The Barmaid

The Barmaid


In this one, which is set in Yorkshire, England in the summer of 1976, the pub barmaid begins a naughty little game. She likes to show off, and she likes to watch him play with his cock. The thing is she’s also his father’s girlfriend – but that doesn’t stop her from enjoying her fun.

As usual I hope you enjoy this little piece. If you do, send feedback; if you don’t like it, let me know why, but make it constructive criticism please. Feedback can be in public comments below; PM in Lit forums; or email. If you want a response back from me email is best.

There may be errors in the text, if so, forgive me.

GA – Playa del Carmen, Mexico – 2nd June 2012.


Tuesday nights we’d play the game, always by her rules. Tuesday night, every second week. We always waited for twenty minutes to make sure he’d gone — he’d come back that once and scared the shit out of us both, and so we learned to wait.

It had evolved over the course of a few months during the hot summer of 1976, this game, and in my more lucid moments, when my chest wasn’t tight with anticipation, or all my attention focussed on her, the barmaid, I recognised how crazy we were to play it. I wondered what would happen if the old man found out what was going on in his own pub between his son and a barmaid — not just any old barmaid either, Joy wasn’t just my father’s employee, she was his girlfriend.

As it happened I’d find out what my father thought, but of course, by then, things had changed and the worry had been unnecessary.

Dad owned the pub, had built up the business through a combination of a windfall inheritance — the seed money to invest in the place he’d always wanted — hard work, and an ability to read people. The business grew, slowly at first until word got round that Dad ran a good pub. He knew how to make the pub work; knew his clientele. What did most of the farm labourers, factory workers, general tradesmen and occasional rogue appreciate with their evening pint and game of dominoes? Simple, they wanted decent ale, peace from the missis to talk bollocks about the world’s rights and wrongs, and some close-to-the-knuckle banter with an attractive barmaid; a good-looking woman who could pull a pint, with a broad mind and a quick retort when the lads went too far with the chat-up; someone who didn’t mind showing a bit of skin and who didn’t object to a little ogling. In those days, in that provincial town, chauvinism was a fact of life, and my father read it just right, a good spot off the market square at the peripheral edge of a constable’s interest, yet close enough for the lads to head for after work.

And two of the sexiest barmaids in the white rose county.

Joy, his girlfriend, who lived with us, was eighteen months older than me, not a great gap, but at our age in ’76, she twenty-one, me just short of twenty, our attitudes and experiences differed hugely. Two years ahead of me in school, I recalled her as being the loudest, the brashest, and the most popular; whereas I kept to myself and had few friends.

‘I know you,’ Joy had sniffed, eyes narrowing while she tried to place me. She peered at me through her cigarette smoke, eventually nodding and grinning. ‘Yeah, I remember you,’ she said vaguely. ‘Didn’t know your dad owned this place though.’ She looked around with apparent approval, while I tried in vain to keep my eyes from making a heady descent into her cleavage. ‘I’m on a month’s trial,’ Joy added, smirking when she caught the direction of my eyes as they returned from the giddy plunge of her bosom.

I blushed to the roots of my hair.

Three weeks later, ostensibly because of an awkward bus timetable after Joy’s evening shifts, she moved in. At first she slept in one of the bed and breakfast bedrooms, but quickly made the journey up the stairs to the third landing — the private rooms at the top of the old building — and into Dad’s bedroom.

Not too long after that the game started.

It was one of those Tuesday evenings, the precursor to summer where the daylight hours stretched to 8pm. Joy’s shift pattern and mine converged every second Tuesday, meaning we were both free from the bar. A knock on my bedroom door lifted my attention from the accounts. My father had plans for expanding his empire and I was being groomed as a manager. I was using the opportunity to scan the numbers when the floorboard on the landing just outside my bedroom door creaked, which broke my concentration from the figures on the page. My mind then pictured a figure of a different sort, and my heartbeat quickened as it always did when I thought of Joy. It could only be her at that part of the house, Dad was out and nobody else had business up there.

There was a knock at the door.

‘Let’s get this over with,’ Joy said brusquely, her parochial accent mashing consonants when, at my call, she pushed open the door. Draped in nothing but a towel, ignoring my baffled, blinking expression, she went on. ‘Everywhere I go down Gaziantep Anal Escort in that bloody bar downstairs …’ She pointed an accusing finger. ‘You’ve got your eyes on me arse or me tits all the time.’ Instantly I blushed hotly. There was no defence. How did I plead? Guilty of course. My mouth gaped, opening and closing but with no accompanying words. ‘So let’s just get this over and done,’ Joy repeated.

