26 comments/ 64521 views/ 19 favorites A Man Needs a Shed By: Spykke This story has comedic and surreal undertones and draws certain well known stereotypes relating to people from the north of England. It is dedicated to those Literotica readers who feel the need to attack my work so aggressively and especially to the kind soul who e-mailed me just so he could tell me that I couldn't write for shit. I want to thank him – his use of English was hilarious – it cheered me up no end. The story also considers issues of infidelity and has my usual dash of smut and naughtiness. The story title owes itself to the fine song by Neil Young, "A man needs a maid" -------------------------------------- The phenomenon of metamorphosis in nature is a fascinating subject which has tested the minds of many scientists. How does a caterpillar change into a butterfly or moth? How do tadpoles change into frogs or toads? How do certain animals change the colour of their fur according to the seasons? In spite of this, I often wonder when scientists are going to get their brains in gear to address the most important issue and work out what turns a sweet, young, sexy woman into an evil, vindictive and thoroughly obnoxious harridan? Or maybe that problem is too difficult? Wait, perhaps I'm getting ahead of myself, reel back 25 years. I'm Cecil Peters. Now before you start sniggering at my name, you can call me Spike, like all my friends. OK? You do that and we'll get on just fine. I was thrust screaming and bawling into this world on 12th August 1951. Well actually the birth didn't make me scream at all, it was the hard slap delivered to my tender rear by the midwife which caused the mayhem. My dad told me many years later that I repaid the midwife almost immediately by pissing all over her. "You must have saved it up specially," he told me with a grin. "It was like a burst water pipe." It appears that I managed to miss the protective apron she wore and thoroughly soaked her. She was not a happy bunny! So you see, even from my earliest age women were determined to give me a hard time. ------------------------ I was a typical kid, utterly average and normal I would say. I lived with my mum and dad in a small terraced house in the Lancashire town of Bolton. Dad worked at Hebblethwaite's Engineering, just half a mile down the road. My dad was my role model. He was a typical northern working man who had three passions in his life: beer, those delightful racing dogs whippets and homing pigeons. Notice I don't include my mum as one of his passions. As dad once told me "passion with the missus? That's reet too dangerous. The best thing a man can do is to avoid raising passions in a woman." He was always giving me good advice but the most important thing he taught me was "A man needs a shed." "Yer what?" I relied, totally confused. "You'll understand when you get married," he explained. "The first thing that any wife does is commandeer the house. Nothing will ever happen inside the house without her agreement. The choice of furnishings, colour schemes, what happens where, all of this will be decided by the wife. Any argument on the husband's part will simply lead to pain, both mental and physical." "A shed is automatically the domain of the man of the family." "But a shed is just a store for tools," I protested, not understanding. "Nay lad, its more than that. A shed is a place where a man can do 'man stuff' without being disturbed. No wife would dare to enter a shed, it's far too dirty and insanitary. That's where a man is best left – if he's in his shed he can't be in the house being a nuisance or making a mess." "A man can be at peace in his shed, he can contemplate the important matters of life and the world without being harassed by the wife." My mum was a housewife and as such was custodian of the house. House proud didn't come close to describing how she kept the place, with everything in its place and a place for everything. I wouldn't say she was strict but she had a way of letting you know if you were in the way or doing something unacceptable. In my dad's case it was usually a terse instruction to leave or desist. In my case it was a gentle but stinging clip around the ear. -------------------------------- Living in a street of terraces meant that we knew pretty well everyone in the street. I had a group of friends and we happily spent our days getting into trouble. The question of my first name never really arose until a new kid moved in across the street when I was 5. "Cecil? What a stupid name!" was almost the first thing he said when I first met him. "Sounds like a girl's name to me." My mates started to snigger. Up to then none of them had commented on my name but this new kid had changed all that. I tell you now, no bugger laughs at me and gets away with it. I punched him hard on the nose. Even at that tender age I was able to deliver enough force to bloody his nose. He burst into tears and ran home. A few things happened after that. First his dad came to our house and complained that I was a bully. My dad pretended to be angry but once I had explained what had happened he told me I had done the right thing. The second thing was that nobody took the piss out of my name again. Instead, I became known as 'Spike' after the aggressive way I had dealt with the kid. I did well enough at school and unlike most of the kids I quite enjoyed it. I passed all the exams thrown at me and the teachers all thought I would in all probability go to University. When it came to it, I didn't really fancy the idea of going to University. I rather liked the prospect of getting a job and earning some cash. Dad had a word with Mr Hebblethwaite, his boss, to see if he could get me an apprenticeship. I had always enjoyed working with my hands so this suited me fine. I was summoned to Hebblethwaite's Engineering the following week for an interview with Mr Hebblethwaite himself. Hebblethwaite's engineering had been established in 1880 by the Hebblethwaite dynasty and had a reputation for quality and precision. The main office, a huge white stone edifice, was just outside Bolton on the Manchester Road. The marble floored vestibule echoed as I walked to the sweeping stairway up to Mr Hebblethwaite's office. The place was redolent of Victorian wealth. You know what I mean, huge paintings, marble busts, all that sort of thing. The place smelled a bit like a museum. Mr Hebblethwaite's office was huge with wood panels lining the walls and its own collection of large family portraits. On the wall behind the huge Victorian desk was a painting of Mr Hebblethwaite kitted out in a tweed suit and flat cap exercising two whippets. There were several beautiful apprentice pieces on stands around the room. "Sit down lad," Mr Hebblethwaite boomed in his rich Lancashire brogue. He was a large bluff man with a ruddy complexion and a friendly smile. "Have some tea," he invited handing over a large pint mug full of fragrant brew. "I can't abide silly tea cups," he explained seeing my expression of surprise. "This is a man's drink and no argument." I already liked this man. An honest northerner who understood what was important. We chatted about what plans I had for my life and he grinned broadly when I explained how I wanted to work with my hands." "A man of my own beliefs," he explained. "I