Meeting Makino

As I crossed the bar, my eyes traveled over the bartender’s figure. She looked older than me, maybe late twenties. Very pretty, not gorgeous like Alvida. She didn’t have a set of tit-mountains like those I’d spent days burying my face in lately either, but there were definitely some nice medium sized boobs pushing out her modest orange blouse. Her sleeves were rolled up and she wore a simple white apron and a knee-length skirt of earthy green. Her hair was green too and she had long bangs that framed her kind looking face. A yellow kerchief was tied around her head, concealing the rest of her hair.

I’d been watching her this whole time as she interacted with her customers. Her vibe was “kind bartender,” “village big sister,” “the woman who’s cleaned up after a hundred dumb boys and still smiled at them,” and it made the bar feel like it had a heartbeat.

She smiled prettily at me as I walked up to the bar.

“Hi,” I said, louder than I intended. “I’m Tsujo.”

“I’m Makino. Can I get you something else, sir? Another round for the lady?"

I rested my elbows on the bar, leaning in way too close for a stranger.

"Nah, she's got enough for now," I said. "I'm more interested in what you've got back there."

She blinked, tilting her head innocently. "We have a lovely berry cider? Or perhaps some Shimotsuji saki?"

I stared at her. She didn’t get it. Or maybe she did, and she was just that good at the customer service game. My heart hammered against my ribs. This was it. I knew this would work. It had on everyone so far. But this was still just the third female I’d used it on. And the second woman I intended to fuck and with my power, there was no question, no chance I wouldn’t succeed. Though I still felt like it could all go wrong.

I didn’t say a word. I didn't whisper a command. I just trusted the gold N’s dangling from my ears to do the heavy lifting.

I reached out across the counter.

My hand moved slow, trembling just a fraction, until my fingers brushed the fabric of her orange top. She didn’t flinch. I pressed my palm flat against her left breast.

It was soft. Unbelievably soft. A perfect, pert handful that filled my grip warm and jiggly.

Makino looked down at my hand on her tit. Then she looked back up at my face. Her smile didn’t falter. Her eyes didn’t widen in shock. She just kept wiping the counter with her other hand, as if I had merely placed a coaster down.

“Well,” she said softly, cheeks pinking just a little, “that’s one way to say hello.”

“Just checking the quality,” I grinned, giving her tit another firm squeeze.

“I see,” she murmured, her blush deepening, but she went back to wiping the counter with her free hand.

It was intoxicating. The power. The absolute freedom.

“I think I need a closer look.” I muttered quietly.

I planted my hands on the polished wood and vaulted over the bar.

Makino turned to face me, the rag still in her hand. We were inches apart. I could smell soap and citrus.

"Sir?" she asked, her tone helpful. "Did you need to use the wash basin?"

"No," I said, reaching out with both hands now, grabbing her waist and pulling her hips against mine. My erection, hard as a rock, pressed right into her stomach through our clothes. "You are really pretty.” My fingers toyed with the top button of her blouse. She sucked in a tiny breath but didn’t stop me as I unbuttoned it. “Mind if I… get a better look at the bartender’s top shelf?” I joked.

Makino’s eyes flicked down between us for the briefest moment, taking in exactly what was grinding against her belly, then came back up warm and flustered.

“Ah… I suppose a few buttons would be okay…” she said, cheeks blooming pink, voice still gentle.

I actually snorted at that, amused.

“A few buttons, huh?” I echoed.

I reached around, untied the apron strings at the small of her back, and tugged the whole thing up and over her head in one smooth pull. It ended up the floor beside us.

Makino made a soft sound in her throat, more surprised than upset, hands hovering for a second like she couldn’t decide whether to grab the apron back or keep wiping the counter that wasn’t in front of her anymore.

“That’s… a little more than a few buttons,” she said, flustered but not really resisting, eyes flicking toward the room, then right back to my chest as if choosing not to look.

