The Bar 52

The following very dark story has themes of misogyny, non-consent sex, humiliation, abuse and other dark themes. If such content offends you, please do not read. This is an erotic FICTION story not meant as any sort of gender, political or societal protest. This is purely for entertainment and never meant to happen in reality. If you have issues with such kinks, please do not read.

"Sarah...this...will be fun," I tell myself hopefully as I pick the last barstool at the bar to sit at. With a nervous aura surrounding me, I hop on the tall stool, my head held high as if I belong here.

As I sit here, I go through all the reasons why I shouldn't stick out. I'm 22 female after all, of legal drinking age. I've had many drinks before, so it's not like I'm a newbie or don't know how it'll hit me. And I am dressed nicely but conservatively, letting everyone know I am a professional.

Sure, this is a dive bar that I've never been to, but it's not like they will know I don't belong or anything. Or should I say, that I feel that I don't belong. Of course, legally and whatnot I very much belong here or at any bar. It's just that weird self-esteem lacking part of me that makes me feel different.

I sit on the barstool patiently, pretending to look at the football game that's playing on a TV that's secured on the wall. When I remember that most women don't really care for sports, I turn away, thinking it'll bring unwanted attention. That people will know that I don't belong if I watch. Afterall, my goal is to have a few drinks, seem like I belong here and go home. That's all I need to do.

"What's ya having hun?" The female bartender asks as she walks up to me on her side of the bar. She has a very tired of life sort of vibe about her, like she's been ready to go home since five years ago. I'm not sure of her age, but if I had to guess I would say she is in her mid to late forties. There's an aura of sternness about her, like a mother or teacher that you know not to cross. Makes sense really, she probably has to deal with a lot of man-babies day in and day out.

"C-Cosmo please," I request in my most confident tone. The woman grunts her not impressed reply and turns her back to me to start the drink. I then watch as she pulls a martini glass from the shelf behind her, dusting it off before she does, making it seem like this isn't a drink that gets requested often. It's now I see most everyone else has a beer bottle of some sort as their drink.

"Don't worry Sarah, you are ok," I remind myself as the feeling of being out of place gets stronger. It's ok. I'm sure plenty of people order non-beer drinks here. It doesn't mean anything. Just that you are a booze-snob.

I find myself watching the TV again, probably because it's the only thing in here moving. I turn from it and look around, scanning the five to seven people that are currently in this dive. Much like the bartender, they all have a haggard vibe about them, like life is a constant fight day in and day out. It wouldn't surprise me if every single person here gets drunk each night to deal with life.

A few moments later, I receive my drink, which is plopped down in front of me in a rather blunt manner. It's as if the bartender is saying "here's your damn drink, bitch," without saying the words. This doesn't help my nervousness any, especially as she immediately turns and walks off. There's no requesting money or starting a tab. Almost like the bartender doesn't want the hassle of talking to me.

"It's fine. You are just being paranoid," I tell myself as I take a sip of my drink. I instantly tense a little as the drink seems to be 99% straight booze and 1% favor. It's the strongest drink I think I've ever had, and I've taken tons of shots.

I'm being stupid and I know it, but coming to this dive is something I just had to do. Something I need to do. It's to prove to myself that I'm not the scared little girl my friends, no, the world thinks I am. Sure, it's one of the scariest things I've ever done, but I'll overcome this. I'll prove to everyone, including myself, that I'm not a scared little girl.

Last night my friends and I went to "Wallz Shotz," which is a rather fancy bar in Uptown. It was a normal night out for us, where we joke and talk about the week. We do this to blow off stream and have a good time.

For some reason, one of the topics last night was, well, me. They sort of let me have it about my timid and scared nature. They pointed out that I only go out if one of them goes with me, that I would never dare go to anything alone, even the library. That at heart I was a bit of a coward.

The night got worse and worse as they kept on going as if it had been building for a while. They even said how I was a Karen-in-making as I wanted people to wait on me anywhere I go. I told them this wasn't true, but they laughed. They laughed and joked how I would never go to a dive bar with horrible service, or one that hasn't been reviewed dozens of times.

