Back in 1995, the Railway Hotel in inner Melbourne was one of those terrific old Australian pubs that sadly seem to have all but disappeared. Built in the 1920s, it was a true working man’s pub.

Certainly, there were rough, even criminal elements who drank there. Many of these men came with dangerous reputations that you didn’t question.

There were also some professional types who would come in after work. Teachers, architects, accountants etc.

But mostly the patrons were tradies and older men. The old men were in their seventies and eighties and they had lived their entire lives in this suburb. They had gone to school here, met local girls and bought houses here. Some of them saw active service during WW2. But otherwise, their world began and ended in this suburb.

The tradies were down-to-earth, simple men who enjoyed a few beers and a couple of smokes after work. Their conversation consisted of footy, work, footy, more footy, politics occasionally, footy, horse racing, footy, and, when they’d had a few beers, women they fancied.

I was twenty and just two years out of high school when I started working there.

Painfully shy and unsure of myself, I’d only taken the job because there was nothing else around.

I also thought by working in a job where I was forced to deal with the public it may help me to overcome my shyness and insecurity.

In high school, I had never been one of the "cool kids." Occasionally some guy would ask me out on a date, but I had always assumed they were only asking me because they felt sorry for me or because they couldn’t find anyone else.

So, once I started working at the pub, if a patron made a suggestive comment to me over the bar or asked me out, I’d just laugh and brush it off as some joke.

My boyfriend, Daniel, was a little worried when I first started working there because he knew the pub could be pretty rough. But the old men were very respectful and actually had the ability to keep the younger men under control. If any of the young blokes became a little crass towards me or the other girls, one of the older blokes would tell them to “Pull up!”

I worked around thirty-five hours a week there. Mostly day shifts but also a few nights. This included Thursday nights when the pub employed topless barmaids.

I thought the girls who did this were incredibly brave. How can they expose their bodies to complete strangers like that? I used to wonder. I’d look at their sexy bodies and wish I looked like them. They were slim and fit and toned.

Looking back, so was I. But I didn’t think so at the time.

These girls brought in a lot of patrons who didn’t normally drink there. These men came purely to leer at the topless girls and make highly sexualised comments towards them. But whilst they were focusing on the topless girls, they were leaving me alone so that suited me just fine.

Occasionally some dill would suggest I should also take my top off, but the regulars would soon say something like, “No, Rebecca’s a lady. She wouldn’t do that.”

I’m not sure how that made the topless girls feel, but they never said anything. They were probably too busy thinking about how much money they were making compared to me for doing the same job, only with their breasts exposed.

And these girls were not stupid. They knew exactly what they were doing.

Often, they’d pass an empty beer jug around and gather a collection. If the money in the jug got to $100, they’d agree to take their pants and knickers off too, working completely naked. In this way, the girls could earn some seriously good money in one, three-hour shift.

Despite this, I never even considered for one moment doing a similar thing. It simply never entered my mind that anyone would want to see me naked! Did I ever secretly fantasize about stripping off in public like that? Perhaps. Occasionally.

These girls could also be very annoying to work with.

They worked for an agency and so you rarely had the same girl show up more than once. They never knew how the till operated or the cost of anything or where any stock was kept. What’s more, they didn’t care. They were there to show their bodies, not to be efficient staff.

Every Thursday night was the same. In between helping out the “hired tits” and fixing their mistakes I would chat with the older men. Obviously, they watched the topless girls too, but they weren’t as obvious as the younger men.

The old blokes always said they saw me as a granddaughter, and I believed it. The way I saw it, there weren’t any men my own age interested in me, so why would the old men be any different.

I had been working at the Railway Hotel for about ten months when I walked in to start my shift on the first Thursday in September. Peter, the Hotel Manager looked worried as I passed him. “Is everything OK?” I asked.

“The bloody agency girl has called in sick.”

“Can’t they just get someone else?” I asked.

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you,” he said. “Because it’s the first week of the footy finals they’re really busy. They reckon they’ve got no one to spare.”

“Oh well,” I said, shrugging my shoulders, “It’s not the end of the world.”

“I’ll have a fucking riot on my hands in there if I can’t find somebody,” he said, motioning to the front bar.

“Can you think of any other agencies?” I asked. Peter shook his head. Then he looked at me. “You might have to do it,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Do what?” I asked. It was a genuine question.

“I’ll pay you what I pay them,” he said flatly. “Except there’ll be no agency fees so you’ll get the lot.”

Finally, the penny dropped. “Me?” I asked incredulously. I couldn’t believe that he’d even ask such a thing. I wasn’t sexy. I was just the girl next door.

