Having sex with the bartender
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 11
by
copier
· original author:
an188
Astrid watched with feline amusement as the bartender fumbled through assembling her drink—hands shaking slightly, cheeks flushed beneath freckles, stealing glances whenever she thought Astrid wasn’t looking. The Black Dahlia took shape in clumsy but earnest steps: absinthe misted just shy of perfection, the ice sphere slightly lopsided, the orchid petal plucked fresh from a garnish tray but already trembling at the edges. When the woman slid the glass toward her, Astrid caught her wrist instead, black nails digging in just enough to make her gasp.
"Darling," Astrid murmured, lifting the bartender's knuckles to her lips without breaking eye contact, "you forgot the most important part." She exhaled slowly—a warm, deliberate breath that made the orchid petal flutter against the liquor's surface. The bartender's pulse jumped under her fingers. Astrid released her with a smirk and lifted the coupe glass, tilting it so the neon lights fractured through the violet-tinged liquid. She took her first sip with theatrical slowness, tongue gliding along the rim before the absinthe touched her lips. The bartender's throat moved in a swallow.
It tasted like cheap licorice and wasted potential. Astrid adored it.
She set the glass down with a soft clink and crooked a finger. The bartender leaned in, drawn like a moth. "Tell me, sweet thing," Astrid purred, tracing a black nail down the woman's forearm, "do they pay you enough here to afford *standards*?"
The absinthe burned pleasantly down Astrid's throat—a cheap, herbal sting that only amplified the heat coiling low in her stomach. She swirled the violet-tinged liquor lazily, watching the bartender's freckled throat work as the woman swallowed under her gaze. Astrid's lips curled. The drink was mediocre at best, but the bartender's trembling fingers and dilated pupils were vintage enough to savor.
"Darling," Astrid murmured, dragging a black nail along the rim of the coupe glass until it sang, "you look positively parched." She lifted the drink, holding it just out of reach as the bartender leaned in unconsciously. "Tell me—do you always stare at your customers like they're the last sip of water in the desert?"
The bartender's cheeks flushed darker. "Only the ones dressed like supervillains," she muttered, but her voice cracked halfway through.
Astrid's fingers curled around the coupe glass with deliberate slowness, her black nails catching the neon light like polished obsidian. She tilted it just enough to watch the bartender's gaze drop to her lips—predictable, but delicious. The absinthe burned like cheap desire down her throat, its herbal bite settling low in her stomach where warmth pooled into something hungrier.
"Mm. Almost passable," Astrid murmured, dragging a fingertip through the condensation on the glass. She lifted it to the bartender's lips without breaking eye contact. "Tell me, darling—do you taste your failures, or just serve them to strangers?"
The bartender's breath hitched, her freckled cheeks flushing darker. Astrid watched the battle behind her eyes—pride warring with want—before the woman leaned in and sipped from the rim Astrid's lips had touched. A drop of violet liquor slid down her chin; Astrid caught it with her thumb, pressing it against the bartender's lower lip until it parted with a soft gasp.
The bartender’s pulse fluttered visibly at the base of her throat—a rapid, frantic rhythm that made Astrid’s lips curl in satisfaction. She traced the rim of the coupe glass with her black nail again, this time pressing just hard enough to make it ping—a sharp, crystalline sound that sliced through the thumping bass. The bartender jumped, her freckled cheeks flushing deeper.
Astrid took another slow sip, letting the absinthe linger on her tongue before swallowing with exaggerated relish. "Mm. Still almost passable," she murmured, her voice dripping with condescension. She swirled the violet liquor lazily, watching the way the bartender’s eyes tracked the movement like a hypnotized rabbit. "Tell me, darling—do they *train* you to be this mediocre, or is it a natural gift?"
The bartender’s throat worked, but no retort came. Instead, her fingers twitched against the bar’s edge, knuckles whitening. Astrid’s smirk widened. She leaned in, close enough to catch the scent of cheap vodka and nervous sweat clinging to the woman’s skin. "Or perhaps," she purred, her breath ghosting over the bartender’s parted lips, "you’re just distracted."
