Lusting over the barman

Sometimes I can't write while I'm sitting in my flat. I packed up my laptop and went down to my local pub. It's a small place on a quiet road, and has the typical fake post industrial look which is fashionable these days. It has a good selection of draught ales, enough malt whisky to satisfy me, and a fish tank which is mesmerising to watch, especially when a bit drunk. But the main reason it's so conducive to writing erotica is the barman who works there.

He's pretty tall, at least six feet, and has two full sleeves of tattoos. His right arm is a has a repeating design, which takes advantage of the negative space on his pale skin. Every time I sneak a look at it, I feel like I'm a child again, admiring  patterns on a Persian rug. His other arm has a single red dragon, coiling all the way from his shoulder to his wrist. Tattoos so large and bold are rare. One statement over so much skin suggests something about his personality, a certain single mindedness. I don't know much about him, what his aspirations in life are, but I know he has them and I know he's serious about them.

His hair is short on the sides but longer and spiky on top, and has red streaks dyed in. I've always had a bit of a think for punky, alternative looking guys. I used to have a book with boys from Kerrang! cut out, for my adolescent drooling pleasure. It's not a requirement, but unnatural hair, ink and metal will always get my attention. He has moderately sized stretched piercings in each earlobe and a smattering of rings on the helices. I wonder what else he has tattooed and pierced, under that damned black tshirt he's wearing. It's tight enough for me to know that I really want to know what it obscures. Around his biceps, it looks fit to snap. Carrying barrels must be hard work. I try not to think about how effectively those strong arms could pin me to a bed.

"So, what's it going to be then eh?" he grinned at me. He had seen me reading A Clockwork Orange once, early in my career there as a bar fly, and had greeted me thus ever since. I  wondered if his personality resembled that of Alex, a brutal thug who worships beauty? Did if he had sadistic tendencies? Would he hurt me just to please me, as males had in the past, or lay into the woman flesh he owned for joy at seeing my blood flow? (There is a difference.) His grin always made my blood rise to my cheeks. I waited a minute before I ordered, in case I stammered. Usually I would order a beer or a whisky, but occasionally, for a treat, I would order a cocktail.

He's a flair bartender. He shows off with the bottles and glasses, making my drink into a miniture performance. When I drink it, I feel like a little spark of his energy is flowing into me. It buzzes through me, making my mind race with the filthy things I want to do with him. For example... I'm sorry to be quite so blunt early on, I'd usually segue into something like this... I would like to rim him. I bet he's the sort of anally perveted boy who would love that, and possibly insist on reciprocating. But I bet he'd moan and grind back into my face, loving having a willing slut to satisfy this dark desire. i sipped my sidecar (try one, they're citrussy and nice) while imagining him bending over for me. Dang. And he had such a nice little ass on him. I didn't really see the point in bums for a long time, but now I have learned the appeal of a slim firm buttock on a man.

Sometimes he disappears into the back for a moment. I wonder what would happen if I followed him back there. If he'd smirk knowingly and stroke his fingers along my sides, dropping a teasingly light kiss on my lips, before viciously using his tongue and teeth on my mouth, making me take him inside me and taste him before we'd even learned each other's surnames? Whether he'd take the few minutes it would need to rub my clit to orgasm, growling at me to meet him out back when he had his break in half an hour? Squirming in my seat, having him ignore me while he served customers and denied me the pleasure of serving him?

God, I'd love to suck that undoubtedly lovely cock of his. I'd take him between my lips, sucking away the precum and sweat and sucking him in as deep as I could, running my fingertips over his full balls and sucking him to a fast orgasm so he'd have time to smoke a fag as well? No, he'd be smoking while I sucked, imperiously blowing smoke into my face as I worshipped his cock. I'm ashamed of my smoking fetish, having been brought up in a vociferously anti smoking household, but I love the sight of a man smoking so much. Thick fingers holding the smouldering stick, the breat beautifully visualised in white vapour. The smell of smoke on a male excites me. And I get the smell from him.

"What do you want?"

I'd been lost in such a reverie that I didn't realise that this angel had asked me a question. I stared at him, blushing. He turned his head a little and smiled at me again, slow and wide. He knew.

"You." I reply, huskily.

"Hey, I'm taking my break now," he shouted to the boss, who barely nodded at him. It was a quiet period. He took my hand, very firmly I noticed, and led me out back.