Tight Women in Hard Places

by Alicia Night Orchid

  I began fantasizing about Ray’s opening almost from the moment of his departure.

  I was thirty-four and Ray was forty-two. I was a lawyer, paid to defend thieves, murderers, and drug-pushers. He was an aeronautics engineer, paid to design and build telecom-munication satellites. I called him my Rocket Scientist. He called me his Shyster Bitch. We were bound together, not so much by oral commitments of love and monogamy as by an irrepressible attraction to the intricacies of the other’s mind and a profound need for the other’s body.

  I admit my body was not quite the same as when I was a law student in New Orleans—pole-dancing and working as a line cook to pay my tuition bills. Yet, I strove to maintain mystery in my brown eyes and wickedness in my smile. My legs remained long and lean from running and I kept my tummy and tush firm with Pilates. My breasts were never that large, anyway, so gravity’s pull had little adverse effect.

  For his part, Ray was one of those tall, lanky guys with salt-and-pepper hair and fur all over his body. His balls hung low and swung delightfully when he walked. His cock was long and thick and never failed to rise to the occasion. He hadn’t exercised a day in his life, yet sported abs to die for and the roundest, tightest, most boyish butt I’d ever seen on a man. He was a walking, talking Calvin Klein ad.

  On the surface, we were total nerds. He preferred Popular Mechanics to drinking beer with the guys, while I favored a cooking class over shopping with the girls. But scratch the surface and we were devoted sensualists. My sister called us artsy-fartsy, which was quite a compliment for a lawyer and an engineer.

  There wasn’t much we hadn’t tried. In the year and a half we had been together, we’d bent and stretched into every position we could safely assume. We buzzed and plied my orifices with a closet-full of vibrators and toys. We fucked in public bathrooms and I blew him on the beach. He fingered me under the table at Spago and I stroked him off onto a tablecloth at Josie in Santa Monica. We tied each other up and one spanked until the other cried out.

  But the one thing we hadn’t explored was Ray’s opening.

  The following evening, he called, sounding jet-lagged and disoriented. The time difference placed him outside a meeting room on his international cell phone and me between the sheets of my bed. I’d stripped naked except for a black thong and was hoping for at least a phone sex dalliance.

  Alas, it was not to be.

  First, he wasn’t exactly in the mood, having just stepped out of a conference where US rocket scientists shared circuit board technology with Chinese scientists for big bucks. Even Ray couldn’t make an unfettered transition from the nuances of nanophysics to sucking my pussy over the miles.

  Second, he reminded me that phone calls and e-mails in China were subject to government scrutiny and arrests of foreign visitors for engaging in sexual behavior were not uncommon. Sex blogs, dirty chat rooms, and porn video downloads were criminal activities in the People’s Republic.

  So, after a brief conversation of the plain vanilla variety, Ray rang off and I was left, literally, to my own devices.

  I turned to my first full-blown fantasy of Ray’s opening and a little silver bullet that had served me well over the years.

  I couldn’t say where this sudden fascination with the man’s butt-hole had originated. I characterized myself as neither a Nazi fem-domme, who got off on bossing around boys, nor a groveling submissive, who doted on her lover’s every whim, because I had taken pleasure from both sides of the equation. For me, it depended on the person I was with and the situation.

  For example, there was this older, red-haired woman I knew in New Orleans years ago. I played the role of her slave for several months. Allowing someone else to set limits and make decisions appealed to me at that time. Besides, she often topped from the bottom and I took pleasure from diddling her with a large black dildo we kept for such events.

  Fuck me, Alicia. Fuck me with your big cock.

  Take it, baby. Take it.

  On the other hand, to pay the bills while in law school and for an impoverished time thereafter, I also worked as a phone-sex goddess. An often-requested fantasy was for me to dominate my caller. I was surprised to learn that powerful, highly paid men actually got hard pretending to be my slave and satisfying me while denying their own gratification until I chose to allow it. With a creative, intelligent, and articulate guy on the other end of the line, it could be quite a turn-on.

  Please, Alicia, I need to come.

