The White Hart

I wish this was my local but unfortunately ...

If you think it could cope with another chapter or two please tell me.

*

I guess the White Hart used to be an ordinary sort of pub. A typical local based in a back street down from Worlds End, in the cheaper part of 'almost' Chelsea. John was the landlord, early 50s, fairly shrewd, jovial, but not a man to argue with at throwing out time. He and his wife Arlene were usually the only staff with an occasional Antipodean or Eastern European itinerant working for a week or two to earn a few pounds. Arlene was early 40s, would have been a looker 15 years ago but time had handed her a sad tired demeanour. John and Arlene did not converse a lot behind the bar as Arlene was usually in the kitchen unless they were busy. John was your typical mine host, ready to chat with the punters, or have a little bet. He would often buy you a drink in return and was always ready to gossip with the regulars about their sex lives.

We were not surprised therefore one Thursday evening about 10 o'clock, when the conversation as it often did turned to sex. It was quiet and there were only about seven of us in the bar, three regulars standing at the bar and a couple of Hooray Henrys with their girls slumming it at the corner table. Masturbation was the current topic of conversation, and to listen to the three of us, we all knew what it was but never needed to resort to the hand as we were getting enough elsewhere. What a laugh, I am 28 and single, so can never get enough, Pete was about the same but married and had reached that marital state of getting it only every Saturday night whether he wanted it or not. Bill was nearly 60 and had probably forgotten what it was like.

'I caught Arlene diddling herself last night,' mentioned John.

Our mouths must have dropped open and we all looked towards the door to the kitchen.

'I was not a happy bunny. I have told her before that she is not to do that without me there. I had to punish her again.' It went quiet.

'I guess we need another 3 pints.' I said quietly. 'When you say punish what sort of punishment do you mean.'

'Let the punishment fit the crime I say,' said John. 'I gave her 6 of the best with a cane and a bloody good seeing to. Mind you I think that's what she wanted when she let me catch her.'

Our mouths were busying swallowing as we digested this information and started thinking about Arlene in a new light.

Suddenly Bill laughed, 'Yes right John, you got us going there. I can see the hard-on these guys have got from here. Good story.'

In truth he was not a million miles away. I certainly had found a small stirring in the groin just at the thought of it. We all laughed with Bill and agreed that yes, as fantasies go, it was a good thought to be going home with and maybe wanking was on the agenda after all tonight.

John just looked at us. 'Arlene. Come here a minute luv.' We looked at each other and it went quiet again as footsteps were heard coming into the bar. 'Just stand there a second, luv. Turn around and show these lads your stripes.' I am not sure who was the most surprised. We certainly were not going to say a word.

'But John?'

'You know you were a bad girl. You know what will happen if you disobey me again.'

Slowly Arlene turned around and lifted her loose print dress. From the back of her knees it inched higher and higher. Her stockings were followed by the stocking tops themselves and suddenly we could see suspenders and eventually a bikini style pair of panties. These were tucked well between her cheeks, as if she had been bending. Distinctive deep red horizontal streaks showed under and to the sides of the white opaque panties.

A low whistle was heard as Bill said 'John, give us a round of Brandies, I think I need a drink. And give Arlene one. A drink I mean.'

We did laugh as Arlene lowered her dress and went off to the kitchen. John delivered our glasses and delivered words to the effect of 'It does 'em good to know who's boss occasionally,' but he did carry a tot of brandy out to her.

A small crowd came through the door at that moment and the three of us left 20 minutes later without any further meaningful conversations and a quick 'See you tomorrow John.' on the way out of the door. My imagination worked overtime and I arrived back in the pub at about 7.30 the next evening to be quickly joined by Bill and Pete. Well you can imagine the conversation was of little else until John had time to spend with us.

'So is this a regular occurrence then?' Pete asks John, obviously thinking of his own missus.

'I'll tell you what lads,' says John enjoying centre stage, 'we had the best fuck last night than we have had for a while. Gasping for it she was. Maybe we should experiment a little more.'

Off he went to serve the crowd at the far end of the bar.

By 10 o'clock again and a few pints later I was emboldened to ask John what sort of experiments he had in mind.

