English Pub Landlady Ep. 13

Teabags! Who the hell runs out of teabags? I can't blame Harry, he only drinks coffee. I knew we were getting low. Rita would have told me surely, if she used the last one. She sometimes makes herself a cuppa after she's finished cleaning.

So, that's how I found myself in the village shop talking to Helen. To be fair, at one time that would have been close to my worst nightmare. Well, maybe not my worst. But it wouldn't have been on my bucket list. But after the lock-ins and Imogen's party I've seen her in a different light.

"Would you believe it, I've run out of teabags?" I said.

Helen replied, "Worse things happen at sea. I've just made a pot. Sit down and I'll bring it over. Or would you rather have coffee?"

"No, tea is fine, thanks. Don't let me go home without buying some."

We were the only ones in the shop. Helen sat opposite me and said, "I'm glad you've popped in."

"Shit, here we go again," I thought.

"No need for that frown, I don't want anything. This time," she told me.

"The shop and tearoom are doing rather well. Mostly thanks to your generosity. Because our overheads are so low we're making a reasonable profit. W.I. funds are looking healthy. In the past I've had to bend over backwards to raise money for them."

"And forwards too," I thought.

Helen went on, "We were thinking that we could pay you some rent for the place."

"No, I won't hear of it. The shop was sitting idle for years. It gives me pleasure to see it in use," I said.

"There are two young teachers moving into the upstairs flat next week. They work in a village school on the other side of Dorchester. From what I've heard they are pleasant girls," I added.

"I've suggested to Trev and Jem that they may want to be around to help them move their furniture."

"Not up to your usual matchmaking standards. It sounds a bit traditional for you," Helen said.

"As you know, some young women need coaxing. As they get a little older they just want it kinky," I said.

"I hope you're not referring to me," laughed Helen.

"No, not just you. There are quite a few more mature women around here who have a taste for the exotic."

Helen smiled, "I must admit the prospect of 'straight' sex leaves me cold."

"I used to get the impression that you were very conservative, before I knew that you were a pervert, that is," I added.

"It's the whole W.I. thing. I can't help myself. I just feel the need to organise things properly."

"I'm different, I feel the need to organise things improperly," I laughed.

"And very good you are at it too."

She dropped another heavy hint about her sixtieth birthday, which I managed to dodge.

Recently, Helen had shared the secret of her and Gerald's Bournemouth adventures with me and I had to pretend that I knew nothing about it. She told me a few of the more unusual requests that she had received. One punter had made her take her stockings off and push them into her fanny before he fucked her bum. It was all very well but she could only get one of them out again. Gerald couldn't retrieve it either. In the end he had to pay a Portuguese chambermaid, with small hands, £300 to pull the missing nylon out.

Another bloke paid one of the waiters to give her one while he watched and wanked. She suspected that he had to pay him more than he paid her. Helen told me that she didn't mind, the less she got paid for sex the dirtier it made her feel. Because she is normally so bossy, it gives her a real buzz not being in control and having to do exactly what she's told.

I asked her how Gerald felt about the whole thing, especially the rigid rules. Helen revealed that all of it was his idea. She wasn't sure to start with but now she loves to play the cheap whore. She had even considered hanging around on a street corner and getting picked up by kerb crawlers but thought it may be a bit too dangerous.

It pains me to say it but, for her age, Helen is not a bad looking woman. She has a good figure and a fine head of nearly black hair. I complimented her on it once. She said that it came from her grandfather's side of the family. He was French.

My opinion that it was nothing to be ashamed of these days rather went over her head.

-

It has been several months since Imogen's party. The lock-ins were still going well. Helen had stopped monopolising things. It was quite strange, a different one of the girls (I'm including myself in that) sort of took centre stage each time. It rather depended on how they were feeling. As soon as I saw how they were dressed I knew who it was going to be. Women's intuition, I guess, but the others knew too and let them get on with it. Nobody really missed out so it was OK.

-

One morning Glenda popped in to see me; she had some news. Rita joined us around the kitchen table.

"Craig and I have set a date for the wedding," she announced.

Rita and I went wild, jumping about like schoolgirls. That was until she added, "It's in five weeks."

"Five weeks?" I said.

