Riding the Bull
With McKenna Grace
Written by TheLW
Codes: MF, Blowjob, Cream Pie, Fingering
Disclaimer: This FICTIONAL story was written for entertainment purposes only
I was behind the bar at that dimly lit spot in Los Angeles, the kind of place that leaned hard into the Western dive aesthetic with dark wood, neon signs, and a mechanical bull spinning under red lights in the middle of the room. The air smelled like spilled beer, perfume, and the faint metallic tang of the bull’s worn leather. It was a Friday night, and the place was packed — locals, tourists, a few industry types who never seemed to leave the city. I had been working there long enough that the rhythm of it felt automatic: pour, wipe, smile, take the tip, repeat. Then she walked up.
McKenna Grace. I recognized her the second she stepped into the pinkish-red glow near the bar. Blonde hair loose and a little messy from the ride she had just taken on the bull, white top slightly damp with sweat at the neckline, jeans hugging her hips. She was twenty. I knew that. The fake ID she had flashed at the door got her in, and nobody asked questions. She slid onto a stool right in front of me, elbows on the wood, and looked straight at me like she had been waiting for that exact moment.
“Hey,” she said, voice low and warm. “You were watching me out there.”
I kept wiping a glass, but I didn’t look away. “Hard not to. You stayed on longer than most people do.”
McKenna smiled — not just with her mouth, but with her whole face, the corners of her eyes crinkling just enough to suggest she’d practiced this look in a mirror. Her lips parted slowly, like she was savouring the moment before the words came out. She leaned in, close enough that I caught the scent of her perfume — something sweet and citrusy, like orange blossoms mixed with the faint salt of sweat from the bull ride. The bar roared around us: the twang of a country song bleeding into laughter, the mechanical bull’s hydraulic whine as it bucked under some guy who probably wouldn’t last three seconds. But her gaze didn’t waver. It locked onto mine, sharp and deliberate, like she was memorizing my reaction.
“I like when people watch,” she said, voice dropping into a register that cut through the noise. “Especially when they look like you.”
I set the glass down and rested both hands on the edge of the bar. “What am I looking like?”
“Like you want to do more than just watch.” She tilted her head, studying my face. “Am I wrong?”
The flirting started easy and got heavier by the second. I poured her a drink — something clear over ice, nothing fancy — and slid it across. Our fingers brushed when she took it. She didn’t pull away. Instead, she let the contact linger, then wrapped her hand around the glass and took a slow sip while keeping her eyes on mine.
“You’re the bartender,” she said. “You see everyone. Do you usually notice the girls on the bull this much?”
“Only the ones who ride like they’re trying to put on a show.”
McKenna laughed, soft and a little breathless. “Maybe I was. For you.”
I leaned in closer, matching her posture. The space between us shrank until I could smell her — something light and sweet under the bar’s heavier scents. “Are you always this forward when you walk into a place with a fake ID?”
Her eyes flickered, but she didn’t deny it. “You checked?”
“I notice things. You’re twenty. The ID said otherwise. Doesn’t mean I’m kicking you out.”
McKenna bit her lower lip, clearly pleased that I knew and still hadn’t moved away. “Good. Because I’m not ready to leave yet. Especially not when the bartender is looking at me like that.”
We kept going. McKenna asked what time I got off. I told her late. She asked if I ever got bored of the same faces every night. I told her some faces were new. She asked if I liked my job. I said it had its moments. Every answer turned into another question, another look, another shift of her body closer to the bar. She played with the rim of her glass, tracing it with one fingertip in slow circles. When I reached for a bottle near her, she deliberately brushed her knuckles against the back of my hand.
“You’re good at this,” she said. “The talking. The looking. Most guys just stare and hope.”
“Most guys aren’t standing on this side of the bar with a clear view of how you move.”
She glanced over her shoulder toward the bull, then back at me. “You liked the way I moved on it.”
“I did.”
“What else would you like?”
The question hung between us. I didn’t answer right away. Instead, I poured myself a quick splash of water just to have something to do with my hands, then set it down and leaned in again. “I think you already know.”
She smiled wider, a little sharper now. “Maybe I want to hear you say it.”
The tension built in small increments. Every time I turned to make someone else’s drink, I felt her eyes on me. Every time I came back, she had another line ready — never quite crossing into anything that would get either of us in trouble in public, but close enough that my pulse stayed steady and elevated. She told me the bull got her heart rate up. I told her it wasn’t the only thing that could do that. She laughed and rested her chin on one hand, watching me like she was deciding something.
