The Bartender

She was a bartender.

Blonde.

Beautiful.

Busty.

Above all, she was mine.

Every week I would come to that same bar and every week she would look at me with that smile. Oh, that infectious smile. Her thin lips creasing from ear to ear when she saw me approach my seat, her thin lips opening and closing as she greeted me with my regular drink, her thin lips taunting me, craving me. I returned the smile, the devil in my grin making itself obviously known as our eyes locked, the sexual tension increasing from over the mahogany counter-top. Drinks lined up the deck as gentlemen and woman alike spoke of merry times or the poor ones that were behind the scenes. Gossip, slander, anger and humor all accompanied by the various tastes of ale and liquor. Sure, I may have noticed the older pug picking his nose on the southern end or even the hooker in the corner trying to dash a number or two.

I chuckle.

However, it's none of them who have my attention long enough, no. It was her and only her. The goddess in front of me. The beautiful creature who caused my tongue to salivate just by glancing at her stunning green eyes. Yes. She was mine.

The night was long before the tables cleared and the drunken souls managed to stumble to the entryway, tossing a few pounds here to cover their expensive tabs. No. I hate her face. I hate the look she makes when she picks up the paper trail lining the bar; sloppy ink signatures across the printed numerals. She was upset. They tipped bad. I hate that face. If she were close enough, I would slap her and grab her hair. Tell her to stare at me and beg for forgiveness for making that horrid face. If only she were wearing her collar . . .

No, that's enough. I place the equivalent of the bars' worth on the deck. Fortunately, money is not an issue for me. Never has been. Never will be. Yes. That is the face I want to see. As she picks up the currency, that addicting smile returns. That is the face I want see always. She can tell the disappointment in my eyes from noticing her waiver in facial posture earlier. She knows she will be punished . . . harshly. She bites her lower lip in anticipation and I cannot help but flash a devious smirk. The craving sets in and the passion burns between us.

She craves me.

It isn't long before the farewells are shared and the bar is nothing but an echo of a kingdom that was. The lack of drunken fools, extraneous music and overbearing lights leaves nothing but a dark factory. MY dark factory. HER dark sanctuary. As the clock strikes thrice, I can already feel the saliva trickling down my leg. My hands grip her head tightly as I am forced down her throat. She wants to gag, but she knows better. Several seconds I hold her there, watching as her eyes begin to water under her lashes. Her eyes are screaming to me, begging me to have pity. My eyes speak back to her, letting her know of her choices. She takes the note as her head pulls back, the saliva dripping out of her mouth.

She made her choice.

As her head remains down and she catches her breath, her hands automatically begin to work the leather from my loops. Yes. She made her choice. Handing me the belt, she reaches into her purse and pulls out the cuffs. Cold. Hard. Metal. The clock strikes again and this time she is nude, bound by the construct, leaning over the table from which the hooker had her stay. The belt has become my weapon and I its master. I stare at my bartender with eyes that kill. She does not speak a word, but her eyes are forever writing.


"Make me yours."