Barroom Blitz Martin Kane A pretty young hitchhiker in a redneck bar spells trouble brewin. --- Author's note: Anyone wishing to contact me may do so via the DtV messageboard for Readers & Writers. I invite anyone to send any comments, good or bad, should they wish to. I'm always interested in what others think of my little tales. Copyright is mine. I'd be flattered if anyone wanted to use this tale elsewhere, but please seek permission first. Needless to say this story is purely a fiction and all characters merely the products of an overwrought imagination I'll abstain from the adult content warning, if you've got this far, you're certain to know what kind of thing to expect anyway. --- Roxy smiled. It was a sardonic expression, twisting a knowingly beautiful face into arrogance and superior contempt. She was the kind of woman who knew her attributes and didn’t deny their power. She used sex appeal like a weapon or like a toy, depending on what mood she was in. She was well aware of the affect she had on every man in this room and it thrilled her and amused her in equal measures. Roxy smiled and fifty men shuddered with despair and delight. It was a typical hick bar and she’d seen a dozen similar in her travels. They were a standard in Middle America, as were the redneck occupants. Why, a girl hitchhiking alone just wasn’t safe. Of course, Roxy didn’t include herself when she considered this. This wasn’t a dangerous place for one such as her - this was just fun. One brave soul ventured up to her. Despite his normal confidence and self-assurance, in the presence of this perfect specimen, he was reduced to the embarrassed teenager he once was. Roxy let her gaze drift up to his hopeful face, detouring the length of his body, scouring and ascertaining with expert judgement. Her connoisseur’s eye and unwillingness to compromise made an instant decision and rejected him outright. Still, there was no need to tell him that. After all, she could still have fun. "Can I get you a drink?" he asked. Her eyes glanced pointedly down to the half full bottle in her hand. But she answered readily enough. "Sure, that’d be nice." She tilted back her neck, spilling her gorgeous black mane down her back and exposing a milky white throat. Lush, greased lips closed around the bottle suggestively and she emptied it. She made this look like the most sensuous act he’d ever seen. She handed him the empty and he took it, his fingers making momentary contact with hers as he did. Her eyes twinkled for a moment before she broke contact and released him. He went to the bar, his body shuddering. The barman gave him two beers and a conspiratorial wink. He returned to Roxy and sat opposite her. "Thanks, I’m Roxy." "Brad," he managed to say. She leaned forward to shake his hand, formally. The motion ruffled her denim jacket open a little more, showing him the tight white top she wore, breasts tightly restrained. He caught a glimpse of cleavage, just a hint of shadow really, but it sent his pulse up a notch or two. She downed the beer in a similar fashion to before and fixed him with her eyes. "Do you have a truck?" she asked, still formal, still utterly beguiling. This threw Brad. "What?" he stammered. "A truck Brad," she repeated. "Do you have one? Or even a car maybe?" "Erm, yeah," he managed. "I’ve got a truck outside." She nodded to herself, glad to know her insights were as sharp as ever. Of course, most of the vehicles in the parking lot were trucks, that was the nature of this town. "Can I be frank with you Brad?" Could she? "Yeah, sure," he nodded. "I want to go out to your truck Bradley. You and me, right now. The first thing I’ll do is give you head like you never had it. I can suck like you wouldn’t believe. Then I’m going to fuck you. And I know how to manipulate a man. You won’t be able to come until I decide to let you. I’m going to fuck you ‘til it hurts. And I won’t stop there either. I’ll fuck you until you think your balls are going to explode, until every inch of your body is screaming that it can’t go on. I’ll fuck you ‘til you beg me to stop. And then, finally, when you’re just on the verge of bursting, I’ll wait just a little bit longer, push you just a little bit further. Then, I’ll release you and watch you explode." Brad just stared at her, not believing what he was hearing. "Would you like that, Brad?" she asked, her face and voice just as sweet as ever. "Yeah," he stuttered. "Sure. That’d be nice." Roxy laughed, still sweet. "Seriously though, you’re taking a risk. One guy spasmed so violently when he came that he head-butted the windscreen, his head went right through it. He didn’t even notice at the time. He opened his eyes in a bewildered daze and wondered why it was raining inside the car." "I’ll take the risk," he assured her. She grinned lecherously. "Great." And she downed the rest of the beer. "There is one thing, though," she began coyly. "Anything," he assured her. "You have to beat me at arm-wrestling," she said. "Say what?" "Arm-wrestling. It’s kind of like holding hands only a bit more physical." He rolled his eyes. "Sure I know what it is," he told her, "I just don’t understand you." She smiled, so sweet and so dangerous. "It’s simple Honey. You know what a fetish is? Well this is kinda like mine. Any guy who wants me has to beat me in arm-wrestling first. Think of it as fore-foreplay." She put her arm on the table before him, elbow straight and hand ready. Brad shrugged and corresponded with his own. They both got comfortable. The rest of the bar had quietened a little, curious to see what was going on here. "Now you’re not going to hold back on me just ‘cause I’m a girl, are you? I’m serious, you have to beat me or you’re walking out of here alone. Give me everything you’re got." "Sure." What else was he going to say? He’d go careful with her though, not wanting to hurt the dear little thing. With a jerk, she had his arm halfway down before he’d even had time to respond. "Pay attention, Brad," she scolded, easing off as he finally reacted. Brad started pushing back and they equalised, returning to the upright. He was surprised by her strength, she was offering some real resistance. He was actually having to exert himself to keep her hand going down. In fact, the further down he pushed her, the harder and slower progress became. Until, about two inches from victory, they actually paused. Brad realised he must be getting a little tired and renewed his efforts, throwing his weight into the game. However, he couldn’t get her arm to budge any further. She was matching him flex for flex, holding him just short of the winning post. He focused his attention away from their joint hands, and saw that she was watching him, grinning like a schoolgirl. She was clearly enjoying this, amused