As I slammed the door of my car and slumped into the driver’s seat, I could literally feel something inside me snap. Tears sprang to my eyes and I began to shake. This was not only a bad day, it was one of the worst days I’d ever had. My boss had chewed me out for something that was out of my control, my favorite colleague announced she was putting in her two weeks’ notice, and my deadline for a high-stakes presentation had been unexpectedly moved up. To make things even worse, my asshole husband was fighting the terms of our upcoming divorce (as if he had any right to after the countless affairs he’d had in our 15 years of marriage), so even my personal life was in ruin.
The feelings inside me broiled as I sat and stared, unseeing, out the window. In my stillness, I got angrier and angrier, until the heat of it began to consume me and I literally saw red. I started the engine, gripped the steering wheel, and officially lost my mind. I threw the car in gear and peeled out of the parking lot, spinning my tires and jumping the curb as the tears began to overflow and stream down my cheeks. I couldn’t even think straight…I just felt the need to do something reckless, something crazy to get rid of this horrible pressure in my chest.
Sky diving? That was a thought…but a glance at the storm clouds overhead let me know that wouldn’t work. Riding a motorcycle? I didn’t know how. Reckless would quickly put me in the hospital. I could go out and run. Pounding the pavement always made me feel better…but it wasn’t wild enough.
Wild. Hmmm. To get in the right frame of mind, I realized needed to get drunk. Immediately. My car seemed to read my mind and drove itself to a swanky little bar in a trendy part of town. I paused in the parking lot to dry my tears, reapply my makeup, take my hair down, and remove my suit jacket. The silk tank I wore underneath looked just right for a bar in the absence of the jacket. I tucked a $50 bill into my bra so that I wouldn’t need to carry my purse, then reached down and removed my stockings, much preferring the feel of my bare legs under my short skirt. I slipped my feet back into my designer heels and stepped out of the car, locking my door and palming my keys. Taking a deep breath and blinking back more tears, I walked into the bar.
It was still early, and the place was mostly empty except for a few groups of college kids sitting at scattered tables. I sat at the end of the bar and caught the bartender’s eye. The very cute bartender. I was not so angry that I’d miss his tanned, well-built body and handsome face.
“What’ll it be?” he asked, walking casually over to me.
I thought for a second but came up blank. I don’t drink often and I couldn’t think of a single thing to order. “Can you just make me something strong and sweet?”
He grinned and winked at me, his deep brown eyes sparkling. “Strong and sweet is my specialty.”
That almost made me smile.
I watched him deftly mix the contents of several bottles into a large glass filled with ice, then he garnished the drink with fruit wedges. The concoction had a slightly pink tint to it and looked really good. He held it in front of me, taunting. “I need to see some ID,” he said with another grin.
I laughed at that. “Thank you. After the day I just had, it feels nice to be carded.” I reached for my drink, but he slid it out of the way.
“I’m not kidding. ID please,” he repeated.
My smile faded. “OK, seriously, my ID is in the car.”
He shrugged. “I’ll hold your drink while you run and get it.”
My anger, simmering just beneath the surface, flared up again. “Are you fucking kidding me? I’m 38 years old. Can’t you see the fucking crow’s feet next to my eyes?”
He smirked at that. “I think you look fantastic. I’m not entirely sure you’re over 21, and I’ll need to see some proof before I serve you this drink.”
I stood up violently, nearly toppling my barstool in the process, and stalked out to my car, flinging the door open and rummaging through my purse to snatch out my ID. Stomping back inside, I flung my driver’s license onto the bar. He slowly picked it up and looked at it appraisingly, raising his head from my picture to my face in a show of comparison. “Sandra Daugherty,” he mused. “Can I call you Sandy?”
“Not if you expect me to answer. Please note my birth date and give me my damn drink.”
Chuckling, he passed the glass across the bar. I grabbed it eagerly and took a gulp. It was exactly what I had asked for. The alcohol burned my throat as the fruit tickled my taste buds. The bartender watched, amused, as I sampled his creation.
“That’s good,” I said, begrudgingly admitting his talent even though I was still miffed at him.
“I’ll be glad to make you another one when you polish that one off. You look like you can use it.”
“I can definitely use it,” I said. I lifted the glass and drank more deeply in an effort to drown my anger. The alcohol seemed to mingle with the fire in my gut…but you know what alcohol does to fire. Instead of feeling better, I was beginning to feel inflamed.
The bartender slid a second drink into my hand as I was polishing off the first. I inserted a straw into that one and sucked it down quickly from the bottom up. My brain was starting to feel fuzzy, but I was lucid enough to notice that the bartender had a really nice ass and I liked the way he moved. I was beginning to have some new ideas about my dangerous act for the night, perhaps to include picking up a strange man in a bar and going home with him. That’s something I had never done before but would be willing to try.
I gestured to the bartender again. “Can I please have another…what was it again?”
He grinned at me once more, a cocky, self-assured smile. “I call it ‘Fucked by a 7 inch prick.’ As far as what’s in it, I’m sworn to secrecy. Although I have been known to reveal my secrets during the throes of passion. Obviously I can’t control what comes out of my mouth while I’m having an orgasm.”
