Growing up in the Southwest, where land is cheap and roads abound, you need a car. Some missteps out of high school that delayed my entry into college had left me with a rather poor cash-flow situation. For other kids I knew, as 18 wore on into 19, 19 into 20, the compact but late-model Honda was part of the territory, probably financed in part through parental generosity or judicious allocation of student loan funds. Me, it was all I could do to get a first car that was as old as I was: an old 4-cylinder BMW 2002 sedan.

For those reading this who may be unfamiliar with this long defunct model, don’t let the number fool you: 2002 was the model number, not the year. (I don’t even know the exact year of the car but it was in the 70s.) And don’t let the make fool you either—BMW would eventually come to be best known in the United States for its sport and luxury models, but this squat, boxy, vaguely Eastern-bloc looking sedan was (or had been when brand new) no more than a German grocery-getter.

When I finally took possession of it, seeming destined to be its last owner, this rusty, dented, tired looking old nag of car had the dubious virtue of being, in the words of Mike, a co-worker at the gas station where I worked, a “hipster Eurotrashmobile”—strangely admired by a certain skinny-jeans-and-bowling-shirt set, who perhaps enjoyed the irony of a status-symbol label on such a piece of crap. (Honestly I’m not sure what they saw in it. I would much rather have had a later model that had a warranty and started reliably.)

So I had a love-hate relationship with the car. It was hard to start cold, smoked like a train, stalled out at idle, and had sticky vinyl seats that were sagging and distended, with springs and foam and horsehair protruding errantly through various tears and gashes in the upholstery. Almost nothing on the instrument panel worked—AC, heat, cigarette lighter, dome light, radio. And yet I couldn’t help but enjoy the persistent compliments from strangers, sometimes averaging one a week, even if they were mostly from hipsters whose aesthetic sensibility generally bewildered me. It wasn’t just a car; it was a conversation piece.

“The dyke from next door likes your car,” Mike told me one day after I came back in from changing the price signs. The “dyke” he was referring to was a tall, heavyset, tomboyish blonde named Sam who worked at the oil change shop whose lot adjoined ours. She was dour, apparently humorless, and would grace our shop at least once a day with her grease-spattered coveralls and whatever hair she had up tucked into her ball cap, to buy Marlboro Lights and fountain Dr. Pepper. She was not unfriendly—not rude the way many customers can be. In fact, I always thought there was something good natured and trustworthy in her deliberate southern drawl, her steady, confident, no-nonsense gaze. She just wasn’t one for chit-chat, that was all; not one who recognized any value in the social lubricant of please and thank-you, greeting and leave-taking. She would come in, place her order, pay, and leave. That was that.

And she was, very probably, a lesbian, or so I thought. But I privately disliked Mike’s insistence on referring to her as “the dyke.” She may not have been the most pleasant person, but she wasn’t exactly unpleasant either; she had never given me any reason to disparage her behind her back. In a business like ours where so many people are rude, it seemed wrong somehow to trash-talk one of the better customers, even if she would never find out.

But there was more to my private mental defense of her than that. What I could never admit to Mike: I actually found her quite attractive.

She was fat, which I don’t mean pejoratively—just descriptively. I’ve always liked bigger women. She had a belly and love handles and big boobs and a great big round behind. But even so, fatness was not her most salient feature; the impression she gave was of someone strong and sturdy, a tall, square, durable frame hung with capable muscles. Her womanly traits were dampened by her boxy coveralls, her strong, businesslike carriage, and the fact that she never wore makeup. But her womanly traits were there nonetheless, available in plain view to the observant and the imaginative. You could tell she had the boobs even if she wasn’t doing anything to help you notice them, and the fact that she looked as good as she did without makeup, with her deep blue eyes and smooth pink-freckled cheeks, should have been a clue as to how nicely she would clean up.

It was so unusual to think of Sam actually chatting with one of the cashiers that I wasn’t even sure I believed Mike at first. “When did she say this?” I asked, probably betraying a note of challenge in my voice.

“Just came in a minute ago when you were out changing the pump sings. Said ‘who’s car?’, and I told her it was yours and she said ‘nice car’, and that was it.”

“Really?” I asked, and looked futilely across the lot to the lube shop as though I could gain some information by studying the open garage bay doors.

“Yep. Dyke digs your car bro’.”

