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06-02-03, for Don
A Hot And Vibrating Birthday Wish
Just a day like any other day. It's summer, inside and outside of La Taverna. The AC is working overtime (so is the DC, but that's a different story, folks, most likely appearing soon at ASSM). The point is, it's hot. Inside and outside. Sweat beads on the foreheads of the patrons and is matched only by the beads of moisture on the drink glasses. Cold drinks today, as befitting a day such as this.
Hot days put a certain segment of the clientele at an absolute advantage over the rest. The voyeurs (and aren't we all, at least a little bit, voyeuristic at heart?) are out in full force, hoping to catch a glimpse of exposed breast, a flash of the warm flesh of someone's inner thigh as they spread their legs a little bit more hoping for the slightest of cooling breeze… Yes, oh my yes, this is the time of year for the visually-stimulated.
And, speaking of stimulation, the patrons of La Taverna are. Stimulated, that is. Stories, scenarios, events, summer sun, winter rains (for those patrons on the lower half of the globe), all of it comes together to create this milieu, this tension, this…this…ambience.
It's palpable. One can feel the beat of it in the air as the doors open. Tension. Heat. Sweat. Rhythmic throbbing and the burning beat of desire. It's there. Right there. One would need to do little more than, say, touch just the tip of her tongue to the air and she could taste the wanton desire. The spicy-hot and smoothly-sweet salt-filled aurally aroused web of need and want and lust.
And, that's precisely what one did. One nymph. Your nymph, in fact. It's a nervous habit of hers. Letting the tip of her tongue stroke her lip as she contemplates the perfect greeting for the next Birthday Patron. It's often given pause to the casual observer. “Surely not,” they think. “It's so obviously a sign of desire. That's can't be what she's meaning to express, not as she's looking at the clipboard?”
Oh, but there's where you'd be wrong. Because there's nothing more sensual to Your Nymph than contemplating the exactly right greeting for some lucky Patron. And when that action, that simple act of letting the air touch her tongue, happens on a sexually-charged day such as today? Well, folks, let it not be said that you weren't warned…
She hops, gracefully this time, to sit up on the bar. Her ankles cross daintily, and she lets her legs swing, just slightly, in front of her. Hypnotically, back and forth, forward and backwards. Never quite hitting the bar with her heels, and never quite extending far enough forward to let the casual observer settle, once and for all, exactly what a Nymph wears under her skirt.
With the smallest of wicked smiles, our Nymph gives one quick flick of her wrist, barely wrinkling the air around her…
And we hear it. Because with this one, you always hear it before you see it. But not from offstage this time. This time, it's outside the heavy oak doors that keep the rabble from invading this sacred and secret bar. Another flick of her wrist and the doors silently open, letting in the blaring heat and bright sunlight…and something else.
Something leather. Black, smooth, hot leather. And steel. And chrome. And polish and shine and noise. Rumbling noise. Vibrating, tactile, physical noise. And leather.
Black leather boots, with polished black heels, tucked over leather trousers. Not leggings, not chaps, but tailored leather trousers. Tailored to fit like a perfect skin over a pair of perfect hips, and thighs parted around a seat of black and a body of chrome. Low-slung trousers, showing off those wonderful dimples at the base of her spine. Dimples that act as invitations, hints, teasing reminders that there are wonders galore to be found, if you can only force yourself past those perfect dimples…
But your eyes are drawn up, past the dimples, to the hem of her white tank top. The white tank that rides up in the back when she leans forward over the handlebars…but you can't get to the handlebars with your eyes, because they're instantly caught in the velvet curtain of midnight-dark hair hanging down the middle of her back and over one shoulder.
She lowers her Oakley shades and scans the room over the tops of the polished lenses.
“So, I hear that there's a Ducati owner here with a birthday today. Mr. Katzmarek, I believe? I don't suppose he'd be interested in seeing if his machine is any match for what's between my thighs?”
