Tight Women in Hard Places

by Alicia Night Orchid

  I allowed my eyes to run over the man’s body. Strong, tanned legs rose out of ancient leather sandals and disappeared into loose-fitting shorts. I would have wagered a hundred dollars that he wasn’t wearing underwear. A well-worn Hawaiian shirt clung to his shoulders. He’d left the first few buttons open, revealing a vest of thick, curly hair.

  He said his name was Cole. I lied and told him my name was Marianna Marissa Delacroix. We talked and drank. I made up a story about how I was a teacher and was on a sabbatical to see the world. He said he tended bar at a place on Lake Pontchartrain. We drank more, and my lies got bigger—never forget that everything a writer tells you is partly truth and partly fiction. I said I had only a few months to live, having caught a rare and deadly disease in the jungles of New Guinea. He said he’d never met anyone like me.

  I rested my hand on his bare knee while looking him straight in the eye and confessed that I’d once traveled across the Sahara with a band of gypsies. And another time, I’d allowed a family of midget circus performers to have their collective way with me on the floor of an elephant’s tent. He sipped his beer and nodded. His eyes roamed over me. I leaned forward, allowing him a better view of my breasts.

  When I paused for a breath, Cole asked me what Marianna Marissa Delacroix was looking for tonight. I slid my hand just under the cuff of his shorts, bit my lower lip, and told him I thought he knew what I was looking for.

  He paid our bill, led me into the street, and hailed a carriage. We sat behind the driver, watching the horse’s ass sway sensuously. We kissed, his beard like a razor on my cheek. Then I went down on him. I wrapped my right hand around the shaft of his cock while cupping his balls with my left. I bobbed up and down and drizzled saliva. I jacked him slowly while my tongue and lips sucked and nurtured his sweetness.

  His hips began to rock until he was fucking my mouth. I licked from the base to the tip and teased his pee-hole until he pulled away from the intensity of it. I pumped the shaft while flicking relentlessly at that most sensitive spot on the underside of the head. I felt his balls rise and tighten.

  After I swallowed every drop, I kissed Cole on the cheek and told the driver to let me off. I caught the streetcar and went back to my place to become Lanie again.

  Carson McCullers was right. The heart is indeed a lonely hunter.

  Shortly before final exams, we planned an escape to the Royal Orleans for one last fling before semester break. I took extra care in preparing for our tryst, shaving and scenting myself. I dressed elegantly in a little black dress and pearls. Underneath, I wore black thigh-highs and a black thong. I wanted to make it an evening he’d never forget.

  We dined at Galatoire’s, beginning with shrimp and crawfish. I ordered pompano en croûte and J chose the stuffed flounder. We each drank a bottle of wine and stumbled to our retreat arm in arm. The night was cool and crisp; Thanks-giving and Christmas were just around the corner. I flung open the doors to our balcony again, inhaling the aroma of that bitch, New Orleans. I undressed and danced out there while he sipped brandy and watched from inside. When I was naked, save for my thong, he was on me, his erection like an iron pipe in his suit pants. He sat on a chair and pulled me across his lap. I looked up at him and smiled a nasty smile. This was a game we hadn’t played before.

  We kissed, then he began to massage my buttocks, telling me how much he loved my ass. His fingers played games with the straps of my thong, then retreated. I moaned, and he took it as a sign and brought his open hand down hard against my flesh. The mixture of pain and pleasure nearly overwhelmed me.

  I grunted, “Oh yes.”

  His touch told me to lift my hips and, in a flash, my thong was gone.

  “I want your ass,” he breathed.

  “It’s yours,” I murmured.

  He worked my thighs apart. I found leverage against his knee and ground against him. His hand opened my pussy lips and probed the slit, coming up slick. Two fingers dallied inside my cunt, playing me like an instrument. Squishy pussy sounds and the scent of arousal filled the air. People walked below us, paying no mind, lost in their own lives. His forefinger circled my clit, causing me to squirm. Then those slippery fingers strummed the deep furrow between my ass cheeks and instinctively, I clenched. His slap across my butt cheeks was firm and loving. I cried out like the naughty girl I was.

