Halloween Bar

It was two nights before Halloween and you stopped into your favorite bar, a dive near the center of town. You didn't have a costume, but all the regulars did. Noticing this, your favorite bartender, Mel, called you back behind the bar.

"Let's switch," she said.

"What do you mean?" you ask. You noticed that she was wearing a lacy corset, a very short skirt, and ripped leggings.

"I mean let's switch. You can dress as me tonight, pretend to be me and I'll say I'm you working behind the bar for once."

She took your hand and led you into the worker's restroom, locking you in a stall. After a moment of mumbling, her bra, corset, fishnets, and then panties came raining down into your stall.

"Your panites--" you start to say.

"Don't be weird about it!" she said. "If you're gonna be me, you gotta be me. Now give me your boxers, jeans, and shirt."

"But, your panties--"

"Yea, yeah," she said, "they touched my pussy. I might have leaked into them a little earlier when Jack fingered me." Jack was one of the other bartenders. You tought of him as a standard meathead. Harmless really, but a sport guy and so fundamlentally uninteresting to youl.

"Uh--"

"don't be like that, throw those clothes over."

You do so, and you put on her bra, enjoying the way it pushes your chest into the shape of a breasts. The corset follows and you start to take shape. You pulled her slightly moist panties over your cock, which got hard thinking about the wetness coming from her cunt. You slipped on the fishnets and short skirt too.

Exiting the stall, you found Mel dressed as you. She smiled, a mischevious smile.

"Almost perfect babe," she said, "but you need some makeup." She already had a bag out.

"What kind of slut do you want me to be tonight?" she asked, her face twisted up in a devilish smile. Then she said, "Like, if you were me... would you let Jack fuck you? Raw? He's 16 inches you know... somehow."

Your own cock stayed hard at this, almost involuntarily.

Mel's hand brushed against your stiffness and she laughed.

"Ah," she said, kissing your cheek. "I know what to do."

She laid thick goth makeup on you: dark eyeliner, sultry eyeshadow. Pale foundation with just a hint of blush. Black lipstick.

Mel led you back into the bar, gave you a free pitcher of beer, and sat you down. The old men in the corner wolf whistled you, you laughed, and you gave a little bow.

"Isn't Mel pretty?" Mel asked. The men agreed. The few women in the bar nodded. "Why don't you come tell her... she wants to know what you'd do to her... but you have to buy her a drink first."

Mel slapped your ass. Then she whispered "Bend over so the men can see what they want..." She gave you an almost chaste peck on the lips and a wink. Not thinking you bent over, and the men clapped, hooting and hollering at you.

You sat down and nursed your pitcher. That's when the men started to come over to you, one or two at a time, and buy you beers. It was strange: they seemed to be ignoring the other women in the bar, even their wives, and spend their time buying you drink after drink after drink.

It got fuzzy after drink seven.

The noise of the bar became a thick, oppressive blanket, muffling everything except the booming voices of the men telling you what they wanted. You had passed the point of being merely "fuzzy" after drink seven; the inside of your head was now spinning, the thick goth makeup feeling heavy and hot on your cheeks, hiding a deep, involuntary blush that kept creeping up your neck. You could feel the wetness of Mel’s panties sticking to your own stiffness, your cock ached, hard and involuntary, pressed tightly against the fabric and the bottom of the restrictive corset.

A man approached the table. Unlike the general regulars who had wolf whistled, this one looked meticulously put together—a clean, starched collar, maybe early 50s. He set down a fresh beer—your ninth—and pulled up a stool directly across from you, his eyes intensely focused on your exposed chest beneath the lacy corset .

“Evening, ‘Mel,’” he said, leaning close. His name, you would later recall, was Gary. He was known to the bar staff as an obsessive cable news watcher, prone to lecturing anyone who would listen on the decline of traditional values.

