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*Author’s Note: Any and all persons engaging in any sexual activity are at least eighteen years of age.
Disclaimers: This story has been edited by myself, utilizing Microsoft Spell-Check. You have been forewarned; expect to find mistakes.
Leaving the St. Elizabeth Parish Courthouse, Polly Chastaine was deliriously happy. A crisp October breeze blew in from the north, bringing with it the smells of autumn; fallen leaves, a fireplace blazing and crackling nearby, even the hint of rain. That hint of rain could not quell Polly’s happiness at winning a major victory for her client.
Putting the battered old briefcase into the passenger seat of her Smart Car, Polly glanced at her Rolex watch, seeing that it was three seventeen.
The briefcase had been a gift from Polly’s grandmother. Polly’s maternal grandmother had been the only one in the family to say that Polly not only had the brains, but the right to become an attorney.
“And, she got the right to go to school,” Marie Couvillion had declared. “So, Ann Marie? You shush right now with that she just needs find herself a good man get married yeah.”
The Rolex watch had been a graduation gift from her mother and father. Polly knew her mother was still hoping that Polly would just find a good man, get married, have plenty babies, and just forget this nonsense of being a lawyer. Especially since the passing of Jerry Chastaine, Ann Marie was hoping for a grandson that would be named Gerald David.
Arriving at the office of Banks, Chastaine, Greene she was borderline OCD. She then let the two giggling girls and the paralegal that had notarized the sale out into the early evening. That was Polly’s only complaint about the fall season; sundown came far too early.
Driving along Highway 19 toward her Kimble, Louisiana home Polly passed ‘The Casual’ bar. She remembered seeing a blurb on Channel 12 about the bar acquiring a cache of one hundred and twenty nine year old whiskey from Oakleaf, Texas. The whiskey was being sold for twenty five dollars a shot,”
“Know what? I want to know what one hundred year old whiskey tastes like,” Polly said aloud and pulled into the parking lot of a shoe store, performed a U-Turn and pulled into the parking lot of The Casual.
The name of the bar was not a misnomer. There was absolutely nothing fancy or flashy about the bar. Dark paneling, dark furniture, recessed lighting, and soft piano music tinkling from hidden speakers.
The bar was not dingy or run-down. The leather barstool was soft, warm as Polly sat down. The bartender, a handsome older man nodded to let Polly know he had seen her. He then finished shaking the vodka martini for his customer and set it onto a cocktail napkin.
“Good evening, Ma’am, and what’ll you have?” the man asked, smiling.
“I saw on the news about your whiskey?” Polly asked.
“Oakleaf?” the man smiled wider. “And just had to see what one hundred and twenty nine year old whiskey tastes like, am I right?”
“Yes,” Polly smiled.
“You know its twenty five a shot, right?” the man asked, reaching for the prominently displayed bottle.
“Yep, but I just won a pretty big case; I think I deserve it,” Polly smiled.
“A lawyer, huh?” Terry smiled as he carefully poured the rich amber liquid into a small glass. “Do you know…?”
“Don’t. I’ve heard every lawyer joke out there,” Polly smiled as Terry set the glass in front of her. “What you might not know? There are only two lawyer jokes. All the rest of them are true.”
Terry laughed and waited as Polly picked up the glass. His smile widened as Polly took a cautious sip of the aged whiskey.
“Hmm? So, what you think?” Terry asked as Polly let the alcohol sit in her mouth a moment before swallowing.
“I think that has to be some of the best whiskey I’ve ever tasted,” Polly said. “I can see why it’s twenty five dollars a shot.”
While Polly Chastaine sat in The Casual, slowly savoring the taste of the expensive whisky, Whitney Sidowski gave a hard look in the faded mirror that hung on her closet and nodded with satisfaction. At first, she’d not been sure about the shorter hairstyle, but now absolutely loved it.
“My wife, Ethel, is a receptionist with Richards, Pellichet, Jones and associates,” Richard Gerrard had smiled, standing in front of Whitney’s desk. “And she tells me, being a receptionist is hard work, especially when you have a butt hole of a boss.”
“Oh, the poor girl,” Whitney had sympathized with Ethel Gerrard. “Does she need…?”
“Anyway,” Richard chuckled at the beautiful girl’s lack of comprehension. “Happy birthday, Ms. Sidowski. I know I don’t say this often enough, but you are a great asset to PC Nation.”
“Huh?” Whitney asked, confused.
Richard Gerrard had never said that Whitney was an asset to PC Nation. To Whitney, it seemed that Mr. Gerrard had nothing but complaints about Whitney’s telephone abilities, her manner of dress, kaçak iddaa and her lack of organizational skills.
