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NNTP-Posting-Date: Wed, 02 Mar 2005 10:47:23 -0600
From: Nick Scipio <nick_scipioSPAM@BLOCKyahoo.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} RP - "Exclamation Point" by Nick Scipio (MF, voy, exhib)
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Date: Wed,  2 Mar 2005 16:10:02 -0500
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Author: Nick Scipio
Title: Exclamation Point
Universe: Jazz Club
Summary: When she shifted in her seat and spread her legs 
slightly, I glimpsed a healthy expanse of her taut 
thighs. She rubbed her palms along the material of her 
skirt and the hem climbed deliciously higher...
Keywords: MF, voy, exhib
Revision: 2.0
Word Count: 1,837
Web Site: http://www.nickscipio.com/shortstories/jazzclub/
FTP Site: ftp://ftp.nickscipio.com/shortstories/jazzclub/
Discussion Forum: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Scipio_Forum/

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

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.

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

Copyright (c) 2002-2005 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 cliched. 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 
cliched.

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) 2002-2005 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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