House Calls of an Architect Ch. 03

This is chapter three of a 'confessions of a window cleaner' type story following our protagonist, Thomas (Mac), as he learns the ropes at a small Architecture consultancy in England.

If a chapter doesn't tickle your fancy, maybe the next will... I hope so.

As always, all characters are of age and consent to the activities described. Unfortunately, none of this relates to actual people I know, but some may come from personal experience.

****

My hand rests on the gold finger plate of the changing room door. I stand perfectly still. I'm yet to make the decision. I've been procrastinating. I'm such a pussy. My head tells me to turn around. My body tells me to go inside. Unlike yesterday, I know what awaits on the other side of the door. The exhilaration is coursing through me. I'm nervous, I'm scared. It is terrifying and terrific at the same time. Today is different. Stepping into the changing room is crossing a line. It's a conscious decision. It is an acceptance, a commitment. If I take that step, I cannot go back.

The gym equipment behind me hums in my mind, still and heavy, like a silent witness to my decision. I have walked past it. Walked up to the changing room door. Yesterday, I stood here not knowing. Today, I am hovering on the edge of something. Of something.

Pushing the door open, I take that step. The sensible part of my mind has lost the argument. The reckless part of my mind has won. It's been led inquisitively. Wanting the experience. Or, more realistically, it's been led by my cock. It's moved my body. It's dragged me forward.

My nose picks up the faint smell of cleaning products. The wooden floor shines, the lockers gleam. My footsteps echo faintly as I move toward the sound of the familiar soft murmurs. I can still turn back, but my legs keep moving. I can still escape, but my cock tells me it doesn't want to. In fact it starts to react. My pulse kicks up, excitement and fear tangling in my chest.

I slowly reach my viewing spot at the end of the corridor. Sandra is in her customary position, on her knees in front of the mystery man, 'Mr X'. Her bottom half is covered in a tight, black skirt. Shorter than yesterday. Tightly hugging her curves. Pale white legs flow from beneath the skirt. Her knees painfully pushed into the tiled floor, leading to bare feet - stretched out across the floor, toes curling upwards for balance.

Her top half is not covered in a slinky cream blouse. It falls from her shoulders, open, exposing her inside-out bra - inside-out where it has been levered up above her massive, milky-white breasts. Sandra's hands rest on Mr X's thighs, her lips wrap around him with a skill that makes me gasp all over again. I hold the wall and bite my lip.

She instantly sees me, and I make out an unmistakable smile in her eyes. Her dark brown hair is not tied back today; it falls across her face. Straight. Neat. Swaying back and forth like a pendulum. Her eyes quickly glance down at my trousers before returning to my face. Her gaze is dark, knowing, utterly mesmerising. I bite my lip again.

Mr X stands as he did yesterday. His back toward me but twisted to the side. A firm back, not broad, not fat, not skinny, just there. Wisps of brown hair cover his shoulders, pooling into his tight buttocks. The brown hair on his head is full but unremarkable. Undistinguishable from many others. His legs are firm and muscular. Standing staid as Sandra goes to work on him. I watch her as she slides her tongue across his cock, sucks on his balls, jerks him off, takes him down to the hilt. She slobbers, she slurps, she sucks, she splutters. Always her eyes on mine. Whatever her mouth and hands are doing, her eyes don't waiver.

I watch, feeling my cock harden, my chest tighten, my mind swirl. Filled with doubt and longing.

He groans, he moans, he grabs, he shakes. His cock is hard and erect. A sword which impales Sandra's throat, only for it to recover from the blow and be impaled all over again... and again... and again. She takes him whole over and over. Gagging, spluttering, choking. Looking at me. Watching me watch her.

Many times I think Mr X will cum, but she releases him and sucks his balls or holds his cock. Holding his cock in the palm of her hand. Holding him in the palm of her hand. I hear him whimper as she grabs his ass cheeks and pulls him into her. His ass cheeks tighten, and his chest exhales with gasps. He knows what's happening. What's coming. He thrusts. Her tits bounce and sway. Her mouth is stretched wide. Her eyes watching me watching her.

It's her show I'm watching. Her performance. Mr X is there. He's playing his role. His part. I think I'm about to see his part explode in her mouth. I'm about to watch a stranger cum. Right in front of me. Something I had not seen before until yesterday. Today will be my second time. But it is her I am here for. It's her mouth, her lips, her tongue, her breasts, her nipples. That is what I am here for. Admit it, Thomas.

