Tight Women in Hard Places

by Alicia Night Orchid

  I loosened his belt buckle and reached inside. I needed to feel his hardness in my hand, its throb and ache. I reached lower and cupped his balls in my palm.

  He backed away and shucked his jeans and shorts. He pulled me after him onto the sofa where I straddled his belly.

  He looked up, his face red, his breath short. “I want you.”

  “Yeah, you want these?” I leaned forward, brushing my nipples against his, teasing him.

  “Oh, yes.”

  He reached for my breasts, but I guided him to between my legs. “You want this?”

  “Fuck yes.”

  His fingers opened me, drawing moisture. His eyes never leaving mine, he fingered me until I cried out.

  I rose up on my haunches, positioned the tip of his cock, and sank onto him. I felt him enter me, fill me, stretch me. I sighed and heard him do the same.

  I began to rock. He sucked at my purple nipples. He ran his hands over my torso. When his fingers trailed lightly down to the crease of my ass, I rocked faster.

  My orgasm hit before his. It ignited deep inside my cunt, pulsed outward, cascaded up through my breasts, and seized my throat like a prowler in the night.

  When I collapsed, he held me for a moment, bathing my face and forehead with butterfly kisses. He began to pump in and out, the muscles in his hips and abdomen bouncing us both on the sofa. When I reached behind and squeezed his sack, I felt his balls rise. Then, I felt his warmth gush inside my warmth.

  “Damn,” he whispered.

  “You can say that again.”

  “Damn.”

  It’s always good to get that first one out of the way.

  Later, after we’d indulged in a long, languid bath and a bottle of Chardonnay, I lay on my belly, legs wide apart. Ray’s tongue searched my opening. He rimmed the wrinkles on the outside, then mined deeper. I encouraged his efforts, secure in my knowledge that the way to Ray’s opening was through Alicia’s opening.

  After driving me to the edge, he reached for the lube. No doubt he’d earned a good ass-fuck, but this night, I had other things in mind.

  I sat up, pushed Ray onto his back, set the lube aside, and said, “Not so fast, Rocky.”

  He looked at me with wonder and trepidation. We were about to make history.

  Not every woman is up for eating her man’s asshole. Not every man is ready for it. Not every relationship can stand it. In my experience, few men will ask, but hardly any will refuse. There are more nerve endings in the anus than in the penis. There is something forbidden and downright nasty about going for a man’s opening.

  And after obsessing about it for a couple of weeks, I wanted Ray’s opening in the worst way. I wanted to make him scream. I wanted to make him my bitch.

  I began with a little head.

  I’m not talking a mere blow job—anyone can bob off a blow job. I’m talking about making love to his cock and balls. I’m talking about looking up at him with his cock in my mouth, letting my eyes ask him how he likes it. I’m talking about making a pussy of my hand and lips and stroking him between them. I’m talking about rolling his balls inside my mouth until he can’t stand it, grabs for his cock, and starts to jerk off.

  I’m talking about kissing my way down to his opening.

  Ray groaned and lifted his hips. I tasted him, earthy and raw. I swirled around the outside and flicked at the middle. He groaned again. He thrashed about. He called my name.

  We repositioned and I lay on my back. He squatted above me while my tongue darted and delved. The window to our bedroom was open and we were not far from the beach. Above the rising crescendo of his moans, I could make out the crashing of waves, the cries of gulls, and the murmur of people passing not ten feet away. I parted my pussy, inviting his view, aware that I was pink and shiny with girl-cum. It was Alicia, Alicia, Alicia, and I knew I had him. I knew from the hastened slap, slap of his hand on his cock and the quickened pucker of his opening.

  But I wanted more. I wanted to make him my bitch.

  I stretched him out and pinned his arms to the bed. Then I reached inside the drawer of our nightstand. The strap-on dildo was life-size and life-like, an exact replica of some sweet man’s erect member, complete with veins and ridges. Ray’s eyes were ablaze with fear and anticipation.

  I sat on his chest and fed it to him, stuffing my girl-cock into his mouth. He surprised me, making little sucking noises as I slid in and out. The dildo served as an extension of my clit. Each flick of the silicon tweaked flesh already raw with want. I would’ve given anything to spray a load down his throat, across his lips and cheeks.

