Wiced Game

This is for the St. Patrick's "Legends Day" event dealing with the "Wicked Game" song by Chris Isaak. Sorry that the title of my story is so unoriginal; I hope that the story itself isn't.

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I wasn't surprised that I got the job as a bartender at a very high end establishment which, for simplicity and anonymity, I'll call "Thigh End," because I'm a good looking broad with many female physical virtues. I wasn't an expert mixologist but good enough to get by especially since the male clientele loved to "mansplain" things to me when I had questions about one exotic drink or another.

But I wasn't at Thigh End to make a lot of money -- I could make more doing other things -- nor to increase my knowledge of mixology. Rather I had made vows to my husband, who didn't like the last place that I worked, and I didn't want to break them.

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I had been working at Thigh End for about a week when I first saw Jayson Williams. He was a well-known figure in our city -- maybe you could even call him a minor celebrity -- although not with the best reputation. He is big and rugged looking and had on an expensive suit and shoes and a tie that alone must have cost $200. All the women in the venue seemed to have their eyes on him at one time or another.

I expected him to be difficult -- maybe even nasty or rude -- when he broke away from his companions and moseyed up to the bar. I paused for a couple of seconds before going over to him; rather than the scowl on his face that I suspected he had a smile. "Hi, I'm Jayson Williams," he said, extending his hand, "you must be new here -- I haven't seen you before."

I shook his hand with what I hoped was a cold fish handshake -- I hate when I receive one and I hoped that he hated it too, but it didn't seem to faze him. "I'm Virginia Masters," I said, using my maiden name as my surname rather than my married one -- which is "Payne."

"Nice to meet you, Virginia; have you been a bartender long?"

"Not really; I've recently switched professions Mr. Williams."

"Please call me Jayson; what were you before, a fashion model?"

I fake smiled at that. Actually I had been a bikini model between the ages of 18 and 23, but from the time that I was 24 until the present -- at age 29 -- I had been in real estate. I didn't think that my real estate firm was half bad and it paid well, but my husband Bryce detested it. He really didn't like it that I often got hit on by sleazebags including the owners of the company. I could handle them but Bryce didn't like me to have to deal with their lasciviousness. It was to honor Bryce that I went to work at Thigh End.

After Jayson chatted me up a bit I forestalled any more conversation -- I didn't want to become chummy with him, at least not just yet -- and said "What can I get you -- Jayson?"

"I would like a Sazerac," he grinned.

I had never heard that word before. "Sorry Mr....I mean Jayson, but I've never heard of that drink. Have you had it here in the past?"

"Probably not," he laughed. "The last few bartenders here weren't that experienced -- and of course not nearly as good-looking as you are -- but Manger," Harold Manger is the owner of Thigh End, "told me that he'd get the ingredients."

"Well then I'll look up the recipe on my phone and make it for you and bring it to your table," I smiled, "Although it may take a while because two waitresses have just placed orders," I continued, nodding over to the side where -- ta da -- two waitresses had just placed orders at the other end of the bar.

"No problem," he smiled, "Whenever you get around to it Virginia," and then he went back to the table he had been sitting at with three male friends. I wondered why he had come up to the bar rather than ordering his drink through a waitress which is what it appeared his companions had done.

I quickly filled the standard orders from the waitresses and then looked up "Sazerac" on my iPhone. I found it under "Manly drinks" and noted that it included cognac, absinthe, Peychaud's bitters, and sugar, and that it is prepared in an unusual way. I guess Williams was telling the truth about Manger ordering fixings for a Sazerac because when I looked in the drawer of specialty ingredients I found Peychaud's bitters there -- something that I had never even heard of before.

It took a while to make up the Sazerac but fortunately the other bartender -- Raymond -- came back from his break so he could fill the outstanding waitress' orders and I could deliver Williams his drink.

