Making a bet with your friend which is, in retrospect, stupid. There was no way you were going to win it. The two of you always get so heated, though, and it was easy to get carried away and end up in far over your head. Maybe that’s what you wanted, though. Sure, if you had won, they’d do whatever you wanted for 24 hours, without exception, but you’ve always preferred being at the mercy of others, haven’t you?
So now you’re at the mercy of what they want of you for 24 hours. You expect it to start right away, but no. They point out that it wasn’t said that it had to start right away. As a matter of fact, they point out, you’d never said it had to be a continuous 24 hours, either - that wouldn’t be fair, since they didn’t want you to lose out on sleep over this.
What they want from you is very simple. They own a bar, they’d like to get some more traffic to it, and you’re going to be the perfect tool for that.
The first hour is spent taking a few promotional photos at their bar. You try to argue that putting them anywhere would be outside of the 24 hours, they argue that you won’t be spending time on it, you try to argue further but they just say fine, then they want you to sign a form to allow them to post the photos. You barely had a leg to stand on before but they’ve just solidified it, and another half hour is spent taking lewder photos “just in case”.
A week later you’re back at their bar. It takes a half hour to get you into your uniform for the night, which consists of lacy crotchless underwear, heels, and a see-through apron to hold packets of lube and condoms. It only takes that long because they also have you shave. You’re to spend the next six hours walking around like that, taking drink orders as well as delivering drinks. You’re also, of course, free for customers to use however they’d like, so long as they’ve bought a drink.
It’s the busiest night the bar’s had in a while. You’re lucky that for the most part the patrons are gentle with you, but you’re still flushed with embarrassment because you can feel the way they look at you, cum dripping out of you as you take their orders throughout the night. People buy you drinks, too, and at least that helps you lose some of your nervousness.
Eight hours down, sixteen to go.
The next seven hours are spent with you tied back-down on a table, legs spread wide and head dangling off the edge. You’re at the perfect height to be fucked and to eat people out. You can barely move with how secure your friend’s gotten you tied up, and there are more rough customers that night. You’re not sure if it’s because you can’t even try to move away from a slap, or if it’s because it’s not the first time you’ve been there, or what other reason there may be. It doesn’t matter much, though, because the end result is still you getting more and more sore, barely able to catch a break.
Someone hits you so hard that you tear up and they do it again and again until you’re crying, pinching your reddened skin as they fuck you just because they can. It feels freeing. All you have to do is lay there and take it and muffle your cries by focusing on the cunt presented to your face, hands tangled in your hair holding your head against them as you suck on their clit.
There’s nine hours left, and you can’t wait to find out how you’ll spend them.
