Becca at the Bar
“Ronny, baby, please. Please don’t make me do this.”
It was a little before midnight. Ronny had driven me to the stockyard district. We were parked outside the crappiest bar I’d ever seen: corrugated tin roof, half of a working beer sign, one window boarded up, the other crisscrossed with duct tape that kept it from shattering. An unconscious man slumped against the wall. Orange sodium lights made the tableau look even sicker.
“You’re doing it,” said Ronny. Smiling, he launched the slaver app on his smartphone.
“Baby, no, please, no.” My best wheedling, desperate tone. Sometimes it swayed him. “I’m sorry the chicken was dry, please let me make it up to you—”
“This is how you’re making it up to me,” he said. He fiddled with the app, thereby fiddling with me.
I started, “Baby let’s talk about this—.” But then Ronny tapped his phone, and that tingle skittered around my skull. My body sat up straight, sucked in a lung-busting volume of air, and held it. And held it. And held it. I couldn’t stop holding it.
“We’re not talking,” he said. “You’re doing. End of story.”
I couldn’t will myself to breathe, but I was still in charge of much of the rest of me. My eyebrows knotted, and my eyes pleaded, and my throat made creaky nnnnn-nnnnnnnnhhhh noises. And I thought: You fucking asshole. Don’t you fucking do this to me, you horrible evil shit. And before I could control them came the next thoughts: I will kill you, you shit. I will get that fucking phone away from you and—.
My stomach lurched up into my throat. Nausea. I banged open the car door and stumbled into the parking lot. I tried to stand, but vertigo hit, so I dropped to all fours, banging my knees, grinding pebbles and glass into my hands. And then I puked. Everything came right up.
And I still couldn’t breathe. Ronny hadn’t released me, yet. My lungs burned and my raced on and my brain screamed. The world turned red, then white. My forehead banged on the ground, and I beat my fists on the cement.
Maybe this was it. Maybe I’d die. I didn’t want to be free in this way, but after nearly a year in Ronny’s harem, I’d take it.
But then I gulped in a chestful of parking-lot air. Then exhaled, coughing and spitting. I sucked in another chestful, then released it, less violently. My vision returned, and my heart slowed, and my brain said me thank you, thank you. I was going to live.
Ronny was standing beside me. “Had a bad idea, Becca? A naughty notion?”
I nodded. “Yes, sir, I’m sorry sir—”
He dropped to his haunches. “Sssshhhh,” he said, stroking my hair. “No harm done. Not to me, anyway.” He picked grit from my forehead, then studied my hands. “Tch. Let’s get you cleaned up. And, whew”—he made a face—“some water and then some gum. I bet even the boys in the bar wouldn’t want you like this.”
I tried begging one last time. “Please take me home.”
Ronny shook his head. “No, Becca. We drove almost an hour to get here. You’re doing it. Now be quiet. Or more puking, and maybe worse. And then you walk home.”
My resistance evaporated. Not because of anything he did with the slaver app. Ronny didn’t like using the app on me that way. “I’ve got enough brainless blow-up dolls,” he’d say. And it was true. At home, he had Fifi and Babette and The Bloat. And he also had Suzi, who . . . well, “brainless” didn’t even describe it. Suzi, his beta test.
I was Ronny’s fifth acquisition. And in me, Ronny wanted something different than a sex-addled bimbo. Ronny wanted me to keep my brain, my sense of myself, because he liked making me give up, liked controlling me through my body. At first he used pain, pleasure, and fear to change and control me. But I’d gotten better at resisting those, so he turned to nausea. I can resist a lot, but nausea? Puking and worse? No, just, no. Do what he wants, get it over with.
“Okay. Okay. I’ll do it.”
“Atta girl,” he said, rubbing my head. “Let’s get you ready.”
Five minutes later, my mouth minty, my flesh plucked of gravel, I heaved open the heavy dark door into the bar. I couldn’t leave the bar until I’d finished the mission he’d tasked me with.
I scoped out the bar, and the bar of maybe a dozen guys scoped me back. What they saw: A short, fit, brunette twentysomething girl in a figure-masking black sweatshirt, moderately tight blue jeans, and black calf-high boots. What I saw: Cigarette haze, crap fluorescent lighting, cheap flat beer, lame 80s jukebox rock, a threadbare pool table, bad skin, failed marriages, drunken despair, methhead abyss. Probably more than a few STDs. And—improbably, for an urban bar like this—a deer’s head mounted on the wall by the bar.