As I approached Williams' table the younger guy sitting to his right was really eyeballing me. When I placed the drink down on the table in front of Williams he smiled and said "Thanks Virginia -- it looks good and in exactly the right type of glass too."

"My pleasure, Jayson," I smiled.

"Nice ass," the young man said as he leered.

Jayson swatted him on the back of his head and growled "Watch your language and be respectful Jerry. Now apologize to Virginia."

Suitable chastised Jerry mumbled "Sorry, Virginia."

I just kept the same smile that I had brought to the table, didn't even acknowledge the apology, and strutted back to the bar. I "might" have wiggled my ass as I did so because -- well because I do have a nice ass.

Even though Thigh End is a high end place I had come to expect comments like the one from Jerry especially since Manger made me wear a "uniform" that was probably closer to what a Las Vegas showgirl would wear rather than what a typical bartender in a respectable U. S. Midwestern city would (he also insisted that I not wear my engagement and wedding rings). What surprised me was not the "Nice ass" comment but that Jayson legitimately chastised his companion for it. That was very unexpected given what I knew about Jayson.

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As the weeks with me working at Thigh End went by I learned a lot about bartending, my co-workers were pleasant, and most of the customers at least weren't rude although comments like Jerry's were directed at me at least a couple of times a night. It wasn't even as bad as when I worked as a bikini model or at the real estate firm that my husband Bryce hated, so I didn't really have any workplace issues.

Jayson Williams had always been a regular at Thigh End and came even more often once I started working there. Every time that he came in he sought me out for a conversation. He even invited me to his table when I was on break, something that Manger not only didn't frown upon but encouraged. Whenever Jayson and I interacted he never said a cruel or crude thing to me, nor did he leer at me like a significant percentage of our male customers did. He also exhibited a quick wit.

While I didn't let on, I didn't enjoy interacting with Jayson Williams as much as most any other woman would have. I mean he was good-looking, smart, rich, and charming; but I had made vows to Bryce and I wanted to keep them. Therefore when I started having weird sexual thoughts about Jayson I didn't like that. I remembered the words to the song "Wicked Game," one of my favorites, that seemed appropriate for this situation: "It's strange what desire will make foolish people do; I never dreamed that I'd meet somebody like you!... No I don't want to fall in love with you!"

I was starting to wonder if Jayson's reputation wasn't accurate; that he really was as charming as he seemed to be. However, I tried to push those thoughts aside because I had made my vows to Bryce and I'm someone of my word.

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After Jayson had been coming into Thigh End for about three months and I was regularly impressed by how charming he was, the next logical thing happened; he asked me out to dinner. I had been expecting that and by then had mixed feelings but decided to go. I wasn't working on a Sunday night when Jayson picked me up at Thigh End -- where I had been working that afternoon. I had changed from my bar "uniform" to a classy but still revealing long blue dress with a side slit up almost to my panties.

Jayson was charming at dinner, but afterward when he invited me back to his penthouse apartment he was more demanding than charming. Still I went with him. Even though I did remember my vows to my husband Bryce in the elevator on the way up I had second thoughts. Somehow clutching my purse settled me down, however.

When we got into his penthouse Jayson had a personality change. He got very handsy very quickly. It wasn't long before he had my dress off and was rubbing his hands all over my body. I found out that he was even stronger than he appeared to be, especially when he removed his shirt and his bulging muscles revealed themselves.

At that point in time I realized that resistance would be futile -- and also counterproductive -- so I let him have his way with me. When he carried me to his bed, however, I made sure to take my purse with me even though my clothes were in a big pile in his living room.

Jayson seemed to really enjoy eating my pussy; despite my vows to Bryce since I was essentially helpless at this point I saw no reason not to get some physical pleasure out of the situation even if Jayson had revealed his true rapist-like colors. I didn't try to suppress the oral orgasm he inflicted on me, and that really seemed to spur him on. When I recovered from my orgasm and he was looming over me with a diabolical grin I saw that his cock was oversized. It was the biggest I had ever seen live, not just length but girth.

