the boy-friend of such a beautiful and well equipped girl. Damn she was gorgeous.

Then tragedy struck. Her father had received a promotion and they had to move house to London. I lost all contact with my girl and it hurt. It hurt a lot!

It took me a long time to get over her loss.


I soon came to conclusion that Mary was definitely worth wooing and I invited her out to the pub one evening.

"Have you got evil designs on me, Mort Ramsden?" She asked when I asked her.

"That I might," I replied with a grin.

"In that case I'd love to come to the pub," she replied.

After her third pint I realised that Mary was more than worthy of my attentions. Us Northern folk firmly believe that you shouldn't waste time taking out all sorts women until you think you have the right one. If a woman proves to be acceptable to the eye, is clearly satisfactory breeding stock and knows how to conduct itself as a representative of those from the North, then that's sufficient to seek her hand in matrimony.

I walked Mary home at the end of the evening. "Are you feeling frisky?" Mary asked as we reached the door.

"Yer what?" I asked.

"I've seen you checking me out over the last few weeks and it's obvious from our date that you fancy me. You look to me like a decent Northern lad I think it's time we checked our compatibility. Now do you want to fuck or not?"

I was well impressed, here was a lass who knew what she was about.

"Naturally lass, that'll cap off the evening most acceptably."

In the buff Mary looked most pleasing. Her tits were perfectly voluptuous with only the slightest hint of sag. Her belly was smooth and flat and there was a perfect tuft of dark hair over her twat. My highly tuned sense of smell could detect a strong and most pleasing scent of arousal. Of all the women I had porked none of them had such an arousing smell. Scientists call these pheromones, I just call it cunt on heat.

Before I could set about molesting Mary's body she had pushed me back onto the bed and straddled me.

"I hope you don't mind but I can't stand this foreplay crap," she said as she slid her tight but sopping wet cunt over my cock. "Now that is what I call a fat one," she said as I bottomed out inside her.

She then proceeded to fuck me hard. In fact she fucked me hard three times that night, each time bringing herself to a screaming climax. To say I was totally shagged out, was an understatement. That girl really knew how to fuck. Our shagging came to a close when her mum opened her bedroom door and asked us to stop because Mary screaming and the pounding of the bed were keeping Mary's dad awake and giving him unsavoury ideas of a lascivious nature.

"Well you have a nice cock and it works perfectly well," Mary said the next morning. "You're decent looking lad and you'll soon be just fine, when are we getting wed?"

"Aye, you're no slouch either, lass. You have a decent pair of tits and your cunt is right snug. I'll settle for ya."

And as they say in the finest of pieces of literature, "That was the end of our courtship".

There was no objection whatsoever by either of our sets of parents -- the consensus was that we were fine match and that we would uphold the truest traditions of Northern folk.


"I hear congratulations are in order." Mr Higson told me.

"Yes Gaffer, Mary and me are getting wed next month," I replied.

The gaffer looked at me, his face both troubled and flushed with embarrassment. "I have something difficult to discuss with you lad. Tell me are your conjugal activities comprehensive?"

I found is question surprising but as a good northern lad I was taught to always expect the unexpected. "I'm not sure what you mean Gaffer, but me and Mary do alright in that respect. Could you explain what you're getting at?"

Mr Higson took a sup of his tea before replying. "I'll be frank lad. Does young Mary enjoy giving your todger a suck?"

"Not really," I replied. "She doesn't like the taste of spunk."

Mr Higson looked relieved. "That's handy," he replied. "I were worried that excessive use of her tongue that way might damage her taste buds and bugger up her unique skill of beer tasting."

I grinned. "Don't worry Gaffer there is no risk of that happening. I'm quite content to get my pleasure by exploring other parts of young Mary, if you get my drift."

"I knew you two were sensible folk." He said as he slid an envelope across the desk. "There's a small wedding gift there from me and the company. I'm sure you'll find it useful."

I peeped into the envelope to see a cheque for £10,000.

"That's right generous of you Gaffer, it'll be right useful."


My grand-dad had made more than a few quid over the years betting on the horses and dogs -- he were a right smart bloke when it came to the nags. A nice little win on the football pools had had additionally netted him a tidy sum. In all he was a pretty rich bloke. Rather than leave his cash in the bank, he had bought a block of four terraced houses at a knock down sum. He had done them up and rented them out, ensuring a nice little income.

One evening he dragged me down the pub for a little chat. Well, "dragged" isn't quite the word given my delight in liquid refreshment. Anyway, we settled down for a pint with whisky chaser.

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