“I heard about the switch,” Gary continued, his voice low and conspiratorial, “the role reversal. Fascinating. You know, it’s one thing to see a man dress up as a woman for laughs on Halloween. It’s another thing when they commit. Especially with all the… social shifts happening now.”

You tried to give him a charming, Mel-like smile, but the result felt wobbly and uncertain.

“Mel said you want to know what we’d do to you,” Gary stated, ignoring your silence. He took a long, slow drink of his own liquor. “The other guys, they’re simple. They just want what’s outside the skirt. Me? I’m interested in what’s under it. I want to know what it feels like to make a man behave like a slutty little girl—the whole costume, the attitude, the wet panties you’re wearing.”

Your blush deepened under the thick foundation, both from embarrassment and a sick surge of arousal that mirrored the involuntary stiffness you were trying to hide. The corset was becoming an unbearable cage around your burgeoning chest and lower abdomen.

“You like wearing her clothes, don’t you?” Gary pressed, buying yet another drink, sliding it aggressively toward you. “That’s why you agreed to this. And look at you, sucking down the free drinks. You know what you’re selling, don’t you? Drink after drink. I’ll buy them all night, but you have to keep telling me about that cock of yours, straining in those tiny lace things. Tell me what Jack said about fucking you raw, and then tell me you’ll let me do worse.”

The alcohol was now dissolving your final layers of self-control. The explicit dialogue about Jack and the repeated focus on your male part hidden beneath the female garments—a dichotomy Gary clearly found thrilling—made your head spin. You heard yourself whisper a drunken affirmation, slurring that yes, you liked the feeling of the bra pushing your chest into shape .

Gary’s eyes flashed with triumph. He reached across the table and deliberately placed his hand low on your knee, right where the torn fishnets ended .

“Good girl,” he murmured, his gaze locked on your face. “You're getting exactly what you asked for. Now tell me where we are going when I buy the next drink. I want to see if that stiff little cock of yours stays stiff when I put a collar on you.”

You laughed, a high, desperate sound that didn’t sound like you at all. The ability to resist had vanished sometime around drink ten. All you could focus on was the immense, painful pressure of your stiffness and the terrifying, thrilling prospect of Gary’s next demand.

The effects of the alcohol had now entirely overwhelmed your judgment. The heavy goth makeup felt like clay, stiffening your already blushing face, and the pressure of your involuntary hard cock beneath Mel’s slightly moist panties

was becoming unbearable. Gary, the conservative man, still had his hand firmly on your knee, demanding attention and asserting control.

He leaned in closer, his proximity an assault on your senses, his focus entirely on the role you were playing and the reality beneath it.

“I see how this is going,” Gary stated, his eyes boring into yours, making your drunken attempts at a flirtatious smile fail entirely. “You’re a troubled girl, 'Mel.' But maybe that’s what I like. You need discipline, and you need direction. Frankly, you need someone who knows what’s best for you.”

He paused, lowering his voice further. “The way you’re sitting there, drinking what these men buy you, displaying yourself in that lacy corset and fishnets, you’re asking for it. I feel like I could be a good stepdad to you.”

The term hit you with a bizarre mixture of shame and dizzying, hot arousal that was entirely involuntary. Gary clearly saw your reaction because he pressed his advantage, purchasing another round of drinks—your eleventh.

“I’d teach you discipline,” he continued, taking a sip of his drink and not breaking eye contact. “Teach you how a proper young woman—or man dressed as one—should behave when they've been this slutty and taken this many free drinks. I’d have to make sure you understood who was in charge now that Mel put you out here for display. I’d teach you the limits, and then I’d make sure you broke them, just for me.”

He reached up and trailed a cold finger over the black lipstick Mel had applied. You could feel yourself tremble, the heavy bra pushing your chest into shape seeming to restrict your very breath.

Then he leaned in so close your ears were ringing with the sound of his breath. His lips brushed your ear, delivering the final, possessive demand.

