Tight Women in Hard Places

by Alicia Night Orchid

  After work on Monday, she walked from the library to Dupont Circle, where she dined alone at an Italian restaurant. On Tuesday evening, she worked out at the gym before grabbing sushi at a little spot on K Street. After leaving the library on Wednesday, she met with her book club at a coffee shop in Georgetown. Thursday, she hit the gym again and dined at a French bistro near the Capitol with a former coworker, a gay man in the midst of a midlife crisis.

  Back at her apartment that evening, she undressed, indulged in a single glass of red wine, selected a thin volume of erotica from her bookshelf, and using a discreet, pink vibrator, masturbated to the images conjured up by her favorite story.

  The story was about a woman who discovers the man in the apartment across the way spying on her through a telescope. At first, the woman is outraged, but then the thought of being on display begins to appeal to her. Over time, the woman and the man engage in an intricate courtship. She flits about her apartment in various stages of undress, dances the rumba naked under the man’s watchful eye, and even touches herself for their mutual benefit.

  The story never failed to work its magic and it wasn’t long before Kate was bouncing on her sofa, her vibrator buzzing.

  After pushing herself to a gut-clenching orgasm, she collapsed in a puddle and felt the familiar loneliness wash over her that often followed her Thursday-evening ritual. As she neared age forty, was this all that remained? A glass of wine and a vibrator?

  She feared it was so.

  Although the workouts kept her fit and she was attractive enough beneath her bangs and behind her glasses, she’d never really connected with any of the men she’d dated over the years. Eventually, the conversation turned dull and the sex mechanical. Stick this here, move this there.

  Nothing like the sex in her favorite story.

  Kate wiped her vibrator clean and returned it with a kiss to its velvet holder. She turned off the reading lamp, shuffled across her carpet to the floor-to-ceiling window, and flung open the curtains. Her nakedness hidden in the shadows, she peered across a courtyard into the apartments of an adjacent building. Most of the rooms were darkened. Only a few were lit well enough to offer a glimpse of the lives that took place within.

  She sighed. No one returned her gaze.

  The next morning, she was deep in the stacks, returning books to their rightful places, when she felt a presence behind her.

  “Excuse me,” he said. “I’ve been looking for those.”

  She turned to face Mr. Ponytail. He rested against a nearby table, his long lean legs stretched out before him.

  “Oh, you startled me,” she managed.

  He extended a hand. “I suppose I should introduce myself. I’m Michael Dane, a history professor from Greenwich College.”

  “I’m Kate Summers, the librarian, but I guess you knew that.”

  “I offered to steady your ladder last week. Remember?”

  She tried not to wince. “I remember.”

  “Anyway, I’m researching a book. I’m looking for letters written by Union soldiers during the Civil War.”

  “You’re in the right area.”

  He grinned mischievously and pointed to the highest shelf. “I think that’s the collection I’m looking for. I hate to ask, but is there any chance . . .”

  Kate shot a look at the leather-bound volume to which he pointed. “Do you need it right away?”

  “I’d like to see it as soon as possible. The book, I mean.”

  “The book. Well, of course, the book.”

  “I suppose I could get it myself, except . . .”

  “No, that’s against policy. Liability issues, you know.”

  He was no longer grinning and his dark eyes seemed to penetrate her soul. “So, you wouldn’t mind . . .”

  Kate sensed that this was about much more than a book, but felt she had little choice but to go along. “Not a bit. It’s my job, after all.”

  “Then I’d really like to see it. The book, that is. I’ll wait here, if that’s all right.”

  “That’s fine.”

  Then, he reached out and placed his hand on her forearm. “I know it’s fine, but do you really want me to? That’s the question.”

  “Want you to . . .”

  His eyes bored into her. “Wait at the bottom of the ladder and watch while you go up.”

  Suddenly, what had started out as an innocent flirtation had taken a turn. They were alone in a deserted part of the library, playing an indelicate game. She felt loose and uncertain inside and had to fight to maintain her composure.

