It’s late at the bar, getting close to 1 AM. Most people have paired off and left, but a few single guys still lurk at the bar, hopefully glancing around every time the door opens. One in particular keeps looking your way, trying to be subtle but failing miserably. He’s in jeans and a tucked in blue dress shirt, with enough thinning hair to put him in his early 40s. He looks lonely, and at this time of night, a bit desperate.
You’re in the red dress I picked out for you. It is tight, and without a bra your erect nipples are on display for the world to see. The plunging neckline reveals the plump curves of your breasts, barely held in by the taut fabric. And the dress is so short that it barely covers your ass. When you sit down it rises to an almost indecent height. You have your legs crossed under the table to conceal the fact that your panties are sitting in my pocket. You huddle close to me, clearly nervous, wondering what my plan is.
Our booth rests against the back wall, offering a good view of the bar, the small dance floor and empty stage, and the door leading in. The smell of stale beer permeates the room, and the weak lighting casts shadows on faces and corners. The table is grimy and worn, the vinyl of the booth torn and stained.
I rest my hand on the top of your bare thigh as I sip my drink. You stiffen, and look anxiously at me. I slide my hand further up, pushing your dress out of the way. A gentle but inexorable pressure from my hand forces your legs apart, a little at first then more, and more. Still sipping my soda, I glide my hand over your shaved pussy, my fingers finding the wetness I expected.
“Are you getting turned on, you dirty slut,” I whisper gently in your ear.
Your response is a bare whisper, reluctant and hopeless. “Yes Sir. I am a wet little slut.”
I smile, pleased you have finally learned your lessons about proper responses. I slide your soaked labia apart, and my finger enters your warm wetness with no resistance.
Your eyes close involuntarily, and you stifle a small moan as I begin slowly thrusting my finger in and out of you. I lean over and force my mouth on yours, and you respond greedily, tongue darting in my mouth, lips fierce and hungry on mine.
We must be quite a sight to the few people left in the bar, but it is late enough that no-one seems to care. I notice your admirer is staring openly now, confident that we are both too distracted to notice. I casually tug on your dress, pulling it to the side and exposing more of the curve of your breasts.
You stiffen again, but hard lessons have taught you to keep your hands down at your side. As I pull back from your embrace, I watch your eyes dart around the barroom, looking to see who noticed. Your eyes meet the stare of your admirer, and you both look away, your cheeks burning red with embarrassment. And, I suspect, lust as well.
“You have an admirer, you wet slut,” I laugh.
“Yes Sir,” you answer nervously.
“He has good taste in whores,” I observe. “We should reward that.”
You look over, panicked. Your mouth starts to open, to protest, but you remember what happened the last time you protested and you go silent. Finally, hesitantly, you ask, “How should we reward him Sir?”
I look into your eyes. I see fear bordering on panic, and your body is trembling. But I suspect there is more to it than just fear.
“He looks lonely over there, my little whore. And I don’t think there is much chance of him finding anyone to get him off tonight.” I pause for a minute, letting my words sink in. “I think you should help him.”
“But…wait, I can’t…” The words escape your lips instinctively, before you have a chance to even try and stop them. You realize what you have done, and anxiously stammer, “I’m sorry Sir, I didn’t mean…that is…I’m your good slut Sir. I’ll do whatever you tell me. Please.”
That last word hangs in the air between us, your breath held as you wait for my response.
I pull my phone out of my pocket. Scrolling through a few images, I pick the video I like and hold it up for you to see.
In the preview image, you are tied down, naked and spreadeagled, to a cheap hotel bed. Arms and legs splayed, your wet, swollen pussy is partially obscured by the hitachi bound against it with a tight crotchrope. Red lines from a recent caning are stark against the pale skin of your thighs, belly, and breasts. Written in black across your forehead is the word “whore.”
More alluring for me though, is the look of utter abandon on your face. Lust and need shine out of your eyes.
“Shall I play it for you, slut?” I tease.
I hit the play button and immediately the image shifts into action and sound, your body writhing against the ropes, the buzz of the hitachi, and over it all the sound of you begging for my cock, begging to let you cum.
