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“You’ll have to wait and see.”

I gave him my number, the digits written on a beer mat with the pen the barman kept for tabs. Then I turned back to Caroline. She was grinning.

“Is he trying to get into your panties?”

“If he plays his cards right he will.”

She called me a slut, laughing, and said if I didn’t she would. The old man was still watching when I glanced back. I let him see the tip of my tongue wet my lower lip.

A little later Caroline’s dad came over, wiping a glass. “Caroline, do you know anyone who can work the bar weekends? It gets mad busy and I’m short-handed.”

She looked straight at me. “Lacy’s worked behind the bar at her local club.”

He turned those grey-flecked eyes on me properly. “Would you be interested Friday and Saturday next week? Full wage.”

“What’s the hours?”

“Seven till half eleven. Be here half five so I can show you the ropes.”

I said yes. The decision felt easy. A few shifts, a bit of cash, and the chance to be looked at while I bent and stretched and served.

The following Friday I took my time dressing. Black pleated mini-skirt that barely covered the curve of my arse when I stood straight. White top, thin enough that the outline of my nipples showed if the air was cool. Black hold-ups, the lace tops sitting high on my thighs. A tiny black thong that disappeared between my cheeks. Heels that clicked on the pavement. Hair brushed long and loose down my back. Pink nail varnish fresh and shiny. I looked at myself in the mirror and felt the first slow pulse of wetness between my legs. I wanted to be watched. I wanted the old regulars’ eyes on the strip of bare thigh above the hold-ups. I wanted Caroline’s dad to notice.

A friend dropped me off. The pub door was locked when I knocked. He opened it himself, smiled, and said, “Hi Lacy, come in.” The lock clicked behind us. The place was quiet, chairs still up on tables, the air smelling of last night’s beer and polish. He showed me the old push-button till, the way the keys stuck a little, the drawer that sometimes needed a firm shove. Then the shelves. Pint glasses on the bottom shelf behind the bar, right where I’d have to bend right over to reach them. I filed that away. Smaller glasses higher up. Optics for the spirits. The cold room out the back for the kegs. He stood close while he explained, close enough that I could smell his aftershave and the faint trace of tobacco on his shirt. Once his hand brushed the small of my back as he guided me past a stack of crates. The touch was light, but it stayed longer than it needed to.

At seven he unlocked the doors. Three older men came in almost at once and took stools at the bar. One of them was the man who’d taken my number. His eyes found me immediately and stayed. I served them, reaching down for the pint glasses, feeling the pleated skirt ride up the backs of my thighs, knowing the thin black thong was on full display every time I bent. I felt their stares like heat. The old man who’d asked me out ordered a pint of bitter and let his gaze drop openly to my arse as I straightened. I gave him a slow smile and set the glass down carefully so my tits shifted under the thin top.

The night got busier. More regulars, a few younger couples, the usual Friday crowd. Caroline’s dad worked the other end of the bar, pouring pints, ringing up tabs, but every time he passed behind me his hand found some reason to touch. A light press at my waist as he reached for a bottle. Fingers trailing across the small of my back when he moved past. Once, when I was stretched up for a glass on a high shelf, his palm settled briefly on my hip. The contact sent a slow, dirty pulse straight between my legs. I didn’t pull away. I didn’t mind. It felt nice in a way that made my thong stick to me.

I kept bending for those bottom-shelf glasses more often than I needed to. Each time the skirt flipped up and the thong string disappeared between my cheeks. The old man watched every single time. So did a couple of the others. I could feel the wetness building, the thin fabric of the thong growing damp, the smell of my own arousal starting to rise every time I moved.

Near closing the old man drained his glass and stood. He leaned across the bar, voice low. “I’ll call you.”

“Look forward to it.”

Caroline’s dad was close enough to hear. After the man left he looked at me, one eyebrow raised. “He’s in with a chance, is he?”

“He is.”

The last customers filtered out. He locked the doors, turned the sign, and started stacking stools. I began collecting glasses, wiping down the bar. He came to help. I was bending right over in front of him, putting away the clean pint glasses on the lowest shelf, arse pushed out, skirt flipped completely up, the black thong stretched tight between my cheeks and disappearing into the cleft. I knew exactly what he was looking at. I stayed like that longer than I needed to, shifting my weight so the string of the thong rubbed against my clit.

