Mic Check – The Bartender’s Turn (Post Punk Chick)

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 my own mess drying on wood, but I was too far gone to care. I tossed another fry into my mouth, slow-chewing with that post-fuck smugness that only came from ruining someone like Casey.

The punk chick hadn’t cleaned up, hadn’t moved much at all—still sprawled beside me, her sneer faded into something lazier, smugger. Legs spread like a dare, one boot swinging lazy, her shorts were still nowhere in sight. Her thighs were marked from my grip, pussy glistening slightly where I’d left my finish, her cocky sneer intact. She just laid there, proud, spent, and still ready to tear someone apart if they tried her. She gave me a look, half-smirk, half-challenge, and then back to her navel, unconcerned. That was it. Game over. She’d let me fuck her raw, wipe her out, and she was still cooler than me.

I was mid-swig of my drink when the bartender leaned in again, her rag sweeping slow eights across the bar. Her grin was carved out of sin, black lipstick glossy, hair still a mess of platinum strands sticking to her cheeks and neck. She moved like a cat who’d just watched a dog get hit by a truck—lazy, mean, and smug about it.

“So, you gonna sit there all night looking dumb, or finally pay up on that tip?” she rasped, voice gravel and smoke.

I leaned in, forearms pressing on the bar, grinning slowly. “Thought I’d wait for the off-menu special.”

She chuckled, low and scratchy, tossing the rag over her shoulder. “Hah. Cute. Stupid, but cute.” Her eyes dipped—not shy, not subtle. “You wanna see what’s on my menu?”

From down the bar, the lazy barman scoffed without lifting his head. “She only moves that fast for dick or fights.”

The blonde flipped him off over her shoulder in response, ignoring him for the most part. She rounded the bar in one fluid motion, hips swaying, boots thudding. With a smug smirk, she just palmed my chest, shoving me gently back against the bar, and she kicked my foot, nudging me to widen my stance. Then, with deliberate intent, she knelt between my legs, her knees hitting the floor with practiced ease. She snorted, fingers already on my zipper. “If I gag, you’re tipping extra.”

She unzipped me slow, knuckles brushing the twitch under my jeans. My cock sprang free, thick and glistening with the leftover mess of Casey’s wreckage.

The bartender raised a brow. “You really are a filthy fucker.”

"Hah... not shy, huh?" I rasped.

"Baby, this mouth’s clocked more hours than that jukebox." she replied with a chuckle.

She waited, lips parted just enough to let breath kiss my skin, eyes locked on mine like she was waiting for me to blink or beg. Then—nothing. She just dove in, tongue flicking the head, tasting the sweat, the other girl, the leftover salt and taste of skin. Her lipstick smeared instantly, streaks of black across my shaft. She curled her tongue around me like she was coiling a whip, then sucked in slow, letting her lips stretch wide as she took me inch by inch.

I groaned, hips twitching forward. Her nails dug into my thighs, a clear warning—I go at my pace. I got the message.

The jukebox hummed something low and dirty, bass rattling the wood as her head bobbed, slow and steady. She was good—_too _good. She knew how to swirl, how to squeeze with her lips, how to time her inhales just right to drag a curse out of me every other breath.

My hand found her ponytail, fingers weaving into the sweaty strands, not pulling, just holding. Grounding. The room faded, sound flattening under the wet rhythm of her mouth and the low growl of the speakers.

Her eyes flicked up, watching me—black eyeliner thick, lashes spiky. I watched her watching me, that smug sparkle in her eyes like she knew I was already unraveling, challenging me to look away first.

She pulled back for a moment, her fist smearing spit along my shaft as she whispered with a smirk, “Still think I can’t break you?”

I was about to **** out a response when the front door slammed open.

A gust of cold air rushed in, carrying the sound of boots and raucous laughter. Four guys swaggered inside, all noise and bravado.