Inside of the birthday card was a gift card for T. Dayton Hair Salon. Whitney had been ecstatic and had immediately called the salon to make an appointment. Other employees of the PC Nation Data Center also gave Whitney birthday cards and one young geek made Whitney laugh happily when he gave her a yoyo.
“Just because you’re getting a little older, don’t forget, it’s important to still be a kid,” the nerd had blushed.
“Thanks, John-John,” Whitney smiled, then answered the phone. “PC Nation Data Center; how may I direct your call?”
Plopping down into Rita Garcia’s chair, Whitney asked the attractive Latina if she could make Whitney look more professional. The young woman looked at Whitney’s brilliant green eyes in the mirror.
“I’m tired of everyone always thinking I’m just this dumb blonde?” Whitney had declared.
“Well then, let’s get started,” Rita had smiled, taking a handful of Whitney’s light blonde hair and brandishing the scissors.
The impact had been immediate. Richard, her supervisor had stopped, looked at Whitney, then snapped a picture of the uncertain girl with his cell. John-John had blushed and said Whitney looked stunning. One woman even told Whitney she was jealous
Now, standing in the small bedroom of her tiny apartment, Whitney gave a little shake of her head. She turned and lifted the hem of her bright red dress and checked that the stockings were lined up right.
“I do got a cute butt,” Whitney giggled to herself, smoothing down the dress.
The dress was made of soft cotton, with a deep V-neck that showed off Whitney’s 30Dbreasts. The soft material clung to Whitney’s form, accenting Whitney’s 26 inch waist and 31 inch hips. Because of the clingy nature of the material, Whitney couldn’t wear undergarments; the lines would be very noticeable in the dress.
Whitney had seen on Channel 12, on a newscast with that really pretty reporter, Chelsea Duhon, the bar right up the street had whiskey that was selling for twenty five dollars a shot. Whitney couldn’t afford whiskey priced that high, but did want to meet one or two men that could afford that kind of whiskey.
The brisk October air greeted Whitney as she stepped out of her apartment. Her nipples reacted, stiffening to two bullet points in her dress. The wind blew the hem of her dress up and the slit on the left side allowed the hem to flap open, exposing Whitney’s thatch of blonde pubic hair. With a squeal and giggle, Whitney pushed the hem down, covering her crotch.
“Thank God Mr. Arnaud wasn’t around,” Whitney whispered, thinking of the old man that lived right next door.
Stepping down into the parking lot, Whitney decided to leave her car in front of the apartment. The bar was just three blocks away, then across Highway 19. If she did meet a nice man, she didn’t want to have to leave her car in front of the bar. Or, have to drive back to the decrepit old apartment building and get into her new friend’s car. This way, if she did get lucky, they could just go straight from the bar to wherever.
“Ready for another one?” Terry smiled as Polly put the empty glass onto the bar.
“Hmm, I, damn, I know anything I get after that? Is going be a big giant let down,” Polly smiled. “But, no. How ’bout a whiskey sour?”
“Yes ma’am,” Terry chuckled and made the drink.
The door opened but only Terry looked over to see who was coming in. The three men drinking beers in the corner were too busy arguing about some guy named Drew leaving the Saints. The couple in another booth were talking, giggling, talking, very much wrapped up in each other. The three men sitting at the bar didn’t look over; one was morosely drinking martinis and the two remaining men were talking about ‘some bitch named ‘Jenna’ who was not getting what she had coming to her. Polly steered well clear of those two; one of them was obviously going through a bitter break-up, possibly a divorce.
“Is this seat taken?” a breathy voice asked.
“Huh?” Polly asked, looking at a stunning blonde woman in a clingy red dress.
“Oh! I uh, you’re a girl?” Whitney stammered.
Polly had recently cut her waist length blonde hair to just touching her collar. She’d cut it after a client had tersely snapped at her that he would wait for the attorney to come into the office before he said why he was there. When Polly had stated that she was Polly Chastaine, the attorney he had hired, he snarled that she didn’t look like no lawyer.
Polly supposed, from the rear, with her burgundy tweed business jacket, she may have looked like a man to the pretty blonde woman. From the front, however, Polly was all woman. The business jacket stretched taut over her 32D breasts. The cream colored blouse was tapered to fit Polly’s 32D chest and 28 inch waist. The burgundy tweed skirt flared out over Polly’s 31 inch hips, hugging kaçak bahis her bubble butt and coming to rest just below Polly’s knees, showing off Polly’s well-formed calves and her taupe stockings and stylish burgundy pumps.
Polly’s face was square, with dark brown eyebrows that she’d slimmed to just a slash over each eye. Her deep brown eyes were large and expressive, her nose was slim and her lips were light pink, pouting, kissable lips.
“Yep; I’m a girl,” Polly smiled easily, to let the young woman know there were no hard feelings.
