Tight Women in Hard Places Read online

  TIGHT WOMEN

  IN

  HARD PLACES

  By Alicia Night Orchid

  TIGHT WOMEN IN HARD PLACES

  Alicia Night Orchid (author)

  Published by Logical-Lust, copyright 2010

  ISBN: 978-1905091-45-4

  Digital version

  Published by Logical-Lust Publications © 2010

  Cover image by Helen E. H. Madden, pixelarcana.com

  © Logical-Lust Publications 2010

  Tight Women in Hard Places is a collection of works of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents are entirely the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be copied, transmitted, or recorded by any means whatsoever, including printing, photocopying, file transfer, or any form of data storage, mechanical or electronic, without the express written consent of the publisher. In addition, no part of this publication may be lent, re-sold, hired, or otherwise circulated or distributed, in any form whatsoever, without the express written consent of the publisher

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated to Ray and Mary.

  You know who you are.

  Alicia Night Orchid’s

  TIGHT WOMEN IN HARD PLACES:

  An Appreciation Preface by Cole Riley

  “Living never wore one out so much as the effort not to live.”

  - Anais Nin

  Yes, there is so much to say about this book. Alicia Night Orchid’s stunning collection of thirteen stories contains the spark of life, and it will speak for itself with each new reader, with each new mind open to its many secrets. Like any work of art worth its salt, its fictional alchemy restores sensual sanity in this modern plasticized world, bringing a heightened sense of love and lust from a feminine consciousness that can only enrich our jaded selves with its eroticized tales of resilience, empowerment, and fulfillment.

  So Alicia Night Orchid’s fictional world is fresh and new. It’s new because its men and women talk and behave like real human beings do. They are not afraid to live or to love. They act in ways like real people do when they are blindsided by the heated chemistry of sexuality and sensuality. She writes simply and boldly of women feeling unsure about themselves, feeling nervy about men, feeling uneasy about the soft flesh they inhabit, feeling frantic about the urges and desires which make pleasure a priority.

  This is not smut. This is not porn. This is about revelations and discoveries of the human kind. This is about real people in real situations that involve the often confusing, turbulent themes of love and lust. Alicia Night Orchid gets inside the heads and bodies of her people. She paints lines of economic beauty and sizzle when she talks of bodies seeking comfort and bliss. Not one of her stories contain a boring series of cookie-cutter sex scenes which often fill other countless books.

  Take her first story, “The Anatomy of Wet,” where she depicts two college kids entranced with the miracle of young love, which is fleeting as a fickle downpour. In her tale, “Smoke,” she chronicles the parade of bad boys and one-nighters of a wealthy, powerful woman who needs to go “slumming” before she returns to that alabaster address on Pennsylvania Avenue. The story has a surprise ending worthy of O. Henry. Witness her memorable fable, “Royal Orleans,” where she re-creates the moment of emotional seduction in the mind of a young woman eager to know love:

  “And yes...yes, you’re sure you made the right decision, because his kiss is like falling into a well that you never wish to leave. You kiss him back—tongues swirl, nipples harden, and suddenly you’re floating, floating, and you’ve said yes, you want to see him again.”

  In two other Alicia Night Orchid stories, “I Saw the Light” and “Fridays Without,” it is the small details that form their narrative glue; all strung together like the bittersweet lyrics of a Cajun blues. The former yarn features a honky tonk gal who loves a good time but somehow has lost her bearings in this mix of the spiritual, the secular and the sensual. The latter story has a special place for technology running amok, taking Kate the bespeckled librarian into some forbidden realms of desire.

  Conflict, crisis, resolution. This is life itself. Toss all labels, classifications, and categories out when you read her stories. The characters of Tammy the hustle gal, Ray the aeronautic engineer and his “shyster bitch” are as real as can be in the next couple of stories, “Third Shift” and “Ray’s Opening.” The fate of the hapless Ray in the last tale is a somber life lesson with his girlfriend making him her bitch and he loves it. Outlaw Amour 101.

  The stories, “Savage Nights,” “Snowbound,” and “Voyeur Nation” all engage the mind, jolt the soul and fire up the libido. Somehow the woman reminds one of the Jimmy Stewart role in Hitchcock’s Rear Window as “peeping Pauline” in “Voyeur Nation,” watching a couple perform while knowing they’re on display. But the other tales, “A Lover in the House of Spies,” “Torn In Two,” and “The Western Front” display a versatility and high craftsmanship rarely found in this genre.

  There will always be a public debate about the merits of erotica versus porn. This is high-style erotica told with style and flair. It is similar to the well-penned imaginative work of Anais Nin, D. H. Lawrence, and Henry Miller. This is the good stuff. Read it, feel it, and be moved.