Guitars slung over backs, amp cases rattling, one dragging a drumstick bag behind him like a weapon. Denim, leather, scuffed boots, and attitude.

“Yo, we early?” one of them shouted, clapping his hands.

The blonde didn’t stop. Her mouth slid back down my cock, tongue curling under the head as she locked eyes with me. My breath caught.

The tallest—ink snaking down his neck—grinned. “Hey, babe!” he called to Casey, who had finally risen from her stool and wandered toward the stage without even bothering to redress, flipping him the bird without a glance.

“Charming as always,” muttered another, dropping a snare case with a thud. Then, to the blonde, “Yo, Lex!”

She didn’t break rhythm, her free hand flicking up in a lazy, confident wave, acknowledging the greeting while her lips stayed wrapped around me.

The last guy—quiet, built, moving like a shadow—looped around the bar. I warily kept an eye on him, muscles tensing as I braced for trouble, half-expecting him to step in. Instead, he leaned in and kissed Lex’s temple.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he said.

She hummed around my cock, unfazed.

I froze. He just patted her shoulder and moved on, as if she were polishing a glass.

I blinked. “That your...?”

She popped off, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, lipstick smeared across her cheek, grin wide and feral.

“Boyfriend,” she said, then took me back in. My balls retreated for a second—but my cock didn’t get the memo.

The band laughed.

The one who’d called Casey ‘babe’ turned to me with a mock salute. “Hey, man, that your handiwork on my girl?” he asked with a wide grin, nodding toward Casey’s bare ass on stage, still glistening with the evidence of our earlier romp as she fidgeted with the mic.

“Don’t look like it, but this fucker’s got rhythm,” she said, half-laughing into the mic, her voice crackling through the speakers, winking at her boyfriend’s question.

Lex didn’t miss a beat. Her lips wrapped tight again, black smeared across her cheeks now, spit glistening as she bobbed faster. My hips jerked with every stroke. She sucked like she was starving, her tongue flicking under the head, swirling, teasing, punishing.

“Shit,” I hissed, gripping the bar. My mind spiraled. I was just starting to forget it was a SIM, my body caught between tension and overload, the goth waitress adjusting a chair with her foot, still pretending not to notice. The drummer, on the other hand, eyed the scene and chuckled.

“Hey, Lex, you done with your toy or we have time to drag Casey to the back for a little pre-show gangbang?”

The bartender popped off my cock with a wet gasp, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and barked, “Show starts at nine. You assholes got ten minutes to set up, so don’t waste it circle-jerking in the fucking back.”

Laughter exploded again. One of the guys muttered, “Yes, ma’am,” mock-saluting as they all got moving, dragging amps and cases toward the stage.

Lex grinned at me, saliva smeared over her chin, eyes gleaming. “Where were we?”

She dove back down, sucking me hard, tongue ruthless now. I wasn’t gonna last—not with the image of her wiping cum from her cheek while telling off a band. Not with the heat of her mouth and the way she looked at me like I was hers for the moment.

My orgasm hit hard. I came in thick pulses, Lex swallowing it all without flinching like shots on a dare. She pulled off slow, kissed the tip, then stood, wiping her mouth with her wrist. I sagged back, breath catching, Lex licking her lips like she’d just downed something stronger than whiskey.

“Fuck me,” I muttered.

“You couldn’t afford it,” she shot back, smirking. “Show starts at nine. Don’t go too far.” She finally tossed me a wink, then spun abruptly, yanking the rag from her shoulder and smacking it square into the goth waitress’s chest. “Make sure the tables are clean and not sticky as fuck like last time.”

Casey tapped the mic, then adjusted the stand—bare ass still catching the dim stage light like it belonged in the setlist while Lex just walked back around the bar like nothing had happened. Like she hadn’t just blown the brains out of a stranger in full view.

I slouched deeper into the stool, dick limp but twitching, watching the goth waitress mop up table six like she hadn’t just seen a blowjob beside the fries.

This fucking place. I might never leave.