The Small Bar

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College student gets graduate lesson in love.
5.7k words
4.5
61.9k
8
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Part 1 of the 2 part series

Updated 09/22/2022
Created 09/27/2002
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It was a quiet place, on the edge of the college campus, in an old building that had seen better days, with slightly slanted floors and an inevitable draft that seemed to disappear only on the hottest of summer days. It had been a speakeasy during Prohibition and the first owner made the not-so-successful transition to neighborhood bar, but through the years the locals had drifted out to the suburbs.

The college kids, for the most part, found more attraction in the lights and excitement on campus or downtown, to the east. The old wooden bar itself was an old relic, polished by elbows and bar rags and bearing a scar or two in tribute to more colorful times. The lighting during the day was soft, sunlight fighting its way through old scratched windows with once-fashionable signage and during bad weather or at night by flickering fluorescents on the high ceiling. The floor was an easy-to-maintain institutional tile of a dark red color, never looking clean when polished nor exceptionally dirty when not. The barstools were a mix of the old shiny red leather with brass tacks and a few more recent replacements in black and chrome.

A succession of owners, bartenders, and customers had changed things little in the appearance of the place, as it never generated enough income to warrant renovation nor deteriorated enough to warrant closure. It was a “shot and a beer joint” in the local parlance, with no blenders or fancy equipment, and except for the owner’s penchant for making his special Bloody Mary (with beer chaser, of course), the most complicated drink was a martini or maybe a Manhattan, a request for either still being met with some annoyance.

It had avoided the fern craze of the eighties and, with its small bathrooms and inadequate ventilation, the crack cocaine epidemic that began in the nineties. An occasional hooker or two would stop in, but always on break, as they were welcome to drink (usually Crown Royal) but not to work. There wasn’t much hope, given the sparse clientele, of making much money anyway.

Mike was the latest owner, a former bartender at the place who’d developed an affection for the atmosphere and people of the neighborhood, and quite frankly found it cheaper and easier to drink from behind the bar than in front of it. Mike was a former seminarian, and his training and skills came in handy, both for hearing confessions and dispensing advice. He was a genuinely nice guy who had a repertoire of genuinely bad jokes. He’d be behind the bar all the time if he could have subsisted on the diet of stale chips, peanuts, and beef jerky that graced the back bar. But he was a man who loved his food, and that’s where I came in.

I’d been stopping on occasion each night after my classes, dropping in for a beer, which often led to another, then someone would buy a round, then Mike would return the favor. As a college student on very limited income, I was always a bit embarrassed that I couldn’t quite keep up, but nobody seemed to mind. One night, Mike mentioned that he was looking for a bartender to cover for him at dinner time, and well, what the heck, it didn’t look like a very challenging job and fit nicely with my schedule. The semester would be ending in a couple of weeks anyway and I’d go back to my day classes. So I went downtown, paid for my bartender’s license, and showed up at 3:00 PM the next day in the mandatory white shirt and tie to begin my apprenticeship.

Mike showed me how to work the cash register, pointed out an ancient book of Angostura Bitters drink recipes (which coincidentally called for a dash of Angostura in almost every recipe), watched me pour a few drinks and then headed out. He returned in about an hour and relieved me, pointing out a few things I’d screwed up (who came up with the idea that all the singles had to be George up and facing to the right?) and paying me, in cash, a total of five dollars. “Small bar, small wages!” he said with a smile. I wasn’t sure why but… well, nice guy, easy job, five bucks was okay.

Had we a few more customers, I might have had a few tips, but the regulars (all three of them) seemed unwilling to part with their cash unless it was going directly into the till. Initially hard on me, asking for exotic drinks and laughing as I looked them up, they eventually began including me in their drink rounds – a compliment that I declined only once and for which I suffered significant verbal abuse.

We continued like this for a few weeks, and Mike’s dinners became longer and longer, until eventually he was showing me how to close the bar and gave me a key. I found the work easy and enjoyable, learning the names and drinks of the regulars, improving greatly on Mike’s jokes, and starting to gain some confidence.

