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Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
The little girl did not notice, her father probably did not notice at first too, but the man could not help but notice a couple of ladies as they walked towards them down the alleyway. Their attire and boisterous moods were unusual for this early Monday evening, when as per local customs, most bars and nightclubs enjoyed their days off, with only a select few open for business. The staff at those were enjoying quiet shifts anyway, their usual patrons sobered up and back behind desks and workstations, playing responsible weekday spouses and parents returning home for dinner straight from work.
The two women did not act like responsible spouses and parents, apparently. The man’s keen eye estimated they must be about his age, if not slightly younger, by five to six years max. While quite a normal sight in certain areas of The Otherland, cougars on the prowl were a rare occurrence over here, or so the man thought. They were a thing of the past, an interesting phenomenon possibly having to due with the post-war sex ratio imbalance. They used to call them ‘the roaring forties’ back in the day, the term–unlike ‘cougar’–having an ironic rather than sexy ring to it.
It crossed the man’s mind the merry ‘widows’ might be foreigners, but as they were passing each other, he overheard shreds of their conversation, which quieted down a little as they noticed the little girl with the men. They spoke perfect Slavic, one of the western varieties, just like the man, his academic friend, his daughter and almost everybody else in this ancient west-Slavic city… bar a few exchange students… and a sizeable population of east-Slavic speakers–fellow Slavs nevertheless.
The moment the distance between them approached absolute zero, he took a brief yet quite intense look at the women’s faces, which the two women reciprocated. That’s probably when the professor not so much noticed the women as the man noticing them. Or the one on their left, to be precise, the plumpier, the less glamorous, demure blonde with something brazen about the way she looked back at the man. The professor didn’t say anything to his friend, for the obvious eight-year old reason holding his hand as they walked, but when the man turned his head a few steps later to throw one last look at the women disappearing around the corner, Ben smiled at him with his signature discreet knowing smile and winked.
The women became louder again as soon as they turned the corner and disappeared from the two men and the little lady’s sight. The more elegant of them, the red-head in beige woolen coat burst in laughter bending almost in half, the purse hanging from her elbow touching the newly renovated pavé. Her quiet-but-sinful mom of a companion looked at her blushing slightly, her expressive eyes wide as saucers now.
“What was that about?” she almost exclaimed. “Did you see the way that clown in shorts was looking at me!? It’s like he knew where we’re going!”
“Ha-ha-ha!” the other woman laughed even louder. “Relax, slut, he has no idea, not in his wildest dreams!”
“Don’t call me a slut, slut!” the blonde stopped and looked at her friend, any traces of frivolity she might have had earlier gone from her face in an instant.
The woman in beige coat straightened her back, trying to regain her seriousness too, or at least as much of it as the two’s current state of inebriety allowed. Her face got closer to the other’s, so close that the demure blonde could smell in her friend’s breath the fading freshness of the last margarita she had in the pub they’ve just left. The redhead took the blonde’s face in her hands, suppressed hiccup and gasped:
“Ok Amy, I won’t call you a slut anymore… tonight… no matter what happens…” and then added smiling half-wickedly, half-sisterly: “Although deep down you know all too well you are one, just haven’t realized your potential yet!”
Before the other woman had a chance to react to that, either verbally or non-verbally, the elegant woman planted a smacking wet kiss on the blonde’s forehead and reassured her, her voice serious and playful at the same time:
“Whatever is going to happen in there, you have my back, you know that?” she paused, looking intensely into Amy’s expressive eyes, waiting for the naughty glints to reappear.
There they were again! The blonde nodded couple of times, biting her lips so her friend would not see the excited smile working its way to the surface. She shouldn’t have though. The redhead, whose name was Nadia, knew her all too well to doubt the determination in exploring the wild, dark side of Amy’s own self. And whoever was waiting for the two in there already knew well enough…
“I love you, ass-whore!” Nadia shouted just a bit too loud and slapped Amy’s leotard-clad posterior just a bit too hard. Or was it too soft? You never knew with these expressive eyes, wide as saucers again.
“I’m not…!” Amy tried to feign offence.
“I didn’t call you a slut this time, did I?” Nadia interrupted and then grabbed her companion’s hand “Oh right, let’s go! You don’t want bağcılar escort to be late for your first date! Or…” she gave another mischievous-sisterly smile, “Maybe you do, curious about the consequences?”