'Well... buy a couple of bottles of bubbly between you boys and maybe we could have some fun.'

A quick whip round produced a small wad stuck in a beer mug and a glass of champagne in everyone's hand, except Bill who claimed it made him fart and would contribute but not drink it.

'Arlene' calls John... 'the boys would like to buy you a drink.'

Arlene arrived at the door with a puzzled smile to find a glass of champagne pressed into her hand. A couple of glasses later and John opened the second bottle 'accidentally' spraying her as the champagne erupted.

'Sorry luv, better slip out of your wet things . . Just do it here will you while you are looking after the bar. I am slipping off for a cigarette.'

He left the room. Arlene reddened and topped up our glasses in silence. She fiddled with the buttons on her white frilly blouse slowly undoing them until it was open to the waist and pulled out of her short black skirt. As we watched she shrugged off the blouse and hung it over the door handle. Her nipples pushed against her white satin bra as she blushed further and refilled Bill's empty pint.

'Is your skirt wet too?' enquired Bill, putting into words what I was certainly thinking. 'You'll catch your death of cold.'

Her hands crept to the zip at the side and slowly lowered it to the floor to reveal matching white satin panties, stockings and suspenders. The tired forty year old face did not match the delightfully trim body so beautifully displayed. We of course were not the only people in the bar and the other customers quickly recognised something strange going on and after fifteen minutes when John arrived back she was so busy that her embarrassment had subsided.

When he arrived she duly went back to their quarters and the evening closed quicker than we had hoped.

Monday was the next opportunity I had to go in and was greeted by a jovial mine host and treated to a pint.

'What a night Friday was,' he laughed. 'Twice the average takings and a good fuck at 11.30.' He had recognised that his wife not only enjoyed the humiliation but that he could make money out of it. This could only be a good thing. That night and over the next couple of evenings changes occurred in the bar. He told us that Arlene was told not to wear a bra, then he accidentally sprayed her with the soda syphon over her white satin shirt. It made a wet tee shirt competition look tame. Another evening at about 10 o'clock she changed into the shortest loose fitting skirt I have ever seen to rewrite the snacks menu standing on a chair in the bar. That evening they also served more cold Bud's from the bottom shelf at a hefty premium. More subtle changes went on. Arlene started to look less tired and appeared to be enjoying herself behind the bar. There were more bar staff, a very attractive Aussie bird with big knockers and 'a woman who made the food in the kitchen, so that Arlene could spend more time in the bar,' said John .

Things were definitely looking up and as an original regular, because there were a lot of new regulars now, I was almost a favoured guest. Arlene however still spoke only when spoken to and never discussed her 'performances.'

Just at closing time one evening, with Arlene in her micro skirt St. Trinian's style, her stocking tops plainly showing, John and I were discussing the new crowd and I was saying how difficult it would be to keep them interested.

As we spoke we looked at the object of our thoughts to find her surreptitiously rubbing herself in the doorway. John called time and quickly ushered any couples and non-regulars towards the doors, wishing Sheila an early night and asking Arlene to collect the empties for her. He winked at me as he locked the doors to leave ten or twelve of us inside.

As she was going from table to table picking up the remaining emptiy glasses john called out in a loud voice, 'Arlene, what were you doing there in the doorway? We saw you, you know.' Arlene went scarlet.

'I don't know what you are talking about,' she said weakly.

'Ben' he said to me, 'can you describe what she was doing?'

'Maybe she had an itch,' I said weakly.

'Where?'

'About here,' I said gaining confidence and taking the opportunity to straighten my tumescent cock. I knew what was going to happen. So did Arlene.

John moved a bar stool from beside the bar to the middle of the room.

'Go and fetch my cane,' he said and she slowly moved towards their quarters. Three minutes later she came back, kissed the cane and handed it to him, looked beseechingly into his eyes and sighed as he looked at the stool. She bent over the stool, toes on the ground, arms hanging down the other side. He lifted her skirt and tut-tutted. 'You know better than that'. She stood up looking at the ground and slid her panties to her ankles. The pub was silent, as she bent back over the stool. John raised her skirt again laying it over her back.

