During Ali's absence, The Rose and Crown had become The Town Crier. No longer the convivial, everyone's favourite 'local' in the town centre, now it was a themed pub, cashing in on the town's long history. Where the laughing, bustling hordes had once gathered, now the punters were all office workers - not a builder, shop worker or car mechanic in sight. The conversations revolved around office politics and new computer systems rather than the changing fortunes of the local football team and who did what to whom last Friday.

The refit was all very well done, Ali thought as she looked around at the pseudo relics, paintings and life-sized wooden effigies of local celebrities throughout the ages, but the place was sadly lacking in atmosphere. She cast a critical eye over the effigy that stood beside the bar, and so didn't see the landlord leave a large group of late arrivals to serve her.

"Haven't seen you in here before. New recruit at Blestows?"

Ali turned her attention to the landlord, a middle-aged man with a middle-aged spread and pebble-dash face.

"That's Braddock," he supplied helpfully, without giving her time to answer and nodding towards the effigy, "one of the last Highwaymen to be hanged in the country. Over there," he said, pointing to another life-sized representation, "is Maitland, the old Magistrate who sentenced him. Everyone knew he was in cahoots with Braddock, and only had him hung to save his own neck. No one's ever found the booty."

Ali, whose own roots went back as far as the town's, was unimpressed to see her illustrious ancestor so publicly ridiculed.

"Brandy," she stated flatly. Turning her back on the landlord, she began walking, calling out over her shoulder, "I'll be sitting over there."

"Hey! I'm not here to wait on tables."

"You are now."

From her corner table by the window, Ali would be able to see Leigh's arrival, as well as keeping an eye on the other punters. She also had a good view of Magistrate Maitland, from whom she'd inherited the sadistic streak, but sadly not the family fortune. That was long gone.

"Your drink." The brandy splashed over the side as the landlord plonked the glass down. Standing slightly behind her, he made no move to return to his work.

"You've spilt it."

"Sorry!" he said, sarcastically.

"You will be."

Lifting her glass with her left hand, surreptitiously, she reached out her right behind her. He was wearing thin cotton trousers. All the better! Her long fingers began feeling up the inside of his leg, sending spirals of quivering warmth from her tight breasts to her pussy as she imagined the electrifying effect it was having on him.

With that, her hand closed tightly and viciously around his semi-hard penis. She smiled as she heard the grunt of pain as he tried to stop himself from yelling out. With a satisfied smile, she took a swig from her glass before replacing it on the table. And as she did so, she squeezed again, but this time, without releasing her hold.

"Your name is?" she prompted.

"John. John Micklem."

"Well, John Micklem, Thursday evening, come to Riverside Tower at nine o'clock. It's only across the road from here. "

"I can't. I'm working."

"No, you're not. You'll wait in the lobby until I send for you. I won't stand for unpunctuality. It goes without saying that you'll come alone and won't tell anyone." She gave another sharp squeeze that had him crying out aloud, causing several heads to turn towards the sound. "I trust I make myself clear."

"Yes."

She released her hold. "Now get back to work."

Under the gaze of a group of customers, and without a backward glance, John made for the bar.

Her distinctive, unruffled silk tones followed him. "Oh, John!"

He stopped in his tracks.

"That's an awfully small willy you've got!"

Lifting her glass to her lips, she could feel the acuteness of his embarrassment as the whole place erupted in laughter. Watching as he scuttled off through a doorway that led to the kitchen, Ali felt the familiar, glorious, high-intensity volts of arousal that shook her insides.