Tight Women in Hard Places

by Alicia Night Orchid

  VOYEUR NATION

  You reach a certain age and start looking over your shoulder. I was turning thirty-six, so maybe I was there. I was trying to be more responsible, more goal-oriented, more focused. My New Year’s resolutions reflected it—eat healthier food, exercise more, save for a rainy day, find a boyfriend.

  Not that I had exactly squandered my life—I’d made it through both law school and culinary school. I’d published several stories and a novel, and I’d had at least two meaningful (well, sort of) relationships.

  Still, here I was, living on Manhattan Beach, house-sitting for my brother and his wife, and working on a second novel I couldn’t finish. Here I was, living off the sale of ad copy and marketing collateral to multi-national corporations that exploited their employees and overpaid their executives. Here I was, chaste as a nun, having been without a lover for four months, three days, and sixteen hours.

  But who was counting?

  Recognizing that I was in serious jeopardy of losing it, I bought a Blackberry on which I set up a daily schedule. I opened and installed my two-year-old copy of Quicken. I set up a budget and online bill-pay. I gave up fun-sized Snickers and Fat Boy ice cream sandwiches. I pasted sticky notes of encouragement on the fridge and e-mailed myself “To Do” lists. I began saying hello to strangers on The Strand and joined a Writers’ Workshop at Barnes and Noble.

  I attacked each day with purpose. I was on a mission to get my shit together.

  Until the kids next door arrived. Not that they were really kids. So far as I could tell, Susan and Ian were in their mid-twenties. But they seemed like kids with all that youthful exuberance, fresh-faced curiosity, and energetic sex.

  They moved in at the beginning of last month. Prior to their arrival, the place was occupied by its previous owner—a lecherous, aging Baby Boomer by the name of Old Dan—who kept a close eye on my comings and goings, always lurking about, and always knocking on the door just as I was stepping out of the shower. He seemed to know my newfound routine better than I did.

  He’d call out, “You’re starting your run kinda late, aren’t you?” Or, “Don’t you usually write on the deck on Tuesdays?”

  Creepy, huh?

  Actually, I kept an eye on him too. Him and his bright-green Speedo that failed to hide the swagger of his dick and balls, and the yawning crack of his ass when he leaned over to water his begonia. Him and that wretched witch who visited for fuck-buddy sex every Tuesday and Thursday. Him and that little hottie down the street who was forever whirlpooling in the altogether, jilling off in the jets of Old Dan’s Jacuzzi for half the world to see. And, oh yeah, him and the slut from the coffee shop—the one who must not have known there were other ways to access a man other than on one’s knees.

  Not that I was looking or anything.

  Anyway, Old Dan and his Speedo moved out and Susan and Ian moved in.

  Privacy was a challenge in our neighborhood. The homes were built in close proximity. People often left their windows and doors open, due to the year-round warm weather. Neighbors’ roofs overlooked patios and bathrooms, and allowed for peeking into bedrooms and kitchens.

  You never knew what you were going to see.

  Or reveal.

  I first became aware of Susan and Ian’s activities shortly after they moved in. I came home around dinnertime, ordered pizza, and enjoyed it with a bottle of wine. After watching the sun set into the Pacific from my patio, I checked my container garden. It was while weeding a rose that I heard sounds coming from my neighbors’ roof.

  You know the kind of sounds I mean.

  A sharp, quick exhalation followed by an "oh baby." I slithered into the shadows and positioned myself for a look. There was Susan, brown eyes closed, blonde hair cascading onto her shoulders, mouth open in an "O," and bare breasts swaying.

  She grasped the railing and humped hard. I couldn’t see below her waist or into the darkness behind, but I imagined Ian there, somehow involved.

  Based on the rising crescendo of Susan’s cries, whatever he was doing was working. After she came with a high-pitched squeak, I saw Ian’s face appear over her shoulder. She turned to kiss him, murmured that it was his turn, and they both sunk out of view. A few minutes later, I was treated to his long, low moan.

