Chapter 9: The Barroom Bimbo
The whiskey burned going down, and the burn was the only thing that felt real anymore. Everything else—the neon bleeding through the fog, the stool beneath her ass, the man whose lap she'd somehow ended up on—existed in a haze of pink static and muffled sound.
Morph stared at the cock in front of her face. It was thick, uncut, the head already glistening with something that wasn't her spit. The man's fingers twisted in her hair, guiding her downward with gentle insistence, like she was a puppet whose strings he'd just discovered.
"That's it, beautiful babe. Open up."
The words hit her ears and something behind her eyes short-circuited. A giggle bubbled up from somewhere deep and dumb, and she couldn't stop it. Her lips parted automatically, tongue darting out to wet them, and she watched herself from very far away—watched her own hand come up to wrap around the base of his cock like it was the most natural thing in the world.
No.
The word screamed inside her skull. It rattled around like a trapped bird, beating wings against bone. She was Morph. She was sharp and calculating and she'd once talked her way out of a federal indictment using nothing but a library card and a smile. She didn't do this. She didn't kneel on sticky dive bar floors and let strange men guide her head toward their cocks.
But her body wasn't listening.
Her knees hit the floor. The linoleum bit into her shins, cold and gritty, and she felt the wetness of spilled liquor soaking through her jeans. The man above her made a sound of satisfaction, low and rough, and his grip tightened in her hair.
"Fuck, you're eager. Knew you were a good girl the second I saw you."
The trigger again. Beautiful babe. Good girl. Her mouth fell open wider, tongue flattening, and she was so close now—inches away from taking him—when something inside her snapped.
Not broke. Snapped. Like a rubber band stretched too far finally finding its limit.
She pulled back. Her scalp screamed in protest, hair ripping loose from his grip, but she didn't care. She twisted away, scrambling backward on the floor until her spine hit the bar rail, and she looked up at him with eyes that were fighting through the fog.
"No," she said. And this time the word came out right—flat and hard and her own.
The man blinked. His cock bobbed in the air between them, still wet, still ready, and the confusion on his face was almost funny. Almost.
"What?"
"I said no." She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, even though nothing had touched it. "You think I'm just going to—" The fog pushed at her, sweet and cloying, and she had to grit her teeth to keep speaking. "You think I'm some kind of—"
"Beautiful babe."
The words landed like a needle skipping on vinyl. Her jaw went slack. The fog surged, thick and pink and smelling like cotton candy and chloroform, and she felt her spine curve, felt her shoulders drop, felt her lips curl into a smile that stretched too wide.
"Aw, you think I'm sweet?" The voice that came out of her mouth wasn't hers. It was higher, breathier, dumber. It was Candy's voice, or maybe it was what had always been underneath, waiting to get out. "That's, like, so nice of you to say."
The man's grin returned, wider now, wolfish. He was stocky and rough and his leather jacket smelled like cigarette smoke and cheap cologne, and Morph—no, Candy—no, her—couldn't stop looking at his hands. They were big hands. Thick fingers. She wondered what they'd feel like on her waist.
"You want to try that again, sugar? I'll ask nice this time."
Something in her wanted to say no again. Something buried deep and desperate and fading fast. But the man was already pulling her up from the floor, hands on her hips, and she was already letting him, her body moving like it had a mind of its own—a mind that only knew how to wiggle and sway and be touched.
"Let's go somewhere more private," he said.
And she was nodding. Nodding and smiling and following him across the bar like a lost puppy, her heels clicking on the sticky floor, her hips swinging with every step.
She didn't look back at the corner booth.
She didn't want to see Hypnotica's smile.
---
The back room of The Rusty Nail was a storage space that moonlighted as something else when the owner needed cash. A single bulb hung from the ceiling, casting a yellow haze over stacked crates of cheap whiskey and a folding table covered in a stained cloth. The door had a lock that didn't work. The walls had stains that didn't bear examination.
Morph—Candy—she stood in the middle of it, swaying slightly, blinking at the clutter like she'd never seen a cardboard box before.
"Kinda messy," she said, and giggled.
The man kicked the door shut behind them. It bounced off the frame, swung open a crack, and he ignored it. His hands were on her immediately, one sliding around her waist, the other cupping her ass through her jeans. He squeezed hard, pulling her against him, and she felt the hard ridge of his erection pressing into her belly.
"Messy don't matter. You don't matter." He spun her around, pushed her toward the folding table. "What matters is you've got the best fucking ass I've seen in years, and I've been thinking about it since you walked in."
The words should have stung. Somewhere inside, they did. But she was already leaning against the table, already arching her back, already looking over her shoulder with that empty, eager smile.
"You're, like, so bad," she breathed. "I'm not even supposed to be back here."
"Then why'd you come?"
She didn't have an answer. Her brain offered nothing but static, pink and swirling and soft, and it felt so good to just not think. To just be. To just—
"I asked you a question, beautiful babe."
The trigger hit like a drug. Her hips rotated, grinding backward against his hand, and her mouth opened on a moan that started soft and ended dirty.