  I withdrew and applied lube to my finger, then his opening.

  “Do you want it?” I asked. My finger danced like a gypsy at the door.

  “Yes,” he exhaled, quick and sharp.

  I pushed and he withdrew.

  “Relax, baby. Do you want it?”

  “Yes,” he squeaked.

  I pushed harder and felt his muscle accept my singular probing digit. Oh, he was tight.

  Beyond our window, revelers lit a fire on the beach. There were shouts and laughter. In our bed, I held my lover in my hand. I pumped in and out. He looked dazed, transported to an arena of lust that knew no boundary and had only one exit.

  Next, I applied lube to the cock.

  He pulled his knees to his chest. His tight, brown opening winked at me, his hard cock throbbed. I positioned myself and eased the dildo’s tip inside. When I pushed farther, he bellowed like a wounded bull.

  And then I fucked him. His mouth opened in an “O” and the whites of his eyes showed in the slits. I fucked him hard and true like a bitch should be fucked.

  He couldn’t take it for long and neither could I. Each advance of the dildo was an assault on my clit, still sensitive from the ghost of his tongue. I sank hilt-deep into Ray’s opening and reached for him. I gave his cock a squeeze and his expression changed from rapture to gratitude. This man needed to come and I wanted to watch. I wanted to feel it on my hands, wanted to rub it on my tits and face, wanted to eat it like candy.

  I delivered him with a couple of short strokes. Still impaled on my cock, he squirted strings into the air, moaning and mewing like a backseat virgin. He floated in his own space while I bucked my way to a torso-twisting climax. Cum-soaked and sated, I disintegrated onto Ray’s bare chest.

  Noreen Winchell’s trial plodded on. Mort Cone competently presented the prosecution’s case, beginning with the neighbor who called in the gunshots, continuing with the cute young patrolman who first responded, and concluding with a crusty detective and an array of geeky criminologists. It lasted for three long weeks.

  My cross-examination focused on the detective’s ineptitude. No, he hadn’t examined Noreen for bruises. No, he hadn’t asked if she’d been assaulted by her deceased husband that evening. No, he hadn’t bothered to research the many calls Noreen had made over the years reporting her husband’s degradation of her. Yes, the LAPD rewarded him for making arrests and clearing cases. Yes, he’d been disciplined in the past for planting evidence to justify an arrest. Yes, he’d written Noreen’s confession and asked her to sign it, rather than audio or video-taping it, and accordingly, it was possible he had embellished or summarized her words.

  Our best witness was the psychotherapist, Dr. Werner Faust, who we retained to evaluate Noreen’s state of mind. Equipped with more advanced degrees than a tenured USC professor, he testified that the rage that had been building inside her for years bubbled forth the night of the murder. She killed, not in cold blood, but in hot blood, notwithstanding the fact that her husband had not touched her that particular evening. He explained how women are different from men in this respect.

  No shit, Sherlock!

  Under Cone-Head’s less than withering cross-examination, Faust held strong. He refused to agree with Cone’s point that, even if Noreen had been abused over the years, it was possible she’d acted with premeditated intent to kill that fateful night.

  By th
e time our case concluded, I expected an outright acquittal or, at worst, a conviction for voluntary manslaughter with probation instead of jail time.

  I couldn’t have been more wrong.

  What I hadn’t anticipated, because Noreen had neglected to mention it, was that she and Wayne were BDSM devotees, according to the testimony of several witnesses Cone introduced on redirect. The bruises and abrasions for which she’d received medical treatment over the years had been received consensually in sessions at a local club where Wayne spanked and whipped his wife for their mutual pleasure and that of other attendees. Even more damning was the revelation that Wayne had recently jilted Noreen in favor of a porn-star who starred in one of his movies, a Mistress Jade Landrieu. The inference being that Noreen killed her husband not out of pent-up rage, but out of ordinary jealousy.

  Despite my efforts to rehabilitate Noreen and to shed doubt on the prosecution’s case, the jury’s decision was swift and to the point.

