The Pub

Edited by kanga40

He stumbled down the walkway, mumbling to himself, slightly swaying from side to side. Although expensively dressed, the suit was wrinkled, the tie hung loosely on his neck, a day growth of facial hair apparent, hair ruffled, eyes blood shot from excessive alcohol, but he had a smile on his handsome face.

He had appeared from an alley behind “The Pub,” a local drinking hole, were he stopped once or twice a week for a drink with the locals. He was, a respected executive, in a local firm, who enjoyed the banter with the “blue collar” friends that he grew up with.

But why would he be smiling you wonder. Let me start at the beginning. My name is Joe. I’m the bartender at “The Pub,” a friendly down to earth bar, catering mostly to the local blue collar workers, the exception being John, a highly regarded professional.

John has been a regular for years, stopping by mostly on Fridays to have a few drinks. He is a rather handsome man, no wrinkles for his age, not a very tall man, maybe a few inches less than 6ft., sandy hair, with a touch of white at the temple, piercing blue eyes, neatly trimmed moustache, well groomed and dressed. John never stayed more than an hour or so, enjoying the company of his friends. When a guy was down on his luck, he would often buy a round or two, that is just the way he is. We don’t have very many ladies stop by, but there are a few, and most were attracted to him right away. He is always polite and friendly, but that’s as far as it ever went, you see, John is happily married and loves his wife. The thought of straying never entered his mind, that’s just the way he is. He took a lot of ribbing from his friends over it, but if I heard it once, I heard it a thousand times. “Boys, I got the best, why screw with the rest.”

If he had one fault, it would be his devotion to his job and company. He worked long hours at times, was gone on business trips a few times a month, but provided his family with all their needs. One day it all blew up in his face.

He had felt a little guilty of neglecting his wife, so decided to call her and tell her to get ready, he would take her out on the town for dinner, dancing, the whole works. The phone rang, but no answer. Thinking that she may have gone shopping, he didn’t give it a second thought, deciding to wait until he got home.

And that, my friend, is where it all began. As he entered the side door, from the garage, he called out to his wife, but no answer. Wonder where she is? He thought. He called again, but still no answer. He walked up to the bar, poured a small drink, raised it to his mouth and then saw the note, lay on the kitchen table. It was her handwriting.

He read the note, stunned, he fumbled to a chair, his legs giving out, tears formed in his eyes. A sob tore through his body, he felt sick to his stomach. His head was spinning with disbelief. It can’t be, he thought, Why? How? Who? Why didn’t I see it? How could I be so blind, and not see it coming?

He stumbled to the bar, grabbed the bottle of scotch, unscrewed the top, flinging it away in anger, and drank deeply from the bottle, pouring some on himself, but caring less about appearance or anything else for that matter. “Bitch, fucking bitch” his anger rose as more alcohol poured in him. “Twenty seven years down the drain, everything I worked for, means nothing, absolutely fucking nothing.” “Bitch” The pain in his gut increased, the bile rising to his throat. He felt cheated, deserted and unloved. I think every emotion known to man must have passed through his mind. But anger won out over the rest. His respect for women, all women, I think was at an all time low. He roughly wiped the tears from his face with the back of his hand, and stumbled to the front door.

“Got to get out of here,” he mumbled. Fortunately, “The Pub” was only a few blocks away, and he chose to walk, rather than drive. He needed to be anywhere but here, as he stumbled to the pub, his mind racing with sad and angry thoughts.

I watched him, sitting at the bar, his lifeless eyes staring deep into the beer, twirling the glass around and around in its own condensation. Occasionally, he would look up, take a long swig and resume the staring, mumbling “bitch” now and then.

An then she walked in, tall, curvy, blond, blazing green eyes, breasts that swayed under the tight sweater, tight skirt, an air of arrogance and defiance about her. Her eyes roamed the bar, skipping across the occupants, and finally resting on him. Although there were many empty stools, she headed up to him and asked in a husky sexy voice.

“Mind if I sit down?”

His red eyes glanced only a second at her.

"Suit yourself bitch,” he growled indifferently, looking back into the depth of his beer glass.

Those that heard him, gasped; John, had never said an unkind word to any woman, he just had too much respect for them. The comment didn’t seem to bother her. She ordered a mixed drink and calmly looked him up and down, like if she were sizing up a prize bull.