  He pushed me off his lap onto the cool cement of the balcony. He lowered his mouth to me while I swayed before him, my ass thrust high. His mouth and tongue found a trail to my asshole. In my mind’s eye, I watched him tease the brown pucker. I clenched again when his tongue entered me and his hand delivered another well-deserved swat. Then his mouth became my salvation. His tongue searched and probed my darkness, eliciting sensations I’d never felt before. I pushed against him, wanting to swallow him up. He brought me to the edge, then retreated.

  Now, well lubricated and leaking girl-cum down my thighs, I was directed back onto his lap. Gently, a finger, not a tongue, plied my asshole. He entered virgin territory and, instead of withdrawing, I pushed back again, seeking relief.

  “That’s my girl,” he said.

  I accepted him and felt his finger work deep, opening me, stretching me. Saliva drooled from my open mouth and formed a pool at his feet. I reached for my clit, needy for release.

  He pushed my hand away. “I’ll tell you when.”

  “Please . . .”

  “Not yet.”

  He pumped in and out, one finger up my ass and two inside my cunt. I lost the ability to reason, gave into the pure lust of the moment. He must have sensed my orgasm drawing near, because he withdrew and directed me off of his lap and back inside our suite.

  He held me and whispered sweetly, “How do you want it?”

  I looked up at him, face shining in the street lights, eyes hungry and needy, and told him I wanted it in my ass and that I wouldn’t settle for anything less.

  It was my first time to be fucked in the ass, certainly not my last, but I remember it like I remember the first time a boy touched my breasts, or finger-fucked me, or the first time I gave a boy a hand job or a blow job, or let him fuck me in the backseat of his car.

  J leaned me over the arm of the Queen Anne sofa, my toes barely touching the ground, my ass high in the air. He retrieved lubricant from the top drawer of the nightstand next to our bed and applied a generous handful to my ass. He kneaded my cheeks as if he were kneading a loaf of bread. I felt something hard press between them—a vibrator we’d bought at a novelty store in The Quarter. Its slippery tip prodded my rosebud.

  J spoke to me, whispering softly in my ear, “We’ll take this slow. I want you to invite me in. I will not force it.”

  In a far corner of my mind, it occurred to me that he’d probably done this before with another student, with many of us over the years. But I didn’t care. I was his choice of the moment and I wanted what he had to give. I felt myself being slowly pried apart as the vibe invaded my dark center.

  J’s words, with their carefully modulated pace, continued, “Imagine, Lanie, that your ass is loving this vibe as your pussy might. You open yourself to it; you invite it inside as you would invite your own finger or a lover’s cock. You take it a little at a time. That’s it . . . draw it inside . . . invite it inside. Yes, that’s my girl.”

  Guided by his experience and patience, I accepted that vibe as a mouth accepts a nipple, as an urn accepts its due. I allowed it to fill me and grace me with its presence. In and out, he worked and I rode that plastic cock like a stallion. I felt nasty and redeemed of my nastiness, all at once. I felt dark, yet knew that vibe was the way to the light. I felt a quickening between my legs and was awash with the syrup of my sex.

  “Oh, baby, I’m going to come.”

  J slowed to a halt. “Not yet, my girl. I’m going to take it out and give you my cock to come on.”

  “Oh, God.”

  Never was an emptiness so vast as when he withdrew, but no sooner than the vibe was cast aside than I felt his cock,
hard and needy, at my opening.

  “Pull me in, baby. Open the door and pull me in.”

  Then I was full again, filled again. And it was my J, my sweet J, filling me, his breath hot on my neck. I began to spasm after only a stroke or two, an orgasm deeper, darker, earthier than anything I’d ever experienced. It was only the first of several, as the relief came in wave after wave, each climax harder and more powerful than the last. My pussy, my ass, my pussy, my ass . . . it was all just Lanie. I whimpered, I cried, I screamed. I shook and shuddered and ground my teeth together in sweet ecstasy.

  When I was finished and my legs were too weak to stand, J was still hard inside me. Slowly, he exited and I reached behind to spread myself for him. I looked over my shoulder and saw him stroking his cock. I heard him shout my name and felt the splatters of his cum on my ass and thighs and lower back.