I wasn’t exactly a hottie, but it didn’t matter. Any woman in a bar like this was meat. I could hear their stale cocks stirring.
I was queasy from having thrown up, but I smiled broadly, brightly. That was part of my task, to make everyone think I was super-happy to be here. I walked slowly toward the bar, a dozen pairs of eyes tugging up my sweatshirt and peeling down my jeans. My own eyes roved at the bar’s edges. I wanted an out-of-the-way spot: a bathroom, a beer closet, a back door to the alley—hell, even a booth in a dark corner. Anywhere I could complete the job with some privacy and dignity. Ronny hadn’t said my humiliation had to be public. Not until the end.
Just before lifting myself up onto a barstool, I found it. A single bathroom, with a knob suggesting it could be locked from the inside. The door bore the stick-figures for male and female, although the bar patrons had gussied up the signs with a fat wang for the guy and basketball tits on the girl. Both figures had speech bubbles, but I couldn’t make out the words.
I was sure the bathroom was disgusting, but all I wanted was privacy.
The bartender, a big pale pear of a guy, stared at me. “Whatchoo need.”
“Um,” I said. I munched a stale pretzel. “Tequila?”
“No girl drinks.”
“A shot. No, a double-shot.” Tender stomach be damned. This whole thing would be easier if I were drunk.
The bartender pursed his lips. “Pay.”
I put a ten on the table. He took it, poured my cheap tequila, and walked off.
I munched on a few more pretzels, girding my stomach for the booze. Behind the bar was a mirror with which I studied the room. Some men sat by themselves; a few spoke to each other; all of them were looking at me.
Find the most pathetic guy, Ronny had said. The guy who skeeves you out the most. That’s the one.
I found my guy, back in a corner. I tossed back the tequila, which burned like a candle on the way to my belly. I got another and munched more pretzels. I noticed that the eye sockets of the deer’s head were empty, two dry holes. Creepy.
I pushed myself off the barstool, wandered to the corner with my glass of numbness, and plopped down by my soon-to-be-lucky fella.
Here was my guy: pale, meth-scrawny and pale, maybe late 20s. Baggy black jeans, dirty white leather tennis shoes, a black polo with the logo of some shitty Mexican restaurant on it. Brown, stringy hair hung long in the back, but his hairline was in full retreat. And he had an uncertain black mustache and chin pubes.
I felt a juicy tickle in my folds. It wasn’t because of the guy, who I found genuinely gross. It was knowing that Ronny would be pleased. It was just something my body did now, my pussy salivating to the idea-bell of Ronny being pleased. Pure Pavlov.
“Hey,” I said, grinning. A little tipsy, now. “What’s your name?”
“Uh,” he said, his voice high. “Max. I’m Max.” He didn’t ask my name. He didn’t say anything else. I guessed that Max and women didn’t have much to do with each other. I placed my hand on his thigh. He twitched but didn’t jump away.
“Well, Max. Maxie. Can I call you Maxie? I’m Becca. And I got a problem. A biiig problem. I’m hoping you can help me.”
“Oh-okay. Becca. What’s your problem?”
“W-e-l-l-l—it’s kind of embarrassing. And private.” I walked my fingers up his thigh to the joint of his pelvis. “I don’t want to say it out here. But I can tell you if we’re alone. And then maybe you can help me with it.”
“Um . . . sure. Okay. Where?”
I bit my lower lip, swirled my drink, and stared from under my bangs. “I’m thinking the bathroom, Maxie.”
Max frowned. “Together? But they’ll see us.”
“Does that worry you?” Max nodded. Ugh. What a pussy. “Okay. I’ll go in first. You count to 100, then come in. Nobody’ll remember I went in first.” That was surely bullshit. Every man in this bar was stalking me. But it didn’t matter. I wanted to get in and out as fast as I could.
“You can’t tell me out here?”
“Naw, it’s a super-private problem. And it’s a big problem.” And I squeezed his cock. Already hard—no surprise there. But not that big, not big at all.
Max cleared his throat. “I’ll count to 100.”