What the hell was she talking about? Get what over and done?

‘Uh …’ I managed eventually.

‘Here,’ Joy spat. ‘Have a good, long look … Take a fuckin’ photo if you have to, but mebbe this will keep your eyes of me tits when I’m tryin’ to work.’ The towel parted. My eyes boggled. Joy stood naked, her pale body magnificently exposed.

Lust flared hot inside me. My cock tingled and thickened of its own accord. In my mind I saw myself launch at Joy, my hands all over her body, squeezing those big jugs, feeling the crisp curls of her bush in my palm. I saw myself stabbing into her with hard, virile strokes, plunging my erection deep, eliciting moans and groans of pleasure from her lips.

But what I did in reality was sit and gawp amid books with columns of numbers spread across my narrow bed. This, even at my advanced age, was the first — proper, in the flesh, living, breathing — nude female I’d ever seen.

‘Get a good look,’ Joy continued. ‘Make sure you get a good, long eyeful.’ She pirouetted, turning a slow three-sixty, treating me to a leisurely perusal of her derriere. ‘Had enough?’ she asked, towel clamped in one fist, her head tilted as she regarded me intently. ‘Seen what you need to see?’

Actually, no, I could have stared at her for a good half-an-hour longer. Perhaps she could strike a few open-legged poses for me? But what I did was gulp and nod, my mind still catching up with what I’d seen.

Joy mimed a brisk wrist action. ‘Have fun then.’

The bedroom door slammed shut. I heard the floorboard creak under Joy’s feet. For the next five full minutes I just sat there on my bed, immobile.

Joy went about business as normal while I did my best to avoid her. I thought what she’d done was extreme, but her actions had stopped this puppy dog from sniffing around after her. On the shifts we worked together I kept my eyes to myself and got on with the job. What did irk me however, although I’d never dare say anything out loud, was that Joy seemed to resent only my perusal of her physical charms, anyone else could get an eyeful of her curves whenever they chose. She’d play along, feigning innocence, when some leering patron requested an item from the lowest shelf, which invariably necessitated in Joy crouching or bending, giving those assembled at the bar the perfect opportunity to peer down her blouse, which I might add was always a button undone further than was completely decent. She had no qualms about reaching up to the highest point, perhaps to yank a packet of peanuts from the cardboard rack, almost showing the curve of her buttocks under her short skirt. Paying customers got the privilege, I could just lump it.

Still, in my bedroom, at night, I’d call to mind that unhurried twirl of Joy’s nude body. I’d picture those breasts in their defiance of Newtonian theorem as they’d swung and swayed with her movements, slowly teasing my erection while fantasising about what lay beneath the woman’s luxuriant pubic bush. My ejaculate would squirt from the eye of my cock, making me gasp and bite down on the cry of ecstasy as I came. Always, in my mind’s eye, there was Joy, grinning and posing, holding her breasts towards me in invitation. ‘Spunk on my tits,’ she’d mutter,’ eyes gleaming. ‘Come on my big tits …’

For two weeks I kept out of her way. Come the Tuesday I hid in my bedroom. It would be too painfully awkward to spend any time alone with Joy.

Dad left the pub, just like he did every Tuesday. ‘Business,’ he’d announce, and then leave. Tuesday was one of two market days in the town, cattle, sheep and pigs, and my father ran an unofficial bookmaking business that was used primarily by stockmen and farmers betting on the horse racing at Wetherby, York, or Thirsk. He was too canny to use the pub as the premises for the operation, it being a shade greyer than the law liked, so Dad used to conduct the payouts in other pubs close by. The upshot being that I was left alone in the upstairs flat … with Joy. No sooner had Dad slammed the back door than I heard the creaking floorboard. Then came the knock.

‘I just wanted to talk to you,’ Joy called when I asked what she wanted. This time I didn’t invite her in, she could say what she had to say through the door panel and then bugger off. ‘Let me in, Paul, I wanted to say sorry.’

‘You just said it,’ I responded. I was brave with the door between us; it was when I was face-to-face with her that I lost the power of controlled speech. ‘Would you go away now, Joy?’

‘Come on, Paul,’ the woman insisted. ‘I’ll get us a couple of drinks from downstairs. Meet me in the living room.’

I had no intention of making the rendezvous, or so I thought. However five minutes later and I had a pint in my hand. Joy swirled the gin in her glass and the ice tinkled. She sat opposite me in a worn armchair — Dad was never one to spend much on the furnishings in the flat, most of his profits went straight back into the business.

