Talk about a whirlwind couple of days... Hardly had I recovered from one of the longest, most head-spinningly awesome nights of my life -- where Libby and I met face-to-face after seeing each other naked on Literotica's amateur photography threads, reviewing a few hard-core shots of Libby getting fucked by her old boyfriend, posing together in front of the camera for a very 'up close and personal' dual strip-tease, and all the while masturbating in front of each other and coming and coming and coming -- after all of that, not even two days later I found myself driving my husband's luxury saloon out to the Berriga pub, with Libby in the front seat, en route to our new profession as topless waitresses!
"I can't believe I'm doing this," I said, for perhaps the hundredth time.
"Nervous?" asked Libby.
"That's putting it mildly," I assured her -- my heart was in my throat and pounding a-mile-a-minute, my palms were clammy as they gripped the wheel, and I felt a curious sort of queasy, giddy elation in anticipating our planned shenanigans.
"Well, let's try to get your mind off it for a little while," said Libby, kindly. "Tell me: how did Tom react when he saw our pics?" she added, with a wicked grin at the thought of it.
"He nearly blew his top," I informed her, with a grin of my own. "As soon as you went home, I messaged him and made him promise not to look at the pics until I could do it with him -- the next night, when I had put the kids to bed. He was impatient, but he waited... and we went over them together, we downloaded each pic one by one, and we went mad."
"Did you guys come?" Libby asked, obviously thrilled that she was able to ask me such a question these days -- it wasn't so long ago that we never would have dreamed of saying such a thing to each other.
"We both came, a whole bunch of times," said I, unabashed. "And that's really rare for Tom, usually he gives his all on the first blow and he has nothing left for the rest of the night... but last night, he came when he saw the pic where I was holding your tits; and then he came again when he got to the pic of us with our knickers pulled down and our pussies pushed together; and then he came again after we went through the pics we didn't publish: I emailed him the ones where you and I were kissing, and groping, and rubbing up against each other with our hands pressed together on our own pussies..."
"Mmm..." Libby murmured, and I looked over to see she was running her hands tenderly over her body -- over her breasts so perky and firm, her curves and hips so toned and delicious, and up and down her legs so long, silky and smooth -- while I recounted the tale. "And you came, while he came?" she added, as I realised she was getting off on picturing Tom and I, touching ourselves and making ourselves come as we looked at the pictures of Libby and I...
"We did come, every single time," I assured her, every word of it the truth.
Libby grinned at the thought of it... but she started to calm down, her hands wound down in their adventures and she let her pleasure abate.
"Settling down there?" I observed, with perhaps an ounce of disappointment in my voice -- I'd started to wonder if I was in for a show, nice and early.
"Yeah, I think I'll leave myself alone for now," Libby allowed. "Gotta save my energy for the coming fun!"
"Okay then. So tell me: exactly what is expected of us, in this topless-waitressing gig?"
"Your Tom explained it to me while he drove me there last time," she began, with a grin as she remembered the naughtiness she and my husband got up to last time she came this way. They didn't fuck, of course, but they came close to it, which had caused me some concern when I learned of it. But then, they didn't get as close to fucking as Libby and I had gone, only the night prior...
"So," Libby began, knocking me off my thoughts. "First and foremost: we're not whores. We're not being paid to suck cocks or get gang-banged or anything."
"Well I'm glad to hear that," I laughed -- that much I had assumed.
"We don't even have to dance, or shake our booties on a stage, or anything like that," she went on. "All we have to do is be waitresses: take drink orders, take their money to the bar, the bar staff serves us the drinks, we take the drinks and their change back to the customers... all the while, with our tits out and free."
"Okay then," I frowned. "Sounds pretty simple..."
Libby saw the look on my face, and must have guessed at my slight disappointment, figuring that I had somehow expected something more. "It's better than it sounds," she promised me. "I mean: it is all very laid-back and subtle, but that's the biggest thrill of it. All the guys are standing around, drinking, laughing, playing pool -- and there you are, in the middle of all these men, with your tits out and wearing almost nothing at all... and it's as if no-one has noticed!" she nearly squealed with glee. "You know they all know your tits are out, you know they're all staring at you when they think you can't see them, but when you walk up and talk to them it's like an unspoken agreement: 'yep, my tits are out, but hey: no biggie.' And that's what's so awesome about the whole thing!"
