First time being a legal drinker

The bar was nothing special—dark wood, neon signs, a jukebox playing something from the nineties. But it was mine tonight. Twenty-one. Finally. I’d flashed my ID at the door like it was a trophy, and the bouncer had just nodded, bored. I didn’t care. I was here.

I took a stool at the counter, ordered something fruity and sweet. A cocktail. My first real legal drink. The bartender slid it over, and I sipped it, the burn mixing with the sugar. I felt grown-up. Sophisticated. Like I belonged.

The table next to me had five men. They were older—forties, maybe fifties—in suits or dress shirts with sleeves rolled up. They laughed loudly, debating something about politics or the economy, their voices deep and confident. Refined. The kind of men who ran things, who had offices with large windows. I tried not to stare, but one of them kept catching my eye. He was the youngest of the group, maybe mid-forties, with graying temples and a sharp jawline. He’d look at me, then look away. Then look again. And wink.

I felt my cheeks flush. I ordered another cocktail.

By the time I finished the second one, the room had a pleasant tilt. I was tipsy—not drunk, not sloppy, but loose. Warm. My thighs felt soft against the stool, and I was aware of the dampness between them, the way my underwear clung. I needed to pee.

I slid off the stool, steadying myself on the counter, and walked toward the restroom. The hallway was dim, the door unisex with a faded sign. I pushed it open, locked it behind me, and sat down on the toilet, sighing as my bladder released.

The door clicked.

I looked up, heart jumping. He was there. The man from the table. He’d slipped in somehow. He stood with his back to the door, his eyes fixed on me. On my thighs. On the stream of urine still splashing into the bowl.

“Don’t stop,” he said, his voice low, rough. “I want to watch.”

I should have screamed. I should have told him to get out. But the alcohol hummed in my veins, and my pussy clenched at the sight of him—tall, broad-shouldered, his dress shirt untucked now. He unbuckled his belt, unzipped his pants, and pulled out his cock. It was thick, semi-hard, and he wrapped his hand around it, stroking slowly as he watched me finish peeing.

I wiped myself, but I didn’t stand. I just sat there, legs apart, staring at his hand moving up and down his shaft. He was getting harder, the head turning purple, a bead of pre-cum glistening at the tip.

“You’re so pretty,” he said, his voice strained. “I’ve been watching you. Those little shorts. Those bare legs. You knew what you were doing, didn’t you?”

I shook my head, but it was a lie. I’d worn the shorts because I wanted to feel sexy. I wanted to be seen. And now I was being seen—completely, by this stranger in a bar bathroom.

I slid off the toilet, my knees hitting the tile. The floor was cold, gritty. I looked up at him, his cock now fully erect, jutting out from his open fly. He was still stroking it, his knuckles brushing my lips with every pull.

“Open your mouth,” he said.

I did.

I took him in, my lips stretching around the thick head. He tasted like salt and soap, and the weight of him on my tongue made me dizzy. I sucked, trying to remember how, bobbing my head, my hands gripping his thighs for balance. He groaned, his fingers threading through my hair.

“Yeah, just like that. Fuck, you’re good at this for a little thing like you.”

I hollowed my cheeks, taking him deeper. He hit the back of my throat and I gagged, but he didn’t pull away. He held me there, his hips thrusting gently, using my mouth like I was his toy. Drool ran down my chin. My eyes watered. And I loved it.

He pulled out with a wet pop, his cock slick with my spit. “Get up. Bend over the sink.”

I scrambled to my feet, my legs shaky. I turned, gripping the edge of the sink, and looked at myself in the mirror. My lipstick was smeared, my eyes glassy. Behind me, he yanked down my shorts and panties in one rough motion. I heard him spit, felt the wetness on my asshole as he rubbed it in.

Then he pushed into me.

No warning, no slow easing. He slammed his cock into my pussy, and I cried out, my palms flat against the mirror. He was thick, stretching me in a way that burned and ached and felt so fucking good. He started fucking me immediately, his hips slapping against my ass, his breath hot on my neck.

“God, you’re tight,” he grunted. “So fucking tight. Young pussy is the best, you know that? You feel like heaven.”

“Yeah?” I gasped, meeting his eyes in the mirror. “You like fucking young women in the bathroom?”

His grip on my hips tightened. “I love it. I love how your tiny cunt grips me. You love it too, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I moaned. “Yes, fuck me, I’m your little slut, use me—”

He drove into me harder, his balls slapping against my clit. The angle was perfect, hitting that spot deep inside that made my knees buckle. I came with a sharp cry, my pussy clenching around him, but he didn’t stop. He kept fucking me through it, his thumb reaching around to rub my clit in fast, tight circles.

“Another one,” he commanded. “Cum again for me.”

I was so sensitive, but his thumb was relentless, and the pressure built again, impossibly fast. I came a second time, my vision going white, my body shuddering against the sink.

“That’s it,” he hissed. “One more. One more and I’ll fill you up.”

He rubbed my clit harder, his thrusts becoming erratic. I was whimpering, drooling, my forehead pressed against the cold mirror. The third orgasm crashed into me like a wave, and I felt him pulse inside me, his cum flooding my pussy, hot and thick, mixing with my own wetness.

We stayed like that for a moment, both panting, his cock still buried in me. Then he pulled out, and I felt his spend drip down my thighs. He tucked himself back into his pants, wiped his hands on a paper towel, and left without a word.

I cleaned up as best I could, using wads of toilet paper to catch the mess. My shorts were damp, my panties ruined. I fixed my lipstick, splashed water on my face.

When I walked back to the bar, the table was empty. Their glasses were gone. The chairs were pushed in.

I never even caught his name.

Maybe alcohol isn't that safe after all. But fuck, I’d do it again.