syd
Bluelighter
- Joined
- Feb 18, 2005
- Messages
- 273
Will you take a shot for me, baby.
Sure. Whiskey?
Please.
She orders the drink and when the barkeep brings it she gives you the look that begs, are you ready? She swallows the dark brown liquor. Your mouth is on hers before she can set the glass down, your tongue searching her mouth for it all. When you part, you get the usual stares and whispers felt and heard with such a blatant show of affection. You smile at her and she smiles back.
You sit at the bar nervously playing with you cigarettes and matches, tapping your feet on the stool.
What’s the matter?
Nothing.
Want me to do another?
Please.
The bar keep brings another whiskey and she drinks it down almost as effortlessly as the first. Your mouth is own hers again, searching. You part, and there are less stares and whispers this time. No matter how many times you do this, it’s never enough. It’s not like you can’t drink the liquor yourself. Drinking with the best for the last ten years, you’ve learned to hold your own. It’s her, it’s tasting the liquor in her, getting it from her, combining the addictions.
For the moment you feel better. You sit talking very little, but stealing glances and smiles as she smokes and drinks, blushing when she looks you in the eye.
After she takes the next two she is already waving her hand in front of her face. She hates whiskey, but pretends to like it for you. You try and relax, but instead you chain smoke and look for any sign that she might be ready to take another for you. You sip your own drinks, but what you are really waiting for is her.
That’s it sweetie. I can’t take another, she says somewhere after the eighth or ninth drink.
Ok, you say wiping your mouth. Let’s settle up here.
You pay the tab but not before you order one last whiskey. You tell yourself that it’s for you, but as the bar keep brings it you are looking her in the eye. She is swaying slightly on her stool. He sets the drink in front of you and without saying a word she lifts the small glass and drinks it. Your mouth is on hers, your hands are at her sides holding her just below her breats, your tongue is searching. She chokes a little as you hold her sides, and this one is the best yet. You slide off the stool so your bodies can touch, and you back her into her neighbor. You both laugh and apologize and walk out of the bar with your arms around each other.
Although she is talkative on the walk home, she is stumbling and slipping on the wet sidewalk, and you can tell you have made her sick. By the time you make it home you are almost carrying her. You get her inside and help her change. You wanted the nitrous for this evening, passing that sweat gas between each other’s lungs while fucking, until you both cum. Instead you are holding her hair back as she pukes. Looking at her leaning against the tub, hair matted to her face, you feel like shit. She is smiling, but you feel like shit anyway. You did this.
After helping her to bed and sitting with her for a while, you go for the whiskey again and smoke a joint. The room begins to spin after a few more drinks and you make you way off to bed. You think, not bad for a Wednesday night. You think of how lucky you are to have her, someone who would do this kind of thing. Someone who understands that loved ones are temporary, addictions are for life, that addiction is love in its purest form.
Somehow all of this, the whiskey kisses, the coke off her tits, the mixing of the addictions, has more to do with you than her. For once, someone understands.
Sure. Whiskey?
Please.
She orders the drink and when the barkeep brings it she gives you the look that begs, are you ready? She swallows the dark brown liquor. Your mouth is on hers before she can set the glass down, your tongue searching her mouth for it all. When you part, you get the usual stares and whispers felt and heard with such a blatant show of affection. You smile at her and she smiles back.
You sit at the bar nervously playing with you cigarettes and matches, tapping your feet on the stool.
What’s the matter?
Nothing.
Want me to do another?
Please.
The bar keep brings another whiskey and she drinks it down almost as effortlessly as the first. Your mouth is own hers again, searching. You part, and there are less stares and whispers this time. No matter how many times you do this, it’s never enough. It’s not like you can’t drink the liquor yourself. Drinking with the best for the last ten years, you’ve learned to hold your own. It’s her, it’s tasting the liquor in her, getting it from her, combining the addictions.
For the moment you feel better. You sit talking very little, but stealing glances and smiles as she smokes and drinks, blushing when she looks you in the eye.
After she takes the next two she is already waving her hand in front of her face. She hates whiskey, but pretends to like it for you. You try and relax, but instead you chain smoke and look for any sign that she might be ready to take another for you. You sip your own drinks, but what you are really waiting for is her.
That’s it sweetie. I can’t take another, she says somewhere after the eighth or ninth drink.
Ok, you say wiping your mouth. Let’s settle up here.
You pay the tab but not before you order one last whiskey. You tell yourself that it’s for you, but as the bar keep brings it you are looking her in the eye. She is swaying slightly on her stool. He sets the drink in front of you and without saying a word she lifts the small glass and drinks it. Your mouth is on hers, your hands are at her sides holding her just below her breats, your tongue is searching. She chokes a little as you hold her sides, and this one is the best yet. You slide off the stool so your bodies can touch, and you back her into her neighbor. You both laugh and apologize and walk out of the bar with your arms around each other.
Although she is talkative on the walk home, she is stumbling and slipping on the wet sidewalk, and you can tell you have made her sick. By the time you make it home you are almost carrying her. You get her inside and help her change. You wanted the nitrous for this evening, passing that sweat gas between each other’s lungs while fucking, until you both cum. Instead you are holding her hair back as she pukes. Looking at her leaning against the tub, hair matted to her face, you feel like shit. She is smiling, but you feel like shit anyway. You did this.
After helping her to bed and sitting with her for a while, you go for the whiskey again and smoke a joint. The room begins to spin after a few more drinks and you make you way off to bed. You think, not bad for a Wednesday night. You think of how lucky you are to have her, someone who would do this kind of thing. Someone who understands that loved ones are temporary, addictions are for life, that addiction is love in its purest form.
Somehow all of this, the whiskey kisses, the coke off her tits, the mixing of the addictions, has more to do with you than her. For once, someone understands.