  Cole Riley

  THE ANATOMY OF WET

  Rain streaked the window. Wind rattled the bare trees. Low-hanging clouds skittered across the morning sky—steel gray, always the same. We hadn’t seen the sun in weeks.

  “It doesn’t rain like this in California.”

  He wouldn’t say, but I knew what he was thinking. No one was forcing me to stay.

  “You’re not listening. This fucking rain is driving me crazy.”

  We’d been together since UCLA. After graduating, I could have gone for a PhD at Berkley. Instead, I followed him to Indiana.

  “At least it’s not snowing,” he said.

  “I hate this rain.”

  His head was in that book again. “Labia majora. Labia majora.”

  Didn’t anyone appreciate the difference between active and passive voice anymore? Was the art of the opening line so hard to grasp?

  He dog-eared his page. “Don’t you have a class to teach?”

  “How about papers to grade?”

  “You could study.”

  He frowned at me. “Well, I’ve got an anatomy exam tomorrow. I have to study.”

  “Make us some coffee. How about some bacon and eggs?”

  I wheeled on him. “Make your own goddamn coffee.”

  I slammed the bedroom door, threw myself onto the bed, and pulled a comforter over my head.

  Two seconds later, he was there. “Hey, Em, what’s wrong?”

  “Leave me alone.”

  “Emily, talk to me.”

  “Why should I? You never talk to me. Worse yet, you don’t listen. You haven’t heard a word I’ve said in months.”

  He turned on a bedside lamp and sat next to me. “Here. You should see this.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s pretty cool. Look.”

  I crawled out from under the comforter and propped up pillows. Open on the bed between us was the large, heavy book he’d been studying. Drawings of disembodied female genitalia stared up at me. Arrows connected text to body parts.

  “You think that’s cool?”

  “It’s more complicated than the male anatomy.”

  “Anything’s more complicated than the male anatomy.”

  “Anyway, here’s what I was trying to memorize earlier. Mons pubis. Did you know that’s what it’s called?”

/>   “Sure, I guess.”

  He placed his palm flat against my mons. “I love the way yours stands out so prominently in your swimsuit.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You’re full of shit.”

  “No, really. Especially that black one-piece. It’s so sexy.”

  “Are you trying to make me feel better?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  “So, what else you got?”

  “These are the labia majora.” His index finger sketched a circle between my legs. “It means large lips.”

  “I know what it means. I was an honors student, too, remember?”

  He pushed my panties aside. “See, here’s the mons and there are the labia. This is your pubic hair.”

  “Pubicus harrius,” I said with a wink.

  He combed through the curly blonde patch, then scratched his nose. “I love your scent. Always have. It’s earthy and sweet at the same time.”

  I punched him in the chest. “Like I said, you are so full of shit.”

  He gave me a sly grin. “These here are the labia minora.”

  A fingertip traced the line of my slit.

  “Sure enough.”

  Two fingers opened me. “Wow, there’s the outer urethra. Just like in the book.”

  “My pee hole.”

  “Yeah, and let’s see, here’s the vaginal opening.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You seem to be missing a hymen.”

  “You should know.” I’d surrendered my virginity to Hayden my sophomore year in a dorm room bed.

  He wriggled a finger inside. “Nice and tight. Kinda moist.”

  I leaned back, resting against the pillows, my pelvis thrust forward. “That’s what I hear.”

  He probed deeper, curled his finger, and applied pressure. “I think this is referred to as the G-spot.”

  I gasped. “That’s definitely the spot.”

  “And there’s the cervix.”

  “Yep.” I squirmed, unable to sit still.

  He withdrew and tugged at my panties. “Maybe we should take these off.”

  I lifted my hips. “How’s that?”

  He lowered his face between my thighs. “Now this particular region is referred to as the prepuce of the clitoris.”

  “The hood.”

  “Yes, the hood.”

  I felt his tongue, warm and slippery.

  “Tastes good too.”

  “Just like honey. That’s what all the boys say.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, just one.”

  He smiled up at me with shining eyes. “This is the glans of the clitoris.”

  His tongue darted and swirled. I squealed like a little girl.

  “Sensitive, isn’t it?” Hayden feigned seriousness. “My book says the clitoris has the second most nerve endings of any part of the body.”

  “What has the most?”

  “We’ll get there.”

  His lips closed around my clit and he began to suck.

  I placed a hand on the back of his head. “That’s really good.”

  He licked me like a kid with an ice cream cone.

  “Yeah, baby, just like that.”

  Now, two fingers played in and out. I humped his face.

  Just when I was finding my rhythm, he paused. He held his hand up for me to see. A gossamer string of nectar stretched from his fingertips to my opening.

  “Amazing lubrication,” he said.

  “It happens,” I managed.

  “Should I . . .”

  “Definitely.”

  I bit my lower lip as he returned to his business. The squishy sounds of my pussy drowned out the falling rain.

