Doing A Carol 12
Dear Diary.
I can honestly say the pub lived up to its reputation.
Let me set the scene.
It’s your typical old fashioned looking, non descript cream painted building, possibly was a coach house back when it was first built.
Outside there are several faulty lamps clinging to the walls, flickering like a fake disco and providing no basic lighting system, whilst in-between them are a series of hanging baskets spewing out a fountain of thirsty flowers.
As I entered the place, I was immediately accosted by a sea of stagnant, musty air, rippling towards me like a tidal wave, wanting to escape through the door behind me and attacking my nostrils on its way to freedom.
Strangly, the pub wasn’t busy for a Saturday night, only a few bodies were dotted about, although I could hear the recognisable crack of pool balls coming from the back of the pub.
The interior was dimly lit and covered with football memorabilia and old stained pictures that lined the walls which were draped in that dreadful old fashioned seventies red and black fuzzy flock wallpaper.
In front of me was a bald middle aged bar tender standing behind a cluttered bar, cleaning his pint glasses and was chatting to his chubby male friend who sat on a bar stool. They both stopped what they were doing and watched me walk over to them. So did the three old men who were sat in the corner playing dominos. They also stopped their game and watched my every move.
Only the guys playing pool in the back room and a young lad in his painters overals didn’t notice me at first as he was too engrossed in his phone.
I don’t think that I’ve ever felt so out of place and nervous as I did then. And being the only woman in the place, did I feel safe? I’m not sure. In any case, Michael will be here soon, so surely nothing untowards could happen in that time. My mind was playing tricks again. I’m just being silly arent I? Of course I am.
I’m fully aware of my situation and how vulnerable I may seem to be, but I’m a strong woman who can look after myself. I’m just having silly thoughts, that’s all.
As I carefully stepped upon the sticky grandparents style carpet in my black patent high heels and brushed away those negative thoughts, I could feel all of their eyes undressing me, leering and meticulously scanning the white material to see what laid beneath. Well it was clearly obvious what it was covering. Anyone from space could see my sexy black underwear shining through the flimsy material. Was it worth wearing the dress in the first place? Damn right as it covered my modesty.
As I ordered a glass of rosè, the bar tender kept glancing down at my pert breasts and the guy on the stool inched nearer, I guess hoping to catch a feel. He didn’t.
I swiftly grabbed my glass of wine, thanked the bar tender and sat down at a grubby table near the young lad, who by now has looked up and had taken an interest.
It felt like I was the entertainment and that they’ve not seen a woman before.
Then I get a text.
Ping. ‘I’m on my way.’
‘Hurry up. It feels dirty in here.’
Ping. ‘I thought you were a dirty girl.’
‘I can be, but not in here. It’s manky.’
Ping. ‘Here’s a good place to start.’
A good place to start? What? What does the fuck that mean?
I then take a sip of wine and fiddle with my phone, trying not to stand out.
Then I catch the young guy trying to take a sneaky picture of me.
What the hell!
Ping. ‘I should be there soon.’
‘Please hurry.’
Ping. ‘Aren’t you having any fun yet?’
‘What do you mean?’
Ping. ‘Is there anyone in the pub who’s not looking at you?’
‘The pub is empty. Just a few men lurking about. They’re all perving at me.’
Ping. ‘Perfect. How does it feel?’
Is this fucker twisted?
‘How the fuck do you think I feel?’
Ping. ‘Tell me, slut!’
What? Are you that stupid?
‘I feel degraded and dirty.’
Ping. ‘Dirty? Not even a bit sexy?’
‘No. Not even a bit,’ followed quickly by, ‘Well…’
Ping. ‘Good girl. I have a task for you.’
‘I’m not playing anymore.’
Ping. Yes you are. You’re my slut now and you will do what I say.’
Fuck. Am I? I must be to be sat here on my own in such an outrageous outfit.
Ping. ‘I want you to go to the ladies and take a selfie.’
Shit. That means I’ll have to walk right through the pub and into the pool room.
‘OK. But hurry up.’
Ping. ‘I’m nearly there.’
Trying to keep calm, I get up and walk through the bar and through the pool room where the guys have now stopped playing and watched me go into the ladies toilets.
Inside, I checked myself out in the mirror, took out my phone and took a selfie.
Sent.
Ping. ‘Wow. Looking good.’
‘Thank you. Are you here yet?’
Ping. ‘Just around the corner.’
‘Great. I don’t think I can last any longer in here.’
Ping. ‘Get used to it. You have one more task and it’s very simple.’