“But 'step' sounds so temporary, doesn't it? When I buy you the next drink, and we leave this dive, I want you to look me in the eye and tell me I can take out the step, huh? Just 'Dad.' And you'll do everything your new 'Dad' tells you to do, especially about that cock of yours straining in those panties . We’ll see how disciplined you are then.”

The combination of the immense amount of alcohol and the explicit focus on your internal reality—the shame and the hardness—caused a high-pitched, almost panicked giggle to escape your lips. Resistance was a concept now lost in the fog of drink seven and beyond. You could only nod stupidly, accepting the horrific promise of his control.

The fog in your head, compounded by the heat trapped beneath the lacy corset and the shame of Gary’s possessive demands, made it impossible to form a coherent thought, much less resist his proposal to "take out the step." Your involuntary cock was throbbing painfully, pressed hard against the slightly moist panties, a constant, agonizing reminder of the true nature of this perverse role-play.

Just as Gary prepared to lean in and demand a commitment to his disturbing fantasy, a different voice cut through the noise, thick with practiced concern.

“Hey, that’s enough, man. Can’t you see she’s about to pass out?”

A young man, perhaps in his late twenties with a conventionally friendly face, gently placed a hand on your shoulder. He was instantly recognizable as a "nice guy" type—someone who knew how to feign worry while waiting for his opportunity.

“Come on, ‘Mel,’” he said, guiding you up from the stool before Gary could protest effectively. “Let’s get you some air. You look like you need to wash some of that awful makeup off your face.”

Gary sputtered an objection, insisting that you were his now, claiming his right due to the dozen drinks he'd bought, but the newcomer—let's call him Mark—was already maneuvering your staggering body through the crowd. You were too drunk to walk straight, and the sudden motion made the interior of your skull feel like a washing machine.

Mark led you quickly out the back door and into the cold night air. The sharp temperature change immediately intensified your disorientation. Your body, compressed and confined by the corset, shivered violently.

"Jesus, you look terrible," Mark whispered, his voice losing its veneer of concern and taking on a predatory edge as soon as the door closed behind you. He held you tightly against his chest, ostensibly for support, but the angle pressed your restricted hips close to his. "These old drunks in there, Gary especially, are pigs. They don't appreciate a pretty girl like you."

You tried to mumble a thank you, but the black lipstick felt dry and cracked on your lips, making the effort clumsy.

Mark didn’t wait for a response. He bent his head, and his mouth seized yours aggressively. It wasn't a gentle kiss meant to provide comfort; it was forceful, tasting strongly of cheap beer and whatever liquor he had been drinking. His hand slid down your back, slipping under the short skirt, searching.

The world was now less a blur and more a shimmering kaleidoscope. The forced kiss was shocking, yet the intense inebriation (far beyond drink seven) coupled with the prolonged exposure to overt sexualization and the constant pressure of your hard cock meant your reaction was dangerously compromised. The sensation of his tongue forcing entry past the thick black lipstick was simultaneously humiliating and shockingly effective in escalating the involuntary arousal Mel had triggered earlier.

You felt a surge of drunken, dizzying pleasure, mixed with the shame of the aggressive contact. The sensation was further complicated by the reality of your body: Mark was kissing "Mel," but he was pressing against a man's body stuffed into lacy attire. The lack of oxygen from the tight corset combined with the alcohol made thinking impossible. All you could register was the raw physicality of the moment, and the sickening realization that you liked the desperate feeling of being taken against your will, outside in the cold, while dressed as someone else.

Mark pulled away, breathing heavily, his eyes glittering with triumph. “See? I knew you liked it,” he hissed. He hadn’t rescued you; he had simply claimed the prize Gary was chasing.

“We don’t need the bar,” he said, his voice husky. “I want to take you somewhere quiet and finish what those drinks started. You know what I want to do to you, and unlike those old men, I won’t make you buy drinks first.”

