A CANDIED LIFE - I

A CANDIED LIFE By Little Willy

(A story located in the north of England 50 years ago. The toffee mill, mill girl behaviour, names and dialogue are all genuine. Maybe the in yer face enthusiasm for WG could only be of the present century, but then it is a fantasy story. Thorntons Continental chocolates also originated in Yorkshire; though any similarities to real characters or activities in this story are pure coincidence.

(Being nations separated by the same language, the English may be a challenge for US readers. Even in Britain, the BBC often adds translation subtitles for southerners when Scottish or northern accented speakers appear on TV. It is never done the other way - e.g. cockney subtitled for northerners. )

Part One: TROOBLE AT MILL

Walking home from after-school games practice we were challenging each other to come up with football teams containing parts of the body. All the easy ones had gone: Manchester United, Liverpool, Arsenal, Scunthorpe. Now Ernie Higginbottom and me were arguing over more obscure names. He said I’d invented Penistone Wanderers, it didn’t exist as a football team, I said Huddersfield Town wasn’t technically human. He pushed me, then I pushed him, then he cannoned into me hard and we both thumped heavily against a pair of double doors on the toffee mill we were passing. That’s when we fell through into TROOBLE !

The toffee mill was five stories high, its feet stood in the murky waters of the canal below. It was just another mill in our grubby old town sprawling along the bottom of the deep valley. What made it different was the sickly warm smell that wafted down the gritty streets from it. Plus the fact that it made all the things we found it impossible to live without: Fizziwizzies, Liquorice fizz pipes, Lemon sherbut bombs and a host of other trash penny products.

Those were the plusses. The big problem for us was the hefty lasses who worked there. By Heck, they were big! And they’d have us young lads for breakfast, we all knew that for a fact.

Older lads than us could remember brilliant days when a box of Fizzies or bombs might be lying scattered in the street, for the taking, having fallen off the wagon and burst. But they’d also tell of poor lads who’d been cornered by the toffee mill lasses coming off shift, horny as hell. Some had never ever been seen again. That was why the manager of the local bakery had moved on, so they said - because of what had happened to his son.

Bloody ‘ell, we exclaimed together, Lets gerrout quick!

We appeared to have landed on top of a heap of sacks in near darkness.

Hang on a minute, ah’ve lost mi boots, I said.

You’ll ‘ave to leave em,

Ah can’t - they’re our Edgar’s boots and e’s playing in t’ first team a Sat’dy. Our Mam’ll slay me. I groped about the sacks around me in the dark, desperate to find our Edgar’s boots.

An internal door opened, letting a stream of light in. Two hulking great lasses entered. We ducked down under the ceiling, listening to a lot of cussing as they heaved sacks. They seemed to be emptying the contents down some sort of a chute. Soon we heard the sound of the door slamming and of their clogs rattling away. We began to move cautiously around in the gloom, sticking close together. Suddenly the floor gave way under us - twin flaps had opened, and we found ourselves sliding down a chute under bright lights before landing SPLAT in something thick, glutinous and (ugh!) Pink! As we struggled to pick ourselves up, we heard shrieking. Covered from head to toe in the sticky pink gunge we eventually struggled upright in the vat and looked straight into the eyes of two very wide and strapping lasses - the very ones we’d just hid from.

They hugged one another in delight, EE lass wot are we waitin for. Manna from heaven! Two big pink jelly babies. One lad for you and one for me!

The two stacked up pale and puffy, like oven ready cottage loaves. They were kitted out in bulging white protective clothing, hair bound into white caps and traditional clogs on their feet.

Coom on Alice. Lets gerrum into t’bogs and knock all that crap off ‘em.

Before I could decide whether my pink coating tasted of raspberry or strawberry we’d been plucked out, hauled into the washroom and dumped in a large circular ceramic hand washing fountain.

Now then lads, get them keks off, said Alice, There’s nay point in bein’ shy, Enid’s squeezed ‘alf the bollocks in Yorkshire’s through her tender little mits, she ‘as.

It was definitely raspberry I tasted as Enid’s beefy arms hauled me out of my sticky football strip.

Aye, yon’s our Raspberry Fizziwizzies you’ve just buggered oop lad, said Enid. Tha’ meet as well enjoy what you can of what’s left, and she wiped her vast dimpled arm right across my mouth. It didn’t taste half bad.