Assuming he was only joking, I laughed and said, “Yeah, right,” before I pushed past him and went to start my shift.

When I saw the eager crowd in the bar I immediately worried for Peter.

The local AFL team was in the finals for the first time in many years, so the bar was much busier than usual. And there was no doubt that a good portion of the heaving crowd was keen to celebrate with a few drinks and an eyeful of naked female flesh.

“Has he found anyone?” asked Matt, the young Bar Supervisor. Normally he’d be finishing his shift now and would move to the other side of the bar to have a few drinks with the regulars. Kindly he had continued working to keep up with the rush.

“No,” I said, immediately taking drinks orders.

“You might have to do it,” he said, giving me a quick look. I wasn’t sure if he was serious either.

Why do people keep saying that? I thought to myself. But I said nothing.

“When’s the tittie girl getting’ ‘ere?” some uncouth dickhead called out.

Both Matt and I ignored that. But over the next fifteen minutes, those same sorts of comments started to come more frequently from others in the bar.

It was obvious that they were keen for some female nudity.

“You’d better get your top off, Bec,” growled one of the rougher men, “blokes are getting restless!”

Naively, I still didn’t take it seriously.

Peter appeared from the back area and started to serve drinks. We could hear a few of the rougher men saying to each other things like, “Yeah, he’s full of shit, this cunt. Advertises topless birds and then doesn’t fuckin’ deliver! We should fuckin’ smash the place!”

A dangerous atmosphere was building in the bar. I could feel it. Even the normally unflappable older blokes looked nervous.

“Rebecca!” It was a command. Almost a bark. I looked around and saw it was Peter, the manager. He motioned with his head to the room behind the bar. I followed him in.

As soon as the door shut behind us, he said, “I need you to do this for me. I need you to take your top off!”

I just looked at him. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

“Rebecca?” he said again.

“I can’t do that,” I said, almost pleadingly. I honestly wasn’t sure if he was being serious. But the look on his face told me he was.

“Rebecca.” His tone was exactly like I had heard from my parents when I was a child and I’d done something wrong. “I’m asking you to do something for me and I expect you to do it.”

Inexplicably, just for an instant, my pussy tingled. Then I felt tears welling in my eyes. "I can’t do that,” I said again.

Peter’s gaze was the most intense I had ever seen from him.

“Sweetheart, do want to keep working here?”

I didn’t like where this was going.

“Of course I do,” I said meekly.

“Then I need you to do this for me. Now. I’ll pay you well for it. But if you don’t get out there now with your top off, I’m going to have a fucking blood bath on my hands. These fellas don’t muck around. Now either get your shirt and bra off and get out there or you can grab your stuff and go home. But if you do, don’t bother showing up to work tomorrow.”

I had never been spoken to like this before. Was Peter seriously threatening me with my job?

My parents had instilled it in me to be grateful to have a job and to do as you are asked. How could I tell them I’d been sacked? Obviously, I could never tell them why. They’d assume it was because I was lazy or unreliable.

But then, there was no way I could expose my breasts to a bar full of strangers. And what about Daniel? He was jealous enough as it was. He’d never forgive me.

Peter just stared angrily at me. I had no choice.

“Ok,” I said meekly.

“Ok!” Peter said dismissively. “You’ve got five minutes. Then I want you out there!”

With that, he was gone.

I absolutely didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t take my top off in public. I rarely even showed my breasts to Daniel. In fact, it was a point of annoyance with him that I was so shy about him seeing me naked. I was extremely modest.

There was a mirror in this back room. I stood in front of it and slowly unbuttoned my shirt. Even as I did, I couldn’t believe what I was doing. I had to wipe the tears from my eyes to see properly.

As I undid the last button to reveal my white lacy bra, the door flung open and there was Peter. I instinctively wrapped the shirt around myself. In an impatient tone, he called, “Rebecca! Come on!” And left again.

The enormity of what I was about to do hit me and the tears which had been welling in my eyes sprang forward and ran down my cheeks.

I was somewhere between afraid of him and angry with him. But I did as I was told. I removed my shirt and undid my bra. My breasts felt cold in that public space. My nipples quickly puckered. Even though I was alone it was not the sanctuary of my bedroom.

My breasts were average size and firm. I wondered if I looked sexy to men. I thought I looked ridiculous. Nothing like the sexy girls who usually worked here on a Thursday night. The men would laugh at me, and I’d be humiliated in front of everybody.

I could hear the jeers and anger from the bar. I could hear Peter and Matt calling my name. I wiped the tears from my cheeks and walked towards the door.

