Lucky Jack Ch. 02

LUCKY JACK

Being the misadventures of one of life's losers.

Chapter Three: Jack in Clover

WARNING TO NEW READERS- This is a rambling, VERY British episodic part work which was originally published as a series of short stories in the 1990s but has recently been modernized and brought into the 21st century. The main character, Lucky Jack, some readers may recognise as appearing in other short stories published elsewhere which straddle this one in chronological sequence of events. All of the Lucky Jack Drake tales will be rewritten in time but may not be released in chronological order for which I apologise.

JACK IN CLOVER follows after JACK AND THE ESSEX GIRLS and JACK IN THE BOX and comes before JACK THE DESPICABLE in the current chronological order of stories being posted here. .

GreenFingers January 2017

People are always crapping on about how your schooldays are supposed to be the best days of your life, I can understand where they are coming from but for me the most memorable days, and nights, of my life were definitely the three years that I spent at the University of Essex.

For me university life was great, studying and learning has always come easy to me and so the work was a doddle and I could spend my time and money on having a good time so it became a three year shag-fest with a useful business degree at the end of it. The campus was wall to wall with young attractive women and the surrounding urban areas were populated with estates full of housewives whose husbands commuted into London to work each day. Added to the residential totty were the holidaymakers that came to Southend every summer desperate for sun, sea and sex. If shagging had been on the curriculum I would probably have achieved a doctorate in the first year.

For a shag addict it was paradise, I was in clover.

I couldn't wait to leave school and get to college. Until I was fifteen I had lived with my Gran in a farming village in Surrey. My Dad, who was a seaman and never there anyway, was inconsiderate enough to fall overboard in the middle of the Atlantic, leaving a mountain of debts and no cash in the bank. Nobody saw him fall, jump or get pushed, nobody actually missed him for nearly a full day and so it was a real tussle for my mother to get a pay-out from the insurance company to cover the mortgage payments on our London flat. She was forced to go back to work as a secretary and then the Social Services creeps came sniffing round and caught me at home alone one evening when she was working late to earn extra money. The short story was that my mother either had to give up working until I was fifteen or I had to go live with my Gran at Woodley Hill weekdays during term time.

I had hated everything about village life when I was a kid and couldn't wait to get back to London where there were proper shops, traffic noises day and night, real schools with a thousand other kids and switched on adults who talked about football and television in the pub instead of cabbages and potatoes and how good their prize bull was at fucking cows. I guess that the years spent with my Gran living at Woodley Hill made me determined to get to university and find a decent job in the city. I seriously fancied myself as a stock broker or economist with a line in Saville Row suits, a flash set of wheels and an office in the city with thick carpets and a big swivel chair behind a desk the size of a bloody football pitch. I was not going to end up working on a piss poor farm, married to one of the local 'Miss Piggys' at nineteen like all the other lads in the village.

Nobody could ever say the 'Lucky' Jack Drake was lazy or brainless, stupid at times perhaps, but I was a worker and a survivor. With Mum struggling to keep a roof over our heads and get me a good education things were always tight financially at home and so as soon as I got back to London I got myself a part-time job. For any guy who was only half-way street-wise it was a doddle in those days to get 'dodgy' ID cards with an altered birth date and I was well connected, I went to school with half the villains in London, and so I started work at a local supermarket filling shelves from 6pm until 2am five days a week even though I was really only fifteen years old. It gave me six hours sleep a night and all day Saturday and Sunday to swot for my exams, but I was a quick learner with a good memory and was confident that I would get good grades...and I did.

I had got used to having cash in my pocket without thieving and with the extra work that I got during the school holidays I was able to save enough money to be able to buy myself a clapped out old VW Polo which I had a mate re-spray and tune-up for me before I left for Southend and the U of E Business School. I didn't doubt for a moment that the car was probably a chop job, made up of bits of other motors from the scrap yards but it ran OK, the documentation seemed to pass muster and I had my own transport at 17 years old, with the road tax and insurance paid up, it wasn't the flash Mercedes that the young teenage drug gang soldiers were cruising about in, but it was mine.

