The bar is dimly lit and sparsely populated as I step inside, and I'm sure if I turned on the worklights I can just about see hidden behind the tacky hanging light fixtures that look like they haven't been updated since the 1970s, I'd see a quarter-inch thick patina of spilled booze and fryer grease and good old-fashioned grime coating every surface. It's almost enough to make me turn back around and climb back up the crumbling concrete stairs to street level and find a dive bar that's maybe ten percent less divey... but then I remember what Annika told me, and I gingerly pick my way around the holes in the worn-out carpeting to belly up to the bar.

Before I have a chance to so much as open my mouth, though, one of the very few patrons scoots back his chair and sits down next to me. "Hey Tiny!" he shouts, calling to a guy behind the bar who's about six-foot-four with thinning carrot-colored hair and a walrus mustache that makes him look like the guy from 'Mythbusters' gone to seed. "Shot of Jack for me, and the lady here is going to have an Orange Blossom Special." He looks over at me and gives me a smug grin that I can tell he thinks is supposed to be cocky and confident and charming instead of just kind of obnoxious.

For a moment I almost turn it down, even though it's exactly what I was about to order and it's the drink Annika said makes this scuzzy little hole in the ground dive bar worth going to. I don't like it when men buy me drinks--they always seem to think it obligates me to them, and this guy looks like he's going to be patronizing as it is. He's handsome, sure, with raven-dark hair and a tiny bit of dark stubble dusting his perfectly-sculpted chin, but he also gives off the vibe of one of those guys who thinks that being handsome and maybe a little bit of a smooth talker is enough to coast on. I got over guys like that back in college.

But I also know it's going to be impossible for me to turn down his offer and then order the exact same thing he ordered for me without him making a whole big thing of it, so I decide to go with the flow for just a little while as Tiny begins mixing my drink. "So what brings a pretty young thing like you into a place like this?" he asks me, clearly not noticing my tight smile and averted gaze. This had better be one hell of a special special, or Annika's going to have a lot of explaining to do when I see her next.

"Friend of mine told me about the place," I reply, trying to keep my response as curt and perfunctory as possible to cut off any further possibility of conversation. "Said it was a dump, but the drinks were good." That wasn't exactly what Annika told me, but I don't really see any point in going into it with some guy who still thinks that dressing like Bruce Springsteen is the height of fashion. Hell, the way his scruffy, beat-up old jean jacket looks, it might have been bouncing in and out of thrift stores ever since 'Darkness on the Edge of Town'.

Not that he looks that old. It's hard to tell in the dim light, but I'd peg him at maybe forty. Right on the edge of my limit for older guys, not that I'm here to hook up with anybody. I'm just here for the--

Tiny sets down a glass in front of me, and for a moment my whole train of thought locks up in astonishment as the scent hits my nostrils. It's sweet, but somehow not cloying, and I can smell a tiny hint of that bitter-green backnote that reminds me of newly growing spring plants. There's a single white petal floating on top of the cream-colored liqueur, but the aroma can't be coming from that alone--it's filling my lungs, borne up to me by the volatile alcohol as it dissipates, and all I can think of for a moment is that it reminds me so much of Annika's perfume.

I lift the glass up, eager to find out if it tastes as good as it smells, but the closer it gets to my mouth the stronger the scent becomes and I find myself getting lost in it for one long, deep breath after another. "It's almost intoxicating all by itself, isn't it?" the man sitting next to me asks, and as much as I want to ignore him it seems almost churlish not to agree with something so obviously true. I give a little nod, my eyes closing to shut out any of the distractions as I inhale again and smile dreamily at the wonderful aroma. God. They should close the bar and just bottle this shit.

I breathe in again, and it's like my whole brain lights up in pretty pink sparkles as the scent hits my nostrils. I keep forgetting to have a sip--it just smells so good, and every time I remind myself I should probably taste it, I take another sniff instead and lose myself in contemplation of that warm, heady floral aroma. "What's your name, pretty girl?" the man next to me asks, and for a moment I'm actually surprised to hear another person's voice; I'd somehow forgotten I was even in a bar for a few seconds there, imagining myself lounging on the luxurious couch in Annika's opulent den with her perfume wafting into my lungs, enjoying the comforts of her sumptuously appointed home. It takes me a little bit to remember to answer.

"Ummm... Clover," I mumble, my head dipping forward a little to get closer to the source of that wonderful scent. It shocks me a little when the stranger takes the glass from my fingers, but I don't really try to resist him; it's only when my muscles don't have to work to hold my arm up anymore that I realize just how tired it had gotten holding that pose. It flops loosely onto the bar with a gentle thump, and I'm surprised how relaxing it is to let it drop. Then I take another breath, inhaling the beautiful bouquet of the cocktail, and I forget that I noticed anything else at all.

The man next to me lets out a quiet chuckle. "That's a pretty name," he says, resting one hand on the small of my back and putting the glass up to my lips with the other. "That friend you mentioned, it wouldn't happen to be Annika, would it?" I give another little nod, a splash of alcohol spilling onto my tongue as I tilt my head back, and I don't even think about how this person might know Annika because I'm so delighted by the flavor of the liquor in my mouth. It's smooth and sweet and creamy and delicious, the way you imagine melted ice cream should taste as a child only without the disappointment that inevitably comes when you try it, and I can feel my smile spreading wider and wider as it drips down my throat.