A group of guys farther down the bar called for another round. I handled it, but when I returned, she was still there, still looking at me with that same focused attention. She reached across the bar this time — not for a drink, but for my wrist. Her fingers wrapped lightly around it.
“I keep thinking about what it would feel like if you came out from behind here,” she said. “Just for a minute.”
“And do what?”
“Whatever you want. I’m not shy about it.”
The other bartender, Marcus, was at the far end dealing with a big order. The bar was still busy, but there was a narrow window. I glanced toward the short hallway that led to the bathrooms and the small staff closet we used for extra bottles and cleaning supplies. It was quiet back there, mostly out of sight.
“Meet me in the hallway in two minutes,” I said, voice low enough that only she could hear it.
McKenna didn’t hesitate. She slid off the stool, finished the last of her drink, and walked away without looking back. I watched her go — jeans fitting perfectly, hair still a little wild from the bull — then finished the last two tickets in front of me and told Marcus I was stepping away for a second. He nodded without looking up.
I walked around the end of the bar and into the hallway. The lighting was lower there, just a couple of wall sconces casting long shadows. She was already waiting near the staff closet, leaning against the wall with her arms loosely crossed, watching me approach. The second I was close enough, McKenna reached out, grabbed the front of my shirt, and pulled me in.
The kiss was immediate and hard. Her mouth opened under mine, tongue sliding against mine without any pretense of softness. I pressed her back against the wall, one hand braced beside her head, the other settling on her waist. McKenna made a small sound into the kiss and arched closer, hips tilting forward until I could feel the heat of her through both layers of clothing. My hand slid under the hem of her top, palm flat against the warm skin of her stomach, then higher until I was cupping her breast over the thin fabric of her bra. She broke the kiss just long enough to breathe against my mouth.
“I've been thinking about this since I got on that bull,” she said. “You watching me. Me knowing you were watching.
I kissed McKenna again, deeper this time, and she reached between us to palm my cock through my pants. I was already hard. She made another sound when she felt it, then started working the button and zipper open with quick, sure fingers. The hallway was empty for now, but the risk was part of it — voices from the main room, the occasional footsteps that never quite reached us. I pushed the closet door open with my free hand and guided her inside.
The space was tight — shelves of bottles, stacked cases of beer, a single overhead bulb that flickered once when the door closed behind us. I locked it. The second the latch clicked, McKenna dropped to her knees on the concrete floor, looking up at me while she finished freeing my cock. Her hand wrapped around the shaft, warm and firm, and she stroked me from base to tip a few times before leaning in and taking the head into her mouth.
What happened next was unreal. McKenna’s blowjob skills were incredible — better than anyone I had ever been with. She didn’t just suck; she worked me with a focused, almost artistic precision that made my knees weaken. Her tongue swirled around the head in slow, deliberate circles before she took me deeper, the wetness of her mouth closing around me in a perfect seal. She used just the right amount of suction, never too much, never too little, and the way she hollowed her cheeks while sliding down made every inch feel intensified. One hand stroked the base in time with her mouth, twisting slightly on the upstroke, while the other cupped and gently rolled my balls. She took me all the way to the back of her throat without gagging, held me there for a long moment while looking up through her lashes, then pulled back slowly, leaving a shiny trail of spit along the shaft.
She did it again, deeper this time, and the wet sounds she made were almost as good as the sensation itself. When she needed air, she didn’t pull all the way off; she kept the head between her lips and used her tongue to tease the underside while she caught her breath, then sank back down. McKenna varied the pace constantly — sometimes long, slow sucks that let me feel every ridge of her tongue, sometimes faster, shallower bobs that focused on the sensitive head while her hand pumped the rest. At one point she pulled off completely, spit on the tip, and used both hands to stroke me while she licked and kissed along the shaft, then took me back into her mouth and started humming softly. The vibration travelled straight through me. I had to brace one hand against the shelf above her head just to stay upright.
McKenna kept going like that for what felt like several minutes, never rushing, never losing focus. Every time I thought I was getting close, she would change something — slow down, switch to long tongue strokes, or take me deep and hold still — keeping me right on the edge without letting me tip over. Her eyes stayed on mine almost the entire time, and the look in them said she knew exactly how good she was and was enjoying every second of the control it gave her. When she finally pulled off with a soft, wet pop, a string of saliva still connected her lower lip to the head of my cock. She wiped it away with her thumb, then stood, turned, and braced both hands on a low shelf.
“Fuck me,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “Right here. Before someone notices we’re gone.”