I know. I really should have protested, should not have been tacitly complicit in his disrespect. But on some level I was part of the same stupid conspiracy he was furthering, to deny what I liked, to consent—if only by my silence—to the ridiculous truism that a 5’11″, 180 pound Amazon woman with boobs and biceps can’t be gorgeous, as Sam so obviously was. Or that a big strong woman who worked on cars had to be a lesbian (which, alas, seemed a slightly safer generalization).

I was intrigued, though; my curiosity was piqued. “So,” I thought to myself with a smile, “the dyke likes my car.”

* * *

I was scheduled to open the following Sunday. Sunday-open is both the best and worst shift to work at a suburban convenience store. What makes it the worst the fact that it’s, well, Sunday morning; opening up at six means waking up in the five o’clock hour on a day when the rest of the world is sleeping off a hangover. But, paradoxically, this is precisely what was nice about actual workload of the shift itself. Weekday-open you’re always slammed, and everyone’s irritable and in a hurry to get to work, and you have to juggle the endless line at the register with the near-constant need to brew fresh coffee. Sundays it was not unusual to have the first coffee-and-newspaper customers saunter in at a leisurely pace, happy and well-rested, well into the nine o’clock hour. Once I made it all the way to ten—literally half-way through my shift(!)—before seeing my very first customer of the day. Unlike weekdays and afternoons, they only schedule one cashier for Sunday open, and there’s a certain peace in the solitude.

The sun was still low in the east, the sky its morning pink-orange-blue, and, sitting on my stool and sipping my coffee, I looked up from my newspaper to gaze out the window and take in the serene view. The spell was broken by the tinny clatter of the bell-string tied to the door to announce the entry of a customer. I spun around in my stool and there, in fresh blue coveralls with embroidered patches—an ovular one over the breast pocket that ringed a cursive “Sam,” another high on the sleeve advertising “ASE” certification, whatever that meant—was “the dyke” herself, padding over to the soda fountain to fill a quart-sized plastic cup with Dr. Pepper. “Morning,” I hailed, not expecting and not receiving a reply. I plucked a pack of cigarettes down from the overhead rack and set them on the counter.

She came up to the register. I looked at my watch. “You’re here early. Thought you guys didn’t open up until ten on Sunday.”

“I’ve got inventory today before my crew gets in. Marlboro Lights soft-pack.” The pack was already on the counter so I slid it forward to draw her attention to it, and to the fact that I had helpfully anticipated her order. If she was impressed by this example of great customer service she did nothing to so indicate.

I watched as her clean strong hands retrieved bills from her Harley-Davidson chain wallet and noted how spotlessly clean her closely cropped fingernails were, which they never were at night. An image flashed into my mind of her with pumice and brush, scrubbing assiduously until every trace of grime was dispatched, knowing full well she would repeat the ritual the next day, and every day after that. She had meticulous streak in her, I decided. Suddenly, I had an urge to make small talk, to try to keep her in the store if only for a moment longer.

“It’s beautiful eh?” I tried, gesturing with a cock of my head to the east-facing window behind me.

“What?” she asked, looking up from her wallet, as though annoyed by the interruption.

“Rosy-fingered dawn,” I said wistfully.

Her eyes narrowed and a deep furrow cut into her brow and, with a surprising note of hostility she snapped: “What?! What are you talking about?”

I was so surprised by her apparent anger that I had no idea what to say. After a few glottal stops I managed: “Just trying to make conversation.”

“Well look, I don’t know who the fuck this Rosie and Dawn are or why you think it’s okay to tell me this—”

“N-n-n-no!” I interrupted hastily, palms forward, “it’s-it’s-it’s Homeric epithet! From the Odyssey. You know, mythology? Eos the dawn has rosy—rose-colored—fingers like, like, like the uh, you know, like those pink streaks of clouds,” I pointed out the window.

She studied me with arched eyebrow, the skeptical air of someone trying to determine whether she’s being had, and eventually broke my gaze to look out the window behind me. She looked at the sky for a moment, her face betraying no particular appreciation of the view, and then her eyes brightened noticeably as they lit on something in the nearer distance. She looked at my name tag and then at me and said, with as cheerful a tone as I had ever heard from her: “You’re Bart!”

I was puzzled by the sudden change in tone. “Yeah,” I confirmed warily.

“I had you confused with another dude in here works nights. That’s your car,” she pointed.