My cock is hard. It is not scared to admit what it feels. I want to touch it, acknowledge it, but don't dare. Its hardness is pressing against my lightweight suit trousers that offer no resistance. Sandra can't not see it. Sandra can't not see how turned on I am. My mouth is wide open. I realise I am holding my breath. I take a deep draft in, my chest rises, my cock reacts to getting more oxygen and expands in my shorts.

Sandra reacts, too. She slips Mr X from her mouth and quickly pumps his cock with her hand. She licks under the tip and swirls her tongue around the head. Mr X reacts. Mr X grabs her head and groans loudly. He's close.

Sandra decides she will finish with him now. I sense her decision. She slowly feeds him into her mouth until her lips strike his body. I see her tongue flick out from underneath his cock, tickling his balls. He grips her head, he groans again. Sandra's hands firmly hold his ass. Sandra's mouth firmly holds his shaft. Her mouth stretched and strained. I see her cheeks suck in and then release. Then she starts to bob her head backwards and forwards. His cock glistens, shining under the extreme lighting in the shower. She speeds up. Her mouth tight around him. He thrusts. He moans. His fingers tighten in her hair, supporting himself rather than guiding her. She speeds up. His groans get louder. Her hair swaying, her tits swaying. Erect nipples swaying.

"Yeeeeeessssss. Yes, Yes, Yes. Fuck." A deep voice I don't recognise. He can't hold on much longer. I can see the tension in his body.

His hips pump. His ass clenches. Her head bobs. Her lips suck. With a final thrust, he roars. Sandra's eyes close for a split second as his cum hits the back of her throat. Then they are back open and trained on mine. She blinks as pumps of semen continue to explode into her mouth. Mr X struggles to stay upright as the waves push through him. Sandra keeps bobbing, draining it all from him.

Her mouth finally slips back from him, releasing some semen which drops across her lips, only to be immediately scooped back up by her expert tongue. Mr X slumps forward, unable to hold himself together. Sandra looks up to him and smiles.

My mind kicks into gear. Shit. I don't want to be seen by Mr X. I should leave. But instead of turning back like yesterday, I move forward. Past the opening to the showers, forwards, not backwards. Sandra watches me as I disappear from view. I step into one of the toilet cubicles, closing the door quickly and softly behind me. But crucially, not locking it.

I sit on the closed toilet, my heart pounding. Why have I come in here? And yet, I know exactly why I came in here and didn't run. I cannot deny the butterflies in my stomach, the ache between my legs, the mound in my trousers.

My body tenses further as I hear the soft padding of footsteps outside the cubicle door. I wait breathlessly for what feels like minutes. The cubicle door slowly swings open, and there she is. Sandra. Simple Sandra. Her blouse still open, her bra still wrapped above her exposed breasts. She steps towards me, closing the door behind her, and then she kneels in front of me without a word. She puts a finger to her lips... shhh, quiet.

There, she kneels. Before me. Kneels. Her expression a mixture of warmth and lust, a curiosity in her dark brown eyes, with more than a hint of sauciness. In the office, she is nervous; her eyes dart around, unsure, insecure. But here she is transformed; the same eyes are confident eyes. They hold a depth as if they know what they are meant to do, and where they are meant to be. I study her as we pause. Her face is oval, balanced and symmetrical, with high cheekbones hidden by plump cheeks. There's a softness in the curve of her chin, in the natural fullness of her lips, which currently hold the ghost of a smile.

Her hands move to my belt, her fingers deft and sure. I don't stop her as she unbuckles and unbuttons. I only watch her. My breath shallow. My heart pounding. She unzips. I don't stop her. Instead, I raise my hips. She pulls my suit trousers down along with my boxers in one fluid motion. I spring free, and her head snaps back.

"Wow," she mouths, smiling. She licks her lips.

Up close, her complexion is fair and smooth, seemingly untouched by time or trouble. Her eyebrows arch naturally, framing her face with simplicity. Her nose is straight and well-proportioned, adding to the harmony of her features. She's pretty. She's carrying a few too many pounds, but underneath it, she's cute. Here, with this confidence and contradicting the position she is in, she has grace. She owns this. She carries a beauty.

