The Redhead and The Punk Rocker

This is a kind of prequel to The Hen Do parts 01 and 02 and is part of the larger body of work that will become "Saga of Sandra, a Seeker of Pleasure." If I ever get round to putting them all together.

The Lincolns Inn was an actual rock club in Liverpool during the 1970s/80s. The fictional Lincolns Inn in this story bears no resemblance to that club, bar for the rock music. Activities described probably happened somewhere else, maybe to someone else, or maybe in someone's fantasies. Who knows for sure?

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Tucked away in a quiet corner, somewhere in the vicinity of the world-famous Mathew Street in Liverpool, The Lincolns Inn was a Rockers club. This was a bit of a highfalutin name for what was, essentially, a gathering place for Punk Rockers, Bikers, and Hippies. It was one of those watering holes that ruled its neutrality with a heavy metal fist. While these three tribes of natural enemies often had a strained relationship, they mostly respected the club's ethos. Though saying Hippies had enemies was a bit like implying that the Dalai Lama was a warmonger.

Occasionally, a fight would break out, but the bouncers, all ex-bikers, usually spotted trouble before it started.

Less smelly and much larger than Erics, The Linc was the ground floor of a massive old warehouse. Several rooms allowed the various tribes to segregate or move around, sampling a variety of sounds and dance styles. A patron could sample every style of rock music from psychedelia, through Prog, via Heavy Metal to Punk. Hearing Abba or any kind of Tamla Motown would have triggered a riot.

The club never got lively till about ten in the evening. Pam and I arrived about nine. It was fairly quiet, so we had no trouble getting served at the bar. This, in itself, was a double-edged sword. The upside was, as I said, having no trouble getting served; the downside was having no trouble getting served. By the time queues formed at the bar, we had already consumed sufficient alcohol to send most inhibitions back through the doors. I always kept just enough with me, however, to resist Big Dave and Storm.

Yes, Big Dave was there with his mate, Storm. We called him Storm because his name was Rory Wilde and Marty didn't suit him - it was a Scouser thing. We called the other one Big Dave because he was big, unlike the other Dave who was about my height - we called him Little Dave, imaginatively. Big Dave was an ex-beau; a handy guy to have around when you need that sort of thing, an awful guy to have a relationship with. He was the polar opposite of Jay, and not nearly as good looking. Well, he was nearly as good looking, but nowhere near as good in bed. No, really! He was great for a bit of rough when you wanted it, but that was all he was good for. He didn't go in for the tender, loving stuff.

***

"Hello, handsome!" Pamela was an outrageous flirt, as always. We'd been there for about an hour, and the two had just arrived.

"Alright, Pam," Big Dave replied, as she gave him a brief hug. She spotted Storm over his shoulder. "And my other favourite greaser," she said, leaving Dave and giving Storm a similar greeting, pecking his lips and pretending she'd been going to his cheek.

"Pam!" I admonished. "Behave."

If only Richard knew what his virginal girl friend got up to when she was out, I thought. I often did think that. To be fair, she wasn't so much worse than I was, but I never pretended to be a virgin when I met Jay.

"You behave, mum!"

"Yeah, you behave," said Storm.

"And don't be a hypocrite," Pam's put down. "You drunk enough to dance yet," she said to either or both. I couldn't be certain.

"Nah! Not a chance," was Big Dave's reply.

"Yeah. I prefer to wait till the floor gets a bit crowded as well." She winked and grinned. What a hussy!

Until this point, Pam had expressed some reservations about going to the club. It was not really her kind of dive. She was more into boring, middle of the road pop and soul music. I warned her that under no circumstance was she to ask the DJ for The Jacksons, even as a joke. Once we'd visited the bar a few times, she danced with anything that looked like it possessed a dick. She blatantly teased some of the men, often rubbing her arse into their crotches and her petite tits into their chests.

I have to admit to dancing with Big Dave; though I would never go there again. I avoided any action that might be construed as risqué. Storm was a different matter. He was out of bounds and knew he was. So I could be as risqué as I felt like, and he would never cross the line. I wasn't that certain about their other friends at the club, but it didn't stop me from flirting a little; well, I flirted a lot, actually, but I trusted Storm to save me from anyone over stepping.

