Elizabeth McCullough sat quietly, waiting for the noise to subside, staring into the void with the palms of her hands flat on the desk. A huge sigh left her lips. It was the end of another class. To say she was relieved was an understatement and for more than one reason.

The obvious reason was the end of the school year. No more kids, no more teaching, no more stress, and no more backtalk from her students, despite this being a good school in the West End of Glasgow. She did have a few unruly boys in her class that came from the, shall we say, seedier parts of the city, Castlemilk being one of them. It is a sprawling housing scheme in the Southside known as Chateau du Lait, or, less flattering, Manky Milk. Their language was always colourful, and the way one of them looked at her would be anything but respectful.

At times, she could almost feel her garments peel away from her body, the way he undressed her with his piercing blue eyes. Yes, Billy O’Dowd used his eyes a lot, and his fiendish grin. She knew he was packing too because she’d caught him once in the female toilets giving some love or testing her temperature, as he called it, to a friend. Why the other female friend was watching them was unclear. But they were caught and punished for it.

The trouble with Billy was that he made her feel sexy. His rough and ready ways sparked something inside her. Something that had been brewing in the last few weeks of term. Something dark and foreboding. It was also something she did without her husband knowing. Not with Billy, that would have been wrong even though he was halfway to seventeen and would probably be up for a quickie in one of the book cupboards.

She thought about it. Of course she did. I mean, she had always wanted a bit of rough to fill the vanilla-tasting sexual void that was her marriage, and had she advertised the position, then Billy would certainly have applied for the post of chief-fucker, and he would probably have got the job without having to interview him twice. Without having to interview anyone else, come to that.

It was Billy who gave her the idea of casting her net a little further afield. Towards the lesser-known areas of Glasgow, where the likes of Billy originally came from. Maybe she could find solace in the seedier pubs and clubs.

She tried once in term time, telling her husband that it was a girl’s night out. It wasn’t. She was dressed to please underneath the trench coat that she wore. It gave her away. Nobody wore a trench coat in that part of Glasgow. The areas known as Strathbungo weren’t known for smart suits or dresses.

She picked a pub at random, and as soon as she stepped into the Jaggy Thistle, she knew she had made a mistake. It wasn’t full in the slightest, and she had this idea of blending into the furniture, allowing her to look around at all the hot guys on display, and waiting for one or more to come up to her and seduce her back to his flat. There were six people in the pub, the barmaid and five blokes, three of whom stood in a corner looking her way. She ordered a drink and sat at a table on her own, as if waiting for someone to arrive. Eyes followed her every move, which is what she wanted, and she’d be lying if their eyes didn’t make her feel wanton. She just didn’t feel safe. Vulnerable would be the best word to describe her fluttering heart rate.

She focused on two of the clientele, or marks as she called them. They looked to be the fittest of the ones hanging out in this pub that didn’t come complete with beer bellies and missing teeth. Though missing teeth would be a token of bravery in any of these public houses. Men wore their gappy teeth with pride.

She kept staring at one guy in particular. He was tall, his muscular arms looked like he could hold a woman up by her ass and bounce her on his cock all night long while biting her tits off with his mouth. His tattoos screamed of being overdone. Not one but several, all on top of each other; lighter ones covering the darker. She crossed her legs in his direction, allowing her skirt to rise, showing off her stockings. She loosened her coat to allow for more movement. In the corner of the room, one of the blokes shouted something in broad Glaswegian that even she couldn’t understand.

She stared at him over her drink and smiled inwardly when he caught her eye. She allowed her tongue to part her lips, and before she knew it, he was walking towards her. Her heart started beating like thunder, her eyes flickered between his face and his groin, her hands were all clammy, her pussy wet itself, and she swallowed hard.

He leaned in towards her, bending his head as if to kiss her. He stopped short of her lips.

“Not seen you in here before, hen,” he whispered, “If you’re after a fuck, try The Titwood, or better known as The Breast Forest. Just the place for you and those big jugs!”

He smiled, winked, and made his way back to the bar. Elizabeth closed her mouth. Her hands shook, and she downed her drink in one, pulled her coat around her, and quickly left to the sniggers of the other patrons in the bar. Embarrassed would be an understatement. She felt as if she’d been smacked in the teeth and treated like a penniless whore. She didn’t even look penniless.

