Pavlovian Reaction

I realized something as the waiter turned and left again.

"Boss?" I looked at her with my eyebrows raised. She chuckled a bit. That was the first time I heard her make a sound that wasn't a well-constructed sentence.

"Yes, well, I was getting to that. That friend of mine needed money. It wasn't news for him, his rough estimate of the required funds was reasonably accurate, but when it came to actually paying, he had some more work to do. It was a truly tiresome experience going through all the loan offers. My experience helped, and he wasn't a complete amateur either. However, he didn't make an imposing amount of money on a regular basis, so finding an acceptable offer wasn't easy. He had slightly less than half the sum needed to pay for everything in ready cash. He simply didn't earn his money a way that could be considered a 'regular monthly income', and creditors don't look fondly on that."

I decided not to ask what he did for a living.

"Then I had an idea that completely evaded me until then. I knew his business idea was solid, and that it would at least pay back the invested money if it didn't turn a profit. It didn't occur to me to invest in it myself until then, though. While my income was, in fact, mostly of the 'regular monthly income' variety..." She smiled at this, and I did too. "I had a certain sum saved up nonetheless. A perk of not having a family, I suppose, if such a thing does have perks. All your income is your own. You do, of course, occasionally have someone who'd help you spend that money." Another smile here.

"So I did help him and we became partners. I have hardly anything to do with the management of this place. It all falls under managing human and material resources, all of that is handled by him and his employees. I just jump in to help whenever some legal issue is concerned. Hence the 'boss' from earlier, although that waiter's future here is completely independent of me."

I didn't miss the whole family thing, enamored as I was. The way she spoke about it gave away a feeling of regret. That feeling, along with every other feeling it seemed, couldn't be seen clearly in her face. I wondered whether anyone ever agreed to play poker with her twice.

I couldn't help feeling a pang of sorrow because of what she said. I was gay and wasn't planning on getting pregnant any time soon, but I considered having children one of my main goals in life. Thinking about not having them in the end hurt.

We talked a bit about the beginnings of the café, before I remembered that I had a coffee in front of me, that was sitting there getting colder, and asked her what she ordered for me.

"Oh, it's an idea we recently stole, that mass at the bottom isn't syrup on glass, it's a solid amount of Nutella." I looked at my glass in confusion, turning it around to look at it from all angles. "Nutella? All this at the bottom?"

"Yes. You can either stir it into the coffee above it, or leave it until you drink the coffee. People that order it don't seem to drink it one way more than the other, so it's up to you."

I looked at my coffee, and decided that I would stir the Nutella in. I did, it blended with the coffee as well as could be expected. I took a sip, and found that I really liked the combo. I fought the urge to inelegantly gulp the contents down as I always did when drinking coffee, and just took another small, ladylike sip and put the glass down.

She started laughing, a full, hearty laugh that vibrated throughout my body. I had no idea why she was laughing but her laughter was contagious. When she stopped, she looked at me. Another small chuckle escaped her lips and she said "That struggle you just had whether to d-..." she started laughing again and this time I joined her properly. I can only imagine how it looked when I took the glass, bringing it to my mouth probably as if I was going to swallow it whole, and then taking a sip at the last moment. I was glad of the inadvertent joke, especially since I didn't know whether she felt sad about the previous topic.

We continued talking, freely and comfortably, about random light topics. Like whether I liked Nutella. I told her that I did like it but if a jar of it was in my house, it wouldn't be threatened by me. I added that I had a much bigger problem resisting stuff like pizza, cheese and meat, which I ate enough for three people, but that sweets were never much of a temptation on their own.

All the while I wondered how I could find out for certain whether she was gay. I even felt like outright asking her. I didn't, I felt no need to rush things and to risk making her uncomfortable. I also wondered whether she purposefully kept her facial expressions so inexpressive of anything other than attentiveness; or if that simply came naturally to her. Her gesticulation was becoming more relaxed and free, she still kept her back straight, but I thought that that was natural and unforced, that she just had a firm posture. She was more at ease with her hands, drawing things in the air like the rest of us mortals from time to time; but even that was calm and measured.

