My name is Lucy, and I own the Roadhouse. So, what's the Roadhouse? Basically, it's a bar, although we also have a not bad kitchen, so we do meals in the evening, and snacks all night until about an hour before closing.
I'm ex-military, although you might not guess it to look at me. I was actually a Special Forces commando, in armies that allowed women into combat roles. I can certainly handle myself in a fight, as more than one man has found out at the wrong moment. While I do love a nice thick cock sliding into me, I'm more partial to the softer feel of a woman's tongue on my pussy. Enough about me, for now ... back to the Roadhouse.
The Roadhouse is kind of out in the middle of nowhere. We're several miles off the nearest Interstate, and twenty minutes on a secondary highway out from the nearest centre of civilization. There's open land, mostly desert, all around us. My dad started the Roadhouse, after he got out of the Army.
He had visions of making it rich, but between various downturns in the economy, and a change in the way the Interstate was routed, there was never enough traffic, so never enough customers. The customers he did have weren't the kind to spend much. He was always right on the edge of declaring bankruptcy, never had enough money to fix much when it broke, and barely managed to pay his bills for beer and food. The roof leaked in a half-dozen places when it rained, which fortunately didn't happen often.
Too many years of too much work, too much booze, too many cigarettes and the shrapnel he still carried in his body finally all conspired to lay him out for the count. I was working for a security firm out East when I got the notice that he had died. His lawyer told me that he actually had a will, and that he had left everything to me. Surprisingly enough, he had a large life insurance policy, and some veteran's benefits, so there was a fair-sized chunk of change involved, in addition to the deed to the Roadhouse and several acres of land around it.
I flew out to settle his estate, and meet with his lawyer. She and I spent a few truly wonderful days and nights together, although that's a different story. She told me that the Roadhouse had pretty much turned into a biker and redneck hangout; whether Dad had wanted it to become such a place, I don't know, but it seems he had little choice in the matter.
The real problem was that there weren't enough bikers and rednecks for the place to be a thriving enterprise, but there were enough of them that they scared off anyone else who might want to go there for a drink, a party, or a meal. As a result, Dad could never generate enough cash flow to do much beyond maintaining the status quo.
It was the lawyer who actually got me thinking about doing something with the place, and she convinced me that there was enough cash in his estate to make it happen. She also offered to become a silent partner with me, although the 'silent' part applied only to business dealings. I could make her scream quite easily, and did on a regular basis.
So, after several weeks of thinking and planning, with lots of e-mails and phone calls between us, I quit my job and pulled up stakes to become the new owner and manager of the Roadhouse. I hung a huge 'Watch For Our Grand Re-Opening' banner outside over the big sign, and went to work on the inside, along with a couple of reputable local contractors.
Most of the existing furniture went into a dumpster in the parking lot, and lots of new lumber, furniture, and fixtures went in the front door. The bathrooms got gutted, and re-done, new booths were built, and a couple of small stages were constructed. I tore out the kitchen, which hadn't been much more than a grill, and replaced it with a proper food preparation area, allowing for full-course meals to be prepared in a clean, well-lit environment. I was determined that the new Roadhouse would be a restaurant as well as a bar. New refrigerators went behind the bar, and a new ice maker. While the Roadhouse had previously only sold wine and beer, I was hoping to upgrade the license to include full bar service.
The biggest single change I made to the place was to divide it into two parts, with the bar running through both sections. When we re-opened, one side of the Roadhouse would cater to the former biker and redneck crowd, and the other side would be reserved for women only. In effect, the Roadhouse would become a rather eclectic combination of biker bar and lesbian bar. The hope was that we'd be able to attract enough members of each crowd that the 'house would become a going concern, making enough money from the two sides to be able to pay all of its bills, keep enough staff employed, and fix things when they went wrong.
My lawyer had convinced me that there was quite a large lesbian and bi-sexual community in the cities around the Roadhouse, but they had never had a safe, clean place to congregate in. Since I like women, and women who like women, I saw no reason not to try and provide such a place for them. I was expecting them to be the primary source of income for the new kitchen. I figured the men's side would only see the kitchen as a source of burgers, wings, and nachos.
The separator between the two sides is a floor-to-ceiling wall that runs from one side to the other, ending at the bar. The bartenders can easily move back and forth, so I don't need different bartending crews for the two sides. There is a connecting doorway through the wall; it is partially closed off by a set of swinging, saloon-type doors.
There are also large warning signs on each side of the wall by the door. On the biker side, it says "No men past this point. Try it and you'll be on your ear in the parking lot." On the women's side, it says, "Enter at your own risk. Rowdy animals at play."
The policy of the Roadhouse was to be that men are confined to one side, but women are permitted on both sides. Since there are biker mamas that ride with the men, we allow women on that side. The other side of the 'house provides a safe haven for any woman that wants to get away from a man for a while, and for the gay female crowd. Women are freely able to cross over to the men's side, but they do so with fair warning that they will get hit on, or worse.
Of course, women who leave the men's side and come over to the other side aren't necessarily safe. If they're at all good looking, they are likely to get hit on by any number of the lesbians, and my wait staff and I can't really act as traffic cops all night. I have made it a policy that straight women who come in are told what kind of place it is, and are warned that they may get hit on. I have also made it known to the regulars that I won't condone aggressive attacks on any of the women, but particularly not on the straights.
