Janner

I feel a short introduction/warning is in order. To start, there is nothing that untoward in this lesbian love story, but there is every chance that as you read you may think, “Hang on how did that happen?” All I will say at this point is “read to the end.” Also, I will stress that this is NOT a true story, a statement that will make sense by the end.

 

Technical Point - I know in America dive flags are red & white, but in the UK (and the rest of the world) they are blue and white.

 

*****

 

 

 

The Crooked Captain on the Barbican in Plymouth was full, not as full as it was a couple of years ago pre-lockdown, but was getting to the point that seats were starting to become a premium. Not that many people were sitting; most were crowded around the old-fashioned upright piano, which was being played with more enthusiasm than pure skill.

 

Jan sat at a table in the corner, looking around the pub that was full of people she called more than just friends, well, almost her family in so many ways. This was a local pub, and most of the customers lived nearby, so avoiding the need for cars or taxis meant that the drinking could be more enthusiastic. It had long ceased offering accommodation, relying on its reputation as being one of the best real ale pubs around to keep it packed with customers all year. The tourists tended to avoid the pub as it looked grubby and unkempt from the outside, although the odd American would wander in looking for an authentic English pub.

 

The reason why Jan loved the pub so much was not just because of the banter she enjoyed with the other sailors that would continually remind her that the super yachts she worked on were not real boats, just playthings for the rich and famous. Of course, the banter would go back the other way, with Jan pointing out that when she wanted to use the toilet, she wasn’t reduced to using a bucket hanging over the side of some rusty old tub.

 

It wasn’t either the excellent real ale that she would match pint for pint as they laughed and joked about the pictures that adorned the walls of customers past and present. What she loved was that they accepted her for what she was, a single lesbian of a little over 40. They simply ignored it, as she was first and foremost their friend. Some of the older regulars knew her father, and every so often she would catch sight of him in one of the pictures.

 

She had a reputation for being footloose and fancy free, with a roving eye always on the lookout for a willing female partner to share her bed in her small flat overlooking Plymouth Sound. She wasn’t butch or a dyke in any way, but she was predatory, enjoying bedding a willing woman for her first time. She had recently split from what she had hoped was developing into a long-term partnership. It wasn’t so much coming home to find her in bed with someone else; it was the fact that it was a man. After the girl had moved out, her thirst for new conquests was growing, and she was ever eager for new pussy.

 

One of the things that the men in the pub loved about her was her understanding of boundaries. She acknowledged that the women, well, the wives of the regulars anyway, were off limits, not so much any new wench who might wander in. Saying that some of the wives had hinted strongly that they were interested in ‘experimenting’, but Jan always politely declined, not wanting the hassle or the danger of losing a friend.

 

She kept herself trim by walking or running along the Barbican when she was at home, and when she wasn’t walking, she would be enjoying one of her great passions in life, her yacht. The love of her life was a Westerly Storm 33-foot cruiser racer she had called the Wicked Wench after a wild month she had spent with a very rich tourist a few years ago. As a parting gift, Wendy had brought her the yacht before flying back to her husband in America.

 

She could see her baby, as she called her yacht, from the window of her flat and would sometimes stare longingly at it, torn between going out on her or returning to bed to enjoy her latest conquest. She handled both with passion and enthusiasm and considered herself equally skilled at either making her yacht spin across the sea or her partner rise to heights of ecstatic bliss.

 

The other great passion in her life was rugby, not the international teams you would see on television but local rugby. She could often be found on Saturdays yelling her lungs out as she encouraged the Plymouth Albion Rugby Football Club at Brickfields Stadium to heights of success that were perhaps beyond them. She had been a lifelong supporter and remembered with fondness watching her father grace the field when she had been a slip of a girl. She had most of the shirts from over the years; although the older ones didn’t fit, they now adorned the walls rather than her body.

 

That evening she had on the white shirt of the Plymouth Chiefs with its red and green sponsorship banner, which, in the style of modern shirts, was tight over her comfortable size 14. Her cut-off denim shorts had seen better days but were comfortable and allowed her freedom of movement when on her yacht. Even though she was a mere 5’4”, she packed a punch, as a few strangers had found when they had tried to get fresh. Her body was in great condition, with a toned physique developed from sailing. She would often joke that with some of the young fillies she rode, she needed all her well-developed muscles. She was in the middle of discussing with great enthusiasm the relative merits of Plymouth’s new overseas signing when she saw her.

 

The fact that she clearly wasn’t a local was the first thing that made her notice her as she stood at the bar ordering a drink. You could almost hear the volume in the pub drop an octave when she said softly to the landlady, “I’m sorry, I don’t really like beer; may I have a sparkling water instead, please.”

 

Saying you didn’t like beer was almost sacrilege in a pub like the Crooked Captain, and her comment drew a look from those standing nearby. Jan noticed how she seemed totally non-plussed by the looks and as equally unfazed when she rebuffed a couple of local lads who fancied their chances as they started to chat her up. Jan studied her for a moment, considering her best angle to try to charm this stunner into her bed.

 

Jan would have put her at around 5’8” and toned without being overmuscled. Her long auburn hair tumbled to her shoulders in loose curls, and her eyes shone a bright blue as she discreetly observed the room. Jan guessed she was in her thirties and was about a size 12 or maybe a 14. Her summer dress of a white cheesecloth was simple yet elegant, and the toe-post flip-flops were simple but more expensive than the cheap rubber ones often bought at the seaside. Her breasts made the dress bulge in the right places, and although she was smiling, Jan guessed there was something behind that smile. The dress buttoned up the front, and although it fell below the knee when she stood, when she sat on the barstool it fell open to reveal a fair amount of thigh, with the promise of delights that lay beyond.

 

Jan knew that fortune favoured the brave, so running her calloused hand through her short blonde hair, she walked to the bar and stood next to her as she ordered fresh pints.

 

“Hi, I’m Jan. You must be new here, as I w