As if acknowledging my thoughts, Sandra bends her head to the side of my penis and blows softly. I twitch under her spell. The strands of her hair move with fluidity, brushing against her collarbone as she tilts her head again ever so slightly. She moves her head on top and blows. I twitch again. She watches my cock as she slides a finger from the base to the tip. Amused by the bouncing response she receives and the tensing of my thighs. Her finger circles the tip, and I have to close my eyes. The build to this moment has been too much.

I open them again as she takes her hand away, reaches behind her back and unclips her bra. It falls to the floor in front of her. Her full neck now rises from her chest, unencumbered by the taut lace. Soft, stretched, milky white skin.

I look beyond her at the cubicle door as I hear new footsteps outside. My body tenses again. Mr X is leaving. The finger returns to her lips. Shhh... quiet.

We wait. My penis calms a little. Still, the tension in my body remains. We look at each other. A power in our exchange. A danger. An intimacy. A carnal desire. A quiet understanding passes between us as we wait, the presence of another holding our actions captive until the moment can be ours. We wait. Her lips pressed together just slightly, holding back words she isn't ready to release.

We hear the footsteps fade, the changing room door open and close. Silence.

Suddenly her head drops, her mouth opens, she devours me completely. She gags. I yelp like a girl. My arms smash against the sides of the cubicle. Her mouth is hot and wet. Her throat is tight and hard. She is off me as quickly as she was on me.

Her hand wraps around my penis, keeping me steady, her touch firm and in control. I'm throbbing in her hand. Blood pulsing through it. My cock is already about to explode.

"I love cock, I lurve cock," her voice low and sensual. Not the Sandra from HR that I know. "Especially when it's as hard and thick as yours. I can see how much you liked watching me. I'm going to relieve you, Thomas. Just like I promised."

She drops her mouth on me again. My hands bang against the sides of the cubicle again. My head is thrown back. She bounces up and down three times. Saliva spews from her mouth as she gags on my length. She lifts her head from me and looks back into my eyes. My head is spiralling out of control. My cock is spiralling out of control. She can sense it. She must give me time to recover.

She stands and leans back against the cubicle door. Leaving my cock alone - to bounce and throb alone. My breathing is shallow and tight. My eyes and mouth seemingly unable to act independently, each wide open, connected.

"What a cock, Thomas," she says, nodding towards my stiff member.

"You could fill my pussy up. Fill it, Thomas. Stretch it. You could make me scream and then fill me with your cum. Mmmm. That's so good, Thomas. I can feel it."

She stands in front of me, confident. Her presence warm, steady. She's got a softness to her, curves that make her feel real, grounded - slightly overweight, sure, but it suits her. Her arms have a fullness, her shoulders slope naturally under the weight of her pendulous tits. Her waist is rounded, but there's a sexiness seeing it right here in front of me. She wriggles her skirt up to her waist, revealing matching cream lace knickers to the floored bra. They bulge across her ample mound.

She shifts her weight just slightly, not fidgeting, not quite grinding, just settling into the moment. I notice the imprints from the tiles on her knees. Square dents. I trace up her strong, thick thighs. Her hips curve away from her waist, betraying her round ass that is hidden behind her. Her hands rest - soft, kind-looking - holding the skirt up from her sides.

The skirt in turn pulls her belly up, stretching her skin and elongating her pussy. From this distance, I can see dark pubic hair sticking through the lace of her knickers and a damp patch running underneath. Sandra is excited, too.

She slides her knickers to one side and pulls her rosy red, wet, soft pussy lips apart. I suck in air with an audible slurp, unable to grasp what I am seeing.

"I'm talking about this pussy, Thomas. Stretching this pussy."

She inserts a finger and then places it to her mouth, licking her juices from her digit which she quickly places back on her pussy and starts to finger herself. The juices shine on her lips and her fingers which slip easily inside. Her eyes are still on me as her other hand massages her tits. I watch. Dumbstruck. She speeds up her fingers, pulling her pussy lips apart. She moans. She's getting wetter. Her eyes close, and she rests her head against the door. She bends her legs, widening her opening. She pushes her hips forward, showing me. Exposing herself to me. Stretching herself before me. Her fingers slipping in and out, over her clit. In and out. Round her pussy lips. Round her plump clit. Her breathing catching. Her breathing louder. Her hips bucking. But then, suddenly, she stops.

