Subtle

~ erotica ~

A beautiful woman and a handsome man, both dressed to the nines, entered the bar.

The air was smokey, filled with the hew of cigars and the ting of a few naysayers who still insisted on their cigarettes.

The couple found a table, their table, in a corner in the back, just to the left of the smoking circle, a ring of tall chairs often occupied by various groups of work colleagues.

The couple had been coming to The Smoking Lounge every Thursday since I'd started working there. I knew what he liked (Scotch neat) and what she liked (champagne, the most expensive we had). And I also knew he liked it when she got up and walked to the bar to pickup their drinks.

As per always, I approached their table, greeted them warmly, asked, "The usual?" He reply, "Of course," with a little head nod and the slightest of smiles.

I'd slink away, wondering if either or both noticed the extra bit of sway in my hips or enjoyed the clack of my heels as I walked. I wore my tightest black skirt on Thursdays, my stocking seams straight a ruler, guiding the eye all the way up.

I loved serving them, loved watching them. I often wondered if they noticed me watching.

The Smoking Lounge attracted a certain clientele. Coats were made of finer fabrics. Skirts were short, but never completely revealing. Men wore suits. Only certain women wore pants. No cigar we sold was cheap. The ones they brought for themselves always cost more. The women who walked through our doors generally fell into two types: the partner or the player. The men: old or older.

But these two, these two were different. The woman, though obviously in some soft of relationship with the man, had a stare that bore through me when our eyes met. And the man, I couldn't peg his age. He couldn't have been past forty-five, yet there was something about him that looked wise, knowing, as if he had a secret he wasn't telling.

Every night, after they left, I went home and thought of the two of them as I writhed on my bed exploring my body. Thought of their hands on me, thought of their bodies, their lips.

In their corner, when no one else watched, I saw them. I saw the pinch on the back of her neck. The grab of her hip. The hand that at first massaged her scalp before lightly tugging on her hair. And the ash which he put in his palm before his finger explored her strands.

I saw how he'd ask her for something, something he haphazardly dropped on the floor just to the left of her. And she'd stand, and bend over, trying to find it, her ass always towards him and away from any other gaze. I never, ever, saw a pantie line under her skirt.

Him throwing his arm over her shoulder. Her leaning into his chest, licking his hand, the same hand that had had his ash. Her picking up a menu, though they never ordered any food, shielding their bodies, her face, as magically the head of ash on his cigar would disappear before she'd put the menu down.

Whispering into her ear, and then the slightest of jumps from her body. Her right arm which always disappeared under the table.

Every Thursday night, without fail, they came, bringing an air of lust as intoxicating to me as any of our brews.

Every Thursday night they ordered Scotch neat and champagne and nothing else, sitting in their corner for an hour, disappearing into the anonymity of the smokey room.

And every Thursday night I went home, thinking about them, fantasizing about them, counting down the hours til next week.