Chapter 1

When I was much younger, I lived with my parents in a village called Waterly Edge. It was an exceedingly small village; more of a hamlet to be fair. We had a shop, a pub, a church, a bus stop and bugger all else. There were only a few houses and several neighbouring farms.

From our little village, there was only one bus, it took you into town on a Saturday and there was only one bus back, and that was a pain in the neck. So, I had decided that I needed to learn how to drive and then I needed to buy a car. I got some pocket money from my folks but that would never be enough to do either, so I decided that needed to find myself a job.

Once again this was a problem as travelling back and forward would be an issue. Then as luck would have it my dad mentioned that his friend, Mr Jackman, who ran the local pub was looking for someone to help him out. I told dad that I would be interested in the job, so he called Mr Jackman and arranged for me to go around to the pub for an informal interview.

So, I donned my best shirt and a tie, polished up my school shoes and went down to see him.

He was a jolly old guy in his sixties; he and his wife ran the village pub and had done for years. It was a typical small village place, a bar and a lounge that did food. It was not a Michelin star restaurant but if you fancied a good steak or pie and chips it was the place to go.

Mr Jackman sat me down and told me all about the job. The job was in two parts, on a Saturday evening I would be needed to do washing up in the kitchen and collect dirty plates and glasses from tables. Then on a Sunday morning, before the place opened, I would be needed to clean the beer pipes, tidy up the cellar and bring up crates of beer and mixers from the bottle store.

It seemed easier enough and the pay was good, he told me I would also get a cut of any tips. Plus, it was in the village so I could walk to work and back. He introduced me to the chef and his two helpers and the two waitresses that worked there. They all seemed nice and friendly.

The first night I started I was nervous but soon settled into the swing of things, as the chef finished with any pots and pans, they were set aside for me to wash and then every half an hour I had to do a sweep of the tables. The plates and cutlery were added to my pile in the kitchen and the dirty glasses I stacked in the automatic glasswasher that was behind the bar.

Once the machine was full it was my job to set it going and then dry the glasses once they were clean and the replenish the shelves for the bar staff.

It was pretty boring work, but it paid well enough and the staff all pooled their tips for the evening, and I walked away with an extra five pounds. The pub closed at eleven and we all had to help clean up, then the staff all gathered for a post-work drink, Mr Jackman poured me half a bitter shandy as a treat. I got home just after midnight and slept like a log until the alarm went off at six,

The following morning, I had to be at the back door of the pub at seven o’clock. I got up, switched the alarm off and had a shower. Mom had made me a cup of tea and some toast, and she sat with me and asked me about my first evening. I told her all about the job and the guys I worked with. Most of the customers lived in the village, and I told her about the folks I had seen.

I left the house at six forty-five and walked down to the pub, there were not many people around at that time of the morning, just the odd farmer driving a noisy tractor.

Mr Jackman was in the pub garden, smoking his pipe and cleaning up.

“Good Morning Young Zak,” he said as he emptied some ashtrays into a big bin.

“Good morning Mr Jackman,” I said and gathered up some glasses that had been left out on the tables overnight.

“Right young man,” he said as he tapped out his pipe, “let me show you how to sort out the cellar and get these pipes cleaned!”

He gave me a run through of my Sunday morning duties. Basically, I had to fill six buckets with water and disconnect the beer hoses from the barrels and drop them in the buckets, then pull the beer through the pipes until the clear water showed. Now back in those days pulling beer was done with a hand pump there were no electrical motors or pumps. I had only been doing it a few weeks when I realised my biceps were growing with all the work.

Once clear water flowed, I refilled the buckets with water and a precise amount of pipe cleaner fluid. old man jackman was very particular about this, too little and the beer would be murky, too much and the beer would be soapy.

Once the cleaner had been added to the water, I pulled on the pumps until the water with the cleaner flowed, this I checked by feeling the water between your fingers. You could feel the slipperiness of the cleaner in the water. Mr Jackman had been doing it for years and he passed on his wealth of knowledge to me.

Then the pipes were left to soak for an hour. While they soaked, I had another long list of tasks to do!

I had to empty the empty bottle box into the right crates, take any crates of empties and any empty barrels into the back yard and then take all of the crates that were needed to restock the bar up the stairs and stack the shelves and cold drinks displays. Once that was done, I had to fill the buckets with clean water and pull 4 buckets of clean water through each of the pipes to flush out the cleaning liquid.

Once that was done and I had to taste the water to check there was no cleaner in it. If it was clean, then I had to connect the pipes to the barrel and pull the beer through. It was heavy, back-breaking work and I knew why the old boy wanted someone else to do the donkey work. I did it for three consecutive Sunday mornings under supervision before old Jackman trusted me to do the job alone, and even then, he would come down and check that the beer tasted right before I was done. But as I said It paid well and to be honest after a few months I realised that the work out was good for the muscles as my arms and chest started to develop!

Plus, my bank balance was starting to look healthy!

I had been doing the job for about six months when Mr Jackman was taken ill, he and his wife had to give up the pub while he got better, and they moved out to live with their daughter for a while. The brewery that owned the place put in a temporary manager; she was called Mrs Green.

