Closing hour

Closing hour. Most people head for the door. Not me. Not when the hot bartender still lingers behind the counter, sleeves rolled, eyes tired in that fuckable way. I wait until the last drunk is gone, then I ask him to lock up. Simple request. Then I start to strip. Slow. Deliberate. The blouse first. Then the skirt, inch by inch, until it slides down my thighs and pools on the floor. My skin is warm under the low lights. He watches like he forgot how to breathe. When I’m down to nothing but skin, I lean back against the bar, legs parted, and let him look. He sees the tight lines of a young body, the smooth curve of my stomach, the wet shine between my legs already glistening for him. His eyes go dark. I know the moment he stops thinking about closing tabs and starts thinking about bending me over the bar instead. That thought alone makes my pussy throb harder, slick dripping down my inner thigh. I slide a hand between my legs, fingertips gliding over my swollen lips, spreading the wetness he caused. One slow circle over my clit and my knees almost give. He steps closer. I don’t stop. I just watch him watch me, rubbing faster, breathing shorter, my tight little hole clenching around nothing while I imagine him filling it. The bar is empty. The lights are low. My fingers are soaked. And he hasn’t even touched me yet.