Cocktail Hour


The prompt for #FridayFlash was an image of a beautiful mural of a girl with a cocktail.  It inspired me to write this piece of flash fiction, which I am also submitting for #WickedWednesday

[3 min read]

It’s cocktail hour and the bar is busy, people crowded at the counter, laughing and bantering. Rabbit can see their backs. Guys in suits lean into girls in short skirts and flirty dresses. A lot of hair tossing and man spreading is going on. She’d bet you could almost taste the testosterone in the air.


Occupying a booth on the leatherette seating, the backs of her legs stick to the pleather, simultaneously  her swollen pussy moistens the fabric of her skirt. Rabbit feels pretty and cute wearing the hot pink day collar Sir had recently given her, and is humming with excitement. Literally! Sir has custody of the remote which controlled the sex egg she’d inserted on arrival, in the privacy of the rest room. Once in place she’d sent Sir a text, and he’d been tormenting her with crescendos of vibrations at unexpected moments ever since.

Rabbit had strict instructions not to come without his permission, but it is a struggle. She’d felt confident enough at the start of this challenge to order the house speciality pink cocktail, the name of which she could no longer remember because she is straining so hard to keep a lid on her building arousal. She’d turned its paper parasol into confetti. Pressing her thighs together each time her pussy walls throbbed around the smooth toy, she is aware of creamy arousal dripping out of her like hot candle wax.

A waitress stops at her table.


“Can I get you anything else?” Smiling brightly, she eyes Rabbit’s empty glass.


“Another of these,” Rabbit replies, trying not to squeak when, at that moment, Sir selects a particularly vigorous rumbly vibe pattern, making her pussy flutter.


“Sure sweetie,” the waitress smiles, a hint of a question quirking her eyebrow.


Rabbit bites the inside of her cheek, digging fingers into her thighs as she rides the wave of a particularly vicious vibrating pulse currently making her nipples harden and her clitoris throb. She takes some deep gulps of air and entertains thoughts of spiders and rattlesnakes until the rumbles abate.


The waitress glides into view with her cocktail. The glass of shell pink liquid sports a new parasol and chinks with ice fragments.


Placing the glass in front of her, the waitress studies the heart-shaped tag hanging from her collar, before sliding a small bowl of ice cubes and a stack of paper serviettes towards rabbit.


“The gentleman at the bar thought you might need these, rabbit,” she winks.


Rabbit’s face flushes hot from mortification even as her pussy throbs with excitement. Glancing over in the direction of the bar, she spots Sir there, glancing up from the app on his phone. Their eye contact is electric, as is the orgasm he finally texts her permission to enjoy.


Woman on typewriter


You may remember Rabbit who keeps a diary, which her Dom secretly reads to get the inside track on her enjoyment of the submissive life. If you haven’t yet discovered her earlier outings, read Parts 1, 2 & 3 here.

14 thoughts on “Cocktail Hour”

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