Go out for a drink

A few days of cleaning, rearranging furniture and turning your parents’ house into your house and you feel like a break. A few drinks somewhere else sounds good. A visit to reacquaint yourself with the town centre had shown the pub of your youth was still there, it had changed names and probably ownership several times in the intervening years, but it was still there. It’s now called the Drowned Guppy.

It's a 10-minute walk into the centre of town, as dead and as an uninteresting as you remember it. The pub itself is mainly empty, a couple of families to one side with food, a couple of locals at the bar. Only one of the locals is worth paying attention to, a large blond woman with an amazing rack, probably in her thirties, but dressed younger. A miniskirt of denim, that struggles to control her wide thighs and large ass. A red V-neck top that reveals the deep chasm of her cleavage. She watches you with interest as you order a pint and then move to one of the free tables. You get out your phone and start messing with it. It doesn’t take long for her to join you.

“Hello, stranger,” she tells you in a husky voice, leaning over so you get a great view down her cleavage. “Do you mind if I sit here?” You consider saying no. She looks overwhelming, but you did come out for company, and she is company. And then there is the tantalising view down her cleavage that the monster in your trousers has already stiffened in appreciation to. You gesture that she can. “You new in town, or just visiting?”

“New, kind of. I grew up here, but I’ve just moved back. For a job. Teaching. At St Perpetua’s.”

She stiffens, and her hazel eyes glitter. She’s been looking at you as if you were a bite to eat. Now her interest is a mixture of feral desire and real curiosity. “You’re {Firstnam}Smith? No wonder Layla was saying all those things about you.”

You don’t know what to say to any of that. Thankfully, she elaborates. “I’m Krystal Horne.” She holds out her hand and you shake it. “I also teach at St Perpetua’s. IT. I’m also responsible for the school’s network. I spent this morning creating an account for you. I was wondering what you looked like. When I was creating it, I assumed you were an old man. No offence, but that’s the type of men Dr Stricture tends to employ. She’s suspicious of all male teachers, especially those under the age of senile. But Layla was giving all the clues that you weren’t like that. She was positively seething that you’d been given the job. Almost as if it was a personal offence to her.”

“Layla, who’s Layla?”

“You’ve met her. Dr Stricture’s secretary. She runs reception. She doesn’t like men. Especially young men. If you know what I mean.” You do, but you can’t deny she left an impression on you, with her big breasts trapped beneath a tight blouse and her tight skirt confining her swaying hips. “I sometimes believe Layla would like the school to be one big, sapphic playground for her. That no-one lets her play really irks.”

“They didn’t tell you why they sacked Miss Wandering, your predecessor?” is her next question. You shake your head. No idea. “Shame. It’s all very hush hush. I only learnt about it when Dr Stricture told me to remove her from the network asap. Wasn’t hard, because Miss Wandering wasn’t much into technology, but I had to lock her out and then send everything that was in her cloud storage for the good doctor to examine.”

“Hey, it was the first time I’d spoken to the good doctor in months. She’s always been aloof, but the last year it’s been ridiculous. She likes to keep her distance between her and the staff, but there’s distance and there’s distance. Don’t know whether she’s just lost interest or whether there’s something wrong with her. You’d think Layla would know, but if she does, she’s not telling.”

Krystal likes to gossip, and she sees you as a perfect receptacle for all that gossip. Most of it is meaningless, gossip about people you’d never heard of, about events you are ignorant of. The only name that stands out is that of the other old woman who interviewed you.

“Mrs Oversight. She’s a very clever woman, but she’s waiting for retirement. Her children have flown the nest. Her husband is something important in local politics. And she used to be very busy in the school activities, especially the sports. But age is creeping up with her. She can’t do the sports anymore, except from the sidelines, and I don’t think that appeals to her. I know she’s enquired about early retirement.”

You buy another round to ease the conversation. Then there’s a third and a fourth. Krystal gets louder and touchier with each round. Her hands touch your knees, brush your chest, cups your chin when she wants to stare into your eyes. She’s constantly shifting, and each move seems to display her vast bosom especially the cleavage, her large ass, her swaying hips, her smooth legs, her plump and kissable lips.

She watches you finish your fourth pint. She looks at her own empty glass before looking at you again.

“We could have another round, or do you want to come back to my place for a nightcap?”