began in this work as an apprentice. These are all my work," he added pointing at the superb apprentice pieces. "Now pin those ears back and listen, lad," he began. "I have a vacancy for an apprentice but I want something more than just a metal basher. I want someone with some brains who can take on some of the design and other work. Now I've seen your exam results and I had a word with your headmaster and it seems to me that you have your head screwed on right, do you reckon you could do that?" I was well pleased and nodded. "Sounds good to me." He went on to explain that he would require me to learn academic skills such as engineering drawing, metallurgy and maths as well mastering welding, fabrication and the use of lathes and other machines at work. This would involve signing up for evening classes. He also expected all his apprentices to work hard. This all suited me fine. "Sounds grand to me, sir," I told him. He stood and held out his hand. "Well shake on it then lad." And that was that – I had my first job. ---------------------------- I was nervous as I walked into the works entrance on my first day of full employment. We all have moments of worry that we won't somehow shape up or that the people at work will take an immediate dislike to you and first impressions can make or break you. As it turned out, I needn't have worried. All the blokes knew me and it felt like I was joining a big happy family. Dad had tipped me off that the guys liked to play nasty tricks on new apprentices. They're always meant in good fun and sort of helped bond the new-comer to the company 'family'. It was a sort of rite of passage. It came as no surprise, then, when Ernie, the machine shop foreman, came up to me. "Well then young Spike, do you think you've got good coordination?" he asked with a smile. "I reckon so," I replied, wondering what was to come next. "Would you like to try a little test then?" I agreed. A group of workers came over to join in the fun. "Right lad, what we do is put this funnel down the front of your pants," he explained, holding up a large metal funnel. "You tilt your head back and we'll put a penny on your forehead. The idea is for you to flip your head forwards so the coin drops into the funnel. Easy eh?" I knew exactly what would happen but decided to go through with it. I knew that I would end up getting wet but it would give everyone a good laugh and it would help me bond with the guys. "Ok, I'll give it a try," I told him. With a sly grin he pushed the funnel down the front of my pants. I tilted my head back and he put the penny on my forehead. "Ok, give it a try," he told me. I flipped my head forwards and the coin slipped down, missing the funnel. "Bad luck lad, give it another go. Try tilting your head further back." I tilted my head as far back as it would go and waited for the penny to be placed on my forehead. I winced as I felt the cold wetness spread over my crotch as somebody poured a jug of water into the funnel. "Gotcha," came the shout from all the blokes followed by shouts of laughter. "You sods," I shouted with mock anger. I would spend the rest of the shift with damp pants but it was worth it to know I was now one of the lads. Unlike the splendid office block, the fabrication shop was of a much more mundane construction. The shop housed in a huge asbestos sheeting clad building. There were rows of machines of all types. Lathes, mills, power presses, rolls, welding and cutting stations. These were days before the development of highly sophisticated numerically controlled gear and every man was a highly skilled tradesman. The company was a truly versatile undertaking. We could fabricate anything from heat exchangers to storage tanks and speciality pumps. You name it, we could make it. The offices were on top of a mezzanine floor at one end of the fabrication shop with access by a steel staircase. The high spot of the week was when Cathy, the wages clerk, walked down the stairs to collect the time cards. Cathy was an angel from heaven. Just five foot tall, long blonde hair, D cup breasts and legs that went on forever. She always wore mini-skirts and we all would watch her walk up and down the stairs hoping to grab a glimpse up her skirt. Did I say walk? Well to be fair, Cathy liked to wear high heeled shoes, and I mean high! Unfortunately her coordination was rubbish and she walked with a distinct wobble not unlike a drunken sailor walking a ship's deck in a storm. She knew damn well she was a looker and always made sure she gave us all a show. If we tried to talk to her, however, she would give the cold shoulder. In a word, she was the biggest prick tease ever. I would have given anything to give her a good shag but as far as she was concerned I was a non-entity. Ah, hang on, I bet you're asking "well is he the guy to give her a good shag or just a blow-hard youth?" Well the fact was that I had been initiated into the arcane arts of "lurrrve" by our next door neighbour. Well maybe not "lurrrve" but certainly shagging. Our next door neighbour was a lady called Mrs Maureen Hopkins. She was in her mid 30's and was what people today might call a MILF. Her husband, Harry, was serving a 20 year stretch at Her Majesty's pleasure for a touch of armed robbery leaving Maureen to live a lonely life. The rumour mill had it that she was man crazy – the town bike – always good for a ride. To me she was a lovely lady who got on famously with me and my mam and dad. I always felt totally at ease in Maureen's presence A while after I started work my mam asked me to pop next door. Maureen was having some sort of plumbing crisis. Maureen greeted me at the door. Blond, a little over five foot tall, slim with hugely voluptuous tits which fought to escape from her low cut dress. She gave me a lingering kiss on the cheek and invited me in. "It's my sink drain," she told me, "its blocked." I opened the cupboard under the sink and put a bucket under the U bend. A quick twist with a wrench opened the drain hole. Only a little waste water dripped out but a quick wiggle of my finger inside soon released a plug of solidified fat and the water ran freely. Five minutes later the job was done. "You must be exhausted after all that hard work," Maureen told me with a knowing wink. "Come and sit down and have some tea." She carried two mugs of tea into the lounge. We sat down on the couch and she turned to face me. Her skirt had ridden up and I could see up her skirt to the white panties which gripped her crotch. "You're quite a big lad now, Spike," she grinned, sipping her tea. "Have you got yourself a girlfriend?" "Not yet," I replied, staring up her skirt. Maureen saw where I was looking. "Spike! Don't you know it's rude not to look a person in the face when talking to them? What can you possibly find of interest under my skirt?" In spite of her good natured jibe, she spread her legs slightly, revealing her plump camel toe. "Like what you see?" she asked. "That I do," I replied, realising that this could well be my 'Mrs Robinson' moment. I knew Maureen well and I figured that a direct approach wouldn't hurt. "You look right tasty but I do have a question." "Oh," she grinned, "and what might that be?" "It's sort of personal, do you mind if I whisper it?" "Of course," she replied, putting down her mug and leaning forward. "Do you