I've Been a Bad Girl
Greg releases his dark side.
Author's notes: Everyone is over 18 in the story. Please feel free to comment that is how we learn. I hope you enjoy it.
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Greg dropped his wife Eve off at the airport, kissing her at the security entrance, and wished her a good trip. His wife had reached upper management and was on another business trip. Most people think that upper management has it easy, but they soon find no actual rules about how much you are to work like those on a factory floor. Nope, the upper level is always on duty, and when it came to travel, even though she was in the upper level, she was the newest with the least seniority and, therefore, stuck with a lot.
Six years younger than him, they had been married twenty-five years, and she still looked outstanding. Dressed for business, she didn't appear too sexy, but she couldn't hide her pert little ass that he, sadly, didn't get to enjoy as much as he would like. She was always so tired with her long days and the overload of daily stress she had to endure. He helped, oh, he didn't mop or do housework, but he got a maid service and laundry service and hired whatever help she needed. She appreciated it, but it still didn't do enough, and she usually worked to seven at the office, ate late, finished up a few things left from work, answered an email or twenty, and fell asleep on the couch.
Greg felt for her but didn't know what she was experiencing firsthand. He would never get to upper-level management. It was because she worked for a small cosmetics firm and he for a Fortune 500 manufacturer. He was just a tiny insignificant cog in the big wheels of the company. Greg was just as happy, though, since he was leveling out his landing for retirement. It would be in just six months. They were empty nesters now, with both kids fully graduated from college in decent jobs and the girl about to marry. He looked forward to the quiet and solitude of retirement. It's not that he didn't like his wife's company, but all she talked about was business, and he had long ago ceased giving a shit about business.
He fought the traffic to work in the staggering July heat with one bastard after another, cutting him off failing to use their directional signals. At work, he did work, but after years and years of being exploited by one ass-hole boss after the other, he determined that he wouldn't overdo it in the run-down to retirement. He would give them a day's work, but that was it. If they wanted more, they could go fuck themselves. What were they going to do, force him to retire?
He went home on time, a part of his refusal to be exploited anymore. For dinner, he ate a can of unheated hash directly from the can, over the sink, and washed and dried the spoon, returning it to the silverware drawer.
"No dishes," he said happily, congratulating himself.
Greg then settled on the couch, turned on the News, and resigned himself to the boredom he thought the night would elicit. The News was the same: some politician in trouble, another gang shooting, and all bad News except the one vignette about some rescued puppy at the end. He shook his head, wondering how the Channel bigwigs could figure that that would make up for the outlandish chaos they had reported on.
As he reached for the remote, Greg got an idea. It was a crazy, silly idea and something he hadn't done in years. At first, he shook his head no and then thought some more.
"What the fuck," he said out loud, rising.
Greg grabbed his keys, climbed into his car, and drove to a bar. He hadn't gone to a bar by himself since he was married. The bar was O'Reilly's, which he had frequented only once after a golf outing with his friends. It was not seedy, and being a Monday, it was quiet. The place was a typical local watering hole. The room was long with a row of ten booths along the left, and in the space between the booths and bar were scattered four-seater tables, a dozen or so. The customary bar was to his right. It had a typical L-shaped bar with fifteen stools, ten on the long side and five at the other end on the short side, all empty. The all-important restrooms were on the right in the back. Irish music played softly in the subdued lighting, and a couple of televisions over the bar silently showed a football game.
Only one booth was occupied, as near as he could tell, by a man and woman necking, but the high backs on the booths made it impossible to tell, and he didn't care anyway. There were two tables occupied, one by an elderly couple quietly drinking beers and the other seated by three men who had obviously been golfing and were a little loud and a little drunk.
Normally, he would have gone to the bar, ordered a drink, and found a table or booth. Instead, on a whim, he went almost to the elbow of the L and sat at the bar. The register was at the tip of the long end, as well as a television, and the bartender was leaning against the back cabinets there on her iPhone. He knew he was presenting with a lonely old man look and didn't want the bartender to think she had to chat him up. He was having fun doing something he hadn't done in years. He felt free, and that felt good.