The bartender inhaled sharply, her chest rising under the ridiculous witch costume. Astrid’s gaze dropped to the swell of her breasts, then back up—slow, deliberate. She dragged a black nail down the bartender’s arm, feeling the goosebumps rise in its wake. "The bathroom," Astrid said abruptly, her voice a velvet command. "Now."
The bartender's breath hitched—sharp and audible—as Astrid's black-gloved fingers closed around her wrist with deliberate pressure. Not painful. Not yet. Just enough to make her pulse flutter wildly under Astrid's thumb. "Bathroom," Astrid repeated, lower this time, a velvet command wrapped in smoke. "Unless you'd prefer I ruin you right here?" Her free hand trailed down the bartender's side, nails scraping lightly over the cheap fabric of her costume, stopping just short of her hip. The threat was implicit, delicious.
The bartender swallowed hard, her freckled throat working. Astrid watched the conflict flicker in her eyes—pride warring with want—before the woman exhaled shakily and nodded.
Astrid's smirk curled like a satisfied cat. "Good girl."
She didn't wait for the bartender to lead. Twisting her grip, Astrid yanked her forward, relishing the stumble, the way the woman's body collided with hers in a jumble of heat and startled breath. The crowd parted unconsciously as Astrid marched them toward the restrooms, her stilettos clicking a predatory rhythm against the sticky floor.
The bathroom was blessedly empty, lit by flickering fluorescents that cast everything in sickly green. Astrid kicked the nearest stall door open with a crack, shoving the bartender inside. The woman's back hit the tile wall with a thud, her plastic spider hat askew. Before she could speak, Astrid's mouth crashed against hers—hot, demanding, tasting of absinthe and victory. The bartender moaned into it, hands fluttering at Astrid's waist before gripping tight.
Astrid pulled back just enough to hiss, "Hands above your head." When the woman hesitated, she dug her nails into her hips. "Now."
The bartender obeyed, palms slapping against cold tile. Astrid rewarded her with a slow drag of teeth down her throat, savoring the way her pulse rabbited under slick black lipstick. Her hands made quick work of the ridiculous costume top, popping buttons with sharp flicks. The bartender's breasts spilled free—pale, freckled, already pebbled with arousal. Astrid hummed approval before sinking her teeth into one peaked nipple.
"F-fuck—" The bartender arched, her thighs clamping around Astrid's leather-clad leg.
Astrid laughed against her skin, breath hot. "Not yet, darling." She slid her gloved hand between their bodies, dragging a single finger down the bartender's stomach—slow, torturous—until she reached the waistband of her cheap polyester skirt. With a sharp tug, the fabric tore. The rip echoed obscenely in the stall.
The bartender gasped. Astrid silenced her with a kiss, swallowing the sound as her fingers finally slipped beneath damp cotton. She groaned at the heat. "Pathetic," she murmured against her mouth. "Soaked through for me already?" Her fingers circled, lazy and taunting, avoiding exactly where the woman bucked against her.
A whimper. Astrid rewarded her with one firm stroke. The bartender's hips jerked. "Stay still," Astrid commanded, nipping her jaw. When the woman trembled but obeyed, Astrid finally—finally—pushed two fingers inside with a brutal thrust.
The bartender's head thunked back against tile, a choked cry escaping. Astrid set a punishing rhythm immediately, her thumb rubbing tight circles as her fingers curled. Every noise the woman made—every gasp, every bitten-off moan—was a symphony. Astrid drank them in, her own arousal a live wire under glossy black fabric.
The bartender's back arched violently, her thighs clamping around Astrid's wrist as a strangled cry tore from her throat. Astrid felt every convulsion—the desperate flutter of muscles, the hot spill of wetness over her gloved fingers—with predatory satisfaction. She didn't relent, dragging out the climax with cruel precision until the woman's legs gave out entirely, her body sliding down the tile wall to collapse onto the closed toilet seat in a boneless heap.
"Pathetic," Astrid murmured, peeling off her soaked glove with deliberate slowness. She dropped it onto the bartender's heaving chest, watching the black latex cling to sweat-slicked skin. "Clean yourself up. You're a mess."