In less than two minutes they arrived at a rusty metal entrance door at the side of a poorly maintained building, the last remaining unit in what used to be a pre-war row of tenement houses. The barely visible signboard above the rusty door read: ‘Basilisk’s stare’
Once inside, the women’s nostrils were greeted by a pungent smell of alcohol mixed with piss-saturated wastewater, barely masked by the heavy scent of industrial toilet cleaner. The combination was so overpowering, it was impossible to discern individual components of the bouquet: whether it smelled two kegs of IPA, fifty drained lizards and a big gel disk of toilet duck, or just several barrels of the finest cognac filtered by innumerable pairs of kidneys and flushed with a bucketful of Lysol.
Amy didn’t find the smell too unpleasant though. In fact, if she was being honest with herself, it was quite suggestive, bringing to her mind that time many many many years ago when, as a young student, she was returning from vacation in the mountains by train. It was crammed full so much that she and her then boyfriend had to spend almost the entire trip in a toilet at the end of the coach, him standing in front of her as she sat on the edge of the seat, both carrying their oversized rucksacks on their backs. At one point, the boyfriend unzipped his jeans and Amy sucked his dirty, travel-worn but virile, thus irresistible, dick. He then fucked her right there, as gently and as quietly as the circumstance allowed. Which came out clumsy and noisy to be honest, but sufficient enough to impregnate her. Soon after, the boyfriend became her husband and the father of twin girls. The girls were young ladies now, college students whose parents were financially successful enough–just like this country, transformed from rags to… knockoff Gucci handbags–that they did not have to take overcrowded, stinking trains of the past to go places anymore. Not even after Amy divorced; she could still afford to buy a reasonably priced used car for one of the twins, while her ex-husband took care of the other. Oh, the bittersweet, smelly memories…
As Amy’s lively eyes scanned the ground-floor bar area, she quickly found out the source off the foul, yet oddly arousing stench. Right next to the bar, there was a toilet… with no door, so she wasn’t sure whether it was for personnel only or patrons too. But it was a toilet for sure; despite the dark shade, she could make out the subdued white luster of the bowl and handwash sink hiding behind the threshold. Apparently, the door was not the only thing the toilet was missing. It could certainly use a diligent pair of cleaning hands, the good housewife in her observed. She then threw a glance at the bar and the alcohol shelves behind, albeit a quick one, so she wouldn’t keep whoever was expecting her and Nadia in the lounge above waiting any longer. She’s only managed to nod ‘hi’ to the bartendress, noticing the blue hair and quite tall stature, before her friend pulled her by the hand and led up the narrow, steep, creaking staircase.
And there he was. A tall man in a dark-violet suit was sitting in a worn leather arm chair, a small table with a cocktail glass on his side and a standing lamp beside, casting harsh light on his pitch-black hair and pale, clean-shaven face, which made for a slightly disturbing first impression. Apart from him, there was no one else in the lounge, filled with a chaotic array of wooden chairs and tables which have not aged gracefully, layers of old varnish scaling off their surfaces here and there. The air inside carried a faint smell of fungus and wet brick.
“We’re here, Marty!” Nadia greeted the man with exaggerated cheer as she went further in.
“My ladies, finally!”, replied the man, his voice raised only slightly, so they could hear him over the silence of the room. “Go ahead, hang your coats over there and make yourself at home”, he added turning his head to the corner of the room, where an old wardrobe stood, doorless just like the toilet downstairs.
As they were both taking off their outer garments, Nadia continued her conversation with the man while Amy kept silent, overcome with shyness for some reason. The red-haired woman addressed him as Marty again, and then again, which threw Amy off. In their previous online conversations, he introduced himself to Amy as Gregory, Baron Gregory to be exact. Goofy title aside, why would he change one unremarkable name to another, she wondered.