The risqué quotient definitely increased in proportion to the volume of alcohol consumed. By about eleven-thirty, the dance-floors were crowded. I was behaving almost as outrageously as Pam by then. God, no! I exaggerate, of course. But, though I thought Pam and I were devoid of inhibitions, what I encountered next was either totally shocking or completely admirable, and I wasn't sure which.

***

I hadn't seen Pamela for a while, so I wandered towards the toilets while I looked. She wasn't in there either. There were three rooms in the club, so I drifted around, looking for Pam and seeing what was happening to the beat of the various musical genres. There were punk rockers trying to pogo and drunken bikers stomping unsteadily. I spent a little time being entertained by the failures. The hippies did their own thing. There weren't many in that night, and a good few were lying around on bean bags.

Since I hadn't found Pam, I made my way to the bar and ordered myself another snake bite, that's half lager and half cider in Liverpool; I believe there are variations around the country.

"Yeah! Me too," came Storm's voice from behind, "and I'll get them."

"Ta, very much," I said. "Didn't realise you were behind me."

"I wasn't. Just saw you at the bar and thought I'd try and beat the queue."

"Cheeky!"

We turned from the bar with our drinks. "Thanks!" I said, holding my glass up. "Cheers!"

We clinked glasses, spilling a good mouthful to add to the sticky mess on the floor. "Slàinte Mhath!" He announced.

"What?" I thought he was speaking a foreign language.

"It means good-health. It's Gaelic."

"Oh! You were speaking a foreign language!"

We both laughed and moved away.

"I'm going to find Dave," he said.

"And I'm looking for Pam."

We parted to look for our respective pals.

Eventually, I drifted back to a room playing Status Quo. No-one seemed to be dancing, but rather standing in a circle. I nosed my way in to see a gorgeous looking red haired biker girl dancing in the middle and soaking up the attention, even though she seemed quite timid. I may have been perfectly heterosexual, but I knew a sexy woman when I spotted one, and this redhead was certainly a sexy woman.

One biker broke the circle and grabbed her hand. This little ginger mouse turned into a big cat and, without breaking her dance routine, pushed him into the crowd with both hands. She looked through the onlookers at him with a beaming smile and peeled off one side of the cut-down denim waistcoat. She pulled it back up and repeated the moves on the other side. Drawing both sides off her shoulder, she let it slide to the floor and her audience cheered. She kicked it in the direction of the guy she'd just pushed back, bared her teeth in a massive mock smile and started pulling at the bottom of her oversized Hawkwind T-shirt, which hung over a denim mini-skirt.

Like a pair of piston rods, her arms pumped alternately, revealing tantalising flashes of midriff on each side. Each cycle revealed more flesh and, when her hands reached shoulder height, the audience cheered.

A flurry of activity caught my eye as her would-be rescuer tried to muscle in again, but the others crowded him out. I watched as he move to another part of the circle; the same thing happened.

"I see you've found Moira," Storm's voice came from behind.

I turned. "Who?"

"The redhead."

"Oh! Is that her boyfriend?" I pointed at the guy who couldn't get into the circle.

"God no! That's her ex, Donkey."

"Donkey?"

"Don't ask. I guess this is a revenge display."

The crowd roared, and I snapped my head back to see her arm drop and the other rise above her. As she did, a flash of pale, pert, braless breast with a deep red nipple revealed itself before she dropped her arm again. Releasing the hem of her shirt, she danced as if nothing were strange about being the only person dancing in a small clearing surrounded by an attentive audience. They began a slow handclap of encouragement.

Still dancing, she looked around to find Donkey and locked eyes with him. Grinning as she grabbed her hems again, she repeated the left and right tit display. She stopped dead, feet apart, knees slightly bent, hands on hips in a powerful, almost tai chi pose. The crowd seemed to hold a collective breath for the long stillness; then she lifted both hands high. The onlookers applauded as she freed her tits from the material and stretch both arms in front to pull the garment from her head. She threw it to the floor and danced once more, throwing double two-fingered salutes towards her ex.

"Jesus! I didn't expect her to go that far," called Storm into my ear.

I looked back at the dancer. Her nipples betrayed her enjoyment of the situation, whether from the power over her previous lover or the exhibitionist in her.

"She's so shy, normally."

"You know what they say," I responded. "Hell hath no fury."

Spurred on my the clapping and chanting of "More! More! More!" She danced around the small circle while a couple of the more drunken guys tried to grope her, but each were elbowed or pulled back. As she stopped to pull tongues at her red-faced ex-beau, one girl reached out and managed to cop a feel - Moira didn't seem to object.

