The Bartender's Rule

When I'm behind the bar, I have just one rule: Do not fuck the patrons. But this isn't a story about following the rules.

I work at a speakeasy called Writer's Block, a popular watering hole to far more than wordsmiths. In the last three years, I've served $22 cocktails to the whole gamut of artistic endeavors: street artists, jazz players, potters, opera singers, comedians, caricaturists, and even pornography directors.

To answer your question, yes, I've been offered roles. Most men I meet quickly draw a likeness to Scarlett Johansson. My eyes are blue, not green, but I've got the curves and lips to back it up. My tits are full and my ass is firm and plump, put on full display with our uniform: a tight, black scoop neck dress. My mouth matches my body, upper lip nearly as round and full as the bottom. Cock-sucking lips, the kind men want to see in a perfect O moving up and down their cock. 

$22 drinks aside, my looks make bartending a very respectable source of income. I would never reveal what I earn, but I can tell you I make more than enough to afford my high-rise apartment downtown (one-bedroom, no studio for me), several dozen pairs of Louboutins, and only the best La Perla lingerie. Men respond to my body and my confidence and my unavailability, and it makes their wallets open oh-so-wide, baby. Sometimes, after a really flush night, I go home and masturbate to the thought of their tips as sacrifices, me on a golden throne wearing nothing but jewels, and men lining up as far as I can see, nearly drooling as they kneel before me, before my pussy, with their gifts. 

This is why I have The Rule. If you fuck your customers, the mystique is gone. The long bar of dark, smooth cherry wood is what separates the commoners (them) from the gods (you). People want what they can't have. And as long as you want to be desired, the second part of that statement must be upheld.

I've only been close to breaking The Rule once before. Their names were Lex and Julia, and they came in every Wednesday night. Date night, they said. Lex was a gray fox, his thick, jet black hair streaked with silver. Julia was about ten years younger, a classic beauty, with chestnut hair that fell in waves down her back.

That night, they sat at the bar the entire evening, instead of moving to a table as they normally did. It was their five year anniversary, and they said they wanted to try something different. I was the scheduled bar closer, and they stayed with me, chatting and buying rounds of top-shelf tequila for all of us, as I cleaned up. I lined up three shots of tequila, leaned in, and said, "Last round, lovers." Lex and Julia exchanged a look. Julia asked if I liked them. I said of course, that they were the most beautiful couple I've ever seen. Julia asked if she could tell me a secret.

She leaned across the bar and wrapped her hand around my neck, pulling me close. She put her soft lips on mine and parted my mouth open with her tongue, circling, entrancing me. I heard her husband lean forward and felt another warm mouth, this time on my neck. Julia continued to circle my tongue with hers and Lex moved down my chest, pulling my dress aside, and put his warm mouth on my nipple. He sucked and licked until my pussy tingled, screaming for cock. Screaming for tongue. 

All three of us moved onto the bar, me lying with my back on the cool wood, while Lex hiked up my skirt and Julia started to lean over me to let me taste her. As we shifted into position, I heard the sound of breaking glass as our shots tumbled to the floor. I jumped up, nearly tipping Julia off the bar. I pulled up my panties and started piling the shards up carefully in my palm. Like the shot glasses, the allure, for all of us, had been shattered. Lex and Julia found a different place for date night. 

You'd think I would have learned my lesson. You'd think I would be a good girl and follow my own rule, my one rule. But then again, you didn't meet Damian. 

He was not a regular like Lex and Julia, but Damian was someone all the bartenders knew about, the man whose end of the bar you literally raced towards just to serve him. My coworker Amber once tripped me while I was wearing four-inch stilettos, and my elbow collided into the bar. Jokes on her, I got double the tips that week with my sling. And some fucking hot sex with a resident I met at the hospital.

Damian was the kind of tall you want a man to be - just over six feet, not towering over you, but still makes you look up. His dark, black skin was so smooth, it practically begged you to run your fingers over it. Shaded eyes, broad shoulders made broader by his slim waist, and a tight, round butt accentuated by an impeccable suit. He was a man of habit - he ordered the same drink every time, an Absinthe Shrugged (our play on Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged) and tipped the same every time: a crisp, hundred dollar bill. 

Naturally, the other bartenders were in it for the tips. But I would've fought to serve Damian regardless. At first glance, he looked like a man who might never be able to shut up about himself, the way too many good-looking, successful guys tend to do. But he was too confident to be cocky. Whether he came in alone, or with friends or coworkers, he asked questions about you. He was generally interested in who you were, as a person, as a woman, not as a bartender. 

The first time I met Damian firsthand, I had just gotten my hair cut. I was nervous because it was a bit short, the wavy blonde ends hovering just above my shoulders. Most men favor long hair, but I've found that the ones worth keeping around admire the confidence it takes to show off your neck, to highlight your face. He ordered his drink, and as I poured the absinthe, he said, "Love the new cut."

I raised my eyebrows, popping a sugar cube in his drink. "How did you know I'd gotten it cut?"

He took a slow sip, his dark eyes never leaving mine. "Because you're impossible not to notice, and you've had long hair for as long as I've been coming here."

I blushed, hating myself for blushing. "OK Mr. Smooth, is that what brings you in here then, the ladies?" We only hire women who could be models off-duty.

He looked disappointed. "No," he said. "The conversation."

