Random Chance In Scarbados

J.D. Weatherspoons Pubs Possess Certain Charms

An excitable and sexy law clerk with a growing sex addition decides on a spontaneous lunchtime liaison.

My father and I had hopped on the bus to the seaside town of Scarborough, one bleak Autumn day to do some shopping before taking off to southern Spain for some R&R. The old man took the opportunity to get his laptop serviced so while that was taking place, I debouched to

The Lord Roseberry

, a Wetherspoons pub on the main street. Those familiar with this chain of pubs are fully cognizant that it tends to cater for

every

type of drinker from the piss-soaked tramp at 7.30am, to the modest lunchtime diner attracted by the affordable assembly line food, to the after work crowd, and to late nighters who enjoy a pint and a fight.

I was the cheap diner, there to while away an hour or so waiting for my father's PC to be taken off life support for the umpteenth time, he being a reluctant technophile and all that. The rain was belting down in blustery squalls rolling in from the North Sea, so shelter needed and quickly.

The Lord Roseberry

itself is a large two-storey late Victorian-era pile situated on a corner block, and on this day had a lively custom. A casual glance around the ground floor revealed a host of usual suspects, including a hobo telling customers how they should be queuing at the bar. There wasn't a lot of seating available, and I didn't check the upstairs before grabbing a pint of fizzy piss water that passed for beer. I espied a couple of bar stools by the window that at least afforded me a glimpse of the world that locals refer to "Scarbados", one wonders why.

With a piece of dubious real estate secured, I sat down and opened my book. The time was a little after 12.30pm. The book I was reading had me engrossed to the extent that the world around me was non-existence. However, my literary reverie was suddenly shattered when a smart looking woman bagged the stool next to me. She placed a wet mini umbrella on the bar, a drink of some sort, and a handbag.

"You don't mind if I take this seat, do you?"

"No, not at all," I replied. I checked my iPhone, and it was 1.05pm. This young lady must be on her lunch break. I resumed my literary exploration of worlds long dead.

"This weather is awful!" The young lady piped up, interrupting me again.

"Time of the year, I suppose," I answered politely but without looking up. I noticed from the corner of my eye that she had long, dark hear, quite black but with a faint hint of Shiraz streaks.

"I think its worse this year." The young woman continued.

I wouldn't know because I lived in Australia and was only in the UK to visit my parents, so my response a non-committal, "Perhaps."

"What are you reading?" Asked this persistent young woman.

With my sense of annoyance rising, I closed the book and handed it to her. It was at this juncture that I was able to get a good look at her. I would say that she had either southern Indian or northern Sri-Lankan heritage, but she was most certainly born in Britain given her heavy Yorkshire accent. She had a delicate aquiline nose, dark hazel-coloured eyes, and sensuous rouged lips. She was of slender build with probably A- or B-cup breasts depending upon the level of padding underneath her dress. She wore a tight filling, almost military style black tunic, with a white blouse, a long black skirt and black shoes. Aside from the white shirt, the only other colour visible in this dark dress ensemble were several gold bracelets worn on each wrist.

Her interest in my reading material could best be described as passing. She made a couple of incorrect remarks about the history, but rather than pointing out this ignorance I humoured her instead. She handed the book back with a couple of flippant comments about not having the time to read outside of work.

We made our introductions, and her name was Tracey. Really? She was of Sri-Lankan heritage as I surmised. Her parents had moved to Britain in the 1960s, and she was the youngest of three siblings at 31 years old. Her current occupation was a legal clerk working for a firm of solicitors down the road. Judging by the lack of rings on her fingers, Tracey wasn't married. Her boss and the other partners were attending a conference in Leeds, so she was taking advantage of their absence to slack off. Hence the vodka, lime and soda in her hand. Nice work if you can get it!

It was clear from her impulsive nature that I wasn't going back to my book any time soon. Therefore, I decided to engage with Tracey and see where our encournter might lead. In the back of my head was my father's pending arrival that could spoil this random meeting. As my pint was nearing empty, I arose from the stool intending to head to the bar where the hobo was perched, annoying everyone. Tracey took a massive gulp from her glass before asking me whether I minded getting her a refill. No, I was happy to do so.

