Chapter 1: The Last Call and a Cum-Filled Kiss
The neon sign buzzed like a dying insect, its pink glow bleeding across the sticky floorboards in long, lazy strokes. Last Call. The words hummed with a ghost's persistence, flickering off for half a heartbeat before surging back to life, as if the bar itself refused to accept that the night was over.
Richie liked that about this place. It was stubborn. Dirty. Kept coming back for more even when it should've known better.
The chairs were already stacked on the tables, metal legs pointing at the ceiling like the ribs of some great beast left to rot. The scent of bleach hung thick in the air, fighting a losing battle against the whiskey-soaked floorboards that had absorbed years of spilled drinks and bad decisions.
Serena leaned over the register, her fingers moving through the bills with the mechanical precision of someone who'd done this a hundred times. Her work shirt had ridden up, exposing a strip of warm brown skin above the waistband of her jeans. She was muttering the numbers under her breath, her braces catching the neon light as her lips moved.
Richie watched her from the door. He'd locked it fifteen minutes ago, flipped the sign, killed the main lights. The only illumination now came from that failing neon and the pale glow of the register screen. It painted her in shades of pink and shadow, making her look like something from the kind of movie he'd never admit to watching.
He crossed the floor slowly, his boots heavy against the linoleum. She didn't look up. That was the thing about Serena. She never looked up until he was right on top of her, and even then, she'd just blink at him with those big doe eyes, already soft and willing before he even said a word.
"Marco coming to pick you up?" His voice was low, rough, cutting through the hum.
Her head snapped up. Gold hoop earrings swung against her neck. "Yeah, in like twenty minutes."
Richie nodded, closing the distance until his chest pressed against her back. His hands found her hips first, fingers digging into the denim, then slid around to her front. She smelled like tequila and cheap strawberry shampoo, a combination that shouldn't have worked but drove him crazy every single time.
"Keep counting," he murmured, his mouth against her ear. "Don't let me distract you."
But his hands were already moving, sliding down her thighs before gripping her ass. He squeezed, hard, and she let out a little gasp but kept her eyes on the register. Her fingers trembled as she sorted a stack of twenties.
"I made good tips tonight," she said, her voice shaky. "Like, two hundred and seventy dollars? And that one guy from the bachelor party gave me a fifty just for standing near him while he ordered. Can you believe that?"
Richie grunted, kneading her flesh through the denim. He could feel the heat of her body radiating through the fabric, the soft give of her fat ass as he gripped it. She had the kind of body that made men stupid. Round and thick and made for grabbing.
"That guy wanted to fuck you," he said flatly.
Serena giggled. "I know. He was so obvious about it. Kept trying to get me to do shots with him but I told him I was working."
"Good girl."
The praise made her squirm, pressing her ass back against his groin. He was already half-hard, his dick thickening behind his jeans as he ground against her. She let out a soft moan that she tried to hide behind a cough.
"Still counting," she said, but her voice had gone breathy.
Richie's hands moved with practiced efficiency. Calloused fingers popped the button on her jeans, dragged the zipper down. She wore no underwear. She rarely did when she worked Fridays, knowing he'd be here when the bar closed.
"Richie—"
"Shut up and count."
He shoved his hand down the front of her jeans, fingers sliding through slick heat. She bucked against him, her grip on the bills tightening until a twenty crinkled in her fist.
"Fuck," she whispered, braces glinting as she bit her lower lip.
His thick middle finger found her clit and pressed hard, circling in a pattern he knew would have her melting in seconds. Her thighs trembled, spreading wider apart as she leaned forward onto the counter. The register screen flickered, forgotten.
"Two hundred seventy," she gasped. "I need to write it in the book."
"You need to take my cock out of my pants," Richie corrected, withdrawing his hand. He brought his fingers to his mouth and sucked her taste off them, watching her watch him. "Go on. You know what to do."
Serena turned around, her cheeks flushed, her chest rising and falling fast. Her shirt was damp with sweat at the collar. She dropped to her knees without hesitation, the movement so practiced it was almost mechanical.
The floor was filthy. Sticky with beer and God-knows-what else. She didn't seem to care, settling onto her knees with her hands already reaching for his belt. Her movements were eager, clumsy with need.
Richie watched her fumble with the buckle, a cruel smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "Nervous?"
"No. Just..." She finally got the belt undone and yanked his jeans open. "Want it."
He didn't help her. Just stood there, letting her struggle with the fabric until she'd freed his cock from his boxers. The thing sprang out, thick and heavy and already fully erect, the uncut foreskin still wrapped around the swollen head. It dwarfed her hand when she wrapped her fingers around it.
"Pretty girl," he said softly, the words almost tender. "You remember what to do with this?"
Serena nodded, her eyes fixed on the cock in her hand. "Yes."
"Show me."
She leaned in and pressed a wet kiss to the tip, her braces brushing the sensitive skin in a way that made his hips jerk. Then she pulled back, took the foreskin between her lips, and rolled it back with her tongue until the slick purple head was exposed. She licked the slit, slow and reverent, collecting the bead of precum that had already formed there.
Richie's head fell back. "There you go. That's it."
She took him into her mouth, inch by inch, her lips stretching to accommodate his girth. He watched her work, her head bobbing slowly while she fought to take more of him. A string of spit stretched from her lips to his cock when she pulled back, mouth wet and swollen.
