53 comments/ 98955 views/ 45 favorites A Man Needs a Dog By: Spykke 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. A Man Needs a Dog "That's for you," he said as he slapped a key down on the table. "What's that?" I asked. "You'll need a place to live when you're wed. That's the key to number 46, the house is yours now." Bloody hell! A house! I came over all emotional and moved to hug the man. "Don't be a daft fecker!" he scolded me." Just because I've given you a house it means we can start cuddling and exchanging spit!" I loved my grand-dad, he was a one of a kind -- the epitome of northern class and breeding. "Alright," I replied. "Lets have another drink then." "That's more like it lad," he nodded. We got drunk that evening - exceedingly drunk. We walked up the street singing and eating fish and chips. My mum and gran both bawled us out for being a disgrace. It was a perfect evening. --------------------- Wedding preparations! "Don't yer just feckin' hate em?" Mother, prospective mother and wife to be, running around like their arses were on fire, planning this and planning that. Venue, food, invitations, wedding dress, flowers and feck knows what else -- enough to drive a grown man to drink -- that is if I weren't a drinking man already. Luckily my dad, Mary's dad and me all enjoyed the same stuff so we quietly vanished every evening either to drink, go fishing or watch some rugby. That way we stayed serenely calm while the women folk went into meltdown. I felt a right twat in my suit as I waited at the altar for my bride. If I hadn't already shagged her thoroughly I would have appreciated the flowing white dress Mary wore as she walked up the aisle. As it was, virginal white didn't quite suit her. Still, the congregation seemed to appreciate it. The wedding reception was a fine affair -- excellent food, vast amounts of drink and the fine sight of the bride's maids' voluptuous tits overflowing from their low cut dresses. Did I not tell you that all my sisters were well endowed in the mammary department? Believe me, not a single one of them escaped a thorough porking that evening -- my mates all saw to that. Too soon it was time to head off on our honeymoon in Madeira. I was sad to go -- there was plenty of booze left to drink and I couldn't understand why I had to travel to some foreign place to fuck my wife. I could have stayed, got pissed and fucked her at home. Such is that tragic lot of the honest working man. ----------------------- It was a week after we had returned from our honeymoon that dad had his little chat with me about the importance of a man having a dog. Being a sensible northern lad I understood fully and the two of us headed off to see Charlie Smethurst, the local dog breeder. "There they are," Charlie said, pointing at six tiny puppies sitting on the floor of the kitchen. Five of them, all whippets, were fighting for our attention. The sixth, obviously a different breed, sat on its own, looking at me with a surly if not downright hostile expression. Imagine Marlon Brando in the Wild One leaning against a wall, cigarette in mouth and with a surly expression spoiling for a fight. That was this pup. "Is that miserable fucker the runt of the litter?" I asked. "He's a Jack Russell pup left over from another litter. He's so bloody obnoxious that no-one will take him." I reached down to stroke him and the miserable little sod bit me on the finger. "You bastard!" I shouted as I stemmed the blood from my mauled finger. The pup wagged its tail and gave the doggy equivalent of a wicked grin. "You're a miserable little fucker," I told the dog, only for it to wag it's tail more. My heart melted, here was a dog who understood the art of being damned awkward. "I'll take him," I told Charlie. Charlie grinned. "I knew from the start that he'd go for you." "You know," I said, "I had an Uncle Norbert who was the most miserable sod in the world. He could start an argument in an empty room and it would always end up in a fight. I'm going to name this dog, Norbert. Norbert immediately gave a yip of approval. I went to put a lead on his collar, only to be greeted with a "Don't fuck with me!" growl. I left the house with Norbert calmly walking beside me unfazed by cars, other dogs or any of the usual stuff which got dogs excited. It was as if he considered the world to be unworthy of any demonstration of emotion. Mary was lying on the couch watching TV when I got in. Norbert ambled into the lounge, looked around and sniffed the air. Suddenly, he leapt onto the couch, darted under her skirt and buried his nose in her crotch and snuffled madly. "Get that fucking dog out of my crack," Mary screamed. A shiver ran up my back. This dog was a real cunt hound, just like Uncle Norbert. I wondered if there was such a thing as reincarnation. "Meet