The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The Bartender—Chapter 1

Trisha blinked twice as she walked through the saloon-style doors. She smiled slightly as they swung back and forth, enjoying the ‘clunk, clunk, clunk’ sound that they made.

Other than the noise of the doors swaying and the light hum of the fridge behind the bar, the room was completely silent. Even Trisha’s flats didn’t make a noise as she walked across the wooden floorboards. The demure woman was dressed in a knee-length skirt which served to conceal most of her attractive bare legs, and a cardigan on top of her shirt that masked her almost-total lack of breasts.

Odd, she thought. I didn’t know that real bars had doors like that—I thought it was just a movie thing.

It wasn’t surprising that Trisha was unaware of what a real bar should contain—the closest she’d ever gotten to one was the occasional Cheers re-runs she’d caught on television. A mother of one who had married straight out of high-school (and fallen pregnant shortly after) she’d never even had a drink, aside from one glass of wine she’d been offered at a dinner party.

Unsure of what had compelled her to enter the empty bar, Trisha walked over to the bartender. “Kent”, his name-tag read. He was standing directly between her and the bar’s mirror, blocking the view of her own shoulder-length brown hair and light, tasteful make-up as she sat down.

Trisha ordered a glass of wine, and after admiring the skill with which the bartender poured it, found herself staring at a drink that she didn’t really want, wondering what she was doing sitting in the dim room at 3PM on a Monday afternoon.

Her brain couldn’t supply an answer, so after a few seconds of awkward silence, Trisha picked the glass up and took a sip.

Well, she thought, when in Rome...

Countless movies had taught Trisha that the man behind the bar was the perfect confidant—she opened her mouth to share her problems with the bartender, but nothing came out.

The trouble, she immediately realized, was that she didn’t really have any problems to share. The middle-aged woman had been on her way home from dropping a box of goods to her local church when she’d decided to stop and get a drink, and she didn’t have to pick her 19-year old daughter Julia up for more than an hour.

Trisha’s life wasn’t perfect, but she’d been happily married for almost twenty years, Julia was a perfect daughter and a model student, and Trisha had nothing that really required advice.

What a problem to have, she thought with a smile. Seems like a wasted opportunity, really.

Just as Trisha had decided to finish her drink and be on her way, the bartender spoke for the first time.

“Looks like there’s something on your mind,” he said in a slow Southern drawl, further reinforcing the accuracy of filmic bar scenes to Trisha.

As soon as he spoke, Trisha realized that he was correct—she’d been lying to herself about having a perfect life. Before she could share what she’d come in to discuss, however, he continued.

“Let me guess—it’s about the cheating.”

Trisha gasped at the bartender’s astute guess. For as long as she could remember, she’d been cheating on her husband Roger. It wasn’t even as if she was unsatisfied at home—her and Roger had regular intercourse...sure, it had slowed down the longer they’d been married, but for any normal woman, it would have been perfectly satisfactory.

But Trisha, she’d realized over the years, was no ordinary woman. There was something about the rush she got from cheating that nothing else could compete with—since she’d entered the bar, she had been checking Kent out, wondering if he had a back room they could sneak into, wondering if his penis was proportionately as thick and veiny as his neck.

Twice in an hour would have been a new record too, she’d realized; after dropping the goods off to the church, she’d taken the teenaged volunteer working there out into the back room and given him the ride of a lifetime.

“Gosh,” she’d cried out as he pounded into her. “Gosh, this is excellent! Oh my word, yes! Please continue to have intercourse with me!”

(Though she cheated at the drop of a hat, Trisha’s religious upbringing had taught her that bad language was uncivilized, and even in the heat of adulterous passion, she couldn’t bring herself to swear.)

Trisha loved her husband, but she somehow didn’t feel complete unless she was engaged in the taboo act of cheating. It would crush poor Roger if he knew, she realized that, but she couldn’t bring herself to stop. She’d tried, once, but her will had been broken the first time a new delivery-man rang her doorbell. Roger was just destined to live the life of a cuckold, unaware of it though he was.