On the day she took over she came to our house to check that I could still work that weekend, I was still at six form college and eager to keep working, so I told her I would be happy too and when she asked if I could work on Friday evening as well as she was short of staff I jumped at the chance.

Mrs Green was a blousy blonde, as my mother described her; l would have put her at around 40-45 years old. She had wide hips, a big, cute butt and her blouse did little to hide the big tits she had. She was tasty in a classy way. She always wore a skirt and blouse in the pub, never trousers. Always wore a little makeup, not too much but enough to show she took care of her appearance. You always knew if she was near you as she wore the most amazing perfume.

So that Friday I went to work, and it was no different from working for the Jackman’s, I got my head down and did my duties. The place was busy, and the evening went by quite quickly which was good, as did the Saturday evening.

The first Sunday morning when she opened the door to me, she was dressed in her ‘glad rags’ as she called them, she sat and talked to me as I went about my tasks, and even brought me down a bacon and egg sandwich and a cup of tea. I never got that of old man Jackman.

The second Sunday was much the same, her sat in her working clothes, chatting to me, as I did my job, and she did some of her bookkeeping tasks. She seemed happy to have some company, there did not seem to be a Mr Green around.

The third Sunday when I knocked on the door there was no answer, I left it for five minutes and knocked again, no answer. On the third knock, I heard a grating sound as a window opened above me and dishevelled Mrs Green looked down.

“Sorry Zak love I slept through my alarm “she called down and then she tossed a set of keys down to me.

“Please let yourself in, I will be down in a little while” and with that, the window closed.

I let myself in, careful to lock the door behind me, went down to the cellar and got started on my jobs; it was twenty minutes later that she came down; she was looking a bit dishevelled and was dressed only in her pink PJs. She had a tray of tea and some bacon sandwiches which were more than welcome. We chatted as we had our tea and butties, it was obvious that she did not have a bra on under pyjama top as her tits were moving around freely.

I tried not to look, but she kept leaning over and moving around and her big boobies were more than obvious as she did so, my cock started to stir even though I was trying hard to think of other things.

I could not help but look at them, and the erection that was now swelling in my jeans would be more than obvious if I had stood up. Luckily, Mrs Green made the first move. She gathered up the cups and headed back upstairs, as she put it to put on her war paint (as she called her makeup) before the pub opened.

My eyes followed her ass all the way to the staircase leading to the pubs flat. I got my jobs done and was ready to leave when I next saw her. She called me into the little office that she had by the bottle store.

“Hi zak, are you okay?” she said smiling as she pointed me to the chair.

“Hello Mrs Green, I am fine thanks!” I replied worried that I had done something wrong. Perhaps she had actually caught me scoping her ass and her boobs.

“Please call me Teri, it is short for Theresa,” she said again smiling, “you just looked preoccupied earlier”

Shit, did she notice me looking at her tits I wondered...

“Oh no I am fine, perhaps I was thinking about one of my school assignments?” I replied innocently.

“Okay well as long as you are okay that’s good” she smiled, and my heart melted.

“Yes, I am good thanks Mrs gre ... Teri “I gushed. I was not used to calling ladies that were older than me anything but Mrs, all my mates’ mothers were called Mrs...

“I need a favour and I think you could be just the guy to help me, “she said, moving around to my side of the desk and sitting on the edge. Her nylons crackled as she crossed her legs.

“Okay sure, what do you need? “I was only glad I was not getting the sack even so I could not help but have a sneaky glance at her legs. To be fair no matter what favour she asked I was going to say yes, I was pretty enamoured with the gorgeous Theresa Green, to be honest.

“I have to collect some boxes of my stuff from my sisters’ garage and get them back here, but they are a bit heavy, do you fancy helping me out? “she said her eyes boring into mine.

“Of course, I can help, not a problem, whenever you need me...” I bumbled out. I must have sounded like a right muppet.

“Good, of course, I will pay for your time, we just need to work out when. “And with that, she ruffled my hair and move back to her side of the desk. My eyes were glued to that big sexy arse all the way...

I went home, and got my old, dog-eared copy of readers wives out from under the bed and took care of my poor cock. To be fair Mrs Green became the part of my thought process every time I had a wank after that day. It was three weeks later when Mrs Green pulled me to one side and asked if I was free any day the following week. As it happened, I was free all day on Wednesday, so arrangements were made.

She picked me up in her big Volvo estate from home at eight in the morning, she had told me her sister lived an hour’s drive away. She turned up in jeans and a very tight t-shirt that was moulded around her big juicy melons. The drive there was painful, her perfume flooded the car and every bump in the road sent a shiver through her chest and made my cock twitch. Her sister’s house was huge, and there was a huge double garage that Teri backed her car up to.

Her sister looked a few years younger than her but had the same attributes. She made us coffee and we ate cake and chatted for a while, well they chatted, and I smiled, and I tried to look interested; all the time gazing from one pair of huge tits to the other.

Her sister was called Joanne and she was hot, fucking hot. She had two young kids and it seemed no husband. She was a milf before the term was invented. After coffee and cake, we went out the garage and I lifted the heavy boxes into the back of the car, the ladies said their goodbyes and I got back in the car for the drive back.