“Oh. Yeah. Yes it is.”

“That is a great car, sir.”

I was still a bit back on my heels, reeling from her rapid change of mood, which is probably why I flubbed my first and probably only opportunity to find common ground with this woman. Perhaps all that was needed was for me to agree with her enthusiastically, and we might have proceeded to have a pleasant conversation. But instead, unthinkingly, I damned my car with faint praise, saying, “yeah, it’s okay I guess.”

Immediately her face fell, any trace of brightness or felicity extinguished. “It’s a great car,” she affirmed, with the tone of someone who doesn’t suffer philistinism well.

“Yeah, no, I didn’t, I mean—uh” I hastened to save it, blurting out: “I’ve always liked BBWs.”

Now her brow sank again into an expression of withering disdain. Then I heard it too, the Freudian slip, and clumsily tried to fix it: “BM!” I nearly shouted, and then, miserably, realized that that too demanded correction—I couldn’t seem to open my mouth without digging a deeper hole. “W!” I added. Finally: “BMW! Was… what I meant to say. Instead of, you know…. Look, can we start this whole conversation over? Like maybe you could go out and come back in.” I flashed what must have seemed a simpering grin.

“How much oil are you losing?”

“God, it’s ridiculous—like a quart every time I get gas, feels like. Is that typical for those cars?”


“Well, then, how did you—”

“Because you’re getting blue-black smoke. I saw you pulling out onto the road the other day.”

“Is that bad?”

“You think it’s good? Means rings eventually. But in the mean time at least you can try heavier viscosities, maybe an additive. When’s the last time you had the oil changed?”

I averted my eyes and, in a conspicuous poker tell, looked anxiously at the floor before saying: “Um, it was—”

“Don’t lie ’cause I’ll know. Soon as I get a look at that dipstick I’m gonna know.”

Absurdly, all I could think to say to this was: “I’m sorry.” To this day I’m not sure if I was apologizing for thinking of bullshitting her or for not being a better custodian of my car.

“Sir, a high-mileage vehicle like that—the oil is the single most important thing.”

“Guess I figured as often as I was adding quarts the oil was kind of—” I shrugged and let out a nervous chuckle “—changing itself.”

At this she let out a heavy, exasperated sigh. “Listen, sir—”

“Wh-why don’t you call me Bart?” (Honestly, what was this “Sir” business anyway? She had to be at least five years older than I was. And she was talking to me like I was an oil-change customer—but she was in my store, I wasn’t in hers.)

“Bart. Why don’t bring her in and let me get under that hood. You can pull her round right now if you want. We’re starting a special on oil and lube tomorrow but I’ll give you the discount today.”

“Well, that’s awfully kind of you to offer but, didn’t you say you had inventory?”

“I can work around my crew this afternoon if I have to. I consider this like a medical emergency.”

* * *

It was not even eight o’clock when she phoned the store to summon me to her work bay, where I stood feeling a bit like a kid at the principal’s office. She had the hood propped and the dipstick lay out on an improbably clean looking shop towel. “I just figured I’d leave this out for you, let you see it.” She presented the stick for my inspection. “See how black that is. Now touch it.” I hesitated. “Go on. Wipes right off. Just see how watery it is.”

I touched it. “Pretty watery,” I agreed.

“That’s what you’re doing when you just add instead of changing. Viscosity breaks down over time. You end up with a crankcase full of black water and sludge. She wiped the stick, slid it into its housing, and retrieved it once more. The stick was now coated (to within a millimeter of the correct quart mark) with a transparent yellowish oil. “That’s how it’s supposed to look, sir.”



But my dressing down continued as, point by point, she walked me through all of the evidence of neglected basic maintenance: Sooty spark plugs; underinflated tires; corroded battery terminal posts. If my car had been a dog she would have called the SPCA.

Oddly, as all this was taking place, I didn’t feel nearly as miserable as one might expect. In fact, it was actually turning me on. Maybe it was just because I’d been attracted to her all along, and so welcomed the opportunity to follow the sway over her big blue-clad hips as she circled back and forth around my car to point out the various evidences of neglect. Or maybe it was deeper than that—that I felt somehow cared for through all this attention to my car, as though I had finally broken a thick layer of ice with this mysterious “dyke next door,” even if her attitude was like that of a drill sergeant inspecting a particularly sloppy platoon. Or maybe I was discovering a submissive streak in me that I didn’t even know I had—maybe I actually liked the drill-sergeant treatment a little.