“How did you know?” she asked the man behind the bar, sipping her wine in worry. He was polishing a glass, and she stared at it, wondering why he continued to clean it even though it was obviously spotless.

“With a top like that, I could tell you were looking for action.” he replied slowly, taking the time to enunciate each word.

Oh good, it’s working she thought with a broad grin upon her face. She broke her eyes away from the man’s cloth, running over every inch of the glass over and over, and checked out her own cleavage.

She’d been generously endowed since she was a teen, but it wasn’t until she’d discovered the joys of cheating that she’d really begun to advertise the fact. Now it was rare for her to leave the house with anything that didn’t show off as much of her breasts as possible.

For her thirty-fifth birthday, she’d bought herself implants. She’d told Roger it was for his benefit, and he’d lapped it up, but the true recipient of the gift had been herself...and the hundreds of men who had gotten their hands on them since then.

Her new front seemed to defy gravity, and she only ever bothered with a bra when it served to further emphasize her chest-puppies.

“I’m glad you noticed,” she said with a saucy smile, intending to look up at the bartender’s face and see if he had that intense “I want to make love to you now” look that she so often saw on men’s faces. For some reason though, when her gaze reached his hands, she stopped there, and continued to stare as he polished the already-gleaming glass.

“Well, it looks like you’re cheating plenty, but ain’t hidin’ no bad feelings about it.” the bartender drawled, and pausing to spit on the glass in his hands. Trisha wasn’t sure that was hygienic, but didn’t want to tell the man how to do his job. “So what brings you in here today?”

Tricia searched her brain, trying to remember why she’d come in to unload upon the stranger, but came up blank. She was genuinely happy with her life—her ample bosom helped ensure that she had a regular line-up of men to make love to, and Roger didn’t suspect a thing. She’d come to terms with it long ago, and no longer even felt an inkling of guilt as she slept with strangers, even taking them home and cheating in her marital bed whenever she could.

As she was thinking, the bartender continued to stare at her, and just as she was going to admit that there was nothing wrong, he once more spoke for her.

“Unless you’ve realized that men alone don’t do it for you any more...”

Trisha’s face burned red. It was as if the bartender knew her better than she did—she’d tried to hide it for so long, even from herself, but it was true. She’d performed oral sex on more men than she could remember, and spread her legs to engage in sexual intercourse with even more, but she’d never been with a woman.

Though not super-religious, Trisha’s moral compass was still based on the tenets of the church she went to, and they’d made it abundantly clear that homosexuality was forbidden. But just recently, she’d grown tired of the status quo—she’d seen so many erections that it was impossible for a new one to surprise her, and she longed for that raw feeling of something new, something that she’d never seen before.

She was in a sexual rut, even with the thrills that cheating brought her, and she knew that the only way she could get out of it was to be with a woman. Any woman.

Trisha hung her head in shame, while never taking her eyes off the glass in Kent’s hand, and murmured a response.

“Whassat?” the bartender asked, annoyed, and Trisha repeated herself.

“It’s true.”

“Mmm,” he said. “I thought so. Tell me about it.”

At first the words came slowly, but as she got into the tale, Trisha sped up, until she was tripping over her own tongue trying to tell him everything, about how she’d begun to watch lesbian porn to get off, about how she couldn’t see another female without falling into elaborate fantasies where the two got naked, kissed, and touched each others’ genitals.

“But it’s so sinful,” she finally concluded. “I want to be with another woman so bad, but I just know that I’ll go to hell if I do. What should I do, Kent? What should I do?”

As Kent put the glass he’d been polishing away, Trisha looked up into his kind blue eyes. Everything they said about telling a bartender was true, she realized. Just by finally vocalizing the feelings she’d been having for so long, she felt better.

Kent immediately picked up another glass, and as Trisha’s eyes followed the motion of the rag, began to speak.

“Can I ask,” he started, Trisha frantically nodding almost before the words were out of his mouth, “how you cope with having such a hot daughter?”