Wordlessly, she steps forward and drops to her knees once more. Her lips just inches away from my cock.

She takes it in her hand and jerks it slowly. The juices on her fingers lubricating her palm.

This time, her tongue darts out, and she licks the tip. Slowly. Savouring it. Her head turns, and her lips slide down the length of my cock. Up and down.

"Mmmm. I taste good on you, Thomas."

Her tongue flicks at me as her lips glide around me. Her fingers replace her tongue on the tip, teasing. Her other hand cups my balls. I shudder.

"You're so young and virile. I bet you would fuck me harder than anyone's ever fucked me before." She licks me like a popsicle. "Would you like that, Thomas? Mmmm."

She slows again, tracing a measured, teasing line from the base of my cock to the tip. I let out a shaky gasp, my hands gripping the walls for support once more. She chuckles softly, the sound vibrating through me as she takes me into her mouth again, but slowly this time, her lips closing around me in a tight, wet heat. She holds me there.

"So good, so fucking good." These are the first words I have muttered since entering the changing rooms. I am here. I am really here. This is real. I am really doing this.

"Mmm. You like that." She slips me out and takes me in her hand again.

"I love that about you, Thomas. How... responsive you are, but don't be so eager Thomas; slow down," she murmurs the words, her breath warm against me.

Her tongue flicks over the sensitive spot just below the head, her eyes locked on mine.

I groan, my head falls back, and my eyes squeeze shut.

"Shhhh. Slowly Thomas. I know you like it. But Shhh," her voice a low purr.

"Yes, okay," I squeak. I'm present. I'm here. I open my eyes to see Sandra again.

She smiles a wicked little smile that sends a shiver down my spine.

"Good. Because I'm just getting started."

She takes me inside again. All of me. Her mouth is a revelation, a skill and expertise that I could never have imagined. She moves slowly, taking me whole or savouring every inch, her tongue swirling around the head before she drops deeper, her hand moving in sync with her mouth.

She hums, she bites. Waves of her tongue, pulses of her cheeks. She pulls back, she drops deep. Her hands and mouth are a symphony on my instrument.

She pulls her mouth away and grips my balls in her hand.

She drops her mouth on me again and mumbles. I feel her lips vibrating on my cock as she tries to speak, her hand clutching my balls and pumping my cock.

"I've never been fucked by someone so young. Would you like to take me right here, right now? Mmmmm."

My mind says, 'fuck yes'. My mind says, 'shit, no.' I'm all over the place. Fucking Sandra is another line to cross. Another step.

She doesn't wait for a response. She doesn't expect one. Her mouth is moving faster, her hand working my shaft as her lips and tongue tease and pleasure me. Up and down. She slips me down her throat.

"Ggchk. Ggchk. Ggchk," she gags on me.

"Ggchk. Ggchk. Ggchk," she pulls me out and spits on me.

I'm in heaven. It takes everything in me not to shoot my load in her mouth right then. I tense everything I have. My arms, my stomach, my throat, my eyes.

"Ggchk. Ggchk. Ggchk," she gags on me again. Saliva bubbling from her mouth.

The pressure building, the heat coiling tight in my stomach.

"Ggchk. Ggchk. Ggchk."

"Fuuuuuuurrrck," I yell.

But she stops. Just as I was on the edge, she pulls away, leaving me gasping and trembling. My eyes fix on her. She's smiling. Watching my cock bounce and throb in frustration before her. A drop forms on the tip. We both watch it. The quiet understanding between us.

"Not yet," Sandra whispers, "I'm not done with you."

With a quick dart of her tongue, the precum is gone. My body takes a second to register the moment, but when it does, I jolt and shiver.

She stands up, her hands moving to her blouse. With deliberate slowness, she drops it from her shoulders to the floor to meet her bra, her vast white breasts fully visible now, spilling out to the sides. She moves back towards me and bends over, letting them hang down in front of her. Her dress still pulled up around her waist, rippling the fat on her stomach.

"Touch them," she commands, her voice firm but seductive.

I hesitate for only a moment before reaching out; my hands tremble as I cup her breasts. She gives out a little shiver.

"Mmmm. Yes. Like that."