  After a moment, in an almost inaudible whisper, she said, “Yes.”

  “Yes, what?”

  The words welled up from deep inside. “Yes, I really want you to watch me climb the ladder.”

  “Then I’ll stand right here,” he assured her.

  “It’ll only take a sec.”

  “Take your time.”

  As she mounted the ladder and began to climb, she sensed his eyes on her calves, then her thighs, and then her firm bottom—the beneficiary of those twice-a-week sessions on the Stairmaster.

  “There, that’s pretty close,” he said. “Just a little to the left.”

  Her hands were sweaty and that secret place between her legs was sticky. This was unladylike, bordering on the obscene.

  But she couldn’t resist.

  She leaned, bent slightly at the waist, and felt her skirt rise well over her knees.

  “Yes, right there,” Michael Dane said. She thought he sounded a little breathy.

  “Is that what you’re looking for?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m looking for.”

  She clutched the heavy book to her breast and began the journey down. He shifted position for a straight up-the-skirt view. She could have called him on it, slapped him across the face, or scolded him.

  But she didn’t.

  By the time she reached the bottom rung, the stickiness between her legs had become a sheen on her thighs.

  “Thanks,” he said when she handed him the book. “That was nice. Very nice.”

  She couldn’t face him. Her eyes dropped and inadvertently fixed on his crotch. There was no mistaking the erection pulsing in his jeans.

  “No problem,” she managed. “I’m glad to do it.”

  He took her hand. “Then maybe you’d like to have dinner tonight.”

  It crossed her mind that they’d probably miss her at the Thai restaurant where she usually picked up take-out on Friday evenings.

  “I’ll have to check my calendar,” she said, trying to maintain at least a semblance of decency. “But, sure, I’m free. I mean, where did you have in mind? What time were you thinking?”

  That evening over dinner, he said that if she trusted him, he’d never place her in danger. He promised to be discreet.

  Then he exposed her for the first time.

  1776 in Georgetown was the kind of restaurant where politicians made deals, parents dined when they visited their children at college, and young couples fell in love. As he sipped an expensive Cabernet Sauvignon and dined on rack of lamb, Michael Dane suggested that Kate remove her bra and release the top button of her silk blouse.

  Her hands trembled in the ladies’ room.

  When the middle-aged waiter took her order, her brownish-pink aureoles rolled and flashed beneath a sea of white. The waiter’s eyes devoured her. And Michael smiled knowingly.

  Under the table, he nudged a hand up her skirt, pushed her legs open, and grazed her thighs with his fingertips. An older woman at a nearby table raised an eyebrow.

  On the cab ride to her apartment, he asked her to remove her top. While the cabbie stole furtive glances in the rearview, Michael sucked her bared breasts. Passersby and pedestrians gawked, then giggled or shook their heads in disbelief.

  He allowed her to wear the blouse to her apartment, but insisted she leave it unbuttoned. The wispy blonde in a T-shirt and shorts with whom they shared the elevator pretended not to notice Ka
te’s disheveled appearance or the wet spot blooming on her companion’s trousers.

  Once behind closed doors, he took his time opening the curtains, but leaving the lights off for what he characterized as their “initial encounter.” He reclined on the sofa and directed her to undress in front of the window where she’d stood alone a few days earlier. She removed one article at a time—the blouse, the skirt, the thigh-high nylons. When she was naked, except for her glasses, he told her to turn around.

  “Bend over,” he said.

  She leaned, steadying herself with a hand on the window. There would be a smudge in the morning.

  “Show me,” he whispered.

  She rested her forehead against the glass and clasped her ass cheeks in her hands. She lifted and separated.

  She heard him stand, then felt his presence like she’d felt it in the stacks earlier in the day. There was a rustle and a click, and then his penlight reflected in the window. She squinted at its brightness as he examined her, the pucker and the crinkle, the folds and rilles. She hadn’t expected the light.

  “Lovely, but you need to shave,” he said.

  “Down there?”

  “Of course, down here. Touch yourself.”

  “You mean . . .”

