callistra | "Shots - Her Way"

At the art show, the crowd was huge. The venue was concave and dark; potted plants dotted badly lit alcoves whilst the artwork, sculpture and paintings, were garishly bright. It was hot. Too many people were pressed in close; laughter and wine glasses grating and clumsy. He hid behind a palm.

Later, his ice blue eyes scanned the crowd, looking for friends, family, or even colleagues would do if he had to. He knew only one person in ten, and he just hoped they had big wallets. His eyes touched woman after woman, then skipped to familiar looking men, then back to the women again. One woman stood out even in the crush; she looked equally hot, but enjoying it. Attention caught, he watched. She was drinking white wine; and chatting enthusiastically with the person who was out of sight. She laughed and gestured; her gestures as large in life as she was. Her breasts stood out in the gloom as white roundness above black lace. She was corseted, he realised, his artists eye admiring the curve of boning and lace, and resultant curved flesh. A lace shawl protected her bare shoulders from scrutiny. Despite the obvious good time she was having, he realised she had noticed his perusal. Flushing with embarrassment, he ducked away to find another drink.

Darker now, fewer people. He gulped a mouthful from his glass, wondering if it was a ploy. Get the place dark enough and then bang! turn the lights on and while every one is blinking and blind, throw them on their asses. He skulked back into a frondy alcove. Maybe if they were drunk enough and blind enough, they would buy more artwork. His crisply ironed shirt was stiff with sweat, and he hoped he didn't have the unbecoming patches of sweat on his back or around his arms. Tough; nothing he could do about it anyway. He ran a hand through his stiffly upright cropped blonde hair. His ex-girlfriend had accused him of looking like an accountant again. He sighed, and hunted for another glass, this time preferably full. His gold rimmed glasses flashed in the darkness.

"Hello," he was cornered behind his palm tree. "Er...hi..." he managed in reply. His eyes caught by her flame red hair; following the lie of the tresses, and the curve of her breasts... the woman in the corset. She smiled up at him, her eyes laughing and also dark with interest. And, he was sure, a hint of hesitation.
"May I...." she started. The noise level was still atrocious, and it almost seemed as if she was whispering.
"May I what?..." he asked, leaning close and bending over her to hear her half asked question.
"May I taste your lips...." Surprised, he managed to say "You...." and then she put her mouth up to his, and he leaned into her. His eyes closed and he breathed in her scent of sweat and perfume, and he swallowed. He opened his mouth to say something, and her tongue touched the middle of his top lip. Slowly, with excruitiating tenderness, she explored his top lip from the corner of his mouth to the other corner, and then she treated his lower lip to the same treatment. Occasionally she would withdraw, and he could hear her swallow. Her breathing was suddenly audible over his own, and he opened his eyes to see her draw away, her face refreshingly pink, and her bottom lip caught between neat white teeth. She swallowed, her eyes still on his, her colour deepening.
"Thank you," she whispered, and turned away into the crowd. "Wait!" he tried to catch her, but she was too fast for him. He remembered his wine glass, and took a deep draught, thirsty, finishing the dregs. She was no where to be seen.

"Tell me again," he complained, "Why we're going to a gothic nightclub?"
"because I like the music" his ex-girlfiend Tessa told him, holding tightly to his waist. And, he noticed, Craig's waist too.
"And...on a Sunday?"he tried again to assert his lack of interest.
"It's not open any other day!"
"Are we dressed for this?" Craig asked. "Yeah, sure!" Tessa said, a bit too brightly. Even as drunk as they were, he could spot this.
"Accountants fit in perfectly!" Tessa slanted a telling glance at him, laughing outright at his glare. "We're here!" she declared, and guided them into an alley way. He tried to pull away, but she had him in a good grip. At the counter, he managed to pull away, but only to have his wallet stolen and opened in front of him. "Tessa!" She grinned and gave him back the change. "I need a drink." She raised an eyebrow at him, and bounced ahead. Craig stared after her longingly.
"You know, mate, I was wondering..."
"Go ahead. It's all over between us." And had been for a long long time. Craig grinned, and he laughed, and the two of them followed Tessa into the depths of the darkest nightclub he had ever seen.