“Yay, Maxie!” I grinned, giving his cock a couple more happy squeezes, and then tossed back my tequila. Four shots in less than five minutes. Maybe I should have a dozen more. Maybe I wouldn’t remember doing what I had to do next.
I stood, kissed Max on his forehead—uck, greasy—and walked 12 steps to the bathroom. I could read the speech bubbles, now, stick-figure guy saying, “Suck it you stupid cunt,” stick-figure girl saying, “Fuck me ’til I bleed.” I turned on the light, shut the door, and sat on the toilet.
It was a tiny bathroom: commode, sink, mirror. On the walls were drawn outlandish penises and breasts and vaginas, a Lascaux of angry male fantasy. Ancient and newer telephone numbers. Even a couple of e-mail addresses. And words. Lots of words. Words about women, words about what men do with women and want to do to women. Men being men. Women being things, and less than things.
But I wasn’t a thing. I was still a person. Far more of a person than Ronny’s other women, anyway. My mind was still intact, despite Ronny’s control of my body weathering and cracking it.
The door cracked open, and Max peered in. I smiled and beckoned him in with a come-hither finger. As he closed the door, the bar erupted in hoots and hollers and clapping.
Max blanched, and he might have bolted, so I gripped his belt and yanked him to me. “Maxie, I’m so glad you’re with me. I really, really, really need help with my problem.”
“Okay,” said Max. He was tense, scared of this girl, ready to fight. “So, what is it, then.”
“I’m hungry, Maxie. Really hungry.” And I slid to my knees and shucked his baggy jeans down around his calves. He was wearing blue boxers, the kind my daddy used to wear. “Super hungry.”
I tugged down his boxers, eager to get them out of my sight. His cock bounced out and grazed my nose. It was yellow, thin, and stubby—mostly pointless. If he shoved it up my ass, dry, I doubted it’d hurt. But I barked out a happy noise, pressed it into my nostrils, and breathed in deeply of Max’s musk.
“Oh God,” he said.
Oh, God, indeed. As in: Thank God I was drunk. He smelled of mothballs. His legs were pale and flabby. He had thigh pimples and very little body hair, except for an overabundance of black, dandruffy pubes. My Maxie-Man was as unappealing as Ronny had hoped.
My task was to get this oily stub-cock of a man to blow his load all over my face. And then I’d have to walk through the bar wearing it. It was the only way I was getting back into Ronny’s car and getting home.
I smiled at Max from beneath his cock. “Please, Maxie? Will you please feed me? I’m sooooo hungry.” I looked at him as I ran his cock over my face. My stupefied Max just nodded.
“Oh, thank you,” I breathed, and I made his cock disappear into my head.
Ronny’s owned me for nearly a year, now, and if there’s one thing I’ve gotten really good at, it’s giving head. And not just to Ronny, obviously. You don’t get good at blowing guys if you work on just one guy, because you only learn what that one guy likes. To get really good—like, Olympic fellatrix good—you have to give it to lots of guys. Platoons of guys.
With my skills, it didn’t take long. About 20 seconds in, Max was ready to blow.
So, this was my plan: Just as Maxie-lad starts moaning, I’ll push him out of my head and jack him off onto my face. Then I display my shame to the bar and go home with Ronny. Easy-peasy.
Maxie grunted, and pulsed, and shouted, and I started to pull off, and—
—and here, right now, is where it goes wrong.
Max clutches my hair and rams his midsection into my face, his gritty pubes invading my nose. I push back as hard as I can, but with a junkie’s strength he keeps his nubby pencilcock at the back of my throat. And, practically shrieking, he cums right into my head.
Shit, I think. Shitshitshit not the plan. . . . Now I improvise. I close my throat, but not before a trickle of Max’s cum leaks down my esophagus. The rest of his spunk coats the back of my mouth—hot, oily-chunky, and swirling around my gums.
One final pulse, and Max pulls out and bangs hard against the door. I cup my hand to my mouth, spit out his cum, lean back, raise my arm, and let his cum plop-plop-plop onto my face. A self-inflicted facial.
Max is breathing like a sprinter. “What the fuck.”
As the last drop hits my nose, a meaty hand bangs on the door. “Get the fuck out of there.” The bartender. Happy enough to let a semi-public tryst pass, but this noise will spook his customers.
