Girl on the Net

It’s fucking hectic behind the bar. Every drink comes with a second, because the regulars are feeling generous, and he, I and a bunch of other staff are lining them up. Landlady’s insistence: we’re allowed to drink on shift. And it’s Christmas, so no one thinks about saving the money, we just say ‘ta’ and line them up:

Vodka and cokes: have one yourself. Have six yourself. Slur ‘Cheers’ as you’re pulling the next pint.

When I rush round tables to collect glasses, Steve (a regular – skeezy and greasy and ‘harmless’ depending on who you talk to and how many pints he’s had) sneaks up behind me. He follows me around until I’ve got four, five glasses in each hand. Then as I turn to take them back to the bar he grips me round the waist. Hard hands, insistent squeezes.

“Merry Chrisshmas.” He pokes out his fat slimy tongue and before it can touch my lips, she’s there: the landlady. He stammers apologies and she hisses in his face: don’t you fucking touch my staff, you cunt. “Yes boss,” he nods, cock retreating until it becomes an internal organ. “No harm done?” he asks me tentatively, then he lines up another couple of drinks.

By the end of the night I’m spinning, merry, wankered: whatever your preferred word is. I’m not fit for work, but it’s Christmas, so when the Landlady offers us a quick drink after closing, all the bar staff cheer for Baileys.

I stand up and walk around, establish whether or not I’m able to walk home, and the hot other bartender grins his catlike grin at me.

“I’ll walk you home,” he offers, adding a playful “Darlin'” to the end to hammer the message home: I will fuck you in an alleyway.

I sort of want to be fucked in an alleyway. That sounds like a good Christmas present. To have this skinny, milkfaced, cat-eyed barman slip a slim hand into my knickers and frig me against a wall. To feel the long, wiry muscles in his arms tense with effort as he hoisted me up, and sat me on his cock – pushing my back against the wall for purchase as I wrapped my legs around his hips.

A Christmas present to me. Yes.

So he walked me home. I won’t tell you his name, because you’ll laugh – I nearly did. But it didn’t matter. As he walked me we touched, and kissed, and he did all the things I wanted: talking to me about what a dirty girl I was. Pulling my hand across his body so he could press it into his crotch. Fucking fingering me in a doorway while I wobbled, swayed, and tried to drink in the filthy, sweaty, Sambuca-mixed-with-aftershave scent of him.

I wanted his dick: really really really wanted his dick. Had there been a quiet place on the way home I’d have pulled my knickers to one side and just let him three-stroke-fuck me right there. I wanted to feel whether his cock was as smooth as the skin on his stomach, that I was running my fingers over and eager to just lick. I had a vision of him pushing me to my knees, spitting on his hand, then working his dick so quickly I couldn’t keep up with my lips, rubbing himself to completing in less than a minute and spraying spunk not onto my tits directly, but up, under the hem of my t-shirt. Wet and sticky and hidden.

I wanted to fuck, but it didn’t happen – it couldn’t. If there’d been a field or an alley or anywhere we could guarantee a few minutes undisturbed. If we’d we managed to get a condom from the pub toilets before we left work. If we hadn’t both been spectacularly drunk.

If it weren’t a special night – the one where our families would be waiting for us to come home – rosy cheeked and ready for innocent, wholesome fun.

If it hadn’t been Christmas.

You might think me a loser for posting a blog on Christmas Eve, but actually it’s a bit of a tradition. Here’s a Christmas post about a gang-bang, and here’s one about wanking. I hope you all have an amazing Christmas, and that it brings you whatever sexy stuff you want, while foregoing any of the stuff that you don’t. If you’re really lucky, I hope your roast potatoes are as good as my Mum’s.