"Five weeks?" Rita said.

"Are you mad?" we both said.

"Do you know how long it takes to organise a wedding?" said Rita.

"It's OK, I don't want anything over the top and I thought you two could help me."

Rita said, "Where are you thinking to get wed?"

"In the church," said Glenda.

"Does the Vicar know?" I asked.

"Oh yes, he had that Saturday free but he said he needed to have a serious interview with us both first. There are strict rules about these things. Who knew?".

"How did that go?" asked Rita.

"Well, we were a bit nervous. We weren't sure if we qualified. I told Craig that we had better be on our best behaviour."

"I made him dress smartly. I wore a pretty dress and I even put on tights instead of nylons. Craig wanted to have sex in the afternoon but I wouldn't let him in case the Vicar found out or something."

"We sat in the Vicar's study. He asked us if either of us had been married before. Obviously, we hadn't, so that was OK. We both live in the parish so that was good too. Then he explained about the banns being read and all that."

"I asked him if I could get married in white. He said that there were no rules about that."

"Craig wanted to know about the vows, particularly the bit about forsaking all others. The Vicar said that there were strict wording rules that had to be said but in regard to 'forsaking all overs' he always left that to the couple to agree between themselves exactly what that meant."

"Personally, he thought that it was nice if they kept something that they only ever did with each other."

"It all went very well and we were quite happy."

"Then the Vicar asked me when I had last had sex. I thought maybe there was some sort of rationing system when you're married. I told him yesterday. So he said we had better do something about that."

"He made me bend over and suck Craig's cock. The Vicar lifted my skirt. I thought that he would pull my tights down but instead he took a letter opener from his desk and made a small hole in them just big enough to slip his knob in."

"Then the Vicar did something really stupid. He said to Craig, the last one to come is a sissy."

"Craig is so competitive and he can't resist a challenge."

"The Vicar was gripping my hips and banging away at my nylon covered ass while his bent dick squeezed through the tiny hole in my tights. Craig had hold of my ears. He kept fucking my mouth with short strokes trying to keep, I don't know what you call it, that nerve under his helmet against my tounge."

"Brian calls it his bow string," said Rita.

"Well anyway," continued Glenda, "the Vicar spunked into me a split second before Craig unloaded down my throat."

"The Vicar gave an extra thrust which pushed me over the edge. I made sure that my orgasm was extra loud. Technically, I came last and was the sissy. So Craig's manly pride was saved."

"Then it occurred to me that Craig was the only man who had ever cum in my mouth. We could use that as our 'forsaking all others' bit," finished Glenda.

"Gin and tonic everyone," I said quickly, "I think we all need one after that."

-

I don't know about 'Wedding Planning', it was more like an arm wrestle.

At first Glenda went for a simple country wedding. She had a list of the guests she wanted. Rita and I were relieved. She would like the reception to be held in the Yew Tree Farm barn. No problem, I was sure that Ted would agree.

Then she decided that she wanted to be strapped to the Hoss in her white wedding dress while they consummated their nuptials in front of everyone.

"No way!" I said.

"Definitely no way!" said Rita.

"Why not?" said Glenda.

"Not with the guests that you want," I explained.

"Some of them would have a coronary," said Rita.

Glenda looked heartbroken but she finally realised we were right.

"Don't worry, I will arrange a little naughtiness at some point," I told her.

Then the subject turned to her Hen Party. Who was going?

"You, me, Rita, Imogen and Helen. Do you think that it would be Claud and Jane's sort of thing?" said Glenda.

"We can but ask," I said.

"What have you got in mind?"

"Dunno," answered Glenda.

Rita said to me, "How about going to one of those Chippendales sort of thing. I've heard that they can be quite fun. Some pissed up granny usually ends up getting fucked by one of them so you may be OK."

I glowered at her, "Don't push your luck." Then I laughed, "Anyway, a roomful of women are not going to be too impressed with you slappers hogging the strippers."

"You have a point," conceded Rita.

"Now this is a bit radical for you Yokels, but how about I pay for all of us to stay in a London hotel for the weekend? We could all have spa treatments and go shopping and generally spoil ourselves," I suggested.

"Would you do that?" asked Glenda.

