navel. Her hair was long, blonde and curled, falling seductively over her bare shoulders as she walked. Around the milk white skin of her naked neck she wore a platinum chain with a single large teardrop diamond at the end of it. Matching teardrops hung from her ears. Six inch scarlet Jimmy Choo high heel shoes tapped an indelible beat, announcing her arrival at the cocktail bar, where she shimmied her way onto a stool.
‘Feelings are overrated. It’s not what I am feeling that is important, it is what I want. What I want comes from instinct. Instinct you have taught me to control. I am wet, I want him inside me and then I want to feast on his pain.’ Eve whispered nonchalantly before flashing the barman who approached her an enigmatic smile, which radiated all the way up to her sparking emerald eyes.
‘A Godfather please, made with a Dalmore Single Malt, the older the better: even better if you have a Trinitas?’ Eve asked, leaning into the bar slightly, allowing her full breasts to heave against the thin silk of her dress.
‘An excellent choice madam, containing spirits dating back to 1868. There have only been three bottles of that particular type ever released to market, so it is rare and very expensive.’ the barman, an older man with a coiffured moustache, relayed factually, a dubious look flashing over his slightly embarrassed face, whose eyes were constantly looking down at her cleavage.
‘I don’t want a history lesson on it, I want to drink it. Just like you want to drink in my breasts. The questions is, do you have any?’ Eve answered, a tinge of irritation entering her sultry voice.
The barman turned red and flustered, looking anywhere but at her. ‘My apologies Madam. That was totally unprofessional of me. Yes, we do have it. Unfortunately, we can only serve it to platinum members of the club.’
‘Good god man, I only want a bloody drink. My dinner partner will be arriving soon, a family member of one of the clubs founders. His status is beyond platinum. Do you really want to be the barman that left his dinner date without a drink?’ Eve raised her voice in frustration, people on the immediate tables turning to listen in on the conversation.
A man dining alone on a table to her left stood up and approached the bar. He was a short man with a stocky, well-muscled frame and a face battered ugly from too many rowdy rugby scrums. He wore a Harris Tweed suit and brown leather brogues, the suit impeccably cut, the brogues spotless and shining.
‘Horncliffe, is there a problem here?’ he asked curiously, with a terseness to his tone, noting the barman’s embarrassment.
‘Nothing I can’t deal with Mr Ettrick, sir. I apologise for disrupting your dinner.’ Horncliffe fawned obsequiously, immediately turning his attention away from Eve.
Eve stood furiously and angrily kicked her stool back, causing it to topple and screech on the floor. She stamped her right foot, lifting it high into the air to get momentum, before crashing it down onto the floor: before crashing it down onto Ettrick’s polished brogue, the six inch stiletto heel ramming straight into the dorsal of his foot, squashing the major tendon.
‘First you ogle my breasts, then refuse to serve me a drink: and now you totally blank me just because a man comes to the bar and asks you a question! What fucking century are we living in here? Yes, I am a woman, but I do not expect to be treated like a second class citizen. Get me your Manager, now!’ Eve demanded, not even acknowledging that she had stomped Ettrick’s foot.
Ettrick didn’t flinch, he simply looked down at his shoe, then let his gaze linger over her slender leg, her slim waist, her smooth, animated arms, lingering a lot longer over her arms, before he placed a hand firmly on the bar between Eve and Horncliffe.
‘You are definitely a woman, a very beautiful woman and I can assure you that it is not the
‘Feelings are overrated. It’s not what I am feeling that is important, it is what I want. What I want comes from instinct. Instinct you have taught me to control. I am wet, I want him inside me and then I want to feast on his pain.’ Eve whispered nonchalantly before flashing the barman who approached her an enigmatic smile, which radiated all the way up to her sparking emerald eyes.
‘A Godfather please, made with a Dalmore Single Malt, the older the better: even better if you have a Trinitas?’ Eve asked, leaning into the bar slightly, allowing her full breasts to heave against the thin silk of her dress.
‘An excellent choice madam, containing spirits dating back to 1868. There have only been three bottles of that particular type ever released to market, so it is rare and very expensive.’ the barman, an older man with a coiffured moustache, relayed factually, a dubious look flashing over his slightly embarrassed face, whose eyes were constantly looking down at her cleavage.
‘I don’t want a history lesson on it, I want to drink it. Just like you want to drink in my breasts. The questions is, do you have any?’ Eve answered, a tinge of irritation entering her sultry voice.
The barman turned red and flustered, looking anywhere but at her. ‘My apologies Madam. That was totally unprofessional of me. Yes, we do have it. Unfortunately, we can only serve it to platinum members of the club.’
‘Good god man, I only want a bloody drink. My dinner partner will be arriving soon, a family member of one of the clubs founders. His status is beyond platinum. Do you really want to be the barman that left his dinner date without a drink?’ Eve raised her voice in frustration, people on the immediate tables turning to listen in on the conversation.
A man dining alone on a table to her left stood up and approached the bar. He was a short man with a stocky, well-muscled frame and a face battered ugly from too many rowdy rugby scrums. He wore a Harris Tweed suit and brown leather brogues, the suit impeccably cut, the brogues spotless and shining.
‘Horncliffe, is there a problem here?’ he asked curiously, with a terseness to his tone, noting the barman’s embarrassment.
‘Nothing I can’t deal with Mr Ettrick, sir. I apologise for disrupting your dinner.’ Horncliffe fawned obsequiously, immediately turning his attention away from Eve.
Eve stood furiously and angrily kicked her stool back, causing it to topple and screech on the floor. She stamped her right foot, lifting it high into the air to get momentum, before crashing it down onto the floor: before crashing it down onto Ettrick’s polished brogue, the six inch stiletto heel ramming straight into the dorsal of his foot, squashing the major tendon.
‘First you ogle my breasts, then refuse to serve me a drink: and now you totally blank me just because a man comes to the bar and asks you a question! What fucking century are we living in here? Yes, I am a woman, but I do not expect to be treated like a second class citizen. Get me your Manager, now!’ Eve demanded, not even acknowledging that she had stomped Ettrick’s foot.
Ettrick didn’t flinch, he simply looked down at his shoe, then let his gaze linger over her slender leg, her slim waist, her smooth, animated arms, lingering a lot longer over her arms, before he placed a hand firmly on the bar between Eve and Horncliffe.
‘You are definitely a woman, a very beautiful woman and I can assure you that it is not the
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