"Such a little cockslut," he said, the words dripping with possessive affection. "You really like having this in your mouth, don't you?"
She hummed in response, the vibration making his thighs tighten. As if to punish her enthusiasm, he grabbed the back of her head, weaving his fingers through her dark hair, and pulled her deeper. Her nose bumped his pelvis and she gagged, a small, desperate sound.
"Yeah. That's it."
He didn't push further, letting her adjust to the intrusion before pulling out, a thick strand of saliva connecting them. He smirked, reaching down to wrap his hand around his cock, slow and deliberate, pumping his length right in front of her face.
She stared, transfixed.
Richie dragged the wet head across her cheek, leaving a snail's trail of spit and precum before slapping it flat against her skin. It was a wet, obscene sound that echoed through the empty bar. Serena gasped, her hand flying to his thigh, her grip tight.
That’s when she started to talk. "…And then, uh, Amanda said she was gonna quit, 'cause she thinks the new girl is like, taking her section? But I told her, like, that's not really a thing, and also that the new girl is like, pretty nice, so—"
She kept talking as he kept stroking himself, her words coming out in a nervous, rambling stream. She didn't seem to notice the way his fist was pumping faster, the way his jaw was clenching.
"Uh-huh," Richie grunted, sliding the head of his cock against her lips. He spread the slickness across her mouth, pressing the wet head against her bottom lip, the slit catching on her braces. "Keep talking. I like the sound of your voice." He smeared his precum over her mouth with a thumb, painting her lips glossy.
She blinked, licking her lips and tasting the salty tang. "Yeah? 'Cause sometimes I feel like I talk too much, you know, but like you're always telling me to shut up at work so—"
He didn't let her finish. He pulled her back onto his cock, not deep, just enough to feel her wet tongue, before pulling away again. He grunted, his hips thrusting lazily into his fist as he jerked himself faster.
"Open your mouth," he ordered, his voice rough.
The moment she complied, Richie grunted loud, the veins on his neck bulging as his cock twitched and pulsed. Thick ropes of hot cum splattered across her face, painting her cheeks, her chin, her forehead with milky streaks. He stroked himself through it, each pulse spilling more of his release onto her pretty face.
Serena's eyes fluttered closed, her mouth staying open as a thick rope hit her lips. She sat there, covered in him, breathing hard through her nose.
Richie didn't give her a second to recover. He scooped a thick glob off her cheek with his index finger and pushed it against her lips. "Open."
She opened. He shoved the finger into her mouth, and she sucked it clean, braces scraping his skin as her tongue swirled around his digit. When he pulled back, she smacked her lips, a vacant, blissed-out smile on her face, which was still covered in his come.
He laughed, a low, satisfied sound. "So damn greedy."
He looked over at the counter, spying her half-empty soda. He grabbed it, took a long swig, swishing it around his mouth. He held it, giving her a dark look, then deliberately spat the warm soda back inside, the liquid clouding with his spit. Then, holding her gaze, he gave his soft but stirring cock a few more tugs, grunting as it twitch, and released another fresh load directly into the cup. The thick glob of cum sank slowly through the brown liquid.
"Why you always do that?" she asked, but she wasn't complaining, just stating a fact.
Cocking an eyebrow, his gaze roamed her face, catching a bead of his cum dripping off her chin. "One day you're gonna be my wife, Serena. You should already know what your husband tastes like. What his cock and spit taste like in your mouth every morning. That's called a 'good breakfast.'"
His words sent a thrill through her. She often drifted into a daydream about that, waking up to his cum for breakfast. The thought made her absently touch her jaw, where his seed was starting to dry.
At that moment, a car's headlights swept across the parking lot, cutting through the grimy windows. The car idled, then a horn honked.
Marco.
Richie tucked himself back into his jeans, the satisfied smirk still plastered on his face. "Your ride's here."
Serena scrambled to her feet, grabbing a paper towel from behind the bar to wipe her face, though she missed a spot near her ear. She pulled her shirt down, ran a hand through her hair, and grabbed the spiked soda. Her boyfriend from Mexico, Marco, called out from the door—Richie had to unlock it to let him in.
"Babe! I got your favorite—" Marco started, stopping as she threw her arms around his neck, kissing him hard on the lips. His forehead creased, but a smile took over. "Mmm, you taste like... salt?"
Serena pulled back, laughing, her braces shining. "Must be the pretzels. I ate like a whole bucket."
She took a long, deep sip of the soda, her throat bobbing as she swallowed. She moaned softly, licking her lips. "MMM. That's good."
Marco watched, his gaze flicking over to Richie, who stood silently in the shadows with his arms crossed, an unreadable grin on his face.
"You ready? You seem a little... out of it." Marco asked, peering at her closely.
"Never better," she said, taking another sip. She leaned into him, pressing her cum-covered face against his chest. "Take me home, baby. I need your cock tonight."
Richie's laugh was low, barely audible from his spot near the bar. "Sweet dreams, Serena."
As the door closed behind them, Richie stood alone in the hum of the dying neon, listening to the sound of Marco's car rumbling out of the parking lot. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette, lighting it with a strike of his lighter. In the flicker of the flame, his expression was unreadable.
She'd be back tomorrow. They always came back.