Can’t say no to an Invitation - The Goth waitress.

I leaned more onto the bar, my pulse hammering like a jackrabbit on speed. My eyes flicked out first, catching the punk chick slouched on her stool beside me. Her leg swung slow, lazy, that black bra winking at me through the shredded mess of her Slayer shirt, straps stark against her pale skin. That “don’t give a fuck” stare slammed into me, flat and heavy, daring me to do something stupid—I smirked back, feeling my dick twitch under my jeans, a quick jolt of heat. She sneered, just a twitch of her lip, and I tossed her a nod, a half-assed promise I might circle back to later. But then the blonde behind the counter leaned in close, and I swung my focus.

She was pure rocker chick fire—platinum hair spilling wild out of a messy ponytail, strands sticking to her neck like she’d just crawled off a stage, black lipstick shining wet and dark like tar under the dim lights, a mischievous grin splitting her face wide open. Her Metallica tank clung to her, tight and faded, hugging her curves, those studs on her belt jingling soft as she shifted her weight, all rough edges and loud attitude. “What’s it gonna be, stud?” she rasped, her voice low and gravelly, scratched raw like she’d screamed herself hoarse at a show last night and didn’t give a damn. She leaned forward, elbows digging into the bar, her tits brushing the edge, close enough I could smell the whiskey on her breath, her eyes glinting, daring me to take a swing.

“Whiskey, neat,” I said, letting a grin curl slow across my face, my gaze lingering on that black-lipped mouth, imagining it wrapped somewhere else. “Fries too—keep it quick.” She scribbled it down on a pad, sloppy and fast, her nails chipped black, flashing under the flickering light. “Whiskey and fries,” she echoed, her tone teasing, dragging it out like she was testing me. “Simple man, huh? Thought you’d want something with more bite, big guy.” She straightened up, her tank riding high, flashing a skull-and-roses tattoo etched above her waistband—a jagged, inked snarl against her skin. She turned, barking the order at the lanky barman slouched nearby, who just shrugged like he was half-dead, his hands dragging slow over those bottles he kept polishing. My eyes darted out again—the goth waitress was moving through the room, setting up tables, bending over one with her skirt riding high, that thick, round ass swaying slow, teasing just enough to make my pulse throb. Deliberate or not, it didn’t matter—she had me tight, a heat coiling low.

The blonde cleared her throat, dragging me back. Her fingers tapped the bar, slow and deliberate. “Hey. Eyes up,” she said, smug as hell.

I huffed a laugh, leaning in, voice dropping low and rough. “You always this slow with the service, or am I just special?”

She chuckled, a sound that rolled from her chest, dark and amused, those black lips curling sharp. “Only when the view’s worth it.” Her gaze flicked downward, not subtle, right to where my jeans pulled tight, straining against the heat pressing hard beneath the denim.

She turned, belt studs clinking as she poured the whiskey, and fuck me—there was the goth again, bending over another table, that thick, round ass teasing high, black lace flashing just enough to wreck my focus. My grip on the bar tightened, fingers digging into the wood, my pulse thick, hot, impossible to ignore.

“Keep staring like that, and I’ll start thinking you’re planning to crawl over there and _help _her out,” the blonde mused, sliding my drink across, her fingers grazing mine, rough and warm. “But don’t think that gets you out of tipping me.”

I smirked, curling my fingers around the glass. “Depends—what kind of tip are we talking?”

She grinned, slow and knowing. “One that’ll leave you walking out of here a little lighter.”

I caught her grin and tossed back, “Tip’s yours if you join me out there.” She smirked, eyes flashing as I caught sight of the goth leaning over again, to wipe down another table, skirt slipping high enough that I caught more than lace. Fuck. I barely swallowed a groan. The blonde’s eyes flicked past me, tracking my stare, and her smirk deepened.

“Join you?” The blonde snorted, handing me a basket of fries, grease shining on them. “I’d break you before you got halfway, but I doubt you’d notice right now.” Her voice was a tease, dripping with knowing, and she was right—my eyes were locked on the goth, bending low, one knee propped on the chair now as she wiped the table with a rag, ass swaying like a fucking taunt, pulling me under.