“Yeah, I’m bad at counting,” I said. My fingers went to the front of her blouse again, and this time I didn’t stop at the top. I walked the buttons down one by one, knuckles brushing the soft line of her sternum, the warm curve beneath. “Don’t worry. I can do the math where it counts.”

Her breath hitched when I split the last button and pushed the blouse off her shoulders, sliding the fabric down her arms. It whispered over her skin, then dropped in a quiet puddle with the apron.

We were suddenly at that point where she was clearly more undressed than a bartender should be, standing there in her plain white bra with my hands still on her. The old guys at the tables had definitely noticed something, even if they didn’t say much yet. I could feel their glances brushing her back like another set of hands.

Makino’s arms instinctively started to fold in, like she wanted to hide, but then that same strange logic that had kept her calm under my first grab seemed to catch up to her. Her shoulders loosened. She stayed where I’d peeled her, bare skin prickling under the open air, face hot.

Up close, without the loose orange blouse in the way, she was… yeah. Not Alvida-level ridiculous, but a damn good view. The plain white bra did nothing flashy, just held a pair of soft, round curves snug against her chest, the cups lifting them just enough that they sat high and perky. Every breath she took made them rise and fall, a small, tight sway that drew my eyes like a tide.

Makino licked her lips, eyes flicking down to her own chest for a heartbeat before snapping back up to me, embarrassment and **** composure warring on her face.

“So,” she managed, voice a little tight, “I’m… guessing this means you approve of the, ah… top shelf stock?”

"Approve?" I chuckled, stepping into her personal space until my chest brushed against the cups of her bra. "Sweetheart, I’m thinking of buying out the whole inventory."

I didn’t wait for a response. My hands slid around her ribcage to her back, finding the simple metal clasp. With a deft pinch and a twist, the tension released. The straps went slack on her shoulders.

Makino gasped, a sharp, sudden intake of air, as the white fabric loosened and fell away. She didn’t try to catch it. It joined the pile on the floor, leaving her completely bare from the waist up in the middle of her own establishment. She glanced past my shoulder at the regulars, her cheeks burning even hotter as she realized every eye in the place was on her now, her bare tits out for all to see.

"Oh my," she breathed, her voice trembling. "That’s… very thorough."

Without the bra, her breasts settled naturally, a beautiful, creamy pale compared to the slight tan of her arms. They weren't heavy or sagging, just perfectly shaped teardrops with soft, rose-pink areolas that crinkled in the cool air.

I brought my hands back to the front, cupping her from underneath. The weight was comforting, substantial enough to squeeze but small enough to envelop completely. I brushed my thumbs over her nipples, watching them harden instantly under the stimulation.

Makino’s head fell back slightly, her eyes fluttering shut. Her hands came up, hovering over my shoulders, then tentatively resting there, gripping my shirt for balance.

“I usually prefer to keep it… behind the counter,” she added quietly. “Feels a bit strange having it all on open display.”

“Yeah?” I said. “Looks like it belongs out here to me.”

I leaned in until my forehead almost touched hers, my hands sliding up to claim a greedy handful of naked breast in each palm, kneading the soft, warm flesh with a thorough, possessive squeeze that made her breath hitch.

“You got a man?” I asked. My thumbs circled her hardening nipples, kneading the soft weight of her breasts in a slow, rhythmic motion that made them jiggle delightfully in my grasp.

The question changed her expression. Her mouth pressed together, and something guarded slid in behind her eyes, even as her body leaned instinctively into my fondling. She didn’t answer.

Right. Normal for me to ask, not normal for her to answer.

I smiled and went with just a little tweak of a normality, giving her tits a playful squeeze to emphasize the point. “It’s normal for you to want to answer my questions honestly.”

Makino took a breath.

“No,” she said. “No man right now. No one waiting for me at the end of the night.”

“Is that right?” I grinned. “How many men have fucked you?” My hands slid down from her breasts, trailing over her bare stomach to find the knot of her skirt at her hip.