Her coat off and hung in the wardrobe, Amy suppressed her embarrassment and turned towards Marty to approach him, just not too fast, making sure Nadia was close to her side. He could now have a better look at her stay-at-home-mum figure, slightly neglected in comparison to the sporty, middle-aged Nadia, yet undeniably sexy in that way that bahçelievler escort no amount of hours spent at a gym could ever get Nadia close enough to Amy’s level of natural, unforced allure. Not even the outdated floral design on the blonde’s blouse, a size too small now, but probably fitting perfectly when she bought it, could diminish the oomph her plump body carried. All you had to do was to look a certain way to see it. The drink the man was having had nothing to do with it. After all, it was a sidecar Marty was having, prepared to a T–Grand Marnier, orange twist and sugared rim–not some generic beer garnished with goggles.
Amy had a better look at him too, as she got close to Marty’s armchair. He had quite an unusual face for a local, with atypical, exaggerated proportions of nose to mouth to eyes to cheeks, his jet black hair, dyed for sure, slicked back and contrasting with the ghost-pale complexion. Quite buff, he looked like a manlier, meaner version of Nick Cave, his stunt double, if Nick Cave ever were a Hollywood action-movie star in need of one. His clothes looked eccentric too, not just the violet jacket but his black shirt with golden dragons underneath too. And the glossy patent leather shoes with pointy toes, the right one on full display now, with his foot rested on the left knee as he sat there. The only thing that was missing was a walking cane with an ivory knob and a big ring with a skull to complete the oddball appearance, bordering on ridiculous.
The amusement on Amy’s face as she regarded him, her eyes just as bold now as when she returned the gaze of one of those men with a girl outside, did not escape him. He smiled wryly at that. She smiled back, as radiantly as she could in this circumstance. She then noticed a dog, a dark-brown bloodhound of sorts, laid spread at the foot of the lamp and raising its head slowly to acknowledge the women’s presence. Was it his? Didn’t matter really. What was anyone’s dog doing here? Well, it was probably a substitute for the walking cane and the skull ring, Amy thought, her smile growing even wider. She could not help it. Besides, she loved dogs, just like every other person, and would always smile at them, even those that scared her a bit.
“What drinks shall I get you?” Marty asked the women in a rather unexcited tone.
“Don’t bother, we’ve had a few already on our way here.” Nadia was quick to reply.
“I did not ask how many drinks you have on you so far tonight, Nadia.” The man’s voice became darker. “So let me rephrase the question, if you did not understand the first time: what are you having?”
Before Nadia had a chance to respond to Marty’s assertion of dominance, Amy blurted out innocently:
“I’ll have whisky and coke.”
“Hmm…” the man murmured, hearing Amy’s voice for the first time and pleased with the way it sounded. “Interesting choice. Any particular brand in mind or just the standard JD?”
“Anything’s fine.” The blonde specified quickly, not entirely sure what jaydee stood for.
Marty turned to the redhead.
“A glass of beer for me, please Sir.” She said quietly, lowering her eyes.
“Perfect!” with that the man took out his phone and rang who must have been the bartendress downstairs.
“It’s me again, darling.” His voice was flirtatious now and he threw a few glances at the two women to make sure they noticed, “Why don’t you bring us a point-oh-three of whatever passes for the local brew these days and a double shot of Writer’s Tears. No rock no ice, just a drop of water to dilute the flavor for my charming initiate up here…” his eyes halted on Amy’s face for a second and she started to blush.
“… And a bottle of coke on the side, small one. Got that?”
He asked the women to take their seats and the conversation resumed while they waited for the drinks. Nadia did most of the talking with him, as they knew each other quite well from way back when, whereas Amy was someone relatively new to Marty. As already mentioned, she did have a couple of conversations with him before, quite lengthy and intense, but these were online chats only, and he was Baron Gregory there, and the contents of those conversations would need to be addressed a bit later. So Amy, a little bored with only listening and watching the man’s hand as he rolled the stem of the cocktail glass with his long fingers, taking small sips of his sidecar unhurriedly, took this opportunity to have a look around the lounge, trying to decide whether she liked it in here or not.