My previous, if somewhat shadowy, employment record, along with a glowing reference from my former supervisor, a really lovely lady whose husband worked away a lot, got me established straight away in a part-time job with Sainsbury's at Southend on Sea, and I quickly added some casual sessions as a barista with Starbucks and so alongside my student grant I was probably better off than most students who were unwilling or too lazy to work or just relied on funding from home.

After three years easy study I was in full anticipation of a decent Upper 2nd Class Honours Business Degree but had yet to have a positive response to the dozens of CVs that I had sent out to suitable employers who should have been begging me to come and work for them. I was starting to realise that only the top 10% of business students nationwide, those gaining 1st Class honours degrees or back-to-back IT qualifications, ever got as far as an interview for a place with a top city firm. The chances were about the same as getting selected to play for Chelsea FC first team whilst kicking about in the park, but I was still hopeful that I would have a decent job before I finally left university.

I guess that I really did not want to relinquish the freedom of the student life and dreaded the prospect of returning to London without proper employment. The last thing that I wanted was to be joining the fucking dole queue along with all those other disillusioned graduates who had slaved to get their degrees only to find that only one in a thousand performing arts students would ever actually get work as an actor and were destined for years of six month contracts at call centres or stacking shelves in Morrison's and watching the drug dealers who had left school at twelve, if they had ever been at all, riding around in brand new Land Rovers or Mercs their pockets stuffed with rolls of fifty pound notes.

Those last few weeks of the academic year were frantic. There was no further coursework to complete or submit and a lot of the other students had already departed for home but I was staying on to the bitter end. There were lots of end of year parties, barbeques on the beach, and other opportunities for the keen nookie hunter. A lot of the female students were feeling equally depressed about joining the real world or needing to return home to live with their parents after three years freedom and were happy to let guys who had stayed on get them pissed and fall into bed for a good-bye shag.

In fact the girl that I had with me on the night of Professor Allan Newsome's retirement party was one such. Her name was Polly Ewing and we had met off and on over the past three years when our paths crossed as we had a number of mutual friends, but had only hooked up during the last couple of weeks. Given a wider choice and different circumstances I don't think that Polly would have touched me with a barge pole, I was little bit too rough around the edges for her, with a reputation of being something of a freewheeler when it came to relationships.

I had found Polly propping up the corner of the bar at Storm Night club late one Thursday night. Storm was not really a student club, a bit too mature and expensive, but Kelly one of the barmaids, was a mate and I dropped by from time to time for a late drink and to see if she needed a lift home. We weren't an item, not even friends with benefits really, but if Kelly was feeling a bit lonely or pissed off we would wrestle a bit in my car when I dropped her off.

Once when we were both a bit trashed she had invited me up to her bedsit for a nightcap and challenged me to find her tattoo, if I found it I got to kiss it! I had got her stripped down to her microscopic bikini briefs and still hadn't found it when I realised that I really didn't give a shit about tattoos, and then there it was, a tiny little pussy's face smiling out from her close cropped straw yellow muff. I naturally claimed my prize which resulted in a lot of pussy kissing, even more clit sucking and culminated in a very memorable and energetic shag.

Kelly had this thing that she did with her long fair hair. She would shake her head until her mane fell forward around her face and then she would slowly drift it over my face, then my chest and then my belly, like a silky 'Dougal' from the Magic Roundabout children's TV show. Finally the warm centre of the creature would come to rest over my erect prick and try to swallow it whole whilst the long hair tickled my thighs and scrotum. We played that game at least twice that night and again the next morning, I was late for my Business and Entrepreneurship Lecture with Dr. Steele but Kelly made me a large fried breakfast to compensate.

Polly Ewing was lonely and depressed. She was one of the end of course casualties, she had got her LLB Business with Law and looked like she would receive top grades, she was a clever and intelligent girl... too clever and intelligent to get mixed up with the likes of me. The problem was that despite being a top graduate she had not yet found good corporate employment and in all likelihood would end up going back to live at home in Suffolk in the short term. Added to that her boyfriend, John Something-or-Other, of two years standing, had dumped her at the end of his course and buggered off to Australia or somewhere with his mates. I already knew the story, word gets around quickly on the campus.