'Well would anybody like another drink?' he said, ever the pragmatist. The guys queued for the bar, standing in a line behind Arlene's naked bottom, not in a huge rush to be served. Eventually everyone had a drink and John flexed the cane in front of her, before moving behind her and placing the cane onto her cheeks. Six lashes were laid on at two inch gaps, as Arlene screamed, then sobbed, then squirmed, her cunt showing pinker and wetter with the passing strokes.

'Show's over folks.Out!' as he ushered us toward the door undoing the fly on his trousers.

I went home fantasising as to what might happen next week, my hand massaging my cock until I gained the privacy of my flat.

Later that week I had the opportunity to chat to Arlene at the bar while John was away for a few hours. She was very honest that the humiliation turned her on and that their sex life had never been better. She really was beginning to enjoy working in the bar and not having to be in the kitchen. Profits were up and everything in the garden was rosy. 'Take your knickers off and I will buy a bottle of bubbly, ' I said. The idea obviously shocked her at first. John was not around to tell her what to do. She looked furtively around, slipped her hands under her loose soft mini dress and pulled her white g-string down her legs. I held out my hand for it. As she passed it over her eyes were aglow as she realised the champagne was on the bottom cold shelf at the back. Keeping her knees straight she bent from the waist and her dress rode right up her back revealing her thick outer lips with a fleecy abundance of dark hair. I sniffed the panties.

'A wonderful nose,' I murmured, 'better than the champagne.'

A little later as she walked around the bar she stopped by my stool with an armful of glasses, I slipped my hand under the back of her skirt as she hovered for a moment or two, just long enough to feel the slickly wet lips and I think we both realised that this was only the start.

'I can make you do anything I wish now,' I said. 'I am sure that John would be very unhappy with you exposing yourself to me in his absence. If I told him, I might get banned, but you, well, you wouldn't sit down for a week. I think we will start by banning panties from now on. That's not too difficult.' There was no discussion, in fact I spied a small satisfied smile. She definitely liked to exhibit herself.

The next stage in the evolution of this pub also happened later that week while John was at a meeting at the Brewery. Arlene and I both saw Sheila reflected in the mirror taking ten pounds out of the till and putting it in her pocket.

'Sheila come here,' I said as she jumped guiltily. After a few moments she admitted that it was not the first time but had been taking a small amount away most nights. I explained how unforgiving John was, how awful prison could be and how her parents in Australia would be mortified when she was expelled.

'But there is another answer,' I said as Arlene looked at me wonderingly. 'You know the penalty Arlene has to pay from time to time, we could come to an arrangement if I talk to John nicely.'

She looked a little shocked but agreed. She had little choice.

'Firstly give me your panties. I never want to see you wearing them again.' I held my breath. Like a dream she shimmied her hands up under her skirt and passed them over to me despite half a dozen other customers sitting around the bar.

'I will speak to John later and tell you the punishment. All I can say is that is it will be less than if John had caught you himself,' I said formally, my mind working overtime.

After 20 minutes conversation with John later that evening we called her over. John gave her the benefits of a sermon and pronounced the penalty. She was to receive, in public twelve slaps with the back of a hairbrush and she was to spend the evening wearing the clothes of our choice.

She agreed and a small notice was duly placed on the wall thus.

'Sheila has transgressed and accepted a public punishment of twelve slaps to be carried out by John at 8.00pm Saturday.'

This gave her forty eight hours anticipation and the opportunity to reflect on her crimes. It also allowed forty eight hours of word by mouth advertising.

Saturday of course the pub was crowded and pride of place was given to the bar stool placed in the middle of the room. More bar staff had been hired in the expectation of record takings and John had a contented air. A buzz went round the room as John strode to the stool and beckoned Sheila.

She was wearing at our request a tee shirt but with epaulettes sewn on to the shoulders and a short soft black satin full skirt. She blushed prettily, and said 'Does it have to be twelve?'

John just looked stern and pulled out a ten pound note and she bent over the stool. Her toes just touched the ground on one side, her hands clasped the legs on the other, her long blonde hair flowing over her head to the floor. The bar went quiet as he lifted her skirt over her back to reveal a delightful pair of unencumbered cheeks, pale and slightly goose pimpled with anxiety. Her bottom was raised high where she rested on the stool, her legs held as close together as possible. Her pussy lips and hairy little bum-hole gave the lie to the blonde hair on her head as she wriggled delightfully.