As much as she tried to romanticize it, in the 19th century sense of the word–gothic, tacit sexual tension and all–Amy could not escape the feeling the place was on the decline, its past sketchy and future uncertain. And it was. Initially an interbellum nickelodeon, the building went to become an obscure experimental theatre venue after the war, and an occasional stage for politically dissident stand-up comedy. Then it returned to its roots in the early days of the Transformation–an şirinevler escort arthouse cinema showing films still recorded and stored on film. As the digital revolution swept across the world, the arthouse kino was no more and the Mietshaus had to assume new identity fast if it wanted to avoid demolition, the fate awaiting all that once stood proud. So to maintain its erect state it turned into a night club, by appointment only. Which was just a front; it was a brothel, quite successful in its heyday, where most johns were hard-currency-loaded Johanns, and the whores were young, cheap and cheerful Eastern Europeans, still mesmerized by the western riches and willing to do anything, and their trunk-necked pimps meant anything, to get close to them. But they caught up soon enough and quickly realized that not all that glitters was gold, sometimes it’s just golden shower on a kurwa’s face, covered with glitter makeup to hide her true age. Whether it was the sex workers leaving, the management unable to find suitable replacements, or the customer base dropping dramatically due to online porn triumphant march through the Web, the brothel was loosing its momentum. It was time to mature.
So the venue morphed again, this time taking a role of alternative music club for retired punks with wilted Mohawks and metalheads, growing their pot bellies now instead of hair they’d have to spend fortunes on to keep the greyness off. Also welcome were their college-age progeny, the only-child generation trying not hard enough not to look like their old folks, in fact, not trying at all, as if they couldn’t find their own image in this nostalgia saturated old World, where the best to come happened two generations ago.
That’s how ‘Basilisk’s Stare’ came about, the club’s new name being a hit and miss Anglo-Slavic pun, ‘stare’ meaning ‘old’ in Slavic, just like the building itself and the historic area of the city at the edge of which it sat. The new managers toyed with the idea of misspelling the word as ‘stair’, in reference to the creaking staircase, but ‘stare’ won out in the end.
The present revamp didn’t seem to sit well with the building’s genius loci. Its new assumed identity was bringing little to no profit too. It was as if it had something else in mind… or such was just Amy’s impression, herself also having something else in mind, unable to express it openly, yet. The blonde has never been here before–this simply wouldn’t be her. While not a trad housewife really–such lifestyle was not feasible in these parts of the Old World–she was merely a simple clerk with children, holding to an underpaid but secure and cozy public job at the municipal office, her working hours from seven to three comfortable enough to look after home and the offspring in the afternoons and evenings, at the cost of not having any life to live outside of that. Living a life was her ex-husband’s privilege he’d use and abuse, as it turned out eventually. As an early implementer of electronic cash-register systems, he hit the jackpot and made a fortune for himself. And his family. He’s also made a load of side pieces on his way to the top, forgetting almost completely how gorgeous, loyal and fun in bed the mother of his daughters has once been. And still could be. Who knows, he might have been one of the nightclub’s regular customers at some stage.
It was only after she got divorced and met Nadia at one of those hobby classes for singles again, those who were looking for ways other than social media and dating apps to find life less boring and less lonely than it had to be, that Amy’s eyes were open to things she hitherto barely realized existed. Perhaps it was time for her to have not just her eyes opened…
So here she was. She’s only read about the place’s history in the local media and found out the juicier details from what Nadia told her when one day she came up with the idea of bringing Amy in here to meet Baron Gregory, Marty that is. It seemed her redhead friend used to frequent the place herself quite often in the past. But which past exactly she wouldn’t say, and Amy wouldn’t ask. Not that she wasn’t interested to know, though.
The footsteps on the creaking stairs grew louder. Finally, the drinks arrived, saving Amy from her own thoughts she was getting lost in. Her attention was now grabbed by the bartendress–quite a sight, just like Marty. As it took half a minute for the blue-haired young woman, not older than twenty-five if smoothness of her hands was any good indicator, to serve the two women their drinks, Amy had a chance, better than the one downstairs, to have a look at her. Apart from the thin, almost transparent, loosely fitting cropped tank top, not doing much to cover the girl’s non-existent breasts, only the stiff nipples poking out beneath the fabric, hinting at where the chest area could be, and shamelessly exposing the slightly rounded belly adorned with a navel piercing, the bartendress made a lasting impression with her radiant face. It was beautiful, almost angelic, despite the huge flesh tunnels in where the earlobes should be, the dimples accentuated by piercings and the cute little nose, its septum pierced too for good measure. As she opened her mouth to say “Here you are. Will there be anything else?” the blonde noticed the young girl’s tongue was split, and the way she moved it in her mouth as she spoke made it clear she was quite proud of this bod-mod.
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