When I finally straightened and turned, he was staring openly. His eyes were darker. There was a clear bulge at the front of his trousers.

“Did you enjoy the view?” I asked.

“Just as much as everyone else has tonight.”

“Well they’re not here to reap the benefits. You are.”

I turned back to the bar, planted my hands on the polished wood, and spread my legs. The skirt rode up again. I looked over my shoulder at him.

“If you want it, take it.”

He was behind me in two strides. His hands came around my waist, then up under the thin white top, cupping my tits through the fabric, thumbs finding my nipples and rubbing them into hard points. I pushed my arse back against the hard line of his cock. He groaned low in his throat. One hand slid down, over the pleats of the skirt, then under it, cupping my pussy through the soaked thong. His fingers pressed against the wet fabric, feeling how slick I already was. He rubbed me there for a long moment, the heel of his hand grinding against my clit while two fingers traced the outline of my lips through the thin material.

Then he hooked the string of the thong and dragged it down. The fabric peeled away from my sticky cunt with a soft wet sound. It slid down my thighs, over the lace tops of the hold-ups, and dropped to my ankles. I stepped out of it without looking, kicked it aside, and pushed my bare arse further back toward him.

“Take me and fuck me hard.”

He didn’t need telling twice. I heard the zip of his trousers, the rustle of fabric, then the thick, hot head of his cock nudged between my cheeks, sliding down until it found the soaked entrance of my pussy. He pushed in slow at first, stretching me open, the engorged head forcing my lips apart. I was so wet there was almost no resistance, just the long, thick slide of him filling me inch by inch until his hips met my arse and he was buried to the root.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “You’re dripping.”

He pulled almost all the way out and slammed back in. The impact jolted me forward against the bar. My tits swung under the rucked-up top. He reached around, shoved the top up over my chest, and grabbed both bare breasts, squeezing hard, pinching the nipples while he started to fuck me properly. Hard, deep strokes that made the wet slap of skin on skin echo in the empty pub. Every thrust pushed a soft grunt out of me. My juices were already coating his cock, running down the insides of my thighs, soaking the tops of the hold-ups.

I pushed back to meet every stroke, grinding my arse against him when he was deep. The bar edge dug into my ribs. My hair fell forward over my face. He gathered it in one fist and pulled, arching my back, making my tits stick out further into his other hand. He fucked me like that for long minutes, the rhythm steady and brutal, the wet sounds growing louder as more of my cream coated him.

“Harder,” I gasped. “Fuck me harder.”

He obliged. The pace became almost punishing. His balls slapped against my clit with every thrust. I could feel the orgasm building already, the tight coil low in my belly. He reached down between us and found my clit with rough fingers, rubbing in tight circles while he kept pounding into me. That was all it took. My cunt clamped down around him in hard, rhythmic pulses. I came with a broken cry, juices flooding around his cock, dripping onto the floor between my spread feet.

He didn’t stop. He fucked me through it, drawing the pleasure out until my legs were shaking. When the last waves faded he slowed, still buried deep, and leaned over my back.

“You want more,” he said against my ear. “You said you wanted your arse fucked.”

“Did I? Yes. Do it. Fuck my arse.”

He pulled out of my cunt with a wet sound. The sudden emptiness made me whimper. I felt his cock, slick with my juices, slide up between my cheeks. He spat once, the warm saliva landing on my tight hole, then rubbed the head of his cock through it, pressing, circling. I pushed back. The blunt head forced against the ring of muscle. There was a sharp burn as it stretched open, then the thick head popped inside. I groaned at the stretch, the feeling of being opened where I was so tight.

He pushed deeper, slow and steady, letting me feel every inch. My arse stretched around the thick shaft. The burn faded into a heavy, full pressure that made my cunt clench on nothing. When he was finally buried all the way, his hips flush against my cheeks, he held still for a moment, breathing hard.

“Christ, you’re tight.”

“Fuck me,” I whispered. “Fuck my arse hard.”

He started to move. Short strokes at first, then longer, deeper, until he was pulling almost all the way out and driving back in. The friction was intense. Every thrust forced a filthy sound out of me. I reached back and spread my cheeks wider, giving him better access, letting him watch his thick cock disappear into my stretched hole. The sight must have done something to him, because his rhythm turned rough. He gripped my hips hard enough to bruise and started pounding my arse the way he’d pounded my cunt earlier, deep, relentless strokes that made my whole body jolt.