It must have been the right response, because I hear the stranger laughing a little louder as he talks to the other bar patrons. "See?" he calls out, his confident voice radiating away from me and out into the open space. "I told you it was worth investing a little extra time in that one!" He turns back to me, his voice once again warm and quiet and soothing. "Between you and me," he says, "Annika's been some of our best advertising. She really has a way of getting people in the door, doesn't she?"

My eyelids flutter for a moment as I finally connect the heady, intoxicating scent of the drink to the sweetness of Annika's perfume the night she told me about this place. The conversation is... it's fuzzier than I remembered, filled with long stretches of smiling and nodding and a drifting pleasure that I somehow thought was due to the companionship and not the way Annika kept drawing my attention back to the aroma filling the room. I can't recall any details, just a blissful amiability that made me eager to try anything she recommended to me, and I let out a little giggle as I realize I'm slipping back into that same complacent state again.

"Oh, sounds like someone's letting their drink go to their head," the man says, tipping a little more of the liquor down my throat. "I tell you what--we have a little room in the back, you know, for private functions and stuff." I can't imagine this place hosting a private function unless it's the afterparty for a biker rally, but I also can't muster any real objection to anything he's saying to me. I let him slide me off my stool and guide my stumbling feet across the room to a closed door just past the end of the bar.

"And here we are," he says, bringing me through the door and laying me down on a worn-out old bed with springs that creak under me like... like a worn-out old bed, I find myself thinking, unable to come up with a clever metaphor in my exhausted state. "Nice and relaxing, with all the comforts of home. Just like Annika promised, isn't it?" He lifts up my head just long enough to pour more of the drink down my throat, and I find myself muzzily wondering exactly what Annika did promise me. It was something about the drink, something about that wonderful scent in my nostrils, but... but I just can't remember. It's too much like work to remember right now.

"Don't worry, sweetie," the stranger says, tipping the last few droplets out of the glass onto my face and smearing them across my nostrils. "There's no alcohol in this. A little herbal tincture, sure, something to make you a little more receptive to my suggestions, but no alcohol. You're feeling this way because you talked to Annika, just like the rest of her friends, and Annika is a very persuasive girl when I tell her to be." He puts his hand on my thigh, tugging my skirt up all the way to my waist to reveal the boring cotton granny panties I wore under the assumption nobody would be seeing them. "You will be too."

I'm wearing pantyhose over my panties, but there's a little tear in them right over my crotch and his dick finds it like some kind of cunt-seeking missile. I feel his cock wriggle into the gap, push aside my panties, and slide right into my wet pussy with a single hard thrust and the sound of ripping nylon. I can't make myself move, not with the drink going straight to my head the way it is, but I hear a choked gasp escape my throat as the pleasure literally takes my breath away. Annika said I'd be so happy I came here, I suddenly remember. She said I'd have the best time. The... the best time ever.

I feel his weight bearing down on me, driving his shaft deeper in until his balls smack against my pussy lips with an audible slapping sound, and my thoughts scatter and reform again and again with every thrust. I find myself thinking of Madison, who was so excited to hear I was 'joining the club' and giving this bar a try. I find myself remembering Donna, who had such a beatific smile on her face when she suggested holding all our hen nights here from now on. I can't stop thinking about all my friends and the way they seemed almost brainwashed by their love of a nameless dive bar in the basement of a dingy old building downtown, and how I didn't even notice because I was brainwashed too and I'd just forgotten. The last remaining vestiges of a resistance I didn't even know I was using finally crumble in a titanic orgasm, and my legs wrap around the stranger's waist as I try as hard as I can to pull his cock inside me while I cum.

I don't know how long he fucks me. Time kind of loses all meaning when I keep inhaling the same hypnotic scent with every squeaking breath. But I know I hear the door open and close before he finishes up inside me, and I know it's only a few seconds after he climbs off of me before someone else climbs on to take his place. From the weight, I can only assume it's Tiny, and I finally understand the true irony of his nickname as he stretches my pussy almost wider than I thought possible. The sheer fabric of my pantyhose shreds even further, and I feel someone tearing them off as Tiny fucks my sloppy cunt. A tiny part of me marvels at how easy it was to make me their gangbang slut, but it's quickly silenced by pleasure and I find myself going blank once more.

Tiny's followed by another man, and then another, and then another, and soon the creaking sound of the bedsprings underneath me forms a regular hypnotic rhythm all its own as I sink deeper into ecstasy under the influence of the orange blossom scent. I know I shouldn't want this, but everything that's happening to me feels so good and so hot and so sexy that I can't help wanting to do it all over again tomorrow night. Annika was right about everything, and I just know I'm going to head straight to her place from the bar and thank her for everything she explained to me....

And I'm going to film it all. That was what the man at the bar told me to do, and he's right too.

THE END