Cat on the Fence II

"You know... I really have to pee," Her words were short, and she stepped around the man before her with no regard for her father who sent her a disapproving glare as she moved in haste almost seemingly unwarranted. Her heels were loud, her strides were long, her frown seemed to be set quite deeply, and the man watched without pause — he was staring at her. He continued to stare as she ascended the stairs, though his motive wasn't the best. His eyes watched mainly her hips, was that wrong? That he was at the party of an eighteen-year-old girl and all he could do was stare at her hips and her ass and how they moved and how she skipped up the staircase. Mesmerising. Jailbait.

His own leave was soon, and he made his best efforts to follow the girl with a short and mindless apology. In fact, it took a great internal debate to decide which direction she had taken the moment he became faced with a landing which forked. And Perhaps the path he had taken, the door to the balcony, was a sign that he couldn't and wouldn't be arrested for the fact he had been given a blue-steeler by a barely-legal merely walking up some stairs. The girl turned to face him almost instantly, interest shadowed by the late-night lighting and stifled by bitter-sweet night air.

"Hey," Though she wanted it to be, her voice was far from smooth as she delivered a sweet greeting. It was raspy and broken and sounded more of a question than anything else... but it was just enough for the man. It sparked something odd in his chest as he approached, it was something so small and stupid in a way which made him smile quite shamelessly. That was the odd thing. The amusement that stuck out and throbbed like a sore thumb.

"Happy birthday," the foreign boss' voice was far smoother than hers; enviable. If it were a competition, he would have won — though what prize? A pat on the back? A word or two of encouragement? A back-alley blowjob?

And as he approached, his arms swung lazily. It was almost as though he didn't entirely want to be there (though he did). In fact, he did with all of himself. He wanted to know if the girl's eyes were just as blue in person as they were in the photograph. He wanted to know if her stomach was warm beneath her shirt. He wanted to know if her lips were soft, if her breath was warm, if she'd gasp sweetly if his fingers flexed around her neck, if she'd lose breath, if she'd squirm, if she'd moan, if she'd cum...

"'haven't heard that tonight," and the girl laughed, mostly to herself, as the man stood by her side, setting his hands on the railing before him — though his eyes were not trained on the streets, but instead the girl. Her lips were painted a tearful pink, the colour deep against her pale complexion. Each shadow was raised under the lights of the street below, combating the moon and the New York sky above. "What brings you up here, anyway?"

"I was hoping you could tell me that," His words were met with a laugh once more, hard from her lips and accompanied by a smile on her part. It was far more glorious than the smile she gave Richard (or Robert, or whoever the hell he was exactly). And though he wanted so badly to hold his composure, the man failed to resist a smile of his own — the same smile he had presented earlier, the smile that came from taking amusement in something so little and insignificant.

"Well, aren't you quite the smooth talker?" She spoke her own words musically, an eyebrow quirked and a studying gaze upon man beside her... and yet there was something missing in her stare. Perhaps it was the fact that a sense of rest was absent, the fact that she seemed to be too suspicious and questioning to look satisfied and present. "I'm up here 'cause I don't want to be at that stupid party where they treat me like a renaissance prostitute," and at that, she didn't smile — instead, the corners of her lips quirked upwards slightly and her eyes narrowed as though she just had a thought. Even better than a smile, the expression seemed to draw a sense of longing from his groin. That much he couldn't deny.

His own undeniable smile somehow grew. "I'm here because no girl should be speaking of their sweet eighteenth like that," His words were, indeed, of an accent equal parts foreign and intriguing. The rumours and office mysteries were true — he was an immigrant. Since when, by social standards, did that become attractive?  That was all Blue could think of. Last she was aware, the kids in her grade were being mocked and isolated by the basis of their accents alone... and yet here this man was. A fault. An exception. Exceptional.

"I take it you know all about the tendencies of eighteen-year-old girls then..." Her remark was quick and smart as her thick, dark eyebrow quirked once more, as if following the beat of her own words — the chorus that left her lips of salt, a bold sense her words followed. She was enchanting and fluid. She never seemed to do things all at once, she seemed to move in a progression of different actions. It was a strange thought. Vincent hoped that he had plenty of other things left to pick apart, should she allow him. She was intriguing. She was exciting. She was unbelievably complex in so many more ways than one. "Besides, I've been eighteen for almost a month now..." So not barely-legal.