Stumbling away from Mark and his aggressive kiss, you managed to push him away just enough to slip past, propelled not by fear, but by a sudden, intense craving for the focused attention that Gary had provided. You were a mess: the black lipstick was smeared, the pale foundation was sticky with sweat and cold air, and your whole body was trembling. Your cock, aching and hard inside Mel's slightly moist panties, needed the specific, shaming validation Gary had offered.

You swayed back into the smoky interior of the bar, the music suddenly deafening. You spotted Gary instantly, still at the counter, but he was no longer alone. He was engrossed in conversation with a woman you hadn't noticed before—a tall Black woman in an incredibly tight vinyl cat suit. She wore oversized cat ears and a tail, and, most crushingly, her top was unzipped halfway, showcasing massive, gravity-defying tits that easily overwhelmed the modest shape created by Mel’s padded bra and corset.

A surge of visceral, drunken jealousy slammed into you. It wasn't just sexual competition; it was identity envy. She was a real woman, and she had those huge, undeniable tits. You, in your lacy corset, short skirt, and fishnets, felt like a cheap, embarrassing imitation. Gary, the man who wanted to control you and "take out the step," was now smiling charmingly at her, completely forgetting the spectacle you had just performed for him.

I want those tits, a drunken voice shrieked in your head. I want him to look at me like that. I want him to know what he’s missing.

Determined to recapture attention and make Gary jealous, you spun away from the bar and directly into two hulking figures wearing matching baseball caps backwards—frat brothers.

“Whoa, look who it is,” one of them, with a pristine gold chain, yelled over the music. “Look at ‘Mel’ getting chased out the back! You need something stronger than beer, babe.”

“We’re getting cocktails,” the second one stated, pulling you down into a booth. They ordered two fluorescent blue drinks and insisted you chug one immediately. It tasted intensely sweet and burned down your throat, accelerating your intoxication past any point of recovery (far beyond drink seven).

As you clung to the edge of the booth, trying not to pitch over, the frat brothers began their assessment.

“We’re not like those weirdos, don’t get us wrong, we’re straight,” the first one declared, “but tonight? Dude, you totally look like a woman tonight.”

The second one nodded enthusiastically. “And because you look like a woman, we gotta give you some pointers. You need to know how to handle what’s coming.”

They proceeded to give advice that was frighteningly technical and incredibly degrading, sharing precise, unsolicited instructions on how to best suck and take dick, far exceeding the crude context of Jack’s size

and Mel’s earlier jokes. They treated your body, concealed and confused as it was, like a piece of equipment they were teaching an operator to use. The more they talked, the more explicit and dehumanizing their instructions became, and the more you giggled helplessly, the shame and the thick alcohol mixing into a state of reckless, dizzying acceptance.

“You’re cool as hell, ‘Mel.’ Seriously. Ditch this dump, ditch these old guys. We’re going back to the house, you gotta come to the frat party. We’ve got, like, ten guys waiting who would lose their minds over this outfit.”

Your head swimming, desperate to escape the jealousy and the intense, aching stiffness of your involuntary arousal, and unable to process the danger, you nodded quickly. “Yeah, yeah, let’s go,” you slurred, trying to stand up, your legs failing immediately.

Just as the two brothers prepared to hoist your compromised body out of the booth, a firm hand wrapped around your wrist.

It was Mel, dressed in your jeans and button-down shirt, her face set in a look of sudden, intense sobriety.

“She’s done for the night, guys,” Mel said firmly, pulling you free from the booth.

The brothers started to protest, mentioning the drinks they bought.

“Run a tab,” Mel snapped, pulling you toward a quiet table by the service door. She steered you away from the crowd, away from Gary and the cat girl, and sat you down hard. She returned a moment later, setting down a tall, ice-cold glass of water, pushing the discarded blue cocktail away.

“Drink every bit of this,” she commanded, peeling the smeared, sticky black lipstick off your face with a napkin. “The role-play is over.”

