Switchy Woman

A short little story I wrote while waiting for one of my VIP male companions… Excuse the rough nature of it, please. I wanted to jot it down before I went away for the weekend and the moment was lost. (Plus, I had to leave you with a little somethin-somethin!)

The busty brunette with the long wild hair sat with her fingertips pressed against her forehead, shielding her face. “Can you turn that thing down…” she moaned.

“No, m’am, I can’t.”

She slowly lifted her head, tilted it slightly, yet defiantly, to the side and looked the traditional muscle man in in the eye. “Can’t or won’t,” she said with an authoritative curtness that made her words more of an accusation than a question.


Still, she held the man’s gaze for a few more seconds… Moving her manicured hand to the table top, drumming her fingernails in impatience and annoyance on the top — click-click-click, click-click-click — for full effect.

Satisfied at his submissive silence, she finally broke her gaze.

She expected him to scamper away in shame. But he just stood there, slack-jawed, his muscular frame useless and awkward. Aww, Mr. Intimidating was now the intimidated. But she didn’t want the guy to pee himself — at least she didn’t think so, she giggled to herself. No, not tonight. She dismissed him with the same little flutter of a hand one might use to wave away a mosquito. Despite the fact that this made him derelict in his duties, he fled in relief, his hulking frame lunk-lurching towards some place out of sight where he would sulk and avoid being seen by anyone least his weakness be discovered.

Once his broad back disappeared behind a door, she began to relax in her solitude — and recall her original irritation: the pain of that bright light.

Avoiding looking directly at it, she reached up and swatted blindly at the the damn insufferably-bright ball of a fluorescent light bulb suspended from the Moderne industrial ceiling lamp. But the light was suspended just out of reach. As a result, her fingertips just grazed it and set the bulb to swinging. She sighed and resigned herself to waiting.

She sat alone, her right ribcage leaning against the table, her left leg crossed over her right. This position highlighted the curve of her right hip and made the slim black skirt rise just enough to spotlight the lacy hem of her black slip as it shimmered in contrast against the bit of bare white thigh that sat above the welt of the ultra sheer black stockings. The right side of her face was sitting pretty in the palm of her right hand as long strands of artfully disheveled loose curls swung along her left cheek, nearly colliding with her wet-glossed-red lips before flowing down to her chest. One thick curled lock lay to rest against the milky white mound of her right breast. More powerful than any arrow, the dark lock of hair drew attention to the seemingly impossibly deep valley of cleavage which was both skillfully exposed and ingeniously framed by the plunging neckline of her blood-red satin blouse. Her gaze was so lowered that her eyes were hidden under lush fans of black lashes. Beneath those lashes she watched, thanks to that swinging light bulb, as her curvaceous shadow sweep back and forth across the floor… Back and forth, back and forth, overlapping in the middle in a way that was damn near undulating. The thought brought a soft wicked smile to her lips.

She may have appeared mesmerized by the sight of her own figure writhing slower and slower along the floor, but she was alert in this waiting game. She was listening to the murmur of voices and other sounds coming from behind the door. There were three of them back there. Along with the dutiful (but unsuccessful) Intimidator, there was the 30-something female with the poorly bleached hair and the something-to-prove attitude, and the by-the-book senior in command. And then she heard it — or rather didn’t hear anything. She knew then from experience that the three were plotting in very hushed voices about just how to deal with her — and who would do it. But it didn’t really matter who they sent or what their plan was; she had all the counter moves to walk out of here the way she wanted.

There was a distinct, “Oh, fuck this shit!” and it was the woman who burst forth from the door and began to march her way over to the seated brunette. Oh goody, the brunette smirked to herself, they have predictably gone with the Bad Cop. Let the games begin.

Both men nervously watched from the doorway as the bottle blonde quickly strode to the table where the woman sat under the now gently swinging light. “What the hell is goin’ on here – what’s your problem?” the blonde spat, demanding an answer, two steps before she even reached the table. Despite the distance, the brunette noticeably flinched into a full upright position. She fluttered her lashes in shock, even opened her mouth a bit in that small O of surprise. But she didn’t say a word. “What’s wrong with you? Answer me, dammit! Can’t you–” the blond continued until she was interrupted by the senior member of the trio, who jogged up to her and put his hand soothingly on her arm. As the blond’s head swiveled around to see him, the man said, “It’s OK, Mary, you can go leave now. I’ll handle this.” But Mary didn’t leave. Instead she stood there, arms folded across her chest, at the ready, just in case. The muscle-bound man remained lurking in the doorway, caught between his desire to watch the scene unfold and remain unseen and uninvolved.

“I’m sorry, Miss,” the man said moving past the blond, approaching the brunette as if she were a stray dog who stood between himself and the door to his house. “Are you alright…?”

“W-w-why, yes, I-I think I am… Just terribly embarrassed…” the brunette said.

“Oh, now, there’s no need to be embarrassed,” the man said, his tone moving from the calming yet wary tone of talking to an unknown dog to the kind and gentle tones one might use when approaching a lost and hurt kitten. He even removed the glasses from his face, exposing his gentle but lonely eyes, as if to further reassure her. “We don’t mind. But we do have to close the bar now. Legally speaking, that is. Did you want me to call you a cab?”

“Oh, no,” the brunette said, “I have my car — I’m not drunk! I… I just thought…” She paused and took a deep breath before she continued. “Oh, I just thought we had a moment — that you wanted to go home with me.” She paused again to let it sink in. He, the not-well-to-do average man, was being offered a night of companionship with this ripe beauty 20 years his junior.

The blond gasped. The bar manager flushed. And the bouncer hiding in the back shook his head. From her carefully selected position, Rose saw it all. And she knew that tonight the good bar manager would play daddy to her little girl complex.


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