Norbert, our new family pet," I told her. Norbert continued to sniff Mary's crotch until finally she managed to push him onto the floor. "If you were reborn as a dog this is what you'd be like," she muttered at me darkly. From that moment on, Norbert couldn't get enough of the smell of Mary's twat. He ignored everyone else, whether friends or visitors. The simple fact was that there was something about Mary that he liked. One Saturday morning Mary was unloading the dish washer while still in her nightie. There was suddenly a scream and sound of breaking plates. "Sodding dog," she screamed. It appeared that she didn't enjoy the feeling of a cold, wet nose, being shoved between her piss-flaps. Another habit Norbert had was to liberate Mary's dirty knickers from the laundry basket and chew the gusset. "For fucks sake, I can't afford to keep buying knickers cos that sodding dog has eaten them," Mary screeched. The more she screeched the more Norbert would give a doggy smile. Damn, he was just like Muttley in the Dick Dastardly cartoons. I headed down the pub that night with my dad. The boozer was full with the usual crowd of men with their dogs. We were greeted by our friends, their dogs all vying for a stroke from us. Norbert ignored them all and walked up to the bar and sat down looking at me expectantly. I bought pints and whiskey chasers for dad and me. And we took a sup. Norbert gave a threatening growl as we swallowed our ale. "Are ye thirsty lad?" Dad asked, him being particularly understanding of the canine creature. Norbert gave a small bark. Dad bought a pint of Higson's best bitter and put it down on the ground. Norbert drank it with relish and soon emptied the pint. The dog then burped, farted, and looked up expectantly. "I've got a bit of an idea," dad said. "Give us a plate of your best tripe in vinegar, landlord." Dad called out. The plate was placed on the floor in front of Norbert who proceeded to eat the tripe with evident relish. He burped and farted once more then laid down and went to sleep. Dad rummaged in his jacket pocket and in a moment produced a dog-eared photograph. "That's your Uncle Norbert," my dad said, holding out the photograph for me to see. He had been sorting out a box of photos and other stuff that he had found in the attic. "He was the most miserable fucker I ever met," he added with a scowl. I could see what he meant. The photograph showed a miserable looking bloke wearing a flat cap, supping a pint of ale. The look in his face would have killed Margaret Thatcher at a hundred yards. "There was only three things in this world that gave him any pleasure," my dad mused. "A pint of Higson's mild, served at blood temperature, raw tripe soused in vinegar and shoving his hand up a bird's skirt. He was a filthy fecker." "Didn't that get him into trouble? Birds don't usually like some old bloke rummaging about under their skirts." "Yeah, but it didn't stop him." I looked at the photograph again and a shiver went down my spine. There was a certain look in his eye which reminded me of my dog. Hang on, my dog liked Higson's beer, tripe and cunt. What the fuck! I looked up at dad who gave a knowing nod. "I see you've cottoned on," he replied with a smile. "The moment I clapped eyes on that dog I thought of Uncle Norbert. The way he drank that ale and ate the tripe in the pub got me thinking. If I didn't know better I'd think that the old bugger has been resurrected as a dog." At that moment Norbert gave a quite woof and wagged his tail. The little sod looked up at dad and gave the dog equivalent of a smile. "Oh shit!" we said, in unison. ----------------------- The presence of Norbert in the house seemed to accelerate Mary's transition into cold-blooded creature of doom that most Northern women became after getting married. Suddenly the house had become her domain with me and Norbert simply being interlopers who dared to trespass on her sacred land. The decor of the house, carpets, paint, wallpaper and curtains were all decided by Mary. All colour schemes had a distinctly female hue and all soft furnishings suddenly became lacy and frilly. I was required to leave my shoes in the porch and any attempt to sit on a chair while wearing my working clothes was sternly rebuffed. I tried hard to keep our marriage alive but it felt as though I was fighting a losing battle as Mary seemed lose the lustful attitude she had when we first married. I broached the subject of children only to be rebuffed. She had no desire to end up "as a milk cow bearing a hoard of screaming, smelly, brats" -- she so thoughtfully told me. Over two years our marriage became moribund. Sex became an infrequent occurrence only supplied on a Saturday evening and subject to my being of good behaviour. (Author's note: a more detailed treatise on