The ice water Mel had thrust into your hand did nothing but churn your stomach. You were slumped in the corner booth, sticky, nauseous, and yet intensely focused on the throbbing, demanding ache of your involuntary hard cock, painfully trapped inside Mel’s slightly moist panties. The jealousy over Gary’s attention to the cat girl was still a raw, driving need. You were no longer just entertaining men; you were actively seeking validation that only a degrading, sexual encounter could provide.

Mel, sobered by the clear danger and your collapse, stood guard, but the men kept coming, sensing the shift from entertaining flirtation to desperate vulnerability.

First you speak with a promoter. A man named Rick, flashy and loud, slammed a double shot of tequila in front of you. “Forget the frat boys, ‘Mel.’ I know what a girl like you really wants.” His Come-on and Suggestion: “You’re too hot to be stuck here. Come with me right now. I have a room nearby. I bet that stiffness I saw when you bent over is screaming for release. I’ll make sure you forget what a man you are under all that lace.” You lunged forward, grabbing his arm, ready to flee. But Mel intercepted, slamming Rick’s hand away. “She’s not leaving. She’s too drunk.”

Next, you dance your way over to a heavy-set man with a scarred face, who identified himself only as The Bear, leaned over the table, blocking the light. His eyes fixated on the way the corset pushed your chest into a feminine shape. His Come-on and Suggestion: “That costume is crying out for someone to take control. I can tell you’re aching for it. That stiffness you have—it’s not going away until you give in. I’ll tie those fishnets to the bedpost, and you can show me how well you obey.” You tried to scramble out of the booth, fueled by the terrifying allure of his command. You wanted to prove you were "slutty enough". Mel caught the short skirt and yanked you back down so hard your teeth rattled. “No more, I said! Water!”

Finally, a skinny man in a superhero mask, Victor, saw your state and seized the opportunity for maximum degradation. His Come-on and Suggestion: He whispered, loud enough for Mel to hear, focusing on the dark makeup and the transgressive nature of the night. “You’re a freakshow, ‘Mel.’ But a hot one. I want to record what happens when a guy wearing a bra and women’s panties takes a man’s cock. Come to my car, right now. I’ll make you beg me to tell Gary you’re better than that cat girl.” Tears of shame and arousal were now tracking paths through the thick goth makeup. You were beyond caring who saw. You stood up, swaying violently, ready to follow Victor into the cold parking lot.

This time, Mel pushed Victor away with genuine force. She grabbed your face, forcing you to look at her, her expression one of desperation.

“Stop it! We’re going home. You’re blacking out! Look at yourself—this isn’t funny anymore!”

The exhaustion, the alcohol (long past drink seven), the constant tension of your concealed cock, and the emotional humiliation finally broke your control. You crumpled against her, sobbing uncontrollably.

“C-come on, Mel,” you choked out, the thick black lipstick smearing across your chin. Your voice was high-pitched and hysterical. “I just need to put some dick in my cunt tonight! Please! I just need it!”

Mel recoiled slightly, her eyes wide at your use of the word. “Stop that! You don’t have a cunt!” she insisted, her voice sharp with panic.

You pulled away, utterly lost in the role, driven entirely by the perverse identity crafted by the clothes and the demands of the night. You pounded your own throbbing crotch, right over the lacy, slightly moist panties.

“My cock is my cunt tonight!” you screamed, desperate for release, for completion of the monstrous fantasy.

Mel stared at you for a long, terrible moment. She saw the tears, the smeared makeup, the abject humiliation, and the complete collapse of your identity. She sighed, her shoulders slumping in defeat. The fight was gone.

“Fine,” she whispered. “I can’t stop you.”

You didn't look back at Mel. You just stumbled blindly out the door. Someone grabbed your arm—you weren't sure if it was Victor, or Rick, or maybe even someone entirely new. The last thing you registered was the cold air, a rush of motion, and then everything dissolved into merciful, absolute blacking out.