I downed the whiskey—burn tearing down my throat, heat pooling low and heavy—and slammed the glass down with a “Fuck it, be right back!” that punched through the jukebox’s growl, loud and jagged.

I stomped across the floor, the blonde’s chuckle fading behind me as my shoes scuffed over sticky planks, my blood roaring in my ears, a hot rush driving me. The goth didn’t turn—kept wiping that table, ass up, like she hadn’t clocked me coming, hadn’t felt the air shift. I hit her fast, hands slamming her hips, shoving her flat against the tabletop, wood creaking under her. She jolted, a quick gasp slipping out, then twisted just enough to flash me a coy smirk—dark eyes glinting under that heavy eyeliner, lips twitching like she’d laid the trap and I’d walked right in. “Oh, hi,” she purred, voice cool and taunting, arching her back as I yanked her skirt up, those lace panties clinging to her, damp and dark where she was already wet.

“Hi yourself,” I growled, ripping them down—fabric tearing loud, lace bunching at her knees—my jeans dropping fast, zipper rasping as my cock sprang free, hard and aching. I gripped her hips tight, slammed into her raw—hot, wet, tight, swallowing me deep—and she moaned, sharp and low, that smirk still curling her lips, hands splaying across the table as I pushed in hard, her ass bouncing, thick and perfect against me. The table groaned under us, wood scraping the floor, wobbling like it might give out, and I didn’t care—let it break, let the whole damn lounge crash down. Her lace panties dangled at her knees, torn and useless, a black tangle swinging with every thrust, and I laughed, rough and wild, the sound tearing out of me as I pounded her harder, feeling her clench around me, hot and slick, pulling me in like she owned me now.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” I growled, my voice ragged, hips snapping fast, skin smacking skin with a wet, filthy rhythm that drowned out the jukebox’s snarl. She arched higher, ass pushing back into me, that coy smirk twisting into something dirtier, her moan stretching into a low, throaty laugh that sent a jolt straight to my balls. Her purple-streaked hair clung to her neck, sweat glistening under the dim lights. I slid a hand up her back, fingers curling into that lace top, yanking it up to feel her skin—soft, warm, shivering under my touch. The table bucked beneath us, one leg screeching off the floor, and she gasped, sharp and breathless, knuckles white as she gripped the wood, trying to steady herself.

“Harder,” she purred, voice taunting, daring me, her ass bouncing faster now, thick and plush, taking every slam like it was a game she was winning. I grinned, feral, and gave it to her—deeper, messier, my cock driving in so hard her whole body jolted, a choked “fuck” slipping out of her, that smirk flickering as her eyes squeezed shut. Sweat dripped off my forehead, splattering on her back and mixing with hers. “Yo-you like that?” I rasped, thrusting wild, the table bucking so hard a chair toppled over nearby, clattering loud. She laughed again, breathless, nodding fast, her hips grinding back, sloppy and eager, wet heat soaking me.

The lounge blurred—punk chick’s stare still burned from her stool, flat and smug, like she was taking notes; the blonde’s grin widened behind the bar, black lipstick flashing as she leaned on her elbows, fries forgotten; the barman didn’t even flinch, just kept polishing like this was Tuesday. I didn’t give a shit who watched—let them. The SIM was mine, and this was raw, fun, a fucking mess—her ass slapping against me, slick with sweat, her moans pitching high now, sharp little cries that bounced off the walls. I grabbed her hair, twisted it in my fist and pulled her head back just enough to see that smirk still clinging, daring me to break her.

“Gonna cum for me?” I growled, slamming deep, holding there a beat, feeling her pulse around me, tight and hot. She shivered, a full-body shudder, and nodded, gasping, “Yeah—f-fuck—do it.” I get back to it, relentless, pounding her into the table, the wood creaking loud, her ass jiggling with every hit, wet and wild. She clenched hard, a sudden squeeze that ripped a grunt out of me, and then she broke—moaning loud, messy, her whole body shaking as she came, soaking me, slick running down her thighs, dripping onto the floor. I laughed, triumphant, and kept going—SIM stamina kicking in, no slowing down—thrusting through her spasms, chasing my own edge.