Whatever it was, it was getting worse and worse: The longer she talked the less I could seem to concentrate on what she was saying, and the more brazen I became in my attempts to steal glances at her, here at her wide hips and big butt as she bent into the engine compartment on the leeward side of the car, there as she betrayed a rare glimpse of cleavage when she bent over windward. As the lecture wore on I started to get an aching boner. It was mercifully soft, as boners go—not the kind to press noticeably against my pants. But even at half-strength it was throbbing ravenously and siphoning off all my attention.

To make matters worse, she was so stern and serious that I found myself strangely tempted to make inappropriate jokes at about every other sentence she uttered. I managed to restrain myself (for a while), but the urge was uncanny. I was like the kids in that old cartoon show, Beavis and Butt-head, hearing sexual innuendo in every little thing she said: “…getting some blow-by here…”; “…need to get that good and lubed up so it slides right in…”; “…getting some pulsation on the rear-end…”; “…and it slides in and out over and over at very high speeds…” It was dizzying. I could barely contain myself. Everything she said sounded like it had a double meaning!

“One more thing,” she said, with a welcome note of finality. “On these terminal posts, after you do the baking soda thing we talked about…” she walked over to a work bench where there sat—I hadn’t noticed it before—and institutional-use, gallon-sized jar of Vaseline. I felt my pulse quicken a little at the sight of that jar here, in this setting, incongruously placed amidst all the various parts and tools. I may have even blushed. The reason is a little embarrassing.

I grew up in a religious (you might say fundamentalist) household, where I spent much of my pubescence shamefully convinced that I was among a tiny, insignificant percentage of the human population that was actually depraved enough to masturbate. My weapon of choice had been the family’s community stock of Vaseline, tucked away under the sink in my parents’ bathroom, and I was probably kidding myself in hoping no one in the family noticed its frequent, too-rapid depletion, nor even just the oily smell of it on me. I have long-since discontinued the use of Vaseline for this purpose, but I still get a giddy little twinge when I see a jar of it—afraid to look at it lest someone decode my facial expression and instantly know my history with it.

Accordingly, as she popped the lid off the giant jar (the old familiar smell wafted up to my nostrils and—talk about conditioned response!—I felt my stiffening cock actually jump in my pants), I quickly averted my eyes. She scooped out a thick handful of the yellow-gray goop and walked over to the far side where the battery sat; I stood motionless, feet fixed to the floor.

“If you’ll just smear a little like so, it will protect against corrosion.” Finally I gathered the courage to look up and, directly in front of me, across the expanse of engine, there was the single best cleavage view I’d ever gotten of Sam. Ordinarily she kept the coveralls zipped pretty high up on her chest and wore a crewneck t-shirt beneath. Today, perhaps owing to the fact that it was Sunday, she had some type of tank-shirt on underneath the uniform and, at the same time, the zipper was unzipped nearly to the bottom of her bosom.

My eye moved back and forth from where her strong hand was spreading translucent goo onto my freshly cleaned battery, up to her enormous freckled boobs that were now jiggling in time with the mildly circular motion of her hand. I couldn’t help but juxtapose the two images in my mind, a sort of gestalt, as I imagined her spreading lubricant on my shaft and then enveloping me between those large tits until I erupted in orgasm onto her chin, neck and sternum. I was staring now in a mute trance and I’m pretty sure my mouth hung slightly agape.

Then she froze. I looked up, about two-beats too late, and found myself looking directly into her now-narrowed eyes. Busted. “Getting all this?” she asked, with a note of angry sarcasm.

At this worst of all possible moments, as though from some kind of neurological misfire, I did perhaps the worst thing I could have done. I did not apologize; I did not try to play it off or protest my innocence. What did I do? I finally succumbed to the idiotic urge to make a double-entendre and, before I could even think what I was doing, blurted out (smarmily): “Now that’s what I call a lube job.”

She immediately stood up and zipped her coveralls up to her neck. “I’ll go get your invoice,” she said huffily, and started to walk away.

“No! Wait! Sam!” I cried, “I’m sorry—please!”

“I’ll get your invoice.”

Just as I had stepped out of the shower my mobile rang and so I hurried more than I probably should have to pick it up and almost slipped over as I entered my bedroom.

