Nangige Puka

A thumb jerk indicated we'd passed, and we entered a small lounge. Large black leather couches lined the walls. There were round tables, each capable of seating three people, spread around the middle of the darkened room. The stage was under low lighting, and I briefly wondered if the bar made such low profits that it was required to keep the room so dark. The drinks were cheaply priced, but the liquor was strong, so I agreed to stay. It had been obligatory until the piano player, a short balding man who looked to be in his early sixties announced Iris. She strode to the microphone, gripping it with a confident ease, "Evening, loves." Her eyes swept the room, taking in the twenty or some odd people in the room. I felt frozen in place as her eyes met mine. She graced us all with a bright smile, smoothing her hands on her fire-truck red dress before she began to sing. I don't remember what the tunes were, but I kept my eyes glued to her every movement until the end of her performance.. It was impossibly cold in her fingertips. She brought her hand up and touched the cube lightly to her cheek and slowly traced backwards toward her ear. She closed her eyes and moved the cube down below her ear, tracing down the cords in her neck. The ice sent shivers up and down her body as the ice kissed her neck. The heat of her body and the room made the cube melt faster, making the coldness drip down her neck, fading as it did, mixing with her sweat, making her drip all the more. She moved the cube down from her neck across the upper part of her chest. Her other hand absentmindedly started to drift down to the front of her daisy dukes, resting on the front of her crotch. As she did, her touch through the jeans landed on the piercing stud she had in her clitoral hood. The stud worked her clit like a hammer on an anvil. Ordinarily on a day less oppressive, the tight shorts alone would drive her to distraction, but the hand on her crotch and the tickling of the ice more than made up.
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