<strong>Susan Cochrane<br/>In a Bar's booth<br/>Going with the flow</strong><br/><br/>"I"d say they think a lot of you.  But it's a bad habit for them to have."<br/><br/>She unclipped the holster from her belt at the small of her back, slipped it into the bag,  the black-handled butterfly knife was fished out of a bck pocke, likewise into the bag.  "The .380 has no safety, it's double action.  Be careful with it.  No clip to eject either, the rounds feed in through the ejection port."  Susan stood with some soothness, braced a foot against the table edge, began unlacing her shoe.  Slowly.  "The knife is combat sharp, not razor sharp, but be carefull."  Slowly pulling the shoe eoff, rolling up he jeans, very slowly rolling down her sock, slipping it off her foot, tucking it in the shoe, setting the shoe on the seat she had jsut left.<br/><br/>And slowly repeating the process with her other shoe.  "I would never disobey an order simply to be disobeying an order.  Very poor form and a bad habit to have."   Her eyes on that whip, never leaving it.  Watching it the way a bird watched a snake.  Her voice wasn't shaking, and she kind of marveled at that as she stood straight.  Swaying to the beat, then a bit more.  Not a professional stripper by any means, she was a bit unsure... she decided to follow her gut,  as she stepped back from the table, stepped to Mara's side of the table to make sure the younger woman got a good view.<br/><br/>Something in her head was shutting down.  She wasn't as on edge.  Not as alert.  Her attention was focusing on the music.  On Mara's eyes.  On that whip.<br/><br/>That whip.  Something in her gut was waking up.  Those eyes.  Something along her spine was turning to heated ice, it felt like.  A shift in the tempo of the music, she turned around, her back to Mara. hands griping the bottom hem of her t-shirt, smoothly pulling it off and God, gooseflesh all over.  Not the hot passion of disrobing/being disrobed  for or by a lover.  But she could feel herself heating up.  She dropped the shirt near her carryall, and as she pulled off her sports bra, she turned again  as her small breasts came free before the younger woman's eyes.<br/><br/>Very objectifying eyes, studying a... toy.  Not a person, really.<br/><br/>Well.  Susan had blown her stack when guys looked at her like that.<br/><br/>No woman had ever looked at her like this.<br/><br/>She began running her fingers along the tops of her jeans, slowly around from spine to navel and back, then unbuttoned her fly, zipped it down, worked the jeans off her hips... she wasn't good enough to keep dancing and get the damn jeans off at once, she stopped, and pulled them down, stepped out of them.<br/><br/>The panties... were a lot less cumbersome. Almost despite herself, or maybe not despite herself, she found herself enjoying this.  Mara seemed to be enjoying this, but the way she was running that whip through her fingers was alarming.  Not entirely in a bad way.<br/><br/>Now or never.  Susan hooked her fingers in her panties and started drawing them down, sturning slowly as her hips swayed, her head nodde, her feet shuffled in time to the music.  Wondering what Mara would make of the shrapnel scars on her outer right leg, the line on her lower left arm  left by a shred of hot metal that had grazed her on the way to killing the driver of the humvee.<br/><br/>A sign that the street doctor was no stranger to physical pain.  Maybe a challenge to be met?<br/><br/>Susan stopped turning, still swaying slightly, she faced Mara dircetly as she skinned out of her panties, held them to one side.... and dropped them.   Then she she went into parade rest, feet slightly apart, hands behind her back, tsanding straight.  Meeting the Domme's eyes directly.<br/><br/>And ignoring the voice in the back of her head telling her she was out of her fucking mind.  Hell, she knew that already.<br/><br/>She had been for almost a year.