  Not yet. Lick my clit for a while longer, bee-atch.

  But I didn’t attribute my sudden fascination with Ray’s opening to a repressed need to dominate or defile him. Instead, I saw it as achieving equality in our relationship.

  I mean, if he could penetrate me, if he could fuck me, why couldn’t I penetrate him? Like my grandmother used to say—what’s good for the goose is good for the gander.

  So, that night, after hanging up the phone, I considered Ray’s opening in earnest. I pressed my little silver bullet against the fabric of my thong and allowed it to do its magic while my mind did its own thing. I fantasized about going down, way down, on Ray. I thought about opening his opening. I imagined the expression on his face. I pictured his knees pulled up to his chest, his cock and balls mercilessly exposed.

  I pushed the fabric of my thong aside and touched my clit with the bullet. I circled and probed as images of Ray’s pucker formed behind my closed eyes. His cock throbbed and spurted, and I came in a twisting, thrashing, groaning rush.

  I came, so to speak, on Ray’s opening.

  Over the next few days, I focused on work. I was in the midst of jury selection in the trial of my client, Noreen Winchell. You may remember her as the Beverly Hills Blaster Babe—as the press dubbed her after she was arrested for emptying her 9mm Beretta into her husband at point-blank range. When I asked why she did it, she told me that a better question was why she’d waited so long.

  She and Wayne had been married for over forty years and although he had become a famous film director, he was mostly a domestic abuser. It was the kind of case every defense attorney hungers for—a well-heeled client who can afford to pay big bucks and free advertising through out-of-control press coverage.

  I opted for a battered-woman defense as an alibi was out of the question.

  Yet, while voir dire dragged on and Noreen bit her nails at the defense table next to me, my mind wandered. I was more interested in devising a strategy for obtaining entry to Ray’s opening than in selecting jurors sympathetic to my client. Even though she’d killed her husband while he slept for something he hadn’t done that night, the jury had to believe she shot him for the accumulated kicks, slaps, and verbal denigrations she’d endured over the years.

  Older males were out and aging hippie-chicks were definitely in. So, while the assistant DA, Mort Cone—a fellow I’d been up against in several other trials—questioned potential jurors, I concluded that the way to Ray’s opening was through Alicia’s opening.

  For me, almost nothing was as pleasurable as having my asshole tongued while my pussy was fingered. And I pretty much made this a prerequisite to anal sex. Quite simply, if a man wanted to put his dick inside my dark hole, he needed to lick me there first.

  Unfortunately, not all men were up to the task. I’ve been with a few who were too tentative, who seemed repulsed, or who appeared to do it solely for my pleasure. I preferred a man who was confident in his efforts, who loved my taste and smell, and who enjoyed eating me as much as fucking me.

  In my experience, chefs ate pussy and licked ass better than anyone. I attributed their collective skills to a heightened sensitivity to flavor and aroma. When I worked as a line cook, the chef was a fat Cajun with a passion for my menu. On the nights when I didn’t go to my second job as a pole dancer, Robert and I would stay after everyone had gone home. I’d sit on the edge of one of the gleaming stainless steel tables we used for food prep and he’d kneel on the floor. I’d lift my skirt over my hips, spread my legs, and he’d dine on me for
ever.

  But the best times were when he’d position me against the door of the big, walk-in pantry. I’d lean into it, hike up my skirt, and he’d burrow into me from behind. It’s one thing to look down and see a man’s hair, forehead, and eyes looking up from between your thighs while he diligently plies your nether regions, but it’s another sensation entirely when a man eats you from behind. Part of it is that the angle is different. Part of it is that if he’s doing a good job on your pussy, really going after it, his nose is inevitably buried in your asshole. There’s no getting around it. And if he’s a real man, once his nose is there, he won’t flinch at visiting your backdoor with his tongue and lips. Robert was such a man and he’d have me screaming and gyrating against his face in no time.