To put myself in the best position I played along. "Fuck me Jayson, but let me be on top -- your cock is too big if I don't control the penetration."

He liked that -- don't all guys, even wanna-be rapists, like flattery.

H rolled onto his back and I mounted him. I had this need (for many reasons) to fuck him delirious. I held his cock upright while I slowly impaled myself on it. It was tough going, but felt good physically. He really appeared to like it since he was grunting in pleasure and calling me all sorts of dirty names that seemed to turn him on. Finally his cock was essentially completely buried in my pussy, and I really felt full.

Once my pussy was full of cock I started bouncing up and down, my tits flopping as I did so. Jayson seemed to tremendously like how vigorous my movements were, as well as how my flopping tits felt in his hands. I knew that he wasn't going to last long once I started pulsing my pc muscles since the girth of his cock would cause my pulsing to have a more dramatic effect on a cock than as at any other time in my history.

I was right. Once I started squeezing and releasing my pc muscles he lasted about a minute before voluminous spurts of seminal fluid flushed the walls of my vagina. Of course I came too -- there was no way to stop it, nor any reason to. I think that we both lost awareness for a few seconds -- maybe longer.

Once I was again almost clear-headed I pushed off of Jayson slightly and looked down at him, his cock still filling my pussy. He was groaning with a big smile on his face and with his eyes closed. While still impaled on his cock I reached for my purse -- which I had kept right next to me during our sexual gymnastics -- and pulled out the syringe.

"Say, Jayson," I said in a sing-song voice, "do you remember Lisa and Bryce Payne?"

As he opened his eyes Jayson got a very confused look on his face and despite the fact that he was still high on endorphins from me fucking him he grumbled "You mean that crazy bitch that accused me of rape and then offed herself, and her meddlesome brother?"

"Yeah that's them," I snickered as I quickly shoved the hypodermic needle into his left testicle and expelled its contents.

Of course he involuntarily bucked up when I did that, so violently that despite the fact that his cock was still in my pussy I got catapulted off of the bed. The sudden expulsion of his cock from my pussy strangely felt good and hurt like a son-of-a-bitch at the same time. Fortunately his bedroom carpet was thick and cushy so I didn't get hurt landing on it.

Jayson screamed in pain and finally pulled the hypodermic needle out of his testicle although not too carefully so there was blood all over the place. As he flopped around in pain his eyes made contact with mine and he saw the hate within them. Then the chemicals from the needle started to take effect and before he could reach me -- likely hoping to choke me to death -- he collapsed while still spasming in agony.

I took pleasure in how his death throes indicated the excruciating pain that he was in. The chemicals from the syringe, as advertised, were giving him as agonizing a death as possible. Once he stopped moving I waited a few more minutes then took his pulse to be sure that he was dead. I then picked up the syringe, put it in the plastic bag in my purse, got dressed, and walked down the stairs to the back entrance to his luxury high rise.

I knew that good CSIs could ultimately find my DNA -- and maybe even my fingerprints -- at the crime scene but neither my DNA nor fingerprints were in any database and I had already made my plans to move to Australia using the life insurance money from Bryce's death.

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The next day I went to the cemetery and knelt by Bryce's headstone, which was next to Lisa's. As I placed flowers on his grave with tears in my eyes I said "I got him, Bryce; I fulfilled my vows to you. The guy who caused your little sister Lisa to commit suicide and had you killed when you complained to the authorities is dead; and an excruciatingly painful death it was just like I promised. I won't be back to see you for a while -- I want things to calm down before I return -- but you'll be in my heart every day."

After a good cry I stood up, double-checked my travelling bag for my fake passport under the name "Rachel Watts," and my ticket to Australia with the same name, and walked to the taxi waiting for me on the interior cemetery road near Bryce's gravestone. I was starting my new life having fulfilled my promises to the love of my life to avenge his sister's rape and suicide and his death.