“Sorry,” Whitney let an embarrassed little giggle escape.
Whitney took a moment to scan the room. She then returned to Polly’s right.
“Is this seat taken?” Whitney asked again.
“I’m still a girl, but have a seat,” Polly smiled.
“Hi, I’m Whitney,” you?” Whitney asked.
“Polly. Polly Chastaine. You uh, you come here often?” Polly asked as Terry began making another martini for the morose customer.
“No. But other night? I seen this place on Channel twelve? They got this really old whiskey?” Whitney said in a rush.
“Mm hmm, just had it,” Polly agreed. “It is excellent.”
“Oh! Is that it?” Whitney asked, pointing to Polly’s drink.
“No, no, this is just a whiskey sour,” Polly smiled.
“Come on, Joe Bob, hand over the keys,” Terry ordered the morose drinker. “That’s your fourth drink. I’m not letting you drive out of here.”
“Oh. Too bad,” Whitney said.
“Are you a whiskey connoisseur?” Polly asked.
“No, not really,” Whitney said. “But, you know, it just looked so, oh I don’t know, interesting?”
“Yes ma’am, what’ll it be?” Terry asked Whitney’s breasts.
“She wants to try the Oakleaf whiskey,” Polly said. “Put it on my tab.”
“Oh! You, you don’t have to do that?” Whitney said, resting her small hand on Polly’s upper thigh.
“Its fine,” Polly smiled. “I had a really good day today so I’m celebrating.”
“Yes?” Terry verified before reaching for the heavy bottle.
“Okay!” Whitney agreed happily, setting her clutch onto the bar.
“Sip it slowly,” Polly said, sensing that the Nordic beauty would be the type to just toss the shot back.
“Mm, oh, oh! This, you know how some whiskey kind of burns? This, this is so, um…” Whitney exclaimed after her first cautious sip.
“Smooth?” Polly suggested.
“Yes!” Whitney giggled happily, putting her hand on Polly’s leg again.
Whitney took another sip, held it in her mouth, then allowed the whiskey to course slowly down her throat.
“Listen, don’t let the bartender take my drink; I’ll be right back,” Polly said and slid down from her stool.
“Okay,” Whitney agreed. “Wow, this you call its oak leaf whiskey? I didn’t even know you could make whiskey out of leaves.”
“It’s from a town called Oakleaf,” Terry said, reaching for Polly’s half-empty drink.
“She said leave her drink; she’ll be right back?” Whitney said, gently placing her hand on Terry’s hand.
“Hey Terry, three more drafts,” one of the men from the corner booth said.
“Thanks,” Polly said, returning to her comfortable perch.
“Mm hmm, I could really like this stuff,” Whitney said, finishing the last sip of her whiskey.
“It is good,” Polly agreed.
“So, what’s that?” Whitney asked, pointing to Polly’s drink.
“Told you. A whiskey sour,” Polly said.
“Is it real sour?” Whitney asked, pretty face already twisting into a pucker.
“Not too God awful bad,” Polly smiled.
“Um, no, no, I probably wouldn’t like it; think I’d like a Jack and Coke?” Whitney said.
“I heard her,” Terry agreed, already mixing Whitney’s drink as Whitney slid off of the bar stool.
“You ready for another one?”
“Terry, I’ll just have a Seven Up,” Polly said. “Last thing I need is a DUI.”
“Well, then, yes ma’am, and thank you,” Terry said, smiling as he squirted the beverage for Polly. “Customers are hard enough to get coming in here. Good customers are even harder to get.”
Polly settled up her tab. Terry, and four out of the seven male customer’s watched Whitney return from the bathroom. In the mirror over the bar, Polly watched the woman elbow her companion; he was one of the four men watching Whitney’s impressive chest wobble and bobble in her stretchy dress.
“Drink’s here,” Polly said as Whitney eased herself into her stool.
“How much I owe you?” Whitney asked, reaching into her purse.
“Nothing,” Polly said, reaching over hand pulling Whitney’s hem down.
“Oops!” Whitney let an embarrassed giggle escape.
A moment later, she leaned toward Polly and whispered, “But now you know I’m a natural blonde, right?”
“So am I,” Polly smiled, then pointed to her brown eyebrows. “But the drapes and the carpet don’t match.”
Polly pushed her soda away; after the whiskey sour, the soda was just too sweet on her palate. She needed to get some food into her stomach. The tuna fish sandwich she’d had at lunch was no longer illegal bahis sustaining her.
“Aw! You going? Already?” Whitney whined.
“Mm hmm,” Polly said. “Need to get some food in me.”
“But, but, we just met?” Whitney whined.
“So, what you want to talk about?” Polly asked, swiveling in her stool to face Whitney.