the metamorphosis of the northern woman is given in my earlier story "A man needs a shed". Also available on the Literotica website.) I should add that not everything had turned to crap. Mr Beavis Higson, the brew master suffered a mild heart attack and on the spot decided to devote his life to a less stressful life of fishing and bird watching. I was summoned to the board be told that I had been appointed as the new Brew Master and as result was now of the board of the company. Not fecking bad for a lad of 25! Being a well-bred Northern lad I had anticipated Mary's change and had adopted well-established coping techniques. I had a well appointed shed provided with a gas ring and a wireless. In keeping with her type, Mary refused to enter the shed deeming it to be a place redolent of dirt, oil and the repugnant paraphernalia associated with a man. This of course suited me down to the ground and allowed me to spend many a peaceful afternoon and evening listening to the wireless, drinking strong sweet tea and contemplating the futility of life in general. Putting on one side the beneficial sanctuary that was my shed, I of course indulged in the mandatory pleasures associated with all robust and decent Northern men. I attended rugby matches every Saturday afternoon (I was no lover of the Nancy boy game that is known as soccer), I would diligently attend the pub every evening taking care to ensure Norbert's continued health I walking him there and back and providing him with a pint of best bitter each evening. Most of the customers in the pub also took said dogs with them on an evening. For the most part Norbert would ignore these dogs considering them to be of lesser nature to himself. On one occasion he noticed a rather attractive female whippet and without pausing to seek her agreement mounted her and proceeded to shag her with unbridled energy. The pub was filled with the sound of cheering with everyone encouraging Norbert to greater efforts. The whippet gave every impression of thoroughly enjoying herself and from that evening on would take every opportunity to shake her rear end at Norbert in the most provocative manner. To her evident irritation Norbert ignored her, no doubt considering that she had outlived her value to him. What a total bastard! He was my kind of dog. "What are you drinking, Mort," came the loud voice of Ernie Hemmings as I walked into the pub one night. I had known Ernie since I was five and we had been close mates throughout school. Ernie was without doubt the hardest guy I had met - He was built like the proverbial brick shit-house and hung like a horse. Now I'm no slouch when it comes to cock size and I'm perfectly capable of bringing tears to the eyes of any lass but Ernie was in a different class altogether. His dick would make a horse jealous. On the downside Ernie was a dopey fucker and as thick as two short planks. (Having said that -- that's really an insult to a tree) To give you an idea of Ernie's finesse (or lack of it) his preferred chat up line whenever he first met a girl was "Do ya fuck?" Against all expectations Ernie had pretty well a 90% success rate using this approach. On the downside he once told me that a girl refused to fuck him without a condom. Unfortunately Ernie didn't have any condoms with him so he took off his sock and used that. He was six foot six tall and had played for the town rugby club. Unfortunately Ernie was always reluctant to let the other side take the rugby ball during a match and inevitably ended up beating one or two of the other side to a pulp. This led to him being sacked. Given his lack of any intellect worth talking about the only job Ernie could get was as a dustbin man. His size and strength suited him nicely for the job. "I hear you got married," Ernie said after he had drained his first point. "Is she a good shag?" Poor old Ernie had a one track mind, he lived for sex and he assumed that everybody else was on the same wavelength. Almost any conversation you had with him gravitated to sex at some stage or another. "Yup, I'm now a married man," I replied. I resisted going into any details about my sexual activities with Mary. Spending time with Ernie was a mixed blessing. On the one hand he was always generous with his money and almost invariably bought every round. The downside was that conversations tended to be utterly tedious. Ernie's fund of knowledge and depth of interest in anything outside of sex was minimal leading to an unbelievably banal conversation. Unfortunately Ernie's generosity led to my making a serious error of judgement. Being slightly the worse for liquor my parting comments to him as I left the bar was "You'll have to call round and meet the missus sometime." Little did I know that this invitation would turn round and bite me on the arse