Scotch On The Rocks Novels & Stories

Did I truly have to choose between them? I reached for the bottle of scotch that sat untouched on the shelf, a peace offering from James that now seemed like a cruel joke. The amber liquid glinted in the dim light, beckoning me with a false promise of solace. Today, I couldn't resist its call. The first sip burned a fiery path down my throat, a temporary distraction from the storm brewing inside. I poured myself another, and then another, the warmth spreading through my chest a poor substitute for the comfort I craved.

At least I’d know if she’s gotten home safely. I walk up the block with my hand in pocket, holding Claire’s rings as they brought me comfort and enter the bar. I sit at the first bench by the door. “What can I do you for?” Asks the old man with a southern accent behind the wooden bar. “A Scotch on the rocks. Make it a double.” I say as I stare at the bottle. “Sorrows drowned by scotch will be nothing but sorrows tomorrow.” The man said with a small smile as he placed my drink in front of me.

Alex entered his penthouse and slowly made his way towards the small bar built-in along the wall leading to the kitchen. It contained booze of various brands and flavors he hadn't touched in a long while. But today, the drive to do so was irresistible. Opening the cabinet door, he pulled out a large bottle of untouched scotch along with a shot glass. Without bothering to wipe the shot glass, he uncapped the bottle, poured himself a shot of the scotch, and downed it in one gulp.

This scotch was a special fine blend, a collection tickling his sensitive taste buds seeking the most hidden vapors, those fine, almost hidden senses that overshadowed his initial desires. Instantly incited, he had to make the effort to get all the sensation from her, both on the outside where the taste treasure was nestled within the crinkly folds of her entrance, and then forcing his tongue inside, beyond the barrier muscle which opened for him. There he found actual droplets of pure pleasure. Rose moan loudly with pleasure as his tongue found the prize, then moved slowly around to reap what low-hanging fruits was there. Then like a gift, Rose relaxed her muscle even further so his effort

He smiled brightly and reached for a couple glasses from under the bar top. “Something different. I like it. Gets me out of routine.” He told me, shrugging his shoulders and reaching for a bottle of Johnny Walker. “Scotch neat if I remember right.” He smiled, pouring me a glass, and sliding it over to me. I nodded and turned my attention back over to Cohan and Chris. “Beer?” I asked and both nodded, so I redirected to Rudy and asked for 2 beers for my associates. He was quick; however I changed my attention back to the beautiful redhead sitting only a few seats away from me.

He turned on his heel and walked out without waiting for me. I waited until his footsteps faded down the hall before I hurried back to the vanity. My hands were shaking slightly as I uncorked the amber bottle. I grabbed the crystal decanter of twenty-year-old scotch from the side table in the hallway, poured a heavy double into a lowball glass, and tipped the bottle. One drop. Two drops. Three. The liquid vanished into the amber alcohol instantly. No fizzing. No cloudiness. Nothing. "Drink up, you son of a bitch," I whispered.

Cold liquor hits my belly in a thick stream, splashing, running fast down my sides, pooling in the dip above my mound before dripping right over my clit and mixing with the mess already leaking out of me. I hiss at the chill. It burns a little where it hits my overheated skin. He slams the bottle down, and his mouth crashes onto my stomach first—big, sloppy licks scooping up the scotch, tongue flat and greedy, dragging over every inch until he’s following the rivulets lower. He bites the soft skin just above my clit, hard enough to sting, then soothes it with a long, wet swipe. “Fuck, you taste dirty,” he growls right against my folds. “Scotch and pussy juice. My favorite fucking cocktail.”

I fled toward the bar, desperate for distraction, when the stares of other men began to suffocate me. “Scotch. On the rocks,” I whispered, my voice trembling. The glass slid across the polished counter, its weight heavy in my trembling hands. My fingers shook as I lifted it, the amber liquid catching the light like molten gold. The first sip seared my tongue — pungent, smoky, a firestorm of bitterness that clawed down my throat, sharp and unforgiving. For a fleeting heartbeat, I savored its burn, the illusion of strength it promised.

Or whatever it is I'm doing right now. "Do you like scotch, then?" he says finally. "Actually, I've never had scotch," I blurt without thinking. When I realize I've just undermined my whole pick-up strategy, I rush on. "I mean, I've had whiskey. That's like scotch, right? Or..." Oh shit. What am I even talking about? "Or is scotch the same thing as whiskey? Or just whiskey that comes from Scotland? I know bourbon and whiskey are the same, and I like bourbon, and..." Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP.

He asks as he pours. I shake my head, accepting one of the glasses. “Dinner will be served in a minute. Do you want to sit down for a bit or should we go out on the terrace ?” “Terrace”. I hurriedly answer. Some cool air might calm down the fireflies. I take a sip of the golden liquid and make a face. So Scotch is a fancy name for whisky. Bad idea to just slam it down. The heat of the strong spiritus spreads in my stomach and it helps a bit with the nerves, so I take one more sip.