I pushed her jeans and panties down together in one motion, denim and cotton bunching just above her knees. The air in the closet was cool against newly exposed skin. McKenna was already soaked — when I reached around, my fingers met a slick heat that made them slide effortlessly between her legs. She pushed back against my hand with a low groan, grinding into my palm, and I gave her two fingers, curling them upward inside her while my thumb found the swollen nub of her clit. She dropped her head forward, breath coming in ragged bursts against the shelf, hips moving in tight, desperate circles against my hand.
I lined up and pushed into her in one steady thrust. McKenna was tight and hot and so wet that there was almost no resistance after the first inch. I bottomed out against her, the entire length of me buried, and held there for a second, feeling her clench around me, then started moving. Short, deep strokes at first so the sound stayed quiet, the rhythm measured against the hum of the cooler unit on the other side of the wall.
When a moan started to build in her throat, I brought my hand up and covered her mouth, my palm catching the dampness of her breath. My other hand stayed firm on her hip, holding her steady against each thrust. McKenna reached back blindly, fingers finding my thigh, and dug her nails in hard — a sharp, urgent punctuation that told me everything I needed to know.
I gave McKenna what she wanted — harder, faster, the slap of skin against skin sharp in the cramped closet. The wet sound of me inside her was a slick, rhythmic percussion, punctuated by the rattle of bottles on the shelf every time I drove into her. McKenna braced herself against the lowest shelf, her breath coming in ragged gasps that fogged the air between us. Each thrust sent her forward, her hips colliding with the wood, but she arched back into me every time I pulled away, desperate to keep me buried deep.
My fingers left her mouth and slid down to her snatch — swollen, slippery, throbbing under my touch. I circled it tight and fast, matching the pace of my hips as I fucked her. Her body tensed first — a shuddering inhale, a muffled moan bitten into the crook of her own arm — then locked around me like a vice. The pulse of her orgasm milked my cock in waves, each contraction pulling a groan from my throat. I didn’t slow down. I rode her through it, my grip on her hip bruising as I chased the heat coiling at the base of my spine. She trembled beneath me, legs shaking, but I kept going — just a little longer, just enough to feel that final surge of pleasure crash over me.
When I was close, I gripped both of her hips hard enough to feel the bone and buried myself to the hilt. The orgasm hit like a circuit breaker tripping — sudden, total, everything going white and silent for a second before the throbbing started, deep and involuntary, my whole body locked around the effort of it. I pressed my forehead between her shoulder blades and felt her breathing, felt her still clenching faintly around me as I finished cumming inside of her. Neither of us moved. The sweat cooling on my forearms was the first thing I noticed coming back. Then the music through the wall, the muffled crowd noise, the mechanical bull still grinding through its programmed bucking under those red lights, indifferent as a clock.
I pulled out slowly. McKenna straightened, turned, and kissed me once more, softer this time but still hungry. We cleaned up as best we could with a stack of bar towels from the shelf. She pulled her jeans back up, smoothed her top, and checked her reflection in the dark glass of a bottle. I zipped up and unlocked the door.
“Same time tomorrow?” McKenna asked, her voice husky from exertion, the words catching like a match struck in the dark of the supply closet.
I eased the door open just enough to let a sliver of neon bar light bleed into the closet, turning McKenna’s flushed skin a sickly pink. The hallway beyond was empty — just the distant thump of bass from the mechanical bull and the sticky-sweet reek of spilled beer. I turned back to her, her lipstick smudged like she’d been drinking from a glass with too much ice, her hair still tangled from my fingers. She was watching me with that same half-lidded look, like she was already calculating how long it’d take to get me alone again. “If you’re still using that fake ID,” I said, dragging my thumb along the inside of her wrist where her pulse jumped, “yeah.”
A slow, knowing smile touched her lips. McKenna stepped past me, her shoulder brushing mine in the cramped doorway, and disappeared into the hallway’s dim glow. I counted thirty slow seconds against the thrum of the bar’s music, then followed. When I slipped back behind the counter, Marcus was still elbow-deep in a row of shot glasses, his back to me. McKenna had already reclaimed her stool. Under the lurid red lights, her hair was a mess of dark waves where my fingers had been, and a flush still painted her neck and cheeks. She caught my eye across the crowded bar, lifted her empty glass with a slight tremor in her hand, and shaped a single, silent word with her swollen lips.
Another.
I started pouring.
The End
Topic: Riding the Bull with McKenna Grace (Read 1111 times)