With one last glance at the ruined woman—makeup smeared, borrowed costume in tatters—Astrid turned on her stiletto heel and pushed the stall door open. The bathroom was still empty, though the bass from the club vibrated through the floors. She paused at the mirror, reapplying her black lipstick with the precision of a surgeon. The reflection showed no trace of what had just transpired—only cool, collected dominance staring back through kohl-lined eyes.
"Darling," Astrid murmured, lifting the bartender's knuckles to her lips without breaking eye contact, "you forgot the most important part." She exhaled slowly—a warm, deliberate breath that made the orchid petal flutter against the liquor's surface. The bartender's pulse jumped under her fingers. Astrid released her with a smirk and lifted the coupe glass, tilting it so the neon lights fractured through the violet-tinged liquid. She took her first sip with theatrical slowness, tongue gliding along the rim before the absinthe touched her lips. The bartender's throat moved in a swallow.
It tasted like cheap licorice and wasted potential. Astrid adored it.
She set the glass down with a soft clink and crooked a finger. The bartender leaned in, drawn like a moth. "Tell me, sweet thing," Astrid purred, tracing a black nail down the woman's forearm, "do they pay you enough here to afford *standards*?"
The absinthe burned pleasantly down Astrid's throat—a cheap, herbal sting that only amplified the heat coiling low in her stomach. She swirled the violet-tinged liquor lazily, watching the bartender's freckled throat work as the woman swallowed under her gaze. Astrid's lips curled. The drink was mediocre at best, but the bartender's trembling fingers and dilated pupils were vintage enough to savor.
"Darling," Astrid murmured, dragging a black nail along the rim of the coupe glass until it sang, "you look positively parched." She lifted the drink, holding it just out of reach as the bartender leaned in unconsciously. "Tell me—do you always stare at your customers like they're the last sip of water in the desert?"
The bartender's cheeks flushed darker. "Only the ones dressed like supervillains," she muttered, but her voice cracked halfway through.
Astrid's fingers curled around the coupe glass with deliberate slowness, her black nails catching the neon light like polished obsidian. She tilted it just enough to watch the bartender's gaze drop to her lips—predictable, but delicious. The absinthe burned like cheap desire down her throat, its herbal bite settling low in her stomach where warmth pooled into something hungrier.
"Mm. Almost passable," Astrid murmured, dragging a fingertip through the condensation on the glass. She lifted it to the bartender's lips without breaking eye contact. "Tell me, darling—do you taste your failures, or just serve them to strangers?"
The bartender's breath hitched, her freckled cheeks flushing darker. Astrid watched the battle behind her eyes—pride warring with want—before the woman leaned in and sipped from the rim Astrid's lips had touched. A drop of violet liquor slid down her chin; Astrid caught it with her thumb, pressing it against the bartender's lower lip until it parted with a soft gasp.
The bartender’s pulse fluttered visibly at the base of her throat—a rapid, frantic rhythm that made Astrid’s lips curl in satisfaction. She traced the rim of the coupe glass with her black nail again, this time pressing just hard enough to make it ping—a sharp, crystalline sound that sliced through the thumping bass. The bartender jumped, her freckled cheeks flushing deeper.
Astrid took another slow sip, letting the absinthe linger on her tongue before swallowing with exaggerated relish. "Mm. Still almost passable," she murmured, her voice dripping with condescension. She swirled the violet liquor lazily, watching the way the bartender’s eyes tracked the movement like a hypnotized rabbit. "Tell me, darling—do they *train* you to be this mediocre, or is it a natural gift?"
The bartender’s throat worked, but no retort came. Instead, her fingers twitched against the bar’s edge, knuckles whitening. Astrid’s smirk widened. She leaned in, close enough to catch the scent of cheap vodka and nervous sweat clinging to the woman’s skin. "Or perhaps," she purred, her breath ghosting over the bartender’s parted lips, "you’re just distracted."
The bartender inhaled sharply, her chest rising under the ridiculous witch costume. Astrid’s gaze dropped to the swell of her breasts, then back up—slow, deliberate. She dragged a black nail down the bartender’s arm, feeling the goosebumps rise in its wake. "The bathroom," Astrid said abruptly, her voice a velvet command. "Now."