I pause the video after only a few seconds. The volume was low enough that I’m not sure if anyone heard except us. Perhaps it is only my imagination, but it seems like your admirer has gone still.
“Maybe they would like to see this at your office?” I demand. “Email it to your boss, and a few coworkers? Who was that one you dated? Michael, was it? I bet they would love to know just what a needy whore you really are.”
Your eyes bore into mine, pleading, your voice desperate and panicked. “No, Sir, please! I’m sorry. I’m a stupid whore, please, I’ll do whatever you tell me to. Please Sir.”
I smile. “That’s better.” I put my arm around your shoulders, pulling you in close, just another amorous couple snuggling in the back booth. My lips tickle your ear as I whisper,” You’re going to show me just how good a little whore you can be. You’re going to get that guy over there off. He’s been looking at you long enough – he should get to enjoy you. Do it before we leave the bar.” I pause, savoring the little whimper of fear coming from you. “Do you understand?”
You pause and visibly collect yourself. “Yes Sir,” you answer, grim determination in your voice.
“Good. Then get to it.”
I watch you exhale, slowly, then carefully pull your dress into place. You rise from the booth, and carefully begin to pick your way around the small table.
“Oh,” I interrupt. “Be sure to bring me proof.”
Your face falls at that, but then you nod, resigned. “Of course, Sir.”
I watch as you slowly walk over to the bar. I see you take a deep breath, and then move to sit next to your admirer, a smile plastered on your face.
He looks at you in surprise, then glances my way. I’m too far away to hear what the two of you say, but I watch as you put your hand on his arm, and lean in to whisper in his ear. He looks at you in surprise, then glances back at me again. I can see him ask you something, and you shake your head and laugh, your pearly teeth flashing. He looks over at me again, then stands from his stool and looks at you. You rise and take his hand, and lead him to the hallway at the back, where I know the bathrooms are. He follows you as if in a daze, too excited to question his good luck. But not too excited, I note, to miss the opportunity of staring at your ass in your tight dress.
I wait a few minutes, sipping my drink and playing with my phone. Time passes. The few people left in the bar don’t seem particularly interested in me, or you, or what is going on in the bathroom. Maybe this is just that kind of place, or maybe it is late and most of the patrons who remain are well on their way to intoxication.
After some more time passes, I get a notification on my phone. I open the message to see a picture sent from your phone.
You are in the bathroom, kneeling on the floor in front of the urinal. Your dress has been pushed down from your shoulders, letting your breasts hang free and exposed. And covering your face, your breasts, dripping from your nose, and caught in your hair, is my proof. It must have been a while for this guy, or else he’s just naturally gifted, because you are coated in his thick, slimy cum.
I’m caught by your expression. Your head is thrown back, your eyes are bright, and there is a small, contented smile on your face. You look defiant and, dare I say, proud?
I grin at the picture and save it with the rest.
Shortly after, the man comes back into the barroom alone. I notice his shirt is untucked, and his cheeks are flushed. He avoids looking my way, but instead fixes his gaze on the door as he marches determinedly across the room and out into the night.
I continue to wait. Maybe five more minutes go by before you emerge from the back hall. You’ve cleaned up your face, but I can see the sticky spots in your hair. Your dress is back in place, but the red fabric is marked by darker, wet spots on the front.
You look over at me and smile, walking over to our booth. I stand when you get there and take you by the hand, looking into your eyes.
“Did you enjoy yourself?” I ask.
“I did Sir. Thank you.”
I put my arm around you and start to lead you towards the exit.
“I’m glad, little slut. Because when we get to the car, you are going to show me exactly what you did in there.”
You nuzzle in under my arm. “Yes Sir,” you answer. “Thank you Sir.”
“You made me proud. You were a very good slut.”
“Thank you Sir,” you reply with a grin. “I like being your good little slut.”
We walk out of the bar into the cool night air, and head towards my car.
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/j5iiir/a_night_at_the_bar_freluctantblackmail