fuck?" I whispered in her ear before gently biting her ear lobe. Maureen leant back and laughed. "You naughty boy, what sort of question is that to ask a lady? I wouldn't want to be accused of leading you on." She stood up and took my hand. "Are you a virgin?" I nodded. "Perfect," she purred and we went upstairs. ------------------- "Now that is one perfect cock," Maureen told me as she peeled my pants down. My old man was throbbing at full attention at the time. I had always been uncertain about my todger. When I compared it to the other guys at school in the showers after games I noticed two things. First it was much fatter than theirs and secondly while the other guys had smooth, slim cocks, mine was sort of gnarly with thick veins down the shaft. Quite an ugly cock, I thought. "Not too long," she said, quickly gauging it with her hand. "About seven inches is perfect." "I hate blokes with long cocks," she added. "Given em eight or nine inches and they think it gives 'em licence to try and poke a hole into your belly. I always end up with a cervix that feels like it's gone 15 rounds with Floyd Patterson. What's important is how fat it is. The fatter it is, the more it rubs. Yours is one of the fattest I've seen, fucking you is going to be fun!" "Don't you think it looks sort of ugly," I asked. "Oh no, I love those thick veins, I've never seen anything like that." Damn I felt good. To get Maureen's expert appraisal meant a lot to me. Seeing Maureen nude was both a revelation and supremely exciting. Her tits were huge, soft and only slightly saggy. Her belly was flat with a beautiful blonde bush. We did it all. She swallowed my cock until I was bullock deep down her throat. Oh, by the way, she swallowed not spat. We fucked fiercely and my spirit soared as she came with a howl of pleasure. I shivered at her moan of pain as I eased my cock into her tight arse. "Oh god it hurts, but don't you dare stop," she growled. By the end of the afternoon I was drained and Maureen was fucked out. "Spike, darling," she sighed. "you can do me any time and anywhere you want. You are my number one stud." ------------------------------- The set up at work was fairly simple. The office staff comprised of a group of clerical staff, all women, who processed orders, tenders and kept records. They were supervised by Jean Burgess, the office manager. The procurement of steel and other materials was handled by Arnold Riley, a pompous little man who had worked for the firm for years. Bernard Howard, an engineering graduate, had recently been recruited as Arnold's assistant. The actual calculation of all raw materials was made by Bernard. To be fair, Bernard was a tosser of the highest order. He was a large guy who had played rugby and rather fancied himself as a ladies man. The fact that he came from London and had a posh accent guaranteed that the women in the admin group treated him as a joke. I had settled down to working hard. My evening classes had gone well and I was getting great grades. It seemed obvious to me that any successful person in the company would need to understand everything that went on. I took the opportunity to try and understand every job in the works. I would spend time with all my work mates, watching them work, asking questions and helping where I could. I cultivated a helpful attitude, always prepared to muck in where needed. In short, over my first two years at the firm I did my best to understand the place from top to bottom and make myself as indispensible as possible. My first real break came a little after my second anniversary at the company It so happened that we secured an order for 20 oil storage tanks. Any new order was processed by Bernard Howard whose job was to convert the blue prints into templates for cutting out the sheet steel. The template was designed to minimise the amount of sheet steel wasted and would be passed to the fabrication shop for action. The work for laying out of the sheet steel for fabrication for this particular job came to me. It soon became obvious to me that the way that we were required to lay out the various components was resulting in a lot of waste steel – the template was poorly designed. I called over to a couple of my work mates to check my conclusions. In a short time the three of were us scratching our heads and trying to work out what was going on. I did some quick "back of a fag packet" calculations and concluded that we could save 35 sheets of steel if the layout was optimal. This was a useful saving. I decided to have a word with Arnold – it didn't go well! He snorted impatiently when I approached his desk. "Could you have a look at the template for the storage tanks, I think they're flawed," I explained. "So you, a jumped up apprentice are challenging the calculations made by a graduate engineer?" he sneered. "Just check my calculations will you?" I asked him. "No I won't," he snapped. "I checked myself before they were sent to the shop. Now please leave, I have work to do." A Man Needs a Shed I left but only to go to Mr Hebblethwaite's office. "Come in lad," he called out. The usual pint pot of tea was produced to aid our discussions. I explained my problem. "Show us your sums lad," he told me. A 5 minute check soon convinced him I was right. "The bugger!" He snarled. "leave it with me." It was little more than twenty minutes later that Arnold stormed up to me in the fabrication shop. "You little sod, who the hell do you are going over my head?" he screamed at me – his face purple with rage. To be quite honest, I had had enough with this little shit. "My loyalty is to the company not to some pompous twat who can't be bothered to do his job properly," I replied, my voice cold and steady. "We'll see about that," Arnold screeched. "I've got your number, I'll have you sacked before long." "Shut up Riley you fool," came a firm voice. Mr Hebblethwaite was stood five feet behind Arnold. "Go collect your cards from the office, it's you who are sacked." Arnold's face dropped and he slithered off without another word. "Spike lad," Mr Hebblethwaite continued, "can I have a word." "Well it looks like we have a vacancy, do you want the job?" he asked me as we settled down in his office. "You mean this scruffy apprentice? I asked with a grin. "You might think I spend all my time isolated in this office, lad, but I know what's going on. Over the last two years I've seen a lad who is determined to know this work as well as me. I know ability and ambition when I see them and you have both in good measure. Now stop twatting about and take the job." "As you say boss," I grinned. "What about Bernard, he won't like it." "Handle him anyway you want. Oh, I want you to take over management of Ernie as well. You have much more hands on knowledge than Arnold and I want to have a safe pair of hands overseeing the shop floor." I left the office well satisfied. I was right, Bernard was not a happy bunny. "It's a bloody insult," he ranted. "I should have that job." "Bernard, given the mistakes you made in your calculations, do you really want to make a fuss? Would you like the world to know that an apprentice discovered your mistakes?" That shut him up. Ernie's reaction was entirely different. "Fucking spot on lad," he hooted with a grin. "It'll be good to have someone with a bit of understanding rather