Chapter 4: Community Property
The bar was called The Lazy Dog, and the air inside was a visible haze, thick with smoke and the sour tang of spilled beer. A country song whined from a jukebox, fighting against the clack of pool balls and the low rumble of voices. Every head turned when Earl shoved the door open, a predator leading his prey into a new hunting ground.
He had made India change into a denim skirt so short the curved bottoms of her ass cheeks were visible when she walked. Her nipples, pierced and sensitive, were clearly outlined against the thin fabric of her tank top. Earl’s greasy baseball cap was already in his hand.
“Move, sweetheart,” Earl growled, giving her a sharp slap on the rump that echoed in the sudden lull of conversation. The sound made Matt flinch. He trailed behind them, a ghost in his own life.
Earl guided India straight to the pool table, where a game was in progress. He didn't ask. He just leaned into the space of a large man with a grizzled beard chalking his cue. “Game’s over, boys. New entertainment.”
The man stared, then looked at India, who stood with her head down, her long black hair a curtain hiding her face. A slow, understanding grin spread under his beard. “That right?”
“That’s right.” Earl turned to Matt. “You. Rack ‘em.”
Matt’s hands trembled as he moved to the table, gathering the colorful balls. He could feel the eyes of the entire bar on him, on her. This was the exposure he’d once fantasized about, now twisted into a gut-wrenching public spectacle.
Earl placed his cap on the corner of the table. “Twenty bucks a pop. Who’s first?”
There was a moment of hesitation, then the grizzled man tossed a crumpled bill into the cap. “I’ll break.”
Earl grinned, his yellow teeth gleaming in the dim light. He grabbed India by the back of the neck and bent her over the faded green felt of the table. He yanked her skirt up to her waist, exposing her hairy pussy and the dark, bruised skin of her ass to the entire room. A few men whistled. Someone let out a low, long “hell yeah.”
The first man, whose name was Donny, didn’t bother to unzip his jeans all the way. He just freed his cock, spat into his palm, and rubbed the head. He was thick and veiny. He positioned himself behind her and drove in with a single, grunting thrust.
India’s body jolted, her head snapping up. Her eyes, wide and glistening, found Matt’s across the table. He was frozen, holding the wooden rack, a silent scream trapped in his throat.
“Fuck, she’s warm,” Donny groaned, his hands gripping her hips, his wedding band digging into her skin. He set a rough, steady rhythm, the table shaking with each impact. “Tight little hole, too.”
The bar had gone quiet save for the jukebox and the wet, slapping sounds of the act. Men watched, their drinks forgotten, a few licking their lips. Earl leaned against the wall, arms crossed, a satisfied smirk on his face as he watched his business model pay off.
Donny’s pace quickened, his breathing becoming ragged. “Gonna seed this cunt,” he announced, and with a final, deep plunge, he shuddered and collapsed over her back for a moment before pulling out. A trickle of his release dripped onto the green felt.
“Next!” Earl barked, picking up the twenty and tucking it into his pocket.
A younger man, maybe in his twenties, was already stepping forward, money in hand. Matt watched, numb, as he racked the balls again. The ritual was repeated. The unzipping. The crude wetting. The grunting penetration. Each man used her body with a familiar brutality, as if she were a communal utility. They commented on her ass, on her hairy pussy, on the way her pierced tits swayed with the force of their thrusts.
“Get that ass up higher, sweetheart.”
“Damn, that’s a good fuck.”
“Worth every penny, Earl.”
Matt lost count after the fourth man. The air around the pool table grew thick with the smell of sex and sweat. India’s whimpers had faded into a choked silence. Her body was slick with sweat, her skin flushed and marked with red handprints.
During a lull, a man with a potbelly and a stained trucker hat lingered after his turn. He looked at Earl. “What about the other end?”
Earl’s eyes lit up. “For an extra ten, she’ll suck your dick clean.”
The man dug into his wallet.
Earl grabbed a handful of India’s hair, yanking her head back. “Open up, princess. Dessert.”
The man shoved his still-wet cock between her lips. India gagged, her body convulsing, but Earl held her fast. “Suck it. Get all that good juice off.”
Matt turned away, his stomach heaving. He stared at the sticky floor, at the sawdust and cigarette butts, wishing he could dissolve into it. The sounds were worse than the sights—the wet, rhythmic sucking, the man’s satisfied groans, the slap of flesh.
When it was finally over, Earl’s cap was heavy with cash. The bar had returned to its noisy normalcy, the men now avoiding looking directly at the table, the brief, shared depravity already receding into the background of a normal night.
Earl pulled India upright. Her legs buckled, and he had to hold her up. Her makeup was smeared, her eyes vacant. He shoved her toward Matt. “Clean her up. We’re leaving.”
In the grimy bathroom, Matt wet paper towels under the cold tap. India leaned against the sink, shaking. He wiped the sweat from her brow, the drool from her chin. He didn’t speak. There were no words.