The truth is that they are right. I am a rather timid woman that gets scared of new experiences. I like to have someone with me that knows what they are doing or what to do. Someone I can, I dunno, be told what to do if something goes wrong. When I'm alone, I never know what to do.

That's why I'm here at this weird bar. It's a dive bar that's about 2 miles from my house. A bar I've past over and over again, swearing never to go in as it looks like a serial killers hangout from the outside. But it's a place that can prove I am not a Karen that needs to be pampered all the time.

Today I'm going to prove I'm not a scaredy cat that needs someone to save me. That I can and will go to new places alone, and will have a good time. I've even made sure my cell tracks that I'm here so I can prove that I really did come here by myself. I'm even hoping to get a few selfies, hopefully with a stranger or two to prove how much courage I have.

Only issue is, I'm scared shitless. I really am scared out of my mind right now. I just, I dunno, it feels like I really don't belong here. I'm a college girl in her final year, ready to take on life. I'm bright and happy while this place seems dark and grimy and filled with low class manual labor workers that dropped out in 8

th

grade. There couldn't be a larger difference. This is the sort of place they have in movies where barfights happen.

"Ok. Why are you here?" The bartender asks, sounding rather upset. I hear her say this before I see her, making me think she must be talking to someone else. I'm then shocked to find that she's talking and looking right at me. She stands in a tense and aggressive stance, looking almost like she's pissed.

"I...I'm sorry?" I ask, very confused. The blond bartender's blue eyes continue to stare at me with a hardened look, like they think I'm messing with her. They reveal a woman that's probably been in more than one knife fight and enjoyed it.

"You heard me. Why the fuck are you here? This ain't Hipster Central, or wherever you people go. So why you here?" the bartender asks, no, demands, spitting out the word "Hipster."

My heart begins to beat much faster at this, as I was both expecting and not expecting something like this to happen. What makes this really scary is the bartender looks so mad, so offended by me...but she's female. Not sure why that makes a difference, but it does.

Oh shit, the drink. I hadn't been drinking it. She must be pissed about that. That I've offended her by not drinking.

I take the stem of my glass and take a nice long sip of it, trying to work past how strong it is. The drink burns as it goes down, warming my entire body as it settles in my stomach in a hardened manner. After this sip, I attempt a smile.

"I..I wanted to check the place out. I drive by a lot but never been in," I tell her, my voice soft and weak, showing how scared I am. What I say is true, but I doubt this woman will fall for it.

"

Bullshit

," the bartender says as if it was a curse. She then lifts a wagging finger at me, much in the way a schoolteacher would do it for a little kid that is being a little shit.

"I think you are here to make fun of my bar. To put your review on 'Bitches Who Review Shit,' or whatever those sites are called," the bartender accuses. And I do mean accuse. To look at her, you might think I put a negative review on every site ever created just to insult her.

"

What

?! No! I swear. I'm just here for a drink or two, I swear. Nothing more. I wasn't going to review, I swear," I say, my voice high pitched as my fear level is reaching extremely high levels.

"See!" I proclaim, pulling out my cell and unlocking it. I turn the screen to her to show that I have no apps open, not even the camera.

The bartender snatches my cell out of my hand and then looks down at it, as if never seeing a cell before. I have to hold back how when I review, I take lots of pictures, so if I don't have the camera on, I won't be reviewing anything.

Trying to look like I belong, I take another sip of my drink as she looks at the screen. Once again the booze burns going down, but at least it is getting easier. Sadly, I believe I'm already tipsy from the way my head feels.

"OH! I see," the bartender states as she puts my cell down on the bar, but it's clear she still thinks I have some other motive. That my only reason for being here is to mess with her.

"You came here to fish for drinks? Hoping some of the drunk locals would see your pretty tits and throw free booze at you?" The bartender accuses, her face hardening again in anger.

As scared as I am at this, I don't get why she would be upset at this. Afterall, wouldn't she be making money if this was the case? What does she care if everyone here purchased a drink for me? She'd be making a hell of a lot of money. Or is it that they normally buy her the drinks?

"No! I swear I'm not, I'm here-" I say, needing to convince her of the truth. That this has nothing to do with her bar at all. That me coming in here is only about me.

