Silver Lining

It was one of the curses that came with the job – football, but that was due mostly to the crowds coming to watch it of course – a rowdy lot, drawn by the opportunity and offers of plentiful cheap drink. I hated it, and the Euro '04 Championship was just the pits for me, because there I was, behind the bar without any other choice in the matter.

Yet even situations such as these can have a silver lining, or as the events of that one particular evening proved, the silvery-sheen'd lining of satin panties…

It was a healthy crowd, with all the tables being occupied and every free seat shifted into position ready for the best view, leaving a few latecomers to stand along the sides – everyone was focused on the three screens, and it was a fuckin' nightmare getting between them to collect the glasses that they were too lazy, stupid or thoughtless to take back to the bar with them when going back for more drink.

I'd seen her enter and come to the bar when she first came in, a blind man could have sensed her presence from the sensual aura she projected. Although I wasn't on alone that night, and at the wrong end of the bar from where she chose to stand, I still managed to work my way toward her, serving those already in place along the way, and getting her the drink of her choice, before anyone else came near her.

She was already different for that place, simply by her choice of clothing – a silky dress, simple but quite stylish and pleasingly form-fitting all around. The norm being more in the direction of unimaginatively short skirts, and badly matching other apparel – just shite chain store clothing combined with no taste. I liked her already, but the immediate smile and open attitude she displayed, just won me over. Her accent was pleasingly mysterious too – not obviously

from

anywhere in particular.

As I was busy working, the joy was short-lived as other matters forced her from my mind – besides, she had come in with a suitably matching male. Memory of her smile and well fitting clothing, did lighten the occasional moment though, when things quietened down sufficiently to think of stuff other than work.

Later, I saw her on my next round of collecting glasses – I couldn't believe that the guy with her had brought her out on a date, which looked to be the first by their body-language, and tried to combine his need to see the match being played, with his need to be with her. That first time of going past them, they seemed to be having a difficult beginning to their conversation, what with the TV's pull calling his attention, even with his back turned toward it. I also noticed that she had absolutely stunning legs, and that her dress which came down to mid-thigh when she'd been stood, had ridden up to a very alluring just-below-the-crotch level, now that she was sat. It's not that I go around surreptitiously eyeing-up the customers' bodies, but her legs and the high-crept hem did draw the eye without giving any choice in the matter, leaving plenty for the imagination to work on. As I approached, she looked up and smiled at me in that same friendly way, and unsure if I'd been caught out, was careful to look only at her eyes until out of her attention-range once more, briefly appreciating how those legs were moulded and flared into the smooth curve of her hips, then back in toward a mobile, narrow waist topped by a youthful, tight upper torso.

On the second round of glass collecting, I saw her gamely trying to get into what was going on in the match. She was sat further back on her chair but leant forward, with her nearer leg tucked back partially under the seat and her other angled slightly outwards, extending half under the table in graceful counterbalance. I found myself more fascinated by what the few centimetres of pooled fabric draped low over her lap might hide, especially as the light dress showed no evidence through its hang, of her wearing any slip or such, and there was a definite shadow there between her demurely partial-opened legs, making certainty all the more impossible to gauge – my fascination now had become quite intense.

The third time, I came around and she was reclined back in her chair, one arm over its back and turned more outwards into the room, away from the conversation. Clearly they had given up on talking, as he was turned around almost fully to watch the action for real, with no further pretence to the contrary. Maybe it was my imagination, but her legs seemed to be slightly more parted than earlier, and her dress was now rucked up to the point that it couldn't possibly have been higher without exposing herself, panties or not.

She smiled again as I passed, more in a

glad to have some human contact

sort of way, but I though I saw an impish flicker on her features as she turned back to her drink. I nodded and continued on, casting a glance back I saw her looking after me –

Ho, ho…maybe football had it's advantages after all!