I knew even before we finished the design that the 'house would never be a family-friendly restaurant, and that was fine by me. However, if I could develop a less rowdy clientele for the men's side, and start getting some straight business for the women's side, then I'd be guaranteed a steady income from an expanded customer base.
After quite a bit of discussion, my partner and I decided to put a small stage on each side of the 'house, set off to one side of the floor. We set each one up as a circular platform a few feet high, ringed by lights and a sound system. In the middle of the platform we put a chrome pole, anchored top and bottom to ensure that bodies could use it to perform any gyrations or gymnastics they felt like. We weren't planning on having strippers as a regular part of the entertainment, but we knew that the bikers and rednecks appreciated girls who would dance and take their clothes off, and the bikers regularly required new 'mamas to put on a show.
My partner explained to me that it was not uncommon for some butch lesbian to put her femme on display, and that there was a thriving dominant/submissive community in the area that we would be serving. The dommes often wanted to exhibit their subs, so the stages would serve that purpose quite nicely. Looking at the whole thing as a business issue, it meant that we might have fairly regular entertainment on both sides of the 'house for no cost. Amateur entertainment was still entertainment, and it might bring in more customers.
One area that took a lot of thought, discussion, and wine, was the makeup of the wait staff and their uniforms. My lawyer-partner and I argued back and forth about this for over a week, trying to decide on whether to use mixed staff or to do a sort of 'Coyote Ugly' kind of vibe, and use only women. We also argued about whether to have a uniform, or to just let the girls wear something like a t-shirt with the Roadhouse logo, and jeans.
Interestingly enough, what really helped us out was one of the waitresses who worked for my Dad. She simply walked in one day while my partner and I were reviewing building plans and arguing again about the staff and uniforms. She had dropped by to see if any jobs would be available, and it gave us a great opportunity to pump her for information about what it had been like to work in the older incarnation of the place.
One of the most useful pieces of information she gave us was that the bikers and rednecks all thought that it was fine to grope the waitresses as they were delivering drinks and food. Over time, the waitresses all got used to dealing with it; those who couldn't handle it simply quit. In fact, the regular staff all quickly learned that they could make much better tips if they wore skirts instead of jeans, and cropped tops or open shirts with the tails tied, instead of full blouses or t-shirts. The more skin they showed, the more money they made, and if fingers occasionally found their way into something they shouldn't be touching, then the girl just handled it.
After that discussion, we offered the girl a job when we re-opened, and we used her information to finally settle the uniform question. We decided on a vest and mini-skirt combination as the basic design, and left the final details to be worked out with someone who knew more about designing clothing than we did. We also asked her to put the word around that we would be re-opening, and would be willing to interview any of the former staff, if they wanted to come back.
The final stages of the 'rip out and replace' project went fairly smoothly, mainly because we had chosen our contractors well, and we spent a lot of time on the site. We made sure that things got done according to our plans, and that no one tried to slip in any shortcuts or shoddy materials.
We had quite a few visitors during the construction, often announced by the roar of several motorcycle engines. On occasion, the motorcycles were replaced by pickup trucks or four-by-fours when the shit-kickers came to have a look. I did my best to be open and friendly during these visits, but I also took the opportunity to firmly explain the new rules as to how the place would run.
A couple of times, some huge biker or dusty redneck would look me up and down and smirk, and ask me how I intended to keep them from going anywhere they wanted. My answer was always the same—'my bar, my rules.' If that wasn't enough, I'd make them an offer they couldn't refuse. I'd tell them that they could have me on my knees, giving them a blowjob in the middle of the parking lot, as long as they could beat me in a fair fight, one on one.
One of the bikers actually took me up on this offer. He was there with a half-dozen members of his crew, and decided that he needed to put me in my place. "When I'm done with you," he laughed, "you'll be on your knees for everybody, not just me." There were two women with them who also laughed at his comment, and started making kissing noises at me.
"Fair enough," I answered. "Do you want to do this out here where I might embarrass you in front of all your friends, or would you like some privacy while I kick your ass?"
He roared with laughter as he looked me over. He stood about six feet tall, and easily weighed three hundred pounds, although most of it wasn't muscle. I'm five-seven, and hit one-thirty soaking wet, although I look a lot slimmer than that. I don't dress to advertise my muscles. Men tend to forget that women put on muscle very differently, unless we're after the bodybuilder look.
"We can do it right here. I don't mind letting everyone watch me hurt you."
"Okay, it's your party. Lose the gun before we start. You can keep the knife, 'cause it won't help you."
He looked a little surprised. I was sure he had a gun of some kind tucked into the back of his belt, just by the way he moved. I could see the big knife sheath on his belt, and the handle sticking up into the side of his stomach. At a guess, it looked like a Ka-Bar combat knife, but I was pretty sure he had never earned it by serving in any military unit. My Ka-Bar was stored with my gear, and I had earned mine, but I knew I wouldn't need it to deal with this guy, even if he pulled his. Given how much of his stomach rolled against the knife's handle, he certainly wouldn't be able to pull it out quickly; I'd probably be able to break his hand before he got a good grip on the handle.