Max is too freaked to say anything. “Be right out,” I call.
“Now, or I get the cops.”
That’s a chance even fatter than the bartender. No way he wants to draw attention to his business. Still, I want out of here even more than he wants me gone.
I stand, ready to leave. Maxie looks up at my cum-painted face, confused. “You said you were hungry.”
So dumb, this guy. I drop all pretense of this being fun. “I need to go. Please move.”
Max frowns. “But you—”
“Please move.” I walk toward him with my shining face.
Max fumbles with the lock, pushes out into the bar toward the exit. The bartender calls after him. “Fuck, man, don’t you ever—” But with a bang of the door, Max is gone.
“Jesus Christ,” the bartender mutters, and he turns back toward me. He starts, “Now, you take your skanky ass—” And then he sees my face. The rest of the bar sees it, too. And then erupts in hoots and hollers and claps and cheers.
And what do I do? I smile. Hugely. Like I’m proud of myself, and proud of their applause.
The bartender says “Go,” but I’m already moving, cum itching on my face. The calls of the bar buffet me: Yeah, slut! Damn, girl, you’re fucking filthy! Me next, you nasty fucking cunt! Again, all the usual. I keep smiling.
I almost make it out. But when I touch my palm to the door, I find that I can’t push it. I’m willing with all my might to press forward and run out to Ronny and show him my defiled face, Mission accomplished. But no. My body won’t let me leave the bar.
I try to scream, Ronny, Ronny, please, Master, I did it, I’m done, let me out, let me out, but my mouth doesn’t even pretend to try and say those words. Instead, my body turns itself around. The corners of my mouth pull up to a rictus of a grin. The bar-crowd is still hooting and clapping, but now they’re also confused and maybe a little worried. What the fuck is she doing? they’re thinking. Why the hell isn’t she gone?
As my hands grip the base of my sweatshirt, I know why I’m not gone. Ronny, that fucker. He stuck a failsafe in my skull, in case I tried to leave the bar without completing my mission. I tried to do exactly what Ronny told me, but I didn’t quite get it right. He told me to let the most pathetic guy cum on my face. But Max didn’t do that: he came in my mouth, and then I painted my own face. And now my own body is punishing me for it.
As I walk toward the pool table, I pull my sweatshirt up, and my boobs bounce free—one, two. I’m short and fit, but my boobs are big, and they thump my flesh audibly. The crowd hollers appreciatively. A few steps from the pool table, I unzip and remove my boots and socks. As I unzip my jeans, the hollering ramps up, one guy letting loose deafening whistles. My pants and panties come down as one, the air tickling my soaking snatch. And then, buck naked, I crawl up on the pool table like some goddamn circus animal, plant my ass smack in the middle of it, spread my legs wide, grin big, and masturbate for the whole bar to see.
I can’t hear my thoughts for the cheers and roars and, frankly, my own arousal. All I can do is play with myself, slipping in my fingers, pulling them out to play with my clit in firm and certain circles, slip them back in, repeat. I’m smiling hugely, lewdly, and fucking every man in the bar with eyes, letting them penetrate me with their shouts.
I don’t want any of this, and I wouldn’t will any of it to be happening. But my body loves this, my clit humming, nipples throbbing, nostrils flaring. I’ve spent enough time aroused while being degraded that being degraded now makes me aroused.
As I jill myself for the mob, an image comes to mind: a prime rib roast at a buffet. Glistening, succulent, blood-juices pooling on the platter as the chef carves off slices for a line of male customers, all sharing me, savoring me, digesting me. I’m just meat to them, and I love it. Even if Ronny ever releases me, even if I ever escape, there’s no way I’ll ever be normal again. I don’t know what kind of life I could have, what sorts of partners could meet my needs. I’m just too far gone.
The bartender reaches for my jeans. For a moment I think he’s going to show me a kindness by telling me to put them on, but no: he’s rifling through my pockets. He can’t find any identification, but he does find my phone. Which is ringing. The bartender answers it.
It can only be Ronny, of course. Wondering what’s taking so long. Unless there’s an emergency at home—maybe FIfi is calling to tell me that The Bloat needs feeding. Which is always. Stupid Fifi. Fucking Bloat.
The bartender is now at my side. “Your . . . owner wants to talk to you.” He holds the phone to my ear.