Tracey grabbed her handbag and reached for her purse to grab some cash. I glanced at the open handbag and saw what I thought was a cream coloured vibrator. I thought I also saw a small bottle of personal lube. Of course, these could have been a tampon applicator and a bottle of hand sanitiser. I was brought back to reality by the snapping of the purse. Tracy stuffed it back into her handbag before turning to me, handing me the cash and flashing her pearly whites in a generous smile.

As I queued at the bar awaiting my turn. I replayed what I saw in my mind. The cream-coloured thing was cylindrical with longitudinal groves. While I couldn't see the tip, the base certainly looked like battery slot and the on-off/speed disc. This thing seemed too big to be a tampon applicator, but what did I know? If it was a vibrator as suspected, then the bottle had to be lube. If what I saw was correct, then I was sat next to a potential sexual bombshell. Now, I was very eager to get back to my stool!

"How long are you taking off this arvo?" I asked as I resumed my place, placed the drinks on their coasters, and handed Tracey her change.

"Probably an hour, maybe two," She responded. "Depends on my mood."

She asked me about my plans, and I explained that I was waiting for my father. I sent him a text while I was at the bar, and he responded that he would be some time yet. How long he would be detained was indeterminate.

"So, what's your mood now?" I asked expectantly.

"I'm feeling pretty good after one of these." Replied Tracey with a twinkle in her eye and holding up her drink.

"Cheers!" we clinked glasses, and each took a swig.

"Do you have a woman in your life?"

"I did," I replied. "We broke up a few weeks ago."

"How come?"

"Michelle, my ex, and I were in a long distant relationship," I began, "We would see each other twice a year, and it seemed to work. This year, however, I've made two addition trips to the UK for work and, well, we just seemed to irritate one and other."

"Mutual breakup then?"

"I think so. Maybe, a little bit more on my side."

"Why?"

"Michelle was having money difficulties and didn't want to go out as much with me this time around. So, we called it a day."

"Was it just the 'not going out'?" Asked Tracey, raising an expectant eyebrow.

"Well,

that

was also a factor, from my perspective." I answered, "Her appetite never really matched mine, and I think her money worries left her a bit disinterested."

"When you

were

in the bedroom, was it good?" Persisted Tracey.

"Let's just say, I have a more diverse palette than Michelle."

"Ooh, do tell?"

"Really?" I asked, "Do you tell your bedroom secrets to men you've just met?"

"Depends on the person I'm talking to," Tracey replied, with a cheeky grin, before adding, "Sometimes I do a lot more than that."

Now, this conversation was heading in the right direction. I was hoping, nay praying, that my father wouldn't suddenly enter and ruin everything.

"Oh, yes?"

"Yes", Tracey replied, casually, "If he, or she, is worthy enough, I'll fuck them the first date."

That's a position that all red-bloodied men would agree with. Others might describe such behaviour in a woman as slutty, but I got the impression that if Tracey was labelled a slut, she wouldn't give a shit.

We held each other's gaze for a few seconds, perhaps sizing the other one up, before turning away to gaze at the dreary Scarbados landscape.

"So, tell me about your 'diverse palette'?" Interrupted Tracey, swigging from her glass.

"I like my sexual pleasure hardcore, like what I see - occasionally - online." She laughed at my use of 'occasionally'.

"Sounds routine. What hardcore stuff did Michelle not like or do?"

"Quite a bit," I began, "I don't think she watched a lot of porn, so many of the things I wanted to do weren't her thing."

"Such as?"

"Geez, you're persistent, aren't you?"

"I want to know. Sex is my favourite subject."

"Yes, I'm sensing that," I replied with a smile, "But I don't want to denigrate her."

"I don't know her, so you're not denigrating her to me."

That was the least convincing argument I've heard, but I was getting aroused with this conversation and suspected many of Michelle's sexual weaknesses wouldn't be ones shared by Tracey.

"Well, ok then," I sighed with feigned resignation. "Michelle didn't swallow or let me come on her face. Said that was demeaning but expected me to remain between her legs until she came."

"Selfish bitch." Laughed Tracey, "So I guess anal was wasn't a go?"

"How did you guess that?" I asked with played-up shock whereby Tracey humorously hit my arm.

"I really love anal sex," replied Tracey, nonchalantly, oblivious to the tautology of her admission, "Its only been a recent discovery for me but now I'm hooked."

Fucking, yes!

"What else?" Asked Tracey, who began squirming on her stool. The bulge in my jeans wa hardening.

