Body shots

Gulping at the options you eventually decide on the one that will cost you the least.

"I, uh, wouldn't have to take off my clothes for body shots, would I?" you ask, failing to realize the absurdity of your question given your current state of dress. One of the side effects of two weeks without underwear and an ever-shrinking (both in quantity and coverage) wardrobe was that you became more and more used to the amount of skin you were baring, more and more forgetful of just how easily exposed your girly bits were.

The bartender looks at you strangely for a moment before a grin spreads across his face. "I think you can keep those on for now, but they might get dirty since you'll be letting everyone do shots off any exposed part of your body. If they want to." And judging by his tone he thought anyone who didn't was an idiot. "Hop on board," he says, patting the bar, which looks to be the cleanest part of the place.

Grinning weakly you take a few hard chugs from the beer he'd sent your way, feeling that you might need the fortification. A moment later you cough at the strength of the brew.

"Good stuff, huh?" the bartender asks, and you nod just to keep him happy.

"Let me help you up," a fellow says, taking advantage of your **** since it means you can't object when a couple of 'gentlemen' put their hands under your skirt, getting a hard grip of your toned posterior as they lift you up, each of them taking the time to drag their fingers along your slit for good measure.

Stunned by the liberties, and the reminder that you don't have anything under your skirt, you stay on all fours for a couple of seconds, baring your bald pussy and little rosebud to the assembled crowd, who look on hungrily, clearly assuming that you're showing off for their benefit.

"Lie down, girl," the bartender says. "Say, what's your name?"

"Uh, Jenny. Jenny Rainwood," you say, giving your full name before your brain can kick in and stop you.

"Nice name. I bet you make plenty of wood rain with a body like that. Name's Phil, by the way," he says, holding out a hand just as you start to roll over.

Not wanting to be impolite to the man controlling the taps, and presumably the crowd, you stop mid-way, though it means you're left sitting for a moment, knees spread to either side as if you were again giving the men a thorough look. Thanks to your strenuous walk to the laundromat your body is a little slick, giving your inner thighs a slight gleam. Anyone could be forgiven for assuming that your softly shining pussy is already wet. In truth it is a little moist, something that seems to have become more and more normal over the last two weeks. Your nipples, too, seem to be perpetually hard when you're out where someone can see you.

Phil's strong grip holds your weak one for a long moment, giving the men a longer inspection of the eager cunt.

"Bald as an eagle," a man mutters, but you don't hear him or the grunt of pain as he's elbowed into silence. Someone else is one of the few rich enough to have a smartphone, and snaps off a few pictures for posterity.

"Have some more of your beer," Phil offers, grabbing the beer. He tilts it to your face just as you start to lie back so that while you get a mouthful he also sloshes it across your cheeks. "Oops, sorry. Let me top that up as compensation," he says.

As you lean back again you think how nice it is of him to fill it for no charge - having already forgotten that it's free. You wipe your cheeks as you lie back again, doing more to smear the beer than clean it. A man swiftly rescues a mug of beer before you can hit it, but not before a thick lock of chestnut hair sinks into the frothy liquid, soaking it up before he can pull it away.

"Now, gents," Phil says to the crowd, pulling out salt, limes and a bottle, "Who wants to do some shots?"

The resounding "me!" that follows nearly makes you fall off the bar, and you nearly sit up straight before Phill pushes you down again, putting his hand on the center of your chest to do so. You sink beneath his strong hand, feeling like you couldn't resist even if you'd wanted to. Somehow the helplessness, combined with his touch and the men's eagerness, makes your pulse and breathing speed up.

"Randy, I think you should go first, since you let her in," Phil says, and you see the fairly ordinary guy from the door push through the crowd. Putting a hand momentarily on your shoulder as if to re-assure you, a move that you appreciate, Phil subtlely pulls on a neck strap, dragging one side of your top higher until your thick, engorged nipple is exposed.

Phil hands a salt shaker to Randy while he picks up a bottle. "You do the salt. Where do you want the tequila?"

Randy's eyes light up, roaming up and down your body hungrily until his eyes light upon your taut tummy. "Her belly button," he says hoarsely.

"Good choice," Phil says, and picks up a lime wedge. "Open up," he says to you, and you obligingly obey, although you're not sure why he wants you to until he plops a thick wedge into your mouth. It goes a little too deep, and you work your tongue to try and push it back out.

"Mmph?" is all you can say when you feel the cold splash of liquid dribbling onto your belly. You'd assumed they'd be using a shot glass for this, but any muffled objection you might have taken is stolen from your mind when Randy shakes the salt vigorously onto your nipple, making you realize for the first time that it's exposed.

Randy's drooling mouth descends on your nipple, taking in far more than the salt before finally leaving a bit wet spot on your reluctantly hardening nipple before he slurps up the tequila, swirling his tongue in your innie before chasing after the dribbles of tequila that have spread across the rest of your stomach.

"Now the lime," Phil says, as if Randy might have forgotten about it. He needn't have worried, as Phil eagerly rushes to your face, planting his larger mouth upon yours, sucking the lime forward like he's kissing you before biting into it, holding the position for far longer than necessary.

"Enthusiastically done," Phil says. You're starting to think that maybe this wasn't such a good idea, but when you try to voice that opinion he just fishes out the lime, pours a mouthful of beer more or less past your lips, and plops another lime wedge in your mouth.