  “Oh baby, oh baby, oh baby.”

  And then his hairy chest pressed against me and our lips met and we kissed, tongues chasing each other like feral animals.

  Yes, yes, yes.

  Yes, there in our suite in the Royal Orleans, kissing and teetering on the edge of a ragged New Orleans night, on the eve of finals and Christmas break, we were oblivious to the fact that our lives were about to change and things would never be like this again.

  I SAW THE LIGHT

  I waved and he waved back, the curly headed one with the “Dirty Road” T-shirt. Pete, the guitar player, said I should show him my tits. I told him I wasn’t that kind of girl.

  But I did throw him a kiss. His name was Alec and he and his two buddies were on vacation from their jobs at a tire factory in Ohio. They’d attended every concert on our two-week tour through Tennessee, Kentucky, and Indiana. They’d followed our bus everywhere we went. We’d gotten to know them by now.

  Alec saluted from behind the dirty windshield of their Ford pickup.

  “I love you,” I mouthed the words and he and his buddies laughed. They punched him on the shoulders.

  I turned away and settled into my seat, intent on a few hours sleep before our concert that night. Scattered about the bus, guys in the band picked out songs, played cards, and shot the shit. Beside me, Bobby Earl rolled another joint. He’d bought some dynamite weed for the tour.

  “After I finish this, I’m going to take you to the bathroom and fuck you good,” he said from under the Stetson pulled low onto his brow. He said it like he was entitled, which he was. After all, it was his band—Bobby Earl and the Truck Stop Daddies.

  “I’m tired,” I said.

  “And I’m horny as . . .”

  “I know, a Texas toad.”

  “Something like that.”

  “I’ll give you a blow job right now.”

  His eyes widened behind the reefer’s red glow. He looked around. “I reckon no one would mind.”

  He put his hand on the back of my head and pushed my face into his crotch.

  I unzipped his jeans, took his fat cock into my mouth, and began to suck. I had him bucking like a stallion out of the chute in no time flat. I got every drop.

  It’s something you get good at when you’re the only chick in the band.

  I’m not really in the band, but I’m the opening act and I sing harmony on a few songs with the band.

  Bobby saw me playing the bars in Austin and liked what he saw. It was too good a gig to turn down. I was thirty-four years old, I had cellulite where I used to have muscle, and I’d been kicking around the scene since I was sixteen. I could still belt it out, still pick a mean guitar, and still two-step with the best, but I needed a change. I needed a place to sleep, three hots a day, and all the smoke I could toke. I needed some green in my jeans.

  Most of all, I needed a break from barroom hustlers and drugstore cowboys, from Larry Mahan wannabes and Ray Wylie Hubbard look-a-likes.

  It had been a few years since Bobby Earl’s last Top 40 hit, but he was still a Texas Outlaw icon, right up there with Willie and Townes and Stevie Ray Vaughan. He played theatres and auditoriums and the occasional convention center. He packed them in to hear his songs—“The Dirty Road,” “Forever Texas,” “Flat-Busted Floozy,” and all the rest.

  It beat the hell out of smoky barrooms and honky-tonk heroes.

  I understood the tradeoff. I’d be Bobby’s girl for the tour. That’s the way it went. That’s the business. That’s what it means to be a blonde chick singer with a nice ass and decent tits.

  It really was a dirty road.

  I got over it about the time my first paycheck cleared.

  “No way your daddy is a preacher.”

  “Why would I lie about something like that?” Alec asked.

  “I don’t know. I’m used to guys lying about everything.”

  After the concert that night, Bobby invited those boys from Ohio to join us for the after-party. He thought it was cool that they were following us around. He gave them free beer and T-shirts. He autographed CDs. After the party wound down, Bobby passed out and Alec and I went next door to the all-night diner.

  The waitress called us both honey and kept our coffee cups full. Her eyes looked like ten miles of bad road.

  “Well, I’m not a liar,” Alec said.

  “I can see that.”

  “How about your family?”

  “My daddy worked the rigs in Corpus Christi Bay. He’d get off at midnight, drink till dawn, and sleep the morning away. Momma was a waitress.”