Now I was a part-time student, working my way through college on the nine year plan, and I was taking a lot of interesting courses, including philosophy, theology, and political sociology. Discussions in the classroom invariable carried over to the bar, where Mike and I would share our views and attempt to enlighten each other, neither significantly changed by our arguments. True, I usually thought up great responses to Mike’s platforms long after the bar had closed but I’d return to the classroom familiar with the opposition views and prepared to argue a bit more effectively.

Between work and my studies, I’d little time for a social life, and my girlfriend of four years had gone to Boston for college, from where she’d send me first weekly, then monthly letters, the details unfamiliar to me and the affectionate words lessening with time. We’d dated throughout much of high school, both from strict old world families, and despite raging hormones we’d kept pretty much within the bounds set forth by our church and parents on acceptable premarital behavior.

Though I had my first apartment, it was a small place sparsely furnished, with a sofa bed, a desk, and a small table and chair – the sum of my worldly possessions – and small stove and refrigerator that came with the place. It was cluttered often with books, papers, and piles of laundry in the corner, and was certainly not the place to entertain anyone.

This was not to imply that I didn’t have my share of impure thoughts, however. A neighbor woman, Marie, was constantly teasing me, winking at me and asking if I’d like to come over and spend a little time with her. I’d blush and stutter and she’d laugh as I politely declined and rushed into my apartment. What I assume she didn’t know is that I’d run inside to hide the rapid response that always sprang forward in my pants and wouldn’t subside until an appropriate amount of attention was paid to it.

At nineteen, well over six-foot four and a then trim two hundred pounds, my blond hair, blue eyes and slight freckles might have been attractive to her, but I was plagued by all the self-consciousness of adolescence.

I was also unable to resolve the conflicts between my idealistic respect for women and the sanctity of sex versus my vivid fantasies and raging sexual hunger. Some days I’d give in to my desires, usually after Marie’s teasing, and spend hours touching, stroking, and erupting again and again, falling asleep beside a cum-covered towel and awakening with a hard-on only to begin again, leaving for school with a sore arm, tired legs, and underlying exhaustion. Other days my guilt would lead to a resolve of abstinence and I’d sometimes last a week or more before waking erect from a vivid dream and falling back into my self-abusive ways. I must have spilled enough seed to populate a small country back then, and in my fantasies and dreams I was an accomplished lover, but in reality I’d never really seen, touched, or tasted the delights that I imagined.

One day, stopping home between class and work, I had stripped down to a pair of sweatpants and was cleaning my refrigerator, discarding a few items that seemed ready to mold and carrying the garbage out to the back before the smells could permeate my apartment. As I tossed the bag in the trash, I caught movement out of the corner of my eye, and saw Marie looking at me through her open window on the second floor. Her facial expression suggested that she was in some pain, but as I waved to her, she smiled.


“Tony!” she called, waving back. “I was just going to empty my garbage, too – would you mind taking mine out for me?”

“Sure, glad to!” I replied, but I dreaded this. Running up to her apartment and grabbing her garbage was no problem, but these damn sweatpants would provide no cover for the hardon I could already feel rising in my pants. I tried to think of logic problems and recall parts of Cicero’s orations to distract myself as I ran up the stairs, but my cock paid little attention and seemed to delight in the friction my running caused between my leg and the cotton fleece. I knocked on Marie’s door and stood with my hands clasped in front of me, trying to look casual while suppressing and concealing my tenting pants.

She opened the door and invited me in, and I was greeted by the smell of fresh bread and some slightly musky undertone in the air. I don’t know much about pheromones but my body began to flush with excitement, embarrassment, and anticipation all at the same time. She was wearing a thin robe and pink satin nightgown that accentuated her breasts and stopped a bit above her knee. I averted my eyes as quickly as I could. “Are you okay?” she asked, seeing my skin redden from my neck up and flush across my chest.

“Yeah, I was working out before and I guess I overdid it,” I answered lamely. She smiled and said nothing, walking toward her kitchen where I could see a couple of garbage bags. I watched her as she walked, following closely but far enough back to admire the sensual movement of her fine behind, even through her robe and nightgown. I had a momentary urge to slide close to her and lift it, kissing up the backs of her legs to tongue the small of her back. My cock leapt at the thought and I said “Pray, dear Cataline, how long will you abuse our patience?” Cicero was my last defense against intrusive thoughts and I’d unwittingly spoken aloud as I recited him in my head.