I felt numb. As if I was on auto pilot. I kept saying to myself, I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to do this. But I had no choice.

I opened the door.

There was an enormous cheer as I entered the bar. AII I could think of was footage I’d seen of the Beatles and the screams that accompanied their appearance. It was overwhelming. Were they seriously cheering at me? I still don’t know how I did it, but with tears spilling from my eyes and running down my cheeks I just walked out and started serving beers.

Peter and Matt looked at me as if I was an alien who had just landed. They struggled to keep doing their job of serving customers whilst apparently not wanting to take their eyes off me. Despite the tears, I couldn’t help but giggle nervously at all the attention.

The old men were also looking at me with opened mouthed shock. It was like something out of a bad movie. Seeing my tears, one of them called out over the noise, “You alright, love?”

“I’m ok,” I said, still wiping tears from my eyes.

“He’s a bloody bastard, making you do this,” one of the other old blokes said bitterly, motioning towards Peter. I loved these old men. They looked after me. Now I was forced to stand in front of them virtually naked.

My whole body was shivering and my nipples so tight, but it wasn’t because I was cold. It was the sheer humiliation of all these men staring at me.

As I walked up and down the bar area serving drinks, I could hear the younger men openly appraising my body, talking about my breasts, the size and colour of my nipples, the size of my waist, what they wanted to do to me, etc.

I was worried Daniel might come in. He normally didn’t, but what if today was different? And how could I ever look Peter, Matt and the regulars in the eye after they’d seen me naked?

I started wondering how I could possibly return to work tomorrow.

Slowly my embarrassment and shame changed to anger. I felt utterly violated. Degraded. I’d had no say in the matter; no control over this. The decision for me to take my clothes off in public was made by an angry man and not by me.

I continued working, but with a slightly surly demeanour.

Gradually the noise and excitement – and novelty factor – died down. As did my anger.

No longer was I the invisible girl next door. I had literally the entire bar eating out of my hand. I started enjoying the attention. The sort of attention that I’d never received before. From anybody. I loved that there were dozens of eyes upon me. Upon my young body. My creamy skin, my pink nipples and flat tummy. And every one of them was lustful.

Including Peter. He couldn’t take his eyes off me. He kept grinning and stuttering when he spoke to me.

It wasn’t long before the beer jug stuffed with money was given to me, on the condition that I took off more of my clothing.

“Uh uh!” I said, shaking my head. “I’ve shown you my tits. That’s all I’ll do.”

“Aww, c’mon…” came the reply from so many voices.

Eventually, I agreed to take off my slacks and work only in my panties. After all, that’d be just like working in a pair of bikini bottoms. That wasn’t so bad, I thought.

I went out the back to undress for these guys. I folded my black slacks and placed them with my shirt, vest and bra. Seeing my clothes folded over the chair in this back room of the bar really brought home the reality of this situation. Normally they would be folded like that in my bedroom or bathroom. Not at my workplace.

It was then that I realised that I was wearing a pair of panties that Dan had bought me. They were blue cotton with a piece of thin lace at the front that clearly showed my neatly trimmed pubic hair. In other words, it didn’t hide very much at all.

Now, I was naturally a strawberry blonde. So, my hair was a ‘mousy’ colour. I had dyed it a classic blonde for several years now. But my pubic hair was slightly darker. As I ventured out with everything on show, I was soon greeted with comments like, “Oi, you’re not a real blonde,” etc. I didn’t care. I was so wet between my legs.

Before long I found myself happily discussing the colour of my pubic hair with the younger men, explaining why I chose not to shave it etc. Nothing about that conversation felt weird to me.

The atmosphere in the bar had changed. Everyone seemed contented and happy, and the old men had all tottered off home, after telling me that they loved me. I said to Peter, “I’ll do a glass run.”

This meant I’d go out and pick up all the empty glasses around the bar. It was a standard part of being a bar attendant, but I was keen to get out and be naked around all these blokes. Frankly, I wanted them to touch me.

I moved briskly around the room picking up empty glasses, occasionally – and very deliberately - brushing against the male drinkers and then almost dissolving with sexual pleasure.

Before long an Instamatic camera was produced from the office. Bearing in mind this was several years before camera phones, it was used to take happy snaps of the regulars drinking and carrying on. The photos would then be pinned to the notice board in the bar.

Seemingly everyone in the bar wanted their photo taken with me.

“No way!” I said firmly. “And have these photos put up the notice board for everyone to see?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Peter said, almost impatiently, “They won’t go up on the notice board. I’ll keep them under lock and key in the office!”

Sure, I thought to myself, So you and your mates can wank over them in your own time.

