Scotland's Finest

© 2023 PennameWombat

The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

This is one of my submissions in celebration of the Literotica 25th Anniversary Challenge.

Surprise visitors and an impromptu celebration lead to revelations and fun.

Tags: Literotica 25th Anniversary, Creampie, Mates, MF, Mind Control, Public Sex, Romantic, Shapeshifter, Straight Sex, Vaginal sex

*****

Scotland's Finest

It was, for a Wednesday night at Paddy's, not a bad crowd. No special time of year, that transition from summer to fall in a place where the border was never clear and holidays were in the past and future.

The mood wasn't frivolous. But it wasn't morose. Which is what I wanted. If I wanted morose, I'd hit the Tugboat. Where light itself went to die.

I sat at the bar and smiled at Zoya as she took my empty plate away, their fish and chips as usual top-rate. I was never sure if there was... something there, but the idea of hitting on a cute, sexy bartender always struck me as so cringe. Of course she was friendly. She was a professional, she'd sling beers and I'd never seen her stuck on a cocktail, no matter the obscurity. I'd seen her keep a bar full of drinkers hydrated and happy; I'd seen her talk down belligerent drunks who'd had one too many. I'd seen her keep her composure when assholes loudly proclaimed "you'd get such better tips if you wore a miniskirt for climbing that ladder back there!"

I didn't want to be That Guy, but the miniskirt comment had become a running joke between us, but she would look damn fine in one. I'd never seen her, or the others, in anything but black slacks and a matching button-down shirt to which Zoya added the traditional bartender's clip-on paisley bowtie. To that, add suspenders in various primary colors, tonight's red, which ran nicely outside of and drew a bit of attention to, her breasts. They weren't all that large, but she had a slim, athletic figure so were excellent highlights. It wasn't like she was totally immune to showing off just a bit, but she kept it subtle. Mostly.

I picked up my beer and sipped. The rotating taps were on Belhaven this week, and my Robert Burns Brown was down to the last quarter and it'd be Decision Time. Zoya had, as usual, noticed it but a call from her only help in the front, Janelle, who was handling the floor, meant her expression made clear she'd be expecting an answer. Another Burns, despite the calendar being nowhere near his night? Switch to their Twisted Thistle for a bit more punch? Or push into the darkness that'd engulfed the city, held at bay by streetlights and the occasional neon sign?

I scanned the multiple shelves of bottles at the back of the bar space, liquids of many colors contained in the bottles that rested there, although the varied browns of whiskies and whiskeys and rums were heavily represented, a couple of verdant bottles I knew to be examples of the Green Fairy itself and best avoided, liqueurs of varied colors and clear spirits. The ladder, the target of drunken focus, with its rollers at the base and connected to a railing at the top, rested a few feet to my left.

I knew the owner took "top shelf liquor" literally, so the higher you went, the more rarified the spirits became. I'd never gone above the second shelf, nor had any acquaintances when I'd been in a group.

We weren't a missed paycheck away from being cast from our garrets, but none of us had the extra to simply splurge and we lacked any recent or even distant events calling for asking Zoya to do more than her tiptoes. Miniskirt or not.

Beyond the ladder, Janelle and Zoya were in discussion at the far end of the bar. I was alone, past the bar, a handful of couples occupied a few of the booths along the windows. In the open dining space near them, a quartet of guys sat at one table and a trio of women at another, nearer to the little 'stage' in the corner that occasionally hosted a lone musician or the odd pair but was empty tonight. In my second to last year before hitting thirty, I guessed I was the youngest patron there, my best guess put Zoya close to me and Janelle easily the youngest, but that likely contributed to the sedate nature of the crowd.

I drained my beer and set the empty on its coaster as Janelle and Zoya parted, the server smiled at me as she strode past on the way into the kitchen area. I knew her friendliness was purely professional, I'd happened to sit next to her girlfriend one evening at this very bar. She'd been hazily familiar, and it'd turned out we both played in the city-wide co-ed soccer league and our teams had met on a few occasions, them usually being in different divisions meant that'd been rare, but as the league wasn't all that large so even rare opponents tended to be familiar. The strangest moment had been when the girlfriend had told me, as we both watched Zoya juggle multiple drunks on a busy night, "me and Janelle both had a run at that one, both shot down. Wrong team." She'd had a wistful tone, I'd simply nodded.

