Wipe That Sneer - The Punk Chick

I leaned more onto the bar, my pulse hammering like a jackrabbit on speed. My eyes flicked out first, catching the punk chick slouched on her stool beside me. Her leg swung slow, lazy, that black bra winking at me through the shredded mess of her Slayer shirt, straps stark against her pale skin. That “don’t give a fuck” stare slammed into me, flat and heavy, daring me to do something stupid—I smirked back, feeling my dick twitch inside my jeans, a quick jolt of heat. She sneered, just a twitch of her lip, and I tossed her a nod, a half-assed promise I might circle back. But then the blonde behind the counter leaned in close, and I swung my focus.

She was pure rocker chick fire—platinum hair spilling wild out of a messy ponytail, strands sticking to her neck like she’d just crawled off a stage, black lipstick shining wet and dark like tar under the dim lights, a mischievous grin splitting her face wide open. Her Metallica tank clung to her, tight and faded, hugging her curves, those studs on her belt jingling soft as she shifted her weight, all rough edges and loud attitude.

“What’s it gonna be, stud?” she rasped, her voice low and gravelly, scratched raw like she’d screamed herself hoarse at a show last night and didn’t give a damn. She leaned forward, elbows digging into the bar, her tits brushing the edge, close enough I could smell the whiskey on her breath, her eyes glinting, daring me to take a swing.

“Whiskey, neat,” I said, letting a grin curl slow across my face, my gaze lingering on that black-lipped mouth, imagining it wrapped somewhere else. “Fries too—keep it quick.” She scribbled it down on a pad, sloppy and fast, her nails chipped black, flashing under the flickering light. “Whiskey and fries,” she echoed, her tone teasing, dragging it out like she was testing me. “Simple man, huh? Thought you’d want something with more bite, big guy.” She straightened up, her tank riding high, flashing a skull-and-roses tattoo etched above her waistband—a jagged, inked snarl against her skin. She turned, barking the order at the lanky barman slouched nearby, who just shrugged like he was half-dead, his hands dragging slow over those bottles he kept polishing. I sensed the punk chick shifting beside me, she was leaning forward more on the counter top, her leather pants creaking and riding lower as I caught a glimpse of her asscrack, pale and taunting, that grin sharpening as she caught me peeking, like she knew I’d snap.

The blonde cleared her throat, dragging me back. Her fingers tapped the bar, slow and deliberate. “Hey. Eyes up,” she said, smug as hell.

I huffed a laugh, leaning in, voice dropping low and rough. “You always this slow with the service, or am I just special?”

She chuckled, a sound that rolled from her chest, dark and amused, those black lips curling sharp. “Only when the view’s worth it.” Her gaze dipped—blatant, dragging right down to where my jeans strained beneath the denim.

She turned, belt studs clinking as she poured the whiskey, but I barely noticed—because the punk chick shifted against the counter, slow and deliberate, like she could feel my stare. Her thumb hooked under the waistband of her shorts, dragging them lower, teasing out more skin, more curve, a wicked little hint of bare hip that had my grip tightening on the bar. My fingers dug into the wood, pulse thick, hot, impossible to ignore.

“Keep staring like that, and I’ll think you’re about to crawl over there and beg for it,” the blonde mused, sliding my drink across, fingers grazing mine—rough, warm, teasing.

“What, you jealous?” I asked, tipping my glass just enough to let the amber swirl, waiting for a crack in that confidence.

She snorted, shaking her head like I’d just said the dumbest thing she’d ever heard. “Jealous? Sweetheart, I don’t fight over easy wins.”

My grin sharpened. “Good. I’d hate to make it too easy.”

She leaned in, voice dropping to a lazy, teasing rasp. “Mm. Long as you don’t forget to tip me, I don’t really care what you make easy.”

I smirked. “Depends—what kind of tip are we talking?”

Her grin spread, slow and knowing. “One that’ll leave you walking out of here a little lighter.”

I caught that look, tossed back, “Tip’s yours if you earn it.”

She smirked, slow and knowing, leaning in just enough for her breath to graze my cheek. “You offering cash, or something worth my time?”

I let my gaze drag over her, deliberate. “Depends how much time you got.”

She just chuckled, shaking her head like she already had me figured out, but before I could press, the punk chick shifted again, slow and deliberate, leather pants inching down just enough to tease that tight ass, that smooth curve that had me swallowing a groan. The blonde’s eyes flicked past me, tracking my stare, and her amusement sharpened.

She slid the fries across, smirking. “Baby, I’d have you limping before the jukebox finishes this song—but I doubt you’d notice right now.”