before the week was out. ----------------- Three days later, I was surprised to see Ernie sat in my lounge enjoying a bottle of my beer as I walked in after work. Mary was at beside him on the couch, She seemed to have a flushed look on her face and her hair was a little slightly ruffled. I'm no mug and found this all a little odd, why the hell would Ernie be visiting my missus? Norbert began to walk past Ernie on his way to the kitchen when he stopped and sniffed the air. Suddenly he jumped onto Ernie's lap and shoved his nose into his crotch. "What the fuck!" Ernie shouted as he shoved Norbert onto the floor. Norbert then jumped onto Mary's lap and did the same. As usual Mary screamed and brushed the dog off her. Norbert looked at me and then rather pointedly looked and Mary and Ernie. The significance of his expression was obvious. He had smelled something he liked in Ernie's crotch -- the smell of Mary's twat, maybe? Now how could Ernie get her smell on his nether regions? Well there was only one answer to that question -- Ernie had been fucking my wife! Given Ernie's lack of brains, I guessed it wouldn't be too hard to catch them at it. The plan was simple, I employed a couple of young lads I knew to keep an eye on the house and phone me if they saw Ernie. Two days later I got the call and I drove over to my house. Ernie had been seen entering my house. Coincidentally, Mary had taken the day off from work to wash the curtains. As I walked in through the front door I could hear the sound of the bed pounding followed by the characteristic shriek Mary gave when she came. I looked down at Norbert who looked back with a strange look in his eye. I quietly walked up the stairs and pushed open the bedroom door. The sight in the bedroom stopped me in my tracks. Ernie was stood by the bed reaching for his shirt. "Hey up Mort," he retorted with a shit-eating grin. He was a formidable guy nude. His body was ripped and fat free -- he was a right hard bugger. His limp cock resting on his thigh would make a horse jealous. Mary lay on the bed, legs apart. Her well fucked cunt gaped open like the entrance to the channel tunnel. Her face was glazed with sweat and she had a sated grin. I shook my head in dismay. I felt no anger, just disgust. I had always seen Mary as being a bright girl. Her fucking Ernie made me realise how stupid she really was. "Mary, apart from his cock, what do you see in Ernie, eh?" She looked at me in confusion. "Even at school we knew that he hardly had two brain cells to rub together," I told her. "If his brain was the size of his cock then he would be a genius but the fact is he's a thick twat who's as much use as tits on a bull." "Now I might not have a cock the size of a python but I'm a pretty decent shag and with my brains and money you've thrown away a pretty decent deal for what?" My comments finally penetrated the fog that surrounded Ernie's brain. "Hey, I don't like what you're saying about me." "You're a right cunt," I told Ernie. "Now shut the fuck up and let the grown-ups talk." It wasn't the wisest thing to say but I wasn't thinking straight. His notoriously short temper kicked in. And he began to walk towards me, flexing his fists. "Oh fuck!" he suddenly screamed. I saw a grey flash as Norbert leaped across the room and sank his teeth into Ernie's bell-end. The dog clamped hard onto his cock and hung suspended, growling from time to time. "Gerrit off!" Ernie screamed, "it hurts." Norbert growled and shook his head rapidly, increasing the pain. "I don't think my dog is interested in letting go," I replied. "Leastways, not yet. Tell you what though, if you ask Norbert nicely maybe he'll give you a Prince Albert." I leaned against the wall and watched the fun. Every now and then Norbert would shake his head fiercely while giving a throaty growl. Ernie's cock had stretched a couple of inches under the weight of Norbert hanging from it. There was no doubt about it, if Ernie's dick had been a rat it would have been dead by now. "Please get him off," Ernie sobbed, tears streaming down his face. "Are you going to fuck off and never bother me again?" I asked. "Anything," he moaned. "Just get him off me." "I hope you're not fibbing because Norbert will get you if you are," I added with a grin. "I swear!" Ernie whimpered -- a broken man. "Norbert!" I called out. "let him go lad." In an instant the dog was sat beside me with an evil grin on his face. Ernie scrambled into his clothes, taking great care not to cause further harm to his rather chewed up and bloody cock, and was gone. I asked him if he wanted a sticking plaster as he ran out of the door but he didn't reply. Rude of him! I looked at Mary with distaste. "Well you fucked up badly there lass. You really are a silly twat." I had nearly called her a 'stupid twat' but