Though the bold red-head showed no signs of going further, the clapping and chanting did not abate. The impromptu entertainer stared at the furious looking Donkey. Apparently encouraged by his fury, she played with the zip of her denim skirt, revealing a flash of contrasting red beneath. A cheer interrupted the chanting briefly.

After teasing for a minute or two, Ginger pushed the zip down and left it down while she danced. Some of her audience augmented their clapping with some foot stomping. With mischief on her face, she put one hand on her pop fastener, stared towards the angry biker and pulled it open. The denim crept past the red material of her panties as she moved her hips provocatively. Her skirt gathered momentum as the silky skin of her thighs offered a lower resistance, then crashed past her knees to the floor. Hand claps turned into applause and chants turned into cheers.

The red beauty looked stunning as she danced in her very brief scarlet panties and nothing else. She picked up her clothes and moved towards a gap in the circle, but it closed up as bikers nearby began the slow hand clap again. Continuing her now shy dance, she looked around for another gap. As a break in the music left only the sound of clapping, one girl-biker began a quiet chant of, "Knickers! Knickers! Knickers!" As the next track started, more people joined in the new chant, "Knickers! Knickers! Knickers!" This seemed to kick her returned shyness out of the club, and she beamed a fresh smile. Throwing her clothes along the floor, she danced again with a newly found confidence.

"Knickers! Knickers! Knickers!" I heard Storm's loud voice behind me.

I turned to him, "stop it!"

"What? She's never going to do it."

Her dance became more assured and provocative as she moved around the circle, teasing. Some tried to grab at her panties, but she jumped back. As she neared where I was standing, a guy in front of me blatantly groped her crotch.

"Naughty!" she mouthed and slapped his shoulder. I'd have done more than that.

As she danced to the middle again, her two thumbs slid into her waistband. She seemed to stare at another biker guy a few yards to my left.

"Knickers! Knickers! Knickers!"

She pushed the sides down till they were hanging on her hip joints. A tuft of bright red, curly hair peeked over to say hello. She pulled them up tight again.

"Knickers! Knickers! Knickers!"

She repeated the tease and revealed more pubic hair.

I turned to Storm. "Still think she won't?"

"Nah!"

By the time I looked, her underwear was respectably hanging from her hips again.

"Knickers! Knickers! Knickers!"

Spurred in by the chants, she pulled them down far enough to reveal most of her fine pubic hair and the slightest hint of a cleft. The crowd whooped, and she pulled them up again. Shy she might have been, but she knew how to work a crowd.

"Knickers! Knickers! Knickers!"

Finally, she pushed down as far as her arms would reach before putting her legs together for a squat to allow her to push them over her knees. As she stood, the crowd yelled with delight, applauding while her knickers slid to the floor and she stepped out of them.

"Fuck me! She did," Storm called.

"Should have bet you," I said.

The girl left her panties where they'd fallen and danced as if she were fully clothed. She didn't even seem to mind when some of the guys stroked at her flame coloured down.

As we heard the end of the latest track nearing, Moira danced back to the middle. Bending at the waist, as if showing off her ability to touch her toes, she picked up her knickers as the men behind her went wild.

She walked straight over to the guy not far from me and kissed him, unzipping his jeans as she did. That sort of thing was allowed in those days.

"Ah! Now it makes sense!"

"What does?" I replied to Storm.

"That's Brooker."

"Who's that?"

"Donkey's best mate. Well, he was."

"Oh. I see. I'm off to find Pam."

We parted before I was tempted to scratch the itch I had suddenly found myself with. Storm was off limits.

I did hope that she found the rest of her clothes.

***

Finding myself surprisingly aroused, helped by a quantity of alcohol I was sure, I wished I was confident enough to do what she had done. Don't get me wrong, I had been around a bit before Jay, and I was no stranger to the charms of a tease now and then. I was even known to exhibit some serious public displays of affection, if you know what I mean. But the idea of being the sole nude in a room full of clothed was terrifying to me.

Needing a piss, after the alcohol I'd consumed, I drifted towards the ladies. As usual, it was rammed and there was a queue that would take about half an hour to get ahead of. Why can't girls urinate in a trough like boys do? I resolved to try that one day.