They are soft but firm, heavy in my hands. Their size, shape, weight, and movements are intoxicating. My eyes cannot look away.

"Pull my nipples," she says softly.

She lets out another soft moan as I do as I am told. Her eyes flutter closed for a moment before she opens them again, her gaze sharp and demanding.

"Harder. Mmmm. Yes, Thomas."

I alternate nipples. I alternate breasts and nipples. They swell in my hands and slip through my fingers. She moans as my fingers explore her.

"Use them," she says, her voice low and husky. "On yourself."

I'm not entirely sure what she means at first, but then she drops to her knees, takes my hands to the sides and guides them, positioning her breasts around my cock.

The sensation is incredible, the soft warmth of her skin enveloping me as I began to thrust between them. The enormous white tits like smooth, silky cushions wrapping me, consuming me. She leans forward, her tongue darts out to tease the tip of my cock every time it emerges from between her breasts. Each lick strikes me from the tip through to my anus. Connecting nerves and pathways to my brain.

"That's it," she whispers, her voice a sultry murmur. "Fuck my tits, Thomas. Fuck my tits."

I am lost in the sensation, the rhythm of my hips driving me closer and closer to the edge. This is Sandra, the office manager, the head of HR, the homely looking Sandra. And yet, I can't stop. It's incredible.

"I... I'm gonna cum," I gasp, my muscles tightening as the pleasure overwhelms me.

"Not yet," she says again, her voice a sharp command. "Hold on."

She moves her body with mine, slowing the rate of my thrusts through her tits. She watches my face as I contort and squirm, somehow holding back my release. But she is cruel. Her tongue flicks back out, catching my tip. Next time my cock slides through, she kisses it. Her lips wet and warm.

"Please," I choke out, my voice raw with need. "Please, let me cum."

She smiles that same wicked smile. "Since you asked so nicely..."

She moves my hands away and presses her breasts together around me, her tongue slipping over the head of my cock as I thrust into her. She lets it slip into her mouth and holds it there. Her cheeks squeezing tight around me. She slips me out again and pumps my cock through her tits. The saliva and spit making them slip and slide around me. Then her mouth is back.

"Ggchk. Ggchk. Ggchk." All of me down her throat.

"Fuuuuuuurrrck," I yell again.

"Ggchk. Ggchk. Ggchk."

"Fuuuuuuurrrck," I yell again. My hands bang against the cubicle once more as her throat tenses around me, and my hips grind into her.

She pulls me out and replaces her mouth with her tits again.

"Cum for me. Cum for me. All over my big tits," she demands through deep breaths and a foaming mouth. Her eyes are wide, smiling, knowing, proud.

The tit-fuck, the mouth, the hands, the culmination, the sensation is too much, and with a strangled cry, I cum. My hips buck. My hands struggle for grip, my chest pounds. The first strands of my cum shoot in the air, high above us. The next hit her under the chin and slip down her chest. She takes me back in her mouth and gulps the rest down, mixing mine in her stomach with the mystery man's from earlier. She sucks and drains me. Bucking and trembling under her. Holding me tight, milking every last drop from me. I watch her, my heart still pounding, my mind swirling with conflicting emotions.

"Good boy," she says finally, her voice soft and approving, her tone casual, as if what has just happened is the most normal thing in the world. Like it's a piano lesson, and I've got my scales right.

"Get dressed," she breathes. "You had better leave the ladies changing rooms before anyone finds you."

With that, she picks up her blouse and bra, opens the cubicle door and is gone. Her ass hanging either side of her knickers which have slipped between her cheeks. She confidently strides away, leaving me in a panic. Shit. How long has it been? I'm in the lady's changing room? I didn't see any signs. Shit.

I'm lightheaded. My arms and legs don't work properly. I fumble for some toilet paper, my hands trembling as I try to make myself presentable, wiping away my seed from wherever I can find it. The walls, the floor, the door, my thighs. Then I head for the exit. I get a glimpse of Sandra, now naked, showering. But I don't stop to look. I run. I run.

As I exit the changing rooms, to my relief, there is still no one in the gym. As I rush past the treadmills and rowing machines, I glance behind me and see a pale 'W' on a plaque next to the door. How had I not seen it before? W. Women. Women's changing room. Fuck. But that thought is quickly overtaken. Surely, it is the least of my worries. I've just fucked the tits of my boss. She's just sucked my cock. At work. Fuuurrrrckkkkkkk!

