Becca at the Bar

He says, "You wanna cum?"

I only keen in response.

"Really?"

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. 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.