The play girl

Catching the signal from one of her friends, Angela brushed her skirt, took a deep breath and walked towards where he was sitting. She cannot remember ever being as nervous as she was at that moment. She had never done something like this before. For weeks now she had been watching him every Friday evening when he sat alone at the table near the window, having his dinner and then later moving to the far end of the bar where he had a couple of drinks before he left just before midnight.

It’s not like she’s not used to approaching strange men as a play girl. She had been working here for two years now and have chatted up her fair share of men that come here, whether frequent or only once. That was her work, the thing she is paid for. Chatting to men, offering them a drink and then getting them to buy her more drinks, but most of all to buy themselves drinks. She wasn’t an escort or a prostitute, although some of her colleagues did fulfill those roles. All she did was to give the men a nice time, to make them feel special and of course to get them to give out their money.

This was not a difficult job, not for Angela. She had always found it easy to talk to strangers, to have an animated conversation. Even with strange men. But this man was different. Ever since the first time he walked into this place, she felt the sexual attraction towards him. The first time he looked at her and smiled, she felt the tightening of her nipples and wetness forming between her legs. She never dared to go to him, to talk to him. She did not think she would be able to utter one word in his presence. Her friends – who were colleagues of hers – caught onto this and decided that this weeks he had to be the one entertaining him.

She stopped walking when he looked up and saw her. Angela was only a couple of meters from his table. A smile slowly formed around his mouth. Angela brushed over her skirt again and looked down at her feet. The sound of a chair scraping on the wooden floor made her glance up, just in time to see the chair opposite him moving backwards. With a small movement of his head he motioned for her to sit down.

“I was waiting for this moment for a long time,” he said when Angela sat down across from him. She just smiled.
“Do you want a drink?” he asked. This question caused Angela to giggle nervously.
“I should be the one asking you that,” she said.
“I know,” he smiled, “but I had the feeling you were not ready to talk to me yet.”
“I wasn’t,” she admitted, “and I did not think I would ever be.”
He looked surprised.
“Why not?”
Angela just smiled and slowly sipped from the drink that had been placed before her only moments earlier.

My legs where I sat on a barstool

My legs…
(click to enlarge)

Half an hour later they were sitting at the bar. He was sitting on the same spot he sat every Friday evening, with his back leaning against the wall. Angela was sitting next to him, facing him. Her shyness to speak to him had disappeared and she was chatting to him like she had known him all her life. They talked about their childhoods, their jobs, their friends, their family. They touched on the subject of relationships and Angela even admitted that she really liked him from the first moment she saw him.

This confession made him smile and move closer to her. Angela was wearing a short black skirt, net stockings, a black top and high heeled boots. Several times she had seen him looking her up and down and resting his eyes on her legs. She was yet again aware of her nipples reacting to the attention. Her feet rested on the cross bar at the bottom of the bar stool he sat on. He was up to his fourth drink and Angela was still nipping at her first when he moved closer to her. His warm hand rested on her knee and his face was very close to hers.
“I want to kiss you,” he whispered.
Angela smiled and he moved a bit closer.
“I want to kiss you,” he repeated.
“Then do it,” Angela encouraged him.
His lips softly touched hers and his hand moved up her thigh a couple of centimeters.

That was the moment her work stopped being her work…

© Rebel’s Notes

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