Memories of Northampton Town

.Memories of Northampton Town
(NB Names have been changed to protect the guilty)


Northampton Town - or "Cobblers" to the initiated lay like a golden turd on a side-line between London and Birmingham.

The city fathers, or bankers as they are known, decided, in Victoria's reign, that the railway was a foul and unnecessary thing laying young maidens open to corruption and dogging in the closed carriages of the past, First or Second Class made no difference.
So the thundering Scottish Expresses went thundering past the town leaving a piteous football team and County Cricket, played, on the one hand, by louts and layabouts and, on the other, by counts and hooray henries.

In this curdled milieu could also be found the so-called superstore of Franklin Beezley a well known local store owner and market stall trader. It was in his cluttered tosspot of a store that I learned how to come quickly when called upon. I was a mere young dogsbody with urges.

Cressida Vulvalips was the one who asked me to come quickly  - her broom had lost its handle.  I carefully extracted  it from her well worn and often used canal, which, to tell the truth, could have taken a barge from the nearby Grand Union Waterway.  But to get back to Cressy's broom handle. She swore she had slipped whilst cleaning Frank's Office and had fallen, knickerless, on the object. On attempting to extract the offending entity she discovered that it did not offend as much as she had thought and, giving it a twirl or two, found some satisfaction in the exercise.

Sadly or happily, depending on your point of view, she had also found that her exploding contractions had pulled the instrument of pleasure further into her fragrant byways where it had lodged with irretrievable force.

This was where I came in.  "Come quickly" she called to me. So, taking myself in hand, I proceeded to follow her wishes.

"Not that, you plonker, THIS!" and she shook her broom handle at me.

Obligingly I traded places with the satisfying object taking care, the while, not to get any splinters on my glorious helmet.  By this time we had moved to the broom-cupboard office of the dirty old caretaker, Fred Canardley, whose many pictures of hirsute maidens surrounding his stained desk gave the game away as to his nocturnal emissions.

Cressy, by now, was calling out for completion and happy release.  Her eyes rolled back and widened into those dark pools one reads about, her eyelids fluttered charmingly and she began to gasp as I gave her a final thrust of personal satisfaction.

She slid from me and I slid from her.

Sadly I had given her not only my all but also had administered the coup de grace.
She was not merely exhausted but dead with a wide smile on her ugly face.

I thought quickly.  It was a quiet Thursday and Beezley's trade in London Rubber Company's condom seconds was exceeding lax, staff were having a fag or two in the rest room closely watched by senile directors and bankers who had little else to do as the owner was in court on a minor misdemeanour which made a change for him.

Having thought quickly, I returned my faithful hand pump to its accustomed place
in my trousers and popped the broom handle back into its owner's Vallée de plaisir.  Her right hand seemed to fall naturally into a telling position.  Self immolation it might be classed as when the authorities found her but, by then, I was away onto the delightful open space which called itself Northampton racecourse.  Here fresh air and fresh conquests seemed a delightful idea but in an immodest caricaturing of my master (B.H. of happy memory) I had taken her purse with me and found, among the soap coupons and prize vouchers a surprising number of ten shilling and pound notes amounting to some hundreds of pounds.  She had been at the cash tills.

A night or three at the Westone Favell Manor Hotel seemed to be the ticket and there, not to my surprise, I found a charming puta  who shared my evening meal, disposed of two bottles of Rioja and said her name was Concepcion which put me off momentarily until she took her glorious melons in her hands and asked if I liked her "Las chichis."  I decided that I did and found that my hand had slipped under the table and was groping her glorious clutch of pubic hair.  She moaned at me, "La concha, chaca-chaca."  Now, my Spanish is limited to "!Viva Espana!" but, as she rotated what I guessed must be her concha onto my hand, I got the message.  I whisked this high class puta up to my room and  gave her a share of my very hot peppers as we desported on the hotel's satisfying king-size bed.

My limits are, sadly, prescribed to a couple of hard rides a day and I had already given Cressy a savage seeing-to only hours earlier.  This left me just a little short on my proud manhood. 

Having had an hour of my technique and the joint release of our climaxing passion Concepcion wanted more.  I wanted more.  But my body couldn't provide a pulsating blood source; so there I was limp as a fresh made butcher's sausage.  She took her "concha" and her "chichis" and swept out of the room with not even a glance back at me as she shouted, "vete a la chingada!"  Whatever that was I couldn't do it as my body told me to rest before girding up my loins once again.

The next day morning found me risen proud and inflexible and ready for conquests new.  Breakfast was a delight and I gave the sausages and black pudding my best attack before taking a taxi to the aforementioned non-express line called Northampton Station and took me, my freshly acquired money, and high hopes, onto a local train heading to London - but I thought I might go on to Brighton where there are putas and putos  - and others - to pleasure one's amorous delights.