Mary wasn't stupid. A girl with her palette and tasting skills could never be stupid. Mary had the decency to look up and nod. "I know!" she wailed. I really wasn't interested in why she chose to play away -- it really made no odds. "Well lass, it was fun until you fucked it all up. I'll sort out the divorce as soon as so be a good girl and pack your bags and fuck off." She didn't try to argue -- it wouldn't have done her any good. The good thing about a good northern girl was she knew when the game was up and accepted it. A Man Needs a Dog Was I upset? Did I regret that my marriage had been broken? On balance, not that much. "Why?" you ask. Well, let us consider what motivates a sound Yorkshire man. The high priority matters in any northern man's life are, in no particular order, that fine game cricket, the noble art of rugby league, whippets, fine northern ale and pigeons. Women are fine creatures who provide food, companionship and warmth on cold nights but do not compete with the aforementioned priority matters. Romance is a concept alien to a northern man who normally restricts his emotions to affection for his whippet or pigeon. We feel and give affection but love somehow cuts against our robust outlook on the world. Having said that, I did have a love. My heart still belonged to Shirley even though she was gone. The divorce went smoothly enough. The house had been given to me before the wedding so I kept it. I had deposited the cheque from Higsons in a separate account which I omitted to mention to Mary (naughty me) so I kept that. Ultimately, Mary got only half of our modest savings. In all, a most satisfactory outcome for the good guy -- me! We continued to have a good working relationship -- the crafting of beer overcomes all problems but Mary took great care to know her place and not annoy me. Suddenly Mary became a quiet, obedient soul as far as her work was concerned. What she did outside work was her own affair -- as long as she didn't piss me off then she was safe. I missed the wifely skills that had Mary brought to the marriage but in the overall scale of things -- I would happily survive. I wasn't into begging for sex so losing that aspect didn't worry me at all. There were plenty of girls in the town who had expressed interest in me once we were divorced. My cock received plenty of loving attention indeed more than enough to keep my glands nicely drained. There was one amusing after effect of Ernie's close encounter with Norbert. Because of Norbet's habit of licking his own balls, his mouth had a acquired a population of some pretty anti-social bacteria. Some of these had transferred to Ernie's cock giving him a nasty infection rather akin to gangrene. It had been touch and go for a few days but the doctors had managed to save his cock. I'm sad to report, however, that the surgery left Ernie only half the man he used to be -- if you get my drift. ---------------- Higson's were a family business who held northern traditions in high esteem. My divorce and the circumstances surrounding it caused significant alarm and despondency with the venerable members of the Higson family. An emergency board meeting was convened. We gathered in the boardroom late one Friday afternoon. The five of us (I refer to the early part of this epistle for details of the board) gathered behind the boardroom table, pint mugs of tea in front of us. "Please send in Miss Trueman, the chairman, Mr Joseph Higson asked his PA. Mary entered after a moment, her face revealing her terror at being summoned to the board. She was not offered a chair or a mug of tea. I could see her blanch as the implications of this hit her. There was a lengthy silence. "You are a stupid and feckless woman, Miss Trueman," the chairman finally intoned in a solemn voice. Your dear grandfather would be turning in his grave if he knew what you have done." I could almost hear Mary's knees knocking in fear. "We are an old family who revere honesty, decency and fidelity," he continued. "What does our family motto say?" he asked pointing at the family crest on the wall. "Supra omnem fidelem," Mary read out. "What does it mean?" he asked. "I don't know," Mary whispered. "Roughly translated, it mean Above all be faithful!" he bellowed back. Mary started at the ferocity of his voice. "And nevertheless, you were an unfaithful wife. As an employee your actions have brought shame to this company and by inference to our family. Is there any good reason why I shouldn't dismiss you?" Mary stood mute, tears running down her face. "Well?? Do you have an answer?" the chairman bellowed after a moment. "No, sir," Mary finally whispered. "I'm so sorry for what I've done. I was stupid and selfish and I know there's no way I can repair that." Mary was looking down at the floor by this time and she