  After that first event, I heard or saw other couplings over the following couple of weeks. I watched him eat her pussy one night while she reclined on a chaise lounge—although it’s entirely possible he was massaging her thighs while nuzzling her navel. I saw her blow him on their living room sofa—or maybe she merely fell asleep on his lap. I caught him finger-fucking her on the sofa—although I suppose he could have caught his thumb in the zipper of her jeans. I observed her stroking him off in the bath—or maybe she was just making sure his dick was really, really clean.

  All of this made it harder for me to maintain my stoic quest to become the Responsible Adult Woman I wanted to be. Instead of searching the real estate ads for a place I could afford, instead of pounding out three hundred words a day on my novel, instead of signing up for speed-dating at the local coffee shop, I found myself staring into space, wondering what was going on next door. I couldn’t sleep, became restless, and eventually resorted to that old standby, masturbation.

  At first, I worked it into my schedule on the Blackberry. I allotted five minutes for a morning rub. Then I gave in and allowed myself not only a morning rub, but also an evening hump with a favorite pillow between my legs. After a while, I scheduled a noon-er with my Rabbit every other day.

  Instead of becoming dry and organized, my already messy life got wetter and stickier.

  Then this last event occurred. The one that sent me over the fucking edge.

  The other morning—or night, depending on how you look at it—I was rising to start my day just as Ian and Susan were returning home from a night on the town. I heard the throaty roar of Ian’s BMW as he wedged into a parking spot across the street. I watched him come around and open the door for Susan. As I stood in the darkness in my panties and T, I couldn’t help but notice her long, tanned legs slide off the leather seat as she slid into his arms for a lingering kiss.

  While I made coffee in the subtle glow of a nightlight, my eyes followed them. Because our houses were on a hill, their first-floor bedroom sat opposite my second-floor kitchen and dining room. Their flimsy curtains were drawn, but did little to prevent me from seeing Ian usher Susan inside and push her onto the bed. Because the weather was mild, windows were open and I could make out the rustle of sheets and Susan’s sigh. I sat the canister of coffee aside and retreated into darkness.

  Susan wore a short, low-cut black dress and heels. Ian was smartly dressed in black slacks and a green V-neck sweater. From all appearances, they’d just returned from an evening of clubbing. He stood before Susan, his crotch level with her face as she sat on the bed. She reached for his belt buckle and started to unzip his fly, but he pushed her hands away. I heard him ask her if she’d enjoyed herself that evening.

  To which she replied, “God yes.”

  Then he said he wanted her to show him.

  Obediently, Susan turned, positioned herself on all fours and pulled her dress up over her hips. She was facing me, so I was denied a good look at her behind, but I was imagining it in all its glory. I caught a flash of black thong riding up her lower back and could see the expression on her face. She was aroused, biting her lower lip and flushed. Ian knelt on his hands and knees and leaned in for a closer look.

  “Yes,” he said. “I can see you really liked that other couple.”

  “I soaked myself,” she admitted.

  Ian lifted a hand to her ass and caressed it. Then he pulled the wisp of a thong aside to allow for closer inspection.

  “Oh yeah, Susan, you’re dripping.”

  “Yes, yes I am.”

  “Who did you like best at the club, Roger or Heather?”

  “Both. I liked them both. I liked Roger’s body when we danced. He was kind of roly-poly—soft,
not hard and lean like you. And I liked the way Heather touched me.”

  Ian’s eyes appeared far away. His left hand rested on Susan’s buttock. His right hand was moving, circling and dipping. I imagined him plying the deep furrow between his wife’s legs, entering her with a finger, swirling juices over her clit.

  “She touched you under the table, didn’t she?” he inquired.

  “Yes,” Susan gasped, “like you’re doing now.”

  She began to rock on the bed, and I became aware that my left hand was cupping and squeezing my right breast through my T while my right hand sought entry down the front of my white cotton panties.

  Ian’s voice grew harsher, deeper. The expression on his face changed. His eyebrows narrowed; his lips pursed.

  “You’re a naughty girl, aren’t you, Susan? Rubbing up against Roger. You think I didn’t see that? Spreading your legs for Heather. You think I didn’t know?”

  “I couldn’t help myself.”

