Southern Comfort

By Badlybent

The construction site was hot and dusty so I stopped by the Brass Tap for a draft to wash away the grit and have a monster grease- burger with the accompanying truck load of fries to refuel.

The Tap is a honky-tonk or a roadhouse depending on what part of the south you’re in. It’s just far enough out of town to be out of site out of mind of the local Baptist Christian Ladies Association United Against Fun chapter, which means it’s a beer joint. No wine fancy or otherwise. Doesn’t even sell whisky.

The joint’s attractions are, cheap beer, cheap food, loud music and oh yes a cheap woman now and then. It’s a boots and jeans kind of place. Hiking boots, construction boots, cowboy boots and their female counterparts. A suit would be as out of place as a pole cat at a church picnic.

There’s a dance floor and damned good country rock on Friday and Saturday. A couple of pool tables fill the little back room and an ancient TV that still sort of shows color hangs over the bar and takes care of the sports crowd. A little something for everyone.

There might even be what you call your gentleman’s disagreement in the parking lot now and then but nobody ever get seriously hurt. Not a knife and gun club sort a place. It ain’t the Ritz or your family place but a safe place to take a date and get loose now and then. If she’s a good old girl that is.

Long days make for more work so the crowd arrives later in the summer and not a lot was happening. I kicked back, ordered a pitcher and sat at the bar shooting the shit with George and waited for the show to start. Friday nights at the Tap are always a show of some kind.

George is the owner

After a while the beer worked it’s usual magic and I headed off to leak my lizard and at the door I came up short. There was a chick standing at the sink fussing with her hair. Not that it need it, I thought. She had flowing red hair that draws attention to her like a porch light draws bugs on a hot southern night. Her name was Violet.

Violet is what you would call cute in a slutty sort of way. Not gorgeous but cute. You wouldn’t kick her out of bed or gnaw you’re arm off getting away the next morning by any means. She’s a little young but not jail bait. George runs a clean place. He doesn’t put up with that shit.

She wears short skirts and low cut tops. She’s not afraid to show some skin on a warn humid night. Boobs could be bigger but she’s got nice legs and a great ass.

Violet’s always with some dude though. Usually one of the frat-rats that come over from the local college. The band wasn’t set up yet but I’d seen her dancing to the jukebox with some geek or other I’d never seen. Just another college looser to me.

“Uh…I gotta go.” I said.

“Sorry, the other one was in use and I had to go really bad too.“ She said.” Well…Come on in. Go ahead, I won’t look.” She went back to primping in the streaked, dirty, mirror.

I hesitated a second but nature made the decision for me. I wasn’t about to piss my pants waiting on her to get out. Not being exactly your high class establishment, the one urinal is beside the sink and there isn’t once of those privacy things between the two.

I got my streaming going good, glanced over, and noticed that Violet was indeed standing there watching me piss.

“I cheated.” she said, giggling, not the least bit embarrassed.

She didn’t look away and I’m not the kind that can stop in mid-piss so I just shook my head and continued to let fly. If she wanted a free show, what the hell. “Damn beer,” I said. “This is the only trouble with the stuff.”

I made conversation like this was the most normal thing in the world. Well what the hell else are you going to do. “So what do you think Violet,” I asked shaking off and turned to face her, dick in hand.

“I’ve seen worse. I’d say he’s got potential.” she said.

“So you know my name? You’re Greg, right?” She licked her lips. “Can I touch?”

I nodded yes to both I guess because she reached out and stroked my dick which by now was making like Pinocchio’s nose, getting longer and harder. And that’s the by-god’s truth if I ever told it.

“Umm,” she mewed. “I think I woke up the one-eyed snake.”

“Uhh…Violet, we’re not going to be alone here long somebody else’s gonna need to piss.”

“Yes…I suppose…” she pouted…then brightened. “We could go out back if you want to.”

“And?”

“And do what you’re "little man" wants. What else silly?”

She hadn’t let go and by now my ”little man”, being a very cleaver little guy, was standing in full salute to her ministrations.

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“What about your boyfriend?” I nodded toward the barroom.

“Not a boyfriend. Just a date. He’s decided he likes Rachael better though.”

Now that brought a real grin to both of us. Rachael is gay. Everyone knows that. Well almost everybody I guess. But someone else was fixing to find out.

“His loss.” Violet said.