I choked on the last bit of my drink, and he passed me a third one as he watched me struggle with an amused look on his face. Once I composed myself, I took a swig of my fresh drink and said, “What time do you get off?”
He winked at me again and said, “Sweetheart, I won’t get off until you do.”
Oh, my fucking stars. “Don’t mess with me today. I’ve had a really, really bad day, and I need to work off some steam. If you’re serious about this I will fuck you senseless as soon as you can leave the bar.” He held my gaze as I looked into his eyes, evaluating me and appearing to consider my proposition.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m really not in to older women.”
Older women! The anger flared up again. He was the one who started the flirtation, and then he has the nerve to call me “older”?! I had no idea how old he was, but definitely not that much younger that he should be considering me an “older woman.” Fuming, but determined to keep my cool, I stood up, pulled the $50 out of my bra, and tossed it on the bar.
Looking him in the eye, I calmly said, “You’re an ass,” and walked into the restroom to compose myself.
I stood in front of the sink, my head still spinning, hands shaking, and gripped the edges of the countertop. I was seeing red again, my gut burning with anger, threatening to burst something with its intensity. A silent scream crept up through my chest and clawed my throat with its fierce need to be heard, but only a gasp escaped my lips and I forced myself to blink back more impending tears. Just then the restroom door pushed open.
And in walked the bartender.
My scream found its voice. “What the hell are you doing in here? In the LADIES’ room? GET OUT!”
He smiled at me in response, an infuriating smile that made me want to slap him. “I thought you might want your change.”
“No, I don’t want the fucking change! Keep it and leave me alone!”
He set the change down on the counter, and moved away. But instead of leaving the restroom, he clicked the dead bolt in the door, locking it, and turned back to look at me.
“What are you doing?” I growled in a low voice. Ignoring the money on the counter, I moved towards the door, which he was blocking with his muscular frame.
“Calm down, Sandy,” he purred, leaning against the door and crossing his arms. Two things that made my blood boil even more. First, I hate being called Sandy. And second, my soon to be ex-husband used to tell me to calm down all the time…a condescending phrase that drove me to the brink of insanity every time he used it.
I reached over his shoulder for the dead bolt, but he grabbed my wrists and held them tightly.
“Let go of me,” I hissed through clenched teeth. But instead, he pulled my body against his and kissed me. I struggled and pulled away, backing up until I bumped into the sink, my head spinning with confusion. He just looked at me with that infuriating smirk. I balled up my fists and fought to keep myself from shaking too much as my anger grew. “You have no right to kiss me.”
“Sweetheart, I work in a bar. I see women in all kinds of moods, with all kinds of issues. I know exactly what you need. You came in here looking for something…a wild experience to take your mind off your problems. Well, I’m your guy. I can give it to you.”
“I don’t want you to give me anything,” I spat out. “Just leave me the fuck alone.”
“Can’t do that, Sandy,” he said, taunting me, moving slowly towards me. His eyes twinkled as he began to unbutton his shirt.
“What are you doing?” I gasped.
“Exactly what you want me to do,” he said. “Exactly what you need.” He stopped a few feet from me and finished unbuttoning his shirt. “Come on, Sandy. You’re a middle aged divorcee who does a mediocre job in a disappointing career. Aren’t you tired of feeling like you’re nothing special? I can make you feel special.”
Oh. My. God. I gripped the edge of the sink and squeezed so hard I thought my knuckles would break. “What makes you think you know anything about me? Or that you can talk that way about me? I’m a financial analyst for the U.S. Treasury, and I’m damn good at my job. You’re a fucking bartender. You probably don’t have a college degree at all. I have three. How dare you tell me I’m mediocre!” As I was lashing out in my mini-tirade, he was stealthily moving towards me until he was mere inches away. I looked him in the eye, stone-faced, refusing to flinch.
“Are you finished with the bullshit?” he asked. “Because if you are, I’d like to fuck you now. I know you’ve been wanting that since you walked into this bar. I can spot a slut in heat a mile away.”
Lightning quick, I slapped his face with one hand, reached out and raked my fingernails down his chest with the other, leaving a shallow trail of blood that didn’t even seem to phase him. He reached his hands around me and grabbed the sides of my panties, ripping them down the seam and tearing them off. Incensed that he was now destroying my clothes, I tried to push him away, but he caught my hands and pinned them at my sides, then leaned in to kiss me. I bit his bottom lip and he gasped, but then grabbed me tighter and kissed me harder.
Alcohol, anger, stress and adrenaline create a strange cocktail of sensations. I couldn’t separate my fury from my arousal, which was growing by the second as this stranger manhandled me. Then he started to talk dirty to me, which pissed me off even more because I couldn’t stop myself from being turned on.
He hiked my leg up, holding it against his hip, and stepped in closer to me. “You want me, don’t you? You want my cock? It’s hard and thick and pulsing for you right now. Tell me you want it.”