Goths hung from the ceilings. Goths held up the walls. Goths moped on the dance floor. Goths sucked tar in the smoking area. Distinctly uncomfortable in his white shirt and pin-striped pants, he headed for the bar, knowing he would find Tessa there. She was leaning over the bar to sweet talk the bartender, her ass in full view of any one looking. Despite the crowd, a couple of people did notice. he grinned. He felt a lot more comfortable suddenly; he loved being in public with attractive women, loved the covert looks and the admiration. He slapped her ass and told her to hurry up. She just gave him a look and stepped back from the bar as the drinks were being made. The three of them retreated to a corner, to continue the chat.

Alone now, Tessa and Craig on the dance floor, he started perusing the crowd again, wondering what drove them to their extremes. He'd never worn make up, and as far as he had known, had never had an interest in doing so. A lot of the women were attractive, corseted and graceful. Some were truly frightening. A queen staggered past, in high heels and a pvc corset and almost landed on him. Beer and heels obviously didn't mix, he told himself with a small smile. And then she appeared in front of him.

Her hair was less flame-like, but the rich auburn could not be mistaken. Nor her dancing eyes and magnificent breasts. She grinned hello at him, and he returned the salute. "Hi!" she shouted over the music. "How you doin'?" He licked his lips, and smiled. "You don't look so shy tonight!" he yelled back. He was sure he was deaf, for he saw her lips move but heard nothing. "What?" She said it again, so he moved closer into her again, and once again was enveloped in her scent. This time, he heard her.

"Want to do shots? My way?" He blinked, his confusion obvious. And then laughed and shrugged. "Sure," he told her, hoping she could lip read over the music. She performed the same sweet talking efforts for the bar tender as Tessa had done; and he grinned at the thought of the view the bartender must be enjoying. His own eyes wandered over her ass, so nicely presented beneath layers and layers of satin and lace. Her skirts covered her all the way to the heels of her boots, but she lifted one foot, and he had a flash of black stocking. She leaped back from the bar, as the bartender started building a row of layered shots, using Baileys, Cointreau and Kahlua. B52s, he realised, six of them. Being polite, he took two, and handed one too her. She laughed, and shook her head, and put hers back next to it's four twins, so only he was holding a glass.

"My way!" she told him again, and then made gestures to the effect that he was to drink the shot. He slammed it down, the sweet creamy taste with the alcoholic kick making his tongue curl in delight. Hands grabbed his shoulders, and he was dragged down to her mouth. This time her tongue was penetrative, curious, enthralling, slick and hot. She breathed through his mouth, the mingled tastes of her and the alcohol a heady mix. He opened his eyes to see her standing on her toes, and coming back to herself slowly. She opened her eyes and grinned at him.

"My turn?" he could read her lips. He was still in awe at the first shot when she drank the second, holding the sweet teaser on her tongue for several seconds before swallowing, and then sharing the heat, zing, hormones and delight of the alcohol. This time the kiss lasted longer; they shared breath, and the world reeled away drunkenly, yet he'd swear he never felt more sobre.

It was his turn, he leaned on the bar as he took the third shot into his hand. She grinned and laughed at him. He put the drink down and grabbed her around the waist, his hand smoothing up and down the supporting boning under satin as he readied himself for the next drink. He tried to emulate her by holding the shot in his mouth for several seconds before allowing it to drain down his throat, and then he crushed her to him, pressing her whole body against him as their tongues shared the experience. His left hand still held the shot glass on the bar; his right hand in the small of her back pressing her breasts against him. He sighed; moaned at the sensations engaged in the simple drinking of a shot glass of alcohol, and she responded against him, her hips pressing forward and her back arching; her breasts against him. Her tongue delved into his mouth, and duelling for supremacy and failing. Eventually, they surfaced for air.

He handed her the next shot. She smiled delightedly at him, thanking him for such a small courtesy, biting her kiss-swollen bottom lip. Eyes fastened to his, she drank the shot down immediately. Her arms went around him, drawing his hips closer against hers, her tongue delved into his mouth lightly, and then darted away as he tried to suck on her tongue. he wrapped both hands around her, one hand on the back of her neck and the other on her waist. She was soft and hard; flesh and steel pressing into him, her curves fitting so nicely, he hadn't been this randy in years. She was an erotic tease; she seemed to know his nervous system inside and out. Her tongue was again in his mouth, and this time he sucked for all he was worth, and she kissed the life away from his very bones. Both of them gasping for breath, she rested her forehead against his, laughed, and asked "Do you love me?" to which he laughed as she had, all husky and strangled for breath, and said "Hell yeah!" "I don't know if I can handle another two," she told him. He laughed at her and called her weak. She drew her nails across his back; he arched against her at the exquisite pain and she spread her hands wide and grabbed a buttock cheek with each palm, and forced his erection harder against her. "Weak!"