  “Your clit.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “It’s swollen to the size of an olive.”

  “Oh my.”

  “Show me some pink.”

  “You mean . . .”

  “You know what I mean.”

  She opened her pussy lips and felt the probing light. His breathing quickened as he inspected every nook and cranny.

  “Now your asshole,” he whispered.

  She planted her feet wider, thrust her hips out farther, and tugged at her sensitive flesh. The penlight’s reflection in the window moved.

  “That’s beautiful,” he said. The light flashed off. He stood and leaned against her, pressing her forehead against the cool glass. His breath was hot on her neck.

  “Finger yourself,” he said, his breath an explosion in her ear.

  She didn’t have to be told twice. She circled and rubbed.

  She heard him move away. He settled on the sofa, unzipped his trousers, and withdrew a long, hard cock.

  “I’m watching you,” he whispered. “I’m watching you finger-fuck yourself.”

  “Oh, Michael.”

  “You’re such a wanton slut beneath that proper façade.”

  She’d never thought of herself like that, but she liked hearing it—liked the way it made her feel more than she could have imagined.

  Michael Dane’s reflection stroked and tugged.

  “The men across the way are watching you,” he said. “They’re pulling their dicks, wanting you.”

  It was unlikely that anyone could see inside the darkened room, but the idea drove her crazy. The squishy sounds of her pussy filled the air. Her knees were weak, her thighs trembling.

  “Oh yeah,” she moaned. “Oh yeah.”

  “Tell me when you’re close,” he said.

  She thrust her pelvis in rhythm with her hand. She felt the pressure build at her core. “Almost, almost.”

  “Face me,” he said.

  She whirled and sunk to the floor, legs wide. One hand clutched a nipple, the other danced on her clit. Her eyes fixed on his cock, his movements a blur.

  “Now, now, now,” she gasped.

  He stood and took two strides. As she ground out her orgasm, riding wave after wave, she watched him shoot once, twice, three times, rich and creamy, onto her chin and breasts.

  She collapsed against the window. He leaned over and kissed her, their tongues swirling.

  “Do you trust me?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’ll take you to heights you’ve never imagined.”

  Michael picked her up the following morning in a BMW convertible coupe. As instructed, she wore a T-shirt and a denim skirt that buttoned down the front. No bra or panties, even though it was Saturday, not Friday.

  He wanted to visit the Civil War battlefield in Fredericksburg. Half an hour on the road, he pulled out to pass an eighteen-wheeler. As they came alongside the trucker, he told her to unbutton her skirt.

  The trucker’s jaw dropped when he peered into the convertible and saw Kate’s creamy thighs and patch of black pubic hair. Behind her sunglasses, she was dizzy with lust.

  Farther down the road, she flashed her breasts at a man and woman traveling in a minivan. The man winked and the woman appeared to chastise him.

  While standing in line for lunch at a fast-food restaurant, Michael reached behind, pulled her skirt up, and caressed her ass. A single man seated across the way nearly choked on his Whopper.

  That afternoon, instead of using the park’s facilities, Kate squatted and pissed at the edge of the woods. Michael wiped her off with a Kleenex while two staid-looking women in casual Polo attire rubbernecked from the parking lot.

  Just south of the city, he exited the highway. In a farmer’s field, in the pink light of a setting sun, not twenty yards from the road, he fucked her for the first time. He positioned her on the hood of his car so she could see the cars passing by over his shoulder. She was so wet no foreplay was required—the whole day had been foreplay. She started coming the moment he pushed inside, one mind-shattering orgasm after another. Weak and shaky, she finished him on her hands and knees, clutching his hips and pulling him deep into her mouth.

  They put the top up and she rode back to the city naked as the day she was born.

  He would be in town for two more weeks before returning to upstate New York and a new class of freshmen history students. He was divorced with children from a previous marriage. There were other women in his life, but it would have surprised Kate to learn otherwise.

  She followed his lead, knowing they’d have to make the best of their short time together.

