You order a pint. As the bartender draws the draft into a chilled mug you look around noticing only men in the pub. Not unusual for a sports bar you think. Then you notice several of the men are making eye contact with you. One winks at you and heads your way. When he gets to the bar beside you he asks in his proper British accent, "Mind if I join you?"
"No fine," you answer.
He sits on the stool next to you.
"May I buy you a drink?" you ask.
"Sure," he says, "and the next round is mine."
Chatting the two of you finish your pints, and it is his turn to buy a round. He orders two more pints and a couple of shots.
When the drinks are served he says, "Okay now for some serious drinking and fun. This is how you do it," he adds. Down the shot and follow it with the beer."
Innocent you do as he instructed. The shot burns but the burning is soothed by a large gulp of beer. The bartender sits another shot in front of you. You tip back your head and down it, follow it with the beer.
Warmth suffuses your body, your cock stiffens in your pants, your vision blurs and when you speak your words are slurred. "Dahmn, uh, thas sthrong."
You feel loose, unsteady, have to prop an arm on the bar to keep from falling off the stool.
"I believe he's ready," your new drinking buddy tells the bartender loud enough for all in the bar to hear.
"Reehdee fur whas?" you slur.
"The time of your life," your drinking buddy says.
He and two men who have left the pool table help you from the bar stool and start leading you to a door that opens to a dimly lit back room. |