  “You touched his cock, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” Susan confessed. “In the bathroom, I stroked it.”

  “You sucked him off, didn’t you, you dirty little cunt? You sucked him off on your hands and knees in the toilet?”

  “Yes, fuck yes.”

  By now, my left hand was pinching a firmed-up nipple through my T and the fingers of my right hand were sliding past the patch of black fur that guarded my pussy. I parted my labia and dipped an index finger into my opening. My backside thumped against the polished stainless steel of the refrigerator.

  My eyes were glued to Ian as he removed his shirt. His chest was hairless. He was slender but muscular, his muscles like cabled wire. He twisted the shirt into a rope and drew back his arm. In one swift motion, he delivered a crisp, stinging smack to Susan’s bottom. My ass twitched as if it had been struck.

  “Ooooh,” she squealed.

  “You’re such a slut.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ve really been a bad girl.”

  The tip of the shirt danced like a whip on her buttocks and between her cheeks. It grazed her exposed pussy. Her cries revealed a woman in that no-man’s zone between pleasure and pain.

  I pushed my middle finger deeper and pumped in and out. My left hand slithered under my T and caressed my achy breasts.

  Ian laid the shirt on the bed. He shed his trousers and underwear. I got a glimpse of his cock, swollen and red, and his sack, full and swaying, before he pressed his pelvis against Susan’s ass. He grabbed a handful of her blonde hair and gave it a yank. She yelped like a smitten puppy. He leaned in close, his face against hers, his lips against her ear.

  I heard him whisper, “Did you swallow his cum, you slut?”

  “Fuck yes,” she grunted out.

  Her insolence earned her another shot to her butt cheeks. The sound ricocheted into the night. She yelped again and I stepped out of my sticky panties. I bent over the counter now and would have given just about anything for something stinging on my ass.

  There it was—a Teflon spatula.

  Ian pushed Susan’s face into the bed. Her mouth contorted; drool ran down her chin. I watched as he positioned himself and pushed inside her pussy. Her eyes rolled back in her head and I smacked my ass with that spatula.

  Ian fucked her deliberately. He stopped in mid-stroke, leaned over, and whispered again.

  “You let Heather finger you, didn’t you?”

  “God yes.”

  “How many fingers?”

  “Two.”

  “Just two?”

  “Three. Okay? Three fingers.”

  “She fisted you, didn’t she, you slut?”

  “Yes, yes, she did. And it was good, so good.”

  Ian smacked her ass again and she whimpered into the sheets.

  I drew my Teflon spatula back and smacked myself hard. Pussy nectar dribbled down my thighs.

  Susan made these little mewing sounds as Ian fucked her. His breathing quickened. My Teflon spatula had a ridged, easy-grip end. As I watched their bodies move in concert, I rubbed the notches along the valley of my slit. Judging from the expression on Susan’s face, she was nearing her climax. Her eyes closed tight, her mouth opened, the veins in her forehead showed. But Ian wasn’t letting her off that easily. He ceased his thrusting and I heard him hiss.

  “Did you come when Roger shot in your mouth?”

  “Yes, in my panties.”

  “Did you come when Heather fingered you?”

  “Yes. I had to bite my hand to keep from screaming.”

  “You want to come again, don’t you?”

  “Yes. I want to come on your cock.”

  But instead of granting her wish, Ian pulled out with a soft plop and cracked her ass with his open hand.

  “Turn around,” he told her. “Show me how bad you want it.”

  Susan turned in the bed to face him. She reclined on her back and opened her legs. For the first time, I got a good look at her pussy. It was waxed bare beneath her flat belly and glistened in the dim light. Her engorged clit protruded like a tiny finger from its distended hood. A breeze stirred and I detected the scent of her sex, musty as a field of mushrooms.

  I bit my lower lip and inserted the smooth, curved end of the spatula inside my folds. I groaned in my throat. As I maneuvered in and out, the ridges teased and tortured my clit.

  Susan slid a hand between her legs, obviously intent on finishing herself. But Ian was having none of it. He pushed her hand away, picked up his T-shirt, and stung her breasts with it. Her eyes burned a little brighter than before.