I don’t believe it! What’s he up to?
Shall I continue to play his silly games or should I go home? I’m not sure but nothing bad has happened yet, except for some dirty old men leering at me. So what’s wrong with that?
Now that’s a loaded question which will upset those who are easy offended, those living in their wimpy wet lettuce political correct world and the woman’s liberation brigade who, I do believe in, have bravely fought for justice and equality so that we can have a better life.
Good for them as I’m right with you ladies, joining the ranks and standing up for what’s right. But for now, it’s my turn to put that liberation in to practice and turn the tables on those poor old defenceless men who are only thinking with their droopy, withered cocks.
These men may think they know what they are doing but when it comes to me and my rules, I’m the one in charge. I’m the one stating what’s what and I’m the one who’s in control of the situation.
Even Michael. Poor Michael.
He may think he’s in charge of the game. And, of course, I’m letting him think that.
Yes, he maybe ahead with the moves at the moment and I guess he has some sort of gameplan worked out, but he forgets that I’m the prize. If he’s going to win his trophy, and he eventually will when I’m ready, he’s going to have to show his hand soon so I can trump it or be a big bitch and prolong his advances.
But for now, I’ll need time and lessons on how to develop my womanhood, discover my inner Goddess and to unveil my self doubt and unleash my sexual pleasures and deviancies.
Ping. ‘Are you ready?’
‘Yes. One last task and then you come and get me.’
Ping. ‘Good. I want you to unbutton your dress to show off some cleavage, unbutton some of your dress to show off your stocking legs and walk through the pub. Order a drink and sit down. I’ll be there shortly.’
‘Is that all? Don’t you want me to fuck the bar tender as well?’ I joked.
Ping. ‘All in good time!’
Is he joking? Is he really fucking joking?
‘One drink. If you’re not here in five minutes then I’m off home.’
Ping. ‘Ooo. Someone’s getting fiesty.’
‘I’m not joking Michael. You have exactly five minutes from now.’
The countdown had started. Tick, tick, tick!
Right. If he wants to play a game, he’s now playing against the best. Me!
But this time, I’m going to entertain myself and it’s going to be his loss.
I looked in the mirror once again, re-apllied my red lipstick, undid my dress to show off my new black lingerie, well its not as if it’s unlike wearing a bikini on the beach is it, and stepped out of the toilets, with just three buttons away from being arrested.
As I slowly walked back through the bar, there were no clanking coming from the biker guys playing pool, no dominos slamming down on the table and no chatter coming from the bar. Just rock music pumping out of the speakers and a jaw dropping gaggle of men watching my every step.
Now this is liberation!
Having reached the bar, I ordered another glass of wine, checked my watch, three minutes left and had a brief chat with the tongue hanging bar man.
I’m sure the man next to me brushed his hand over my arse, or it could have been my handbag swishing against me. Anyway, the way I was feeling, I didn’t care.
With a sence of empowerment, I turned around and lent back on the bar. My breasts were bursting through the tight dress and my legs were now exposed, showing off my sexy black stockings.
I felt good. Real good.
I’ve never felt so nervous and yet so alive.
My head was starting to buzz from the drink, but it was a good feeling. A good buzz.
The young lad was clearly taking pictures of me but I didn’t care now. I was giving them a free, yet brief show.
And why not? For a fifty year old woman, my body was in bloody good shape.
Still leaning against the bar, I slightly spred my legs a bit wider, tensing the grip of the buttons and touched the guy’s leg with my leg who was sat on the stool.
He smiled at me and rested his hand near my leg, ever so lightly stroking it with the back of his finger. I didn’t complain as it felt nice. Well, naughty.
I casually looked down and saw his crotch was growing. I then looked up at him.
With an interested crowd gathering, I slowly undid a button. I heard a gasp.
Smiling to my audience, I undid another. Now I could see their hands grubby hands grabbing their balls and adjusting their growing hard ons.
By now, the young guy had become more brazen and stood nearer taking pictures. I could see him taking pictures of me from different angles, but I didn’t care. I’m a slut in training, remember?
I then asked the guy on the stool to undo my button and he did so eagerly, yet with a shaky hand.
A cheer went around the pub. There I was, exposed in my sexy black lingerie, with the young guy snapping away.
I was the centre of attention and I was loving it. It felt as if I had arrived. My free, wanton spirit was now released and unabashed.
Nothing was going to spoil this magical moment. Nothing!
Then Michael walked through the door.
#kinkyklobber #doingacarol #talesofahotwife