She handed him the next shot. The last shot looked lonely on the bar. He kept her tight against him, and tilted his head to her in salute before he downed it. Then, he drowned in her. One hand roved upwards, outlining the delicate soft flesh of her breasts, whilst his other hand ran along the back of her neck, and then cradled the back of her head under the weight of her hair. She let her head rest in his hand, and ran one of her hand up his chest and along the width of his arm. His erection lay against her belly, hot and heavy. Her tongue was gentle now, even as his was rapacious, trying to taste all of her.

This now was the last shot, and it was hers. She dipped a finger into the liquid, and then drew on her lips with it, and then leaned into him again. This time, her kiss was exquisitely soft, lips to lips, her tongue quiet and demure, barely venturing against his own. She breathed gently, through his mouth, absorbing his taste and flavours through the sweetness of the alcohol. She leaned back, and this time, instead of slamming the drink, she sipped the whole shot into her mouth, holding it, and then let it trickle down her throat, holding his gaze as she did so. Her eyes looked almost sad, he realised, as she savoured this last mouthful, and then she leaned back in to kiss him. Her breath was laden with the fumes, and now he felt drunker than he had ever felt. His mouth tingled where her tongue explored him, and this kiss was reminiscent of his first kiss of hers, at his art show. Her tongue delicately ventured forth, tickling and agonizing. He was frozen, unable to even swallow, frightened of crushing her against him and ruining the sudden change of passions. He could hear his breathing over the heavy music around him, but hers was curiously silent. Finally, she melted back into him, and he unleashed his desire to crush her against him and mould her body against his, her breasts hot and pressed tightly against him, her arms wrapped as tightly around him as he was around her. This kiss lasted a long time, and was finally broken when Tessa tapped him on the shoulder for the third time. Dazed, they turned to look at her. Tessa grinned at them.
“Lights are on, children!” He looked up, and noticed that yes, they were indeed standing in a brightly lit gothic nightclub. A quick look around explained why the bad lighting had been a good idea. His redhead gasped. Goths were slinking out of various exits, and a general air of whining prevailed.
“I have to go.” She looked back at him, and bit her lip again. Magically, Tessa handed her something. Surprised, she looked down, and then laughed, and wrote a mobile number on the blank card with the pen. One quick good bye kiss, and once again she managed to disappear into darkness, this time however up the stairs and out into the night before he say a word. He looked at the card, it was one of Tessa's business cards turned over. He turned it over to look at the back, and the mobile number, and the distinct lack of name. He sighed. Tessa looked at the card too, and laughed all the way up the stairs and back to the car, her hand firmly in Craig's hand.

Unable to sleep, he wandered around his appartment. He had a hot shower. He tried a cold shower too. He tried a cup of tea. He went back to bed and just tossed and turned all night. At work, he received laughs from those who knew Tessa and had heard from her already, but mostly he received comments about how tired he looked. He smiled, tiredly, and sighed.

The next night fared equally badly. He looked at the card. What was her name? Where was she from, where did she live, did she like champagne, would she like to marry him and have his children, did he dare ring her.... Eventually, he passed out in sheer exhaustion.

Tuesday night, Tessa appeared on his doorstep. He opened the door to see her smiling face, and almost groaned. Instead, he sniffed at her.
“You haven't rung her yet.” she declared.
“Er...would you like to come in, Tessa?” he was being superciliously polite to try and make her feel guilty about her own lack of manners.
“Why not?”
“A cup of tea perhaps? Or are you here for dinner?”
“You have her number.”
“Coffee then.” He headed for the kitchen, knowing she would be following him.
“I'll leave you alone if you ring her.” He turned around and looked at her, struggling not to say a word. Tessa had the grace to look almost embarrassed.
“Ok, maybe not then” she muttered quietly, trying to avoid his gaze. “Anyway – Ring Her! And no thanks on the coffee or tea, Craig has promised me coffee and chocolates.” He grinned back at her.
“I'll ring her tonight, then,” If he could have stared at his tongue, he would have. He said that? Tessa would never give up now. Ever.