And she was right. My eyes were locked on the punk chick, who bent just enough to flash the barest hint of asscrack, that sneer pulling wider as she flipped me the bird—one final little dare that snapped whatever hold I had left.

I downed the whiskey—burn tearing down my throat, heat pooling low and heavy—and slammed the glass down with a sharp “Fuck it, I’ll be right back!” that cut through the jukebox’s growl, loud and jagged.

I shoved off the stool, shoes scuffing against the sticky planks, blood roaring in my ears, every nerve wired, buzzing, locked on her. The punk chick didn’t flinch—just watched, that sneer fixed like she’d been waiting, like she knew exactly how this was gonna play out.

I hit fast—hands gripping her hips, yanking her toward me, spinning her over the countertop.

She let out a rough, breathy “Huh,” then twisted just enough to flash that same wicked sneer, dark eyes glinting under choppy bangs, lips curling like she’d dared me and won. “Took you long enough,” she rasped, voice low, taunting, arching her back as I slid a hand down, fingertips skimming the bare curve of her ass—no panties, just heat, just smooth skin teasing under my touch.

“Do you mind?” I murmured, mock-casual, but she didn’t even glance back—just reached down, thumbs hooking under the waistband of her shorts, shoving them lower as she shifted, scooting back on the stool until she perched on the edge, just enough to flash her little asshole, slick and bare.

A quick spit onto her fingers—then she reached back, rubbing it in, slow, deliberate, like she knew damn well the sight alone would wreck me.

“What?” she snarled, throwing me a sharp look over her shoulder. “Too scared to try it, limp-dick?”

Then she huffed, rolling her eyes like this was some boring errand she had to suffer through. “Hurry the fuck up, would you? I got better shit to do than wait around for you to grow a pair.”

Her voice was all venom and challenge, eyes glinting like she’d bite my damn finger off if I got too close.

“Scared’s not my thing,” I growled, jeans dropping fast, zipper rasping as my cock sprang free, hard and aching. I gripped her hips, lined up, and pressed the head right against her asshole, feeling that tight heat resist before I started pushing in, slow, stretching her open inch by inch.

Just a few seconds in, she snapped, “Does quick mean something different to you?”

I tightened my grip, leaning in just enough for my breath to graze her neck. “My bad—thought I’d at least pretend to ease you into it,” I drawled, then drove forward in one brutal thrust, burying myself to the hilt.

She sucked in a sharp breath but covered it with a scoff, fingers clawing into the bar as I started hammering into her ass, tight and gripping me deep. “Yeah, thanks, Romeo. That's all ya got?” she sneered, voice ragged but still taunting, like she wasn’t about to break first.

I growled low, jaw clenching, and gave her exactly what she was asking for—hips snapping harder, skin smacking loud, drowning out the jukebox’s snarl. She hissed out a curse, her body tensing around me, hot and dry, dragging me in like she’d snap me in half if I even thought about slowing down.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” I ground out, fingers digging into her hips as she bounced back against me, rough, fast, like she had a point to prove.

“Harder, you prick,” she spat, throwing a look over her shoulder, dark eyes sharp, daring. That smirk was still there, but it twitched when I slammed into her harder—deep enough that she jolted against the bar, a choked “shit” slipping out before she bit it back. Sweat dripped down my temple, splattering on her back, mixing with hers as she ground into it, breath sharp, eager.

“You like that?” I rasped, voice raw, watching the way her ass shook with every thrust.

She just laughed, breathless, nodding fast. “Now we’re talkin’,” she shot back, hips rolling, dry heat gripping me tight.

I kept going, pounding her wild, the back legs of the stool jumping up with every thrust, the bar rattling hard until a glass tipped over nearby, shattering on the floor.

“Hey! What the hell?” The blonde shot me a glare, yanking bottles off the counter before more went down. “I’m putting that one on your tab, asshole.”

Neither of us even looked at her.

Suddenly, the punk chick shoved me back—hard—knocking me off balance just enough for her to twist free. She hopped down, kicked off her leather pants in one rough toss, then climbed right back onto the stool, legs wide, ass perched on the edge, back braced against the counter like she owned the damn place.

“Come on, prick, finish it,” she spat, fingers already working her clit, slick and fast, eyes locked on me with that same cocky, taunting sneer.

I grabbed both her legs by the ankles, lifted them high—perfect angle—then drove into her ass from the front, rough and deep.

The blonde, now that she’d cleared the counter, leaned in, grinning wide. “Better keep up, stud—or Casey will rip you apart,” her voice a gravelly taunt cutting through the chaos. Punk’s choppy hair stuck to her neck, sweat glistening like it was meant to be there.