  Noreen was found guilty, but received life in prison rather than the death penalty.

  It was the beginning of the end of my career as a defense attorney. Noreen jettisoned me in favor of a predatory barrister from downtown LA who based his appeal on my incompetence at trial. I could offer little rebuttal to his claim that I’d been distracted during the trial and failed to conduct a complete investigation.

  What this shark didn’t know was that the cause of my negligence was, no doubt, my obsession with Ray’s opening. Rebuked by the local Bar Association and the subject of reams of negative publicity, I adopted a bunker mentality. Clients stopped calling, cash-flow dried up, and I was forced into a second career.

  I moved to Napa, opened a restaurant, and have recently found a spiritual connection with the soil.

  As for Ray and I, the opening of his opening was also the beginning of the end.

  Instead of the smart, virile, take-charge man I’d come to know and love, Ray became an insufferable sycophant and a mewly do-gooder. He agreed without me badgering him to attend romantic films, took an interest in chick-lit authors such as Helen Fielding and Plum Sykes, and switched from plain white jockey shorts to fly-less microfiber undies in assorted pastels. He picked up after himself, remembered to change the toilet paper, and required more foreplay than is normal for a man.

  I had emasculated my poor baby.

  After I left for Napa, I learned through mutual friends that he quit his job as a high-powered rocket scientist to work instead with inner-city youth and reconsidered his sexual orientation.

  Then he moved in with another man.

  I still think about Ray’s opening from time to time, usually when we’re prepping chocolate crème brûlée or I’m dining on Chinese. But, so far, I’ve resisted the path of least resistance. My new lover is a delicately featured, talented, and strong-willed sous chef fresh from the Culinary Institute. He has sensitive brown eyes, sensual lips, and a rump as hard as an autumn apple. He has exquisite taste and tastes me exquisitely.

  Knowing that the path to his opening is through my opening, and given my experience with Ray, I’ve made my opening off limits.

  So far.

  SAVAGE NIGHTS

  “Stop,” Bobby said.

  “I’m not doing a thing.”

  We were in his 1965 Mustang in the lot across from the high school where we’d graduated two days earlier—Dunlap High, Class of ’67. Christiana Creek bubbled nearby and a breeze rattled the corn on the other side of the creek.

  I snuggled and nibbled his earlobe.

  “You know that drives me crazy,” he said.

  My blouse was open. His class ring dangled on a chain between my bare breasts.

  I turned and slid into the backseat. “Come on, if you want to go again.”

  “Shit, you know I do.”

  “Here.” I spread a blanket across the seat. “We don’t want to ruin the leather.”

  He helped me out of my jeans for the second time that night. “It’s not leather. It’s Naugahyde. Anyway, I don’t give a damn.”

  He wriggled out of his jockey shorts. I lay down, an armrest across the small of my back, and opened my legs.

  “Yeah, but I do, and that’s the difference between us.”

  He kissed me, his tongue swirling inside my mouth. He tasted of beer and cigarettes, and the cheeseburger he’d eaten at Ozzie’s Drive-In two hours earlier. “There ain’t no difference between us.”

  I reached below his flat belly, grasped his hard cock, and guided him to my opening. I was wet and musky as a field of mushrooms. “I just meant . . .”

  “It don’t matter. This is all that matters.”

  He thrust and I lifted my hips to greet him.

  The car rocked. Over his shoulder, the rear window steamed. I felt a quickening between my thighs. Then no sooner had it begun than it was over. He exploded into me, his heat in mine.

  “I love you, Bobby,” I whispered.

  “I love you too, Trish.”

  Even then, I knew—it wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t exactly the truth, either, because neither of us had a clue what it meant.

  Three weeks later, Bobby enlisted in the Army. Never mind that there was a war raging in Vietnam and they were shipping boys home in body bags by the thousands. Never mind that the war was lost and even the President knew it.

  I said, “Bobby, have you lost your fucking mind?”

  He said, “It’s a tough job, but someone has to do it.”

  I said, “Yeah, but that don’t mean you.”

  His best friend Mike begged him not to go. “Make love, not war, man.” But that was easy for Mike to say. He had a student deferment from the draft and a scholarship to Ball State. You know, Testicle Tech, Blue Ball U.