As usual I’d just missed the call, it was Julie, she’d left a message though so I put it on speakerphone as I dried myself.

“Hiya Sarah, it’s Friday night babe, let’s have a few cheap ones at the Legion then the Arches afterwards, see you in there, mwah!”

I grinned as I toweled and quickly blow dried my hair. That sounded like a plan, we’d both just finished our exams and were desperate for a good night out, well, I was desperate for some cock but a few drinks and a good laugh sounded good too.

The Legion may have seemed like an odd place for two eighteen year old girls to go on a Friday night, but it served the cheapest drinks in town and it was on the way to the club.

Normally I’m one of those lucky girls who doesn’t need much makeup, but tonight I was putting it on with a trowel. T for tarty, I thought as I applied the finishing touches a few minutes later, worrying only slightly that it was verging on prostitute.

I smiled as I reached for my old faithful, my red dress had seen more fuckings than an entire series of Gordon Ramsay, well…maybe not, but it had seen a lot and it always seemed easy to get the dried spunk off the material afterwards.

Picking out my favourite pair of stockings I pulled them up over my freshly shaved legs, delighting in the feel of the material caressing my skin, before pulling them up the extra inch or so and letting the elastic snap into place and hold them against the soft flesh of my thighs.

The black lace of my lucky knickers felt delicious against my freshly shaved mound, I couldn’t help but caress myself gently for a few moments after I had pulled them on, before sighing and squeezing my big boobs into my matching push-up bra and slipping the dress over my head and pulling it down until it just barely covered my curvy bottom.

I bent over and looked over my shoulder, flicking my long blonde hair out of my face so that the view of the full length mirror behind me was unimpeded. I smirked to myself when I saw my bum cheeks peeping out at me from under the hem of my skirt above my stockinged thighs.

Throwing on my perfume and red high heels, I picked up my purse and phone and headed downstairs.

‘Don’t wait up Mum,’ I called as I passed through the front door without waiting to hear a reply, it was time to get drunk and fucked.

It wasn’t far to the Legion but I still managed to get several offers from blokes on the way that I just wasn’t interested in, it felt nice to be wanted, but they were all a bit childish, I thought about pulling an older bloke, maybe in his thirties and a naughty smile crept across my features.

‘I’ll try my best,’ I thought to myself.

The Legion soon beckoned, it’s lights shining dimly in the night, I noticed a badly drawn poster announcing ‘Pool night at the Legion – tonite!’ taped to the safety glass of the battered old black door as I passed through in to the musty old bar area.

It was almost deadly silent inside, I tried not to laugh and then, for a split second worried that there was no one here…then I heard a pool ball strike another on its way into a pocket and smiled to myself.

I wondered how many times I’d get it in the hole tonight.

The Legion was a safe haven for all the old blokes in the area, no-one else really came in here, certainly no-one my age. Julie and I had only stumbled on the fact that they served very cheap drinks the last time we were out, forced into the nearest shelter by a torrential downpour.

I walked across the sticky red carpet, smiled at the old woman behind the bar and ordered a rum and coke, nodding when she asked me if I wanted a double as it was only one pound fifty.

She didn’t even bother to measure it, just pouring the rum from a large bottle standing behind the bar.

Sipping my drink I turned to look at the pool table while I waited for Julie. All the old men were either stood or sat around watching their cronies play, their huge bellies getting in the way of their shots and their joints creaking as they leaned over to take them. Not one of them looked under sixty five.

I noticed one or two of them cheekily eying me up and I gave them a smile.

‘Fancy a go love?’ one of them asked.

A brief chuckle rippled through his friends and I rolled my eyes.

‘I’m waiting for my mate,’ I said.

‘Just a quick one then, you can use my cue as well,’ this brought a few belly laughs, which, judging by the size of the bellies around the table should have been a bit louder really.

‘I’m not much good,’ I said as I took a few tentative steps towards the table.

‘It’s easy all you have to do is stick it in the hole!’

I joined in the laughter this time and snatched the cue he offered me with mock indignation.

‘Go on then, just a quickie,’ I laughed.

This comment brought raucous cheers from the old men and I blushed furiously, avoiding their eyes.

‘You break then my love,’ the old man smiled.

I finished my drink quickly, plopped the empty glass down on one of the little brown tables and leaned over the table to take my shot, only realising then that my dress was a little short for this and that all of the old buggers were suddenly standing behind me.

