After Bar

Bartending was a rough gig. The first part of the night you're smooth and funny. You pour a few weird cocktails for women who "don't like to drink," and you make funny eye contact with their boyfriends who are going to fuck them savage in four or five hours. By ten o'clock, the weekday stragglers are shitfaced and the weekend drinkers are near vomiting. No huge wage, and an endless supply of folks who want to stiff you on the tip. "Well, I only had one beer," and "It wasn't that good."

Corporate parties are worse. There's always some beancounter asking about the bar tab, worried that they might go over the allotted "Happiness of Employees Fund." And there's still the same shit from people about tips, "I thought the company was handling that."

Corporate Holiday Parties are the absolute worst. The employees are amped because they've typically got a few days off afterward, and are only there because their boss wants them to be seen and "network." So they hit it hard. Not normal cocktailers, the men move from beer to stupid shit like Manhattans and Brandy Old Fashioneds. Some brave souls jump into Long Island Ice Teas, looking to get fucked and show off their chops.

The women, who brought their husbands have a few drinks and leave, usually angry, because the other women, who did not bring their husbands are flirting like dust storms. The women who did not bring their husbands are there for one reason - not to network.

Simon was wrapping up a twelve-hour shift at his third Christmas party for Fects Corporation (he and his co-workers called them FuxCo). Fects Corporation sold microcircuitry, which changed in value daily. Thus employees' value changed as well. It was like a stock market that your health insurance depended.

Twelve hours on your feet, rushing back and forth was no one's idea of fun. Simon considered himself past his prime. He had given up his corporate pursuits and faded away. He wasn't overweight, but neither was he a corded twig like the twenty-year-olds he'd seen tonight in suits that didn't quite fit.

He shut off the lights and started to shut down. Pulling glasses from one of the long tables as the stragglers staggered out towards cabs and trains, he noticed a woman doing the same thing.

"You don't have to do that." He smiled, letting his green eyes squint a little bit, using the full face smile he'd learned years ago.

"I know. I used to tend bar. I know what it's like when a crowd of ass-holes wanders in and takes up your night."

He smiled, trying not to agree. "Let me guess. They left a tip that was like, I don't know, less than 5%? That's Baxter. We call him Bater Bean Counter."

"Well, it was a good night." He replied. She stopped and walked over to him, three glasses in each hand.

"You're a nice person aren't you?"

"Thanks, but, I, I mean, I don't know." He replied. He tried to slip away from her, uncomfortable in her gaze.

She cut him off, sliding left to block his escape. Simon took a moment to examine her, to let his eyes play over her. She wore a blue sweater and a simple black skirt. A black belt tied the simple ensemble together. Her shoes were flats, which indicated she was taller than usual. The curve of her breasts, he noticed, was enticing and felt so cliche. He thought of himself in an 80's skin-flick, hacking out dialogue, at eventually led to a poorly edited fuck scene.

Rather than back away, he stood his ground, let her invade his space. He wondered what it would be like to see her, cunt spread wide, on the bar, skirt up high, with that bleary "I've had one too many" look in her eyes.

*

She hated her name. Tracy. She hated saying it to coworkers. That fucking creep from the ninth floor practically came in his pants when he repeated it. Tracy. He made it sound like a sex position. Fuck him. He'd be lucky if it were. Someday she'd Tracy that ass-hole and he'd need it for the rest of his life. Only once, pig-fucker.

When the party left, she saw the mess and felt like she should pick up some of the glasses. Her bra itching, feet hurting, she took the extra effort to help a person. Besides, the bartender was good looking - medium build, but not fat or skinny. He had shaved earlier in the day, that much was obvious and his hair, before, had been well done.

"Hey, let me help." She said afraid her voice sounded a bit too husky. He disagreed, but that didn't stop her. She wasn't typically an aggressor, but tonight she felt like she wanted, no, needed a companion. Maybe she'd never see him again. That might be better. She found herself flexing her jaws imagining a cock between her lips. She watched porn - who didn't? But the way these twenty-somethings socked a cock scared her. She let their faces, their whole heads get fucked. As she salivated, she was also afraid, imagining this strange man plunging his cock down her throat. What if she gagged? Christ, what if she puked?

There was nothing for it now. She became excited. The tingle of wetness, just a bit, her nipples, she told herself were cold. Were they visible? She would only say she was cold.

"I used to bartend," Fuck, did that sound condescending?

"I know what it's like to bartend. No tip and too many ass-holes." Was that an innuendo?

She approached him and saw his shyness. He wasn't plotting to rape her, pillage her ass or even face-fuck her. He wasn't planning anything but going home. She was going to go back too, alone. That wasn't okay.

She stood before him with a handful of glasses, "You're a genuinely nice person aren't you?"

He stumbled over his words, and she loved every second of it. She arched her back like she'd seen in a movie once. Her tits pushed out and brushed his chest.

"Let's." She said.

*

The kissing came fast and hard. They clawed at one another, pulling hair and pushing over chairs. Her arms flailed out and knocked glasses on the floor. He lifted her and kicked over chairs. His hands took hold of her ass and squeezed. She considered herself sexually adventurous, but as his hands crept towards her ass-hole, she had second thoughts and tried to redirect him.

"Let me suck on your cock." That seemed better than having her ass-hole torn open. He looked at her dumbstruck. She wasted no slithering off the table and opening his pants. Naturally, his cock was hard a little damp at the tip from the pre-seminal fluid. She liked to say that - pre-seminal fluid, rather than pre-cum. Pre-seminal meant there was semen coming. The only lights left on were cooler lights, neons that ran all night. In the flickering dark, Tracy dove on Simon's cock. She didn't suck or draw or blow; she devoured his cock. It slipped into her mouth and down her throat like a bullet through a rifle barrel.

"It," Was all he could say. There was some overwhelming lock on his brain. He couldn't speak. Tracy suddenly felt pride and strength. She'd sucked a few cocks in her life. She was no slouch. This cock wasn't a monster like that last guy who shot up her nose. She could master this.

Simon ran his hand through her hair. Soft and brown, he tried not to think of her hair as handles to grab. He did, three strong thrusts and on the third, he saw her eyes go wide. He pulled her from his cock. Just like he imagined, he deposited her on the bar and pushed up her skirt. There was a wet spot, which she seemed a little embarrassed. He tore her panties down and threw her legs over his shoulders, dove into her pussy. It wasn't a sloppy thrashing. He kissed her clit, treated it like a piece of chocolate, something to enjoy, to savor. And she melted.

She rolled in his tongue, luxuriated. Time slowed down, and he sucked her clit, forced it against her tongue. Finally, she pulled his head away.

"The floor, the floor!" She gasped. Without a moment wasted he lifted her from the bar and dropped her on the floor. A second later his cock was pushing against her labia. He wondered if this mattered to women as it did to him? It was excruciatingly beautiful. There was an element of brutality, the forceful penetration, even with a woman wet with lust, and then the satisfaction of a locking moment, like machines tooled to rock together.

Simon fucked her. There was no eloquent was to say it — he fucker her savage like those Long-Island-Ice-Tea-Drinking corporate-wage-slaves. She was his nightly victory.

He loved it. They both did.