didn't see the smile and wink that the chairman flashed towards me. All of the members of the board had slight smiles. They knew that we wouldn't sack Mary -- she was too good an asset to the company. Equally, she would never resign -- the additional shame would be too great. We had her by the short hairs. (that is if she didn't routinely shave them off) Instead, we were going to give her a serious hard time. "And does sorry mean anything, harlot?" the chairman continued. "Why should we believe a cheating, immoral woman." I heard the slight sound of trickling liquid. A small pool by Mary's feet indicated that the girl had wet herself in fear and shame. This wasn't missed by the other board members. "Go and get a bucket and cloth and mop up your mess while we decide your fate," the chairman told her. Mary's face was crimson as she left the room. "Was that sufficient?" the chairman asked me. "Spot on Gaffer," I replied. "I'm glad it was her and not me getting a dressing down." Mary soon returned and mopped up the puddle. "The board has decided to give to a second chance, Miss Trueman," the chairman announced. "You may continue your work here, albeit under the close supervision of myself. Any misdemeanour at all will result in your instant dismissal, understood?" Mary looked up, her face a picture of relief. She began stammering her thanks to each board member. The chairman cut her off. "Don't thank us, young woman, thank Mr Ramsden. He was the only board member to speak in your favour." That was a load of bollocks but I could see what was coming. "I think you should thank him." Mary turned to me. "Thankyou Mort," she whispered. "Mr Ramsden to you," the chairman thundered. "And speak up and apologise properly." Mary cleared her throat. "Thankyou, Mr Ramsden, I promise won't let you down and betray your faith in me." I grinned inside -- it must have really pissed her off to apologise. "I accept your apology, don't you dare let me down." I replied. "Now clear off and change your underwear." Mary picked up the bucket and left the room. "I think that was about right," the Chairman grinned. "I doubt that we'll get any more silliness from her." ---------------------- "Hey Mort, you'll never guess who's come to work here!" came the call one morning when I walked into the typing pool. "Yer what?" I asked, turning to Jesse Simms, the office gossip and owner of the vice that had called out to me. "Come on, you remember hammy Henshaw!" I pondered. I only knew one Henshaw -- my lost girlfriend. "Do you mean Shirley Henshaw?" I asked Jesse. "Yes, you wazzock," she replied, throwing her stapler at me. My heart gave a jump and a myriad of questions came to mind. Was she back for good? Was she married? Did I have a chance with her? "Where is she?" I asked, barely supressing my joy. "She's over at personnel getting sorted out," Jess replied, grinning at me -- she was too smart for her own good! "Ok ladies, please explain why you call her Hammy." "Its because she had the biggest panty hamster we ever saw." "Panty hamster?" I asked, failing to understand. "Bush, you know, pubes," a girl said, pointing provocatively at her own crotch. "Don't you remember how she grew those lovely boobs when she was eleven?" Jesse asked me. The slight flush on my cheeks confirmed that I did. "You dirty fecker," Jesse giggled as she saw my face. "Did you ever cop a feel of em?" "Anyway," she continued without waiting for my reply. "She also grew this luxuriant bush on blonde hair on her puss. Can you imagine how jealous we were? Every time we had a shower after gym we compared our own flat chests and bald twats to her gorgeous body. We were that jealous that we would have killed her if she hadn't been such a nice lass." I grinned at the image of them in the shower that sprang into my mind. "You had a thing about her, didn't you," Jesse asked, gently. I nodded slightly. "Well here's your chance, don't let her escape again." At that moment the office door opened. A goddess walked tentatively into the room. Long wavy blonde hair, a breathtakingly beautiful face, 5 foot 4 inches of curves and fecundity. The low cut neck of her blouse revealed two gorgeous mounds of womanly breasts. I felt my crotch throb at the sight. Shirley spotted me and smiled radiantly. "Hello Mort," she whispered before wrapping her arms around me. Her soft tits pressed against my chest filling me with a multitude of lascivious and downright disgusting thoughts. My ears were assaulted by the sound of ten women cheering, egging us on and making thoroughly inappropriate comments. "Will you two fuck off and find a room?" Jesse shouted, with a smile. "Let's go to my office and have a mug of tea," I told Shirley. "Spot on," she replied in a gorgeous Yorkshire twang. I have never heard my mother dialect sound so