by his efforts and apparently not in the least pained. She made a kiss at him then turned up the juice, reversing the match and taking him arm smoothly past the centre and back down. With no obvious effort she eased his arm down onto the table. It went down slowly and gracefully. Mocking in its simplicity. Roxy winked at the astonished man. "Oh Baby, was that good for you?" "What the fuck are you?" She grinned, showing him hissing teeth. "I’m your worst nightmare darling. I’m a pair of tits with a pair of biceps to match. I’m a chick who rather fuck you up than fuck you. I’m a muscle-freak who’s sexier than your favourite playboy silicon-bimbo, fantasy." She clocked his dumb, slow expression and laughed cruelly. Looking around, she could see that he wasn't the only one here not getting the joke. "I don’t know how you done that," Brad said, "but I want a rematch." "Best of three? Sure. Tell you what Brad, I’ll even still fuck you if you win." Instead of retaking the position she slid her jacket off first, just for added effect. Her arms were lean and toned. When she moved them, biceps worked beneath the skin, raising in a fluid motion of trained musculature. She wasn’t a bodybuilder in the brick shit-house sense, but they were undeniably biceps that came from hitting the weights. She retook the position and Brad began pushing. The only reaction obvious was the way her arm suddenly leapt with a hard flex. Other than that, their arms were still, Roxy perfectly equalising however much power he threw at her. He gasped, struggling to shift her but simply unable to overcome her superior strength. Roxy smiled cruelly. "Count to three," she told him. "What?" She didn’t reiterate. Instead she slammed him arm down with all her might, slamming it so hard into the table that the wood cracked beneath them. Brad cried out as his arm snapped, the bones in his hand shattering on impact. He leapt backwards, pulling a mangled mess of blood and flesh from the cracked table. "Fucking bitch." Roxy just shrugged, picking up his beer and finishing it for him. She eyed him carefully, trying to judge what his next move would be. After all, he still had one good arm. "Go and sit down," she advised. "Dull the pain with Whiskey and leave it at that." It wasn’t going to happen though, she could see it in his eyes. Brad let out a shout akin to a war cry and swung at her with his good hand. Roxy batted the assault away with ridiculous ease, not even bothering to put the bottle of beer down. She stood and faced him, a devil in denim jeans and cleavage. "Sit down now." Her body twisted like a willow branch - strong and supple. A feminine booted foot planted itself deep into the pit of his stomach and near sliced him in half. Brad shot backwards as though he’d been hit by a shotgun at point blank. He landed in a heap and did not get up. That had the bar’s attention. Everyone was looking at this slender girl with admittedly powerful arms and shoulders, as she drank carelessly from a bottled beer, emptying it. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was water in small towns like this, maybe it was the full breasts straining against a fairly skimpy little top. Maybe it was the thrill of violence, maybe it was the ‘them and us’ mentality or maybe a collective unconscious, gang-rape fantasy. Whatever the reason, a dozen men moved in unison, leaping upon the girl. Roxy moved like a dancer - powerful, and with trained precision. Her sense of timing and acute aim was aided by a vicious streak that genuinely enjoyed it rough. Adrenaline pumped and she flew into action. Her fist leapt and cracked the first face that came into range. The sensation of bone splatter and blood impact gave her a sadistic satisfaction. Then others were on her. She blocked as best she could but there were bodies all around. She was tough enough to take the worst of it, her body lean and layered with an athlete’s muscle. The bottle in her hand shattered on first contact, turning it from bludgeon to blade. Second contact slashed off flesh, third took out a throat. The arms were all around her own, her fists blocked by a mess of limbs as, more by accident than design, they restrained her bucking torso. Her legs however were equally lethal and her sharp kicks ended lives with each flying contact to the torso or head. She felt bone shatter as her blows landed home and the backing space gave her pause for breath, landing back on open ground and leaping away as more men came piling in on her. She leapt onto a table, throwing the bottle like a knife at her nearest assailant, spearing through his face and on into the brain. A kick took the next guy in the jaw, ripping off the front of his palate and snapping the neck back. Another shot nose cartilage through to the man’s brain as neat as an ice-pick. She dived, hands first like superman, over the crowd. She landed her thumbs into a throat and tore it with her as she rolled, regained her feet and spun into another neck-breaker kick. Every move she made was a poetry of violence, every blow she dealt, a lethal dance to the death. She lay them to waste, wading through bodies of the felled, breaking and pulping all those she came to. Now the fight was reversed, they weren’t running towards her, swarming her in an outnumbering mass, they were fleeing from her. She caught the last as he ran towards the exit, hauling him off his feet and slamming him down onto the blooded ground. She fell down on top of him, pinning his body with her own. She sat astride his chest, holding the head still as she drew back the other fist. And she paused there, actually taking the time to look into his eyes, see the lucid fear. There was a moment then - a doubt, a regret, or maybe even a glimmer of hope? The fearful man spat at her. Given the angle and his face, held in place so tightly, more fell back onto himself than went on her. It was a token of his contempt, a macho stance, a last show of honourable defiance in the face of adversity. It was the philosophy of dying with your boots on. It was the mentality she hated, the reason she found herself in fights like this one. Roxy landed the blow, bursting his head like porcelain balloon filled with fetid meat. She pulled her fist from the midst of fragmented skull and greasy viscera. She wiped it on his jacket then wandered amongst the dead until she found her own denim jacket, glad to see it had somehow missed getting messy. She was the only one left alive in the bar, the others either having fled or lay untidily strewn around. At a glance she guessed there must have been two dozen or so. Not bad for a night’s work. She vaulted the bar, helping herself to a few beers for the journey. Despite the number of trucks still left in the car-park, she wouldn’t be getting a lift here.