The bartender was a beautiful woman with long brunette hair, high cheekbones, full lips, and a chiseled chin. She was tanned, tall, and thin, with large breasts accentuated by a rather low-cut tank top exposing her midriff. The bulges on the end of her breasts seemed enormous, and the lack of the tell-tale bra straps caused him to speculate she wore no bra. The bar obscured one's view of her from the front, but he had a better view down behind the bar and saw her very short miniskirt that barely covered her ass. Seeing him slide onto the stool, she put down her phone and walked towards him. A navel piercing danced erotically on her abdomen as she walked. She, indeed, had no bra as her beauties swayed erotically back and forth, and as she came closer, the large nipple bulges were because she also had nipple rings.
"Hi," she said pleasantly, placing a napkin on the bar before him. "What can I get you?"
In one perverted instant, he thought, "A blow job would be nice," coming to himself, he just smiled and ordered a double shot of Scotch on the rocks.
As she walked away to get his drink, he observed her ass sashay from side to side, and his manhood noticed too. Luckily, it wasn't trapped in the corner of his briefs and had a little room to expand. Watching her return, he shuddered, trying to control himself. It had been a long time, and this bartender was so beautiful, and then it struck him what a classic cliché that would be, an old man and a young woman. It was classic porn, erotic as hell, and about as believable as a July snowstorm.
She placed his drink on the napkin and asked, "Will there be anything else?"
"I guess I should pay. How much?" Greg said, feeling the heat rising in his neck.
"You can run a tab. You certainly look like you can afford the drink, and with this massive crowd, I don't think you will be able to sneak out," she said, laughing.
He joined her in the laugh and said, "Thanks."
She nodded, and he reveled in the view of her magnificent ass walking away, and in those few seconds, his mind went to a bad place. In those moments, he envisioned her naked, riding his cock, tied, and screaming her orgasm. He was shocked at his wicked thoughts. It seemed more than a daydream. It was vivid and seemed real, like awakening from a bad dream. He knew he had always had a dark side but never let it out. The closest he came was asking his wife to let him tie her to the bed. She had refused, laughing it off as he was drunk at the time. Since then, he had always pushed it down and thought he had buried it. This resurgence of his dark side made him gulp as he felt it rising.
Shaking enough that he had to use two hands to get the glass to his mouth, he took a pull from the glass. The smoky peat flavor of his favorite adult beverage and its scent filled his nose, subduing the smell of stale beer and starting the calming and warming sensations he now desperately wanted. His breathing returned to normal, and he sighed, looking at the supple nymph, again leaning against the back cabinets on her phone.
Returning to normal, he enjoyed the Scotch. He was introduced to it in college but couldn't afford it until he realized he could. Midway through his drink, he heard the bell on the door chime to indicate the entrance or exit of a patron. Typically, he would have ignored it, but for some reason, he looked up. A woman, maybe five feet two inches tall, in a low-cut, mid-thigh length, red dress, was surveying the room. She was busty and cute, much younger than he. A blond with pale skin essentially the negative image of the bartender.
As he looked at her, she looked at him and then proceeded to walk straight at him, her eyes never leaving his. Her hips swayed sensually back and forth, the hem of the mini-dress rising slightly as she walked. The red spiked heels clicked on the wooden floor as she approached him.
Touching the chair next to him, she asked, "Is this seat taken?" like that was the only open seat at the empty bar.
"No," he croaked.
"May I sit here?" she asked timidly.
"Sure," he replied nervously, ensuring she saw his left hand and the prominent gold wedding ring on his finger.
Whether she did it purposely or not, he didn't know, but she returned the favor and displayed the gold wedding ring on her finger.
"Well, at least we have that out of the way," he thought.
The bartender put down her phone and walked towards them. Seeing her again aroused his juices, but they also rose because of his proximity to a woman. Any woman sitting next to him like that would do it; well, let's rephrase. A ninety-year-old woman would not have stimulated him, but this woman was beautiful, and the double whammy of gorgeous he was getting would overpower a saint.
Placing a napkin in front of the woman, the bartender asked, "What can I get you?"
She ordered some girly sweet drink. He didn't notice. Greg was too busy staring at the bartender's tits.
Then the bartender turned to him, and embarrassed, he raised his eyes to eye level. If she noticed his abrupt change of sight line, the bartender didn't let on. Perhaps she was used to it.
"Would you like another?" she queried.
"Yeah, sure, and put her drink on my tab," he replied.
"Oh, you don't have to do that," the woman in the red dress said.
He smiled at her and answered, "I want to."
"Will do," the bartender replied, stepping off to get the drinks.