  Finally, it was my turn with the jury panel. I crossed the room, my Manolo Blahniks clicking, my Neiman Marcus pinstriped skirt rustling, and began my questioning. I used my preemptory challenges to exclude two older white men, a couple of young Hispanics, and a fundamentalist Christian who told me she thought it was proper for a husband to strike his wife if she disobeyed. On the flip side, I selected two baby-boomers, one dressed for jury duty in a tie-dyed T-shirt and the other wearing a peace symbol necklace circa 1969.

  I’m pretty sure no one in the courtroom—including a very astute Superior Court judge by the name of Seamus Moody—was aware that Noreen Winchell’s able lawyer, namely me, was addressing the court with damp satin panties. The thought of my upcoming enjoyments with Ray had my pussy oozing nectar like an overripe fruit.

  In his absence, Ray and I continued to communicate by phone. As I said, the Chinese government made intimacy difficult, but I devised clever ways to hint at what he could expect when he returned.

  In one phone conversation, where he described the joys of authentic Chinese cuisine, I interrupted to say that my personal hotpot had been empty of late and that I required a sturdy bamboo shoot to fill it. I could hear Ray’s breathing quicken all the way from China.

  Just as cleverly, he reported the recent discovery of an especially sturdy variety of bamboo. Most interestingly, when inserted into a steamy hotpot and stirred, this bamboo would eventually issue a frothy, white liquid.

  “Can the liquid be obtained by stroking or sucking the shoot?” I inquired.

  He said it could, particularly if the stroker or sucker knew her business and was diligent in her efforts.

  I told him that if he listened carefully, he could hear my hotpot boiling.

  I slid a hand past my belly and fingered myself lightly with one hand while holding the phone with the other. The squishy sounds of my masturbation filled the room and coursed across the sea.

  “If you were here, you could stir my pot with your shoot,” I suggested.

  “I have a firm grip on my shoot as we speak.”

  “Next to my boiling hotpot,” I whispered seductively, “is a chocolate pot.”

  “A chocolate pot?”

  “Do they have chocolate in China?”

  “Based on what I’ve seen, the Chinese have chocolate pots too. Some of the Chinese maidens carry them well.”

  “Would your bamboo shoot issue its liquid if inserted in my chocolate pot?”

  “God, yes.”

  “Yes,” I murmured, “my chocolate pot needs a good stir. Maybe the electric blender will work.”

  I flipped the switch on a slender vibrator we’d purchased at a boutique in West Hollywood and inserted the tip of the vibe into my opening.

  “You are certainly giving your chocolate pot a good stir,” Ray said breathily, and I knew he was stroking himself.

  “As it turns out,” I replied, “my hotpot needs attention while my chocolate pot is stirred.”

  “I’m your huckleberry,” Ray intoned.

  “Put your bamboo shoot inside my chocolate pot. I’ll stir my hotpot myself.”

  “Your chocolate pot is quite tight. I mean, small,” Ray said, his voice husky.

  “It’s just that your bamboo shoot is so big. It’s all my chocolate pot can handle.”

  “My bamboo shoot is about to melt,” he said.

  “My hotpot is about boil over,” I managed.

  “Now?”

  “Yes, now. Now, now, now.”

  “Oh, Alicia.”

  “Oh, Ray.”

  “My bamboo shoot exploded on my belly,” he confessed.

  “Is it messy?”

  “Yes, very.”

  “If I were there, I would lick up every drop. I’m sure it’s tasty.”

  “I should probably fetch a towel.”

  I set the vibe aside while continuing to caress my clit. “Stay with me,” I implored him, “I think my hotpot may boil over again.”

  And it did. Twice more.

  “May it please the court . . .”

  The day of Ray’s return also marked the beginning of Noreen Winchell’s trial. Festivities kicked off with Mort Cone’s tedious monotone. For two long hours, he bored the jurors, the judge, and the press with his opening statement. The prosecution would show that the defendant had the means, motive, and opportunity. Blah, blah, blah. In conclusion, etc.

  After a short recess, it was my turn. I’d selected a plain black suit, an inexpensive cotton blouse, and a pair of square-toed heels purchased from TJ Maxx for the occasion, eschewing high fashion in favor of the common touch. Underneath, I wore a camisole in lieu of a bra and nude thigh-highs sans panties in anticipation of my rendezvous with Ray later on.

