Jock's Place - Summer Loving #1
A Sexuality/Age Gap Fiction Miniseries: (Part 1 of 4) - her cleavage on show every time she bent to pick up a plate
I’d just turned twenty-one when I went to Magaluf on the Spanish island of Majorca. Back in those days, they called it Shagaluf. For obvious reasons. It was the last summer before completing my degree. A final chance to let my hair down, then it would be time to start a job. ‘Stockbroker,’ I thought. I was studying Business at Durham University, so that seemed like the right career path.
As I’ve always been a bit of a loner, I decided to visit Magaluf by myself. And I won’t deny the prospect of meeting loads of young, sexy, wanton women was the main attraction. Apart from one chick I’ll tell you about another day, I hadn’t really been too successful in my lust life. But I had started to realize I was hitting on the wrong type. Overly intelligent feminist chicks. Don’t get me wrong, I admire an independent woman who understands her own mind, but prefer one who also knows what she wants sexually. My past lovers seemed unsure if they should be enjoying sex; I wanted someone who was after a raunchy fuck like me — rather than seeking the top grade for that semester.
Apparently, I was good-looking. Yeah — in retrospect, I definitely was. The dark-haired, brown-eyed, broody combination. Of course I had passion too. So I set off in search of women who could match my zest for life.
I chose a basic room fifteen minutes walk from the main part of town and the beach, figuring it would provide a bit of peace and quiet when I wanted. I went straight to bed after arriving late from the airport. The next morning I woke up to that amazing summer scent of heat and local blossoms. Peering out the window, the road looked dry and dusty as the mid-morning sun beat down.
Once showered, dressed and with a final check in the mirror, I donned my straw trilby and set off into town.
I was pleasantly surprised at how tranquil it seemed, then realized that the party animals were — of course — still asleep. Needing breakfast I entered a small bar — Jock’s Place — with a sign outside:
‘Full English Here.’
Sitting down at a square table I was served by an older guy. He was over sixty and sounded like he was from Scotland. Must be Jock, I reckoned.
As I ate my well-cooked breakfast — sausage, egg, bacon and beans — a dowdy looking woman in loose fitting overalls was mopping the terracotta floor. Mrs Jock perhaps? I cleared my plate, paid and strolled down to the beach.
Relaxing on the sun lounger I watched the babes massaging lotion into their boobs and thighs. I have to admit my cock stirred but many of these girls reminded me of the ones I had been happy to leave behind in Durham. This observation was reinforced in the evenings when I trawled a few of the nightclubs and chatted to some. They appeared to be entirely focused on themselves, forever preening, giggling or looking down their noses at lads like me.
I settled into a bit of a routine. Jock’s Place for breakfast and often dinner too. The sand and the surf while the sun shone. Then on to a club at night. I tried most of the popular ones over the first few days of my holiday. Yet the only place I kept returning to was Jock’s. It was relaxing in a homely kind of way.
One morning when I was paying the bill, Jock mentioned they were throwing a theme night party — Elvis and the 1950s — and handed me a half price ticket. Sounded like fun.
That evening I got out the gel, slicked my hair back into a duck’s tail and fashioned myself a slim tie. I was ready… ready to rock ‘n roll.
The bar was starting to fill up when I arrived. To my secret delight the interior had been designed in the style of an authentic 50s diner. Red and white checked tablecloths, neon signs on the walls. Jock had even managed to obtain a retro jukebox from somewhere.
Finding a corner table I ordered a bite to eat and watched my burger arrive in the hands of a rather sexy waitress in a tight pencil skirt and blouse. She was also wearing seamed stockings — I could detect the garter through her skirt — and stilettos. Her hair was tied up in a high ponytail and it wasn’t until she set the plate down on the table that I recognized her as Jock’s dowdy wife. Oh my goodness! I knew she was probably more than twice my age but she looked hot as hell.
I watched her while I ate, darting around, serving other tables. Bottom wiggling seductively as she walked. Tits held up high, bouncing slightly and her cleavage on show every time she bent to pick up a plate.
Over at the bar, I got talking to a crowd of kids from Australia. I had a chat and dance with a few of the girls. They were more down to earth than the ones I’d tried to pull at the clubs. But Mrs Jock kept catching my eye. Was she checking me out too?
Towards the end of the evening I nipped outside for a cigarette and she followed. Not a word was said. Looking me straight in the eye she slipped into a dark alleyway, glancing round at me. I stubbed out the cigarette and followed. As I rounded the bend she stood there with her back pressed against the wall.
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