‘I’m sorry,’ Joy began, her eyes sliding to the flickering image on the muted television. ‘I got carried away with myself.’ She reached for her cigarettes and lit up. ‘Getting this job, then this … thing with your dad. I suppose it went to me head and I thought I was queen bee or summat.’ Joy looked uncomfortable, as though the apology and explanation left a bitter taste. ‘And what I did to you the other week. That was cruel.’ She looked at me over the rim of her glass and, after a delicate sip and a deep draw on the cigarette, asked a question. ‘Are you a virgin, Paul?’ Speech was unnecessary, my red face and silence answered for me. ‘Oh my …’ Joy said, her smile benign, and I understood there was no nastiness in her words. She appeared to think for a moment. Her mouth opened, on the cusp of speech, then closed. She repeated the action, and then gathered her thoughts by sipping her drink and drawing at the cigarette. ‘So … The other week,’ she nodded in the direction of the hall, towards my bedroom. ‘My little … uhm … display.’ Joy sucked at the cigarette again, this time vehemently, as though angered. And perhaps she was angry, but this time I sensed it was more with herself than anything I could be held to account for. ‘Have you seen a pair of tits before, Paul?’ she asked finally. ‘Real ones.’ Again my silence and hot face said it all. Joy looked at me with an odd expression, and then shocked me completely by saying: ‘Would you like to see me naked again?’ Thoughts and emotions welled inside me. An image of my father sprang to mind. This was his girlfriend … The memory of Joy’s body, youthful and fecund snapped into focus, and I recalled instantly, on the back of that recollection, my masturbatory fantasies based on the experience of her that other Tuesday. I looked into her face and saw the woman she’d become, her future self — the woman I’d meet again thirty years hence, when we were both different people. I saw no artifice there, this was no trick, not some cruel joke she’d thought up because she was bored.

Her question had been if I wanted to see her naked again; and of course my answer was yes. But still I couldn’t articulate a single, intelligible word.

Without waiting for any clear signal from me — it could have been a long wait — Joy leaned forward, placed the glass deliberately on the table in front of us, ground the remains of her cigarette into the ash-tray, and heaved herself out of the deep chair. She began to take off her clothes. As she did so, and as I sat there in slack-jawed immobility, paralysed with disbelief, Joy continued her monologue.

‘I did like it when you looked at me, Paul,’ she began as her fingers fiddled with the buttons of the wide-legged trousers she wore. I especially appreciated the way the cloth was tightly moulded to her buttocks, so snug that I fancied I could make out the cat’s-face smile of her vulva where the material wedged against the front of her body between her legs. Joy wriggled her hips as the waistband slid down her thighs. I stared open-mouthed at the delicate membrane covering what I knew to be her thick pubic bush. Joy kicked off her shoes one after the other, chunky wedges that lay like victims of a road traffic accident where they landed, haphazard in their disarray. ‘I get a thrill out of men looking at me. I love to see how hungry they are for me. It’s like I have power over ’em …’ Joy’s tee-shirt joined the carnage on the floor. All that remained was her bra.

‘Oh …’ I managed to croak. My stare must have been burning holes in Joy’s body. I was surprised her brassiere didn’t burst into flames.

‘Men get so stupid,’ Joy continued. ‘And over what — big tits?’ Joy’s chest, those big tits of hers, threatened me as her hands reached around to undo the clasp. ‘I don’t get it meself.’ She shrugged, breasts jiggling with that movement, trembling in such a way, with such hypnotic power that, if I could find the words to explain, I’d tell Joy just what it was that held men spellbound.

All I did was groan and clamp my mouth closed when I realised I was close to drooling like a simpleton.

‘Did you wank off, Paul?’ Joy’s voice, as the straps of her bra hung loose, with her hand holding the garment close to her body was low and throaty, a sign of her own arousal even though I was to callow to recognise it. ‘Did you pull your cock and think of me?’

That evening, in the living room, Joy coerced me into re-enacting exactly what it was I’d done. ‘You can look but don’t touch,’ she purred.

But I wanted to touch — oh, God, how desperately I craved to feel her skin …

‘Please, Joy,’ I whimpered as I yanked my cock. ‘Let me touch you.’

‘No,’ came her emphatic response. ‘Look at me and pull it. Pull your cock. Is it nice? Does it feel good, Paul?’