feckin' sexy. "So tell me about what you've been doing since you moved south," I asked. "Well as you know, my dad was transferred to the company headquarters in London. We bought a house in Henley, a nice place on the River Thames. I went to school first in Henley and then studied economics at the London School of Economics. I really hated London and told mum and dad that I was coming back north to get a job. I had heard that you are working here at Hickson's and thought it would be nice to try and get a job here. Luckily they were looking for someone to assist the finance director, and they gave me the job," Shelley replied. "So what will you do here," I asked. "Well basically I'm going to be responsible for developing and monitoring the company budget. Like I said, I report directly to the finance director but it looks like I will pretty well have carte blanche when it comes to the budget -- of course subject to limitations imposed by the board." "Bloody Nora," I spluttered. "You'll be a kingpin in this company. So young, so beautiful and so feckin' smart," I grinned at her. "You're not doing too badly yourself are you? Brewmaster and Member of the board at what, 26?" She grinned back. "Yeah, I reckon we deserve each other -- imagine what we would be like as a couple," I replied. "Hang on, big boy, it's been a long time since we were at school together and I left for the softy south. I might not like you as much as I did then." I put on my best kicked the little puppy face and whimpered. "Aw, is my poor lil boy feeling hurt, let me kiss it better." Shirley grinned lent over and gave me a kiss. Full, soft, moist, and right on my lips. I thought I was going to faint with pleasure. It took me all my self-control and more to prevent the coming in my pants within milliseconds. I gave a strangled gurgle as she pulled away grinning at my now flushed face. I had never been kissed like that before. To say that it was hot was a pathetic understatement. "So what didn't you like about London?" I asked, grabbing a quick sup of tea to moisten my suddenly dry throat. "What was there to like?" Shirley snorted. "Everything was way too expensive, everybody was desperate to try and show everybody else how rich, fashionable and clever they were. Nobody seemed to have any time for genuine relationships. It was ridiculously difficult to find genuine friends and to be blunt they were socially inept. You could easily walk into a full pub and feel alone. Nobody would call out your name or greet you, it was a wasteland of human comfort." "What was worse when the blokes down there. All they did when they took me out was try to charm themselves into my pants. I wasn't having none of it, most of them were poofty softies who were filled with their own self-importance. When you met with them conversation generally gravitated to 2 or three things -- do you like my new Saville Row suit, let me tell you about the million Pound deal I brokered today, I got myself a new Porsche today. If it wasn't them it was the "Jack the Lad" blokes who worked on building sites or drove taxis and were preoccupied with, football and birds. You know the sort, they stand there whistling at you as you walk down the street shouting 'how about it love'. I mean what sort of retarded bimbo would want a bloke like that?" "Hang on girl," retorted, "I like rugby, beer and birds!" "True, but you speak with a decent accent, you come from the north and you know how to speak to a decent Northern lass properly." I had to laugh. "Admit it girl, you're just genetically pre-disposed to hating southerners." "True," she conceded. "But beside the point." Shirley's face suddenly became serious. She supped her tea and paused for a moment. "What made it worse that they thought that because I was blonde and spoke with a fine northern accent that I was dim and an easy fuck. Stupid sods, most of them limped home after I kneed them in the balls." My eyes filled with tears of pride as I listened to this fine specimen of northern femininity -- the sort of lass who appreciated the company of a decent, robust northern man, not some nancy-boy southerner who whose idea of a good time was a Pimms and tweeting on his mobile phone. "So would it help take the nasty taste out of your mouth if a decent northern lad was to ask you out for a pint and fish and chips?" I asked. "Don't think I know any "decent" northern lads," she replied with a grin. "I will settle for an "indecent" northern lad if you're offering." The fires of my love for this girl had rekindled and were burning fiercely. Yes you heard me right. After all I said earlier, I knew I loved the bones of this girl. Everything about her was perfect. Body, face, mind -- I just couldn't fault her. I just hoped she was a decent shag to boot. Shirley saw the wistful look on my