We talked for five hours. Beautiful women should be worshipped with interest, he'd said. What better offering can a man give? He asked me about what cuisine I like, what dead musician should come back to life, what kind of relationship I had with my sisters, if I found improv funny (no). 

"Here's a good one, here's a good one," he laughed, sipping his third absinthe, though I knew he rarely had more than one. "What's the one thing you've learned that you would tell your younger self?"

I didn't hesitate. "Don't open yourself up to the wrong people."

Damian looked at me a second too long. "Who would you open yourself up to?"

The only thing I could think about was his huge, black cock sliding into my soaking wet pussy, pushing me open so wide that he'd have to stuff his tie into my mouth just to muffle my screams. 

"Jimmy Fallon." I smiled. "It's almost time for me to catch his show." I gave him his tab, went to the back to grab my purse, and when I came back, there were two hundred dollar bills, and he was gone. 

 

Fast forward to today, back to this very hour. I'm sitting across the cherry bar, processing the question Damian just asked me. Have you ever been with a black man?

We have never crossed into sexual territory, unless you count my many, many fantasies. He motions for me to get closer. I lean across the bar, and he gets close enough for our tongues to touch, if we would want to. 

"I need you." He normally smiled during our conversations, but now, his face is intensely serious. "My driver will be waiting for you downstairs. He will not leave until you come down. You can either tell him to go, or get in the car. I've already talked to Amber, and she's agreed to take over your half of the bar."

I should hesitate, should consider the implications of breaking The Rule, but for the first time in my life, I don't. 

In the car, we sit silently on the heated leather as the skyscrapers whiz by. We don't talk, and we don't touch, which is somehow far sexier than if we'd been all over each other. I just have to wait, throbbing, for us to reach his apartment.

I won't get into the details of how nice his place is, but that's mainly because as soon as the door shuts behind him, Damian wraps his huge arms around me and pushes me against the wall. And that's the last thing I notice about the apartment. His mouth is opening my mouth over and over, his wet tongue caressing mine, and I feel a surge of deep, carnal excitement as I realize his tongue will soon be everywhere. His strong, heavy body pushes mine further against the wall, and I pretend to struggle, whimpering and trying to wriggle my body out of his grasp. His dick throbs harder against my leg, and he takes both my hands and pins them against my sides. 

"You're not going anywhere," he murmurs. "Your pussy will take this cock, and there is absolutely nothing you can do about it."

I wriggle my body more and he lifts me as if I'm weightless, my legs wrapped around him, and carries me to his bed. 

He lies me down, undoing his tie from his neck and wrapping it around my eyes. He puts one hand under my back and instinctively, I arch, so he can undo my zipper. My dress slides down my body, and he sighs with desire as he fingers the white lace of my lingerie. 

He kisses down my neck, his full lips moving down towards my breasts. He moves back up to kiss me while he undoes my bra, then hungrily goes back down to my tits. He kisses my nipples, teasing them and blowing on them softly, before putting his warm mouth back on them and sucking both tits, his finger slipping inside me and rubbing my G spot. 

With his finger still inside me, he trails his lips lower and lower, until they're just above my clit. There's a moment where time is suspended, and then he's on me, licking me and stroking my G spot at the same time, and it's better than my fantasies because it's him, and I can smell him and feel him and oh my God is this good. 

I begin to tighten and he stops fingering me. "Ah ah ah," he says. "I want to save your cum for my dick." I whimper and try to reach my hand towards my clit. He grabs my wrists and pins them over my head. "Bad girl." Damian removes his tie so I can see him, and it's like seeing him for the first time. His dark skin is smooth, his brown eyes warm and lusty. I run my finger over his taut abs, down to his cock, which is even thicker and longer than I imagined. At first I feel almost nervous. But the sexiest thing you can think about a man's cock is wondering if it's going to fit inside your pussy. You want to feel shock.

I'm dying to taste him, and I open up my mouth to show him what I want. He leans over me and sticks the tip of his dick in my mouth, sighing as I swirl my tongue over and over his tip. I tilt my head further forward, shoving his cock down the back of my throat until I can't anymore. At this point, he's moaning. Without warning, he pulls his dick from my mouth, spreads my legs wide and presses his cock slowly into my pussy. My eyes go wide. I have never felt this full before. His cock presses all the walls of my vagina, creating an instant ecstasy. And then he starts moving. I look down at his big, black cock fucking my tight, white pussy, and my eyes roll back into my head. No, I've never been with a black man before, but I fucking, fucking love it. 

He leans down and kisses me, and I wrap my arms around him and hold him as tightly as I can. His cock is hitting my G spot over and over, and his hard abs rubbing against my clit. I picture us fucking like this inside the bar, in front of all the other patrons who will never have me, and I scream that I'm going to cum. The moment I go over the edge, my pussy tightening, his cock pulses and he groans as he pumps himself into me, our cum mixing together inside me. 

My pussy over-sensitized, I pull myself off of him, and lie next to him on my back. A few minutes go by with us silently enjoying the afterglow, our fingers stroking each others bodies absentmindedly.

"Don't come back to Writer's," I hear myself say. Fuck. Fuck.

He rolls onto his side to look at me, leaning on a thick, tattooed bicep. 

"It's just... I don't fuck my patrons. It's the only thing that keeps me out of trouble. It's my only rule."

"Baby," he smiles. "I'm not a patron. I own the place."

I am completely still for a moment. Then I climb back on top of him and slid my pussy, still dripping with our cum, down his giant cock, ready to break some new rules.  

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