than that twat Arnold." Ernie was no mug and knew his job inside out. He knew it, I knew it and Mr Hebblethwaite knew it. My job would simply be to smooth the path for Ernie – plain and simple. You know, it's amazing how well things run when you eliminate the tossers and only have men who know what they're doing. -------------- My promotion had an additional bonus – I now shared an office with Cathy. Cathy suddenly noticed that I existed. Suddenly it was "Mr Peters" this, "Mr Peters" that, "would you like a cup of tea Mr Peters?" I hated being referred to as Mr Peters and told her to call me Spike. Her desk was across the office from mine giving me a perfect view up her mini skirt whenever she was in her seat. The view was pretty spectacular, especially since Cathy tended to wear see through knickers. Cathy obviously wasn't a fan of trimming her pubes given the bush escaping from the legs of her pants. I noticed that she also started to wear lower cut tops giving a better view of her splendid jugs. I had this feeling that the lovely Cathy was putting on a show just for me. Any pre-conceptions I might of had about Cathy were however shattered one lunch time. The weather was sunny and hot and I decided to take my lunch break in the park across the road from the works. Most of the office girls were sat on the grass and they invited me to join them. "Cathy not with you today?" I asked. "No, she's probably stuck in the toilet trying to work out how to pull her knickers up," one of the girls giggled. "That's a bit harsh," I replied, trying to stifle my amusement at the comment. "She might be standoffish but she can't be that stupid." "We're talking about Daffy Dora here, the original ditzy blonde," one of the girls laughed. "I don't know where you get the idea she's standoffish though." "Well she always ignored me before I got my promotion, almost as if I wasn't good enough for her." "It's more a case that she can't walk and talk at the same time. Young Cathy can't hold more than one thought in her head and that's no mistake." It transpired that there wasn't an ounce of nastiness in Cathy, she simply was too scatter brained cope with men on a social level. She lived at home with her mum and dad and her idea of heaven was watching soap operas on TV. In spite her apparent daffiness I liked Cathy a lot. She was a pretty little thing and her body was good enough to eat – well at least worthy of a severe licking. I wanted to get to know her better so I began engaging her in conversation to see what I could find out about her. It seemed quite clear that she was terminally naive when it came to sex. While she wore revealing clothes, it didn't seem that she did it to tantalise the men. Her gaucheness told a story of a woman who knew that sexy clothes were good but not really understanding why. One day she wore a particularly low cut blouse. As she bent over to pick up a dropped pencil her tit popped out. She hadn't realised this mishap and sat back in her chair with her perfectly shaped orb revealed for my enjoyment. She carried on her work without correcting the problem. I let things go for a few minutes but finally had to say something. "Cathy!" I called out She finally looked up with a smile. "Er... you're a little exposed," I told her, looking down at her chest. Cathy looked down and giggled. "Oh you naughty thing," she giggled as she poked her tit with her finger. "you know that you shouldn't escape like that." She then quickly popped her tit back in. It was quite obvious that she saw nothing problematic about her exposure. "Do you have a boyfriend?" I asked her one day. "No, Spike," she replied. "Are you dating anyone?" "I don't like dates," she replied, flushing slightly. "Why not?" "Well I had a few but to be honest men are only interested in trying to touch my boobies or put their hand up my skirt," she explained. "Tell me, Cathy, why do you wear high heeled shoes when you obviously find it difficult to walk in them and tiny skirts which give everyone a good view of your hidden charms?" Not only did she obviously have serious problems walking on high heeled shoes, she would sigh with relief when she sat down. Sitting down was also a problem. Her legs would splay apart revealing her crotch every time she sat down. "Those are the things that girls wear." "Don't you think that men might think that a girl who shows off her legs or boobies might be easy?" "Easy?" she asked, nonplussed. "Someone who is interested in sex. Don't you think that's why your dates spend time trying to grope you? Do you know that each time you sit down I can see right up between your legs? I can even see what your pubic hair is like." Cathy's eyes were wide in horror. "Can you? Oh gosh..." She immediately clamped her thighs together and blushed bright crimson. "Listen Cathy, you don't have to wear this sort of clothing to look nice or sexy. Try smaller heels, longer skirts which show off your legs without letting people know what colour knickers you have on. We know you have lovely boobies without them falling out of your blouse. Look at what the other girls in the office wear." She smiled wanly, nodded and made no further comment. If I was uncertain as to the effect of my comments, I was soon put straight. The following week Cathy came to work transformed. She had followed my comments to the letter and now appeared as a cute, sexy and classy girl. She wore shoes which allowed her to walk, not stagger. Her dress stopped four inches above her knee revealing just enough. An added bonus was that the skirt gripped her ass tightly giving a perfect view of her panty line. She wore a white, high necked blouse, which emphasised her boobs to perfection. The admin office was filled with mutterings of approval as Cathy walked through. For her part, Cathy smiled with pleasure at the compliments she received. Once in our office she came over and hugged me. "Thank you Spike," she smiled shyly. It's fair to say that that was the transformation point of our relationship. Cathy was still totally daffy but she was no longer regarded as an object for rampant ogling. There was no doubt about it, I fancied Cathy something rotten. Something became clear to me. Cathy might be utterly and irredeemably daffy, but I had a serious thing about her. She was so pretty and cute that I wanted to hug her to death. I felt a tenderness that I couldn't understand and my heart would soar whenever I saw her. Looking back, I guess that what they call love but at that time I regarded her with more lustful intentions. I once overheard her tell another clerk that she was a virgin and intended to stay one until she was married. In spite of this, I vowed that I would be the man to shag her senseless. Obviously the first task was to get her on a date. As it turned out, my help on getting her fashion style sorted out wasn't wasted. She jumped at my invitation to a date and we began to date regularly. I was careful at the beginning not to take liberties, choosing to be friendly, good company. We both enjoyed films and music so we found plenty of fun things to do together. Initially I played things slowly. We would kiss and I would run my hands gently over her upper body taking care not to take liberties. It was rather like trying to gain the trust of a very nervous horse. I left it to Cathy to dictate how