"She wouldn't or couldn't squirt, and that other

thing

which is not squirting was obviously taboo." I didn't want to be explicit about golden showers in case that was a bridge too far for Tracey. However, before Tracey could respond to my cryptic clue, I continued listing differences in sexual compatibility.

"My ex-wife enjoyed being fisted, and while I was in two minds about that particular act, I knew that Michelle wouldn't want to partake. No other sexual partner has asked to be fisted since my divorce."

"Mmm, that's quite the menu you have." Said Tracey after I was finished thinking up kinky perversions.

"Anything on that menu that's not to your liking?" I asked, nervously hoping I hadn't gone too far.

"Fisting I've not done, and I don't think its possible as I'm too tight down there," She began, "Squirting depends on the ability of who's trying, but I can live without being made to squirt because I can orgasm from penetrative sex easily and often."

"Wow, that's great."

"As for that other 'thing' you mentioned, I'll do that anytime someone asks. Which isn't very often, let me tell you."

"Then people are missing out," I replied, "I love it, giving and receiving."

"Really?" Tracey asked in surprise, "I've only been asked to give it, so I don't know what it's like to receive it."

"Maybe, one day, your prince will come," I said, instantly regretting the corny cliché.

"Not in this town," replied Tracey, "The men here are very vanilla. Oh, they do the job, from time to time, but I'm always left wanting more."

"Oh, yes?" I answered, "Does that mean a healthy supplement of DIY?"

"Several times a day!"

I was right then, the handbag does contain a vibrator and a bottle of lube.

"Does that include DIY at work?" I continued.

At that question, Tracey glanced towards her handbag and realised I saw the contents inside.

"You saw my bag of tricks then?"

I nodded and smiled in reply.

"Then, yes, I masturbate at work." That confession was easily extracted.

"In the staff toilet?"

"Sometimes. Other times, I sit at my desk with my toy inside me. I get really turned on when the people I interact with have no idea what I'm doing."

"Wow, you're an awesome chick."

"Sometimes, I think I'm a sex addict as its all I think of. Something went wrong in my brain when I turned turned thirty."

"You're in your dirty thirties now," I responded with another glib cliché.

"If I don't have an orgasm, I think I'll explode. And I think I watch too much porn." Tracey said, laughing.

At that point, two things occurred. The first was a text from my father informing me that his laptop was being worked on as we speak. The second was that we were interrupted by a bar man picking up glasses. He asked us if we wanted new drinks and we both assented. The second event obviously had an impact on the first. If we continued drinking and flirting, then the closer the time came to my father arriving at

The Lord Roseberry

and spoil this situation. The clock was ticking, people. Go, Go, Go!

I related this news to Tracey, who replied, "We don't have much time then."

"Time for what?"

"Time to fuck!"

"Where are we going to do that?" I asked.

Tracey thought for a while as the bar man returned with our drinks.

"Not sure." Came the reply.

"What about your office?" I suggested.

Again, Tracey thought as she took a sip from the glass.

"It's a small office, and while the partners are at the conference, not all the other staff are slacking off like I am." She giggled at her naughtiness.

"While I could bring you in as a potential client, the place I have in mind isn't secure, and we could get caught in the act."

Tracey shuffled again on her stool. I figured she'd just pictured us copulating in some area of her office and that her pussy was pulsing at the thought.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"I'm wet, and I'm horny," She replied, "And I want you to fuck me. But I shaved my pussy the other day and, since I don't wear panties, the regrowth is ticklish."

I so hoped that, if we found a place to be alone, Tracey would grant me an opportunity to eat that shaved pussy to orgasm.

"Do they have a disabled toilet here?" I asked, suggesting a place I've had public sex many times across Australia.

"There's one upstairs, I think. Why?"

There were undoubtedly plenty of mentally disabled people here, but a quick scan around the bar and dining area didn't show any infirm bodily customers. Those readers that are familiar with the Weatherspoons' pub chain know the joke about the toilets being up flights of stairs and being less than accessible. I squinted toward the back of the bar and saw a lift to the second floor where the toilets were. Theoretically, there might be a need by a disabled patron to use this toilet but currently, the prospect for occupying it was favourable.

"Why don't I have a look?" Asked Tracey. "I need to go anyway."

Damn it! I was hoping that we might indulge in some water sports.