“What?” she turned and asked, quizzically.

“Oh, sorry, just something I’m trying to remember for my Rhetoric class later.” My hands were still clasped in front of me as Cicero seemed to fail me once again.

“You are a strange one,” she said, laughingly. “When you take care of these,” she said, handing me the bags, “I’d like you to come back and change a light bulb for me? I just can’t reach it.”

I took the bags and held them at waist-height, relieved for the cover, and said, “Sure, anything for you Mrs. Olsen.”

“Tony, you’re nineteen now, aren’t you? That makes you a man in the eyes of the law and I’d appreciate if you’d call me Marie. Mrs. Olsen was my mother-in-law before her son ran out on me, and I’d like you to call me Marie instead.”

Oh if she only knew how often I’d called her Marie in the privacy of my room. “Sure, okay Mrs.. uh, Marie,” I stuttered.

I walked back down the stairs and my sense of shame and embarrassment had the effect of lessening the throbbing of my member. By the time I reached the garbage cans, I was almost flaccid, but as I leaned over to put her bags in I was hit by that same aroma that excited me when I’d opened her door. There, on the top of her trash and barely concealed in a sheet of newspaper was a pair of pink panties that matched her nightgown. The crotch was visibly stretched and soaked, and my cock sprang to new life with an intensity that make my knees weak. I debated taking them for a moment (to do what with I had no idea), then realized I’d no pockets or anywhere to conceal them. I also suspected that Marie might be watching me again, so I casually closed the can and walked backwards toward the door, pretending to be watching something that had caught my eye in the distance.

There was no way to conceal my hard-on now and I’d have to get inside before she saw me. I walked slowly down the hallway and up the stairs, this time trying to translate and conjugate Latin verbs to English and back again, with enough success that by the time I reached Marie’s doorway I could push my still-hard prick far enough down between my legs to keep me from hitting her door with it. It made walking a bit difficult, but I was sure I’d be done with the light bulb and out of there in time to take it home and give it the relief it so badly needed.

She opened the door and invited me back in, this time shutting it behind me and locking it. I imagined that she was concerned about safety, and though the neighborhood was pretty nice, I figured it was an old habit and a good one for an older woman living alone. She led me to the kitchen, and pointed to the cabinet high above the sink. “The light bulbs are in there.” I opened the cabinet door and reached up, finding the corrugated paper sleeve and a 50 watt light bulb.

“Is this one okay?” I asked.

“Well, it’s for my bedroom, and I guess I’d like something a little brighter. You never know who might be looking in!” she said, teasingly.

Damn. My cock jumped at that like a trout for a wet fly on a clear summer day. I blushed again, coughed, and laughed uncomfortably.

“Come on in here,” she said, leading the way and opening the door to her bedroom. “Come on in, said the spider to the fly!” she giggled, and again chuckling politely, I followed.

Not in my wildest dreams had I imagined a room like hers. A large waterbed draped with a patterned quilt dominated much of the room. On one side there was a mahogany vanity with a large mirror, and on the other, beside the closet doors, stood a beautiful inlaid wardrobe, slightly open, revealing a mirror on the inside and reflecting various hanging “intimate wear” items that I’d seen only in magazines or in the window at Victoria’s Not So Secret. “So where is the fixture?” I asked, averting my eyes again and hoping my arousal wasn’t nearly as evident as it felt.

“Above the bed,” she said, “That’s why I couldn’t change the bulb, I can’t reach it and I can’t very well put a ladder on the waterbed. I should have thought of that when I moved in, but I thought you could reach it.”

This would be tricky. Despite my height, when I leaned forward from the side of the bed, the ceiling fixture was still a few inches beyond my reach. “Can I stand on this?” I asked, pointing at the waterbed.

“Sure, but let me steady you so you don’t fall,” she said. “Move slowly or you’ll get sloshed around by the waves – or would that be something you’d like?” she continued to tease.

By now I am sure I was as red as a beet, for I really would like that but didn’t dare say so. My swollen hard cock, however, tried to stand like a schoolchild raising his hand in answer to a question. “Um, I think I can reach it if I’m careful,” I said, avoiding her question. I stepped onto the bed carefully, and from the middle, I could reach well enough to unscrew the old bulb. The problem was the continued shifting of water in the bed which threatened my balance.