“Problems, handsome?”

“Fuck you bitch!”

“Would you like too?”

Slowly, he lifted his head from the glass, starring at the intruder, through his foggy eyes. That arrogant bitch, she was just like all the rest, probably fucking some poor jerk over. He had never been unfaithful, what did it really matter now. Had he been sober, without the emotional burden, things may have turned out different, but at this point he didn’t seem to care.

They stared at each other, green eyes into blue eyes for a full minute, as if one was daring the other to back out.

He slid off the stool, and without even a second glance at her, walked toward the side alley door. She grabbed her purse, also slid off the stool and followed him out. The air was fresh, but not cold. He took deep breaths, as if to shake the fuzziness out of his brain, then suddenly stopped and turned around. Startled, by his sudden stop, she stumbled into his arms.

His hand reached up behind her head, grabbed a handful of her golden trusses and pulled her into him, his lips brutally locked unto hers, bruising and sucking on her tongue with lust and hate. She was the symbol of everything that had gone wrong; she was going to suffer the consequences for all womanhood. He didn’t care about her feeling, he didn’t care who she was, she was just meat to be used and discarded.

“Ayah…” she groaned, “what the hell is your problem?”

“Shut up, bitch.”

One hand still locked in her hair, holding her tight against his bruising lips, the other hand yanked up the skirt, fingers pulling the string panty aside, probing her shaven smooth outer lips and plunging a digit into her wet depth. He felt her heat, the wetness soaking his fingers, sliding down her legs in rivets. This bitch was burning up, never had he felt a woman this wet and hot. He released her lips, looked around for something to lay her on or set her against.

He dragged her over to a pile of pallets against the wall, roughly pulled her across the top, lay her flat on her back, her head hung over the edge. He stood in front of her face, unzipped his pants, the eight inch cock flopped on her face, engorged with blood. He noticed one of her hands between her thighs, rubbing the large outer lips of her sex, the fingers buried in her cleft. She was groaning with lust. He rubbed his dripping cock all over her face, mouth, nose, lips, cheeks, forehead; trailing shiny liquid across her face. His breathing was labored, as he continued the erotic dance of his member on her face, slapping the throbbing member across her face and chin.

“Open up.” He growled at her. She instantly obeyed, her lips seeking the elusive member. Slowly he forced his rigid cock deep into her throat, straight down, until his pubic hair smashed against her lips. She chocked, gasping for air, but he was not to be denied, allowing her no escape. String of saliva hung on his member as he pulled it out, forcing it again into the recess of her throat, again and again. She is trashing around, one hand still furiously gouging in her sex, the squishing sound echoing in the quiet alley. He could smell her heated sex, his lust even more heightened by her scent. Her face contorted in pain, but yet he sensed her lust, her green eyes piercing his own as she watched him use her mouth as a receptacle. Her tongue lashed the ridge of the underside of his cock, inhaling his member deep in her throat. She was an expert cocksucker. No doubt, she had practice.

He glanced down along her body, seeing the swell of her pussy, moisture seeping from the puffy lips, her fingers expertly manipulating her gash, her thumb rolling her clit around in circles.

He could feel the boiling in his groin, with a groan he pushed his cock deep down her throat again, wet with her saliva, as white hot spurts of thick creamy cum shot straight into her belly. Pulling back, he allowed the member to continue shooting into her mouth, her throat swallowing and inhaling the spurting milk. What she was unable to swallow, poured in rivets out the corner of her mouth, running down the side of her neck. He pulled his dripping member out of her mouth, cum covered her tongue, still oozing out through her lips. He rubbed the slimy helmet across her lips and cheeks, spreading the white, hot thick texture all over her face. He wiped the beads of perspiration of his forehead. Never in all his years had he cum like that. She was still groaning and twisting on the pallets. It had to be uncomfortable, but she didn’t seem to care.

He helped her off the pallet, his mind reeling from the sight. Cum covered her face from hairline to chin, dripping off in globs on her chest. He reached in his pocked handed her his handkerchief.

She straightened out her skirt and looked up at him with those blazing eyes.

“Are you married?”

“Not anymore, babe.”

He turned around, walking out of the alley. She didn’t see the grin on his face.

Well, that is how John met his second wife. They both became regulars at “The Pub.” And the funny thing is, he never ever called her “bitch” again.