the bar

They’d been driving since dawn. Dust, endless road, engine growling beneath them. Wayne smoked with the window cracked, radio low. Emma sat beside him, stomach gnawing itself hollow, bikini strings biting into her flesh, every bump and rattle of the truck reminding her how exposed she was.

When the neon glow appeared on the horizon, Wayne grunted.

“Need a drink,” he said, flicking his ash out the window.

The truck hissed as he braked and rolled into the dirt lot. The sign above the low wooden building read simply: Saloon. Outside, rusted pickups leaned in the dust, and the sound of boots, laughter, and rough country music leaked out into the night.

Emma’s throat went dry. She knew what she looked like, forty-five years old, skin pale against the micro bikini that barely kept her tits from spilling, string bottoms cutting her slit wide open. Cheap sandals already filthy from truck stops. She tugged at the white strap across her chest, but there was no hiding herself.

She stepped down from the cab. The air hit her bare skin, and for the first time in hours she felt the scale of her own nakedness. Every step toward the bar made her more aware, the bounce of her tits, the bite of the string between her cunt lips, the stink of sweat and need on her body.

Wayne walked ahead, shoulders broad, hat low. He didn’t look back. Didn’t offer a hand. She was on display. That was the point.

The doors swung open.

The bar fell silent. Dozens of men turned, cowboy hats tipped back, beer glasses frozen halfway to mouths. Emma froze, "A fucking cowboy bar, that figures" she though, the old her would never be caught dead in a place like this, she was more used to wine bars with cocktails.

Then came the sound — whistles, laughter, voices cutting like knives.

“Jesus, look at the tits on her.”

“Old bird dressed like a whore.”

“Bet that cunt’s starving for it.”

Emma froze under their gaze. Heat rushed up her throat, down between her thighs. She could feel herself wetting. The humiliation, the sting of being mocked, it did things to her body she couldn’t deny.

She followed Wayne inside, every step through sawdust and spilled beer feeling like walking naked on stage.

Then Emma's eyes saw it, in the centre stood the mechanical bull, cracked leather, single rope dangling like a cock from its back, ringed by shouting men. Above it a sign: Last five minutes, win the shirt and the shorts.

Emma’s voice sounded absurd in the room, her clipped English vowels cutting through the drawl. “I’ll ride.”

The men roared with laughter. “She’ll break her fucking neck!”

“Bet her tits fall out before she lasts a minute!”

She climbed up anyway. Leather rough beneath her thighs, rope hot in her hand. The machine lurched.

Her bikini top failed instantly, tits flung out, nipples hard, bouncing wildly with every violent jolt. The string between her lips turned to wire, scraping, sawing, grinding her clit into the cracked leather until her juices soaked it dark.

The crowd screamed at her, called her every name. She clung on, hair flying, mouth open, moaning as the machine tried to throw her.

She came, right there, in front of them all, shaking, screaming, thighs gripping tighter as if she wanted the machine to fuse into her.

Five minutes. She slid off shaking, tits bare, cunt throbbing, juices dripping.

The prize, a paper-thin white t-shirt, denim Daisy Dukes cut small enough for a teenager. She pulled them on, tits still exposed beneath the shirt, shorts unfastened, top of her slit visible, arse hanging raw out the back.

The men howled with approval.

At the bar, sweat shining on her skin, shirt see-through with damp, Emma picked at peanuts. He felt hands touch her exposed flesh, none were subtle, then she felt it between her legs the sensation was cold and hard against the head of her raw pussy lips, a beer bottle, she adjusted her stance opening her legs more and felt it slide inside, the foamy liquid coating the walls of her cunt and dripping out of her giving her pussy some soft comfort.

Emma smiled and the stranger was gone, she turned and saw Wayne sitting drinking alone, oblivious to what just happened to her, then the men started approaching making offers.

“Beer for a blowjob.”

“Food if you swallow.”

“Pack of smokes if you let me down your throat.”

She didn’t hesitate. She nodded, smiled, led them to the back hallway.

The floor was sticky, walls scrawled with grime. Emma dropped to her knees on the filth. She opened her mouth.

Cocks filled her throat one after another, hot, heavy, spilling thick loads she gulped like food. Every swallow was fuel, every gagging cough another way to keep herself fed. She thanked them, begged for more.

Cum on her tits. Cum across her cheeks. Cum dripping down her chin before she licked it back up. She was a cheep slut. She wanted to be a cheep slut. The crowd outside drank while inside she drank too, only not beer.

By the time she staggered out again, her belly was full, lips swollen, tits streaked, shorts twisted. But she was fed. She was satisfied.

Wayne didn’t say a word. He just looked at her, tits raw, cunt swollen, thighs sticky with other men’s mess.

She collapsed on the cab floor, legs wide, shorts bunched up, strings cutting deep into her slit.

He opened his bag, pulled out ointment, rubbed it into her cunt like he was checking livestock. No praise. No cruelty. Just hands working over her, keeping her fit for use.

She moaned, whispered, “Thank you,” and fell asleep like that — legs wide, belly full, skin sticky with spunk.

Wayne threw a ragged t-shirt over her and climbed into his bunk, smirking in the dark.