The bar stool

Stools up. Copper wiped. The bulb over the register warm, the rest of the room dim. Drew knocked because I like the knock. Platinum pixie still spiked from the shift, black shirt. I let him in and locked the door again.

I did not make him guess. I leaned on the bar and said I want your hand. Not a belt, not a spoon, not some bright idea. Spank me. I am asking. Hard enough that I feel it tomorrow when I reach for a bottle, not hard enough to bruise me up for the Saturday shift. He asked where. I said over my jeans first, then bare if I still want it, and I will tell you. He said he would count with me only if I wanted numbers. I did not. I wanted his palm and his voice asking if I was still in.

He bent me over a stool, the one that does not wobble, and warmed me through the denim until the nerves woke up. I said bare. He pulled the jeans down himself because I asked him to, checked my face, and spanked me with his hand. The sound was plain in the empty bar. Heat stacked. I laughed once, then I stopped laughing and held the rail and said harder, and he gave me harder, still a hand, still pausing every few to put his palm flat and feel the temperature of my skin. Pink, he said. Whole. You want more? I wanted his cock in my cunt more than I wanted another slap. I said so.

He kicked my feet wider, waited for the yes, and fucked his cock into my cunt. One hand stayed spread on the heat he had made, not hitting now, just holding the sting while he fucked me slow. The other braced beside mine on the copper. I came loud, cunt bearing down on his cock, because nobody was there to card me for it, and he came when I reached back and told him to. We stayed bent and breathing. My ass sang. My head was clear. I told him not to go far, because the next part matters as much as the part where I ask to be spanked. He already knew. He kissed the back of my neck and went for the glass.