'One' said John as she screamed in surprise,

'Two' as the other cheek received its first surprise.

'Three' as a little sob rent the air.

By 'Six' she was squirming on the stool, her legs separating so that her toes could get a firmer grip on the floor. By 'Nine' she was rubbing her pussy against the stool and her lips were lubricating freely. At the end of the dozen her legs were wrapped around the stool as she tried to rub her clitoris upon the leather seat. She brought her hand up under the stool, sinking two fingers deep into her slit with her thumb rubbing her clitoris. As she came, shrieking and bucking, a round of applause rent the air and she stood up and leaned against John for support. Embarrassment reddening her face as the hairbrush had reddened her bottom.

'Oh' she cried as she ran from the room to a standing ovation. The pub got back to almost normal, a crowd at the bar ordering drinks with mine host beaming from ear to ear and Arlene looking a little jealous. I slipped into the back room to take Sheila a large Vodka and tonic and the handcuffs she was to wear for the rest of the evening which she had obviously forgotten.

'I cannot go back out there.' she stuttered between sips and sniffs.

'Of course you can,' I said. 'You were a big hit, lets face it, you really enjoyed yourself and anyway you knew the punishment.'

She swallowed the rest of her drink and grinned, 'I guess I did enjoy it. What do I have to do now?'

I produced the handcuffs with two pieces of cord attached. She willingly held out her hands and I slipped the cuffs on and locked them into place. She looked a little less certain when I slipped the cords through her epaulettes and told her to put her hands up to her chin. She could not see what I was doing as I fastened the cords to her hem with safety pins. I moved her over to a full-length mirror, standing her sideways and pulling her arms down. She reddened again as she saw her hem rise up to her waist exposing her very red bottom in its entirety.

'There that looks nice,' I said. 'I will be surprised if it is not slapped a few more times during the evening as you liked it so much. Off you go and clear up the glasses from the tables. You still have two and a half hours to closing time. How many times do you think you can come?'

She started to try to rub herself but the cords were three inches too short to allow that.

'You can probably play with your tits,' I joked as John shouted, 'Sheila the tables need emptying.'

Sheila shuffled into the bar looking nervous and was treated to a roar of applause from the 30 or 40 customers, mainly but not entirely men. This noise hardly abated when the first table she came to saw the handcuffs and her hands being held up to her chin. They saw little as she leant forward and extended her hands to pick up two glasses, but the table behind did. Laughter broke out as she stood upright and held the glasses to her chin walking back towards the safety of the bar.

'Far too slow,' said John. 'We are busy tonight, here is a tray.'

As she stopped at the first table and bent forward, arms extended to pick up a glass at the far side of the table, a hand came down sharply on to already reddened area of her bottom. Her hands were unable to reach the far side of the table anyway and she realised she had to walk around the table stopping at every seat to pick up the empties. During the next couple of hours she was slapped, fondled, kissed and lost touch of the number of fingers that probed both orifices and clitoris.

Eventually twenty minutes before closing time she gave in to her desires and lay across a table, groaning, 'Fuck me please. Make me come.'

John produced a dozen drinking straws from a glass on the bar and shouted, 'Free drinks for the rest of the evening if you can make her orgasm with these straws only.' They turned her around to lie her on her back across the table and set upon her, blowing and sucking and prodding with the end of these straws. They pushed her tee shirt and bra up and three or four people concentrated on her magnificent breasts, blowing beer, blowing cooling air, and at other times sucking against the nipples. Her clitoris, vulva and inner thighs received the same treatment. It was worse than 100 lashes. Pinprick sensations, when she needed a strong cock or at least a handful of strong fingers. Needless to say John had no intentions of buying drinks for the rest of the evening and the ineffectual probing kept her at a peak but unable to come.

He was quick to call time in case asking me to stay on to help clear up as they were a barmaid short. With alacrity I agreed recognising where my help would be most needed with Sheila coiled in a foetal position on the table groaning. I had my cock in her hand and transferred to her fanny within seconds of the doors closing.