physical we would be. One time, after we had dated a couple of times, she set out her feelings. We were sat in a pub enjoying a quiet drink. "Spike, I don't want you to get the wrong idea but I'm not very good at this sex thing," she began. "I know how it's done but I've not had much experience with men." I nodded. "I always like the idea of being a virgin on my wedding night," she told me. "Is that a bad thing?" The prospect of no naughtiness was a disappointment but all might not be lost. I mustered up my sincerest smile. "Not at all Cathy, I cannot but respect any woman who holds such beliefs." She smiled gratefully. "It won't be easy for either of us, though," I added. "Why?" she asked. "Well we are both sure to feel frustrated from time to time. It's not easy kissing and cuddling but nothing else." Her face was sad. I had noticed how she had shown signs of arousal when we petted. "I'm sure there are things we can do, though, which do not involve having sex," I added. "Oh?" she replied, slightly happily. "I hope so." While I guessed that she might not be too keen to give me a blow job, I had it in mind that munching on her secret rug might be more than a little fun. I would quietly add, just for your ears only, dear reader, that I was still shagging Maureen. Since Cathy and I were not yet in a committed relationship, monogamy didn't seem to be necessary. OK, you're going to accuse me of being an uncaring, unfaithful, slime-ball who avoids commitment. Firstly, I fancied Cathy something rotten and I felt a deep affection for her. Indeed I didn't rule out the possibility that I might propose to her at some time. I was also aware that things didn't always work out as one hoped and it wasn't a good idea to get your hopes up. Once we got to the stage of a committed relationship then I would happily be monogamous. Until then we were both free to play the field and there was no way on this earth that I was going to stop fucking Maureen senseless. --------------------- We dated steadily for around a year and everything was just peachy with Maureen on hand to treat any attacks of blue balls I might have. One Friday Cathy dropped a minor bombshell. "I'm going to Liverpool this weekend, would you like to come and meet my mum and dad?" This was serious development which could be a precursor for matrimony. I took stock. I liked Cathy a lot. She was kind, loving and attentive in her own way. She wasn't exactly passionate but then again we hadn't been to bed yet. Being with her filled me with a comfortable warmth and I could happily see myself spending my life with her. Yup, matrimony would not be a bad option. "Yes, that would be nice," I told her. Cathy gave the sweetest grin and hugged me. "I love you," she whispered. This was a surprise. We had dated all that time and we had grown close. While there was no sex, we still enjoyed each other. It came as a surprise to hear Cathy express her love for me. To be frank, it help crystallise my feelings. My affection for her was strong and I guessed that it amounted to love. "I love you too, Cathy," I replied. She gave a squeal of delight and hugged me again. Cathy's parents, Frankie and Marge, lived in a terraced house 100 yards from Anfield Football ground. Naturally they were fervent supporters of the reds. Frankie was a tall, solid looking guy with a shock of dark hair. He worked as a controller in the docks in Bootle, just north of Liverpool. Marge was a slight, blonde woman who looked just like an older version of Cathy. From her dress sense, appearance and personality, I could see where Cathy had inherited her dominant genes. Unlike Cathy, however, Marge seemed to have a certain nastiness in her character. As I got to know her better I realised that she was quite single minded about getting her own way. Frankie rarely argued with her and indeed he seemed to be more content when not in her company. He never spoke of her and I felt it wise not to discuss her. It suited me fine, Frankie was great company when away from her. Their home was decorated to perfection and was clean and tidy. Marge was a perfectionist when it came to her home and I got a distinct impression that we males were an unwanted presence. My Dad's warnings on the behaviour of married women rang loudly in my ears. In practice it all worked to our advantage because it meant that Frankie and I spent a lot of time in the pub while Cathy stayed at home with her mum and the various friends she had in the street. "Good health lad," Frankie said as we quaffed our first pint of the brain destroying beer served by the local pub. "I love the way the first pint brings tears to your eyes," he added as he drained the glass, tears streaming down his cheeks. He was absolutely right, the acidic undertones of the beer's bouquet worked miracles at clearing your sinuses. "So tell us about yourself, what job do you have?" I explained my work and how I had got on in the job. Frankie nodded with approval as I described my skills and my rise to the higher echelons of the company. "Do you like football?" he asked. I nodded. "Do you enjoy a good fight?" I nodded. "And what do you think of southerners?" "Softies, every one," I replied. "Good stuff lad, you're my type of man." I went to the bar and bought a further 4 pints, at the speed we put the first pints away it was better to get a few in at a time. "So are you going to marry our girl?" he asked without preamble. "What makes you think that?" I asked as I supped the potent brew. "A visit to the girl's parents is usually a good sign of forthcoming matrimony," he replied, sagely tapping the side of his nose. "Well, it were her idea for me to come and meet you so maybe she thinks marriage is on the cards." He nodded. "Smells like back room plotting going on. My money says that Cathy, her mam and the local female mafia are plotting your entrapment as we sup our ale. So do you fancy her?" I paused while I started my third pint. "She's a well built and canny lass, I reckon I could do a lot worse," I replied. "Yeah, on balance I'd give her a go." "Fair enough lad given your background and attitude you have my blessing lad." And that was that. We sent the rest of the evening drinking huge volumes of ale and discussing matters of vital importance to the human race. By the time we staggered home we were firm friends. This set the pattern for the weekend with me spending time in the pub with Frankie and his mates getting riotously drunk and Cathy spending time with her female relatives and friends. There was no doubt I was under careful and intensive scrutiny those times that we were all together in the house and at mealtimes and I was careful not to do anything which would upset Marge. Frankie and I went to Anfield on the Saturday afternoon and watched Liverpool beat Arsenal soundly. This was the crowning of what had been a splendid weekend. Cathy announced during our drive back that her parents both approved of me. She added nothing else but it was obvious that they would be happy if we married. "So they wouldn't have any problems if we got married then?" I said. "Are proposing to me?" Cathy asked, suddenly dewy eyed. "I suppose I am," I replied. It's fair to say that the resulting scream of joy left me deaf in my left ear for a good two hours. ------------------------- My work mates were both surprised