I glanced across at Ernie. He kept bouncing in and out of view, plunging deep into Alice’s pillowy bosom as she peeled off his shirt and shorts.

Heh Hey! they crowed, stamping their clogs on the ring that turned the water on full. Hot water sprayed and foamed over us as we stood cowering in that fountain, clutching our privates.

Look the little Buggers have turned raspberry coloured for us Alice, chortled Enid, done to a turn.

Eh! And what the fuck’s going on here then? What do you think you’re up to Enid Longbottom? Another even wider cottage loaf had burst the door open and stood feet apart, arms akimbo, spoiling for a fight.

Aw Heck! It’s Agnes Winterbottom the supervisor, you lads’ll be for it now, said Enid.

Nay lass, it’s thee ahm after, roared Agnes, yer raspberry Fizzibloodywizzies are boiling over and where do I find you two lard arses? In here carrying on. Bloody disgrace, two gret fat lasses like you, monkeying about with two skinny underage lads.

Look, it’s not like that at all Mrs Winterbottom, leastways not yet, it’s not. They just fell down the chute into our Fizzies.

Thats right we did Mrs Winterbottom, said Ernie, putting on his best talking to teacher voice.

Not for nothing had Agnes Winterbottom been appointed Fizziwiz supervisor, she quickly took command:

Poor little boogers. They’ll catch thi’death.

Coom on yer great fat oicks, get yer coats off to let’em keep warm.

But ‘ave not got nowt on underneath, Mrs Winterbottom, wailed Alice.

Nowt on underneath, parodied Mrs W. Looks to me like ye’ve way too much underneath, on tha’s bones. Both of you spend all yer bloody time eating in company time, yer greedy lumps.

Alice and Enid’s great rolls of white belly flab mashed together as their great flabby arms dragged one another out of their white protective clothing. They really were vast, their paunches pushing up giant, grubby, reinforced bras. Alice’s great overflowing bosom jutted way out over her rolls of paunch. They both had pink shiny silk cammy knickers on. Enid was absolutely colossal down below, all shimmering cellulite and knickers trapped up in her crack. It was the first time I had ever seen the way extremely fat legs divide into various random segments and bulges, unrelated to the underlying muscle and bone structure.

Agnes Winterbottom wound us into the cavernous clothing Alice and Enid had so graciously bequeathed us, then hugged us both into her enormous lower front.

Lets go and find you something, while those gret lumps get all t’ rasperry whiz out of yer clothes and dry ‘em on t’ steam pipes.

It was an odd sensation, coiled around with clothing still warm from fat girls’ flesh while being bumped along within the softness of an even fatter waddling woman’s paunch.

Clearly we made an even odder sight as we passed the other girls, for they all stopped and gathered round, squealing with glee and yelling lewd comments above the sounds of the mill machinery. You couldn’t help but notice that, while some girls might be taller and others short, all were, without exception, very round and jiggly.

EE! Mrs Winterbottom we didn’t know you was like that! Who’d ave thought, and with such little lads too. And you being such a big lady, it’s not nice.

Now then, Now then! Just you get all those fat arses of yours back to work, yer cheeky buggers, Mrs Winterbottom growled.

Mrs Winterbottom parked us by a bin saying, Right lads, help yourselves to as much as you like here, they’re all mis-shapes.

She took a great armful of candy herself and pushed it in her face as a kind of demonstration of how to do it as she waddled away. She was like a great battleship putting out to sea in search of the next fighting engagement, ballooning buttocks dancing in her wake.

The girls all found reasons to come across to check us out while we waited for our clothes. They brought offerings to the bin, some asking us if we had any favourites for them to make mis-shapes of.

They all seemed to enjoy competing to demonstrate their bulging weight gain to one another as they encouraged us to stuff ourselves out of the mis-shapes bin.

You’ll end up looking like us in no time if you spend any time in here.

We all fucking pile it on, honest!

Feel all this here, said a pear shaped younger lass called Vera, thrusting saddle bag hips out at us, and Dorothy’s shoved that great gut on herself in just three months.

Enid arrived and pointed at Vera’s retreating blubbery backside. Look at the arse-end on that cow. And she’s only bin ‘ere five minutes! She’ll be grounded ‘afore she knows what’s what, Enid snorted.