“I don’t,” Trisha replied straight away, not even questioning how he knew about her gorgeous teenaged offspring. “I...oh god, it’s worse with her than with anyone.”

She didn’t know if her newfound bisexuality was what had caused her to notice Julia’s looks, or if Julia’s blossoming was what had caused her to start lusting after women, but Kent had seen what she couldn’t even admit to herself—she had the hots for Julia, big time.

Every time she dropped her off to class, Trisha just wanted to reach up her daughter’s skirt, stroke her young legs and reach the prize between them. Every time she tucked her in at night, it was a struggle to prevent herself from leaning in and kissing her, making out with the young woman, making love to her...

Being around her daughter had started to fuel Trisha’s sex drive beyond belief, and now almost every time they came into contact, Trisha had to run out and find a new man to have intercourse with. Even her husband Roger had started to notice, though he hadn’t worked out what had sparked the increase in the number of times they made love.

For the most part, she desperately hoped that she’d managed to hide it from her daughter—she knew that if she ever gave in to the wild lesbian lust that ran through her body every time they were together, Julia would flee, find it repulsive, never talk to her mother again. But a small part of her wondered if Julia would return her feelings, if the young woman felt the same way...after all, Trisha was beautiful, and if Julia had even a hint of bisexuality in her, surely Trisha would be the one to trigger it.

The bartender listened carefully as Trisha told her story, and got herself more and more worked up in the process. He interjected with an occasional “There, there,” and “You’re not a bad mother...", but it wasn’t until the distraught woman stopped talking that he offered his piece.

“I think you should go for it,” he said finally, his slow drawl dripping straight into Trisha’s ears as she leaned forward, not wanting to miss a word of his wisdom. “You look like a woman who sees what she wants and takes it...as soon as I saw you in those shoes, I knew that you weren’t the kind to let life walk all over her.

“You’re obviously a strong, dominant woman...how else would you have been able to seduce all those women? You’re a butch lesbian domme, love, and you can spend the rest of your life wondering if it’s wrong or if you’ll get rejected, but the only way to be sure is to go for it.”

Trisha suddenly looked up, a glint in her eyes that hadn’t been there before.

“Of course,” she barked. “Honestly, I don’t know why I needed someone like you to tell me. Womyn like me know what we want, and we take it.”

She looked Kent up and down, a sneer upon her face. Before she’d discovered that she was a lesbian a few years ago, she probably would have gone for a guy like him, but since she’d discovered the joys of pussy, she’d never gone back. Her husband Roger had been hurt by her constant rejection, but he knew that she was the one who wore the pants in their relationship, and if he dared tell her what to do, he’d soon come to regret it. She’d considered bringing one of her many lovers home and showing him her new proclivities, but had been stopped by the repugnant thought that that he might actually enjoy it. If she never brought pleasure to another man again, it would be too soon.

Trisha glanced at her watch—there was a lesbian bar that she liked a few blocks away, and she probably had time to find some young thing that looked like her daughter and engage in rough intercourse in the bathroom before she had to pick Julia up from school.

Instead of driving home, however, she was going to drive Julia out somewhere and tell her that she wasn’t fulfilling her role as a good daughter. It was about time that Julia learned that her place was between her mother’s legs.

She chugged the last of the beer (her usual), let out a belch, and flicked the bartender a few coins to pay for it. She was feeling generous, and would let the scumbag keep the change as a tip, for reminding her of who she was. Not that she’d needed it, of course.

Trisha stood up to leave, momentarily finding it hard to balance on the five-inch heels she was wearing. Her reflection no longer blocked by the large man, Trisha used the mirror to check her short, dark hair, and add another coat of bright red lipstick. Sleaze, she thought, noticing the bartender glance at her DD-cup breasts, highlighted by the leather bustier she was wearing.

“One last question,” Kent asked as Trisha smoothed down her miniskirt, and made sure that her pantyhose was straight. “What’s with the language?”

“Fuck off,” Trisha replied with a lewd grin. “Swearing is the spice of life. What cunt doesn’t know that?”