and incredulous that I had managed to "pull" the redoubtable Cathy. The girls in the office were a little less sympathetic. "Does she know what to do on her wedding night?" one asked with a grin. "You know, what goes where." "I dunno what you mean," I replied. "Would you like to show me what goes where?" The girl flushed and ran off with a giggle. Charlie was beside himself with delight. "Sit down, my lad, have some tea." He pondered as he supped from his pint mug. "The good lady was looking at my portfolio of properties the other day," he finally spoke. "She suggested that I should probably cash some of them in." I had to smile. I had met Doris, his wife on several occasions. She was a formidable lady who would make Genghis Khan run in fear. A "suggestion" from her carried the same threat as a request backed up by a Gatling gun. You did not argue with her. For all that, I kind of liked her and we got on very well. "I have a property down the road which would suit you perfectly," Charlie continued. It transpired that this was a huge detached Victorian house with a huge garden which stretched down to the tow path beside the canal. It was immaculately decorated and, at Doris' suggestion, was offered to me at a very low price. Cathy was delighted with the new house and spent an hour walking from room to room, muttering quietly to herself. Within days Cathy began the process of making the house hers. She began buying curtains, looking at carpets and generally planning how she would transform the place to her liking. -------------------- The last few days before the wedding were frenetic with a thousand and one details to be addressed. My stag night was suitably riotous with excessive drinking and extreme stupidity. Cathy didn't have a hen night as such, choosing instead to have a gathering with her mother and friends in the house. They had started on the afternoon of the day before the wedding and were soon drunk. I overheard them talking as I walked towards the front door on the way to my stag bash. A number of women, including Cathy's mum, were giving her advice in loud, slurred voices. "Men are like children," I heard her mum say. "There are three things that are needed to keep them happy and out of mischief. They need their conjugals regularly. Give them good, plain food and lastly let them have a shed." "What are conjugals?" Cathy asked, daffy as usual. "Sex," the women shrieked in unison with much laughter. "Oh, and why a shed?" A Man Needs a Shed "Men are pests and you don't need them getting in your way or cluttering the house. If they have a shed, then they have somewhere to hide. It's the one place where they can't get into trouble." ----------------- The wedding reception was held in the Working Man's Club at the end of Frankie's street. There was a bar, a sit down meal and a local group churned out good quality rock and roll. There was about 200 people in the club and a good time was had by all. There was a contingent of 150 or so friends and relatives from Cathy's Dad's side and true to Liverpool tradition they initiated the fighting. It didn't matter what it was over, the fact that there was a fight was a true sign that a good time was to be had. Cathy's Dad showed great style when he took on four guys at once. The way he used a table to floor the lot of them showed true panache. My dad looked up from his pint with a grin when he heard the first sound of a bottle being broken over a head. "By heck now that's what I like to hear," he announced as he leapt to his feet, threw his chair into the crowd and waded in. I wasted no time in following him into the melee. The damages to the club cost a fair bit but everyone agreed that it had been the best fight since Cathy's great uncle Charlie had died. Finally once the last of the beer had been drunk and the fight had stopped, my dad dragged himself to his feet. "Shurrup you lot," he shouted at the top of his voice. "I want to say a few words." "I want to thank Frankie for putting on such a fine spread and his family for providing the entertainment. I haven't had such a good fight for years. Now the beers all gone but the local, "The Spotted Ferret", is now open so I suggest we go there and start the evening's drinking." The room filled with raucous cheering. I joined in. "Not you Spike," my dad added, seeing me jump up. "You and your missus have other business to attend to and if you keep on drinking you won't be able to carry out your duties." The room filled with lecherous chuckles. "So I suggest you get your arse off to your hotel and get on with it." ------------------------- "So what do we do now?" Cathy asked as I shut the door to our room. "Well I don't know what you want to do, lass," I said, "but I know what I plan to do." "And what might that be?" she asked with a worryingly blank look on her face. At first I thought she was joking but then with a shock I realised that she wasn't sure what to do next. "I tell you what, unzip that dress and we'll take it from there." You know, there's nothing cuter than the sight of a woman with her discarded wedding dress on the floor around her feet. Cathy looked at me nervously as she stood there, in her matching white lace bra and panties, suspender belt, white stockings and garter. Her wide nipples peeped at me through her bra begging to be chewed. "Oh my god, what's that," she gasped as I pulled down my pants, unveiling my obscenely erect todger. "Surely you've see a cock before, lass," I chided her. "Its... big!" she wailed. "All the better to fuck you with," I muttered. "Now get those kecks off lass and let's get busy." Cathy slipped off her panties and lay on the bed, legs apart. Her pussy glistened with her juices and winked at me invitingly. I touched her pussy and her copious juices flowed from her. "Oh my god," she whimpered and with a squeak she came. I was gobsmacked. My wife had orgasm after one little touch on her cunt. "Oh, wow, is that what's sex is about," Cathy whimpered. "That was amazing. I feel like a sleep now." I was seriously unimpressed. One little orgasm and she was ready to quit. Well I wasn't. I kneeled down and planted my mouth on her cunt. "Arrrrgh!" came a shriek of outrage from my wife. "That tickles! It's dirty! STOP IT!" She wriggled and tried to pull away. "Stop it will you, you silly cow!" I growled at her. "I'm not done yet." I really didn't have time for this stupid behaviour. Cunnilingus would have to wait, it was time for full on penetration. I climbed up her body and eased my old man into her. There was the slightest resistance from her hymen tearing and I slid smoothly and gently inside. She was slick and not particularly tight, in all a perfect experience. To my surprise Cathy didn't react with a frenzy of passion, instead she lay perfectly still and made a strange squeaking noise each time I thrust into her. It was so disconcerting that I began to lose my passion and it was only by imagining that I was fucking Maureen that I managed to come. Hugely disappointed I pulled out of her. Cathy just lay there, allowing my generous load to ooze from her body. I snuggled up against Cathy and cuddled her. "How was that?" I asked. "Oh, alright," she replied. "Though that poking wasn't as nice as when you touched me." She had dozed off and was snoring before I could formulate a reply. We fucked