I reddened again, mishit the cue ball so badly it went straight into the middle pocket without hitting anything else and stood up with a jump feeling incredibly embarrassed.

The old men laughed and clapped as my opponent, grunting with the effort, bent over to pick the cue ball up and placed it back on the table in front of me.

‘Have another go,’ he chuckled.

I was about to protest when a fresh drink was pressed into my hand.

‘Here you go, this’ll help you relax.’

It was another rum and coke, but this time, judging by the taste and smell it was more like a triple or quadruple, I took a gulp and sighed as I bent over to take my shot once more.

The old blokes must have been getting a right eyeful, but what the hell I thought, they were only having a look. I wiggled my bum at them as I cued and broke off properly this time, to rapt applause.

‘That’s better,’ my opponent chuckled as he bent quickly to take his shot to the background of hoots and words of mock encouragement from his friends.

‘Go on Ray, sink the pink,’ one of them chortled and I reddened even further.

‘Dirty old bugger!’ I laughed.

Ray missed by a fraction, leaving the cue ball right in the middle of the table.

‘Less of the old,’ Ray chuckled as he passed me and I yelped as he pinched my bum.

I wondered whether it might be a better idea to leave now and wait for Julie outside but thought better of it, after all it was only a bit of fun, although I was a little surprised at myself for thinking so.

I realised then that the cue ball being in the middle of the table was no accident as I leaned over to take my shot, struggling to reach the ball, my dress riding up at the back.

Feeling more than a bit embarrassed, I tried to adjust my dress while I was in this ridiculous position and lost my balance, but before I could fall I felt a steadying hand on my hip.

‘Careful my love,’ Ray laughed, his voice coming from over my shoulder.

His hand stayed on my hip while I took my shot, even though it was now obviously unnecessary.

Somehow I managed to hit something and by sheer luck one of the balls went in.

The old men cheered and Ray patted my bum somewhat condescendingly.

‘Good shot,’ he laughed.

Feeling a little unnerved by his over friendly hand and still more than a bit embarrassed, I reached for my drink and found that it had been topped up and judging by the fumes that were coming off it, there was about half a glassful of neat rum in there now.

I coughed and spluttered as the drink burned its way down inside me and Ray’s hand returned, but this time to rub my back and give me a little pat.

‘You OK love?’

I didn’t know if it was all that rum but his touch was starting to feel quite nice now and all thoughts of leaving had vanished from my mind, so I nodded gratefully, smiling.

He smiled back and patted my bottom again before rubbing it gently and very briefly, ‘Your shot my love.’

The cue ball was easy to reach this time, but somehow I found myself bending over a little more than I should and taking a little more time over my shot than I normally would.

I heard someone whisper, ‘Oh aye that’s nice,’ behind me as I missed my shot and turned to flash them a quick smile when I stood back up.

It was nice to feel appreciated and I was more than a little bit drunk by now, they were just a bunch of old blokes who wanted to have a sneaky look at my knickers, ‘Where was the harm in that?’ I thought to myself as I watched Ray take his shot, his enormous belly pressing into the pool table.

The thought of his hand on my hip was making me feel slightly warm inside now, and on my bottom…

‘Your shot my love,’ Ray was smiling at me and I realised I was staring at his crotch.

He pretended not to notice and I quickly bent over to take my shot, making sure I gave them all a good view.

I frowned slightly at a half heard whisper behind me as I took it, it had sounded something like ‘Quick, give her some more,’ which I assumed it must have been as when I stood up again my drink was once more full to the brim.

I took another large sip and noticed a strange powdery texture to it.

‘I think I need a clean glass,’ I slurred and then giggled.

‘Ah you’ll be alright love,’ Ray chuckled as he took his shot and missed again. ‘Get it down you, it’ll loosen you up.’

Wondering briefly what he meant by that last remark I gulped the drink down and set the glass clumsily down again, jumping slightly as I felt something touch my bum.

‘How does that feel?’ Ray asked me, his hand now firmly planted on my right bum cheek, kneading it gently.

‘Nice,’ I beamed.

And it did, it felt very nice, I didn’t want him to stop. I continued to smile at him as I felt his hand move further across and slightly down into the valley between and noticed he was staring at my boobs.

Just then my phone rang and I jumped, Ray’s hand left my bottom and I looked round for my bag.

It was Julie.