The bartender's breath hitched—sharp and audible—as Astrid's black-gloved fingers closed around her wrist with deliberate pressure. Not painful. Not yet. Just enough to make her pulse flutter wildly under Astrid's thumb. "Bathroom," Astrid repeated, lower this time, a velvet command wrapped in smoke. "Unless you'd prefer I ruin you right here?" Her free hand trailed down the bartender's side, nails scraping lightly over the cheap fabric of her costume, stopping just short of her hip. The threat was implicit, delicious.
The bartender swallowed hard, her freckled throat working. Astrid watched the conflict flicker in her eyes—pride warring with want—before the woman exhaled shakily and nodded.
Astrid's smirk curled like a satisfied cat. "Good girl."
She didn't wait for the bartender to lead. Twisting her grip, Astrid yanked her forward, relishing the stumble, the way the woman's body collided with hers in a jumble of heat and startled breath. The crowd parted unconsciously as Astrid marched them toward the restrooms, her stilettos clicking a predatory rhythm against the sticky floor.
The bathroom was blessedly empty, lit by flickering fluorescents that cast everything in sickly green. Astrid kicked the nearest stall door open with a crack, shoving the bartender inside. The woman's back hit the tile wall with a thud, her plastic spider hat askew. Before she could speak, Astrid's mouth crashed against hers—hot, demanding, tasting of absinthe and victory. The bartender moaned into it, hands fluttering at Astrid's waist before gripping tight.
Astrid pulled back just enough to hiss, "Hands above your head." When the woman hesitated, she dug her nails into her hips. "Now."
The bartender obeyed, palms slapping against cold tile. Astrid rewarded her with a slow drag of teeth down her throat, savoring the way her pulse rabbited under slick black lipstick. Her hands made quick work of the ridiculous costume top, popping buttons with sharp flicks. The bartender's breasts spilled free—pale, freckled, already pebbled with arousal. Astrid hummed approval before sinking her teeth into one peaked nipple.
"F-fuck—" The bartender arched, her thighs clamping around Astrid's leather-clad leg.
Astrid laughed against her skin, breath hot. "Not yet, darling." She slid her gloved hand between their bodies, dragging a single finger down the bartender's stomach—slow, torturous—until she reached the waistband of her cheap polyester skirt. With a sharp tug, the fabric tore. The rip echoed obscenely in the stall.
The bartender gasped. Astrid silenced her with a kiss, swallowing the sound as her fingers finally slipped beneath damp cotton. She groaned at the heat. "Pathetic," she murmured against her mouth. "Soaked through for me already?" Her fingers circled, lazy and taunting, avoiding exactly where the woman bucked against her.
A whimper. Astrid rewarded her with one firm stroke. The bartender's hips jerked. "Stay still," Astrid commanded, nipping her jaw. When the woman trembled but obeyed, Astrid finally—finally—pushed two fingers inside with a brutal thrust.
The bartender's head thunked back against tile, a choked cry escaping. Astrid set a punishing rhythm immediately, her thumb rubbing tight circles as her fingers curled. Every noise the woman made—every gasp, every bitten-off moan—was a symphony. Astrid drank them in, her own arousal a live wire under glossy black fabric.
The bartender's back arched violently, her thighs clamping around Astrid's wrist as a strangled cry tore from her throat. Astrid felt every convulsion—the desperate flutter of muscles, the hot spill of wetness over her gloved fingers—with predatory satisfaction. She didn't relent, dragging out the climax with cruel precision until the woman's legs gave out entirely, her body sliding down the tile wall to collapse onto the closed toilet seat in a boneless heap.
"Pathetic," Astrid murmured, peeling off her soaked glove with deliberate slowness. She dropped it onto the bartender's heaving chest, watching the black latex cling to sweat-slicked skin. "Clean yourself up. You're a mess."
With one last glance at the ruined woman—makeup smeared, borrowed costume in tatters—Astrid turned on her stiletto heel and pushed the stall door open. The bathroom was still empty, though the bass from the club vibrated through the floors. She paused at the mirror, reapplying her black lipstick with the precision of a surgeon. The reflection showed no trace of what had just transpired—only cool, collected dominance staring back through kohl-lined eyes.
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June 13
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