"If I'm so heavily mistaken, perhaps you could teach me about said 'tendencies' of eighteen-year-old girls," and as he delivered a remark of his own, the girl somehow laughed yet again, and yet she still managed to not sound forced. It was as though she was genuinely amused. What a strange sight in a woman, indeed. It was something that made him wonder if she was ever one to take much seriously. He wondered if she ever stopped making jokes and remarks. He wondered how she ever held conversation. He wondered if she was just as free-spirited and young as she seemed to all, or perhaps she had just had more wine than he had thought she had.

"Damn, you are smooth," In one movement, the girl moved — and she suddenly turned to face the man by her side with only one arm on the balcony railing to support her weight. The two were shrouded in an evening darkness of mystery with nothing but a dull illumination cast both from shy streetlights and interior lighting. It was a beautiful display — for Blue to watch the man's features carved with a delicate hand from the evening aura, and for the man to watch the girl's image dance and sway beneath the lighting provided. Breathtaking. Jailbait.

"I can tell you like it," It took only a moment for the girl's smile to twist into a mocking frown. It was still far better than anything Robert or Richard would ever get from her. "No — you can tell I don't like it-" The corners of her mouth flickered upward as she spoke, her eyes reflecting the delicate lighting that fell from within the house with nothing but a reminder they were in a fragile position. The doors weren't locked, their voices weren't low...

"See?" He lifted a hand to motion towards her.

"What?"

"That little smirk right there — you like it," She pushed his hand away from her, her face falling to a dark, challenging emotion as he watched her with a growing interest. The interest somehow seemed to be nothing but the same, small, reasonless, stupid amusement he seemed to have grown familiar with that evening.

"I don't have a smirk, you idiot-"

"Blue?!" It took that very moment for the girl's smile to fall again, though this time it didn't fall to an expression with quite as much of a positive emotion. Instead, it fell to a distant and occupied glance towards the door as she searched for the obnoxious source. She knew it was her father — she knew she'd better get inside for the sake of her not being shunned or cast to the street. Her options were obvious; one in front of her, one to her side... a guy with a thick accent and nice clothes, or a door leading to other men with thick bellies and nice clothes. She had to take her pick... though one also led to certain death. Certain death was ignoring the latter.

"I have to go-" Her words were broken as the man's hand shot forward with little decision and dwarfed her upper arm. In only a moment, he steered the girl in front of himself and shoved her against the balcony railing — the metal was harsh against her stomach as the impact forced a surprised grunt from her lips, but hey, she had a view. Better yet, he had his hands on her stomach pressingly and her entire rear side against himself. Blue didn't dare to speak a word.

"Blue?" The voice grew nearer in sync with the pace in which Blue became increasingly aware this stranger's crotch was right against a stretch of skin rhyming with 'angina', yet all she could focus on was that and the sound of the door opening — not the fact that, if she wanted to not be screamed at for half an hour when she inevitably resurfaced, she'd have to make a fast escape. "Vincent? Have you seen my daughter?" It was her father. Vincent had the nerve to have his lips right by the skin of her neck exposed as her dirty golden hair fell over her shoulders. She almost shivered to the effect, something that could have compromised her position.

"No, she might have popped out for a minute... have you checked out the back? I heard there's a group drinking out there," The man's voice was low as he spoke into her skin, her heart thumping in her chest to the very tune of the contact. Blue couldn't help but wonder how her father couldn't see her legs — she wondered if Vincent had the brains to stand with his feet together and grin and bear the pain she knew he felt with her heels on his toes. Little did the girl know, the man was far too taken by each inch of her skin against his to even notice the pinch against his toes, if there ever was one. The cause was far more significant to him and his manhood than the effect in that very moment. What the hell was wrong with him?

"Okay... give me a shout if you see her,"

"Will do," His breath warmed her skin and his hands tugged her groin against his own, and he held her against himself with all his present mind. Yet when the distant sound of a door being swung was audible, Vincent's grip on Blue did not falter, and his lips bowed to the crook of the girl's neck. The very crook he had breathed so painfully in to.