Vera heard this and retorted: You can bloody talk! ‘ave you seen yer’sen recently? It’s one gret fat fuckin joke is your arse, Enid Longbottom, everyone talks about it. Just look at you hanging out o’ them stupid pink fuckin’ cammie knickers."

Enid went red in the face then lost it. No one tells me ‘ahve a fat arse, she roared and, lunging out with her great slab of arm, swept Vera’s cap off, grabbing her by the hair. Vera screamed, swung round and caught hold of Enid’s knickers which came away in her hands. The shivering masses of cellulite on Enid’s colossal hindquarters were now let loose; a truly awesome spectacle. Enid turned, took aim with her unleashed naked butt, then thrust violently back, catching Vera square in the paunch. Vera reeled, gasping for breath, before toppling over like a skittle. Enid ended up sitting astride Vera, mashing her face flat under a vast flow of cellulite backside.

Just say Sorry and ahl let yer go!

She canna do nowt under that gret mass of blubber, yer stupid cunt, Alice said as she appeared on the scene bringing our clothes. Tha’ll end up smothering her if thee don’t shift that lardy back end quick.

Alice and the others who had gathered to watch the scrap, dragged Enid up off Vera who was indeed turning beetroot.

Now all we had to do was get our clothes back and we’d be safely off home for our teas. Alice laid them down but one of the others called out:

Quick lads, give Enid back hers, she looks bloody ‘orrible with her arse hanging out all over t’shop.

Aye! Ah could do wi mine back and all, said Alice.

Go on lads, gerrum off, they all yelled.

Off! Off! Off! they chanted.

So once again Ernie and me stood starkers, clutching at our shrivelling privates, only this time before the whole floor of hulking big toffee mill lasses.

EE look! They’ve already got little pots on em from the mis-shapes bin, someone called. I looked at Ernie and it was true, his stomach did look very bulging. I felt very full too.

I reached for my shorts but one of the girls grabbed them, squeaking with glee. She held them up out of my reach. I tried jumping up to get them from her but she tossed them to another. This one, it was Dorothy again, said if I kissed her really nicely she’d give them me back. So it went on with me and Ernie having to leap around from one great soft lass to the other, begging for our football kit back. There were lasses wearing our shorts on their heads, others showing they couldn’t get them up over the fat on their flabby arms and all were hooting with mirth.

How long it would have gone on I don’t know except that mercifully the hooter went and it was home time.

Quick! Get thi keks on and gerrout, shouted Alice as she barged her way with the other fat lasses struggling to get through the doors. Enid was slower and saw us into our gear.

Where was Mrs Winterbottom the supervisor while all this was going on?" said Ernie

Oh she always buggers off to see her fancy man at the end of the day, ‘e runs R&D oopstairs, Enid explained, She’s hoping to get a transfer, I know that for a fact, but she’s not got an’ope in ‘ell. She’s not nearly big enough for that job yet. Ernie looked at me wide eyed.

We followed Enid out, then just as she was clocking out by the canal door, I spotted a staircase.

I said to Ernie, I’m just hopping back upstairs to get our Kid’s boots

Yer bloody mad you are; ‘aven’t you had enough?

We slipped upstairs, comparing notes on what had just happened. Ernie claimed to have enjoyed it, he kept giggling about the size of the lasses he’d felt up. But I didn’t know what I thought. These lasses looked completely different from those Yank film stars like Jane Russell all the lads go on about at the pictures. Yet I too had to admit being very excited by all that teasing soft fat.

Now we had reached where I judged the sack store to be situated. I stealthily opened the door and we slid inside.

Ayoop! Just what are you two lads oop to ?

A big figure in a blue uniform stood silhouetted in the door frame before kicking it shut behind him. We were trapped.

Er, we were just going home after I’ve found our Edgar’s boots.

You’re not going nowhere you’re not, except to Mr Rowbotham. Coom along wi’ me.

He led us each by the ear. He walked us out, past the stairs, and into a short wood panelled corridor smelling of polish and through a door marked

Sharon Shufflebottom, R&D Manager’s Secretary.

Where’s Mr Rowbotham, young lady?

He’s always off tasting in R&D at this time. You know as well as I do, he’s not to be disturbed.

Ah’ll leave these two wi you then, it’s mi tea break cooming oop. Caught them snooping tell him.

As Miss Shufflebottom shut the door Ernie whispered to me: Fookin Norah! ‘Ave you seen size of the tits on that? Massive!.