I nodded to her again, and she'd smiled back, turning once more to her almost done drink. I made it back behind the bar well before she came up for a refill, making straight toward me instead of the other bar-staff, all in that classic dream sequence sort of way that

American Beauty

had rendered so well. I was of course, just as hooked.

With a fresh drink in her hand and a parting smile, she was gone again – letting sound re-introduce itself into the mix of everything going on around me once more.

As she hadn't brought her old glass back, it meant I could go and get it – the implications and calculations clicking off each-other in my head, I set off to do just that, just as soon as the sporadic flow of customers allowed it.

Entering her part of the bar, I saw she'd contrived to adjust her dress and posture a little more, so I could clearly see a smooth sliver of her silver-white slip, pristine and taut between her carelessly parted thighs – it was all visible to me, even from across the room. Furthermore, she had her attention fixed on the screen in such a concentrated way, as if offering implicit permission for me to look with leisure, and feast my mind on that beautifully contrasting strip being so casually displayed – her thighs even swaying slightly open and closed to some inner rhythm, as she sat and watched what she wasn't even interested in.

This had started to become more than I could comfortably bear, and my half tumescence began a slow hardening toward full readiness.

It was during that approach that I came to realise no one else could really see what I was seeing – all of their attention was directed upwards and past her at one of the screen. She could have opened her legs wide to the world, and none of them would have realised it…never have I thanked my dislike for the sport so much as I did that day.

As I collected her glass, I chanced a quick look downwards, very much awed by the sight of her satin panties still visible even at that angle. Looking up just as quickly, I caught her own glance catching at my crotch, with its tell-tale thickened bulge down one trouser leg, almost on a level with her eyes.

We both smiled a little self-consciously.

Of course, I made the trip around to collect glasses and change ashtrays every chance I could get after that, always approaching from that direction affording me the most unimpeded viewing time. She seemed to have entered into a game, as her dress hem had ridden visibly higher by the next trip, but still no one seemed to have noticed the stunning display in their midst of smooth satin and its tantalising curve of down and between.

The time after, I saw her idly toying with the fabric, lifting it back and then smoothing it down again, her hand rested the whole while in her lap, with fingertips almost touching her panties. I could not help but notice the darker trace of emerging dampness.

The following two times, she looked up at me whenever I came into sight, although did nothing to cover herself, as if daring me, or somehow oblivious to what she was showing. The latter time, her date was up at the bar, and we exchanged a few non-directed words, eyes communicating via our glances, what we were really saying – it was just a waiting game now – would it be a phone number handed over at the evening's end, or would she wait around…

She must have gone to the toilet in the meantime, as I got a most pleasant shock with my next walk-around – her panties were gone, and her hem although lower, was still high enough for me to see everything clearly. It was a most enchanting view, with her sat back and slumped forward in her seat, arms folded and legs slightly parted, pouting at both ends.

I almost couldn't believe my luck, and glad of the same all around fixed-attention on the screen, meaning that covering up for my erection now so visible in my tight work trousers, was unnecessary.

Wondering what she was doing between my trips around the bar didn't help matters any. I started imagining her touching herself – but my not seeing that, began to drive me crazy with need to see if my possibly over active imagination was correct – sometime it is. She'd have got away with it too, in that crowd.

Then the match was over and the bar was four deep for the next forty-five minutes, all arriving in a rush while everyone refilled in a rolling wave of swiftly consumed rounds.

Needing more glasses for the bar, I went back out after it had all died down enough, to find her seat empty.

It was still empty a little while later, and her date's too.

The final evidence came when a group of other drinkers had moved in to take the table and empty seats for themselves – she'd definitely gone!

Thereafter I felt like shit, beating myself up for not having said something during one of those opportunity calls – even a simple comment about ‘this damn sport' would have helped lead somewhere, maybe.

Then I started cursing myself for being used like that – thinking that she'd just been heating herself up for some hot sex later, maybe he'd been in on the act and grooving on the buzz of someone getting hot for his girl; and possibly at her act of exhibitionism, in his presence.