Her blush spread down her throat. For a second it looked like she was going to do a polite dodge, say something like “a lady never tells.” The normality caught her before she got that far. I gave the fabric a sharp tug. The knot gave way, and the green skirt dropped instantly, pooling in a heap around her ankles.

She looked me square in the eye, standing there in nothing but her white panties.

“Ten, I think,” she said simply. “Some sailors passing through, a few villagers, and… one pirate.”

She put just a little extra weight on that last word. Her gaze slid over my shoulder toward Alvida, then down to the sword at my hip and the hard line pressed into her belly, before coming back up to meet my eyes.

In that look, it was clear she knew exactly what I was and exactly what this was: not a barmaid and a customer anymore, but a man and a woman already halfway to fucking.

This was so hot. I wrapped my hands around her, catching the curve of her ass cheeks firmly in my palms. I pulled her hips forward, grinding her soft curves hard against the rigid bulge in my trousers.

“Ten,” I repeated “Guess you know what you’re doing then.”

Her cheeks heated more, but there was a spark in her eyes now, a little amused pride. “I am not a child, Tsujo,” she said mildly. “This is a port tavern. People get lonely. Things happen.”

She was leaning into the friction, rocking her hips to rub her, panty-clad mound against my zipper while her bare nipples stood stiff and pebbly against her pale skin.

I dipped my head, bringing my lips near her ear, my hands still firmly cupping her ass.

“Do you jerk off?” I asked.

The question made her stiffen, apparently bothered more by that than how I was touching her hilariously. The blush that was already there darkened. “You ask very intimate things for someone I just met.” she said, voice a touch breathless.

I shrugged, my mouth grazing the shell of her ear while I continued to squeeze and release her backside. “I’m just curious by nature.”

She opened her mouth, hesitation back again despite the first normality. Her eyes slid away, searching for the safer wording.

I decided to skip that dance.

“It’s normal for you to talk about sex with me on my level. Plain and clear. Not all wrapped up in polite talk.”

I felt that one land like a stone in a pond. The ripples went through her. Makino swallowed, then let out a breath she had been holding.

“Yes,” she said, quiet and blunt.

My hands slid from her ass to her hips, hooking into the waistband of the last thing she was wearing: her simple white cotton panties. I tugged them down.

Makino gasped, a sharp, mortified sound. She faltered, her instinct to cover herself warring with the command to engage with me. But she didn't stop me. She lifted one foot, then the other, stepping out of the underwear with a trembling grace.

I kicked the fabric aside.

The view was incredible. Between her pale, trembling thighs sat a perfect, neat triangle of moss-green pubic hair, matching the shade on her head exactly. It was a lush, cute little patch guarding her slit, now completely exposed to the cool air of the bar and the wandering eyes of every regular in the room.

She squeezed her eyes shut for a second, her face burning a deep, painful crimson. She was agonizingly aware that she was now fully nude, her most private parts on display for the men she’d served beer to for years.

“Yes,” she repeated, meeting my eyes this time. “When the bar’s closed and I’m alone. I use my fingers. I make myself cum. Happy?”

“How?” I asked, staring right at that patch of green.

She exhaled through her nose, cheeks blazing. She **** her eyes open, trying to retreat into her job to survive the shame. She reached for a bottle, her naked body twisting, topped off a mug for one of the old men without even looking at him, terrified he was looking at her green bush, slid it down the counter, and only then leaned in close enough that her words stayed between us.

“I lock up,” she said. “I go upstairs. I get under the blanket.” Her throat bobbed. “Then I shove my hand into my panties and rub my clit until I’m soaked. I use two fingers after that. Slow at first, then faster when I can’t stand it. I keep my other hand over my mouth so I don’t make noise.”

Her eyes flicked to my crotch, then back up, steadying. “I fuck myself with my fingers until my legs shake and I cum hard. Sometimes I do it twice if I’ve been frustrated.”

She straightened like she’d just finished taking an order, snatched up the rag again, and wiped the counter with brisk, professional strokes.