Screwing some bar pick-up out behind The Brass Tap on a hot southern summer night isn’t exactly an original thing. The place is an institution going back to prohibition days when it was a speakeasy. You could write a couple of whose-who books on all the county gentry that’s got laid back there but it was a first for this rebel lad.

I soon found myself out behind the dumpster enclosure. Which is hallowed ground sanctified by hundreds if not thousands of other horny couples. My hand found it’s way up Violets miniskirt rubbing her sweet young pussy through polyester bikini panties while she stroked my rock hard cock with equal ardor.

The place smelled like…well…a dump but it’s amazing what the fine combination of alcohol plus sex will do for you. Violet smelled sweet, hot and young. Nothing else mattered. Her velvet tongue tasted of honey, of Budweiser and of desire as we moaned our lust into each other’s mouth. The girl was an excellent kisser and soon we were gasping, grouping and dry humping like the end of the world was coming and only our coupling stood in Satan’s very path.

We broke contact long enough for Violet to make with the bend-over, flip her little skirt up and for my pants to hit the ground. I yanked her panties down, spread her upturned cheeks and frantically sought her honey hole, the pearly gates of creation itself.

“God, oh god, hurry. Get it in I can’t wait.” I could see that she was already rubbing her love button from the front as my dick made contact and slid home.

“Ahh…” I pushed on up inside, her vagina a tight pink glove grasping my hardness. “Jesus Violet.” I said as her pussy milked my cock.

“Pound me Greg. God, just fuck the shit out of me.”

With an invite like that, what’s a young horny construction worker supposed to do. I wound up and laid the wood to her. I slammed and she humped. Nothing fancy or sophisticated, just a good old fashioned southern pipe laying.

“Hard Greg. Fuck me hard cowboy.” Not to be out done she leaned into the task and matched me stroke for stroke, hump for hump.

The girl’s passion was over the top. She was working it so hard I paused in amazement to watch her hungry ass consume my cock.

“What…Why did you stop? God don’t stopppp…”

“Just watching.” I said and slapped her pretty ass. "Go get it girl. Ride-em cowgirl.” I grinned and slapped her upturned butt again picking up the pace once more. “Gonna get you off gal. Make you cum like an earthquake. Go get’em.” Another slap punctuated my desire. If anything she just laid into it more.

My cock could feel her cunt spasm time after time as small orgasms hit her. She was getting close to the big one and I couldn’t hold out much longer either. Her pussy was driving me crazy. The girl was a fuck’en treasure.

“Ahh…” she shuddered and slammed back against me so hard she almost knocked me down. Her pussy clamped down like a vise, holding, gripping. “Ahh…Oh god yes…YES…”

Violet is a screamer. She sure enough lets the world know when she get‘s there. God love a duck, she’s a trip.

“Cumming…” I shuddered in turn as my cock unleashed a torrent of baby juice. None of this pull out and squirt in her face shit. No rubber. One hundred percent pure rebel cum flooded her vaginal canal as spasm after spasm empted my balls filling her tank to overflowing. The excess ran down her legs re-christening this little patch of southern ground.

We collapsed laughing at ourselves, at the deed we had done and at the pure unadulterated joy of being just young and alive.

“Well, wasn’t that just something.” I said. I hadn’t even bothered to pull my pants up yet. “Guess I owe you a drink or something. What’da you think?”

“Or something…Hmm.” she said. “You could take me home and play some more. That is if you wanted to?”

“What about what’s his name when he figures out he ain’t getting no-where with Rachael and comes looking for you?”

“I’d say fuck him but I wouldn’t mean it.” She took my hand. “Come on cowboy get your pants up. We‘re gonna go get us some desert.”

My old pickup tore a right big patch in the gravel parking lot spinning rubber as we tore off into the night hunting more Southern Comfort.

“Yee..Hawwww! Ya’ll cum now ya hear.

THE END…Or maybe not. Experience informs this old boy that you can’t get too much Southern Comfort.

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For the uninitiated. Southern Comfort is a brand of whisky. Powerful stuff. You may find Jesus in one bottle and the Devil in the next.

Thanks for reading this little story. The Brass Tap was a real place. Violet was real but my memory fails me as to her real name. So many years, so much shit. The story is a fictional condensation of a lot of shit that went down there when I was wild, young and free. Comments and feedback are welcome.

Badlybentguy@yahoo.com

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