policy of this club to discriminate against anyone. For me, the more beautiful women we have here, the better. Horncliffe, I think the lady wanted a Godfather, with a Trinitas Dalmore. Make that two, and put them on my account.’ Ettrick ordered, then stooped over and picked Eve’s stool up, placing it behind her, admiring her behind as he rose again, proffering her to sit and offering to push the stool in if she accepted.
Eve stood glaring between the barman and Ettrick for a few seconds, fury still evident on the red blotches of her long neck. Eventually she sat, allowing Ettrick to perform his gentlemanly duties.
‘Douglas Ettrick.’ he introduced. ‘I apologise for Horncliffe’s behaviour. Believe me, his discrimination isn’t sexual, it’s purely a class thing with him. If you were a Lady, Dame or Princess, he wouldn’t have asked twice. By the way, my toes are fine, in case you were wondering. And you are?’ Ettrick asked, his piercing eyes not leaving Eve’s face.
‘Lady Harriet Farquhar, Princess of Persia.’ Eve replied sarcastically. ‘Is it a prerequisite of this club to be a stuck up tosser. By the way, I wasn’t wondering about your toes, your foot shouldn’t have been under my shoe and you certainly look like a man who can take a bit of pain. Don’t apologise for that twat’s behaviour either. Not serving me might have been down to class. Ogling me was definitely sexual.’
‘There might have been a bit of class in there as well. You might look and dress like class, but you talk like a penny a poke prostitute.’ Ettrick countered.
In a flash, Eve’s hand shot from her side in a wide arc, her torso turning in time with it as she let rip a flat palmed slap right across Ettrick’s left cheek, surprising him and making his head jolt under the impact. Murmured conversations rose in intensity, a few people sitting near the back of the club standing to get a better view of proceedings at the bar.
‘I talk how I want to talk, I dress how I want to dress, and I take umbrage at what the hell I want: right now, I want to take umbrage with you and your bigoted assumptions. I hope that hurt, but somehow, I don’t even think it touched the sides.’ Eve retorted, her features still full of fury, her tone apoplectic.
Ettrick raised a hand to his cheek and started to rub the red rash that was starting to appear, shaking his head gently as a wry smirk formed on his lips, his gaze still not leaving Eve’s eyes. He took a step back and raised himself onto another bar stool just behind him.
Horncliffe quietly deposited two Godfathers on the bar, directly in the middle of Eve and Ettrick, then quickly turned away, busying himself with anything that meant he didn’t have to get involved in their conversation.
Eve turned her body from the bar and faced front on to Ettrick, her long left leg fully exposed and her breasts, heaving under the adrenaline of her fury, full and firm with erect nipples straining against the thin silk material of her dress.
‘I apologise.’ Ettrick said in a low voice, not an ounce of contriteness in his tone, rather a guttural, earthy rasp, brooding with tension. ‘However, I think the power rather excited you. Your pupils are dilated and your cheeks are flushed. Your nipples are aroused and I can see that you have your thighs clasped tightly together: a sure sign that your clitoris is tingling. I didn’t say you were a prostitute, only that your blaspheming made you sound like one. I didn’t say that I thought it was a bad thing either, in fact, as far as I am concerned, quite the opposite. I was just pointing out why Horncliffe may not be treating you like the lady you deserve to be treated like. If it helps, no, it didn’t touch the sides, but it certainly stirred my loins and peaked my interest enough to want to take you back to my room and see if you could touch the sides.' Ettrick finished, his gaze
Eve stood glaring between the barman and Ettrick for a few seconds, fury still evident on the red blotches of her long neck. Eventually she sat, allowing Ettrick to perform his gentlemanly duties.
‘Douglas Ettrick.’ he introduced. ‘I apologise for Horncliffe’s behaviour. Believe me, his discrimination isn’t sexual, it’s purely a class thing with him. If you were a Lady, Dame or Princess, he wouldn’t have asked twice. By the way, my toes are fine, in case you were wondering. And you are?’ Ettrick asked, his piercing eyes not leaving Eve’s face.
‘Lady Harriet Farquhar, Princess of Persia.’ Eve replied sarcastically. ‘Is it a prerequisite of this club to be a stuck up tosser. By the way, I wasn’t wondering about your toes, your foot shouldn’t have been under my shoe and you certainly look like a man who can take a bit of pain. Don’t apologise for that twat’s behaviour either. Not serving me might have been down to class. Ogling me was definitely sexual.’
‘There might have been a bit of class in there as well. You might look and dress like class, but you talk like a penny a poke prostitute.’ Ettrick countered.
In a flash, Eve’s hand shot from her side in a wide arc, her torso turning in time with it as she let rip a flat palmed slap right across Ettrick’s left cheek, surprising him and making his head jolt under the impact. Murmured conversations rose in intensity, a few people sitting near the back of the club standing to get a better view of proceedings at the bar.
‘I talk how I want to talk, I dress how I want to dress, and I take umbrage at what the hell I want: right now, I want to take umbrage with you and your bigoted assumptions. I hope that hurt, but somehow, I don’t even think it touched the sides.’ Eve retorted, her features still full of fury, her tone apoplectic.
Ettrick raised a hand to his cheek and started to rub the red rash that was starting to appear, shaking his head gently as a wry smirk formed on his lips, his gaze still not leaving Eve’s eyes. He took a step back and raised himself onto another bar stool just behind him.
Horncliffe quietly deposited two Godfathers on the bar, directly in the middle of Eve and Ettrick, then quickly turned away, busying himself with anything that meant he didn’t have to get involved in their conversation.
Eve turned her body from the bar and faced front on to Ettrick, her long left leg fully exposed and her breasts, heaving under the adrenaline of her fury, full and firm with erect nipples straining against the thin silk material of her dress.
‘I apologise.’ Ettrick said in a low voice, not an ounce of contriteness in his tone, rather a guttural, earthy rasp, brooding with tension. ‘However, I think the power rather excited you. Your pupils are dilated and your cheeks are flushed. Your nipples are aroused and I can see that you have your thighs clasped tightly together: a sure sign that your clitoris is tingling. I didn’t say you were a prostitute, only that your blaspheming made you sound like one. I didn’t say that I thought it was a bad thing either, in fact, as far as I am concerned, quite the opposite. I was just pointing out why Horncliffe may not be treating you like the lady you deserve to be treated like. If it helps, no, it didn’t touch the sides, but it certainly stirred my loins and peaked my interest enough to want to take you back to my room and see if you could touch the sides.' Ettrick finished, his gaze
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