  That was his ticket out of Dunlap.

  Anyway, Bobby’s mind was made up. Now I understood why he hadn’t cared if we’d ruined the backseat of his Mustang. He’d planned to sell it all along when he shipped out.

  A few days following his big announcement, Bobby gave me a line about needing to get his head together before going off to shoot people. He quit his job and he and Mike loaded the trunk of Mike’s Chevy Nova with beer. They set off to find America in Bobby’s last three weeks of civilian life.

  They didn’t ask if I’d like to go.

  When Bobby waved good-bye, I raised my middle finger and held it high until the Nova was out of sight.

  That evening, I pedaled my bike to our make-out spot. I sat on the creek bank, smoking Virginia Slims. I swatted mosquitoes and grabbed for fireflies.

  Music played on my transistor radio. Jefferson Airplane sang “Somebody to Love.” The Beatles did “Penny Lane.” Then this chick Bobbie Gentry started crooning about some guy named Billie Joe jumping off the Tallahatchie Bridge. That song made me so sad I started to cry.

  After I got it out, I wasn’t sad anymore—just hurt and pissed. I ripped Bobby’s class ring from my neck and threw it into the creek.

  I didn’t want the damn thing, and he sure as hell wouldn’t need it where he was going.

  That summer, I lived at home and waitressed at The Checkerboard Tap. Because I worked days and my mom worked nights, we hardly saw each other. It wasn’t a bad thing. She hadn’t been the same since my dad lost his job at Studebaker and struck out for parts unknown. When she wasn’t working, she was sleeping or hanging out at the bars with her best friend Noreen.

  I didn’t have the heart to tell them how ridiculous they looked—hair in beehives, dressed up like Nancy Sinatra in miniskirts and boots.

  We lived in Sunnyside Estates. A train track ran beside our subdivision and separated us from The Shady Acres Trailer Park across the way. Thing was, there wasn’t a tree standing in Shady Acres or anything stately about Sunnyside—just row after row of boxy little houses.

  Trains ran all night. I’d sit on the porch, smoke cigarettes, and listen to their long, low whistles.

  I could have called my friends, Nancy or Rhonda, but that meant having to explain about
Bobby and me. That meant having to explain about his class ring. Besides, since graduation, it wasn’t the same. Like a nine-ball rack exploded by a break shot, we’d gone our separate ways. The Class of ’67 had begun its solitary trek into adulthood.

  So, I smoked and listened to trains.

  Until our new neighbors moved in.

  I met Wendy Goldfinger a few days after Bobby and Mike left town. She arrived at the rental next door in a Volkswagen minibus. The bus was painted psychedelic colors with flowers and sunbursts. She wore an ankle-length skirt. Up top, braless breasts swam beneath a tie-dyed T-shirt. A bouquet of daisies was tucked into the headband that captured her long blonde hair.

  No sooner had Wendy’s sandals hit the ground than one young man climbed out the rear of the bus and another came around from the passenger’s side. Buck was tall and dark. Thick fur showed beneath his leather vest. Curly hair fell to his shoulders and black eyes flashed behind a Jesus beard. Jude, the other guy, was tan and muscular with sea-blue eyes and a surfer’s smile.

  Wendy strode across the yard and unlocked the door to their new house. The men started unloading their stuff. I lit another cigarette and pretended not to watch. After a few minutes, Wendy reappeared.

  “Shitter works,” she announced.

  Then she placed her hands on her hips and looked around. When her eyes fell on me, she called out, “Hey, sweetie, you got any weed?”

  “See,” Wendy said through a purple haze, “the universe is like wheels inside of wheels, like one of those Russian babushka dolls, dolls inside of dolls. The wheels turn, the dolls shrink. We’re all connected. It goes on and fucking on.”

  “Heavy,” Buck said. He sat next to her on their yard-sale loveseat that smelled of Indian curry and cat piss.

  Jude reached out, removed the roach from Buck’s fingers, took a deep drag, then passed it to me.

  I’d never tried weed before, but I liked the way it made me feel. The room glowed pink and soft. I floated in the haze.