"Shut up!" The bartender growls loudly, making everyone in the place turn and look. My face burns very red at this as it feels like the world is staring at me. The place seems to go quiet as well, making it very clear that I'm the center of attention. And in a move that makes me feel pathetically stupid, I close my mouth as I was about to continue my explanation.

"Get your tits out,

now

," the bartender demands while glaring at me. To this, I blink a few times, sure that I misheard her. For it sounded like she said she "get your tits out." No way anyone would demand this, especially a woman. That's just something people don't do. I mean, it's illegal in any case.

"I'm sorry, what?" I ask, confused. I find myself taking another sip of my drink out of pure need. Like it is the water that a thirsty man crawled over the desert for. Only it's to help steady me.

Yet, by looking at the fire behind the woman's eyes, I can tell I didn't mishear her. The look she gives me is as cold as ice. A look of utter hate and resentment. And it is directed right at me like I did something personal to her.

"You heard me you little bitch. I'm tired of young little whores like you, thinking just cause they got titties, they can shake 'em and get whatever you want in my bar. Well not today you little bitch. Today is payback," the bartender states. As she talks, she gets more upset.

"Can I help any of you assholes?!" The bartender then suddenly turns and yells at the rest of the bar who are all staring at what is happening. Instantly the gruff men turn and pretend to go back to whatever they were doing. One of them at the pool table then hits a ball as fast as he can, only it's not the cue ball.

This does nothing to help my intense fear as some of these guys are twice as big as she is, but are clearly scared of her. They immediately do as she wants, not questioning it at all. At any bar I go to, there would be lots of arguing and complaining, but not with her.

"Now, listen close hipster bitch," the bartender says leaning over the bar. She stares me in the eye with a look that seems to threaten.

"Get those tits out. You know you were going to show them at some point to get a free drink. So get them out. Show the fucking world your fat whore tits," the bartender demands, now talking in a calm and steady tone which is even more terrifying.

"I...I'll just go," I tell the bartender, my voice barely even able to be heard by myself. A cold wave of fear has engulfed my body, making it feel like it'll be impossible to move off this seat. That if I scream as hard as I could, no one three feet away could hear it.

"Take those tits out, or I'll do it for you," the bartender warns with a finality in her voice that shows she isn't to be messed with.

"I...I..." I stammer, not knowing what to do. As I say these non-words, the bartender stares at me like this is a standoff. Where she is prepared to fly at me if I make a move that she doesn't like. She is truly the most terrifying sight I've ever seen. And now I know I should have just told my friends they were right, and I'm just a cowardly bitch rather than to ever come in this place.

My body feels cold and stiff with all my energy sinking to my feet and into a puddle under me. I feel trapped by her eyes, where any movement I make will be my end. It's just she seems so fierce, so dangerous, so...powerful. I don't want to do this, but I don't think I have a choice.

"Good. Seems stupid little bitches can at least listen," the bartender says, standing straight and backing up some. The anger and fury she had seems to lighten, confusing me. She then turns to one of the coolers where she begins to break ice.

Very confused by this abrupt change, I look down. I feel the color drain out of my face even more as I see my breasts fully exposed. Not just that, but my hands are pulling down my top at the neckline as well as my bra, showing I'm the one that's exposing myself. That I just pulled my tits out in this old, creepy run down dive bar.

For several long moments I stare at my exposed breasts, where they look much larger than they normally are. I've always been a top heavy girl, even if the rests of me is sort of, well, skinny. Back in high school a popular name for me was 'tits on a stick," but that was mostly from a bunch of flat bitches and guys I wouldn't give any time too. Yet now, my breasts look far larger than I ever have seen them. Where my normal FF chest looks to be several cup sizes larger.

Finally I seem to come back to my senses. The cold fog lifts, allowing me access to my hands and body. In a flash, I feel all of my body, from the way the stool feels on my ass to the cold air on my breasts. It brings me back to life somewhat, letting me feel that this isn't a dream.