  “How bad do you want it, my little slut?” he asked.

  Her hips pumped on the bed as she watched him between her knees. He stroked his cock slowly as he awaited her answer. I wanted his cock and I wanted her pussy. I wanted them so badly my knees were shaking. I worked that spatula in and out, up and around. I had to steady myself with a free hand on the counter to keep from collapsing.

  “Please,” Susan whimpered. “Please let me come, Ian. Please, I can’t stand it.”

  He stung her nipples with the shirt again. Her hips cleared the bed and her thighs shuddered.

  “Not yet. I’ll tell you when.”

  He climbed onto the bed next to her, his hard cock within inches of her face. He reached into the drawer of a nightstand and removed an oversized dildo. He lubed it deliberately.

  “Lift your legs, bitch,” he told Susan.

  She did as directed. He teased her clit with the dildo. Susan flattened her hands on the bed and inhaled sharply.

  “Please,” she begged.

  Ian probed her with his left hand and stroked his cock against her lips with his right.

  She gasped as he pushed the dildo’s tip inside. I gasped, too, when my first come racked my body. My pussy clenched and released, clenched and released. I lost my grip on the spatula and it clattered to the kitchen floor. I winced and retreated into the darkness again. I leaned against the fridge and continued rubbing myself, unable to look away.

  “You like this cock, Susan?” Ian smeared her face with pre-cum.

  “Please, please.” Susan’s knees were pulled tight to her chest as the tip of the dildo disappeared into her cunt.

  Ian began stroking himself in earnest now. Her tongue flicked at the head of his cock. She fucked and bucked that dildo like a banshee.

  Then I saw it on his face. His eyes and mouth opened wide in a low grunt. The veins of his neck protruded. He squirted onto her tongue and cheeks and chin, over and over, thick and white.

  She squirmed beneath him, lapping at his semen. Her hands clenched her breasts and squeezed hard. He released his cock and the dildo at the same time. He slid off the bed and sunk into a chair, spent.

  Susan lowered her legs to the bed, open, the heels of her feet pressed together.

  “Please, baby, please,” she begged.

  I mouthed the words along with her, “Please, please.”

  He rolled his eyes and waved a hand dismissively. “Finish yours
elf,” he said.

  She propped herself up on one elbow while she pleasured herself with the dildo. I was right there with her, humping my hand. We came together, her head thrown back in a muted scream. I bent double, steadied once again by the kitchen counter, shuddering out an orgasm that buckled my knees.

  When I looked up, Susan and Ian were kissing.

  “I love you,” he told her.

  “I love you too, baby,” she replied.

  When he headed into bathroom, she pulled on a nightgown and cast a look over her shoulder.

  Then she winked in my direction.

  Or, at least, I thought she did.

  Three weeks have passed since that wink.

  Or imagined wink.

  My life has dissipated into a puddle. I’ve totally lost it. Unpaid bills and unopened mail litter the kitchen table. My half-finished novel cries out for completion or disposal. I’m inclined to the latter. I lost the Blackberry, stopped running, and dropped out of the Writers’ Workshop. I bought a family-sized bag of Snickers and filled the freezer with fucking Fat Boys.

  My days and nights blend together. I linger behind curtains and hunker in bushes, hoping for a peek. I peer over countertops and walls.

  I wander through my house naked. I masturbate ceaselessly, often on my deck or patio, not caring who sees me grinding on all fours or writhing on my back.

  Susan and Ian have also given up any semblance of modesty. They fuck and suck in plain view, behind their four walls. They play their little games with dildos and vibrators and strap-ons. They tie up and tease. They spank and manipulate.

  Two months have passed and we’ve not exchanged a word. What’s there to say?

  THE WESTERN FRONT

  I shot Larry King right between the eyes with Carlisle’s Desert Eagle. My neighbor Rusty came over to my mobile home when the blast went off. None of our neighbors at Crestview Estates seemed to notice.

  “Nice shot, Jolene,” Rusty said through his handlebar mustache.

  He was drunker than me, shirtless, and in serious need of a haircut.

  “I missed,” I told him.