A game of doubles, or two riders on the bull

"Doubles!" someone cries out.

"Huh?"

"Don't get off, I got an idea!" he calls again, and you turn in bewilderment toward the source.

A none-too pleasant looking man rushes out of a room, the door squeaking closed behind him slowly. A plaque shows the universal symbol for the mensroom.

The man is a little on the pudgy side and clearly a slob judging by the rips and stains on his well-worn clothes. You stare at the oily-haired man with disgust as he wipes his hands on his pants, adding to the wet-spot staining the crothc of his pants. Your eyes widen as you realizing his fly is still open, through which you can tell he's not wearing underwear.

"D... doubles?" you **** yourself to ask, afraid to know what he means, wanting to get off, but with your skirt having ridden up to your slim waist you're afraid you'll flash everyone if you try.

"Alright, George gets first dibs," the bartender says, to a low chorus of discontent.

George grins, revealing crooked yellow teeth, and spits on his hands as his concession to washing up after a washroom break.

"Wait, I didn't agree. What's doubles?" you ask frantically.

"Slip forward, little girl," he grins, stepping right up to the bull.

"I'm not a little girl, I'm eighteen," you tell him huffily, then let out a startled squeal as he yanks your feet from the stirrups so he can stick his foot in and swing himself up swiftly behind you. "Wait, you can't sit there, I haven't gotten off!"

"It's doubles, you silly cunt. Let 'er rip."

Before you can protest further the bull is snapped into action, but not before George takes a firm grip...