“I don’t know, like, what do you do? I’m a receptionist? With PC Nation? Their data center in Elgee?” Whitney said.
Polly noticed that Whitney adopted an annoying speech pattern of ending many of her statements as if it were a question. She was sure most people did not even notice; so enthralled were they with Whitney’s classic beauty. Others, she assumed, did not spend enough time in Whitney’s presence to even notice.
“I’m an attorney; with Banks, Chastaine, Greene and associates,” Polly said, fishing a business card from her purse and handing it to Whitney.
“Oh! That, it must be so hard being an attorney?” Whitney gasped, again placing her hand directly on Polly’s thigh.
“It, it has its challenges,” Polly agreed.
The intimate contact had Polly feeling slightly off, slightly discomforted. At the same time, she felt an odd flood of excitement; an electricity from the beautiful blonde’s touch.
Polly chatted with Whitney, noticing that Whitney’s brilliant green eyes stared at Polly with rapt attention. From time to time, Whitney took a sip of her drink, but she listened intently as Polly described the path she’d taken to becoming a lawyer.
“So, when you’re not, goodness, you, you really worked your butt off, didn’t you? But what you do you know, to relax?” Whitney asked. “When you’re not working?”
“I, really? Not a whole lot,” Polly admitted. “I mean, I just bought a house, over on Pitman; it’s got a hot tub, but I haven’t even been in it yet, and…”
“A hot tub? Oh! I just love, my last boyfriend? He had this hot tub?” Whitney enthused, then leaned close to Polly.
“We’d go out in his hot tub? We’d get real busy?” Whitney whispered into Polly’s ear.
Polly shivered. Whitney had her small hand on Polly’s upper thigh, very close to Polly’s crotch. And Whitney’s breath was warm in Polly’s ear.
“And he’d push me? You know, to where I was half hanging out?” Whitney whispered. “Then he’d do me, up my butt?”
“Up your?” That, that’s got to, that didn’t hurt?” Polly asked, brown eyes wide.
“Mm hmm!” Whitney giggled. “But, I, well, I kind of liked it?”
“O, uh, other than anal sex,” Polly asked when Whitney swiveled to take another sip of her drink, removing her small hand from Polly’s leg.
“Oh! And I love to cook. My apartment? Got this horrible stove? I hate it, but it’s only four hundred a month?” Whitney said. “So, what you going do?”
“My house’s got a gas stove,” Polly supplied, taking another sip of her soda.
“Oh! I would just die for a gas stove,” Whitney enthused.
“Tell you what; any time you want to cook, just come on over,” Polly smiled, pushing the half-empty soda glass away. “But I really have to…”
“Okay. Let’s go,” Whitney said, sliding out of the stool.
When Whitney slid from the stool, her dress rose up, showing the entire bar her stocking tops. Polly quickly reached out and tugged Whitney’s hem down before Whitney’s cute blonde pussy came into view again.
“Thanks!” Whitney giggled happily and impulsively kissed Polly on her lips.
“Welcome,” Polly smiled, and led the way out of The Casual.
“Y’all come back, okay?” Terry called out.
“Oh! This is one them Smart cars?” Whitney asked, as Polly unlocked the doors.
“Mm hmm; I get anywhere from thirty seven to forty one miles to the gallon,” Polly said and was again rewarded to a flash of Whitney’s pussy as the girl clambered into the passenger seat.
“Oops!” Whitney giggled happily, tugging the hem of her dress down.
“Seriously? Up the…that’s got to hurt,” Polly asked, carefully backing out of the parking lot.
“Way Darren did it? Yeah, but, you get someone knows what they doing? It feels really good, you know?” Whitney enthused.
2123 Pitman Road was a three bedroom, three bathroom ranch house. Polly had handled the estate sale for Mr. Alan Boudreaux and had managed to pick up the house for a reasonable price. She pulled into the two car garage and Whitney goggled at the 1949 Indian Chief Motorcycle and sidecar next to Polly’s Smart Car.
“It was my grandfather’s,” Polly explained. “Buzzy kept it in his shed for the last thirty years; when my older brother was born, my grandmother told him he was a grandfather, time to get rid of his toys.”
“It work?” Whitney asked, getting out of the car.
Mm hmm,” Polly agreed.
“You know how ride it?” Whitney asked, breathless.
“Mm hmm,” Polly said. “Didn’t want take it today; looked like it might rain this morning, and I knew I had to be in court by ten.”
Whitney was reluctant to leave the motorcycle, but did follow Polly into the house.
“Oh! Oh my God, copper pans? Those, I love those,” Whitney gushed, seeing the pots and pans suspended from the ceiling in Polly’s kitchen. “Oh! And cast iron? They’re, you season them?”
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
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