“Becca, baby. What’s happening in there, sweetie?”
I manage to gasp out, “I’m on the pool table. Get me out.”
Ronny tsk tsk tsks. “You tried to escape? You know better.”
“Nuh-no,” I say. “N-not escape. It just went wrong. Please, I’ll explain. They’re all watching me.”
A chuckle. “Of course they are. And how does that make you feel?”
“Tell me how that makes you feel, all of them watching you.”
“Good.” It’s true. My pussy, my tits, my whole body loves it, showing off for all these men.
Bastard. “Great,” I gasp. “Fucking fantastic. I love it. They all want me, all these men want me.”
“Of course they do,” he said. “With your big tits and tight waist and shaved little pussy of yours—”
I moan and double down on my clit. Dirty talk. But I still can’t close my eyes.
“—all those men watching you, their eyes fucking you, the power you have over them, making all their cocks big and hot and hard—”
“Aaah.” The world starts going white. I’m so damned close. I wish I could close my eyes and stop smiling and chew my lower lip to hurtle into an orgasm. But my body won’t do it. That’s a limit, one Ronny installed. No cumming until his conditions are met, whatever they might be.
I stare at the blind deer’s head as Ronny talks. “—all that cum just waiting just blow out of their balls and fly into the air because of you, just you, only you, for you—”
“Please, fuck, Ronny, please, lemme cum cum cum an’ get outta here—”
He says, “You wanna cum?”
I only keen in response.
I shout Goddamit Ronny please tell me what I have to do. The startled bartender steps back, but my eyes plead with him, and he brings the phone back to my ear.
“All right,” says Ronny. “You want out of there? Here’s what you do.”
He tells me. I’m not surprised, and I grunt assent. Ronny hangs up. A moment later, my body is back under my control. I climb off the pool table, weak and shaking. An ass print of sweat and a blotch of arousal mark my time spent as meat at the buffet.
I retrieve my jeans and my sweatshirt. The men voice disappointment, thinking the show is over. But then I fold my clothes into a tidy, flat pad and kneel on them. I’m protecting my knees. I’m going to be on the floor for a while.
The place goes quiet. I lift a big boob up to my mouth and flick at its nipple with my tongue. And looking at the men, I address them all, describing what I want them to do to me, need them to do to me, please, please, please. And all the bar, even the bartender, erupts into a cheer.
I emerge into the parking lot an hour later. I’ve left all my clothes behind. The semen of every man in the bar is somewhere on my body—streaked into my hair, hanging off my chin, splattered on my chest. My eyes are thick, salted, and red. One guy blew off in my left ear, and it’s still plugged. It’s chilly outside, and all the drying cum makes me colder.
Nobody came inside of me—not my head, pussy, or ass. Ronny was clear on that limit, and so I was clear on that limit, and those men respected it. Respect. What a hilarious word to use. But they did. Many of them actually seemed grateful, if I’m honest.
Ronny’s in the car, playing a crossword on his phone. Apps for slavery, apps for amusement. I open the passenger door, but he screws up his face at me. You’re too disgusting to ride like a person, he tells me.
As I clamber into the trunk, Ronny tells me that I can orgasm on the ride home if I want. If I want . . . Christ. I’m jilling myself before he slams the lid shut.
The car lurches, and I roll about like a log on a boat. Frigging myself, I imagine what the men are saying right now. That crazy cunt, they’ll say. Can you believe her? They’ll wonder why I did it, why I splayed myself on the pool table, why I begged them to cum on me and video me and call me names. A couple of utterly stupid men will argue that I was just doing what all women want to do. Most will settle on the reasonable but incorrect inference that some anonymous Samaritan paid a particularly shameless hooker an obscene amount of money to drown herself in the bar’s cum.
Still masturbating, I imagine the future. All those men will return to that bar night after night, hoping I come back. They’ll share photos and videos of the mystery whore grinning and giggling and laughing as she’s bathed in their nut mustard and sopped in baby batter. All these thoughts make me hot, the idea that my memory has such power over these men.
But what gets me hottest—the image and the hope that finally brings me off as I bump along in the trunk of the car—is this: the bartender, nailing my sweatshirt and jeans and panties to the wall, my pelt taking its place right next to the blind deer.