Wetherspoons Wednesday

Wednesdays at the Spoons were sacred. Four-pound pitchers, quiz night at eight, and the eternal hope that something interesting might happen in this dead-end town.

Something interesting was pouring my pint.

Shannon had worked behind the bar for about six months, and I'd spent roughly six months finding excuses to come in. Not in a stalker way—in a "I really like flat-roof pubs and shit lager" way that just happened to coincide with her shifts.

She was thick in all the right places—hips that swayed when she walked, tits that tested the structural integrity of her work polo, and an arse that had caused at least three minor accidents when she bent to restock the fridges.

"Four pound fifty, babes," she said, sliding my Stella across the sticky bar.

I handed over a fiver, let my fingers brush hers. "Keep the change."

"Big spender." But she smiled. She had a gap between her front teeth that I found inexplicably attractive. "You here for the quiz?"

"Nah. Just fancied a quiet one."

She snorted. "Quiet? In here? On a Wednesday?"

Fair point. The place was already filling up—old boys nursing bitter in the corner, young mums on their weekly escape, groups of lads in matching tracksuits pregaming before the club.

"Alright, I fancied seeing you," I admitted.

Her eyebrows went up, but she was still smiling. "Bit forward."

"Been coming in here for six months trying to work up to it. Figured I'd just rip off the plaster."

She laughed—a proper belly laugh that made her whole body jiggle. "Well, points for honesty. I finish at eleven. Stick around."

The next three hours were torture. Good torture, but torture. Every time Shannon walked past, she'd catch my eye, give me a little smile, let her hand trail along the bar just that bit closer to where I was sitting.

At eleven on the dot, she disappeared into the back. At eleven fifteen, she emerged in her own clothes—skin-tight jeans, a leopard-print top that showed off her cleavage, full makeup.

"Still here then," she said, sliding onto the stool next to me.

"Wasn't going anywhere."

Up close, she smelled of perfume and pub—smoke that clung to everything despite the ban, and something sweeter underneath. Her thigh pressed against mine.

"So," she said, stealing my pint and taking a swig, "what's the plan?"

"Hadn't really thought that far ahead."

"Typical." But she was grinning. "Good thing I have, then. My flat's five minutes away. Flatmate's at her boyfriend's. You coming or what?"

I left half a pint on the bar. Priorities.

Her flat was above a kebab shop, which meant the stairwell smelled of garlic sauce and the bass from the shop below provided a constant soundtrack. Inside was surprisingly nice—fairy lights, a massive velvet sofa, candles that made everything smell like vanilla.

"Drink?" she asked, already heading to the fridge. "Got wine, vodka, or some weird fruit cider me mate left."

"Whatever you're having."

She returned with two glasses of wine, handed me one, then sat close enough that our knees touched.

"Right then," she said after a sip. "Cards on the table. I've seen you looking at me for months. You're fit, you're not a complete dickhead, and I haven't had a shag since me ex moved out at Christmas. So are we gonna do this or what?"

I loved her directness. "We're gonna do this."

"Thank fuck."

She put her wine down, climbed onto my lap, and kissed me like she'd been thinking about it as long as I had. Her mouth tasted of cheap Sauvignon and her tongue knew exactly what it was doing.

"Bedroom?" I managed.

"Nah. Here. Can't be arsed moving."

She pulled off her top, revealing a black lace bra that was fighting a losing battle. I reached around, unhooked it, watched as her tits spilled free—full and heavy with dark nipples already hard.

"Like what you see?"

"Fucking love it."

I buried my face between them while she worked at my jeans, her hands finding me already hard.

"Jesus," she breathed. "No wonder you walked funny coming up the stairs."

I laughed against her skin, then took a nipple in my mouth and sucked until she moaned.

"Fuck—yeah—just like that—"

Her hips were grinding against me, seeking friction. I slid my hands down, worked her jeans open, found her knickers already damp.

"Someone's keen," I murmured.

"Been looking at you all night. Those arms in that tight shirt. Fucking tease."

I pushed her jeans down, knickers with them, and she kicked them off impatiently. Then she was straddling me on her velvet sofa, completely naked, all curves and soft skin and that cheeky grin.

"Well?" she said. "Get your kit off then."

I stripped while she watched, her hand sliding between her own legs, touching herself with zero shame.

"Mm. Fit. Knew you would be."

She sank down onto me and we both groaned. She was tight, wet, and hot as hell. Her tits bounced in my face as she started to move, and I grabbed handfuls of her arse to help set the rhythm.

"Shit—you feel amazing—"

"You too—fuck—right there—"

She rode me like rent was due, all determination and rolling hips and breathless profanity. The sofa creaked beneath us, probably ruined forever, but neither of us cared.

"Close," she gasped. "Touch me—need you to—"

I found her clit, rubbed circles while she rode faster. Her moans were getting louder, her rhythm faltering.

"Yeah—yeah—fuck—cumming—"

She came with a scream that probably reached the kebab shop, her whole body shuddering. The feeling of her clenching around me was too much.

"Where—"

"Inside—fucking do it—"

I came hard, holding her down, feeling her pulse around me as I spilled. She collapsed against my chest, both of us panting.

"Well," she said eventually, lifting her head to grin at me. "That was worth six months of waiting."

"We could make up for lost time?"

Her grin widened. "Gimme ten minutes and a glass of wine. Then round two."

We didn't sleep until three in the morning.

The next Wednesday, I walked into Spoons and found my usual seat. Shannon caught my eye from behind the bar and winked.

"Same again, babes?"

"Always."

She poured my pint, leaned across the bar so I could see straight down her work polo.

"My place after? Flatmate's out again."

"Wouldn't miss it."

Wednesday nights had just become my new favorite.