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Message-ID: <39583asstr$1038773404@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Nick Scipio <imperatorSPAM@BLOCKmindspring.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} NEW: Exclamation Point (nosex, voy, exhib)
Date: Sun,  1 Dec 2002 15:10:04 -0500
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Author: Nick Scipio
Title: Exclamation Point
Summary: Short fiction about a two people who meet in a bar.
Sometimes, the best conversations happen without words.
Keywords: nosex, voy, exhib
Revision: 1.0
Archive: http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/scipio/
Mailing List: Scipio_Stories-subscribe@yahoogroups.com
FAQ: http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/scipio/www/faq.htm

*****************************************************************
                       STANDARD DISCLAIMER

The following 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.

This story may not be reproduced in any form for profit without the
written permission of the author, Scipio
(imperatorSPAM@BLOCKmindspring.com). This story may be freely
distributed with this disclaimer attached.

Copyright (C) 2002 Nick Scipio. All rights reserved.

*****************************************************************

Exclamation Point
by Nick Scipio

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.

I immediately liked her attitude, her self-confidence. Under other
circumstances, I'd probably enjoy meeting her. In a bar, introducing
myself would be entirely too clichéd. Buying her and her friend a
drink would fall into the same category. So I simply admired her from
across the room, listening with half an ear as Gabriel told me about
the Wolferman's mini English muffins he'd ordered for the party.

Eventually, Gabriel had to go to the restroom. The woman's friend rose
at the same time, and she and Gabriel almost collided as they headed
for the stairs. The brunette turned my direction, to stretch her legs,
and looked up at me. We made eye contact and I held it.

She had pretty blue eyes and I smiled. As she smiled in return, she
cocked her head to the side, never taking her eyes from mine, and then
uncrossed her legs. When I didn't look down, she arched her eyebrows
inquisitively. I smiled again and kept looking at her face, resolutely
refusing to take the bait, tempting as it might have been.

She shifted in her seat and spread her legs slightly. Her short skirt
had already ridden up and I could see a healthy expanse of her taut
thighs. Ostensibly drying her hands, she rubbed them over her
material-clad legs. When she drew her palms towards her body, she
pulled the hem of her skirt deliciously higher.

After a questioning glance in my direction, she looked toward her lap
and then raised her eyes to look at me again. They glittered and she
smirked invitingly; my resistance vanished. My gaze slowly fell from
her face, finally coming to rest at the junction of her muscular
thighs.

"Oh!" I breathed quietly, with only a slight start as I realized that
she wasn't wearing panties.

Her hands still on the tops of her thighs, she arched her back and
spread her knees slightly, affording me a better view. Her pussy was
neatly shaved, with only a thin strip of dark hair down the center of
her mons, leading to her sex.

Like an exclamation point, I chuckled to myself. This woman enjoyed
her body, enjoyed her pussy. No, I thought to myself, she enjoyed her
Pussy! Exclamation point.

My penis swelled at the sight, stiffening and bending uncomfortably
against my boxer shorts. I shifted as unobtrusively as I could and
straightened it, giving it room to expand down the leg of my shorts,
covered only by the thin fabric of my linen slacks.

I was captivated by the sight of her exposed pussy for another moment
or two, enjoying the feeling as I became fully erect. Reluctantly, I
pulled my eyes away and looked up. As my gaze lifted, she closed her
legs demurely, and my eyes met hers.

She smiled and lifted an eyebrow at me, as if to say, "Well?"

I grinned and mouthed, "Beautiful."

Her eyes dropped to my lap, to the thickness of my erection, obvious
to anyone who cared to look. She studied it for moment, and then
licked her lips. I let her look, it was only fair. When her eyes held
mine again, they glinted expressively. With an appreciative, whimsical
nod, she wordlessly said, "Thank you."

She smiled and unconsciously moistened her lips again, her pink tongue
sliding over the darker red of her lipstick, and then blushed as she
realized what she'd done. I grinned knowingly and we shared a silent
conversation with only our eyes.

In a moment, both her friend and Gabriel returned. The brunette looked
at me and winked as she grinned. I nodded politely, and with a
conspiratorial grin of my own, we each turned back to our friends.

No, I thought, I didn't need to introduce myself to her. Too clichéd.

I relit my pipe and half-listened to Gabriel talk about the Dean &
Deluca fruitcakes he'd just ordered for the party.

I closed my eyes and enjoyed the warmth of the smoke, and then the
texture of the scotch as it rolled over my tongue. When he saw the
smile play across my lips, Gabriel must have thought I was envisioning
the Kobe beef filet bites he'd just mentioned.

I chuckled to myself. No, I was thinking of something decidedly more
delicate. I savored the memory and enjoyed the sensations as my
erection slowly subsided.

I liked the feeling. It was nice. Comfortable. Relaxing.

-----

Copyright (C) 2002 Nick Scipio. All rights reserved.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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