GF (21f) jerked me (22m) off at the bar while teasing me with the hot bartender

My girlfriend (21F) and I (22M) were on a weekend getaway in New York City, soaking up the electric hum of the city. It was one of those crisp fall evenings, the kind where the air feels alive, and we found ourselves at a dimly lit bar in the East Village to kill time before our late dinner reservation. The place was cozy but buzzing—exposed brick walls, shelves lined with glinting bottles, and a playlist of indie rock humming in the background. We settled at the bar, stools creaking under us, and ordered our first round of drinks: whiskey sour for me, gin and tonic for her.

Our bartender was impossible to miss. She was this petite, innocent-looking girl with a good-girl charm that hit like a shot of adrenaline. Her dark hair was pulled into a loose ponytail, and her smile was all flirty warmth, like she knew exactly how to make you feel special. Her body was unreal—tight curves hugged by a fitted black top and jeans that showed off a round, perky ass. Her tits, just a bit more than a handful, strained against her shirt every time she leaned over to pour a drink. My girlfriend, always quick to read a room, caught the vibe immediately. She’s a master at drawing people in, and I could see her eyes light up, feeding off the bartender’s energy.

A couple of drinks in, the night took a turn. My girlfriend’s hand slid onto my thigh, casual at first, then deliberate. Under the bar’s polished edge, her fingers grazed my cock through my jeans, teasing me to life. I shifted in my seat, trying to keep my face neutral as she worked me, her touch hidden by the bar’s overhang. I was hard as hell, heart pounding, but she was cool as ice, sipping her drink and flashing that disarming smile. Then she leaned in, her breath hot against my ear, and whispered, “I’m dying to see you fuck the shit out of that sweet little bartender.” Her words were a spark, igniting something raw.

Every time the bartender sashayed away to mix a drink, my girlfriend’s voice was back, painting this filthy fantasy of me bending the girl over the bar, her innocent facade crumbling.

It was too much. My girlfriend, always bold, unzipped me under the bar, her hand wrapping around my cock with slow, torturous strokes. The bartender kept circling back, leaning close to chat, her cleavage practically spilling out as she laughed at my girlfriend’s jokes. My girlfriend timed it like a pro, speeding up when the bartender was near, slowing when she walked away, edging me to the brink. I gripped my glass, knuckles white, trying to hold it together.

Then the bartender was back, all smiles, asking about our trip. My girlfriend locked eyes with her, stroking me faster, her hand a blur. I couldn’t hold back—cum shot out, splattering the bar’s underside and the floor. I bit my lip, stifling a groan, while my girlfriend didn’t flinch. Still holding the bartender’s gaze, she slid her hand off me, brought her fingers to her lips, and licked them clean, all while keeping the conversation flowing like nothing happened. The bartender, oblivious, kept chatting.

That night cracked something open for us—a wild cuckquean kink we hadn’t fully explored. My girlfriend got the bartender’s number before we left, and two nights later, we met up for round two (but that’s a story for another time).