I reach the reception door but can't bring myself to go in. I need time - time to think, time to recover. I glance at my car - too public. People will start to arrive for work. Coffee. Maybe coffee will help. Betty's.

I bustle and hustle through the trees, almost jog up the dirt track, and as I approach the ramshackle farm shop, Betty comes around the corner, cradling four large milk cartons.

"You're early. Make yourself useful; take a couple of these," Betty says, nodding at the milk.

I reach out and take two, unable to speak.

We wander to the door together, and Betty unlocks the store. We stop inside the door to flick a couple of light switches, which cause the strip lights high above us to flicker and hum.

"You'll have to wait for the coffee machine to warm up and food will take some time, if you wanted anything."

I look at her blankly. Still unable to come to terms with my morning.

"Hello? You there?" She says with wide eyes.

"Sorry. Sorry. Yeah. Yeah. That's fine. Just coffee. Where do you want these?"

"Follow me."

We step through to a spacious walk in refrigerator, the cool air wrapping around us as she opens the door like a sudden breath of winter. Dim overhead lighting casts a soft glow on the neatly arranged shelves - wooden crates overflow with vegetables; deep green kale, bright orange carrots, mushrooms, lettuce, beetroot. Stacks of egg cartons rest beside vacuum-sealed packages of fresh-cut meats, their labels marked with handwritten dates. In the corner, a few closed-up boxes sit, their sweet scent hinting at cakes and sweet treats.

Betty sets the milk down on a metal shelf with a gentle clink, and I follow suit, placing the two I'm carrying beside it. The cold seeps through my fingertips, but my mind is elsewhere. In a darker space. What have I done?

She pauses, tilting her head as she studies me. "You okay?" she asks, her voice edged with concern. "You don't look right."

It takes me a second or two to respond,

but I manage a "Yeah. Yeah. I'm fine. Just some stuff going on, y'know. But I'm fine," I lie.

She gives me a look to tell me that she doesn't believe me but nods anyway.

"Okay, give me five minutes to get things all switched on, and I'll get you a coffee."

"Can I help at all?" I offer. Trying to sound a bit more normal.

"By the sight of you, I don't think you could manage anything right now. Just grab a seat out front and relax," Betty says it with a partial smile and beckons me to leave the refrigerator.

I sit at a small, uneven wooden table, staring at the counter where the espresso machine hisses and splutters as Betty man-handles it. My hands rest on my knees, fingers gripping the fabric of my suit trousers as if holding myself together. My breath still feels too shallow, my chest too tight.

The moment in the cubicle replays in my mind in sharp, stinging flashes. The heat of it, the closeness, the stolen moment of reckless need. I can still feel the ghost of her touch, the pressure, the warmth - God, I shouldn't be thinking about this.

I glance around the farm shop café, trying to shake it from my mind. My gaze darting over the shelves lined with homemade jams and pots of relishes, at Betty behind the counter, oblivious to the chaos inside me. She doesn't know. She didn't see. And yet, I feel like a spotlight is fixed on me, exposing everything. My skin prickles with heat.

I shouldn't have done it.

I shouldn't have wanted it.

But even now, beneath the shame, beneath the fear, something else still lingers. A slow, insidious hum of arousal that refuses to fade. My body betrays me, even as my mind screams that it was wrong.

I need to pull myself together. I need to forget.

But I don't know if I can.

After a short while, Betty places a large steaming mug filled with a latte on my table, another cup opposite it, and sits in the chair across from me.

"Want to share?"

Fuck no! Imagine. Me telling anyone what has just happened.

"Not really, no. I'll be fine."

"Okay. I won't mention it again. It's Betty, by the way. We didn't meet properly yesterday," she extends a hand.

"Mac, I'm Mac. Pleased to meet you, Betty. And thanks."

"What for?"

"The coffee for one..." I raise the mug to her. "... and for caring, I guess. And for not pushing me about it." I feel a fraud, but I've started a lie here, so better continue with it. She smiles and blows on her coffee.

"So you started at the Architects place this week, right?" She, not so casually, changes the subject.

"Yeah. Day three. Already feels like a lifetime."

"Really, that bad?"

