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As soon as Bimbette walked out of the night and through the front door, she knew she had found the place she was looking for. It was a small, dark, run-down taproom, in a questionable part of town, population: nine, including the bartender - all male, mostly black with a few white guys.
The worn, dark, wooden bar with its seven stools was straight ahead as she entered. The room was L-shaped, and the long leg, with a half dozen circular tables, ran from side to side. There was a juke box and a tiny dance floor to her right. Behind that, the short leg, with three booths, the rest rooms, a wall-mounted pay phone and the fire exit, formed a back section, extending toward the rear of the building.
The phone was apparently out of service as the receiver was off the hook and dangling limply a foot or two above the floor. The four small windows were badly in need of washing.
There were three men at one table, another table with two guys talking light-heartedly, a couple of young studs perched on stools at the bar and one lone, handsome black fellow, sitting at a table next to the dance floor. They were drinking more from boredom that from compulsion, except for the table of two; they weren't drinking at all. A baseball game flickered on the television mounted above the bar, but no one was watching. All eyes were, of course, on Bimbette.
She was used to it. Bimbette was a drool-inducing, cock-stiffening redhead. She was big-breasted and long-legged and knew exactly what men liked best. Her plan for the evening was to get seriously and repeatedly fucked and she was dressed accordingly.
Her white halter-top dress was dotted with bright pink hearts. The long, narrow triangles of the top section barely covered her nipples, leaving her dark areolae peeking out at the sides. Below her breasts, a large heart-shaped cut-out with pink piping exposed her stomach down to her navel and beyond. The pleated skirt was so short that it left the lower half of her ass cheeks uncovered and gave the men glimpses of her sheer pink panties as the lacy hem swung and danced with her undulating walk. Her shiny fuchsia pumps with their five-inch stiletto heels screamed 'HOT WET PUSSY' so loudly she might as well have been handing out extra-strength viagra to every guy in the place. Hanging from her shoulder was a small white handbag with pink trim.
She sauntered slowly across the room, making eye contact with each of the customers as she went. She began to feel a warm tingling grow in her crotch and her nipples hardened. The men sat speechless, their eyes feasting on Bimbette as if they had never seen a woman before. She chose an empty table near the dance floor, turned a chair sideways to the table and sat, crossing her legs flirtatiously. It seemed the boys liked her dress. She had bought it just today at Samantha's Sexy Slut Salon, where she worked as a sales clerk. She got a 25% employee discount.
The bartender eyed her suspiciously, but the other men continued to ogle Bimbette in spellbound silence until the dark-skinned man sitting by himself at the next table finally spoke up: "Don't expect him to come over and ask what you want. It's pretty much self-service here." He stood and said: I'm Terrance. Can I get you anything?"
Bimbette let her eyes linger on the growing bulge in his trousers, no more than two feet from her hungry mouth. Her clit and nipples were now beginning to throb with pleasure. She looked up into his face and smiled, then purred, "Oh, you mean something to
drink
? Sure, thanks. I'd love a vodka martini."
She wanted the men to have something to watch while Terrance went for her drink, so she pulled out her compact and pretended to study her makeup. It was every bit as slutty as her outfit. Her glossy, blood-red lips and nails matched the color of her hair. Her enormous blue eyes were outlined with dark mascara, highlighted with purple eye shadow and fringed with extra long false eyelashes. She wore huge pink plastic hoop earrings and a matching bead choker. Her thick, teased-up hair flowed to her shoulders in a loose, tousled mass. A few random strands had been woven into long, thin braids and decorated with tiny bows in a variety of colors.
Although she didn't need to, she reapplied lipstick to her bee-stung lips, just because men find it so sexy to watch. Then, as Terrance waited at the bar, she went over to the juke box and, with her back to the room, leaned over, resting her elbows on the glass, to read the song list. At first, she was just doing it to give the men a show, but then she decided a little music might be a good thing. She fed some money into the machine and selected a few romantic ballads before returning to her seat.
Just as Terrance returned with the martini, the first song came on. It was, of course, not one of the ones Bimbette had chosen. It wasn't even on the song list. But it was a slow, country-western serenade and perfect for her purposes anyway.
"Oh," she gasped. "My favorite song," she lied. "And just right for dancing," she hinted.
Not that Terrance needed the encouragement. All the motivation he needed was straining against the tight fabric of his pants, threatening to burst out of his zipper. He put the glass on the table and extended his hand. "Care to join me?" he offered. "I'm a little out of practice. Hope you don't mind."
"I'll bet a handsome guy like you has plenty of practice at the stuff that matters most to a girl like me," she replied, looking down in feigned modesty, as she gracefully stood up.
Bimbette was of average height but, even in her spike heels, Terrance was a half a head taller. She wasted no time and pressed her body tightly against his, left arm wrapped around his waist, right arm under his left, grasping the back of his neck, hand in his short hair. Her head snuggled against his muscular chest. As they moved slowly in time to the music, she could feel his stiff cock squeezed against her. She made sure to constantly rub firmly against it with her body.
We'll snuggle in my truck right soon Beneath the big, bright country moon,
crooned the cowboy on the juke box.
"Don't get many women in here," Terrance commented. "Mostly this is the kind of place guys come to hang out with other guys, have a drink, watch a game. You know, guy stuff."
"My kind of bar," answered Bimbette, looking up at him. "There's nothing I like better than having a roomful of men all to myself. Having other women around just makes everything too complicated. Would you be dancing with me like this if you had your girlfriend with you?"
"There'd sure be hell to pay, but I'm not sure I could resist," he answered with a sly grin.
She returned his smile. It faded slowly as they stared into each other's eyes for long seconds. Then Bimbette parted her lips almost imperceptibly, inviting a kiss. He accepted eagerly, thrusting his tongue deep into her mouth. She responded in kind. She grabbed his butt firmly with her left hand to hold him even tighter and straddled his right leg, grinding her aching clit against his thigh. At the same time she pushed her body harder against his swollen prick. Erotic passion was welling up in her like a stewpot about to boil over.