Gasping at my own cowardice, my hands pull my top and bra out, preparing to put them right and cover myself. Believe it or not, I'm not the type of girl that goes around flashing people. Not even during Mardi Gras. I can honestly say I don't have any experience on the proper way to flash or show your boobs. Nor am I experienced in putting my top back the way it should be after doing such an act.

"You put them away and we have ourselves a problem," the bartender warns. At this threat I look at her as she's down the bar, leaning over the cooler full of ice, not even looking at me. The tone in her voice scares me. It lets me know that if there is a knife nearby, she probably wouldn't mind using it on me. Yeah, I know that is probably not the case, but it is how I feel. Like she's been waiting to teach someone like me a lesson for being, well, me and not her.

Feeling as if this is a bad dream or different dimension, I let go of my top and bra. When I do, they snap back, landing on the bottom side of my breasts, making sure they stay exposed. I jump a little at the short, snapping pain, but go red faced as I feel the tiny jiggle my tits make from the small blow. And like an idiot, I keep my hands out as I don't know where to put them. I don't want to lower them as it'll make me feel even more exposed, but where else can I put them?

Staring forward, I try to tell myself that this isn't happening. That I'm not sitting in this horrid dive bar with my tits out. Where anyone can turn and look at me. Worse of all, I feel my tits literally resting on the bar. They are so large and heavy that they rest there, as if being presented to the bartender.

This can't be happening. This can't be real. Stuff like this doesn't happen. Well, it does, but not to people like me. This happens to, well, whores, and victims and stupid people and girls who do BangBus and crap videos like that. To dumb bitches that don't have any common sense. To scaredy cats and idiots and girls that should know better.

Oh gosh, that's me, isn't it?

Everything I just described...is me. I should have never come here. I am far too scared and easily intimidated to stand up for myself, especially in a weird, evil place like this. And now, I'm showing my breasts as some weird cosmic punishment.

Still in my thick daze, I grab my drink and take a long sip of it. In fact, I drink all of it, hoping it'll help me get out of this. This time I don't really feel the harsh sting of the booze but I do feel my head swimming, making this feel more and more like a bad dream.

As I sit here, I stare forward, not really looking at anything. It's like I'm in my own private hell now, where I can feel eyes on me and thoughts in heads. Only it's not from people in the bar, but the entire planet. Where everyone knows what I got myself into and is shaking their head.

Unable to help it, I turn my head to look at the bar as a whole. To see if anyone really is looking at me as I sit in this corner, my breasts exposed. With my breasts plopped right on the bar as the bartender goes about her daily chores.

To my great surprise, no one looks. The others in the bar, who are all men, are busy in their own worlds. They play pool, sit at their own tables and talk to each other. None are seeing this. And I think I know why. Despite being out in the open, where I am sitting is a bit in shadow. There's no light overhead, so I am covered in the dimmest of lighting.

My eyes meet the bartender's who is stacking glasses as if preparing for a happy hour customer rush. She seems as if she had forgotten me, but when she spotted that I was looking at her, her attention goes to me.

"Go head and put your hands behind you. Otherwise, you ain't gonna learn," the bartender tells me in her strange stern tone. At this, I groan, as this horrid situation is going bad to worse.

In a surprising move, the bartender takes my empty glass and replaces it with a new drink, only this one has a straw in it. A straw so I can still drink even if my hands are behind me. And from the looks of it, it's another Cosmo.

In my daze, I do as I'm told, moving both of my hands behind my back. I let my wrists touch as I place them there, not fully understanding why I am doing this. I should be secretly calling the cops if my cell wasn't still on the bar in front of me. Or at the very least trying to plan my escape from this place. But no. My brain screams that this is what I'm supposed to do. To put my hands behind me and make sure there's nothing possible blocking her view of my breasts.

Feeling utterly humiliated and pathetic, I lean forward and take the straw in my mouth. After I take the second gulp of the new drink, feeling the same harshness of the booze, making me wonder if she's spiked the drink. If she just drugged me so I can be gangbanged until next week.

I would not be surprised if she did drug me, but I don't think she did. Something about her tells me she wants me clear minded. Not for any altruistic purpose, but so I can fully experience whatever fresh hell she has planned. She wants me to feel all of the punishments she has planned.