She exited as fast as she could, made her way to the nearest taxi rank, and ordered a taxi home. To the safety of the West End. Her excuses for coming home early were already forming in her head. She had never felt so out of her depth, scared and worthless as she did that moment he put her down.

And yet, if he had just picked her up, pushed her over the table, and fucked her, she would have been in her element. She was pissed off, more so because the only flavour she had to look forward to was vanilla. She pulled her coat open in the back seat of the taxi, and looked down at her tits in her new platform bra from Love Honey.  It lived up to its advertising. Her ample 36DD assets were HUGE, revealing a tantalising hint of nipples. The seductive perfume, Poison, she had sprayed so liberally smelled sickly and cloying. She thought of the Titwood pub and looked it up on Google Maps. Fuck, she thought, she could have walked there in the time she took to find the taxi home.

Still, it was her first outing in this part of Glasgow, and she wasn’t put off. The taxi ride home allowed her nerves to calm, and she took the experience for what it was. The wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong people.

When she exited the taxi, her sigh was more of a relief that she was safe and sound. There was nothing to explain to her husband; she hadn’t misbehaved, and her excuses were all set. Tiredness and a headache had a lot to answer for.

That was over two weeks ago, and since then, Elizabeth had done her research. She looked up the Titwood pub; she even visited it once for a quick drink on a Saturday afternoon while the rugby Six Nations was showing on television. The pub was heaving, and she got chatting with some of the men at the bar; the whole day was fun, only because Scotland managed a win against Italy. While flirting with the men, she gleaned as much information about what the pub was like in the evening, telling them that she had only recently moved to the area. When they asked where she lived, she became a little coy. When they asked her name, she replied Betty Boobs. She shook her shoulders to make her tits wobble profusely in their faces. It brought a raucous cheer from all around her, or was that because Scotland scored a try? It was all good banter. Before the afternoon was over, Betty had made friends with Big Mac, Dark Dickie, and Two Soups, though he rarely said anything and kept his eye firmly on the game. She soon realised that real names, in this part of town, only spelled trouble.

Big Mac, however, was always glancing down her cleavage, like he had lost something personal and was desperate to find it. Maybe he had? By the close of the afternoon, Betty felt like she belonged in the Titwood, like she had been there all her life, and that was all down to the characters and kindness of all around her. She made a mental note to never get on the wrong side of them. She left the pub with a ‘might see you, boys, again’ comment, a wink, and a wiggle of her shoulders.

“Aye, hope so,” shouted Mac.

Two weeks had passed before Betty could spare the time to visit the Titwood again, partly due to family matters and a week's break in the mountainous Highlands, a place she loved to visit to take in the sights and breathe the fresh, clean air. As luck would have it, her husband had been called away on business; those offshore oil rigs took a lot of care and attention from specialists in their field, and he was a specialist in downhole drilling issues. She huffed as she kissed him farewell. If only he were a specialist in her holes, she mused.

The taxi was on its way to the airport for a helicopter flight to the rig. It took all of five seconds for her to get excited, and she rushed upstairs, stripped naked, and took a long look at herself in the mirror. Her hands roamed over her supple flesh that, even at her age, was still soft to the touch. It was only Thursday, and she knew that she would have to wait until Saturday night before she could indulge herself. She had two whole days to wonder what to wear, what not to wear, so that she didn’t stand out. Her mind was reeling at all the possibilities. The Titwood was the place to get laid, she thought, and she wondered what that entailed. Did people go there to get off with women? Was everyone at it? Were they all married? She had loads of unanswered questions.

Elizabeth was none the wiser by the time Saturday afternoon turned into Saturday evening. She had tried on loads of different sets of clothes, some ordinary, some sexy, some downright devilish. Then it hit her. What was she going there for?

She smiled inwardly. The thoughts she mulled over in her head got stronger; they wouldn't subside, and she found herself being pulled along by the excitement of what she was about to do. She pulled her black heels from the back of the wardrobe and got ready. From the coat cupboard, she selected her black, double-breasted coat with six pairs of buttons down the front. Yes, it oozed expense, but it wouldn’t be too out of character. She shouldered her handbag and waited for the taxi.

