Any resemblance to anyone you think you might know living in cyberspace is really just your imagination. All characters in this story are completely fictional. No, really. I made them up. I did. Swear to gawd. Yup.
Lancelot dropped his beer on the floor just so he could see the waitress's naked keister when she bent over to pick it up. She would make a good sub. He could see her tied, gagged, and bent over to prop his feet up on when he watched wrasslin.' SuperSlam was on Sunday and he'd already ponied up the cash for pay-per-view. Now he just needed a bitch to get his beer.
The waitress moved on before he could cop a feel, so he grunted and lounged against the back of the booth again. He'd get her next time around. She had to take his order again sometime or she wouldn't get a tip from---hold the phones, sister. The bouncer waved some new broad on into the bar without taking a cover even. The bastard had charged him twenty bucks to get in. This chick was stacked, a little on the short side, no taste in clothes, but she had a good hank of hair. He liked to wrap his hands up in a bitch's hair when he was fucking her. She had those big lips like the Tomb Raider girl. What'd they call ‘em? Poofy? Perky? Pouty, that was it. They'd look good wrapped around a ball gag.
He dipped his hand to his zipper and started scratching himself slowly.
She stepped hesitantly into the bar, taking stock of the place before selecting a bar stool somewhere near the middle. She took a napkin and wiped it off before daintily perching her ass on it. Nice butt. A little too perky for him, but not bad. Softer cans took the whip better. She said something to the bartender---a stuck up cunt if he'd ever seen one---and then slid some cash across the bar. A few minutes later the bartender dropped something fizzy in front of her.
Hot damn she was a sub. He knew a few Dommes, they were some hard up bitches, and they drank shots of shit like vodka. He pretty much figured out that they were locked into some kind of Olga the wonder Nazi fantasy. A good caning would do ‘em good.
He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and pushed himself out of the booth. The waitress was shit out of luck tonight because he had found the weekend queen of his 12x60 featuring shag carpeting and lava lamps. Bitches loved his decorating.
"Hey baby, what's your sign? Mine is always turned on." He laughed at his own wit and slid onto the stool next to her. Up close he could see she was some kind of mixed drink, not pure white. That was a problem. Well, her rack was worth the taint; he just hoped David Duke didn't kick him out of the club.
"Sign?"
"Yeah, you know, what sign were you born under?"
"Oh. The Zodiac."
"Yeah, toots, the Zodiac. I'm a Scorpio." He was actually a Capricorn but he wasn't a fucking goat.
"The Boar."
"Boar? The pig? There ain't no fucking pig in the Zodiac."
"I was born in the year of the Boar."
"Like that Chinese shit?"
"Yeah."
"Hey, let's blow this joint. Go on back to my place and get a little groove thing going on. You can fuckee suckee me long time."
The bartender slapped a glass down onto the bar. "Goddamn, Lancelot, you're still pulling that bullshit? It went out with seventies and hair implants---"
He put his hand on his head, they looked fucking real! The fucks at Hair Club for Men promised!
"---and those stupid gold chains. Just tell him to go away, honey."
"That's okay," the mixed chick said, "I kind of like him. He's funny."
"You're joking." The bartender dropped her rag.
"No, why?"
"He's an asshole!"
"I kind of like assholes."
He'd had enough. "Come on, toots, let's get out of here." He wrapped an arm around her waist and tugged her off of the barstool. She tripped over his feet, but he ignored that and dragged her out of the bar and straight to his car. Gremlins were
the
coolest rides. He didn't care what anyone said.
She didn't put up a fight. Didn't say a word, actually. Which was weird, they were usually demanding to go home by this point. Instead, she just got quietly into the passenger seat when he unlocked the door and buckled herself in. Or tried to. He cut the seatbelts out.
The ride was pretty quiet, which was good. He hated subs who talked. They were always whining about something or getting together and having stupid support group sessions. Buncha whiny bitches. Back at the trailer he tossed the door open and waved her in. "Mi casa is my casa."
She looked around uncertainly while he locked the door. No sense giving her the extra few seconds. Some of these bitches could really run and he wasn't what he used to be in the running department.
He flicked on the TV to see what was on. Opera shit or something. He switched the channel and found, ah, the Man Show. Now there were a couple of geniuses.
"Oh yeah. You can call me Master, but don't talk." He pulled a collar out from under a pile of trash on the loveseat. "Here's your collar, put it on. We do the red green thing and the safeword is---" he waved airly, "whatever. Get me a beer."
"Um, no."
"What?"
"I said no."
"I heard that part. What the fuck are you talking about? I'm the Dom. You're the sub. That's the way it works."
"I don't think so."
"Well, I do. I'm the man, you're the---"
"I have a pussy. You've never seen one."
"How did you---" He frowned. "I've seen plenty. I had one out here last week. A hotter bitch than you, too."
"Yeah, I know. She told me that once she puked up the tequila she sobered up enough to run away before you could touch her. Word is that you're a virgin."
He glared. "I am not!" He was gonna fucking kill whoever squealed.
She smiled at him, a nasty little smile, and lifted her skirt. Oh yeah, baby. And she stopped right before she got to her twat. The bitch. "You wanna see a real live pussy? On your knees."
He was down before he even realized he'd made the decision.
"No, not good enough. Put the collar on."