Zoya caught my eyes and raised an eyebrow, with that slight head tilt and smile she always used.

"C'mon, boy, quit wasting my time and make a decision," her mouth didn't say, but that eyebrow did. But I had the feeling it wasn't ONLY a question.

"A pint of Twisted Thistle," I said as she collected my empty glass, "what's up with over there?"

I flicked my eyes toward the far end of the bar. She chuckled.

"Glad you decided to stick around, keep me from getting bored. Those three old women over there," she said as she grabbed a fresh pint glass and held it under the target tap, "the blonde declared they should get stuck into a round of absinthe and Janelle tried to talk them out of it."

"Oh, shi...," she grinned as I cut off the word, a grin that indicated she agreed, but my brain didn't quite let go of her opening sentence while I spoke, "do they know what that stuff will do?"

I looked over their table, wine glasses in hands or on it, as they spoke and laughed. They were certainly older than either of us, but still likely had most of their forties ahead of them.

"From what Janelle said, no. She also has no clue how to serve it, they asked her, said they heard there's a special way. Anyway, she told me I have to deal with 'em."

"Sugar cube, water, whole show, they think they mean."

She gave me a crooked smile. "You know far too much about absinthe. You must secretly be an artist. And French."

"Oui, madamoiselle," I grinned and shrugged as she topped off my fresh pint. She'd just set a fresh coaster on the bar and had the glass halfway to its target spot when she looked toward the entrance door we heard open.

"Whoa...," she said and froze, my beer held in space.

"Uh," I managed as I twisted my head to look over my right shoulder. "Whoa" indeed.

It was a couple, a man and a woman. I'd never seen either of them before. I knew that to my very core, because I would never have forgotten the woman, although the man was definitely worth notice as well.

They were old, but not "OLD," the man maybe a few years on the trio of to-be absinthe crazed women, his hair perfectly cropped to where the graying sides and temples simply confirmed an air of distinguished maturity. Not age. He had a gray sport coat over a blue shirt that had to have been tailored to his solid physique. Not muscle-bound, not classic Schwarzenegger, but firm. His slacks were also perfectly fitted.

But the woman.

"Those tits," I heard Zoya mutter as she somehow found the coaster for my glass, professional in the extreme, "mag nif i cent."

"Oh, yeah," she'd said it, I just agreed in the same tone.

The woman's sleeveless dress was a shimmery green, the front vee cut to below her bust and the cloth runched to undergird those magnificent tits, slight bumps made clear the cloth only just covered nipples and areolas.

"Fake?" I said in the same tone, I noticed Zoya had shifted forward so we were side by side as we unapologetically stared.

"God, no," the bartender said, "shapes, way they move."

The couple stopped just beyond the little entrance foyer, not really a foyer, just a place to allow a second door to ameliorate the worst of winter's chill for those few weeks when it usually got bad. Her dress reached just below her knees, but lovingly traced her round hips and long legs, it had a slit up her extended left leg to where the leg met her pelvis. Her feet were in over the calf boots with crazy high stiletto heels, but even without those, she'd have likely been taller than her companion, I was six-one and she'd look down on me right now, and no worse than eye to eye in her bare feet.

"And I always think I'm a tall girl," Zoya said. I hummed. She was, I'd long noticed and on occasion she'd used it to glare down the overly obnoxious drunks. But she'd look up to this woman, heels or not.

The new arrival had a wildly colorful shawl around her shoulders, blue, red, green yellow, orange, beautiful colors, and held down her otherwise bare arms. Arms that were, like her companion appeared to be, toned. These two, whoever they were, had to spend quality time in gyms. Unlike the paleness of her companion, her skin was beyond olive and seemed to have a bronze cast, her hair was lustrous and fell to her mid-back, whether it was absolutely black or simply dark brown was hard to tell in the bar's lighting.

Just at that moment Janelle emerged from the kitchen, a plate of fish and chips in one hand and a hamburger and fries in the other, she froze and blinked as they turned slightly toward her. Her eyes locked on the woman's chest and she clearly responded by firming her posture and highlighting them even better. With obvious effort, Janelle forced her gaze to their faces.