But even the thought of that excited me. So, I decided to let them do it.

With Peter taking the photos, I stood smiling, pressing my tits into the bodies of the men. They all put their arms around me, their hands cupping my breasts or caressing my bottom.

They kissed me. They ran their hands up my inner thigh, remarking on my wetness as they stroked my pussy. Every time this happened, I’d reach down and move their hands away. Secretly, I loved it.

I loved it so much that I suggested they take a photo of them all holding me. This was met with great enthusiasm. About six blokes stood holding me as I lay horizontally in their arms. “Now boys,” I had to gently admonish them, “hands to yourself.”

This was because of the number of fingers I felt trying to make their way into my wet pussy and my tingling butt hole.

I squirmed in their arms, laughing and playfully pushing their hands away. When one of their fingers actually slid into my arse I turned to the perpetrator and said, “Phil, you need to trim your fingernails.” This elicited a big laugh from everyone gathered around.

Eventually, everyone had their photo taken with me. They’d kissed me, fingered me and pressed their erect cocks up against me through their jeans. The camera was put away.

I continued picking up glasses from the bar area.

Then I froze.

Aw fuck! I thought.

In all my excitement I’d forgotten that every Thursday night my old history teacher from high school dropped into the bar for a drink or two.

And there he was, sitting on a stool: Mr. Thompson.

Suddenly I felt very, very naked.

Mr. Thompson had been one of the younger teachers at my school. Some of us girls had fancied him a bit. We’d flirt with him and try to get him to notice us.

Since I’d started working at the Railway Hotel, he and I had chatted a few times about our future plans etc. I’d learnt that he and his wife were expecting their first child. Away from the classroom, I was amazed to find he was just a normal person. Although I still thought he was kinda cute.

But I had honestly never expected to find myself in this situation.

I thought about avoiding him, but it was too late. He’d seen me.

“Rebecca?”

“Hello Mr. Thompson,” I said to him, as he appraised my nakedness.

“What’s going on?” He asked.

“Oh, there was a mix-up at the agency, so I had to fill in.”

“I’d say you’ve filled in very ably,” he said, barely hiding his admiration.

I knew he was happily married, but he couldn’t take his eyes off me. In fact, they were all over me.

As I stood, his eyes studying my naked breasts and virtually naked pussy I asked him, somewhat provocatively, “How’s Mrs. Thompson?”

“She’s, um, she’s…”

I smiled and turned and sauntered back to the bar.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and I finally saw what I figured the others had seen in me. I thought I looked sexy. And I saw Mr. Thompson’s eyes following my every move.

I decided to play up to it. I spent a lot of the next half an hour or so walking past Mr. Thompson and flirting with him. I didn’t say much at all to him; just things like, “Do you think my boobs are too big, Mr. Thompson.” Mostly, I just gave him looks.

Looking back, I realise that I enjoyed the shift in power between Mr. Thompson and myself. In high school, he had been in charge. Now, I was.

Every time he came to the bar to order another beer, I’d grab the fresh glass from the bottom of the fridge that faced the bar. I only did this because it gave me the opportunity to bend over in front of him so he could get a good look at my bottom, clad only in my panties.

I was loving every minute of it.

Mr. Thompson stayed much longer that night than he normally did. Usually after two, maybe three beers he’d go home. Not tonight. He seemed very happy to stay. And he became increasingly chatty to me as the night wore on.

He was asking me about Daniel and other boyfriends I’d had.  

As he drained his umpteenth beer, he suggested that maybe it was time for him to go. I don’t think he meant it. But I didn’t want to risk it. I stood as close to him as I could, right in his personal space, gave him the most flirtatious look I could muster and said, “Aw, Mr. Thompson, you’re leaving me already? I’m enjoying spending this time with you.”

It was so manipulative. The poor guy didn’t have a chance. And it was irresponsible. The fact that he had to drive home didn’t enter my young thinking.

I had never, ever behaved that way. Never even thought of behaving that way. But at that moment, I knew I was going to make him fuck me. And he was going to fuck me that night.

By around 9:30, most of the regulars had gone home and the rest were busy watching some stupid footy show on the telly in the corner. Normally by now the titty girl would have finished up and left. But I kept my tits out. Nobody seemed to mind.

Mr. Thompson rose a little unsteadily from his stool and announced that this time he really was going home.

But I wasn’t done yet.

“O.k. Mr. Thompson,” I said, in my best schoolgirl voice, “but before you go, let me show you something.”

I gently took his hand, my eyes fixed on his, and led him to the old dining room adjacent to the bar.