‘Please,’ I whined, staring and gulping while I yanked myself, my eyes devouring all her. A cough caught in my throat. The surging inevitable surging sensation tickled the core of my cock. ‘Oh … Joy,’ I blurted, my hips jerking convulsively. ‘Oh … Fuck …’

‘On my tits!’ the girl yelled, suddenly realising that I was about to spoil the furnishings with tell-tale spatterings. ‘Spunk on my tits,’ she cried again. Of course on this occasion, unlike the desire she’d expressed during my fantasies when exhorting me to cover her with goo, Joy offered herself as a target to halt any possibility that I’d come on the cushions and give my father cause for suspicion.

Although, when my cock finally ceased chucking viscous paste about, Joy did seem somewhat wide-eyed with surprise at the volume of my outpouring.

‘Fucking hell. Paul,’ she muttered, hands moving to halt the slide of my ejaculate from her tits to the carpet. ‘look at the fuckin’ mess.’

She left me there, gasping, cock showing no sign of wilting as it dribbled spunk from its single eye as I lay slumped in the chair into which I’d collapsed.

The game had begun.


She cornered me in the cellar as I changed a barrel. ‘Just behave normally,’ Joy whispered, eyes furtive. ‘You’re grinning at me like the bloody village idiot.

‘OK,’ I promised, nodding. ‘But …’

‘Tuesday,’ Joy interjected, anticipating my question. ‘Yes.’

She left me to the barrel and my fantasies.

Tuesday came and the door slammed, which signalled Dad’s departure. I heard the floorboard creak. My heart leapt in my chest at the sound. She didn’t knock this time, just flung open the door. A strange feeling, like my guts melting, slithered deep and low. She was already nude.

Joy signalled with a wave of her arm, ‘Come on.’ I followed at a near trot, eager as a puppy. ‘In here, she indicated.’ I followed her enticing backside as she walked into the bathroom. ‘Are you hard yet?’ My trembling fingers struggled with my belt, button, and zip. Of course I was stiff; my cock had thickened as soon as the floor creaked outside my bedroom door. ‘Show me,’ Joy whispered, keeping her voice low even though nobody else was in the flat. I could hear pub sounds from below. The place was usually busy on market day.

There was no preamble this time, no lingering, Joy got right down to business. ‘Wank,’ she instructed. ‘You can look at me, but no touching.’ She walked to the toilet, my first thought was that Joy was going to piss in front of me, but she simply dropped the lid onto the rim and sat down. ‘Look at me and pull that cock,’ she murmured. ‘Spunk into the bath.’

So I did. I worked my fist along my erection and soaked up all of her through my eyes. Joy played her part well, pouting at me, blowing kisses, letting her legs lewdly fall apart to reveal that hirsute place between her legs.

Years later, when I met her again by accident in a club in London in the 1990s, I discovered she then favoured the waxed look, she’d stopped smoking too, but in 1976 our Joy was au natural.

‘Can’t I just feel them?’ I asked, desperation cracking my voice as I yanked hard. ‘Please, Joy …’

‘Just do it,’ the woman dismissed my request. ‘Maybe another time,’ she added.

The possibility of touching Joy’s jugs, albeit only a vague acquiescence, forced me over the edge; that and the way she hefted her breasts in her palms, her forefingers teasing her nipples to thick points. Under Joy’s intense stare I grunted and hunched forward. Pleasure surged through me as I came. Sweet relief from the agony of my yearning came as Joy cried out in delight when she watched and heard my semen spattering against the porcelain bathtub.

‘Rinse that mess away,’ the girl instructed peremptorily. She rose from her throne, again leaving abruptly, just like the previous occasion. I stood and stared at the door through which she’d left, my cock slowly wilting, the inevitable dribble sliding from the slit.

The third time was when Dad did an about turn. Joy, as was becoming the pattern, was at my door as soon as my father left. We both heard the latch snick and stared at each other. We were both naked, Joy in the doorframe of my bedroom, with me standing at the foot of my bed. Joy shot into my room like a bullet when Dad called up the stairs.

‘Forgot my wallet,’ he yelled in a voice as big as his fists.

‘Just off for a bath,’ I ad-libbed, making up any excuse for my semi-clothed state as he paused on the landing and looked into my room. My heart was hammering and I struggled for breath. If he came into the room, if he decided to just step inside he’d see his naked girlfriend huddled behind the door. From my position I could see both of them — my father with a fat wallet in his hand, and Joy crouched there with huge, frightened eyes. ‘You seen Joy?’ Dad asked.

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