Her hands slipped, smearing sweat across the table, and she slumped forward, still smirking, panting hard, hair plastered to her face. I gripped her hips tighter, slammed in one last time—deep, raw, messy—and let go, unloading inside her, hot and thick, a flood that wouldn’t quit, spilling out around me as I groaned, low and guttural, the room spinning. Her ass pressed back, taking it all, and I collapsed over her, chest heaving, cock still twitching inside her, the table wobbling under us, sticky with sweat and who knows what else.

My breath came ragged, hot against her neck, her purple-streaked hair plastered to her skin, and I felt her shudder one last time, a soft, broken moan slipping out as her body went slack. The SIM buzz still hummed through me, but the edge was off—fucked out, raw and satisfied. I lingered a beat, buried deep, soaking in that tight, wet heat, then pulled out slow, real slow, watching my cum drip out of her, thick and white, trailing down her thighs, pooling with the mess on the floor.

“Well, damn,” I panted, grinning wide, voice hoarse. “Best table service ever…” Cheesy as hell, but it landed—her head twisted, that coy smirk flickering back, dark eyes glinting like she’d still play me if I gave her half a chance. I laughed, loud and dumb, and gave her ass a sharp slap—crack echoing, her flesh jiggling under my hand, a red mark blooming fast. She yelped, half-laughing, half-gasping, and I stepped back, fixing my jeans—zipped up the mess, cum and sweat sticking to the denim, not giving a fuck.

She pushed up slow, wobbly, skirt falling crooked over her hips, that thick ass still flushed pink from me. Her torn lace panties dangled at her knees, a shredded mess—she bent, plucked them off with two fingers, holding them up like a trophy, cum-slick and ruined. “Better leave a decent tip, asshole,” she quipped, voice husky, teasing, her grin stretching wide, satisfied and smug. Then she balled them up and chucked them at me, and I snatched them out of the air, laughing rough as I stuffed them into my jeans pocket, the damp lace bulging there like a fucked-up souvenir. She shook her head, then turned, flushed cheeks glowing under the heavy eyeliner, and went right back to setting tables—grabbing a chair, bending over like nothing happened, ass swaying again, still grinning like she’d won the round. I chuckled, smirking, watching her work it off, casual as fuck.

I swaggered back to the bar, the jukebox riff fading back into focus, a low growl under the hum of the lounge. I slid onto the stool next to the punk chick—she hadn’t moved, leg still swinging slowly, that flat, heavy stare tracking me like I was some asshole who’d just proved her point. I smirked, grabbing the basket of fries from the bar, grease smudging my fingers, and popped one in my mouth, chewing slow, the salt hitting my tongue sharp and good.

“Mind’s clearer now,” I said, half to myself, half to the air, nibbling another fry as I leaned on my elbows on the bar. The blonde rocked up, platinum hair wild, black lipstick gleaming, that mischievous grin still plastered on her face like she’d bet on me cracking, and won.

“Back already?” she rasped, leaning toward me enough for her Metallica tank to stretch tight, studs on her belt clinking soft. “Thought you’d be face-down over there for a while, stud.”

I laughed, rough and easy, tossing a fry her way—she caught it mid-air, popping it in her mouth with a smirk.

“What, miss me?” I quipped, letting my eyes drag over her, slow and deliberate. “Figured I’d give you a breather before I test that ‘break me’ theory of yours.” The punk chick snorted beside me—first sound she’d made—just a quick, dry huff, her stare still pinned, but I kept my focus on the blonde, fries dangling between us, the banter picking up like I hadn’t just fucked the room sideways.

“Breather?” she shot back, black lips curling sharper, eyes glinting like she’d shove me off this stool just for fun. “Sweetheart, I’m still waiting for you to start the show.” She grabbed a rag and started to wipe the bar slowly, teasing, her tank riding up to flash that skull-and-roses tattoo again, and I grinned, popping another fry, the lounge settling back into its sweaty, buzzing haze.