This old room was used for storage and not much else. It was dark. Mr. Thompson and I stood side by side, my hand still holding his, both of us staring at the dust-covered stacks of chairs and tables and unwanted paraphernalia from a previous era. I could hear his nervous breathing and my own heartbeat over the muffled chatter and occasional laughter from the bar next door.

I made no attempt to speak.

Finally, Mr. Thompson broke the silence.

“What did you want to show me?” he asked in a hesitant voice.

Still holding his hand, I swung around to face him. Looking up at him with puppy dog eyes I asked, “Do you think I’m pretty, Mr. Thompson?”

He just mumbled and stuttered a bit.

I placed his hand on my breast. He squeezed my nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

Involuntarily I closed my eyes and let out a loud sigh of pleasure.

“I think you are beautiful,” he breathlessly said.

“You never seemed to even notice me back in high school,” I said teasingly.

“I noticed you, Rebecca,” he said, his eyes still devouring me, “but you were a student, and I was a teacher. I couldn’t do anything. You know that.”

His hand was still caressing my breast. I took it and redirected it towards my pussy. His fingers reached between my legs and stroked the sopping cotton of my panties. I gently stroked his face with my other hand.

“I’m married, Rebecca. I can’t do this.”

Letting go of his hand, I slipped my panties off and stood before him. “Nobody will ever know,” I whispered, “I want you to fuck me, Mr. Thompson.”

I knew we didn’t have a lot of time because I was still on shift. I undid his belt buckle and wrestled his thick cock from within his pants. Dropping to my knees I took him in my mouth, sucking and licking like it was the most delicious lollypop. If only the girls at school could see me now, I thought.

“Mr. Thompson,” I purred, looking up at him as I gently wanked him, “You were always my favourite teacher in high school. I used to look forward to your class.” Mr. Thompson looked at me but seemed unable to speak.

Before I knew it, I had positioned myself on an upturned, dusty table with my legs spread whilst Mr. Thompson stood with his throbbing cock in his hand directing it towards my young vagina.

I could see the punters in the bar watching their stupid show. I could also see Matt going behind the bar serving drinks, looking annoyed. I didn’t care. Getting fucked by Mr. Thompson was all that mattered to me.

Mr. Thompson looked even sexier than before. He was so focused on my nubile young body I literally tingled with the anticipation of his cock touching me. Then it did touch me. I was so wet his cock slid straight in. I gasped and almost screamed in pleasure. Mr. Thompson's eyes locked onto mine and he started pumping me rhythmically and sensually.

The intensity in his eyes reminded me of when he’d angrily admonished me in high school for not submitting an assignment on time. I’d forgotten all about it. Now, it all came flooding back. As his cock fucked my cunt, I panted, “Oh, Mr. Thompson, I’m so sorry I made you mad when I handed that assignment in late. I was so naughty.”

This clearly had an effect on Mr. Thompson. His thrusts became harder and deeper and more powerful.

His massively engorged cock was reaching places inside me that I’d never felt before. It was painful. Every thrust hurt me.

“Harder!” I begged him, “fuck me harder!” It was like he was punishing me. I loved it. The pleasure was almost unbearable. I nearly passed out. He kept saying, “Rebecca! Rebecca! Rebecca! You beautiful girl!” over and over.

I could hear Matt saying, “Anyone seen Rebecca?”

“Cum inside me, Mr. Thompson!” I breathlessly said to him, “cum inside your naughty student.”

He let out a muffled groan and emptied his load deep inside me. I wrapped my legs around his back and held him in me. I wanted to prolong this moment.

As Mr. Thompson pumped the last of his semen into my pussy, he started saying, “Oh my God, I’m so sorry Rebecca, I’m so sorry…” I grabbed him by the back of the neck and pulled him towards me.

“Shhh,” I whispered and kissed him passionately, his rough, beery tongue delicious against mine. “I’ll see you next Thursday. Now you’d better go home to your wife.”

I quickly pulled my panties on and ran back to the bar.

As I moved around picking up glasses and pouring beers, I wondered if anyone was noticing the viscous, glistening liquid running down my leg. There was a lot of it.

Today the Railway Hotel has been converted into a gaming establishment. The old men have all passed on. The gangsters are either also dead or in gaol and the tradies now drink somewhere else. Even Mr. Thompson moved away. The place where he and I fucked is now a family bistro.

I left the Railway Hotel a year or so after this event. Daniel and I eventually married and had a family. Naturally I never, ever mentioned any of this to him.

But I still occasionally drive past the old Railway Hotel and think back to that crazy evening back in 1995.

Who knows, maybe one day I’ll run into Mr. Thompson again. I wonder how he looks these days.