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If you wanted food, there were either posh restaurants or cafés. Even cafés came in two kinds, the smart tea-shop with tiny cup handles you couldn’t get your fingers in, or transport cafés (‘kaffs’), where dark stewed tea came in mugs with handles us kids could fit our fists in. We could have stopped at a fancy place, we children had cashed in our National Savings stamps. I remember the ones with Prince Charles on were half a crown, Princess Anne stamps just sixpence. I probably had three or four pounds saved from my sixpence a week pocket money, plus any accumulation from Christmas, birthday and penny-for-the-guy. We could afford a smart restaurant, and we travelled in our Sunday best in those days, stiff collar and school tie, jacket, trousers, shiny shoes. It was Dad’s decision, he was the knight of the road. So we stopped at a transport café. It was a wooden building, originally erected temporarily to cater for armoured tanks and troop transporters heading to Salisbury Plains. I got out of the tub and mom dried me off and had me lay on the bed. She brought grandma in for advice. The two women stood there looking at my cock whispering. Then they came to the conclusion that a hand job might be in order. So mom got some lotion and started to stroke my knob while grandma supervised. It was funny even though I was in pain. As this went on I came to conclusion mom did not know much about hand jobs and I guess grandma figured that out too because she took over. Grandma had a tight grip and really got into it and within a minute or two I was shooting a massive load, and I mean massive, into the air and into a tissue grandma was holding with her other hand. I was pretty sure grandma had done that many times before. I felt much better and so did mom and grandma. As mom cleaned me up she asked me how many times a day I do that and I told her four times a day. She seemed shocked, but she and grandma agreed that had to be part of the routine going forward. So the next.
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