Just because you know a bloke, or sometimes work with him, it doesn't make him your mate. I explained this to the guys at the pub but they weren't having a bar of it.
"He came in with you," I was told, "and he's leaving with you. He's now your problem."
Jack is a casual employee that the boss sometimes hires, usually when he's desperate. Jack can do a pretty decent job when he's sober, and there's the problem. When he's sober. He's fine first thing in the morning, but then he'll go and drink lunch. In the afternoon you have to watch him like a hawk, without letting him know you're watching. He gets belligerent if he thinks someone is watching him.
We'd been shorthanded and the boss had arranged for Jack to work on the Thursday and Friday, as he wanted the current job finished before the weekend. Both days had gone pretty much as expected. Jack fine in the morning, half cut in the afternoon. The situation wasn't helped by the fact that there was a pub just a stone's throw away.
Still and all, we finished the job at a reasonable time on Friday afternoon and knocked off slightly early. That's when I realised that having the pub just a stone's throw away isn't such a bad idea. I had ample time for a drink (one only, I was driving, after all) and watch a bit of sport before heading on home.
I wandered over to the pub and it seems that great minds do think alike. The rest of the crew were right on my heels, Jack included.
We all had a drink and then the guys dispersed, except for me and Jack. I was nursing my drink while I watched some sport. Jack was knocking his off so fast you'd think he was scared someone was going to steal the things out of his hand. He was also getting obnoxious.
Now my team was up on the screen and doing well, but was I commenting on this? No, I wasn't. Not when I'm sitting in a pub in the middle of Bulldog territory, Bulldog fans scattered around and snarling at the screen.
Jack, on the other hand, was crowing as though he, personally, was leading the charge to victory, heaping aspersions on the Bulldog players. And on the Bulldog supporters who were getting a little bit toey.
Things came to a head when a couple of Bulldog supporters fronted up to Jack and advised him that it would be fine by them if he left the pub. Now if I'd been in Jack's position I'd have regarded the two slabs of beef glowering at me and discreetly agreed that my absence would be a fine thing.
Jack just glowered back at the mass of muscle and suggested that they try to remove him. To back up his intransigence he tried to push one of the guys back, failed, swore, and took a swing. Then he threw up. That sort of thing happens when you're loaded and someone punches you in the stomach.
Jack followed his vomit to the floor, clutching his stomach. The two slabs of beef then turned to me and pointed out that he was my mate and I should get him out of there before he did himself an injury.
Cue my first paragraph. He's not my mate. A losing argument. The two slabs did kindly offer to carry Jack out to my car, Jack not looking as though he could do it himself. I swore (very quietly – the muscle was very muscular) and acquiesced.
A mumbling Jack was carted out and stuck in my Ute. He looked around, shrugged, and passed out. The one good point was that he'd already thrown up so was unlikely to spew all over my car.
I fished Jack's wallet out of his pocket, looking for his licence. Once I had that I keyed his address into the GPS system and I was right to go. How Jack was getting back here to get his own car I didn't know, nor care.
I finally pulled up outside this nice weatherboard house. I went and knocked on the door.
"Who is it?" a voice called. "I can't get to the door right now."
"Does Jack Nattles live here," I called back.
"Yes, but he's not home right now. Come back later."
"He is now. I've got him in the car. Want me to bring him in or just dump him on the ground."
There was a moment's silence and I had the strongest suspicion that the woman was contemplating having him just dumped on the ground.
"Ah, if you're not going to keep him I suppose you'd better bring him in. Just dump him on the couch in the front room. The door's not locked."
I opened the Ute and hauled Jack out. For a moment I thought I was going to have to do a Fireman's carry, but Jack shook his head and seemed to wake up a bit. It came down to me leading him inside while he leaned heavily against me. I sort of directed him over to the couch in the front room and gave him a push, landing him face down on the couch.
He half pushed himself up, looked around, decided he was home and slumped back onto the couch, already snoring. Geez, what a pain that man was.
Being a gentleman I thought it only right to pay my respects to the owner of the voice. I drifted off in the direct that the voice had come from finding, not really to my surprise, that it was the kitchen.
There was a young lady there, leaning over the kitchen table, doing something esoteric to a whacking great cake on the table. It was interesting to watch her at work, and I stood there for a moment or two, enjoying seeing her in action.
I have to admit, the main source of my enjoyment was the fact that she was wearing a very short skirt, meaning that every time she leant forward the skirt would ride up, exposing a large amount of bottom and a very small amount of panties.
I took a moment or two to assess the young lady. She had blonde hair, currently in some sort of net so it wouldn't get in the way while she was messing around with her cake. Very nice legs that I had a very clear view of and a nice trim bottom that I was also getting a nice view of. I couldn't see her bust line from the angle I was on, but seeing that she was both shapely and petite I was taking a guess that they would be a nice handful without being overly generous.
"Your husband is safely deposited on the couch," I said softly. "You can sleep easy tonight, knowing he's home."
"Husband, hell," she retorted, not even turning to look at me, which I considered a little rude. "If he was my husband I'd be a widow by now. He's my brother."
"Ah," I murmured, drifting closer to her. "That's sort of a relief."
"Well, I know why it's a relief to me not to have him as a husband, but why is it a relief to you?"
Her dress was already riding high and I pushed it even higher, following up by running my hand across her bottom in a most familiar way.
"Mainly because I'd hate to think I was jumping a workmate's wife," I told her.
"Get your hand off," she snapped. "The goods are not yours for the taking."
The odd thing about that was that she didn't try to knock my hand away, even though she sounded dead serious. Instead she just kept on leaning forward, concentrating on her cake. From what I could see she had a canvas sack in her hand that was spewing out little flurries and curls and even some flowers as she moved it around.
I declined to remove my hand. Instead I continued to caress her bottom, my hand moving slowly towards where her mound was peeking from between her legs, fetching covered in a scrap of black lace. I finally got a reaction when my hand brushed against the lace.
"Will you stop that?" she rapped out. "I'm trying to concentrate here."
And she seemed determined that nothing was going to break that concentration. I wondered how far I could go before she put down what I assumed was an icing bag and turned on me.
My hands travelled back up her bottom. I could feel a little tension drain out of her as I moved away from the more forbidden area, although she still wasn't happy. She was even unhappier when I hooked a hold of her scanty panties and started drawing them down.
"You stop that," she wailed. "If you make me mess up this cake I will kill you."
I didn't stop. I just towed those panties southward until they were wrapped around her ankles. Then I trailed my hands up her legs, choosing to stroke the insides of her legs. She stood it right up to the point where my hand was about to touch her mound.
"Don't," she half wailed. "I swear if you make me muck up this cake I will kill you. I have to get this finished."
Unfortunately, I did. Close my hand over her mound, I mean, not spoil her cake. She gave a squeak and went dead still.
"Please. I can't decorate while you're doing that. Just leave me alone."
Unfortunately, I was now rather interested in what I was doing. Her pussy felt nice and warm and fit rather neatly in my hand. I continued to rub it, slowly but firmly, feeling her lips moving under my touch.
"How much longer is it going to take you to finish doing the icing?"
"Fifteen minutes and then I've got to get it delivered. Now just leave me alone so I can work."
"Hmm. No. I think you just worry too much. You're much too tense. Just try to relax a little. What I'm doing will help you."
"My god, your generosity is overwhelming. How can I possibly thank you?"
Dear me. Such cutting sarcasm and from such a sweet young thing.