Walking out, I decided to brave the boys' toilets. It's quite a common thing in night clubs. Well, it was then, at least. I bumped into another couple of impatient females coming out of there as I was going in. They both smiled. I thought I heard one of them remark about my stupidity for going there alone.

My eyes were naturally drawn to the urinals, which were two long, stainless steel troughs. I think they were stainless steel, but I wasn't examining the metalwork. The guys didn't bat an eyelid between them at the sight of another chick using their facilities, even though I was more interested in their activities than perhaps I should have been.

I entered a cubical; there was no lock on the door, of course! Removing my wrap-around skirt, I hung it around my shoulders - a lesson I'd learnt after many a piss-soaked hem had slapped around my legs. Pulling my panties to my ankles and steadying myself on the walls, I hovered over the bowl - you never sat on these things if you could help it. I didn't realise just how desperate I had been to relieve my bladder until I had let the torrent loose and emitted an audible sigh of relief.

The door flew revealing a biker unbuckling his belt; I was still mid-stream. He came to a halt as he saw me. He looked at my face and then stared at my full flowing fanny.

"Nice," he said.

"Do you mind!" I admonished.

"Not at all," he replied. "Do you?"

In reality, I was too desperate to mind. It actually felt a little sexy, but I shoved the door closed anyway. Perhaps the sexy feeling was lingering from the floor show to which I had just been treated.

No longer in a hurry, I took my time leaving to allow me to take in the scenery. There was nothing like a row of men with their dicks out to get me twitching down below. There still isn't. If they are mid-piss at the time, even better.

One Punk-looking guy at the near end turned slightly and grinned at me. The angle gave me a magnificent view of his impressive member as he relieved himself into the trough. I looked back up at his Punk Rocker face, with its safety pin piercings, to his eyes and made it obvious when I allowed my eyes to fall back down to his pissing prick. He seemed to enjoy the attention.

God, I loved watching men piss! I still do. I walked out even hornier than I'd walked in.

On my way back to the naked redhead's dance room, I bumped into Big Dave, who'd also had plenty to drink.

"Hello my girl," he shouted through the music.

"I'm not your girl anymore," I replied at a similarly high volume.

"Just a saying," he said. His closeness to my ear was somewhat pleasant, given my unexpected arousal. "Just been watching some chick take her clothes off in there."

"Oh, I saw her as well."

"Fucking sexy! Gave me such a hard on."

"Bet it did."

He grinned, then kissed me. I didn't resist as he pushed me against a wall. It was nice, after all this time. He was a very sexy man but, as Jay had rightly pointed out, he was a bit of a thug at times, which is what split us up. His hands roamed, as expected; I let them, as unexpected. This is not why I came out, I thought. His warm hands on my breasts and bum were arousing me even more. He slipped a hand into the fold of my skirt and found my cotton underwear, now damp to his touch. I squirmed under his kisses and moaned at his rough handling. He took my hand and placed it on his so eloquently described erection. This brought me to my senses.

"Stop!" I shouted at him.

"Oh, come on!"

"No! I'm with Jay and I'm faithful!" The irony didn't exactly pass me by.

"I'm not asking for a screw."

"Doesn't matter. I've been there and I don't go back."

I walked off, still damp and very frustrated. I was looking for Pam, not a fuck! Not taking much notice of anything else, I bumped into the Punk Rocker from the toilets. "Sorry gorgeous," He said, stepping back. "Oh! You're the tart from the bogs. Did you enjoy what you saw?"

"I certainly did," the image whooshed back into my tipsy brain as he stood back and stared at me.

"Fucking bollocks! You are gorgeous."

That was enough for me. I grabbed his head and pulled it to me. Wrapping my lips around his, I grabbed his hand and guided it to my wet gusset. Obliging, he rubbed around, rather roughly, but it was exciting. He forced his hand down the waistband, pushing my knickers half way down my hips and rubbed crudely at my clit and slit. Returning the favour, I put my hand down his pants and found his stiffening tool. After all that teasing from the dance-floor strip queen, the voyeurism in the boys' loos, Big Dave's attempted seduction, and now this rough touch on my cunt, I was nearing my precipice. He forced a finger into me and, with a mix of pain and pleasure, I ground myself against his palm. As I orgasmed, I gripped him tight and pumped till he exploded in my hand.

I looked at him and was quite disgusted with myself. "Thanks for that," I said, pulling my hand out and smearing its contents on his face. Well, he was a Punk Rocker; it would add to his credibility.