February 13, 2013 by kitcac
John Howard recently participated in a writing contest far more compelling than that time our whole English class wrote poems about the wind. One of them went something like:
“I go down to the rugged bay, with the breeze that blows and the ships that sway” and even though I didn’t write it (a lad in my class did, well done, top marks lad), I had to read it over and over at a school open evening. The parents traipsing in and out of our English class were mesmorised by my Chorley accent and all that ship-swaying.
John Howard though, well he prefers his writing to be a bit saucy. So when Lorraine Kelly held her naughty book contest, he leapt at the chance, oh yes, the dirty devil.
John Howard is most definitely not me, by the way, nor is he an extension of my psyche. Definitely not. I have googled all about making up people and those made-up people being a bit strange and writing letters to people and the internet tells me that I am completely not section-able.
John Howard had to write a little biography about himself to go with his submission:
Full Name*. JOHN HOWARD
Have you had any work published previously? If so please state details (If you have been published before this will not exclude you from entry)*: NO
Title of your story*:SHAME AND TEMPTATION
“Thank you for your entry”, said Lorraine Kelly.
So here it is for you in all its weird glory. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the first 1000 words of John Howard’s first erotic novel “Shame and Temptation” which, might I add, was REJECTED by Lorraine Kelly’s Racy Reads Competition:
Shame and Temptation by John Howard (age 62)
“Pssst pssst” was the sound of Patricia’s antibacterial surface cleaner as she wiped off the small spillage from her moussaka for one that had bubbled over onto her formica, like the pent up sexuality raging inside her.
Patricia was a not-unattractive woman with a shapely bottom and a nice neck. She was a snappy dresser, usually wearing an A line skirt from Per Una at Marks & Spencers with a co-ordinating low cut blouse to emphasise her impressive decolletage.
“There’s somebody at the door” she muttered to her trusty dog, Rod. Rod growled, aware that the caller was going to cause him to lose his place as man of the house. Patricia was, naturally, oblivious to what the dog was thinking.
She opened the door and there stood Bernard, the rugged milkman who she only usually saw through the window early in the morning when she couldn’t sleep because of all of her sexual thoughts and when she had finally decided enough is enough with all of the tossing and turning and that the thing to do would be to get up and make a cup of tea to help her nod off.
Bernard was every inch the man that Patricia knew she wanted. He had a short bristly moustache and thick red lips. His cheeks were ruddy from years of delivering milk in inclement weather but that brought out the green of his twinkly eyes. He smelled slightly musty and it made Patricia feel like she was standing next to a three bar heater which had all three bars on. She was so into him.
She locked eyes with him as he explained that he had dropped a pint of semi-skimmed that morning and here was the bottle he owed her. She had seen the white slippery mess from her bedroom.
Bernard reached his arm out and Patricia accepted the bottle, feeling electricity course through her body when she accidentally touched his fingers. He was wearing fingerless gloves due to the weather so that’s why she touched his fingers.
Bernard explained in his raspy, smoky voice that he was here to collect the milk money. Patricia felt yet more heat, but this time it was embarrassment. She only had a tenner. He didn’t have any change. He glared at her, longingly and licked his lips.
Patricia meekly asked him to come inside her front entrance.
She began to vigorously wangle around in the bottom of her handbag looking for some change. It was dark inside her handbag and she didn’t have her glasses on.
“I don’t have my glasses on”, she explained breathlessly to Bernard as he stood watching her, taking in every one of her curves.
“Take your time, take it nice and slow” he said in his raspy drawl.
She began to panic as she was aware that he had other houses to go to and it was getting late. She managed to find a few coins and counted them up. Her heart sank.
“I only have 46p Bernard, I’m so sorry” she told him, in a heightened awareness that the man in her naughty night time notions was standing in her hallway which, in her semi-detached bungalow, was actually in very close proximity to her bedroom.
He touched her shoulder and said gently to her “Patricia, put your glasses on”.
She was confused, she hadn’t been able to find them, so why was he telling he to put them on?
He said it more firmly “Put your glasses on Patricia, they are on the side over there, next to the bread bin”. She sighed a huge sigh and her bosoms heaved with relief and they heaved with attraction for the firm milkman.
She slinked over to the bread bin and fumbling around with her fingers she managed to find her glasses. They were the thick sort, because she had had terrible eyesight for a number of years.
Patricia put her glasses on and looked over at Bernard, ever more aware that his masculinity was filling her femininely decorated kitchen to the brim. He positively oozed sex.
“Found them” she whispered loudly.
He locked eyes with her again and then he let his gaze drop to the bosom area. He smiled. Then he looked into her eyes again, noticing how sultry they looked through the thick lenses of her glasses. “Wow Patricia”, he rasped. “You have massive eyes”.
She felt a trail of sweat running down her forehead and was worried about what it would look like through her glasses, so she swooped her palm across her head and ran her fingers through her hair.
He took this as the sign to move in for something more. Patricia knew that if he made the move, she was going to let him make that move and any other move he wanted to make. She was going to do some moves of her own on him.
Bernard grabbed her by the shoulders, ruffling the fabric and hurting her a little. He was strong. But Patricia wasn’t frightened. She wanted to feel his strength.
And she wanted to be strong for him too.
She knew that he would probably like a woman who could lift heavy things and she’d been lifting some small weights to increase her core strength, often thinking of Bernard when her muscles burned. Feeling his hands on her body she urged him on: “Kiss me Bernard, I want to savour the moment. Let me drink in this moment. Let me smell your milk”
Bernard grabbed the pint of milk from the worktop and expertly opened its silvery lid with his strong thick thumb. Then, as he hungrily kissed Patricia, Bernard sensually began to pour the milk over her face. Patricia’s tongue flicked from side to side, milk dribbling out of her mouth and down her neck. Bernard explored every inch of her face with his tongue, licking milk from the lenses of her glasses and from her cheeks.
As the last of the milk dripped down, she took his hand and led him to the bedroom.