frequently over the next week and in every case Cathy responded in the same way. While she never rejected my amorous advances, she always responded with the passion of a corpse. I refused to be discouraged. My skills at the arts of lurrrrve were good and I had every reason to believe that I could convert my wife to a sex mad minx. All it needed was time and effort. ----------------- I suppose it didn't come as a surprise that Cathy soon began to change. She as so dim that she readily took her mother's advice on how to handle a husband. The house began to change. It had been perfectly decorated when we got it but this wasn't good enough for Cathy. I was soon surrounded with lace, pink girlie wallpaper, new furniture, you name it. Cathy began to grumble darkly if I entered the house in my work clothes. The house was rapidly becoming a place where I was persona non grata. Cathy never refused my sexual advances but at best she tolerated it rather than enjoyed it. I found it irritating but at least I got my rocks off when I needed it. I rather missed shagging a passionate woman like Maureen but I was a married man and I was now sworn to monogamy. I could cope with these changes but Cathy also became a nag. She was always telling me what to do in a nasty screeching voice. She had changed into something quite nasty. An even more insidious development was Cathy's mother's insistence on providing her daughter with advice - the two of them would talk every day on the phone. One day I managed to lift the extension phone and listen in - I held a small tape recorder to the headset. What I heard wasn't nice. "So how's the sex?" Marge asked. "Spike is very experienced," Cathy replied. "He wants to do strange things to me like kissing my breasts and licking between my legs. It's sort of dirty and I won't let him do it." "What does he say if you tell him no?" "He smiles and does something else to me." "What's his thing like?" He's so big," Cathy complained. "It's too big for me. I don't really enjoy it." "You let him have it when asks don't you?" "Oh yes. He wants it a lot but I never say no." "That's good, now listen Catherine," he mother began, her voice becoming serious. "You can always find someone else who can give you the sex you want, just never refuse your husband. That way he won't go looking elsewhere." "Do you have someone else, mum?" "I did," Marge replied. "I've four but they all had accidents." "Four!" Cathy gasped. "That's unlucky." "Yes, I've met a new man, I'm hoping he has better luck." I carefully put the phone down, my mind reeling with shock. Marge was one evil witch. I rang Frankie the next day from work and told him what I had heard. "I know all about them," he told me with a chuckle. "What you don't know is that their accidents involved collisions with my fists. I knew she had another one lined up, I'll be dealing with him in a day or so." I had to admire his style. "Marge is an evil cow but she's also totally stupid," he continued. "She hasn't got the brains to realise that I keep an eye open and see what she's up to. As soon as she gets a new bloke I take him on one side and persuade him that it's a bad idea to screw my wife." ---------------- One Friday afternoon I was summoned to Charlie's office. I had been with the company for over seven years and if I say so myself, I was doing a great job. I soon realised that Charlie agreed when he greeted me with a huge grin. "Sit down lad, and have a coffee." Eric Stanforth, the company secretary, Sir Henry Digence, Charlie's silent partner, and Bertie Faulks, the assistant MD, were sat around the huge oak table in the room. "We've been watching you since you got Riley's job," Sir Henry roared in his crisp, ex-military voice. He only had two volume settings for his voice – loud and insanely loud. "Spike, my boy, you've done sterling work and we think it's time we gave you a promotion." The other gentlemen nodded their heads in agreement. "We intend to appoint you as Engineering Director with full responsibility for all technical matters." There was a thud as my jaw hit the table followed by an incoherent squeaking as I tried to reply. With the job came a huge office, a huge salary and a Jaguar motor car. "Get the boy a drink," Sir Henry shouted when he saw I was having difficulties breathing. "in fact, get us all one." I was overwhelmed. Me, an ex-apprentice now a director, this never happened in the real world. My new office was just down the corridor from Charlie's. Whilst not as big as his, it was nevertheless palatial with wood lined walls and paintings. There was small adjoining office for my personal assistant. And indeed, my first task was to appoint someone to that job. The only constraint was that I had to appoint someone from the existing secretarial and administrative staff. Whoever got the job had needed to be familiar with the company. After some thought, I decided that the person getting the job had to be female, young, single, cute and preferably sexy as hell. I may have been married but there was no law which said that I couldn't look! --------------------- The sign outside Arcroyd's reclamation yard caught my eye as I drove to work one day. "Complete cricket pavilion, excellent price," it announced. The pavilion had stood at the local cricket ground and had been removed when the site was redeveloped. You know, there's an old saying in business that you have to speculate in order to accumulate. Hebblethwaite's was a successful company with a great reputation but we needed to expand into new areas. I had been spending some of my spare time developing some new products for the company. This involved me spending time using lathes and other equipment at work, not a very convenient arrangement. I could hardly use the machines during the working day when they were needed for production and I wasn't inclined to spend my evenings at the works. The pavilion seemed to be a solution to my problem. The idea of putting a pavilion in my garden had two attractions. First it could act as a machine shop for my work and secondly it would be my haven – my shed. I parked up and walked into the yard. Harry Acroyd was sat in his office, feet on the desk, reading a pigeon fancier's magazine. "Hey up Harry," I called out as I opened the door. Harry was a decent bloke who played in my dad's bowls team. "Hey yerself, Spike old son," he replied with a grin. "Grab a seat and I'll mash some tea." Thirty minutes later I was the owner of a shed, albeit a somewhat large shed – purchased at a very satisfactory price. "What the flaming heck is that?" Cathy demanded as the shed was offloaded into our back garden. "Its my workshop," I replied. "What the heck do you want with that heap of rubbish," she replied shrilly. "To do work in," I replied, tranquilly. "You men are all the same, kids," she grumbled. My mind slipped into non-listening mode. "As you say, dear." "It'll clutter up my garden, the eyesore." "Of course dear." "Don't think for one moment that I'll keep it clean." "Yes dear." "Filthy, stinking thing." "If you say so, dear." At this point she gave a snort of triumph and retired to the house to relish her latest victory. I, in turn, gave a smile of tolerance and resumed planning where the building was to be erected. As an aside, you no doubt, learned reader, are wondering about the art