"Cuz I wanted to," she said. "Cuz you're so strong and you make me feel all—" A shiver ran through her. "—warm."
He laughed, low and cruel. "Yeah? That's what I thought. Now get on the table. Face the wall. I want to look at that ass."
She scrambled onto the folding table, the metal legs groaning under her weight, and positioned herself on all fours. The cloth was scratchy under her palms, the wood cold through her jeans. She felt him step up behind her, felt his hands go to the button of her fly, and then the cool air on her ass as he yanked her jeans down to her knees.
"Fuck me," he breathed. "No panties. Jesus, you're a dirty little thing."
She hadn't been wearing any. She never wore any anymore. The thought surfaced, flickered, died in the fog. All she knew was the feel of his hands on her bare skin, squeezing and spreading, and the wet heat of his breath against her ass.
"Hold still," he said.
And then his mouth was on her cunt.
She bucked forward, shoulders hitting the wall, knuckles white against the cloth. The first lick was flat and wet and filthy, dragging from her clit to her asshole in one broad stroke, and she heard herself scream before she was even aware of opening her mouth. The sound echoed in the cramped space, bounced off the crates, mixed with his groan of appreciation.
"You taste like candy," he said, voice muffled against her flesh. "Fucking candy."
She was. She was candy. Candy was her name now, sweet and sticky and bad for you, and it felt right. It felt like the only thing that had ever made sense.
His tongue found her clit, latched on, and the world went white. She ground back against his face, shameless, her hips circling in tight, desperate little movements. One hand left the table, reached back, grabbed a fistful of his hair and pulled him closer.
"Don't stop," she gasped. "Oh god, don't stop, that's—I'm—"
He stopped.
She wailed. A high, keening sound that had nothing to do with pleasure and everything to do with loss. But before she could curse him, before she could even form a coherent thought, she heard the sound of a zipper, and then his cock was there, thick and hot and pressing against her entrance.
"Now," he said. "Now I'm going to fuck you."
He pushed in. One brutal stroke, no warning, no preparation. She was wet enough that it didn't hurt—not really—but the stretch was immense, overwhelming, and she felt every inch of him splitting her open. Her hands scrabbled at the wall, nails digging into old paint, and she screamed again. This time it was celebration and surrender and pure animal relief.
"That's it," he growled. "Take it. Take all of it."
He started to move. Long, deep strokes that pulled almost all the way out before slamming back in. The table rocked with every thrust, its legs screaming in protest, and she had to brace her hands against the wall to keep from being driven into it. His grip on her hips was bruising, his fingers digging into the soft flesh above her ass, and she loved it. Loved every meaty slap of his balls against her thighs, loved the wet sound of his cock sliding in and out of her, loved the way he grunted with every thrust like an animal.
"Harder," she babbled. "Oh, fuck, harder, please—"
He obliged. The stroke sped up, became shorter, more brutal. His hand came down on her ass with a crack that echoed through the room, and she yelped, then pushed back for more.
"You like that, beautiful babe?"
The trigger hit and her cunt clenched around him, tight and hungry and entirely beyond her control. She was moaning nonstop now, a litany of nonsense words and broken syllables that might have been yes or please or more but was really just noise. The fog was everywhere, filling every corner of her mind, and there was nothing outside of it except the cock inside her and the hand on her ass and the voice calling her beautiful.
"Tell me what you want," he demanded.
"You," she gasped. "I want you, I want—fuck me harder, fill me up, I don't care—"
"You don't care what?"
"I don't care about anything." The words were true. Horribly, blissfully true. "Just—just keep going, don't stop, don't ever stop—"
He laughed. A harsh, breathless sound, and then he reached around her hip, found her clit with his fingers, and rubbed it rough and fast.
"Come for me," he said. "Come on my cock like a good girl."
The trigger was too much. The compound words, the way they slithered into her brain and flipped switches she didn't know she had. She came with a scream that tore her throat, her whole body spasming around his cock, her vision going white and then dark and then nothing at all.
---
She came back to herself in fragments.
A crate against her back. Rough wood biting through her shirt. Her jeans around one ankle. The smell of sex and sweat and old whiskey.
The man was still inside her. Still moving. Slower now, lazy strokes that seemed to be more about him than her. His breath was hot and wet against her neck, and his hand was splayed flat on her stomach, holding her in place like she might try to escape.
She wouldn't. She couldn't. The fog was gone, but so was the fight. Her body was a puddle of warmth and satisfaction, and her mind was a blank slate, and she knew—with the cold clarity of someone surfacing from very deep water—that she would never be Morph again.
"You good?" he grunted.
Candy smiled, even though he couldn't see it. "I'm, like, so good," she said. "You're, like, really good at that."
He laughed and pulled out. She felt the loss like a physical blow, a sudden emptiness that made her whimper. But he was already turning her around, positioning her on her back on the table, looking down at her with eyes that were still hungry.
"We're just getting started," he said.
He pushed back in. And Candy, who was no longer Morph, who would never be Morph again, wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled him deeper.
"Yay," she said.
The word was stupid. She didn't care.
Nothing mattered anymore.