  He winced. “That’s tough. But I can hear it in your songs. I love ‘Third Shift.’”

  I’d written that song in an alley my first week in Austin years earlier. I sang it the first time on the sidewalk, the next day for nickels and dimes. These days, I sang it to crowds who knew every word by heart.

  “Yeah, I like that song too.”

  Alec stared into his coffee. “I can’t believe I’m sitting here with Shana Shackleford. The other guys had decided to follow the tour before we even knew you’d joined. I was on the fence until I heard you were traveling with the band.”

  I smiled at him. He was just twenty-one, skinny as a birch sapling, and hard as nails. I liked his soft, brown eyes.

  “Well, I’m glad you’re here,” I told him.

  “My favorite song of yours is that gospel tune, ‘The River.’”

  “Preacher’s son, it figures.”

  “Were you really baptized in a river?”

  “Honey, I ain’t never been baptized.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You’re not one with the Lord?”

  The Lord was about the only one I hadn’t been one with, but I didn’t tell Alec. Instead, I patted his hand. “Not exactly.”

  “But in your song . . .”

  “It’s just a song, Alec.”

  “But the feelings are real.”

  “I guess. I couldn’t have written it otherwise, but it never really happened.”

  He stared out the window, watching the trucks roll by like steel stallions. “I’ll pray for your soul.”

  I would’ve slapped him if I thought it was a line. Believe me, I’ve had my share of born again prophylactic-pushing proselytizers. Come two in the morning, when the lights go down and the chairs are on the tables, they just want to fuck like all the other midnight ramblers. That one-on-one relationship they’ve got with Jesus, that little woman back home, that fancy job at the Christian corporation—come two in the morning, when the lights go down, they’ll trade it all for a slice of pussy pie.

  But I could see this wasn’t a line for Alec. He really did mean to pray for my sorry soul. More than that, he really thought it would make a difference.

  “Well, I appreciate that,” I told him.

  He left a ten on the table for the coffee. I left five more for the waitress.

  I knew how much tips meant to a working girl.

  Bobby Earl was a tiger in the morning. When he rolled over, nuzzled his three-day growth into the back of my neck, and spooned me, I knew it was time to rise and shine. He had a hard-on like a bulwar
k fencepost you could hang a five-rail gate from.

  “I love the smell of Shana in the morning,” he whispered in my ear.

  I wriggled out of my panties and T-shirt. I guided his hand to my breasts. He fondled and humped. We had the Presidential Suite at the Knoxville Comfort Inn. From what I could see from under the sheets, we shared it with Johnnie Walker, Jack Daniels, and George Dickel. Mostly empties.

  I flipped over, threw a leg across Bobby’s big, hairy belly, and straddled him. I dragged my nipples down his chest.

  “Hold on,” he said.

  He reached into the drawer of the nightstand, then searched for and found a bottle of Astroglide. He rubbed it onto and between my breasts. When I was slipperier than a pig in the mud, I slid his cock into my cleavage. I clasped my breasts around him and he commenced to thrust.

  “You like that, baby?”

  “You know I do,” he said.

  I bit my lower lip, sexy like, and pinched my nipples. “Fuck my titties, Bobby,” I whispered between clenched teeth.

  He didn’t have to be told twice.

  I guessed him to be forty-five. He’d packed on a few pounds, a few wrinkles, and a few gray hairs since his infamous and groundbreaking “Dirty Road” tour. But he was still cute in a pudgy, grizzled sort of way. As a girl living at home with my folks, I’d kept his poster on the wall of our double-wide. You had to look hard to find the Bobby Earl on that poster in the man lying beneath me.

  “Oh, yeah,” he groaned and squirmed.

  I felt it hot and sticky. I milked him like a farmer milking a heifer. “Give it to me, Bobby. Give it to me.”

  When it was over, he said, “Girl, you are something.” He panted like a house afire.

  I kissed him on the cheek and settled next to him, both of us staring at the ceiling. Hot and sticky turned to cold and damp real quick.

  He lit us both a smoke before his cell phone rang. He checked the LCD, turned, and sat on the edge of the bed with his back to me. “It’s Maggie,” he said over his shoulder.