The journey seemed overly long. It could have been because she was nervous, shaking inside, even though on the outside she projected confidence. She licked her red lips as she exited the taxi and took a deep breath. Betty headed inside, leaving Elizabeth in her wake.

The noise hit her hard. Mostly from a group of teenagers just inside the main entrance and packed around the bar, playing drinking games and spinning the bottle. She caught the eye of a few gentlemen, if you could call them that, as she made her way to the bar. She ordered a half pint and was about to pay when a hand came down on her shoulder.

“Betty?”

She smiled, pointed at the man towering over her, “Big Mac, how are you?” She asked, her teacher accent not being as broad as the regular Glaswegian.

“Let me get that for you.” He pulled some cash from his pocket and paid for the drink. She looked bemused, a Scotsman offering to buy the lady a drink? She followed him to a table near the rear of the pub. To her right was part of the extended bar, covered with dirty glasses ready for the dishwasher. Behind her, in the corner of the room, was a red door, and sitting at the table was Two Soups and Dark Dickie.

Mac was buzzing with excitement. “Look what I found at the bar, lads,” he announced.

“My tits,” added Betty quickly, raising her glass to toast the lads who were still chatting about the football. Mac provided her with most of his attention. Making her feel at home. At times, she struggled to hear properly, partly due to the rowdy teenagers and partly to his dialect. The piped music blasting out Coldplay’s Paradise didn’t help matters. Let’s face it, this part of Glasgow is as far from paradise as one can get. The nearest being Parkhead, the home of Celtic, known as Paradise to one half of The Auld Firm.

Mac definitely wasn’t as posh as she had become. It was as if she had brushed aside her real upbringing in these parts of Glasgow, and that was because, as a little girl, she had ideas above her station. Ideas to become educated. She studied hard, obtained her Highers and A levels, struggled with University, mostly because of the sheer cost that her parents couldn’t afford, but she made it. A teacher she had become, and she established herself within Glasgow’s upper echelons by marrying her wonderful husband. The same one that was elsewhere, while she was... she bit her lip. Knowing exactly what she was, and only now admitting it to herself. She couldn’t believe how much she needed that woman back.

Shouting erupted at the far end of the bar, and even Two Soups looked around to see what the commotion was. Three lads were shouting and pointing at one of the girls.

“Come on Eileen, lala, come on Eileen.”

Eileen stood up. Well, her tits stood up first she followed them. Fuck, she was huge. She took a bow and seemed to walk towards their table. Betty watched another boy get pushed in the same direction by two others. He stopped out of reach of the rest of the crowd and looked back at them. Uncertain that he should proceed.

“Go on,” they nodded in Eileen’s direction. Encouraging him with nods of their heads and pointed fingers. He eventually followed. Eileen leaned over the end of the bar. Well, her tits rested on the bar, and she rocked on them as she leaned over. She retrieved a clear plastic bottle with a pink top, headed for the door in the corner of the room, and disappeared.

Betty looked at Mac, who was tracking the girl with a mischievous grin on his face. The other guy followed her into the room. Hands in his pockets, looking rather shy and uncertain.

Betty raised her eyebrows in a questioning way and nodded towards the door.

“What’s that all about?” she asked Mac. He shook his head at first, unable to explain, but her silent stare forced it out of him.

“It’s the Tit and Wood room,” he said.

“Tit and what?” she asked.

“Tit,” he nodded at her cleavage despite it being hidden beneath the heavy-duty coat, “and Wood,” he pointed at his groin.

It suddenly hit him that Betty still had her coat on.

“Are you not staying long?” he asked.

She smiled back at him, “long enough,” she smirked.

It was less than five minutes when the buxom teenager stomped from the room. She put the bottle back where she found it, reached for some paper towels, and started to brush white fluid from her woolen top.

“Is that -” Betty turned to Mac, “was that what I think it was?”

“Young lad, not used to it. Probably his first time,” he replied.

Eventually, the young lad appeared from the room, his face towards the floor, looking sheepish. Eileen had made it back to the group of friends. Betty struggled to listen to the conversation, but she was intrigued.

“Didn’t even manage to get my tits free,” she shook her head in disgust. “Two strokes and that was it.” Everyone laughed except the guy who had just made it back to the table. He remained silent.