“Fuck you. I don’t want anything from you,” I said. I heard my voice speaking the words, but I knew they weren’t true. At that moment I wanted him more than anything I’d ever wanted in my life. But I’d be damned if I was going to admit it.
“You said it. Fuck you. You want me to fuck you?” As he spoke, he unbuttoned his jeans with one hand and slid them down. He wasn’t wearing underwear, and his cock sprung up between us. He wasn’t lying when he said it was hard and thick, and his drink was probably named after the seven inches that was now pressing against my thigh.
I clamped my lips together, not trusting my voice to pass through them, fearing my words would betray me by letting my true desires slip out. Instead, I glared at him, hatred shooting from my eyes.
“I know, baby. You want it, but you don’t want to admit it, because that would mean you really are a slut, and you don’t like that word, do you? I think you know that deep down you want to fuck strange men in bars, but you’re pissed off because you know what that makes you. A dirty slut.” As he spoke to me, he began to rub the tip of his cock against my pussy. Against my will, I was already wet, and his cock was soon slippery with my juices.
He lifted me up and sat me on the counter, which put me at the perfect height for him to slide his cock into me, and I really, really wanted him to. But of course he couldn’t do it without talking about it, and my fury continued to grow.
“Here it comes, Sandy. It’s big, isn’t it? Are you used to cocks this big? Do you think it will hurt? You want it to hurt, don’t you? I don’t think you’ve been hurt enough in this department. I’ll help out there. I’ll fuck you til you can’t walk anymore. Are you ready?” he asked, looking into my eyes.
“Fuck you,” I gasped.
“Gladly,” he responded, and with one hard thrust he rammed all 7” of his cock into me, grabbing my ass and pulling me towards him to ensure he got all the way in. I screamed. It did hurt. He lifted my other leg and held it up on his other hip, then hooked his arms under my knees so my legs were resting on his upper arms. He pressed down on my thighs to spread them farther apart as he continued to thrust brutally into me over and over.
“Oh my God,” I breathed. He grinned at me.
“You love this don’t you, my little slut?” He waited for an answer, but I didn’t give him one, so he paused for a minute, mid-thrust. “Want me to stop?”
NO, that’s not what I wanted, but I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of hearing me beg. He stroked into me again, barely, slowly. My hips betrayed me and rose to meet him, but he subtly pulled away from me, not allowing me any satisfaction. “I want you to say it,” he breathed in my ear. “Say you love this. Say you love my big cock. Say you love the way I fuck you.”
“I’m not saying shit to you. If you want to stop, then stop. I don’t even care.” I called his bluff. I didn’t think he could stop. He was as much into this as I was.
He pulled his cock out of me and stepped away from the counter, starting to pull up his pants.
“Are you fucking kidding me? Get over here and screw me. I need your cock. I want you to fuck me until I can’t remember the bad day I had…until I forget my asshole husband…until I feel so good I can’t help screaming your name. Wait, what is your name?”
He smiled at me and came forward again, lifting me off the counter and turning me around.
“My name is irrelevant. You’re not interested in me anyway. We’d never go on a real date. You just want to use my body and get whatever it is you’re craving. And I’m ok with that.”
“You’re right. That’s all I want. You’re nothing to me. You're just the bartender at this place I stopped to drink away one of the worst days of my life. So, yes, I want you to fuck me…hard…and don’t stop until I tell you to.” I placed my hands on the counter and leaned forward. He kicked one of my legs to the side, spreading my legs even more, then brutally drove his cock back into me from behind.
“FUCK!” I yelled out, then all I could do was pant because he was drilling me with such speed and enthusiasm that I was sure I must be bruising all over down there. I grabbed the countertop with one hand, fingered my clit with the other, and enjoyed the sensation of this fabulous cock pistoning into me.
I felt my anger subsiding...no, not subsiding, evolving...into an explosion of sexual excitement.
Finally I sensed that elusive orgasm...the hot, pulsing conclusion that I so desperately craved after the shit of the day. I didn't even try to hold back. "Oh, God...I'm cumming...don't you fucking stop, keep drilling me just like that...ohhhhhhhh..." My whole body shuddered in a series of explosions that completely rocked me, and I lost my grip on the countertop, falling forward onto it. He increased his speed and began to gasp along with his strokes as his own climax neared. Suddenly, he pulled out of me. I looked in the mirror in time to see him aim his cock and shoot his cum into my hair.
As if my day weren't bad enough...now I had sticky white cum to work out of my hair. I turned slowly to face my bartender, who had already pulled up his jeans and moved towards the door. He gave me another one of those cocky smiles and winked at me.
"The next time you have a bad day, come back here and I'd be glad to piss you off again."
Then he walked away.
Scowling, I grabbed a paper towel, wet it, and leaned towards the mirror, attempting to work the gunk out of my hair. I felt like I should be angry, and I searched for that furious spark to catch hold of...but I couldn't find it. I was left with a peaceful feeling of fulfillment, and I smiled a little as I resolved to come back soon for another “Fuck with a 7 inch prick”.
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