“Casey, uh?!” I huffed, “Nice to meet you!” I chuckled, reaching to grab her chin between my fingers—“Touch me and I’ll bite it off,” she snarled, quickly grabbing my hand instead and slamming it to her throat, squeezing my fingers around her neck with a warning growl.

The lounge blurred—the goth kept setting tables, oblivious to the storm, while the blonde watched, black lipstick flashing, her eyes never leaving me. The barman didn’t even flinch, just kept polishing like it was any other Tuesday.

The bar rattled as she growled, loud and messy. Her other hand was wild on herself, fingers working fast as her eyes rolled back, whites flashing. And just like that, she came—hard, her ass clenching around me, shaking like a leaf as she squirted like a fucking sprinkler, soaking her fingers, the stool, and me. I laughed, feral, and kept thrusting relentlessly, the SIM stamina kicking in—no slowing down.

I didn’t give a shit who was watching—let them. Her ass slapped against me, slick with sweat, her snarls pitched high and sharp, bouncing off the walls.

“Cum already, asshole,” she rasped, her throat pulsing under my grip, daring me to finish.

I slammed in one last time—deep, raw, messy—and let go, unloading inside her, hot and thick, a flood that wouldn’t quit, spilling around me as I groaned, low and guttural, the room spinning around us. She shuddered, a rough growl slipping out, her body going slack under me. I stayed there, collapsing forward, my hand slack around her throat.

Still inside her, savoring the afterglow, I felt her hand press against my chest, pushing me off. Slowly, I slipped out, watching my cum drip down her thighs, pooling on the floor beneath her. She slid off the stool in a flash, squatting in front of me with a quick, aggressive movement, yanking me by my cock with a huff.

She licked me clean, her tongue rough and fast, sucking off every drop like she owned it. Dark eyes glaring up at me, still sneering, challenging me with that cocky look.

I panted, grinning wide, voice hoarse, “Guess that’s one way to get you to play nice.”

She smirked, standing slow, naked from the waist down, muttering, “Fucking prick” under her breath. Her voice was husky and teasing, her grin wide, smug, like she’d just won.

Then, she flipped me the bird again—this time with a wicked little glint in her eyes, a challenge that wasn’t going anywhere. Slouching back onto the stool, arms resting against the counter, she leaned in, eyes never leaving me. Her sneer was locked, like she’d claimed this moment and wasn’t about to let go.

I chuckled, watching her settle in, casual as hell, like it was just another fucking day.

Fixing my jeans, I swaggered back to my stool, the jukebox riff creeping back into focus—a low growl under the hum of the lounge. I leaned against the counter, breath still a little ragged, the sweat cooling on my skin. Casey hadn’t moved much—still sprawled back against the bar, legs open, one swinging lazy, staring down at her navel like I was already old news. Like she’d proved her point, some smug little told you so, and moved the fuck on.

I smirked, grabbing the basket of fries, grease slick on my fingers, and popped one in my mouth, chewing slow. Salt hit sharp, grounding.

“Mind’s clearer now,” I muttered, half to myself, half to no one.

The blonde rocked up, platinum hair wild, black lipstick flashing, that mischievous grin still carved into her face like she’d bet on me cracking—and won.

“Back already?” she rasped, leaning in just enough for her Metallica tank to stretch tight, studs on her belt clinking soft. “Thought Casey had you pinned over there for good, stud.”

I laughed, rough and easy, tossing a fry her way—she caught it mid-air, popped it in her mouth without breaking her smirk.

“What, miss me?” I drawled, dragging my eyes over her, slow, deliberate. “Figured I’d give you a breather before I test that ‘break me’ theory of yours.”

Casey snorted beside me—first sound she’d made since. Just a quick, dry huff, like she wasn’t about to give me the satisfaction of a full laugh. But I kept my focus on the blonde, fries dangling between us, the banter picking up like I hadn’t just railed someone over the countertop.

She cocked a brow, taking her time wiping down the bar. “Breather? Please. You haven’t even earned a cigarette yet.”

I huffed a laugh, shaking my head. “Guess that means you weren’t paying attention.”

She flicked a glance toward Casey, sprawled out beside me like she owned the damn place, then looked back at me with a slow, knowing smirk. “Oh, I saw.”

She leaned in just enough to let the scent of whiskey and faded perfume mix in the air between us. “I’m just saying… I’m still waiting for a show.”

I just grinned, popped another fry, and let the lounge settle back into its sweaty, buzzing haze.