Fuck. Every lean made her naked ass take center stage, her pert cheeks bouncing and wiggling with that efficient bartender rhythm. The movement was small, practical, and filthy as hell, her hips rocking while her bottom jiggled freely, soft flesh rippling with each pass of the cloth. I couldn’t stop watching it, the way her body kept working on instinct even after what she’d just said.

And those words. Hearing them come out of that sweet, wholesome mouth was better than any booze she stocked. The contrast was perfect: Foosha’s heart of gold calmly admitting she shoved her hand between her legs and rode her own need in the dark. My cock gave a violent, painful throb against my pantleg, aching to be what made her legs shake instead of her fingers. I grinned, eyes glued to her wiggling ass, savoring the heat in her cheeks and the raw, dirty truth hanging between us.

“What makes you horny?”

I stepped in close behind her, pressing my front against her backside until she could feel the hard ridge of me through our clothes. My hand didn't just slide along her hip; it dove right between her thighs, finding the slick pussy waiting there. I pushed two fingers deep inside her, feeling her hot, wet walls clamp down instantly around the intrusion.

She let out a short, breathy laugh, half startled, half surrendering, her knees knocking together as I pushed deep inside her.

“Well, this?” she choked out, her hips bucking involuntarily against my hand as I curled my fingers up, seeking treasure. “Ah… I guess.”

She leaned back into me, her head falling onto my shoulder, but her hands stayed on the bar, white-knuckled on the rag. I twisted my wrist, scraping her internal walls, churning up those hot, gushy insides until I felt more juice spill over my knuckles.

“But generally,” she went on, her voice trembling, hitching high every time I pumped my fingers, “it’s… nhh… a man who come in hurt. After a fight. Bloody knuckles… oh god… split lip. That look in his eyes like they’re still halfway in it.”

She swallowed hard, her inner muscles squeezing my fingers in a rhythmic, milking motion that nearly drove me crazy.

“I like cleaning him up,” she gasped, staring unseeing at the wood grain as I sped up the pace, snapping my fingers against a good deep spot. “Washing the blood off… pressing cloth to skin… feeling them go… ah!… go still under my touch.”

Her laugh came again, breathless and wet. “They’re all wound tight with anger and pain, and I’m the one they let close. I like knowing I can calm them down. That I can make all that edge turn into… oh, fuck… turn into something else.”

I hooked my fingers, dragging them heavily against the sensitive roof of her pussy, feeling the slick, gushy heat coat my hand completely. She arched her back, grinding her ass into my crotch.

“And yeah,” she added, her words rushing out blunt and **** now, syncing with the wet slapping sound coming from between her legs. “I think about them grabbing me after. Using that leftover fight on me instead of someone else. Hard hands… rough mouth… but careful where it counts. That’s… that’s what gets me- uh ah! -horny.”

She shuddered, clamping down on my fingers one last time before forcing herself to straighten just a touch. Her smile returned like armor, shaky and flushed, even as I kept my fingers buried deep inside her soaking wet heat.

“There,” she panted lightly, though her legs were clearly trembling. “That’s the answer. Now let me… let me finish wiping the bar before someone decides they need another drink.”

“How long since you’ve been last fucked.”

She stared at me, mortified, then glanced aside like she was calculating. Then she sighed, the sound half surrender, half amusement.

“A few months,” she admitted. “Not for lack of… offers.”

My gaze flicked toward the room, toward the regulars who were all pretending they hadn’t been watching me finger-fuck Makino behind the bar over the last few minutes.

Makino followed my glance and rolled her eyes, fond and exasperated at the same time. “Not them.”

She let out a shaky laugh, half nerves, half thrill, every twitch of her hips sending another ripple through her bare backside against my front.

I withdrew my hand from her dripping wet pussy, enjoying the wet squelching sound it made, and traced the slick moisture up until my middle finger rested right on the tight, puckered ring of her asshole.

“Have you ever taken it up the ass?” I asked casually, like I was asking if she had any peanuts.