face and grinned as she read my mind. "You dirty bugger," she said, playfully slapping my face. "You'll have to wait until we're better acquainted to see if I'm a good shag. My pussy still has its lid on it and only the right bloke is going to remove it." Fuck me -- still a virgin! Mind you, she hadn't said no so I had to be in with a sniff. "So what about this nickname you've got, 'hammy', isn't it?" "Yeah," she grinned, "that's what the girls call me, but it doesn't apply any more. Have you any idea what it's like to have a ridiculously big bush in your crotch? It's like having a plump furry animal tucked in your knickers. Always damp and stinky. I got rid of it pronto. I'm now smooth as the proverbial babies bum with not a hair in sight." "If you behave yourself, I might let you have a look sometime," she grinned wickedly. -------------------- Unlike with Mary, my courtship of Shirley took a more leisurely pace. We went on several dates to the pub, the cinema and restaurants, slowly getting to know each other again and discovering that we still had deep affection for each other. We spent many happy hours practising the intricate skills of mutual satisfaction. I discovered that not only did Shirley have the most glorious tits but also that her kissing and oral skills were epic. Her pudendum was indeed smooth and hairless and tasted wonderful. Shirley was particularly fond of my oral ministrations and I spent many hours tending to her nether regions. I was in no doubt that I was deeply in love with the girl. Mum and dad were delighted that Shirley and I were together. "Lovely girl, that Shirley," Dad told me one evening in the pub. "You had better get your arse in gear and grab her before someone else does." From the looks of unbridled lust that most of guys at work gave her, I knew he was right. I simply hoped that no other fecker would get his hands on her. I needn't of worried. The next night we were sat in a quiet corner of the pub enjoying a drink. "Well Mort, we've been dating for a while and I've come to a decision," she said, her face looking sombre. "Oh aye?" I replied waiting for the crunch. "You're as nice a feller as I remember from school and, for a dirty minded bugger, you'll do for me." "Is that some sort of declaration of love?" I asked, playing her at her own game. "Yes you stupid fecker, I love you. I have for years since that day you twanged my knicker elastic," she grinned. "I've chosen you to be the lad to take the lid off my honey pot, if you want it." "After we're married, of course," she grinned after a brief pause. I grinned broadly, this lass was a keeper and I was the one who was going to keep her. "But just a word of warning," she added seriously. I'm not the sort of girl who runs around on her bloke and I won't tolerate a bloke who runs around on me. Now I know all about what happened to you with Mary, and I can promise you it won't happen to you again, if I have any say in the matter. But if you do the same to me I'll have your balls for breakfast. Got it?" "Sounds like a perfect arrangement," I grinned. "But..." Her face fell as I spoke the dreaded three letter word. There's someone else you'll need to meet first," I told her. --------------------- Norbert greeted me with a mildly disgusted snort as if to say "where the fuck have you been." He then looked up at Shirley, sniffed her foot, sneezed and wagged his tail. "This is Norbert," I told her. "Norbert, this is Shirley." Shirley sat down and beckoned Norbert over to her. To my surprise he trotted over, wagging his tail. "Aren't you a cute little man," she said to him as she stroked his head. Norbert wagged his tail, relishing the attention. I went and made tea, leaving them to get acquainted. We sat, chatting while we enjoyed our drinks. Norbert sat at her feet throughout. "I need a wee," Shirley announced as she left her room. "So what do you think, Norbert?" I asked. "Is she a goodun, eh?" Norbert gave a doggy grin and woofed gently - I had his approval. As she came back into the room, Shirley accidently kicked a bone that Norbert had left in the way. "Oh bugger!" she hissed as the bone rolled under a chair. She knelt down to retrieve it her short skirt riding up to reveal her beautiful thighs and the gusset of her knickers encasing her plump cunt. The cloth was clearly damp from her secretions. It was a sight to make grown men turn weak at the knees. Norbert look up at me with a quizzical expression. I instantly understood. "You're right my lad, there's no harm in an insurance policy, once bitten, twice shy, eh? Go for it," I whispered In a flash he ran over and thrust his nose into her crotch. "Arrrrgh... what the fuck... get your nose out of my cunt, you sodding dog..." came the shrill response. Norbert gave what can only be described as a giggle.