"Not a bad rack," she had thought. The decision to go without underwear had been a risky one. The dress with its spaghetti straps had held her breasts...well while showing off ample cleavage. The dress was short so she would have to be careful with her legs.Parking her car outside the bar, she had looked it over. Fuck, was it a dive bar! Shabby would have been a step up. Tiring of the lawyers and businessmen she usually met pub-crawling, she had been in the mood for a "real" man. The bar had not. She was the world's greatest perversion, an enigma, and this was her madness.You see: she wouldn't swear, smoke, or drink alcohol. She refused to laugh at dirty jokes and she certainly wouldn't entertain matters that she considered 'unseemly'. She imitated her mother in her dress sense. Her skirts were generous in their length and sturdy in their construction, almost dour and Victorian. Her blouses were high around her neck and they hadn't any hint of a bust; and although she wore makeup, it. More

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