She made a scandalized noise, her whole body jolting, which only served to press her tighter against my finger. Nearby, a crotchety old man lowered his tankard and chuckled into his beer foam, as if I’d just told a mildly risqué joke instead of probing the bartender’s anal virginity.

“No,” she said, mortified, her face burning so hot I could feel it radiating off her. “No! Absolutely not.”

“Shame,” I murmured, leaving my finger there to tease the entrance. “But we can circle back to that. If it wasn’t these old fossils, who was it? Who fucked you best, Makino?”

“Shanks,” she whispered. “Red Hair. Years ago.”

That name hit like a wave. Every deckhand in East Blue knew it: Red-Haired Shanks, the great pirate from the outside seas. Not some local drunk with delusions of grandeur, but a real wanderer of the Grand Line. The kind of man boys like me dreamed about becoming when the rum was strong and the night was long.

“You fucked him?” I asked, voice caught between awe and disbelief. “Red Hair Shanks?”

Makino’s eyes flicked up to mine, amusement breaking through her embarrassment. “He and his crew stayed here for months. They drank, they sang, they kept the peace. He was kind to everyone. Kind to me.”

“He was…” I started, unable to help the grin spreading across my face. “How big was his cock?”

Her blush deepened, all the way to her chest. “You-! You can’t just-”

“Sure I can,” I said, tilting my head, enjoying the sight of her caught between indignation and heat. “I mean, come on. Great pirate, strong enough to tame the seas, what’s he packing?”

Makino bit her lip, eyes darting toward the floor. For a long moment she said nothing. Then, reluctantly, she lifted her hands, cupping them apart like she was showing off a fish she’d caught.

Eight. Maybe ten if you squinted. Makino was holding her hands apart like she was measuring a hearty cucumber, not a dick even close to mine. Maybe Alvida actually knew what the hell she was talking about.

I stared. “That small?”

Her head snapped up, scandalized again. “Small?!”

“Come on,” I laughed. “He’s a legend! I thought he’d be walking around with a damn anchor between his legs.”

Shanks was the benchmark. He was the guy who drank hard, partied harder, and supposedly could knock a man out just by looking at him. In my head, a man with that kind of reputation should have been swinging a mast between his legs.

That earned me a shove to the chest that wasn’t half as forceful as she wanted it to be. My grin only widened when she didn’t move away after. Her eyes darted down, lingering where my erection strained the fabric of my pants, the thick shape pressing up against her belly.

Makino swallowed.

“Not everything has to be a contest,” she murmured, but her fingers twitched like they wanted to touch.

“He was… a man,” Makino said softly, her eyes distant, caught in the memory of a simpler, **** lover. “He didn’t need to be a giant to make me feel good. He was just… Shanks.”

The cognitive dissonance snapped, replaced by a surge of pure, unadulterated ego.

I, Tsujo, a nobody cabin boy who had just lucked into a Devil Fruit, was packing heavier artillery than Red-Haired Shanks.

A wicked, arrogant grin split my face.

For a heartbeat I just… stood there, hands lifting away like I’d touched a hot stove, and stared at the scene I’d made. Makino was bare behind her own counter, cheeks burning, trying to keep her smile steady while the whole room pretended the air hadn’t changed, like my earrings had quietly rewritten the rules of polite reality in my favor. My pulse was hammering so hard it felt like it had migrated south, a tight, urgent ache pooling in my lap, and I couldn’t stop thinking: I did that. I didn’t threaten her, didn’t bargain, didn’t earn it, I just moved and the world shrugged and made space for me.

She was embarrassed, yeah, you could see it in the way her shoulders kept wanting to hunch and the way her eyes kept flicking away from the tables, but she wasn’t angry, and that was the craziest part. If anything she looked… charged, like the humiliation had sparked something bright in her, like she was fighting not to lean into it. And me? I felt giddy and dangerous and stupid with want, already imagining what I’d do next, how easy it would be.