"We... welcome to Paddy's," she managed, "sit anywhere, uh, let me deal with these."

"Don't let us get in the way," the man said, "we'll just sit at the bar."

Zoya and I glanced quickly at each other as Janelle walked past and momentarily blocked the view. The locals, and we had delved enough to determine we both were, didn't have overly distinctive accents, but those with attentive ears could pick up on a few cues. And this man's voice hit those cues to perfection. Not that I claimed to know everyone, that was over a million of us in any case, but it was a curiosity.

But if we weren't known for our voices, we were famous for our dedication to casual. That at least a third of the audience had worn sweatpants and tees for Pavarotti's local stop on his Farewell Tour a few years previously had engendered thirty seconds of national news time.

And this couple were poster children for "not casual."

The woman slid her right arm around the man's left and they walked toward us, I quickly shifted to face forward and caught Zoya's odd expression as our gazes met. They walked behind me and turned just the other side of the collection of beet taps and they released each other for the woman to stand just behind the third barstool from mine. The man slid behind her to the next stool.

"You don't mind if we join you? This is such a beautiful bar," the woman said.

"Oh, uh, oh, no, please, yes, it's beautiful," I managed as for the first time in my witness, Zoya fumbled at setting napkins on the bar in front of the couple. The woman's eyes were, unbelievably, darker than her hair as she smiled at me and I was certain that fangs were part of that smile. The deepest, most primitive, reptilian core of my brain screamed two contradictory directives.

The first meant that my cock was as hard as it'd ever been, almost painful in its constricted position in my jeans. The second was as strong a flight response as I'd ever felt, as if I were in the presence of an apex predator against whom the only safety was in immediately being elsewhere..

It was little surprise then, that her voice revealed her as anything but local. Zoya and I again traded glances, conversations over this bar had revealed that her family were emigres from one or the other countries formed by the dissolution of the Soviet Union, she'd not offered specifics to which one, but had said she'd been born here. That wasn't an unusual situation locally and it meant she'd lived among languages beyond my English and I'd heard her make use of those language skills with the occasional customer who shared her tongues. But her expression seemed to make clear that this woman's accent wasn't any more familiar to her than it was to me..

"What'll you have?" Zoya said with the slightest shake in her voice.

The couple looked at her as they pulled the stools out and the woman lifted her left leg to get onto the stool, which meant that the slit exposed the entirety of that taut, perfect thigh. I started to look away, but some sort of non-verbal sound, almost a musical note, and her holding the position, told me that she'd be insulted if I didn't look.

So I watched her glide onto the stool, then cross that perfect, and now bare from hip to boot, firm, perfect left leg over her right. She flashed a smile at me. Fangs. She definitely had fangs.

"What is that gentleman drinking?" The man asked Zoya in his too-normal voice.

"It smells delicious," the woman added as she shifted so both Zoya and I had clear views of round breasts, with my side position and the fall of fabric allowing the base of an erect nipple to be in view. From Zoya's expression, she had a matching angle.

"Uh, um, Twisted Thistle, from Belhaven. It's in Scotland," Zoya said with a moment's hesitation.

"Perfect, two pints of that," said the woman, whose wavy hair seemed to be bunched around two devil horns. I blinked and... no. No horns.

Zoya simply nodded and set to work on the pints. The couple leaned toward each other and obviously scanned the shelves behind the bar, the occasional finger pointed at some specific bottle, their voices so low it seemed they may not even be actually speaking. I sipped at my own Thistle, and Zoya and I traded looks, neither of us seemed willing to speak.

Janelle's movement caught my eye, she'd drifted among the tables and booths, but even now, a few eyes remained on the new arrivals. Then she'd grabbed a pitcher of water from the station at the far end of the bar and now busied herself refilling glasses.

I considered the woman's voice. She didn't seem to speak so much as... was it sing? There was a melody to even her simplest syllables, she seemed able to pitch and control it with precision.