of 'non-listening'. Let me explain. The skilled and knowledgeable husband knows that a woman will always win when it comes to an argument. It doesn't matter how stupid the woman is, she will always marshal arguments, no matter how specious, to counter your logical and well reasoned reposts. The art of 'non-listening' offers the skilled husband the means of letting his wife think she is winning without wasting valuable energy. This is how it works. When, in the process of an argument, (it is impossible to hold a reasoned debate with a woman) you detect that your wife has hit the manic dialogue phase– usually when her speaking rate hits around 400 words a minute, allow your mind to drift onto pleasant images. Good examples are Geoffrey Boycott's 246 innings in the Headingly test of 1967, the sight of a champion whippet sprinting across the moors or mentally cataloguing your collection of flat caps. Once your mind has reached a state of Nirvana, recite one of a set of standard phrases every 10 seconds in response to your wife's diatribe, such as "yes dear", "as you say dear". With this technique everyone wins. The wife wins yet another argument and you, having reached mental Nirvana, don't care. The following Saturday a concrete slab was poured in my garden. Water, power and sewerage services were installed over the following week and my new workshop was erected a week later. The pavilion was 60 feet long and 20 feet wide and comprised of a large workshop, a materials and tool storeroom, a washroom and toilet and a rest room. The rest room was at the furthermost end away from the house. I painted the pavilion a tasteful green and equipped the workshop over the next month. Since my work was for Hebblethwaite, Charlie was happy to provide the machine tools I needed. Soon I had a shed to be proud of. Cathy continued to mutter darkly about that "filthy eyesore" on a daily basis but she knew she had no prospect of me removing it. Finally she grudgingly accepted it's presence one day when, as we lay in bed reading, she announced: "I suppose it'll keep you out of my hair." I smiled quietly at my minor, but significant victory." "Don't forget what your mother told you," I said. "What was that?" she asked, pausing in mid stride. "Didn't she tell you that you should let your husband have a shed?" She paused as a vague memory filtered into her brain. "Oh yes," she muttered without a further word on the subject. ----------------- One Thursday I had to call in at our steel suppliers to negotiate a special order. It so happened that the route took me down our street and as passed our house I noticed something odd. There were two whippets tied up in our porch. I parked just past the house and walked up the path. One brindle and one sandy, I recognised the dogs immediately. They were owned by Percy Fulcroft. I wondered what Percy was doing at my house. I slipped in the back door and immediately heard the sound of bedroom gymnastics coming from upstairs. I peered around the door to our bedroom to see Percy giving my dear wife a seeing to. I noticed two things immediately. One, Percy was still wearing his flat cap and two, he was nude apart from his socks. I could understand and respect a man who wore his cap during sex but wearing his socks showed no class at all. Another oddity was that Cathy had a clip attached to her nose. You know the clips that some people wear to stop water going up their nose when they go swimming? One of those! Cathy was grunting every time Percy pushed into her. After a while she came with a loud whinny which would put horse to shame. This triggered Percy who gave a shout of excitement. I could see his pimply arse twitch as he pumped his spunk into my wife. After a moment he sighed and farted. This wasn't a fart as you or I might understand. It was a loud, violent blast of gas which made the curtains move. The stink was appalling and I reeled back onto the landing in horror. After a moment I moved back into the doorway. Cathy had a post orgasmic smile – it was obvious that the clip on her nose had stopped her smelling the fart. "Tell me love, is that better than your needle dick husband can do?" Percy asked has he rolled off her revealing his 2 inch cock. "Needle dick?" Cathy asked with a smile. "What makes you think he has a small dick?" "Well why else would you need to go to be with a real man," Percy smirked. "Spike is no needle dick. His cock is way bigger than yours." "So why are we in bed?" Percy asked in dismay. "Spike is a giant in bed," Cathy explained. "His cock is huge and he can fuck all night. The problem is that he's too much for me. While Spike is a rampant stallion in bed, what I really need is a tired donkey." Percy was not a happy bunny. Being described as a tired donkey was hardly going to boost his ego. "So I'm second best?" he asked. "No Percy, your tiny cock fits me just nicely and satisfies my low sex drive. It suits me just fine. Don't you like it?" Percy didn't reply. I guessed he enjoyed screwing my wife too much to complain. For my part, I knew exactly what I was going to do. There was no way on this earth that I was going to stay married to Cathy. She had willingly let that twat Percy fuck her and dump his sperm where only my sperm should go. She was used goods, soiled by Percy. Ok you might ask what I'm doing fucking Maureen, aren't I doing the same to her husband as Percy did to me. Well, yes I was but I never said that I didn't work to dual standards. If Maureen's husband found out about me then he would have to deal with it in he own way. So how did I feel? I didn't feel angry – somehow Cathy didn't seem worth such an extreme reaction. She was a lovely girl and I was very fond of her but as a package she was seriously flawed. I didn't feel jealous – Percy had nothing to make me jealous about and I knew damned well that I was pretty damned good with my pink sword. This didn't stop me wondering if people might see me as being somehow inferior to Percy. Could it possibly be that he could satisfy a woman more than me? Really, I simply felt this urge to dump Cathy as soon as possible. There was no way on earth she was going to gain from her infidelity so I would have to make some urgent financial arrangements. I also needed to gain the necessary hard evidence to support any divorce action. This last part was simple. Oh, by the way – I also wanted revenge. I had a particularly vindictive streak in me, as my cheating wife was going to find out. Ernie Batty was a close friend of my dad and an ex policeman. After retiring he spent his time between playing bowls and being a private investigator. He had for many years been known as a persistent voyeur and had been caught a number of times spying on couples in the local park. After being caught for the fifth time, the magistrate had suggested that he could either go to prison or turn his voyeuristic talents to a useful purpose such as private investigations. I found Ernie in his office – the lounge bar of the Kings Head pub. I bought a couple of pints and sat down at his table. "Hey, Spike, how's tricks?" he asked. "Been better," I replied. "I need your professional services." Ernie smiled and folded up his copy of the Racing Times. Over the next ten minutes I briefed him on all that had happened. "So what do you need?" he asked once I had finished.