"Anything for my girls. And you never know Rita may be able to collect a few more stamps," I said.

So I arranged it for the weekend before the wedding. I also 'phoned someone I know who runs a Wedding Dress shop in Exeter. She nearly fainted at the timescale but agreed to make it happen.

-

The next day I collared Craig and Brian to see if they had any thoughts on a Stag Night.

I told them that Dublin was very popular for that sort of thing. Although I believe people are going further afield these days to places like Prague or Budapest. There was always Amsterdam of course.

In the end they opted for a pub crawl around Dorchester.

Craig wanted to do it on the night before the wedding but Brian and I recanted tales of grooms who had ended up in custody, or worse Aberdeen, and missed the wedding so he agreed on the Thursday. That would give us the Friday to get him back if it all went tits up. Having said all that, I must commend the Dorset Constabulary, over the years they have performed miracles in getting errant bridegrooms to the church on time.

I said that I would hire a minibus and Harry would drive them all.

-

Rita and I had had nearly a month of running around in circles. Trying to get Glenda to dress fittings, organising invitations, booking a band, arranging the catering, etc. The only person unfazed by it was Glenda. I think that she was under the impression that it would sort itself out. Helen had one of her W.I. ladies making the cake. Suits? Did Craig and Brian have suits? No, put it on the list.

At last the Hen Weekend was upon us. I had booked us rooms at a very nice spa hotel; but not one that I was likely to use again.

On the Friday we went shopping. Glenda was the only one who knew what they were wearing to the wedding, although she needed other things. By Saturday afternoon we all had purchased something we were reasonably happy with. Some of the underwear was very suspect but outwardly they would all look churchworthy.

The plan was that we would go clubbing in the evening. None of us was completely sure what that involved. I had a word with one of the young ladies at the reception desk. After she tactfully explained that it wasn't as good as it sounded, she suggested that if we wanted to drink and dance there was a better way.

There was a huge wedding party in the hotel's main ballroom that evening. We should have a few drinks in the hotel lounge. If we waited until about 10 o'clock and then made our way to the ballroom she would see to it that the concierge would let us in.

I showed my appreciation to both her and the concierge in the traditional manner.

The scheme went like a dream. The girls were really merry by ten and ready to dance. There were so many people there that nobody questioned the appearance of seven well dressed but slightly tipsy ladies. They started off dancing together but were occasionally picked out by slightly tipsy men. Rita was hardly in the room at all. I did see her emerging from the gent's toilet from time to time. Once or twice she passed one of the others going in the opposite direction. Claud and Jane were less discreet. I saw them snogging with each other and then with other women; evidently it was all quite normal in high society circles.

Helen and I showed much more class and were shagged by two distinguished looking gentlemen in a broom cupboard. It turned out that mine was a High Court Judge. I nearly choked when Helen said to her partner in her best W.I. voice, "Would you mind awfully fucking me in the arse?"

It was gone two when we all got back to our rooms. I was a bit concerned that the next day's spa treatments would have to be abandoned.

-

Sunday morning was a wash out. Fortunately, I had booked massages for everyone for the afternoon. I thought that the girls would like them as they had a choice of a masseuse or masseur (a woman or a man: the bloody French have to complicate everything).

No prizes for guessing who chose what. I made it very clear when booking that all the girls were to have the full experience, including any extras that were on offer.

My masseur bloke was a very lovely spoken man of Spanish origin. I had to lay face down and naked on a table. I had a hole to look through so I wouldn't suffocate. Pepé, it's short for Francisco, rather considerately placed a towel the size of a slice of toast over my ass.

Using warm oil, he started by massaging my neck and shoulders. Slowly, he worked his way down to my back and then out to the sides of my boobs. He kneaded down to my waist and then in towards the small of my back. And just when it was getting interesting he went down to my ankles. He gently worked on them and then moved on to my calves and thighs. As he gave attention to my inner thigh, he kept brushing against my fanny.

As he kneaded my buttocks, I was sorely tempted just to lift my bum in the air and insist that he fucked me now. When he told me to roll over I was glad that I waited. He placed the tiny towel over my fanny.

The warm oil went on my shoulders and then onto my tits. Pepé massaged each one in turn, avoiding the nipples. They were standing proud by the time he finally caressed them.