I was dripping, fresh cream running down from my empty pussy, mixing with the spit and the thin sheen of lubricant from my own juices on his cock. The wet, filthy sounds of him fucking my arse filled the quiet pub. I pushed back to meet every thrust, wanting him deeper, wanting the full stretch. A free hand found my clit and rubbed hard. Another orgasm built fast, different this time, heavier, centred around the thick cock stretching my arse.

“I’m going to cum,” I gasped. “Don’t stop….fuck….don’t stop….”

He drove in hard and held deep as I came, my arse clamping down around him in tight spasms. The pressure must have been too much. He cursed, hips stuttering, and then I felt the hot pulse of him emptying inside me. Thick ropes of cum flooded my arse, the heat of it making me moan again. He kept thrusting through it, slow and deep, milking every drop into me until he was spent.

He stayed buried for a long moment, breathing against my neck. When he finally pulled out, I felt the sudden gush of his cum leaking from my stretched hole, running down over my empty cunt and along the insides of my thighs. I stayed bent over the bar, legs still spread, letting him look at the mess he’d made.

He turned me around after a minute and lifted me to sit on the edge of the bar. My skirt was still rucked up around my waist. My top was shoved up under my armpits. Cum was already cooling on my thighs. He stepped between my legs, still half-hard, and I reached down, wrapping my fingers around his slick cock. It was coated in a mix of my juices and his cum. I stroked him slowly, feeling him thicken again under my hand.

“I want more,” I said. “I want to taste it.”

I slid off the bar and dropped to my knees on the sticky floor. The smell of sex was thick, my cunt, his cum, the faint trace of sweat. I took his cock into my mouth, tasting the salt of his release and the tang of my own cream. I sucked him clean, tongue working over every inch, licking into the slit, swirling around the head. He hardened fully again while I worked. I took him deeper, relaxing my throat, letting the head push past the back of my tongue until my nose pressed against his stomach. He groaned and threaded his fingers into my hair, holding me there for a few seconds before letting me pull back for air.

I sucked him for a long time, wet, messy, the kind of blowjob that leaves spit running down my chin and coating his balls. When he was fully hard and leaking again I pulled off, stood, and turned back to the bar. I bent over once more, reached back, and spread my cheeks with both hands.

“Fuck my cunt again. Fill me up.”

He stepped in and drove into my pussy in one long thrust. I was still soaked, still open from the earlier fucking, and he slid in to the hilt with almost no resistance. This time he fucked me slower, deeper, grinding against me at the end of every stroke so the base of his cock rubbed my clit. One hand reached around to play with my tits, rolling the nipples between rough fingers. The other stayed on my hip, holding me steady.

I came again while he was inside me, a long, rolling orgasm that made my legs tremble. He kept fucking me, the wet sounds louder now, my juices audibly squelching around his cock. When he was close he pulled out, turned me, and pushed me down onto my knees again. I opened my mouth. He stroked himself once, twice, and came across my tongue and lips in thick pulses. I swallowed what I could and licked the rest from the head, cleaning him thoroughly while he watched.

We stayed like that for a while, both of us catching our breath. Eventually he helped me up. My thong was still on the floor somewhere. My hold-ups were ruined, streaked with cum and my own juices. My skirt was wrinkled beyond saving. I didn’t care. I found my top, pulled it back down, and smoothed the skirt as best I could.

He looked at me, still half-dressed, cock soft and shiny against his thigh. “You coming back tomorrow?”

“I said I would.”

“And after that?”

I stepped close, pressed my body against his, and felt the wetness still leaking slowly from both holes. “I’ll be back for more. As much as you want to give me.”

He kissed me then, slow, deep, tasting himself on my tongue. When he pulled back he was smiling.

“Good. Because I’m nowhere near finished with you.”

I left the pub a little after one in the morning, the cool night air hitting the damp patches on my thighs. My friend’s car was waiting. I climbed in, the scent of sex still clinging to me, and didn’t say a word about what had happened. Some things are better kept private, at least until the next time.

There will be another story about the older man who took my number. But that night belonged to Caroline’s dad, his hands, his cock, the way he filled both my holes and left me leaking his cum as I walked out into the dark. I already knew I’d be back the next evening, short skirt, a thong and a willingness to bend over and take whatever he wanted to give me. And I knew he’d be ready.

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