No one can remember when the street lights last worked. Now the corner is only lit by the garish glow from the 24-hour laundromat and Mr. Chow's Chinese neon across the street. I park in front of the heavily shuttered shoe store and turn off the car.
"Ahhh... what the hell?" you mutter, leaning forward to peer out the window at the dark, deserted street, sparkling with jewels of false hope after the evening's short rain.
"We're where, exactly?"
"I do not see any damn club!"
I lean forward and point out the window at a sign across the street. Sporadically lit by a border of blinking blue lights, its faded paint reads 'DUKE's FREE HOUSE: Beer, Blues, Best Fried Chicken.'
"When you said you were taking me out to a club, I thought you meant a fucking club, not a death trap!"
"There are clubs and there are clubs, darling, and this is the latter."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"Don't know, just sounded good in my head. Come on."
I get out and come around to get your door. You shoot me a long, hard glare, then slide out, muttering too low to hear.
As we walk to the corner, a tall, rangy man comes around and stops short in front of us. His face is invisible under a gray hoodie, his hands behind his back.
"Oh fuck!" I hear you groan out.
"Hey Jimmy, 'sup?"
"Usual shit, Kis -- you?"
"Same. Keep an eye, right?" and tilt my head back to the car.
"Always, baby," and swivels to take you in, making no attempt to hide his stare. "Rocking action, baby." Assessment made, he saunters down the street, taking a stoop seat and lighting up a fat blunt.
"Who the fuck is that?" you hiss out as we continue on.
"Lucky Jimmy. He's kind of the neighborhood watch, but with a whole lot more attitude. His daddy and mine did, ah, business in the day."
"As in still alive."
We get to the dark doorway and I pull back on the heavy brass handle.
The room is wider than one would expect, and deep, with a high ceiling. Along the right wall is a long bar, with a couple of nodding regulars and a formidable black woman washing glass behind the counter, who gives us a nod. The left wall is booths done up in a red vinyl that hasn't been made since the 1960s. In between, there are scattered chairs and tables, with a few couples nursing drinks and talking in low tones.
"Again, Kis. What? The? Hell?"
"Relax, baby," as I lead you to a booth next to an enormous jukebox. I get you settled and go to the bar.
"Hey, y'self. Wha'up?"
"Whiskey and quarters."
"Ha!" she snorts, "the usual."
She drops a roll in my hand and I head for the box and start flicking through the cards. I can see you glaring at me from the table. I plunk in some quarters and move back to you.
"The reason we're here. To dance. Just you and me."
I hold out my hand and you come out to me with a touch of reluctance. I shove a few chairs away and take you in my arms as Albert Collins' If Trouble Were Money starts up, pulsing out from the big speakers hidden behind the sidewall curtains, deep and penetrating in the soul.
I pull you in close and hold you hard, swaying to the deep blues. I nuzzle your neck and you turn your head out so I can kiss down from your ear, tasting the sweet warm flesh, breathing in your scent.
"Hey, there's two dames dancing!" one of the zombies at the bar spurts out.
"Shut up, Tom. Drink your beer, if you ever want another!" Rita scolds and freezes him with a hard eye.
"What is this place?" you ask, pulling back to look at me with narrow eyes.
"This was, in its day, one of the greatest blues hangouts ever. Everybody came here, everybody played here after hours. Look at the pictures on the walls, baby -- that's Muddy and Pinetop at the bar. Elmore and Little Walter jamming, the Wolf and Willie Dixon, BB sitting six women wide and grinning like a fool. Etta, Aretha, Big Mama, everybody who was, or wanted to be somebody came to Duke's. Then Duke died and time passed and folks just forgot. Rita owns it now."
"Okay, I get it. Blues. History. Dead folk. So who are they?" tilting your head at the two hard butch women just coming in, wearing matching white tee-shirts with the sleeves rolled up high.
"Oh, that's Jen and Allie, couple of profs from the college. They like to look tough, but they're both real sweeties, been married a couple of years," I murmur, giving Jen a nod on her way to the bar. Allie goes right to the box and scoops up some of the quarters I left on top, flipping charts and popping in coins.
BB's Sweet Little Angel bursts out as she and Jen join us on the floor. The music floods the room and we dance and sway, holding our partners tight, exchanging kisses and caresses in the half-light of the old bar.
As BB's final wail fades, you and I ease away, ready to sit for a bit. Settled into our booth, you look out and see the once empty room is now filling with swaying couples, all women. Back behind the bar, Rita has her arm around a little blond tattooed angel, both moving to the music.