Alone, he stared at the card. He placed it, carefully on his coffee table, and then neatly aligned the corners with the coffee table corners. After about ten minutes, he then put the card at an angle to the coffee table, still carefully not looking at the numbers. A bit longer, and he turned the card over, and then re-aligned the business card. He pulled his mobile from his pants pocket, and laid it on the coffee table next to the card. Then, he pushed the mobile on top of the card so he couldn't see the paper. He flipped them over, so that the card was on top, and suddenly realised he was wearing a silly grin. He sighed, the grin dropping from his face, and picked up the mobile phone.

Ringing a woman never seemed to get easier, and the lack of names made it so much worse. He almost dropped the phone as it rang her number, the sound unnaturally harsh and difficult, even though the phone earpeice. Then, he did drop the phone as a male voice answered, but managed to catch it. Obviously voice-mail though.
“Hi,” oddly enough, the male voice broke even on the single syllable. “Um, Jen's funeral is Wednesday at Karrakatten Cemetary, two pm.” A pause. “She ... has a lot of friends, please don't leave any messages. Just... come.” The male voice was strangled and obviously greiving. Shocked, the phone did drop, and pieces skittered across the polished floor. Cold, suddenly so cold, and shivering. His stomach contracted and he bolted for the kitchen, making it to the sink with just enough time to empty the contents of his stomach. Not a lot in there; he hadn't been eating either for thinking of her. The retching hurt, and slowly brought him back to sanity. Maybe he got the number wrong. He looked at the pieces of phone. It would fit back together, but he didn't want to ring again. He rinsed his mouth with cold water. Wednesday. Tomorrow. More composed now, he reached for the daily newspaper.

It was very awkward. He hid at the back of the mass of several hundred people, every one of them looking extremely downcast. Around him, many people wept. At his grandmother's funeral, the feeling had been less doomsday, more upbeat. The old lady had managed to make 93, and had been pinching orderlies' bottoms only weeks before her final stroke. Here however, the silence was depressing and thick, even in the bright sunlight. Many, many people around his age, with clumps of older and in one corner, what seemed to be the family, with children through to adults, all talking and touching and being quietly supportive. He tried to tell himself that it wasn't his red head, couldn't possibly be his red head. A black limosuine eased into the cemetary, parting the crowd. A door opened, and a girl stepped out, and again ice poured across him. She was taller than his redhead, by about six inches, but her magnificent auburn hair caught his breath. She turned around, and bent into the vehicle, helping someone out of the limosuine. Her mother, he guessed, a statuesque lady with a crown of pinned white hair, leaning desperately on her daughter for more than just physical strength. Standing, she shaded her eyes, and looked around at the crowd, tears obviously forming in her eyes. She turned to her daughter and spoke, then stepped out of the way for her to help another person from the car. Next, the father of the family. He took his wife's hand, and they stepped out of the way as their daughter leaned into the car for a third time. There appeared to be discussion with whoever was still in the car, for twice she leaned out to talk to her parents. Finally, a hand appeared, and a man stepped out of the car. Daughter took his hand, and he just looked at her, ice blue eyes cold and frozen, short cropped blonde hair and his glasses flashed in the sunlight. Despite the coldness of his gaze, he noticed how tightly the man gripped the girl's hand. Sounds returned with a vengance; bird song had never been so deafening. The man looked... familiar. He needed to sit down. He had been wearing a white shirt, and pinstriped suit. He put his head in his hands as he found a limestone retaining wall to sit on. Gold rimmed wire glasses. Tears began to form in his hands. Short, cropped blonde hair. And, he was willing to bet, probably an accountant. Speakers amplified the speech to a crowd too large to fit into the crematorium, but all he heard was the droning in the distance of his consciousness.

Movement around him, and he looked up to see the family leading each other from the crematorium. A well dressed funeral attended passed through the crowd, handing out small cards and pens. A crumpled piece of paper was thrust into his hand, and he stared at her smiling face again. Her name had been Jen after all. Tears dripped across the ink, causing black blooms. She had been his age, he discovered, and married to a man with his name. He choked a sob; they had met at an art gallery, and after a whirlwind romance had been happily married for two years. Until the car crash a week ago. A full, seven days ago. A shadow chased away his sunlight, and he peered through tears to see her sister before him. Her hand was cool and gentle on his face.
“I've been dreaming you,” she whispered, obviously sad and distressed, but something in her eyes kept him silent. “Spirits and darkness, palm fronds and wine.” A slight frown marred her brow. “You shouldn't be here.” She wiped away his tears, and silently, he stood before her. He wiped away a tear of hers; and tasted it, salty and yet oddly sweet, before leaving as silently and alone as he had come.