Betty was staring. At the girl, at the group of men, at the one man who had suddenly been ostracised by them all. She felt for him. Felt his embarrassment and demise in front of his mates. That shouldn’t be the way your first sexual experience plays out, she thought.

She became aware of a dampness between her thighs. An obvious stickiness presented itself. She took a squig of lager, licked her lips. Mac looked away from the group of teenagers and started a conversation with Two Soups. Betty was having none of it. Nobody was burying their thoughts as to what just happened in a conversation about the bloody football.

She had definitely come to the right pub this time. She felt excited, nostrils flared, breasts heaved under the coat, and her hands became clammy. She watched the group of teenagers, watched the girl continue to wipe the spunk off her top, because that’s what it was, that’s what just happened. Two people entered a room to fuck or whatever they were going to do, and then went back to their friends. All of them knew exactly what occurred, or in this case, what didn’t.

Betty tried her best to gain Mac’s attention, but his face was turned away from her. Dark Dickie was leaning back against his chair, his eyes fixed on the television on the wall.

Betty stood up. Slowly. Looked around the table and made a move towards the bar. She leaned over it, the hem of her coat, excruciatingly close to revealing what lay beneath it. She recovered the bottle, read the label, and smiled. Johnson's baby oil. Of course it was. Just the thing for a good old titty fuck in the back room of the pub.

Her senses exploded at the thought. She walked back to the table, tapped Mac on the shoulder, held up the bottle, and pointed to the door.

“You coming?” her grin devilish. She walked towards the door. Each step seemed to last forever, and yet she could feel her pussy leak down the inside of her thigh. It was far from cold, and yet her nipples ached and extended. She felt alive. Very alive. She wasn’t sure that he would follow, and her steps were powered by hope.

The room was almost bare: a few chairs, a rough table, and some cushions piled onto an easy chair in the corner that had seen better days. She looked at it and wondered about the stains. She put the baby oil on the table and walked to the end of the room.

When she turned, Big Mac was standing in the doorway, closing the door behind him. His eyes were lustily boring into her body. Focused on her tits more than anything. He picked up the bottle.

“You won’t be needing that,” she said.

Betty fumbled at the top button of her coat and popped it open. She stared at his face with the occasional glance at his groin. She surmised that he wasn’t called Big for nothing, and she looked for evidence.

“What are you expecting?” she asked.

Mac shrugged his shoulders. “A tit-fuck, a blow job, something like that. That’s what most people come in here for.”

“I’m not most people,” she said matter-of-factly while popping the next button open. She undid the third, fourth, and fifth. She could see that Mac’s dick had flourished, hidden but forming a nice curve between his groin and outer leg. She couldn’t help but stare at it.

“How big is that monster?”

Mac popped the buttons on his jeans, fished his meat out, and let it swing nonchalantly into place on his left thigh. It was easily halfway to his knees and growing. A nice size and thick with it. Twitches stiffened it somewhat. Betty popped the last button. She had Mac’s full attention, she could tell. His eyes fixed on her torso, his cock swayed a little, and her gaze caught sight of a nervous twitch in his upper lip.

One thought filled her mind. How much was she going to blow his mind? She stared him out, her hands held both sides of her coat. Slowly, she drew them apart. Feeling her heaving breasts swell, and her nipples brush the fabric, she parted the coat wide, placing her hands on her hips for effect. The grin on her face was pure evil.

Mac’s stare fell on nakedness. His mouth opened in disbelief, and his cock instantly stiffened, moving in an arc from his left thigh to straight ahead. It wobbled as it reached a horizontal position, and it was still defying gravity when she slipped the coat off her shoulders to let it drop onto the floor.

“Fuck-me,” said Mac. He shook his head. Her voluptuous body cried out to him. Her ample breasts, her waist, her hips, her legs. Everything about her was desirable.

“Stilettos and fuck all else,” he declared.

Betty nodded and started to walk towards him. Her arousal increased with every clip-clop of her heels; she could feel her body change from demure to brazen to wanton. The calmness in her face belied the storm raging beneath, and she was powerless to stop what was about to happen. What she wanted to happen. She could feel a million butterflies take off in a flurry of activity within her stomach, a precursor to the thrill that started to engulf her.

Taken, that’s what she wanted. To be taken.