Needless to say, I didn't much enjoy the rest of the shift, which was mercifully short after the match was over – just getting stuck into the work and trying to forget the unforgettable.

It wasn't until we'd stopped serving them, and I was down in the lonely little office counting up the tills, that I remembered the security cameras…

Sure enough, one had a pretty good three-quarters view of her, although the tabletop from that angle, might just prove to be a problem – I wouldn't know until the later footage. But I stopped it there, knowing that I'd better get the bar closed up before going any further – and that was the worst part, the waiting casually while the other staff did their part of the cleaning up, and then sat around for the traditional chill-out beer or two before heading off home into the night.

Claiming the need to do some roster alterations for the coming week in the computer-system, I let them all leave before locking up then heading back down the stairs.

On fast forward, I skimmed to the part where things looked like they might start getting interesting – going back a few times after catching something in her movements that looked promising. Mostly they were just innocent enough changes of posture, but in my heated up state, it all looked like the action I wanted.

About half way into the time my memory said she'd been sat there, I decided to just let it run real-time. Her posture had altered to become more slumped down in the seat, and I recognised a bit with myself going by, and casually glancing down, hoping to catch more of a glimpse between her legs.

Despite my fascination, it was all just a lot of her moving about in her seat, fidgeting mostly with boredom because of what was on the screen. Even when I saw the beginning of her ‘flirtation' with me, it all looked pretty tame. I got to see a pixelated splash of pale panties again though, and saw how she had indeed contrived subtly to raise the hem of her dress before each round I made.

I saw her during those moments keeping an eye out at the bar for my leaving it, and in the meantime also checking regularly to see if anyone else had caught onto the view she was offering. There were some ambiguous moments when her hands were out of sight, and in the area of interest – but I couldn't see anything, or at least not enough to be sure.

One thing that did make me feel better throughout all this manoeuvring however, was the fact that her date seemed as oblivious to it all as everyone else – so I hadn't quite been used in quite that way, not after all.

When she'd made that trip to the toilet and come back sans panties, it seemed that she hadn't been on the same wavelength as my imagination had hoped she was – perhaps the heat of the thrill being sufficient for her, and fuel enough for later, when having sex, or in bed alone.

That thought cheered me up quite a bit, for it might mean a return visit…if the fantasy and orgasm were good enough.

Then out of the blue, she just looked around with one long sweep of a glance, and opening her legs a little wider, she put her hand under the hem and began to stroke herself with short sharp jerks of the hand, sliding a little lower in her seat and opening herself even further to the unaware world all around her.

I rewound in partial shock, replaying the segment again, slowly. That second time around it didn't seem so obvious as the first impression had led me to believe – yet what it lacked in resolution detail, it certainly made up for in sheer heat. The clip was a voyeur's nirvana – all around her, faces were looking intently up at the screen, whilst there she was in their midst, bare legs quite open, panty-less and playing with herself in full view, taking the occasional glance around to see if she was still unobserved. It was almost surreal to the point of looking fake, like the clip must have been artfully superimposed, due to the lack of effect it was having upon her surroundings.

And it went on for almost two minutes – with her trying to keep from being too obvious, yet her legs needing to open wider as she inserted a finger, then two, head going back a little as the impending moment carried her away.

A goal during the last minute of the match put a stop to her wonderful display, just as it looked like she would orgasm – the spectators surged upwards in response, with a collective shout of approval that struck me as comical.

But she was on her feet too – scooping her jacket and bag up in one sweep, and was gone out of the door even before the silent roar of approval on the screen was done and the mutual back-pounding could begin.

I sat there for a short while in silent contemplation, awed by what I'd seen, and sorry for her that she hadn't managed to finish herself off in peace. I wasn't in the mood anymore to masturbate either, although I'd doubtless do so later, when home.

It also explained her untimely exit, and I wondered if she'd ever come back into the bar, ever again.