"Okay then, I think I see what you're getting at," I smiled, as we kept cruising through the autumnal evening towards our destination, cosseted in the leathery snugness of 'The Big Bruiser', as Tom likes to call his stately saloon. "It's all kind of 'on the sly'. It's not about being sleazy or a show-off. It's about a quiet, classy sort of show."
"Exactly, exactly!" Libby enthused. "But every now and again you might get a loud-mouthed loser, some wobbly drunken teenager who yells 'aww wow, check the tits on her!' But that sort of thing doesn't last long; if a dickhead like that starts acting up, everyone gives him the evil eye, and if he doesn't settle down a couple of heavy-hitters will pick him up and take him outside."
"So it's a rough pub, then?"
"Yeah, pretty rough..." she allowed. "And the later it gets, the rougher it gets. But that's just a few of them, a really small percentage, the rest are surprisingly gentleman-like. Most of them are old and ugly, but nice to talk to, very well-behaved. I've had trouble before with a few former patrons but it's all sorted out now, they're banned from the titty nights. It helps to have Agnes there, too."
"Agnes...?" I asked, with a raised eyebrow.
"The publican," Libby smiled. "Rough old bird, but tough on the louts. We'll be perfectly safe up there, don't you worry."
"So how many times have you done 'Tits-Out Thursday' at the Berriga Pub, Libs?" I quizzed her. "Just the one, when you came up with Tom... or have you done more?"
Libby wouldn't answer me; she just smiled with a surprisingly good approximation of enigma, looking out the window to watch the forestry flitting past and to avoid my eye.
And so the rest of the trip passed quickly and easily, as we both went quiet and dwelled on the task ahead. For the drive over the mountains I had dressed normally and sedately with my sexy-wear packed safely in a bag, thinking it best not to attract too much attention while making our way from the car into the pub. But Libby had clearly thought otherwise: she was already dressed in an incredibly short, belt-like black mini-skirt, with killer high heels and a sheer black sleeveless top to suit. The top she wore braless, what with her tits looking fulsome and fine even without the support, and the cool mountain air filtering into the car's cabin had her nipples standing hard and proud through the thin, stretchy material -- as though her top had been painted directly upon her skin. I definitely had one eye on the road and the other eye on her during that trip; very easy on the eye, our Libby.
We finally got to the pub, and even at this early stage of the evening -- a good twenty minutes before the fun was due to begin -- the car park was quite full with battered old trucks and rusty four-by-fours. "Tits-Out Thursday brings them in from miles around," I observed, as I manoeuvred The Bruiser through the aisles, barely a whisper coming from the engine.
We found a spot and stepped out of the car. I'd hardly had enough time to hope and pray for a discreet entry, when a couple of grizzled 'regulars' in the car park spotted us and instantly cried out: "Libby!!"
"Hello boys," she replied, in a warm yet demure tone.
"Cripes almighty, but it's been a while!" one of them declared. "Great to see ya, Libs!"
"And who's yer friend?" the other one gargled around half-a-mouthful of teeth.
"This is my best friend Kelly," Libby told them, wrapping a possessive arm about my shoulders.
"Will she be workin' tonight, too?"
"Only if you're lucky..." said Libby, ever-ready with the answers. The guys cackled with optimistic glee, looking me up and down in a most appraising fashion; Libby bade them farewell, steering me towards a back-door entry to the pub.
"On a first-name-basis with the regulars, are we?" I observed.
"They must have pretty good memories up here," Libby grinned, still avoiding any talk of her previous visit(s?) to the pub. "Anyways: this is our 'office'," she added, steering me into a dank little bathroom with 'STAFF ONLY' written upon the door. "We can leave our stuff here safely, Agnes has cut me a key."
