White Thigh Above Stocking Top

©2004 Ian Hobson

Dave strolled casually across the entrance lobby's polished wooden floor, heading for the bar. He liked the look of this hotel; it wasn't the newest in town, but it was in a now fashionable area and seemed to be enjoying a renaissance; as well as a growing reputation for being a good place to meet members of the opposite sex. As he passed the reception desk, he noticed one of the receptionists giving him a sidelong look. He rewarded her with a smile. She was younger by at least fifteen years; but then, some women found balding men sexy. And the new suit, and silk shirt, surely helped. He was glad he'd made the investment.

It was well after eight, yet the bar was still relatively quiet. There was a smell of new carpet, mixed with cigarette and cigar smoke. The background music - a BB King blues number - was barely audible. A barman was polishing glasses. 'Good evening, sir. What can I get you?'

'Malt whisky.' Dave preferred beer or wine with a meal, but after a meal, whisky.

'Any particular brand, Sir?'

'Whatever you recommend will be fine… Thanks.' Dave paid the barman, and told him to keep the change; he was feeling generous. He took a corner table near the right-hand end of the bar, and sat with his back to the wall, checking out the clientele: a young couple, sitting very close and sharing a whispered joke; an overweight middle-aged man sitting alone, smoking a cigarette and sipping at a pint of dark beer; a smartly dressed couple standing near the bar, the man smoking a cigar; two other young couples sharing a table near the centre of the room.

The sound of high heels approaching via the lobby took Dave's attention. It was the other girl from the reception desk; a little older than the one that had given him the eye, and with a more businesslike expression. She stood in the open doorway and looked around, as though searching for someone, before turning and striding away. Dave took a sip of his whisky, closing his eyes for a moment. He wanted a cigarette, but resisted the urge to return to the bar for some. Quitting was hard, but he'd gone seven weeks and five days this time, and he was determined to win. The sound of high heels again, but a different, less hurried, stride.

He watched the brunet enter and cross the room, aware that almost every other pair of male eyes in the room had become, at least momentarily, distracted. She kept looking straight ahead, taking the shortest route to the bar.

The barman turned towards her and smiled. 'Good evening, Madam. What would you like?

'A medium white wine, please.' Her voice was soft but slightly husky. She placed her purse on the bar, before pushing herself up onto one of the barstools. Dave caught a momentary flash of white thigh above stocking top, before she adjusted the hem of her dress; a little black number; high neckline but low at the back.

The barman poured the wine with practised ease and placed the glass on the bar. 'Are you a guest, madam?'

'Yes, room eleven.'

Dave watched as the barman made out a chit of some kind and handed it to the woman to sign. 'Thank you, Madam.'

'Thank you.' She swallowed a first sip of the wine, then opened her purse and took out a small mirror and quickly checked her appearance. As the mirror was returned to the purse Dave caught a brief glimpse of the woman's reflected face. He knew that she had seen him as she'd come in; and clearly, she couldn't resist the opportunity to take another look. She sipped her drink. A smile seemed to be tugging at the corner of her mouth.

'Buy you another?' It was the overweight beer drinker form across the room. Dave hadn't noticed him approach the bar.

'Fuck off.' She hadn't even turned to look at the man. He reacted as though she'd slapped his face. The barman looked a little stunned as well. Dave put a hand to his mouth, to hide his amusement.

'Suit yourself.' The man hesitated, his face a mixture of shock, anger and indecision. The barman waited to take his order, but the man turned and walked out of the room, almost forgetting to retrieve the cigarette pack and lighter that he'd left at his table.

All conversation had stopped but was quickly resumed. More customers arrived. Dave waited patiently for them to be served, then got up and walked over to the end of the bar, finishing his drink on the way.

'Same again, Sir?'

'Please.' Dave pulled one of the stools a little closer to the bar and sat down. The brunet's glass was now half empty. 'And another one for the lady.'

As the barman set Dave's whisky down in front of him, he looked more than a little alarmed. His expression seemed to say, 'Are you crazy?'

'Thank you. Whisky for me too, please.' The brunet smiled at Dave. The barman looked relieved.

Dave took a note from his wallet and dropped it onto the bar. 'Have one yourself.'

'Thank you, Sir.'

Dave turned his attention back to the woman; she sure looked good in that little black dress. She downed the rest of her wine in one, and then looking at Dave, she tilted her head slightly and pushed her hair back over her shoulder with her right hand. 'Use some company?'

'Sure.' Dave gestured to the empty stool to his left.

As the brunet changed seats, the barman moved her whisky along the bar, perhaps trying the keep his expression neutral; but one glance at Dave, betrayed his thoughts, 'You lucky bastard!'

'Hi, I'm Julia.'

'Lovely name… I'm Steve.' Dave liked to use another name on these occasions. Somehow it added to the enjoyment. He smiled at Julia, looking into her eyes and inhaling her perfume for the first time.

'Thank you, Steve,' she replied, returning his gaze and lifting her glass for a first taste of the whisky. 'In town for long?'

'Just for tonight. You?'

'Same.' Dave lifted his glass. 'Here's looking at you kid.'

Julia laughed. 'I think I've heard that line before, somewhere.'

'Humphrey Bogart.'