"Jesus and Mary," I thought to myself. The wait was well worth it. As they slipped and slid between his fingers my clitoris was getting urgent text messages from my nipples.

I don't know if I was pleased or upset when Pepé moved down to my belly. I guess things were moving in the right direction. He worked outwards to my hips.

"Fuck it," he started on my ankles again. The long trek north began all over.

By the time my inner thighs were reached my fanny was gushing. I think this was exactly what he had been aiming at all along. He slipped his oily fingers up and down my gash, parted my lips and stretched my clit. By the time his first two fingers combined to swirl around my clitoris I was bucking like a wild rodeo horse.

He slowly removed his white uniform to reveal a fully erect trouser snake and said, "You know that I am gone to give you the fucking, no?"

"How are you choosen to be taken it?"

Without hesitation I flipped over and put my face through the hole. Pepé lifted me by the hips and slid a large cushion under my pubic bone. This raised my ass right up. As he climbed up behind me it was obvious that his latin penis had some sort of heat seeking mechanism because it made my hole in one. I couldn't help thinking that Harry would have been pleased.

Gripping my hips he worked steadily at my snatch for a good ten minutes.

Then Pepé said, "en la cula?"

I had no idea what it meant, but it sounded like a question, so I just said,"Sí".

He pulled his cock out of my fanny and gently eased it into my ass. Inch by inch it made its way in. Eventually, I felt his balls touch my fanny lips. So did he because I was aware of warm oil being poured into my bum crack. When it trickled onto his cock he started to piston my ass.

I found religion again.

It was all too much, another orgasm ripped through me. I guess he had been holding back for just this as he began to thrash about too.

He pulled out and just left me laying there for about five minutes. I don't think that I could have moved anyway. I could feel his hispanic spunk slowly trickle from my bumhole.

I heard a shower start to run. Pepé lifted me from the table and placed me gently under the warm water. He washed the oil from my body and then carefully dried every nook and cranny with a warm fluffy towel.

When I returned to the spa lounge most of the girls were there already. None of them spoke, they just sat there in their white cotton dressing gowns with a faraway look on their faces.

Rita burst the bubble as she entered the room and said, "Fuck me that was good!"

Glenda got up and embraced me, "Thank you so much."

-

That evening we had a quiet dinner together in an expensive restaurant. Everyone compared massage notes. They all agreed that it wasn't so much the fucking that was great it was the journey to get there that they loved. Claud and Jane had both had the tiniest Thai girls, they said.

Claud said, "Mine had skills that you just wouldn't believe."

"Oh, yes," agreed Jane.

Towards the end of the evening Rita went missing for a while. Glenda thought that she must have gone to the ladies. If that was true she managed to return via the kitchen.

You will be pleased to know that the journey back to Dorset on Monday morning was uneventful.

-

Thank goodness Craig's Stag Do was going to be far less complicated. On Thursday evening Harry drove around and collected Craig, Brian and six of Craig's mates. Jem had been invited but said he would rather not be seen with a load of drunken old men.

Harry insisted on wearing a chauffeur's cap. He was under strict instructions not to drink and to make sure that nobody came to any real harm. He was to go nowhere near the train station.

Glenda and I spent the evening watching chick flicks, eating chocolate and drinking wine. Geoffrey and Imogen were taking care of the pub (don't ask!).

At a little after midnight the minibus pulled into the yard and stopped in front of the barn at Yew Tree Farm. I was waiting there to greet it. The lads were singing rugby songs. I don't think they knew or cared where they were.

Harry made everone stay in the bus, but he sent Craig over to talk to me.

"What's going on?" he asked, fondling my left tit.

"Glenda wanted to get you a special Wedding Present and she's left it in the barn," I replied.

I opened the barn door just enough so that we could both enter.

In his drunken state it took Craig a few minutes to process the scene.

The Hoss had Glenda strapped to it. She was wearing the black leather corset, stockings and thigh boots. She had a leather mask as well but there was no mistaking that backside. We could hear the soft left, right, left, right sound of the goat milker.

"Blimey!" said Craig.

"Am I allowed to share my present with the lads?"

"I think that's the general idea but it's entirely your choice," I told him.