Two Fingers - Sex Stories

Two Fingers

Two fingers? No, two fingers of jack were not going to pacify him. It wasn’t the cold steel of the colt in his hand, aimed at nothing in particular, compelling Daphne to comply. The arrogance in the stranger’s face was prompting her submission. The smooth glass in his other hand was waiting for her to show a little more hospitality. “You’re not a half bad looking woman to be working a bar this late into the morning,” he said, flipping the drained glass back to her with a nod. “But you could do with showing a bit more smile to your patrons.” She hated these arrogant men, both of her ex’s were arrogant types. Humph ‘patrons’ she thought, walking back to the bar and dutifully refilling the glass. There weren’t any left after they heard the shot from the men’s room. Not that there had been many to begin with late on a Tuesday. There had been three semi-regulars at the bar trying to pick her up and a younger couple at a table opposite the stranger’s. ‘Not half bad looking?’ Who the hell does he think he is? Pushing forty Daphne still passed for thirty something. She had a lean build with sandy-blond hair, blue eyes, and toned arms from working this job three nights a week. She still fit perfectly into her ten year old Levis, and with a black suede vest over her white buttoned shirt, she brilliantly displayed her b-cup breasts. ‘Right where they should be, for a lady of thirty,’ she knew. She brought him his refill of ‘hospitality’ placing it in his firm grip while displaying her ...

... best fake smile. Walking back to the bar, she made sure that she gave her best ‘rear view’ walk. She wanted him to know that she had a higher opinion of herself. It didn’t go unnoticed. He watched her, seemingly indifferent. She made herself busy cleaning the bar, mopping up the evening’s spills. He watched her as if he were watching a shooting gallery duck going back and forth. Daphne knew he was watching as she was keeping her eye on him as well. He was tall, six one, sitting there in a blue-stripe shirt, open collar, and black slacks. His short-cropped, brown hair graying at the sides marked him for being closer to fifty than forty. She wasn’t aware that she was gazing at him as he drank the bourbon, gazing at his lips. The masculine hands caught Daphne’s attention as he lay the gun on the table. Catching her eye he raised the empty glass a couple of inches. She thought she had learned the drill by now. Picking up a fresh glass she went to fetch the bottle. “You can just bring the bottle Miss. This glass will be fine.” He spoke low, a baritone voice, smooth as the bourbon itself. She could see a glint in his eye. She hated arrogant men. Daphne hadn’t noticed that she had undone the third button on her shirt while fetching the bottle from the rack. The stranger’s keen eye noticed it, as she brought the bourbon. She placed the bottle down and the stranger grasped her hand, slowly bringing it to his lips. Daphne was quick to snatch her hand back at the last moment, intending ...