Marie was ‘steadying’ me as I reached, her hands at the small of my back and my stomach, her fingers just above my waistband. She applied pressure in front and back, and as the bed’s movements slowed, she continued to hold me. I knew that my cock was about eye-level for her now but she thankfully said nothing.

As I removed the old bulb, holding the new one in my mouth, I stuck the old one in the waistband of my sweats. As I said, I didn’t have pockets, didn’t want the thing to break, and frankly, I was enjoying the feel of both her hands on my skin too much to ask her to hold it. As I inserted the new bulb, I felt her hands trembling a bit and sliding down slightly. As I tightened it, I felt her hands slide a little lower, til she was unmistakably touching my cock, now swollen and arching to her touch. I didn’t know what to say, didn’t know what to do, so I stood there for what seemed an eternity while she squeezed my member lightly though my pants.

“Wow, you sure know how to screw,” she said, her voice a little throaty. She seemed to catch herself, not laughing this time, but looking rather intensely at me.

“I wish that were true,” I said, somewhat sheepishly. “I’m afraid you’d be disappointed – I’ve never been with a woman like that. But oh that feels good!” I moaned as continued to squeeze, then to caress my now straining cock.

“Does it now?” she asked. “Then I bet this will feel even better,” she said, sliding my sweats down and freeing me. The old light bulb fell to the quilt and she tossed it into the waste can, turning again to approach me.

My cock bounced to attention as it began to throb and pulse with insistent desire. She cupped my balls lightly in her hand, slid her fingernail up behind them to my ass and then drew it, slowly, carefully, back up my shaft to the tip. “What it this?” she asked, pointing to the clear precum now brimming at my opening. “Let’s find out,” she said, and, leaning forward, touched her tongue to it. “Mmmm… I’m not sure what it is, but I sure hope there’s more, it tastes soooo good!” she said, opening her mouth and taking me between her inviting lips.

I thought I had died and gone to heaven. I felt my legs start to shudder and shake as she licked and sucked, grasping my shaft between her fingers and stroking lightly. I could feel myself filling and tightening and my eruption imminent. I put my hands on her gray hair and caressed it as her head moved with increasing rapidity. I warned, “I think I am about to cum,” my voice wavering. She suddenly stopped.

“If you really are going to become a knowledgeable screwer, my young man, you need to learn a few things!” she said. I was still so close that a word from her, a touch, or even a vivid mental image would have made me shoot hot jets from the very depth of my being. But she moved away, instead, and my excitement and arousal and edge of my orgasm seemed to follow her out of the room.

Embarrassed, humiliated, and deeply ashamed, I wondered what I had done wrong, either to make her touch me so or to stop. That worked even better than Cicero to back me off from the brink, and though I was full and dripping precum, with what felt like a quart of cum tightened and ready to launch from within, my cock began to lower and soften in its shame and frustration. I pulled my sweats back up and headed out of the bedroom towards the door.

“I’m sssooo sorry,” I muttered as I tried the lock, only to realize it was deadbolted. I turned, and there she was, sitting on the couch with a rather smug look on her face.

“Sit down, Tony,” she said softly. “I have a confession to make and I would like you to hear it. When I’m done, if you still want to leave, I will let you out. But I need to explain a few things before you go, so that you won’t hate me.”

I didn’t hate her, but I wasn’t sure I liked her anymore, and frankly, I was so congested below that I couldn’t think straight and wasn’t sure I could stand much more. But her voice was so soft and pleading, and I was sure she was as embarrassed as I had been by what transpired in the bedroom.

“Look,” she said, “I am sorry about what happened in there but I was being unfair. I’ve lusted after you for the whole three months I’ve lived here. I really didn’t burn out the light bulb, I lied about that. I’m a woman who hasn’t been with a man for a long time, but my desires haven’t stopped – in fact, I think they’ve increased. You keep running around here with your shirt off, being so nice to me, well, I have to tell you. I’ve been fantasizing about you. As a matter of fact, I was touching myself and looking out the window, imagining being with you, when you came outside today. Just as I hit my orgasm you turned and waved, and I tore my panties slipping my hand out to wave back.”

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