I’ll ask you to be more civil when talking about a lady, young man, she snapped.

I was only saying ‘particularly classic hat that,’ said Ernie switching into his teacher’s voice again, pointing at the hat rack.

I distinctly heard you say something coarse.

Actually he did say the slang word titfer tat, I added quickly.

Oh I see! Well that’s much nicer boys. I’m sorry for thinking ill of you, Miss Shufflebottom, fluttered, blushing deep down into her cleavage.

Actually it’s Mr Rowbotham’s bowler hat, he wears it for the Directors Inspection. She brushed it lovingly, looking at a framed photo on the wall of a man in a bowler hat standing in a group of fat men. Now she commenced preening her auburn perm in the mirror. As she admired herself, she was absent mindedly plucking chocolates out of a large box on the filing cabinet. She had a mannerism of delicately sucking every plump finger clear of invisible debris after loading each choc through the naughty me O shape her lips made. She looked dead refined to me (just like my aunty Ethel acted after she married the undertaker).

These are still experimental - for export to Belgium. We’re going to go upmarket, she explained, then added haughtily: Mr Rowbottom says how much he respects my cultivated tastes. That’s why he leaves a new supply for me every morning. He insists on me finishing them by home time

The phone rang and we enjoyed how her exaggerated hourglass of a figure moved as she hustled across the room in her high stilettos to pick it up. The creases rippling across a shrink-wrapped black skirt showcased every rounded nuance of straining backside and belly, while the hem rode steadily upwards over rustling silky black stockinged fat legs. Up top, a fluid bosom threatened to overflow a low cut creamy lace blouse.

That’s why she’s called Shufflebottom, Ernie quipped.

Yeah and I bet she likes her Uddersfield an all.

Good Afternoon, Blubberhouses Toffee Mill, Sharon Shufflebottom speaking. How can I help you?

As she listened, her spare hand traced around under her double chin and down to gently caress and re-arrange the way a fine gold chain dropped through her cleavage.

Oh it’s you Mr Rowbotham. Yes Mr Rowbotham. Yes I have Mr Rowbotham.

We watched mesmerised: the hand was moving sideways under her blouse to cup the bulging curve of her breast.

No I can’t go home yet because Security brought in two boys he found wandering about.

She was hefting the breast flesh, relishing its weight.

You’re coming down to speak to them now? Right Mr Rowbotham.

The tip of her forefinger stretched out to touch and pucker her nipple.

Yes Mr Rowbotham. Goodbye Mr Rowbotham.

She replaced the old bakelite handset, glanced down with an oopsy at the breast now threatening to escape, and yanked her bra up over it. She caught our open mouthed stares; once again she blushed.

That was Mr Rowbotham, she said redundantly. He’s on his way down to deal with you.

So will he be coming down with Mrs Winterbottom? Ernie asked.

Sharon Shufflebottom stopped dead in her tracks at this. She flushed an even deeper red down into her cleavage and blustered:

I’ll have you know Mrs Winterbottom is one of the mill women, her sort are not allowed on the management corridor.

That’s funny because. Ernie started, but just then the door burst open and in stormed a short man followed by the Security man.

Though small and bald, Mr Rowbotham was obviously self important, for he had unwisely affected not only heavy black framed glasses with bottle lenses but also a two piece tash as facial accessories. He wore a celluloid collar with brass fixing stud and a stripey blue three piece suit over brown boots. Much the most modest paunch we’d seen all afternoon dislodged a mere two or three waistcoat buttons.

So where were they Jack?

I first saw them acting suspiciously on the back stairs leading up to the testing floor, then they entered the old cochineal dyes store, where I apprehended them.

All I want to know is ‘ave they seen into room 6?

There’s no saying for sure Mr Rowbotham.

I’m not letting them go home. It’s too risky. Tak’em up to t’top floor Jack. They’ll have to be kept there.

I heard the squeal of a Corporation tram under the window as it swung over the canal bridge, so near yet so far. It had gone dark outside.

I felt very homesick.

Part Two

What fate awaits me and Ernie Higginbottom? What are the secrets of the testing floor and the sinister Room 6? Will Mrs Winterbottom ever measure up to the rigours of R&D? Or will it be Miss Shufflebottom who reaps her just desserts by getting fattened up into ridiculous XWG immobility?