I heard distant footsteps on the staircase connecting the two lower floors, and remembered a pun. Even though puns are the last thing you should say when you are trying to show a woman how normal you are, I was way too tempted, and asked her "What do you call a snobbish criminal going down the stairs?"

She cocked her head to the side a bit, smiled widely, most likely sensing how terrible this was probably going to be, but relented and asked "What?".

With a straight face I said, "A condescending con descending," and smiled as wide as I could. She rolled her eyes, but chuckled. Then she did something entirely unexpected, and I was tempted to ask her to marry me. She told me an equally terrible joke in return.

"I rarely bring myself to this low of a level but... How many narcissists does it take to change a lightbulb?" A slight pause here, with a wide smile she continued "Just one. All he has to do is hold it in place while the world revolves around him."

Before the punchline, she placed her hand on my knee. I was facing her, with one of my legs on her side of the couch, bent in that same knee she touched and tucked under the thigh of my other leg. I was very comfortable in that position until she placed her hand there, then I became aware of my entire body. I was also aware of the closeness of her own body and the warmth of her hand somehow seeped through my jeans and went up my thigh. I let out a prolonged "aaargh" at that, pinching my nose bridge, but only after I sincerely giggled.

I immediately thought that if she didn't do something sexual right after this touch, I would need to excuse myself and go to the bathroom. Not to masturbate, I couldn't do that that quickly and inconspicuously. I wanted to wipe the overwhelming amount of pussy juice that left my body since we came into the room. I hoped that she would move that hand up my thigh a little before pulling it away. Her hand was flat on my knee, not a shy, fingertip touch, instead her palm was resting on it, with her fingers extending slightly above. Every millisecond that she kept it there sent small, teasing jolts up that leg. I wasn't even sure what obvious signs of arousal I had to hide. I hid everything that I could remember though -- kept my breathing steady, kept my eyes fixed on hers and not on her lips, kept my own lips closed, tried to keep my face from blushing with all my spare willpower and kept my hands away from her as much as possible.

If she had kept her hand there for half a second longer I would have taken it myself and put it between my legs, to show her what she was doing to me. She did neither that, nor anything sexual. As soon as the punchline was over, along with my initial reaction to it, she moved her hand away. She slid her fingertips over my knee as she did so, so it was actually a short caress rather than a removal. That was that, I couldn't sit there soaked anymore, so asked her where the bathroom was. She turned, pointed at a door I hadn't noticed before, and I excused myself. On the short way there I considered the idea that that woman simply must know what a turmoil I was in and that she was probably abusing that to toy with me.

The bathroom was small, completely white, clean, but had everything one might need. So much so that it had a pack of condoms I found when I opened the mirror above the sink, to see what was there. Besides the condoms, it had a small shower, toilet, sink with a mirror, some shower and hygiene necessities, but I was most interested in the toilet. I took my pants off, sat down, saw the state of my underwear, and judged that I'd need a lot of toilet paper. I looked around, the thought that the only thing this bathroom lacked was toilet paper already going through my mind.

However, I found it. I wiped my underwear clean first -- nothing worse than putting on wet, slippery underwear. Then I started to clean myself. I stopped after the first wipe since the light pressure of my fingers on my clit reminded me just how stressed out my pussy was for the last hour at least. I ran my bare finger over my clit, swollen from all the blood rushing to it, the poor thing was expecting attention and wasn't getting any. I absentmindedly moved my finger slowly up and down my clit, numbly looking at the shower, wondering whether Vallory ever showered there, or used the condoms behind the mirror. I really wished that she didn't. Well, at least lesbian sex needs nothing more than two women; ready, willing and oh so eager. I snapped out of the short reverie when I felt my cheeks burning.

It turned out that yes, I did need a lot of toilet paper. I forced myself to stop thinking about Vallory in the meantime. I wiped myself, again, because I was wet, again, from the daydreaming, flushed and got up to wash my hands.

