A Slow Night at the Bar
A slow, summer Sunday night at the bar, I think as I wash some bar glasses. It wasn't that I truly minded. I made enough money from my regular customers to do quite well. I had some great conversations, did a couple shots with my regulars, and now I was pleasantly mellow, listening to Sade playing on the jukebox. The only customers are a pair of casino dealers relaxing after their night: guy and girl settling after letting off pressure about their night, and tossing back a couple of drinks. Their attitude is getting friendlier now as he moves closer when he speaks, as she smiles pleasantly and enjoys his hand stroking softly on his thigh. It was time for me to leave them be a bit.
I'm watching Sunday sports highlights as I am cleaning up for closing in a couple hours when you walk in. You are in a sheer white summer smock, covering a one-piece black bathing suit. Your blonde curly locks hang down limply, so I know that you have been bathing. You've come in many times, and we have talked quite a bit, developing a flirty rapport with each other: your complaints about your inattentive husband, a casino manager who puts more into his job than into you, my incredulity regarding how he could be blinding himself to your radiant sensuality. It wasn't just a ploy for good tips. I have always felt the palpable sexuality behind the curl of your lips, the glint of your eyes, the swell of your breasts as you breathed flirtatious tidbits to me.
Tonight, I can tell, you have had a few drinks already as you sit at the bar and smile, intoning a breathy hello. I pour a glass of chardonnay and sit it before you. I lean against the bar and smile, asking how you are. You tell me about your evening, on the deck of the hot tub, you and your husband, and a couple you were entertaining. They were a couple from Vegas, and hubby was laying on the charm to impress them. You all drank, he had his arm slipped around your waist, and planted tender kisses on your cheek. All looking so cozy to the Vegas couple, but you felt the stiffness of his lips on your skin, the harsh angle of his arm around your waist. It was a front, something to show him to be a pleasant, steady man on whom Vegas Rick could depend should an executive position open up. You had fixed your resolve to focus on the alcohol, a pleasant batch of margaritas you had whipped up. Vegas Rick's partner, a trophy model, wasn't much to talk with. Hubby didn't understand why you blew up afterwards, why you said you needed to take a ride. You never had it so good, he explained: his standard argument for why you should be happy.
Through your story, I watch you tenderly, infusing a few flirty comments, shaking my head knowing what an idiot he is to ignore you, insensitive to your beauty. I add that my arm wouldn't be as stiff around you, that below the bubbles my hand would be active at your thigh. You smile and ask for a white Russian.
You are getting even more pleasantly buzzed as I divert my attention to cleaning up the bar for closing. The casino couple in the corner has moved to kissing, the alcohol having made them oblivious to the public nature of their surroundings. The cook has finished cleaning, his friend and ride having arrived, and they are both enjoying beers. Not much work needed in cleaning up tonight, since it was slow. The couple's last song ends, a slow piece by Chicago, and they, seeing my turning off the neon signs in the window, get up, thank me and walk out the door. It is only the cook and his friend drinking their beers, and you. I catch your gazes as I go around to count out the unneeded registers, lock them up. After I lock the doors, looking around to see what I may have missed, you ask me to take a seat. There really isn't anything else needing to be done. I pour myself a J.W. Black and water and slip next to you at the end of the bar.
This is the first that I have sat near you. Usually you come in during fairly busy or early hours, and we have the barrier of the bar between us. Now I sit by you, I feel the heat of your body next to mine. We entertain more flirtatious small talk as the cook and his friend, sitting across, continue to discuss what clubs might be open. I am comfortable and used to it being merely talk. You are married and have never cheated. I find you attractive and tell you so, but don't go beyond thinking anything more than fantasy. There has been that barrier. My talk has made you feel good, something I felt you deserved and at least letting you hold on to the knowledge that you are sexy. I never entertained that this might go beyond that understanding.
There is a break in the conversation as you are looking at me. You are loose, moderately intoxicated. I ask you if you think it might not be a good idea for you to be driving. You are smiling. The wall could break at this moment, the barrier breached, but it needs to be by you. You do, moving forward you tilt your head, parting your lips slightly, and I move forward to kiss you. We kiss passionately, but tenderly, my arms slinking inside the sheer smock and around your waist. You press closer, a sigh in your deepening breath as our kiss lasts, as my tongue slides over your lips. You open your mouth to deepen it further. My hands move over you. I am aware of the cook and his friend, still holding their conversation, but they are not oblivious. There are long silences as we continue to kiss, as your body presses to mine, your fingers languidly moving through my hair. You kiss as I imagined you would, sensually, but with strong passion. Your breaths and sighs tell me that my returned passion fulfills something in you, something you have eagerly anticipated.
Time has ceased to be linear. It could have been another half hour that we kissed like this, getting more uninhibited in our passionate make out. A corner of my mind thinks about the two guys, watching, but not watching. I don't want to chase them out, but I hope they will subtly show signs of wanting to leave. Finally, they do. I unlock and let them out the front door, locking it again behind them. I walk around, closing the curtains as you saunter over to the jukebox. You find a slow song and turn as I finish closing out any outside view. The bar is closed, and it is ours. Would you like to dance, you ask. I smile and move to you, slipping my arms around your waist as you reach up to put yours around my neck. Your face levels with my chest and you turn and press your cheek against it as we sway together to the rhythm. Midway you turn to me, look up and smile and I bend down to kiss you deeply, my hands moving down to the curve of your ass as we embrace. There is a deeper groan in your sigh this time, and I feel deep stirring in my loins. I wonder if you can feel my manhood throb against your belly.
The song ends and we go back to the bar. You whisper, "I have wanted this for a long time." I kiss you again deeply, running my hands through your hair, then down to your smock, gently sliding it from your shoulders, halfway down your arms. My hands run back up your bare arms, your soft skin and I move my lips from yours, kissing the corner of your mouth, then your tender cheek, down your jaw line. You tilt your head upwards as I cup my hands beneath your ears and kiss, slightly suck, your exposed neck. You hum deeply, erotically, as I trail sucking kisses down your throat, down to the base of your neck and across your shoulder. My fingers rake nails down the nape of your neck. I feel you shudder as I simultaneously nibble along the bone structure of your shoulder. My fingers run down to the plunging back of your one piece, tracing along the hemline. I find the zipper and grasp. Your breath deepens. Slowly, I draw down the zipper, letting my fingers trail along the exposing skin. My mouth kisses along your shoulder as the straps loosen with the plunging zipper. I lightly grab a strap with my teeth, pulling it out farther along your shoulder. The zipper is down to the small of your back. You squirm and wriggle, your body wanting to shrug itself from the suit. Your fingers move along my white cotton shirt, unfastening buttons and exposing the downy hair of my chest. I move my hands up, slipping the shoulders straps down to your upper arms as you hurriedly unbutton the final button of my shirt and press your hands against my chest, slipping my shirt from my shoulders. I release my hands from you and let you help me shrug off my shirt.
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LADIES IN NUDE
Russian Brides
LADIES IN NUDE
Russian Brides
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