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MM Husband Seduction: The Seedy Bar


Happiest Ending

Copyright 2017

Smashwords Edition

Author's note: All characters depicted in sexual acts in this work of fiction are 18 years of age or older.

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This ebook may contain explicit descriptions of illegal acts, including immoral and/or proscribed acts of a sexual nature. The author, publishers and everyone else involved in the creation, marketing and distribution of this ebook unequivocally disapprove of these acts. Do not act out anything you read in this ebook. Always practice safe, consensual sex with unrelated adult human(s).


Wifely Duties

Greg was glad when business finally slowed down at around three o'clock in the morning. He was the bartender at the Plowed Field, a trashy bar in downtown Indianapolis. The bar had been open twenty-four hours a day, six days a week -- they closed only for the time they were legally required to close, from two a.m. to noon on Sundays.

It was a Tuesday night (technically now Wednesday morning), but the Plowed Field was busy even then. It was the pre-eminent low-rent bar in Indianapolis. When local politicians needed to hit against the city's criminals and ne'er-do-wells, the Plowed Field was usually the only target mentioned by name -- there were other low-class bars, but they were all associated with black people, gays, lesbians, Mexicans or other groups that would feel attacked. So the Plowed Field was the only safe target.

"Put that bottle down!" Greg grabbed a bottle of whiskey out of someone's hand. A large part of his job was making sure they didn't reach over the bar and steal liquor. He also needed to watch the waitstaff to be sure they didn't steal too much -- at a bar like this, it was assumed the staff would take shots with the patrons, but Greg kept it to a reasonable amount.

That added considerably to his workload, but this place was not the sort where people ordered fancy drinks or cocktails. They had two bottles of wine in the whole bar, and aside from an occasional Jaegerbombs, Greg rarely mixed drinks. They had cheap Pabst on tap, and that was what virtually everyone here drank. The actual bartender therefore took up a pittance of Greg's time.

"Put your shirt on, Jason!" Greg paused. "Hey! Hey!" At first he thought Jason -- a portly biker with fuck the police tattooed in huge letters on his belly -- was just trying to make a scene, or was too drunk to keep his shirt on, but then he saw it was a fight developing.

Greg was a sort of an informal bouncer too, since the actual bouncer (Jimmy) was at the front door and wasn't supposed to come in for anything less than a major emergency -- there was a local ordinance targeting the Plowed Field requiring a bouncer at the door most of the time. But Greg wasn't big. Greg was slim, small and slender. He was flamboyantly gay. He certainly never looked like a bouncer.

He got in front of Jason and slapped him on the cheek, just hard enough to get his attention. "You wanna go home?"

If a straight man had slapped someone like Jason, he would have seen it as a challenge and a threat. He would have responded accordingly. But Greg was so small and unthreatening that no one really saw it that way -- he was like an honorary woman -- and no one ever hit him.

"Man, Greg, that punk bumped right into me-"

"I'll force you two kiss and make up," Greg said. But the other would-be assailant had already walked away. Greg usually threatened to force combatants to kiss and make up -- he had said that on a whim on his second day working here, and everyone laughed, so Greg kept that as his go-to threat. The one time he actually went through with telling two guys to do it because they couldn't stop arguing, they just kept arguing anyway; Greg had needed to call the police that time. So no one had ever done it, yet they all acted as though Greg actually had the power to make them kiss.

The fight broke up before it began. Greg went back to the bar, where he added a shot to one man's tab because he saw him pour it while Greg dealt with Jason. He argued about that while the bar cleared out a little.

And finally, Greg had a chance to take a breath. He chatted with the waitresses and cleaned up behind the bar a little. At three o'clock in the morning, Jimmy came in.

He was the club bouncer. He was an odd duck, Greg always thought, but incredibly sexy. He was a white thug with his daughter's name tattooed prominently on his neck and his black wife's face on his left bicep, which was bare because he wore a sleeveless shirt tonight. He was no longer in perfect shape -- he used to be, Greg had seen the pictures of him with a six-pack, and he had even been a stripper for two weeks: he got fired because, he said, he was a bad dancer.

He sat at the bar. He grabbed the bottle of whiskey and poured himself a big glass. The bar quickly got quiet. Most bars in Indiana had to close at three o'clock in the morning. The Plowed Field was an exception because it had pool tables, making it a "sporting establishment", or so Greg's boss Mr. Maggippian, had said. Not many people came in now. There'd be a mini-rush at about five o'clock in the morning when the night shift at the airport ended and the Portuguese workers came here to drink, and then that would keep up as other night shifts got off-duty until well into the morning, by which point Greg would be home.

"You okay?" Greg asked.

Jimmy grunted gutturally. He rarely drank like this. When he was allowed away from the front door at three o'clock, he came in -- by that time people were filtering in in small numbers, and he could easily make the homeless leave one by one (that was what he mainly did this late). So he usually stayed at the bar, talking to Greg and flirting with the waitresses. He sometimes took a drink or two, but he didn't down shots like this.

"Jimmy? Sweetheart?" Greg giggled inwardly as he planted one arm on Jimmy's back -- he would have patted his shoulder, but he couldn't reach -- and felt his broad muscles writhe beneath his too-tight t-shirt.

He shrugged, making those muscles tense. Greg didn't want to remove his hand. "I'm fine."

Greg left then to take someone else's order. When he had another moment, he returned. Jimmy was drinking like he wanted to get drunk.

"Shelly hates me," he said, staring into his glass of whiskey. Shelly was his wife. Jimmy's voice was husky and throaty -- a legacy, he said, of a house fire he survived when he was teenager.

"Oh, are you two splitting up? I'm so sorry..." Greg said. He forced a smile as the last big group of drinkers stumbled out. There were only a few drunks left, and even Jason and his friends were gone. The waitresses giggled as they refilled ketchup bottles at one table.

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