Then I saw myself in the mirror. My face was red. Never mind a slight blush in the middle of my cheeks, no, they were red, and my ears were, too. I hoped to God that this was a consequence of that toilet daydreaming and that I didn't look like that while I talked to her. I washed my face with cold water, along with my hands and forearms, chilling myself as much as possible. I looked back up, saw that the redness was tolerable, somewhere along the lines of "I just had a difficult shit". It'd have to do, there wasn't much more I was capable of doing.

When I exited the bathroom she wasn't, sadly, naked and waiting for me. She was at least on her phone and not looking at me directly, which meant that she wouldn't see my face in the brighter light. As soon as I came to the couch she locked her phone, put it on the table and said something about her phone feeling weird without a case on. I appreciated her ability to talk about random stuff whenever it was necessary, that was a skill I was proud of myself, and really appreciated in others. I made a mental joke about asking her whether she used the forefinger swiping and typing every older woman did, but decided against being a five-year-old.

We'd been talking for at least an hour, judging by the time on my phone screen. I had a whole bunch of notifications but I neither wanted to go through them, nor would have gone through them even if I did, since I was a decent human being that, even though sexualized the fuck out of the woman I was talking to, thought it would be disrespectful to be on my phone. I had calmed down a bit. I wasn't raging and desperate to push her back onto the couch, straddle her hips and such, I was just thinking about it quietly.

The waiter came back, but this time he knocked before coming in. Did he think he was interrupting something? The thought sent my mind racing again, thinking of a few things I'd hate for him to interrupt. I looked at her, trying to see whether she particularly reacted to the knock, or if she noticed my reaction to it. She instead just told him to come in. He did, carrying another tray with four pieces of different cakes, all fancy and just screaming diabetes at you. He told Vallory that he couldn't decide what was better, and decided to bring the top candidates up. He told her briefly what each piece of cake was made of, reminding her rather than telling her. None of them had any fruit in them, and that just made me happy. I hated fruit in sweets, it seemed pointless. It wasn't healthy, and it wasn't tastier than whatever alternative you would put in instead. He asked Vallory whether we wanted anything else, she looked at me briefly, and seeing me shaking my head, said no and thanked him.

"Excuse me for a second." She said as she got up, and walked to the glass cabinet, behind which was one of the LED strips. She asked if I wanted a drink and if I had a preference. I said that I did want a drink, and that I was fine with anything. She looked through the bottles in the cabinet, some plastic, probably with homemade stuff while most were glass. I couldn't see many of the labels, and even if I could I wouldn't know what was good. She squatted, looking at some of the lower bottles, now at eye level, and I couldn't help noticing how straight and strong her back seemed in that position. She asked me whether I was in the mood for wine or something stronger, and given that I wasn't a big fan of wine, I answered saying the latter.

She searched the cabinet with her eyes, saw something and said "Oh! I forgot about this. We made some peppermint liqueur, if you're up for that. I didn't know there was a bottle of it here, or else I would have offered it earlier. You have to try it." She placed one hand on the bottle, but continued searching the cabinet.

"That thing seems stacked with all sorts of bottles. I never really see, well, taste any difference when I drink things. Other than their strength, I mean."

She raised one eyebrow when I said this, and turned back to the cabinet. She spread out her arms, as if showcasing it and said, "What would you like a crash course in?"

I gave a few "um"s and "er"s before saying, "Whiskey, maybe?" She nodded and took out four different bottles, none of which I recognized. While she did this, I said "The only thing I heard about alcohol was that some people liked their martinis shaken, not stirred." I giggled at this, and so did she.

"Well, a study was conducted on that topic, actually. Scientists found that there are more antioxidants in the shaken version than in the stirred one. I suppose 'those' people just like more antioxidants in their drink." I laughed a little too hard at this.

She placed each bottle she took out of the cabinet on the bar, and asked me to join her there.

"We'll be drinking the peppermint later, since that's the most 'drinkable' thing I have, and I'm sure you'd prefer it to anything else. Let's get started on this crash course in whiskey now, though." She placed a short, round glass next to each of the bottles while she spoke. "Since you're familiar with Bond and his preferences, you might know that he mostly drank scotch and soda. In the books at least, not the movies. Drinking whiskey somehow always seems to scream 'I'm a real man' at you, doesn't it?" She smiled and placed her hand on the first bottle.