She reached the table and leaned against it. Facing Mac, she raised her tits with both hands.

“You’re not getting these,” she said, wiggling them up and down before pinching her nipples hard and letting them fall back onto her chest. Though she desperately wanted him to grasp them, squeeze them, bite on her fucking nipples, and pull them into his mouth to suck.

“And you’re not getting this either,” she said, pointing to her mouth, and sucking her finger in a lewd attempt at pretending it was a dick.

She raised her bottom onto the table, placed her legs on two chairs that were positioned in just the right place, and leaned backward. Slipping her hand onto her sex, she stroked her pussy.

“Smooth as fuck!” exclaimed Mac.

“Smooth as fuck, yes,” she grinned. “And wet as fuck, too.”

She could see Mac lose a little self-control, not surprising given that she had lost hers when the coat fell to the floor. His lips quivered, his mouth twitched at one side, and his cock was ready. Stiff as fuck was the term she would have used. Not ladylike, but then she was far from a lady.

“And to get this,” she swiped two fingers across her pussy lips before plunging them inside. “You’re going to have to beg.” Betty removed her fingers and sucked on them.

Confusion swept over Mac. No one had ever told him to beg before. He’d never beg for it. She had the wrong bloke if she wanted him to beg. No fucking way was he going to say that word. Not to anyone.

“On the floor and beg,” she pointed to the open space before her. She was loving it. She could see the change in his demeanour. His face reddened. She could tell that he wanted her and was desperate to have her, but under what conditions? Surely not the ones she was proposing. No, he wouldn’t go for that, would he? At least she hoped not.

She wondered how much more he could take.

“Do you want a taste?” She covered her finger with sticky fluid and offered it up to him. Then pulled it back to lick herself. “Too late,” she chided him.

“Want another try?” she fingered her pussy, allowing the sticky juice to coat her fingers.

Mac stepped forward, and she wondered if he was going to accept the offering from her glistening, red fingernail.

He took her hand and slowly raised it to his mouth. His breathing was laboured, just as hard as hers. Had she tamed the Big Mac? Was it that easy? Their eyes locked together just as his mouth opened.

It happened so fast. One minute she was sitting on the table, the next her whole body yanked off it, spun around, and forcibly pushed back down by a hand between her shoulder blades so hard that her breasts took on the same grain as the battered oak table. She slid forward over the table, and the table slid along the floor a good six inches. Outside, in the bar, Dark Dickie and Two Soups looked towards the noise coming from the door. So did the barman who was halfway down the bar serving a customer. A hand pulled her ass upwards and spread her legs as wide as they could go, her sex fully exposed, which left her panting and wanting more. Her breath expelled rapidly from her wailing lungs. His cock throbbed and bobbed its way to her entrance, the rapid penetration claiming her, totally.

“Yes,” she shouted. “Fuck, me.”

Betty held the sides of the table for support. The pounding thrilled her beyond her wildest dreams. Hands between her shoulder blades pinned her to the table as he rough fucked her desperate cunt. Oh! How she wanted it hard and fast. He grunted with every thrust, ploughing into her with such desire, enthusiasm, and need. He wasn’t going to beg. She was going to beg. Beg to cum on his throbbing member.

“Take it, take this fucking cock,” his voice was almost audible to his friends outside.

“Yeah, yeah, fuck, this is good. Is this what you want?”

She had to agree, this was the fuck she wanted, dreamed of, while her husband snored next to her at night. This was the fuck she missed the most. Those days behind the bike shed with Alasdair McAdam at sixteen. What a dirty little fuck he was, even taking her ass when his cock slipped out of her pussy and entered the wrong hole when he pushed it back in. Yes, he just carried on fucking her. Didn’t even notice the tightness had changed or the friction. How she loved it too, gushing and wetting all the bikes she leaned over when she came. Even their water bottles got soaked that day.

This was just as good. Just as pleasurable. He had her, had her soul when he took control, and now her body slipped into that orgasmic realm that had the entire room fall silent, the heavy grunting subsided to a pleasant silence that hummed, her body effervesced with pleasure. There it was, the tell-tale signs. Her groin, coming to the boil, the heat fanning the flames of passion, desire, and want. The constant thrum of pleasure that throughout her life she couldn’t explain to anyone. Her twat started to boil over. Her orgasm bubbled through to her groin and burst forth, sending tendrils of pleasure to her thighs, legs, and breasts. Her nipples were just about on bursting point with the heat that was escaping from them.