"Jack, will you do me a favour?" Kelly had asked, pouring me a complimentary Kronenbourg lager, I preferred the traditional brews to most of the gnat's piss watery lagers served up in the student's bars.

"Yeah, sure...what?"

"Take her home..." She nodded towards Polly. "She isn't totally rat-arsed yet but she is a bloody misery and keeps crying... she is frightening the customers away from the bar..."

That wasn't what I had come into the club for. I was hoping to stay until closing time, take Kelly back to her bedsit and match up her Dougal with my Zebedee. But, I owed her several favours and taking Polly home didn't seem so bad. I might even get back to the bar by closing time and still get to play the Magic Roundabout game although I had noticed one of Kelly's regular dates sitting at the other end of the bar waiting for her.

Between us we managed to persuade Polly that she had consumed enough booze and should let me take her home. When she hit the fresh air outside the club she was completely staggered, the alcopops she had been knocking back kicked in and it took me nearly five minutes to manoeuvre her into the passenger seat of the car and get the seat belt around her. She was as limp as a rag doll and I almost had to lift her into the car, her short skirt rode up around her waist exposing her lacy white satin knickers but I decided that I could live with that and she was past noticing.

She lived not far from my own flat just off Victoria Road and so I drove off taking the whole journey really steady and not touching more than 30 mph at any time. A banged up old VW Polo, driven by a young guy was just the sort of vehicle that would attract police attention after midnight and with Polly pissed and passed out with her knickers on display I didn't want to spend the night in a police station taking a blood test to prove that I was sober even if she wasn't and I wasn't too confident that I would pass the test either.

I pulled up outside her house and sat for a minute or two trying to get her awake enough to give me her house keys. Eventually I got fed up with farting around and simply searched through her handbag until I found them. It was a struggle to get her out of the car and into the house, she was only half awake and couldn't stand unless I supported her and so I just got her into the house and sat her in the hall on the bottom of the staircase and then went back out to lock the car, I couldn't leave her in the hallway I didn't know what sort of wierdo's she boarded with, some of the IT students were real freaks and wouldn't be reluctant to cop a feel or worse from a passed out girl. When I got back into the house she had woken up again and was trying to climb the stairs on her hands and knees, she looked ridiculous and slutty scrambling on all fours with her knickers showing, she had a nice round arse and quite shapely legs but I suddenly realised that she had lost her shoes somewhere along the way. Perhaps they were in the car but that would have to wait until later. I looped an arm around her waist and hauled her the rest of the way up.

Flat No.3 was immediately at the top of the stairs and the door opened with the Yale key on her keyring. It was a large studio style flat which occupied nearly the entire first floor with a short hall leading to a bathroom and toilet on one side and a galley kitchen on the other. The main room was separated into a lounge area and a bedroom divided by a long modern ceiling high white bookcase and display unit. The room was tastefully decorated with a couch, and couple of mismatched arm chairs and a television, with a desk and computer in one corner and some occasional tables and floor cushions scattered around.

Polly had obvious left in a hurry or was less organised than I would have credited her, as items of girls' clothing, magazines and coursework files were randomly scattered over the furniture and there were several tea cups and tumblers on the occasional tables. The flat showed all the hallmarks that she had kept herself pissed and miserable for several days and could not be bothered to clear up her mess. I knew the signs well I had been there many times myself. There was a framed photograph of John Something-or-Other on a table with spidered glass that showed every sign of having been stamped on.

"I need to wee..." she whined and waved a limp hand at the bathroom door. I got her into the bathroom; it had a rather dated pink bath suite, with a bath, a corner hand basin and the usual lavatory bowl. There was another pile of clothes and underwear in the bath. Now I was stumped, I really did not know what I should do next, she did seem a bit steadier but I wasn't sure how much help she would need. Then she was leaning against me, her hands on my shoulders and smiling into my face. "Go away... er...Jack...I can't wee if someone is watching..." She seemed to be able to stand and so I left her and closed the door.

