Mic Check – The Bartender’s Turn (Post Goth waitress)

I slouched into the stool like I owned the fucking place, fries between my fingers, jeans barely zipped, dick half-hard and arrogant. The room smelled like beer, sweat, and the musk of the goth waitress still drying on my skin. I popped another fry in my mouth, slow and greasy, chewing like a king after conquest.

The punk chick beside me hadn’t moved much—still sprawled on her stool like a queen who couldn’t be bothered. Her eyes tracked me with a lazy, unimpressed stare, leg swinging, her Slayer shirt clinging to sweat and attitude. She hadn’t said a word since I walked back from the table where I’d just fucked the waitress raw. She didn’t have to. Her look said it all: Cute trick, but I’m still better.

That’s when the bartender sauntered over again, rag in hand, lips slick with fresh black lipstick and attitude to match. Her voice was a smoke-drenched rasp. “You gonna sit there all night looking dumb, or finally pay up on that tip?”

I leaned in, grinning. “Thought I’d wait for the off-menu special.”

She barked a laugh. “Hah. Cute. Stupid, but cute. You wanna see what’s on _my _menu?”

“Chasin’ the big tips like always, huh, Lex?” the other barman grunted from the side, never looking up from his bottle-polishing routine.

Lex rolled her eyes with a playful smirk, tossing him a lazy middle finger. “Keep dreaming, Jake. I don’t waste my time on small-timers like you.” Her tone was teasing, not cruel, as she rounded the bar, her stride all hips and clinking belt studs. She slid between my legs like it was a routine and palmed my chest, easing me back. “If I gag, you’re tipping extra,” she said, fingers already at my fly.

She unzipped me slow. My cock sprang free, still slick from earlier, and she raised an eyebrow. “You really are a filthy fucker.”

“Hah... not shy, huh?” I said.

“Baby, this mouth’s clocked more hours than that jukebox.”

Then she leaned in, tongue first—one slow lick from base to tip, tasting the sweat, the goth, the leftover filth like she was sampling flavors. Her lipstick smeared black along my shaft, and she smiled around the head as she sank lower.

The jukebox growled low, bass like thunder as she started to work me over—slow, deliberate, too practiced to be fair. My fingers twisted in her messy ponytail, not pulling, just anchoring. Her eyes flicked up and held mine, black liner smudging, her look full of dare.

She pulled back with a wet pop, stroking spit along my shaft. “Still think I can’t break you?” she whispered.

Before I could answer, the door slammed open.

A blast of air, boots, laughter—four guys swaggered in, guitars, amps, one dragging a snare case like it was his pet. The leader, tall and inked, grinned. “Hey, Casey!”

The punk chick flipped him off, not bothering to look. She got up from her stool and strolled toward the stage, adjusting the mic like she hadn’t just been spectating a blowjob.

Another guy dropped a case. “Lex still negotiating tips?” he quipped, letting out a low chuckle.

Lex didn’t stop. Her mouth stayed sealed around my cock, but her eyes flicked up, a smug smirk curling around me as she gave a lazy wave with her free hand, brushing off the comment with cool confidence.

The last guy, quiet and broad-shouldered, moved around the bar and kissed her temple. “Hey, gorgeous.”

She hummed around my shaft.

I blinked. “That your...?”

She pulled off, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Boyfriend,” she said with a wicked grin, then went right back down on me.

Tattoo guy saluted me. “Tip her fat, man, or she’ll wreck you and we ain’t bailing you out.”

The punk chick—Casey, it seems—smirked from stage left. She bent over to plug in the mic cable, leather shorts taut over her perfect ass, the move deliberate, like she knew every eye was on her. She straightened, tapped the mic, and it crackled to life. “Don’t sweat it,” she drawled, voice thick with mockery as it echoed off the walls. “This guy’s got no balls—he’ll tip Lex fat just to limp outta here.”

The band cracked up.

“Hey, Lex,” one of the guys—probably the drummer—called, “we got time to drag punky to the back for a quick fuck before soundcheck?”

Lex popped off my cock with a wet gasp and snapped, “Show starts at nine. You assholes got ten minutes. Set up or jerk each other off later.”

More laughter. A drum case clattered into place.

Lex looked at me, lips swollen, spit glistening. “Where were we?”

She took me in again, harder, faster—this time to finish the job. I grunted, hips twitching, the SIM buzzing through me like a live wire. One hand tangled in her hair, the other braced on the bar, I surrendered to the surge.

I came hard, thick pulses flooding her mouth, each spurt heavy and hot. Lex’s lips stayed sealed, her throat working with deliberate rhythm, swallowing every drop as she moved with me, drawing out the release with slow, relentless suction. Her eyes never left mine, a glint of triumph in their depths. She kissed the tip softly, a final tease, then wiped her mouth on her wrist with a casual flick, standing as if nothing had happened.

“Show’s at nine. Stay close,” Lex purred, winking at me, then tossed her rag at the goth waitress, who caught it mid-clean like it was routine.

The rag hit her shoulder, and she paused, turning just enough to flick her eyes toward me. Our gazes locked for a beat—hers flat, unreadable, but sharp enough to cut. A faint, knowing curl tugged at her lips before she turned back to her table, wiping it down with slow, deliberate strokes. Lex added, “Make sure the tables are clean and not sticky as fuck like last time.”

On stage, the punk chick tuned a guitar, her shredded Slayer tee hanging loose over her frame, leather shorts hugging her ass like a second skin. The drummer stepped in behind her, hands roaming her chest like he was tuning her instead of the strings. She didn’t flinch, barely glancing over her shoulder, her eyes rolling with a lazy sneer like it was just another night, fingers never pausing on the frets.

Lex moved back behind the bar, grabbing a bottle and shooting me a smug look. “Tip like your balls depend on it, champ,” she quipped, her grin sharp and wicked, “‘cause I don’t do free rides.”

I slumped forward, fries forgotten, breath ragged.

This fucking place.