"So let me guess. This is a lez bar now?"
"Hey, gotta be something and why not? Blues, in its day, wasn't much different than queer today -- tacitly accepted, but still, right? So Rita and I figured, what the hell? Now grab your drink, tour's not over."
I catch Rita's eye and give her a nod up. She smiles and blows me a kiss. I take your hand and we snake through the crowd to the back of the club where the ceiling drops, faced with a wall of mirrors. I pull back a curtain revealing a small spiral staircase. Following you as we climb, I drink in your silked legs and the superb ass undulating before me. At the top, I reach around and unlock the plain panelled door, then flick on the lights, as we step in.
"Well, this is nice." The room is the width of the bar, with port red walls and a thick patterned carpet. There are old leather couches, armchairs, and a small bar at the far end. Gold framed paintings and photographs, all of women, are randomly scattered along the walls.
"It used to be a storeroom, but Rita and I thought it might make a nice hideaway."
"You and Rita...?"
"Rita? No. Order from the same menu, but very different taste in entrees. Love her like a sister."
You move to the middle, as I tick a switch and the curtains slowly open.
"Oh, cool! The mirrors!" you burble, seeing the swirling people below us.
"Yep. We see them, they can't see us. Fun watching."
You kneel down on the deep couch, arms sliding out along the serpentine top, face to the glass, scanning the action.
"Wait, is that who I think it is?" pointing at an elegant mature woman in a wildly expensive dark blue suit crossing the room to a corner booth. Following just behind is a tall, thin Asian girl with a mile of jet black hair wearing a sheer white slip of a dress that turns heads as she passes by.
I come up and spoon over you, hands either side of your head. "Yep. Surprising, too."
"That she's here?"
"No, that there's only one girl -- she usually enjoys duets."
"Think her husband knows?"
"Most likely, but I don't think he gets to say shit about what she does."
You giggle and wiggle against my pressing hips. I let my hands flow over your back and around below, filling each with an unencumbered breast, squeezing and flicking your nipples.
I nuzzle in at your ear, whispering, "Like you like this, baby."
"Mmm, I thought you might."
I ease to the floor and slip off your ridiculous high heels that make your calves look so fine. I take your feet in my hands and gently massage your arches with my thumbs through your silk stockings.
"Mmm... that feels so good."
I creep up your ankles with my fingertips, your calves, your thighs, tiny squeezes and little pinches. I hook the edge of your dress under my thumbs and shimmy it slowly up, as you sway your hips and fog the glass with your breath. I kiss your legs just above the lacy tops of your nylons, following your dress as I slowly uncover you. I sit up, my hands spread flat on the plump cheeks of your bottom, feeling the heat, the flawless smooth texture of your skin.
"Why are you stopping, Kis? Don't stop now!"
"Patience, my little harlot, enjoying my view."
Like your bra, you haven't felt the need for panties tonight. I slide down my hands, spreading your valley, laying open the vista of your enticing pink rose and the pouting lips of your cunny, glistening wet. I lean down and lick the dimple at the base of your spine, making you shiver, raising your hips higher. I blow a long breath over your anus and you gasp as I flick it with a tongue tip. I use my thumb to circle your opening, coating it with your wetness and draw it down to the base of your clit, your favorite spot, and make you moan out with leisurely strokes side to side.
"Oh fuck, Kis! Quit teasing!"
Picking up more dew, I start rubbing your clit in earnest while spiraling a finger into you, feeling the exquisite pressure as you squeeze and push back. I pull out, then in again, deeper, faster each time. You are barking out at each thrust and I can feel the tremors in your cunt. I add another finger, stroking hard into you, then curl them down, pressing and rubbing inside against my thumb working your clit.
"Oh fuck yes! Now! FUCKING CUMMING NOW!" you scream and bite down on the couch, your body convulsing under the waves of orgasm crashing through you. I hold you there as the shaking slowly fades, then gently draw back my hands. With a deep, moaning breath, you flow down onto the couch. I cover your face with tiny kisses and gently cup your cunny, as you softly hug and rock yourself. After a few minutes, you raise yourself up and look into my eyes.
"You know what you said before, that there are clubs and there are clubs?" you murmur, peeling off my jacket and letting it drop to the floor.
"You were right," pulling my face close, so I can feel your warm breath caressing my lips, "this is most definitely the latter."
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