I tossed her handbag onto an armchair and then went through to her little kitchen and searched the cupboards for some coffee to sober her up a bit, but obviously she was not a coffee drinker...not even instant and so I tossed a couple of teabags into the teapot and switched on the kettle, she would have to make do with a strong cup of tea.

I really wasn't sure why I was bothering, she was attractive but I didn't really like her that much, I had always thought her a bit stuck-up, and she usually acted like she had a stick up her arse in my company. The ex-boyfriend, John What's-I's-Name; I hadn't liked him either, he was a total prick, I think he had been reading political sciences... What the fuck is scientific about politics? Anybody can lie and cheat, there is nothing scientific about that! As liars and cheats go he would probably make a bloody good politician.

"Hello..." A small voice from the doorway called for attention. Polly was now wearing only her white lace bra and panties and I was surprised how good a figure she had without her clothes. She was about 5'5" with shoulder length dark brown hair and a pretty face with brown eyes and a generous mouth. She had nice substantial rounded tits and a firm athletic waistline merging into nice wide hips and tight rounded buttocks. My eyes were drawn to her mons pubis, which was quite prominent with a deep camels toe indent showing through her satin knickers.

"Drink this.." I ordered firmly, dragging my gaze away from her crotch and handing her a mug of hot black tea.

"No... I don't like it..." She pouted like a spoiled child. "Why should I...?"

"Because you are pissed as a bloody newt... and if I leave you like that you may throw up and choke yourself..." I said testily.

"I never throw-up..." She moaned. For that I was eternally grateful...if she did I was out of there she could clear that up herself. I worked as a hospital porter one holiday but I was getting paid to clear up other people's shit then.

"Be a good girl and drink some...then you can go to bed and I can piss off home!"

"Can't go to bed...don't know where it is..." She slurred with drunken slowness.

I half carried, half walked her to the bed and sat her down on the edge, she felt soft and warm through my black Guinness tee-shirt whilst her naked waist was cool and smooth beneath my hands as I tried to support her. She was semi-awake again and seemed capable of supporting herself and so I stood back to give her space. She looked really quite hot and sexy sitting there in her bra and knickers. She seemed more vulnerable and innocent than when she was fully awake and sober, less prickly a nicer girl altogether.

"Lay down and go to sleep now Polly," I said gently. I put the mug of tea on her bedside cabinet but I doubted if she would touch it.

"NO!" she suddenly said very firmly. "Don't go yet... I want you to...I want you to... " she tapered off sleepily. I was still crouched by the side of the bed and she reached out and hooked her hand behind my neck pulling my face close to hers. She was pouting and looked very alluring and I would be lying if I said that I wasn't seriously tempted to try my luck; but I didn't usually seduce or shag girls when they were drunk, it wasn't much fun and it wasn't fair and it ALWAYS had repercussions.

She laid down and closed her eyes and so I tiptoed towards the doorway.

"Jack..." She suddenly called quite clearly.

"Uh-huh?"

"Will you meet me for a coffee or a drink tomorrow?" Was she asking me out on a date or was there some ulterior motive? Shit, she was pissed so who could tell?

"Yeah, OK... I'll give you a call." I lied as I exited swiftly.

She was carrying too much emotional baggage. I really wasn't sure if I wanted to get involved with her. She had a nice body but I doubted that she would put out without some sort of long term commitment which was definitely not my style. Probably shagged like a sack of potatoes, she always seemed a bit frigid to me. It provoked the question... Her ex-boyfriend/fiancée John may have been a complete pillock but what made him run?

*

I had completely forgotten about Polly's bloody shoes and it wasn't until the next morning that I found them in the foot well of the car. Bloody Hell! That meant that I now had to take them round to her even though I had decided that I would give her a miss and just stay out of her way until she went home in a couple of weeks. I could have pretended that I had never seen them, tossed them in a waste bin and forgotten about it, but they were nice expensive, leather shoes and I wasn't a complete arsehole, well not all the time.