'Casablanca.'

'One of my all-time favourites.'

'Mine too.'

They sipped their drinks, with half-smiles and eye-to-eye contact. More people entered the room and noisily headed towards the bar, keeping the barman busy and drowning out BB King's Sweet Sixteen.

'You see yourself as a Humphrey Bogart, then?'

'No… more of a Bruce Willis.'

As Julia took another sip of her whisky, she glanced at Dave's rapidly receding hairline; what little hair remained was cropped short. 'I can see a slight resemblance.'

'Thanks.'

'And I like a man of action.'

Their conversation stalled for a while. Dave wondered what Julia's next move would be. Was she waiting for him to take the initiative? Was the 'man of action' line his cue to do so?

Julia finished her whisky. 'This Scotch is very good.'

'You'd like another?'

'No, thanks.' Julia reached into her purse for something. 'I think I'll have an early night… See you around.' She dropped a key onto the stool as she left; the hotel's logo, and the words 'Room Eleven', clearly visible on the attached plastic tag. Dave took it and slipped it into his pocket, slowly finishing his whisky before following. The barman was still serving other customers, but he gave Dave a knowing look, as he left.

***

Room eleven was on the first floor. Pauline reached the door just as the lift doors opened again. She new it would be… what did he call himself, Steve? Yes; she liked that name. She turned and watched as he walked the length of the corridor, reaching into his jacket pocket for the room-key; there was something about a man in a suit.

Steve opened the door and stepped back, allowing Pauline to enter first. The room was just as she'd left it: the single table-lamp, switched on, its light partially reflected by the large mirror on one of two wardrobe doors; the double bed standing in a central position, with a well-framed impressionist print above the headboard; a dim light, just visible through the curtained window; the door to the en-suite bathroom slightly ajar.

Once inside the room, Pauline transferred the Do Not Disturb sign to the outside of the door, then took the key from Steve and locked it. They stood for a moment, looking into each other's eyes; Pauline's heels almost bringing her up to Steve's height, but not quite. Outside, a distant siren wailed briefly. They embraced and kissed, but slowly and gently, as though to do otherwise might cause injury. Then Pauline broke away, dropped her purse onto a chair, and walked over to the mirrored wardrobe, where she stood looking at her own reflection. The little black dress wasn't new, but she had only worn it once before.

From the corner of her eye, she watched, as Steve walked towards her, slipping off his jacket and casually dropping it onto the chair. As he stepped behind her, she closed her eyes and tilted her head to the right; feeling him push her hair aside and kiss the back of her neck. Then slowly he began to unfasten her dress, starting with the tiny hook at the top of the zipper, and finally slipping his fingers under the shoulder straps.

As the straps slid away and the dress fell towards the floor, Pauline deftly stepped out of it and swept it up with her left hand. She looked at her own reflection once more: in the lamplight her skin looked more bronze than white, even against the black lacy underwear and stockings. Steve was kissing her neck again, his hands back on her shoulders, but beginning to explore further.

She stepped away and back over to the chair, leaving him to kick off his shoes as he turned to watch her. She lay the dress carefully on top of his jacket, then, after discarding her own shoes, she made a show of placing, first one foot and then the other, on a corner of the chair, to peel off each of her stockings.

Steve made to follow her; but with a sudden, cat-like ferocity, Pauline pushed him back over to the mirror, and then back against it, rapidly unfastening his shirt buttons, and ploughing furrows through his chest hair, with her long fingernails. Again, to the sound of a distant siren, their lips came together, but this time more forcefully and accompanied by mutual appreciative moans.

Now the fingers of Steve's left hand, found and pinched together a double hook-and-eye fastener, causing straps to pull tighter before releasing their load, while his right hand found other more lucrative work. Meanwhile Pauline's hands were similarly employed, first tugging at leather, then steel, then at button, and zipper. And as the ritual dance continued, clothing rained down on the carpeted floor, leaving an untidy trail that led towards the bed.

And all else forgotten; the two became one, as well-rehearsed passions consumed them.

***

Dave switched out the bathroom light and closed the door, before treading, barefoot and naked, across the room. 'Nice perfume,' he said, as he climbed back into bed with Pauline.

Pauline yawned and stretched, lifting her arms above her head. 'Givenchy… I bought it this morning.'

Dave fluffed his pillow and laid his head on it. 'You were a bit hard on that guy in the bar.'

'I didn't want him to ruin my evening.' Pauline turned onto her left side and wrapped an arm around Dave.

'Well, I think you ruined his.' Dave's left hand found a soft warm thigh.

'Perhaps I should have taken him to bed instead of you… Steve.'

'I don't think so… Julia.'

Pauline nestled closer to Dave. 'Can we do this again soon? I mean… instead of waiting for our next wedding anniversary?'

'Okay… How about on your birthday, if we can get a babysitter again?'

'Shouldn't be a problem.'

'What shall we call ourselves, next time?' Dave's hand moved to Pauline's hip.

'How about… Humphrey and Ingrid?'

Dave laughed, then moved away from Pauline a little, lifting the quilt and staring at her nakedness. 'Here's looking at you, kid.'

Pauline laughed with him, and used her own eyes. 'Hey… didn't your mother tell you, it's rude to point?'