  One morning, while two white-haired professors debated the merits of a 19th century text on Andrew Johnson’s impeachment, she sat at a nearby table pretending to sift through a book catalogue. While Michael watched from the shadows, she opened her legs wide enough to reveal the white panties beneath her black pinstripe skirt. It could have been absentmindedness.

  First one professor, then the other, peeked over his reading glasses. By the time Michael whispered, “Enough,” she’d soaked herself and perfumed the air with her pungent scent. As she walked away, she could hear the professors slapping each other’s back and chortling, as if they were schoolboys getting away with something.

  Michael met her in the 3rd floor ladies’ room where she ground out a quickie while sitting on his lap.

  One evening, at the hotel where Michael was staying, she stripped naked, except for her heels, and wrapped herself in his raincoat. While he sipped a drink in the lobby bar, she flashed the concierge from a second-floor landing. Afterwards, Michael took her to his room, led her onto the balcony overlooking Wisconsin Avenue, and dropped to his knees. She thrashed about on the tip of his tongue while pedestrians passed just yards below.

  On another day, they took in a midday matinee at a downtown theatre. She jacked him off onto her breasts while another couple cast suspicious glances over their shoulders. She wore the sticky remains of his come all afternoon.

  By the end of that first week, they’d grown even bolder. While riding the Metro back from a restaurant in Arlington, Michael reached deep into her slacks and fingered her hard. Across the aisle, a middle-aged woman looked up from her Washington Post, bit her lower lip, and squirmed. When Kate grunted out her climax, the woman squeezed her thighs together and made a whimpering sound.

  On Saturday morning, Michael set his video camera on a tripod, attached the feed to her desktop computer, and streamed her first anal sex experience onto a website specializing in live amateurs. While the camera whirred and people all across the globe squinted at their screens, Kate knelt on her bed, her backside high in the air. Michael lubed her rectum and probed
gently, first with his finger, then with a silicon plug. Only after she’d learned to relax and accept the intrusion did he stand over her and work his cockhead into her opening. Using a remote to adjust the camera angle, Michael shifted the focus to Kate’s pretty face.

  “Fuck me,” she whispered to 1.2 million viewers, Kate the Librarian in her dark-rimmed glasses, “fuck me in the ass.” When Michael buried himself, balls-deep, inside her, she screamed like a cat in heat.

  The video clip received a 4.8 out of a possible five.

  Two nights later, Michael appeared at her apartment door with a couple Kate had never seen before. She guessed the man was in his forties. His female Asian companion was young enough to be his daughter. Michael poured drinks while Kate ran hot water, perched herself on a kitchen counter, and applied shaving lather to her pubis. The young woman unfurled the man’s soft, pink cock. While he watched Kate shave her pussy until it was as smooth as a wine glass, the Asian girl sucked and lapped. The man’s breathing quickened, his face turned red, and he half-rose from his chair with a groan. His companion’s red lips never left him, relishing every drop of her lover’s nectar.

  Their last night together, Michael rented a large suite at an uptown hotel. He pushed the furniture against the wall and placed a straight-backed chair in the middle of the room. He stripped Kate naked, bound her to the chair, and gagged her mouth with a thong. Her “safe” gesture was to shake her head right to left three times.

  Strangers began to arrive. After a while, the room was crowded. They drank cocktails, talked in low voices, and ignored Kate, except for the occasional errant glimpse.

  After a while, Michael announced that it was time for the show to begin. He produced an oddly shaped vibrator, long and thin with a bulbous head. He rubbed it first on her breasts, then slid it down her belly. While the crowd watched, Michael dipped the head into Kate’s newly shorn pussy. The pleasure was excruciating. Ten to twenty pairs of eyes stared as Michael dipped in and out, then held the slickened instrument to her staining clit.

  She tried to move, but the bindings were too tight. There was no escaping the persistent vibrations. The crowd drew closer, leaning in for a better look. A few of the men were stroking. One woman pressed a man’s hand to the crotch of her jeans. Kate’s first come ripped through her like a tornado through a trailer park. The crowd murmured.