  These jurors wanted to do a good job, but like the rest of us, they had their own lives to live. As much as they cared about Noreen Winchell’s guilt or innocence, they were distracted by the memory of an argument with a spouse, the humiliation of being cut off in traffic, or perhaps the need to pee. Who knows?

  My job was to engage them in the task at hand.

  My eyes searched from one to the other. I leaned across the rail that separated us and gave one of the male jurors a glimpse of cleavage.

  “We do not dispute that Mrs. Winchell shot her husband on the night of June fourth,” I began. “However, the evidence will show that she did so out of fear and pent-up rage, not a premeditated intent for murder. She did so to end her suffering at her husband’s hand, not for monetary gain or the desire to take another lover. Who among us has not felt fear and rage? Who among us has not been pushed nearly to the edge?”

  Here, I paused, knowing that Noreen’s life hung in the balance. I released the rail and paced before the jurors’ box. I put a little extra into my sway, thinking that the men would like it and the women would understand.

  I turned dramatically and began anew.

  “My client is neither a monster nor a cold-blooded murderess. Indeed, she is you and me. The only difference is that she reached the precipice and leapt, while we, so far, have held our ground.”

  The jurors leaned forward. The one who was taking notes paused in her efforts and simply listened. Juror Number Three, a wispy-haired man with a wispier mustache, stroked his chin and eyed me as if I were a morsel of chocolate.

  “If you believe this, then you must find Noreen Winchell innocent of murder as charged. If you believe this, then you must allow her punishment to be her own remorse and not a gas chamber’s stench. If you believe this, you must find her not guilty.”

  The mostly female jury nodded in agreement. I had them eating from my hand.

  For the next hour and a half, I described 911 calls made by Noreen over the years, showed photos of the injuries she’d endured, and read an e-mail from Noreen to her sister that detailed her fear and suffering. By the time I concluded, I was confident I’d won the first round.

  On the way back to my place next to Noreen, I winked at Mort. As I assumed my seat, I crossed my legs, giving Judge Moody a glimpse of the good stuff. It never hurts to have the judge think well of you during a difficult trial. I sighed. The exacting examination of witnesses lay before us.

  Now, if I could only get through the rest of the day.


  I saw him as he came through the door from Customs into Baggage Claim. The Eternal Nerd, he wore a goofy grin, a white polo shirt, jeans, and a wrinkled blue blazer. He strode toward me with that gangly walk he probably acquired in high school Electronics Club. He was unshaven and smelled like the inside of an airplane. We kissed and it was like coming home on Christmas vacation. He held me while we waited for his bags and I clung to him like a groupie with a rock star.

  “I missed you,” he conceded.

  “I missed you too.” I stood on my toes and nibbled his earlobe. Then, I gave him a sniff of my fingers. I’d been touching myself the entire trip down Sepulveda Boulevard. I’d even inserted a forefinger into my opening just before leaving the garage.

  “You are such a wicked woman,” he said.

  “Yes, I am.”

  I stepped into him the moment we closed the door to my place. Our tongues darted like feral animals. I backed him up against the wall opposite my bookshelf—on which, law books competed for space with Bobby Ann Mason and Zadie Smith—and unbuttoned his shirt. His hands slid down my back and over the curve of my hips.

  “Shyster Bitch,” he gasped, his breath hot on my ears and neck.

  “Rocket Scientist,” I whispered into the mat of hair across his chest.

  My dress fell to the floor. Naked except for my camisole and thigh-highs, I ran my fingers through his hair. He caressed my buttocks. Blood pounded in my temples.

  Suddenly, he spun us around, pressed me to the wall, and wedged a knee between my thighs. I ground my pelvis against him.

  He lifted the camisole over my head. My breasts spilled into his waiting hands. I bit my lower lip and we locked eyes while he squeezed. He lowered his mouth to my nipples, gracing first one, then the other, with his tongue.

  “Oh, baby,” I heard myself say.