Mrs. Crow was the local slag; most people knew it; some deemed to talk to her others avoided her like the plague. Most men admired her secretly; many would have just loved a turn between the sheets with her but dare not admit it. Like most slags Mrs. Crow did not care what anybody thought of her, in fact she was fearless and outspoken, her one and only fear being her husband Bert.
Bert was a mountain of a man who worked on the railway, and was never short of an opinion on anything. He was short tempered, quick to strike out and most of his friends made sure they kept on the right side of him.
Now Mrs. Crow put herself around, she had an ample bosom, which seemed to thrust itself up and at you as if to say, 'Look at my cleavage don't you fancy me.' She was always made up with lipstick, high heels and stockings and often wore tight short skirts. She sauntered with a come and get me if your dare walk and sometimes wore tight jeans which amplified her extensive contoured bottom as she wobbled along. Many local women called her a slag and a tart, and a comment often heard was: 'she'd have anything in trousers the old slag.'
In fact this was not the case Mrs. Crow was not a prostitute, she chose who she wanted, and her one and only problem was Bert. She dreaded him catching her. Last time he had given her a good hiding and scared her to death. Promiscuity is forced to take some risks; there are even avocates who say that that is the attraction, not the sex but the risk of being caught which sharpens the sexual appetite.
Mrs. Crow worked in the afternoons and some evenings in the local pub; a job which suited her looks and temperament. How the punters loved to watch her pull a pint, what a full frontal view they eyeballed. How they stared at her legs and bottom as she strutted behind the bar and bent down to reach the clean glasses. Mrs. Crow loved every minute of it and she seemed to provide food for the dirty male mind, and she was determined to give dirty thoughts to the clean male mind, not that she believed such a things.
Young Jamie Clark was a shy, reserved boy of 18. Who had just discovered alcohol; he loved the sensation that stole over him after two glasses of wine, and he would often take a glass or two from his dads wine cabinet. The full joys and sorrows of sex where yet unknown to him and his main relief was masturbation. For this important purpose he kept secreted away among his college books in the bottom of his wardrobe some girly magazines. On this particular day he had left college early and he slipped into the saloon bar to take a class of wine.
Mrs. Crow stared at the bright faced boy over the counter; she had not seen him before but assessed him to be of age. She poured the wine and smiled at him; the boy blushed deeply he was taken aback by her oozing sexuality; her full white breasts embarrassed him. He was tongue-tied. He sat down by the window and looked out on the street, sipping his wine waiting to feel the tingle. The place was almost empty apart from a few regulars scattered about the tables and he felt out of place, strange, as if he did not belong.
Irene Crow had made up her mind to seduce the boy: it would be great fun and make a change from gross groping men. Beside which she sensed he was a shy virgin and the challenge was irresistible. "Are you local," she asked as she collected the glasses, "I haven't seen you here before"
