This piece of fiction is intended as ADULT entertainment. It contains material of an adult, explicit, SEXUAL nature. If you are offended by sexually explicit content or language, please DO NOT read any further.
All characters in this story are fictitious; any similarity to any persons, places, individuals or situations is purely coincidental. The author does not necessarily condone or endorse any of the activities described in this story.
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Copyright (c) 2002-2005 Nick Scipio. All rights reserved.
Around the corner from my office, there's a place where I like to go. It's a restaurant, with the bar upstairs. We call it the Jazz Club, although it's officially named after its location. It's in a wonderful old Antebellum house, with dark wood paneling, high ceilings and a rich, tasteful ambiance.
I like it there because it's got a nice selection of single malt Scotch, and they allow cigar smoking in the bar. I don't actually like cigars--smoking them or being around the smoke--but I do like my pipe. The Jazz Club is one of the few places where I can be comfortable and enjoy the flavors of my sweet Cavendish tobacco and a glass of Macallan.
So I'm there once, maybe twice a week, with or without my business partner, to relax after work. The bar opens at 4:30, and I guess I'm a regular. At least, I'm on a first name basis with all the servers, and I honestly can't remember the last time I had to tell the bartender what to pour for me.
I usually go there on Tuesdays. The girl who works cocktail is cute, and nice to talk to when it's slow and there are few other patrons. We have an uncomplicated relationship, and she can sense if I'm in a talkative mood or not. Even when there's a crush of people in the bar, and she's busy taking care of them, my drink never runs dry, and she knows not to ask if I want a fourth.
Gabriel, my partner, wanted to knock off early yesterday, so we headed to the Jazz Club. We got to the club and were the first people upstairs. I headed straight for my favorite padded easy chair (the one by the fireplace) and Gabriel sat down on the couch to my left. No one asked us what we wanted to drink; the bartender simply had two glasses on the bar and was pouring the amber liquid before we were even fully seated.
I like the place. It's nice. Comfortable. Relaxing.
Gabriel and I talked about work for a while, and then conversation turned to his upcoming Christmas party. It was stuff we'd spoken about before, but Gabriel is an only child, and he liked to hear himself talk. So I let him, while I simply enjoyed puffing on my pipe and savoring the sherried flavor of the whiskey.
The bar began to fill with the after-work professional crowd that favored the place, and I found myself listening less and less to Gabriel and doing more people watching. It's something I enjoy; I like watching human nature in action.
Normally, I'd let my glance drift from patron to patron, watching them for a few moments, taking in their mannerisms, and trying to come up with "their story" in my head. Was he a banker? Did the older guy realize that the younger woman he was with was eying the bartender speculatively? Were the couple in the corner married, or was she his mistress? Things like that.
Last night, however, my attention was captured by a leggy brunette sitting at the end of the bar. She was talking to an equally leggy blonde to her right. The brunette was in her mid- thirties, perhaps a few years older than me, with dark, wavy, flowing hair that was styled to about mid-shoulder. She was wearing a trim business jacket and a very short matching skirt. Her smooth, tanned legs were muscular, and the strappy heels she wore looked expensive and accentuated her calves nicely.
She occasionally crossed or uncrossed her legs as she talked to her friend, and I found my eyes drawn to them as I half-listened to Gabriel. He was in his own world, talking about what he enjoyed (and, more importantly, where he bought it), and didn't seem to notice that my mind had wandered. Anyway, I honestly don't think I could've held a substantive conversation with him about Cajun fried turkey from Neiman Marcus.
So, I watched the woman at the end of the bar. She was tall, probably 5'9" without the heels, and trim. The business jacket was fitted, conforming to her flat stomach and then swelling to accommodate her pear-shaped breasts. Her cream colored silk blouse highlighted her tan. It was an elegant outfit, and as I watched, I couldn't decide which part of her it was designed to showcase. I finally decided that her entire body was on display. The way she was dressed, I could easily imagine her nude, every curve of her body highlighted--but not hidden--by her clothing.
I admired her elegant figure for a time and then started watching her mannerisms. She drank with her left hand, with an easy grace and no touch of hesitation; and she talked with her hands in precise, controlled motions to illustrate her point. She wasn't emphatic with her movements, just poised and polished.
She also had a habit of brushing her hair back with her hand as she spoke, drawing attention to the long line of her neck. As I watched her, I decided that the hair-brushing gesture was more practical than calculated. Women who want to be noticed look around to see who's noticing them. This woman was talking to her friend--crossing and uncrossing her long legs, brushing her hair back--and not paying any attention to the guys around the bar.