"So, this one is single-malt, peated scotch." She moved her hand from bottle to bottle as she spoke. "Irish whiskey, unpeated. Bourbon. Rye whiskey." All I had to say after this was that I had no idea bourbon was a type of whiskey. She poured each of these in a separate glass, and asked me to try them all. I did, and they all tasted almost the same to me.

"Alright, that's what I expected. Now I can maybe show you how knowing what to look for makes the whole experience different. Would you mind sniffing the first one, and telling me what you think?" I did, and promptly recoiled when my nose started to burn. She laughed at this and said, "Sorry, had to. You can't really inhale a lung full of air through your nose when doing that. You can either add a bit of water before doing so, or - and this may seem silly but-" She took my hand and turned it palm upwards. She then pressed the edge of the glass against it, and smeared a bit of the whiskey on it.
"Rub your hands together." I did, and she told me to smell my palms. This time I could actually smell something. While I did this, she added a bit of water to the second glass and asked me to smell that, and whether I could tell there was any difference between the two. I could tell that there was, but I was far from sure how to phrase it.

"This first one is somehow, um, smokier than the second. I don't know whether it's because of the water you added into the second one, but the first one is also more intense somehow." She smiled and nodded, and I was feeling slightly proud of myself.
"Now let's see if you can taste a difference. Actually, smell the other two as well, then close your eyes, I'll hand you the glasses and you tell me which you think is which." I blinked once, the idea that she was going to drink some and that I was supposed to taste it off her lips passing through my head for a moment.

"Oh, sure, as if my mother didn't tell me to never let my glass out of sight when I'm with strangers, date rape and all that."

She laughed at this and said, "Nice to know that that didn't keep you from closing your eyes as soon as I asked."

I held out my hand unsteadily, not sure where she was. I could feel her hand brush against mine as she handed me each glass, and I couldn't help thinking that she was going to lean in and kiss me. All I ended up getting was the four glasses, one after the other. She also placed her fingertips briefly on my hip as I took each glass from her. I passed the test, though, inexperienced as I was, guessing correctly each time.

"So, what the fuck is peat?"

She explained everything nicely to me, what tastes to look for when trying whiskey, also what things on the bottle meant, such as the number, malt, "cask-strength", etc., and I had a lot of fun listening to her. After we had finished with the whiskey, she put the bottles back in the cabinet, as I sat back down.

She took out the bottle of peppermint liqueur she mentioned earlier, walked over to where the various glasses were stacked, took two small ones and brought them back along with the bottle.

"We started making this liqueur as an experiment a few years back, we made about three or four different liqueurs, competing with one another who'd make a better batch and realized that the peppermint one was amazing. So we kept on making a few bottles every year. We make a sport of going into the field behind a small house he owns about two hours away from town and picking peppermint. Of course, as with everything in life, we make it a competition between us and end up with more than we need."

I took an actually ladylike sip this time and found that it was, in fact, awesome. Strong, too, but I liked it. I had to tell my parents to help me make this myself, I supposed it wasn't any harder than picking the mint + cleaning it + a whole lot of alcohol + sugar.

She explained to me what each of the cakes were made from and I tried each. They all tasted great, except one that apparently had raisins in it and that was just evil. I ate an entire one with caramel and almonds and half of another. I asked for a large glass water to help deal with all that sugar I just ate and she came back with a pint glass full of water. She may have meant it as a small joke, but I drained its contents in one go. At least now I'd have a reason to excuse myself to go to the bathroom again.

We sat, talked, drank. I was behaving like a normal human being. I'd gotten used to her effect on me and could mostly ignore it. If she did something that would arouse me, I'd have some issue with going back to normal, but nothing major. We drank enough for me to start feeling myself getting hotter, especially my legs, which was a sign that alcohol was slowly starting to affect me. But it took a lot more than two glasses of some peppermint juice to take down a student. The alcohol felt pleasant and I felt as if I was in my own living room.