Zoya set coasters and the two fresh pints in front of them, before she could pull her left hand back the woman;s right hand, with long, perfect nails painted deep red, touched the back of the bartender's hand and wrist below her shirt. Zoya seemed surprised but frozen. The woman gave a caressing touch then moved her hand to the pint as they both smiled broadly, then leaned and inhaled slowly from directly over the glasses. Then they lifted their glasses, and my impression of the woman's toned arm climbed an additional notch, tapped them and both took sips, seemed to hold those then took longer sips, before they set the pints down.

"Your alewives are truly potioners of the highest talent," the woman said and then continued the statement with certainty, "and you are Zoya. Your companion this evening is Quentin. You are a perfect couple. You will produce wonderful offspring."

Zoya's mouth opened as if she meant to speak, but it simply froze. I jerked my head sideways and looked at her, then at the woman. With her fanged smile. And horns. She definitely, one hundred percent had dark red horns protruding from her hair.

Then she didn't.

"Uh, um," Zoya managed, "but... we're uh, yeah. I'm Zoya. He's, uh, Quentin. We're not—/"

"Details," the woman said and waved a hand, no she'd described a future, our future, in song, dismissed any objections. Zoya and I looked at each other and shrugged. Faces were definitely locked toward us, even Janelle had frozen, that statement in melody had clearly carried to all corners.

"I and my mate would like to make a request," she said before she took another sip of her ale.

The man hit his cue. "This is a special evening for us, and you have much fine whisky on your shelves that are familiar to us. But we would like something old but new to us and unique. And."

He paused as he reached into his jacket and pulled out his wallet, opened it and handed over what must've been a credit card. But, nothing like I'd ever seen. I'd heard of the American Express Black card, never seen one, but this card seemed more of a void in reality than black. The logo was golden and intricate, not the Roman Centurion that AmEx used.

It was clear Zoya's confusion wasn't any less than mine.

"Put our tab on that. And price is no issue. Please, check it."

His voice was so normal, so unlike his, uh, his mate's, that the words took a moment to register. Finally, Zoya nodded and took the card to her register. Her back to them, she ran it and I saw her eyes widen again, before she printed a tab and set it with the card in a glass, alongside a few others. She returned to the front of the bar where the couple sipped and continued to scan the shelves.

"So," Zoya said, "what's this special occasion? So, I, uh, might work out what to suggest."

"Tonight," the man said, "is our twenty-fifth anniversary."

He and the woman turned and kissed quickly.

"Oh, hey," Zoya and I spoke in stereo, "congratulations!"

We looked at each in mild shock. A few hearty echos from around the dining room. A couple of clinked glasses.

The couple both lifted their pints and gestured toward the room, they drank in unison with a number of others. He set his beer down and turned to Zoya.

"We see you have many whiskies of such a long vintage, but we look into the future, to our next twenty-five."

Zoya's brows furrowed in concentration, then her face broke into understanding. "Fifty. You want something fifty years old."

"You are wise, child," the woman said. There was something in her voice that made that last word appropriate, there was little obvious indication of her age, but her words carried something. The contrast between the exotic nature of the woman and the utter normalcy of the man contained some sort of epic tale. Would we hear it?

Zoya took the compliment in stride, then turned and looked up. All the way up and her eyes scanned, but I doubted she could actually read most of the labels. Then she froze, nodded and turned.

"Um, I have, uh, a couple up there. But, there's one... it's uh, well, my boss said I can open it, but he said 'it goddamn better be a special occasion' to me."

"We know his god," the woman sang in a tone that matched how you'd describe a friendly neighbor, "he will not object."

"It is a full bottle?" The man asked. "Enough for anyone who wishes to share our toast to have a wee dram?"

Zoya's shock was real. No one could fake that level of complete amazement, of confusion almost beyond hope of return. Her mouth moved a few times before she managed to find her voice.

"Everyone?" Zoya asked. "The bottle is...."

"Will our credit not cover it?"

"Uh, oh, uh, no. I mean, yes. That'll, uh, it told me you could buy the building. Uh, no, the block."

It was my turn to gape as Zoya spoke so softly it barely carried to me, clearly not wanting to announce anything.

"This week we travel," the woman said, or sang, in a voice that clearly carried as heads that weren't already turned toward us did so, "celebrate all we have done together. Then we return to our six daughters... and reality."