‘Hi babe,’ she sounded upset.

‘Where are you?’ I slurred.

‘At the hospital,’ she groaned.

‘Oh my God are you OK?’

‘Yeah, well no, I slipped getting out of the shower and I think I’ve broke my ankle. Sorry I didn’t call sooner, are you OK?’

‘Yeah, yeah I’m down the Legion…oh I hope you’re OK, does it hurt much?’

‘It fucking kills babe,’ she forced a laugh. ‘You going to go down the Arches still?’

‘Yeah, yeah, I’m just having a game of pool with the old blokes.’

Julie laughed properly this time, ‘Watch them dirty old buggers Sarah, they’ll be trying to look at your knickers.’

I laughed back and we said our goodbyes.

‘Everything OK?’ Ray asked as I put my phone back in my bag.

I told him what had happened.

‘So your going on then now, or do you want to play a bit more?’ he asked.

I hadn’t really thought about it up until now, and now that I did didn’t really fancy the idea of going out alone.

‘I don’t know,’ I replied. ‘I suppose I could finish the game and then go home.’

‘There’s no rush is there?’ Ray asked and I felt his hand touching my hip again.

‘No I suppose not,’ I smiled. ‘But doesn’t this place close soon?’

‘Oh don’t worry about that love,’ Ray smiled, his hand creeping slowly back onto my bottom.

‘Deirdre let’s us stay as long as we want, we’ll have a lock in.’ he continued, nodding to the fat old woman behind the bar, who seemed to take this as a cue and waddled over to the doors, locking them quickly and drawing heavy curtains over them from either side.

‘Now, where were we?’ Ray grinned, his hand slipping gently between my buttocks.

I smiled back at him, gripping my cue tightly as I felt my balance waver for a second, my knees were trembling and I suddenly felt incredibly warm and wet between my legs.

‘I’m not sure who’s shot it is,’ my voiced trembled slightly as I felt his hand slip further down, his fingers now pressing the hem of my dress into my bum crack.

‘It’s your shot love, but as I said there’s no rush is there?’

I smiled and shook my head, just standing there, letting this dirty fat old man feel me up.

He stepped closer to me and my breath caught slightly as he moved towards me as if to kiss me, or so I thought, I wondered at my disappointment when he simply reached past me and picked up his drink.

‘My shot,’ I mumbled as I tottered over to the table, Ray chuckled quietly.

I bent to take it, it was a tough shot and I had to take my time aiming, but just as I moved the cue to hit the ball Ray pinched my bum again and I missed horribly.

‘That’s not fair!’ I squeaked as Ray and his cronies roared with laughter once more.

‘Couldn’t resist love,’ Ray winked at me as he moved round the table.

‘Two can play at that game,’ I thought as I hoisted myself up onto the table behind me and sat with my legs wide open.

I smiled as I watched the old man trying to concentrate on his shot with my knickers and stocking tops on full view and giggled when he eventually went in off.

‘Two shots to me,’ I cried almost falling over as I dropped from the table.

One of the other old men steadied me just in time and I fell into him, pressing my boobs into his chest.

‘Bloody hell!’ he breathed not taking his eyes off my cleavage.

I could feel something pressing into my thigh in return as he held me for a few brief moments and blushed when I realised he had a hard on.

Quickly bending over to take my next shot I tried to put it out of my mind, but realised I couldn’t, in fact it was all I could think about.

I glanced back at him again, his huge belly and big lump in his dirty grey trousers.

Turning my attention back to my shot I caught Ray’s eye and noticed him grinning at me knowingly, what was the old bugger going to do to try and put me off this time?

No sooner had I thought this than I felt the same lump pressing against me again, but this time it was pressing into my bum.

Before I could stop myself I moaned loudly much to the delight of the crowd of old men. The old man behind me began to grind his crotch into my backside, pressing mine deliciously into the table edge.

‘Let’s see who gets it in the hole first shall we?’ Ray laughed and his mates joined in.

My breathing had become ragged now as the old man ran his cock the length of my bum crack, vigorously dry humping me, making it almost impossible to hit the ball. But somehow I did and even more miraculously a ball went in to a chorus of mock boos.

I’d expected the humping to stop but if anything it got even more energetic. I tried to pull away, but the old man grunted and held my hips tight then I felt him shudder and gasp and knew he’d just cum in his pants.

