Susan was in her early fifties, and she had been a bartender at the Devil Dog for over fifteen years. She was pretty, but her lined face was evidence of a live hard lived. She had been an alcoholic, she freely admitted, though she had managed to be sober, even working in a bar, for over three years.
She spent a week showing Vanessa the ropes, and they often worked together. The only time Vanessa tended alone was on the ultra-slow Mondays, but she had one of the two cooks with her then—both of who were large, muscular men—in case anyone got out of line.
In the Devil Dog, people got out of line often. Most of the customers were bikers, their black and chrome hogs like beasts from hell when they pulled into the parking lot, and they were parked, slanting slightly against kickstands, in front of the long porch that wrapped around the front of the bar.
Most of the bikers were Pythons, but a few other clubs frequented the place as well. When that happened, the place was always likely to go up like a powder keg. It only took one wrong word, one sideways glance, and men would be throwing punches. The bikers took their clubs seriously, and a slight against one man meant a slight against his fellow club members too. Vanessa found the whole thing a little bit silly, and by her second week there she was wondering if she had made a mistake in picking the bar over the antique shop.
As ridiculous as the grown men playing war was, she had to admit that the younger men were exactly the type that got her motor revving, so to speak. There were strong and tough, and they weren’t afraid to show their interest in her.
One of the most handsome, and one of the boldest, was a man in his mid-twenties named John. Of course, like most of the bikers who frequented the Devil Dog, no one called him by his real name. He had a nickname. Since starting her new job, Vanessa had been assaulted by idiotic nicknames every night. There was the Python with the bald head but walrus-like moustache called Snakebite, and a younger guy with glasses everyone called Dipstick. John, though, as far as biker nicknames went, his wasn’t bad: Tank. It wasn’t good, of course, but at least it wasn’t Dipstick.
Vanessa was fairly sure she knew why he was called Tank. His arms were massive, barely constrained by the sleeves of the leather jacket he always wore. His pecs pressed against the thin material of his T-shirts, and his legs were thick like tree trunks. He was a muscular man, and Vanessa was sure Tank could best any man in the bar when it came to a fight or feat of strength.
Tank had taken a liking to Vanessa. She had seen him with women before, pretty but overdone young girls with massive tits and short skirts. Vanessa knew she was prettier, and she had heeded her boss’s advice and bought a few low-cut shirts when she was hired, but she still was restrained when compared to Tank’s girls. He cycled through at least three, and they would come into the bar with him and giggle and laugh as he pulled them onto his lap, where they would grind their pert asses against his cock through his jeans.
The young bartender found herself growing jealous whenever she saw that. She yearned to be pulled onto his lap; she yearned to feel his dick grow hard beneath her. No matter if he was with a girl or not, when Vanessa worked, Tank was sure to spend some time at the bar, bullshitting with her.
One Saturday, after she had been working at the Devil Dog for almost three months, she finally gave in to him. It was late, nearing three, when the bar shut down and the bikers had to go find a bed to sleep it off in. Tank had come in with a girl, a pretty little blond thing named Tiffany, but she had drunk too much, throwing up, and had been taken home by a friend of hers. Since then Tank had been at the bar, smiling at Vanessa, flexing his muscles, and coming on to her in his own special way.
“I would love to slide my dick between your tits,” he said.
Vanessa laughed, blushing at his forwardness. “Me?” she asked.
“Yeah you. Why not you?”
“Have you seen my breasts?” she asked.
“No, but I would love to,” Tank said with a grin.
“Trust me, they aren’t as big as your little blond friend’s tonight,” Vanessa said. She was self-conscious about her own brunette hair, as soft and shiny as it was, because she had only ever seen the biker with blondes.
“Ah, fuck her,” Tank said.
“That’s what I’m telling you to do,” Vanessa teased.
“Why you always gotta make it hard on me?” the biker asked her. “I complimented you.”
“You don’t really think telling a girl you want to tit fuck her is a compliment, do you?”
Tank laughed. “Sure it is. Hey, I got an idea: Do a shot with me.”
“That’s a bad idea,” Susan said, stopping by on her way to the kitchen with a dirty plate.
“Come on, Susan, don’t piss all over our fun because you don’t have fun yourself no more,” Tank said, and Vanessa tried not to wince at his grammar. She was a writer after all.
“This one is bad news,” Susan said, ignoring Tank but nodding her head toward him. “Mark my words.”