"No, No." I scramble. "In a good way. Really. Just a lot to take at a first job and all that. A lot to take."

"I remember my first job after Uni, I hated it."

"You went to Uni?"

"Why so surprised? Do I not look like I could have gone to University, Mac?"

"No, no. I mean, yes, of course you could."

"Just a simple farm shop worker, is that it, Mac?"

"No, no. Not at all." I'm floundering. I'm such a dumbass.

"It's okay, Mac," she smiles. "I'm messing with you. Of course, people think I'm just a waitress in a little farm shop in the middle of nowhere. It's okay."

"Sorry. I'm sorry. What did you study?"

"Law."

"Fuck, really?" I splutter.

"What? Am I not the right image for you to study law, Mac. Am I not your image of a lawyer?"

"Shit, I'm sorry. Of course, you could be a lawyer."

"Nah, look at me, I'm no lawyer."

She opens her arms and leans back, and I take the opportunity to do as she suggests and look at her. She must be ten years older than me. She has an identical polo shirt on as yesterday. For all I know, it could be the same one. Her breasts are still not constrained by a bra and tighten as her arms spread. Perfectly round mounds with large nipples clearly evident pushing against the material of the shirt. Her neck is muscular but slender. A deep 'v' at its base, pointing down towards her breasts. Her face is relaxed, make-up free and totally giving off girl-next-door vibes. Her lips, thin and pink, say 'I'm here to be kissed' but quietly, timidly. A contrast from the lips that had been wrapped around my cock. Lips that said, 'I'm going to suck you, tease you, fuck you.'

I try to focus on Betty's face again, banish Sandra from my mind. Betty's little button nose, covered in freckles - a focal point that makes you smile. Her deep, brown eyes ooze compassion. Her deep, brown eyes that have been watching me eye her up. She doesn't seem to mind.

I look down at my mug, colouring slightly, embarrassed at my blatancy.

"So, where was your first job?" I try to bring us back to safe ground.

"A law firm near Lincoln's Inn in London."

"I've never heard of Lincoln's Inn. Is that a famous pub or something?"

Betty bursts out laughing. "Yes, Mac, I was working at a law firm next to a pub in London. No. Lincoln's Inn is an area in central London just for Barristers and legal practices."

"Okay, sorry. I've no idea of that world. Were you training to be a barrister?"

"I was a Legal Exec. Well, training to be one, anyway. I wasn't sure whether I wanted to be a Barrister or what, really. Anyway. I remember my first week. It was pretty horrendous, so I can relate if it helps."

"Thanks. I'm sure a leafy architect's office is nothing compared to a legal firm in London, though. It must have been stressful."

"You could say that," she smiles again. I'm enjoying seeing that smile. "Every job has a bit of stress, just in different ways. Even here..." she looks around the place, "there's always something to cause a fuss about - suppliers, the harvest, the customers." She gives me a playful glare, and we both smile at each other.

"I guess so. Us pesky customers can be a real pain in the ass," I laugh. She laughs, too.

"I'm not gonna give you pearls of wisdom or anything though, not gonna lecture you either. Do what feels right. And 'right' is open to interpretation, believe me," she continues.

"That sounded like a pearl to me." I tease.

"Probably not wisdom though," she replies.

We both raise our mugs simultaneously to our mouths and take a sip.

"What happened with the Law?" I ask.

"Short, boring story, Mac."

"I'm interested."

"Maybe another time. I've already told you more than any of your colleagues know about me, there's a limit."

"Fair enough. I'm honoured," I place a hand on my heart. "We call this Betty's, does that mean it's yours." I look around.

"Yep. Every rough and ready part of it."

She's remembered my comment from yesterday. "Sorry about that, I sometimes say stuff without thinking. I do love it though."

"I'm glad. I better get this place set up for the day though," Betty starts to get up. I get the sense she has maybe gone as far as she wants to go, and feels a little uncomfortable in being so open.

As if on queue, the door opens and Charles comes though.

I want to take her hand and say, 'Thank you.' I want to look into her eyes again, to make her appreciate the help she has given me. It's self-inflicted stress, but stress all the same. Her normailty has brought me back to earth.

Instead, Charles shouts. "Hey, if it isn't the boss," and Betty trots over to the counter saying, "The usual, Charles?" and the moment has gone.