Betty nearly screamed. It was that good. If it wasn’t for her biting on her arm, she would have. As it happened, the muffled sounds only made it to Mac’s ears.

“Cum for me, you little fucker,” he commanded. He reached out to gather a ball of hair in his fist. Pulling back, he slammed into her. The full force of his man meat reached further into her body than any other she had experienced. New sensations flooded her mind. In that moment, new memories formed that would never be forgotten.

Her body arched, then shook. To anyone sitting in front of her at that moment, the sight would have been indescribable. Her head bent backward, body arched, tits swaying and wobbling, and an angry, red-faced, grunting and grimacing man thrusting into her from behind. The look of pure delight on her face as her body hummed, as if every particle in her body was breaking loose all at once. And what about Mac? He was just as desperate to spill his seed inside her. She would be sorry she hadn’t thought of setting up her phone to record the event for later masturbation sessions. Still, it is what it is, she thought. And it is... fucking wonderful.

Betty trembled her way to a second orgasm just as Mac slammed into her. He didn’t think to ask whether he should. He just let it go. The full complement. All fifty thousand soldiers poured into her cavity.

He was left breathing hard as he slowed his efforts, exhaling on every thrust into her gorgeous body. In his haste, he had forgotten to make her beg for it. He rested his body against hers, cock still throbbing deep inside, balls empty, and he raised his hand slowly, allowing her to breathe more easily. He let go of her hair, letting Betty return to having her breasts plastered to the table.

“Well, aren’t you the sweaty Betty?” He joked.

She had just about enough strength left to push herself off the table. Two breaths and another push saw Mac’s cock slip from her pussy as her legs took over. She finally faced him, grabbed his hands, and offered them to her tits.

The squeeze was sublime. How she loved having her tits fondled and worshipped.

“Thank you,” she said. “I really needed that.”

Mac nodded.

“You don’t know how much.” Tears broke onto her face. She pulled him closer. Swallowed hard. Then pushed him away.

Please not this, she thought. She sucked in some much-needed air, pulled herself upright, walked from Mac, and headed to the back of the room to fetch her coat. Only the odd sniffle could be heard. She brushed away her feelings and her insecurity with the flick of her head. As a teacher, she was a strong person; she had to be to control the rabble that frequented her classes. But her soul told a different story. One that needed to feel vulnerable yet safe, used but not abused, taken but not hurt. She needed to relinquish control of her miserable, socially respectable life. How she hated the social pressures that came with adulthood. Most of all, she needed to get fucked once in a while.

She threw the coat around her shoulder. Mac appeared behind her, held it out for her to slip into it.

“I canae believe ya dressed like tha,” he said.

“Nor me,” she replied. “But I came out hoping for more than a drink.”

Dark Dickie and Two Soups were standing by the bar when they both appeared. A bewildered look on their faces.

“What?” said Mac.

“You’d been gone awhile. We, ah, left early, but thought it rude not to say goodbye. Used all the baby oil, have ye?” said Dark Dickie.

Betty rushed back inside to retrieve the unused bottle and pushed it quickly behind the bar.

The four of them wandered out of the pub. It was late, and still the teenagers were playing truth or dare with the bottle.

“Can I see you home?” said Mac. Wondering what, if anything, was left of the evening with Betty.

That question had crossed her mind, and if she were living locally, as she had told them, she would have said a resounding yes. But her home, her real life, was across the city in a place Mac would feel uncomfortable.

Betty politely refused and phoned for a taxi to pick her up. There was only one task left to do. She leaned towards Mac and kissed him.

“That was wonderful,” Betty said, “we should... no, we must repeat it.”

Mac nodded.  Elizabeth entered the Taxi and told the driver to pull away. She gave her address when they were out of sight.

She felt a fraud. A deviant, preying on Mac the way she did. But God, did she feel good inside. Did her body cry out for that? Yes, it did. The night of passion was everything she needed it to be. Staring out of the window at the passing street lights only emphasised her vulnerability to what she needed rather than what she had. And what she had was -  well, superficial at best.