The old men cheered and clapped and Ray came over laughing at the mortified expression on my face.

‘It’s only a bit of fun love,’ Ray said as he pulled me from his friend’s grip.

I felt his hand slide down my back and onto my bottom again as he propelled me towards the bar, it was all so wrong but I found myself liking the attention, or at worst just not minding it and couldn’t understand why.

‘Mix her another drink Deirdre, I’ll have a pint of Best, and while you’re at it put the porn on.’

The old woman behind the bar just nodded and pointed a remote over my shoulder. Had I heard right?

I looked round and realised I had as a large projector screen began to slide down the far wall, the projector was already running and as the screen dropped I could see that a girl not unlike me was being fucked hard on her bed by someone old enough be her granddad.

I felt Ray’s hand slip under my dress as I watched but didn’t move to stop him, even when I felt his fingers pulling at the waistband of my knickers and then sliding down across my bare bum cheeks.

‘Here you are my love,’ he said.

I turned and saw him pushing a drink towards me with one hand whilst the other was working its way down the crack of my bottom. My lips parted as he pulled me into his chest and I whimpered slightly as his tongue forced its way deep into my mouth.

I began to kiss him back gently and gradually we became more and more passionate. Feeling him turn and lean back against the bar, I realised that I had my back to his friends now and that he’s pulled up my dress so that they could all see where his hand was, but it felt so good I just didn’t care.

‘Shall we play a bit more or do you want to sit and watch the porno with us for a bit?’ Ray whispered in my ear as he ran his slimy tongue up the side of my neck. I just whimpered and buried my face in his chest as I felt his finger pressing at the wet hole of my pussy and, after some brief resistance, slide deep inside me.

‘Or should I just do you right here over the bar in front of everyone?’ he hissed. ‘It’s what you came here for isn’t it?’

‘Oh God,’ I whispered, my chest heaving as I tried in vain to lift my right leg and wrap it around him, instead just rubbing my thigh on his hip and feeling his bulging erection pressing into my crotch.

Ray obviously took that as a yes, as he suddenly spun me around and pushed me over the bar top. I was panting, my mouth open and face flushed as I looked into the eyes of Deirdre, the old barmaid. She looked back at me, lust written across her wrinkled features as Ray pulled my knickers down so roughly he made my head jerk backwards.

The next moment I looked in surprise as the old woman took a strong grip of my wrists and pulled me forwards over the bar top.

She laughed as I heard the sound of Rays zip lowering, then his belt buckle being undone and I cried out loudly when he thrust his cock straight into me with no warning.

The old woman held me tight across the bar as Ray began fucking me from behind, his huge belly resting on my back, his saggy skin slapping on my buttocks with each powerful stroke.

I could see him over my shoulder in the mirror behind the bar, his face red and sweaty, his lips curled in a vicious snarl as he took me hard.

‘This is what you came for isn’t it?’ he growled as he pumped me.

‘Oh fuck, yes, oh yes!’ I sobbed as my emotions got the better of me. His cock felt incredible inside me, I was so horny, it was the best fuck I’d ever had and we’d only just started.

‘Dirty little slag,’ Deirdre muttered and let go of my hands.

I gripped onto the beer pumps instead, grinding my bum back into Ray’s crotch and my pushing my cunt as far down his meaty shaft as I could.

I could feel the old man tensing as his strokes quickened and knew he was about to cum inside me and that sent me over the edge. The strongest orgasm I’d ever had washed over me, making my legs buckle and my hands relinquish their grip.

Deirdre caught my wrists just in time and held them in one hand, quickly pushing her other down the top of my dress and roughly squeezing my tits.

Ray thrust into me one last time and held his cock deep inside me as it throbbed and twitched, emptying his old balls into my willing young cunt.

My head dropped onto my arms, I could smell the stale beer mat and feel it cool against my hot skin as Ray grunted one last time before pulling out of me and wiping his cock in the crack of my bum.

‘Nice shag that love,’ he panted as I heard him pull up his pants. ‘I’ll have you again later.’

Loud cheers and applause erupted from his seated friends and I suddenly remembered we had an audience, I hid my face in my arms for a few more minutes as Deirdre continued to grope my tits roughly.

I could feel that my dress was around my hips and my knickers around my ankles, and now Ray’s cum was dripping out of my hole and down the inside of my thigh and knew they could all see it.

September 2018
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