"If the toilet is free, how will you tell me?"

"Give me your mobile number, "She said, "If its free, I'll text you but keep it locked from the inside until you arrive."

This was wonderfully conspiratorial stuff, and I was beginning to warm to Tracey's devious mind. Maybe if all goes well, I might enjoy my remaining weeks in the UK in this legal clerk's bed, whose sexual appetite appeared to match my own.

I agreed to Tracey's proposal, and we exchanged numbers. She quickly necked her drink and gathered up her belongings before disappearing among the milling crowd swelled by the dismal weather, the cheap drinks and the assembly line food. I turned and looked at my pint, still half full. I wasn't sure I could skoll that in the seconds I had left. There was also my father. I checked my phone, but there was no updated ETA, so I decided to update mine. I sent a text explaining that I was bored and was going to another pub for a change of scenery. I instructed him to let me know when he arrived at

The Lord Roseberry

.

As soon as that message was sent, Tracey's arrived. The toilet was free and she had secured possession. I pocketed my phone then grabbed my book. I tried to down my pint but failed so I left it behind. I ascended the stairs and made my way over to the facilities. I pulled at the door handle the locked flipped to open and I slid inside.

I was greeted by a naked Tracey except for her stockings and shoes, and what a sight it was. Her lovely mocha skin, sadly defiled in places by inked graffiti, her pert B-cup breasts topped off with pierced nipples, and her shaved pussy, studded with jewellery. I rose to an immediate stonk-on.

As soon as the door was locked, Tracey and I embraced, kissing passionately. Her breath smelled of vodka. She began furiously undressing me, roughly grabbing my hard cock through my jeans and moaning uncontrollably, but not loudly. Within seconds, I was naked from the top down, and Tracey was on her knees, negotiating my belt and jeans. As soon as my boxer shorts reached my ankles, Tracey's vodka laced mouth had swallowed my entire length, her hands gripped my arse cheeks as she furiously worked her mouth on my pole. The feeling was intense as this exotic goddess worked her magic. I ran my hand through Tracey's silky hair and gripped the back of her head as she blew me. Her technique was diversified with some tongue lashing on my ball sack. Tracey applied liberal amounts of saliva to my cock and balls, all the time working the fluid into the skin.

Then Tracey disengaged her hands from my butt and began unlacing my shoes without taking her lips off my cock. She wanted me naked like her. I lifted each leg that enabled her to remove shoes, jeans and boxer shorts. I was left only in my socks. Tracey stood up and told me to bend over the sink. I did as ordered, knowing what was about to happen. Sure enough, one hand grabbed my lubricated shaft and jerked it, the other spread an arse cheek, and I felt a tongue stabbing hard against my rosette. Tracey also ran her tongue from my arse, down my taint to my tightening ball sack. This prolonged stimulation was going to make me cum, and I didn't want to just yet.

Just before the point of no return, I stood up and turned around. Tracey looked disappointed, but I pulled her up and kissed her. Vodka and arsehole were now the dominant flavours of her mouth. Heady.

I then directed Tracey to sit on the toilet seat. She immediately spread her legs and used two fingers from her hand to part her pussy lips. I could easily see her wetness glistening in the light. I knelt between her legs and adjusted her position slightly so that her wrinkled pucker was on display. Tracey was a stunning, sexual beauty, and I wasted no time on her woman parts: clit, pussy and arsehole.

As I devoured Tracey with my mouth and tongue, she was spasming in delight but trying hard to keep the noise down. At one point during my oral ministrations, I looked up at this Sri-Lankan goddess. Tracey's eyes were firmly shut, as sensation after sensation assaulted her brain. Both hands were clasped against her pierced nipples, pulling on them sharply. Minutes later, her orgasm struck with the same force as the weather outside. Tracey really struggled to keep her pleasure quiet, but the few exclamations she couldn't contain would have been heard outside the toilet had there been a passer by. Given her self-control, I suspected that she was no stranger to public sex.

Without allowing Tracey any time to get her breath back, I inserted two fingers deep inside her swampy box and frigged her g-spot. She wasn't kidding when she said she was tight! Her reaction was like being shot. Tracey's lithe body jerked violently as my fingertips hit their target. Of her hands, formerly on her breasts, one clasped her mouth, whereas the other went to her pierced clit which she rubbed, hard.