  “That’s really good,” I encouraged him. “Yeah, right there. Just like that.”

  “Lift your legs.”

  “Okay.”

  His tongue searched lower. “Let’s see. This is your perineum.”

  I giggled. “Ooooh. That tickles.”

  “I can stop.”

  “No, don’t stop.”

  “Here’s that really sensitive spot. The anus, they call it.” He barely grazed it.

  “Oh my.”

  He wet his thumb with saliva. He massaged my rectum while licking and sucking my clit. “How’s that?”

  “That works.”

  “I could eat you forever.”

  “Oh, baby. Oh, my God.”

  I gave in to him. His tongue, his thumb. His tongue, his thumb.

  I rocked and bucked. Lightning flickered in the distance. Thunder rolled across the prairie. I came like a flood.

  “That’s my girl, that’s my girl,” he murmured. His eyes locked on mine over the soft rise of my mons.

  “Oh, Hayden.” I pulled his body over mine, my breasts flat against his chest.

  He kissed me, then nuzzled into the nape of my neck. “This’ll pass, Em,” he whispered. “It won’t be like this forever.”

  His erection throbbed on my belly. “I know. I know.”

  “We’ll get through this.”

  “I know.”

  “I love you, Em.”

  “I love you too, Hayden. Now, fuck me. Fill me up.”

  He slipped his cock out of his boxers and pushed inside. My face turned to the window.

  “Look,” I said.

  But he was in the moment, the slap and the thrust, his breath a cacophony in my ear.

  Outside, the rain had stopped. The sky had brightened.

  It wasn’t exactly sunny, but it was clearing.

  SMOKE

  She found this one in the Mark Russell Lounge of the Omni Shoreham. Kennedy had held his Inaugural Ball here. Clinton, too, that old horndog. It was a nice, old, dignified place, a tidy distance from the White House.

  Mark Russell, the placard said, was a musician who’d come to play piano for a two-week stand. He’d been so popular and well-liked he stayed for twenty years and had the lounge named in his honor following his death.

  But she wasn’t looking for Mark Russell’s ghost.

  The man in her sights was at the opposite end of the bar—alone, nursing a drink, and smoking.

  She ordered a glass of Chardonnay from the handsome young waiter and watched the man in the bar’s mirror. Her nipples stiffened when he drew on the filtered end of his cigarette, held the smoke momentarily between his parted lips, then allowed it to drift outward only to suck it back in like a whip lashing a bared ass.

  In seconds, he expelled the smoke in a thin stream. It coiled above him, a dark and threatening cloud.

  She crossed her legs and bit her lower lip. Her panties were already damp. She felt flushed and hot and dreamy with it, her hands sweaty and icy at the same time.

  The man was neither young, nor good-looking. His hair was thinning at the crown and his eyes were burdened beneath by folds of flesh. He was shorter and pudgier than her husband, but he smoked beautifully.

  She waggled a finger at the bartender and nodded toward the end of the bar. He poured another glass of wine for her, another drink for the gentleman, and moved her tab. She slid off the barstool and sauntered across the lounge. Even though she was on the other side of forty, the line of her long, lean legs and the roll of her firm buttocks moving beneath sheer fabric were enough to catch more than one man’s attention.

  Maybe one of them recognized her, or thought he did, but she doubted it. She wore her hair shorter than it appeared in photos or on TV, almost as short as a boy’s. She wore glasses, a tasteful black dress that stopped just short of her bare knees, and five-inch Manolo Blahnik heels.

  She reserved a more demure appearance for the cameras.

  The man gave her a surprised smile when she sat next to him and introduced herself as Emily Carter. He thanked her for the drink and fished another cigarette from his pocket. She was quick to light it for him.

  He was a Bob, or Jim, or Bill. Never an Andrew, Pierre, or Ethan.

  She asked where he was from.

  Iowa, or Nebraska, or Bumblefuck. Never McLe
an, or Alexandria, or The District.

  She said she was there on business.

  He said he was leaving tomorrow.

  There was always this small talk to get past.

  Her father, a powerful and wealthy man, had smoked. She remembered watching him from the backseat of his leathery Cadillac, her pubescent thighs pressing together, anticipating something she was too young to even imagine.

  Her first boy had smoked, although smoking was forbidden at the Baptist church camp where he served as counselor. Bobby McCord was a preacher’s son, tall and lean, the baddest, sneakiest of all the preachers’ sons she’d known over the years. He’d held his cigarette in the corner of his mouth the entire time, not even losing it when she redeemed him, white and sticky, in the palm of her hand. She wiped it on her skirt before skipping off to prayer service.

  When it came time to date, the young men her parents and teachers approved of were clean-cut. Often, they were athletes or academics or the Goody-goody Two-shoes type—church ushers and the like. They didn’t drink, smoke, or swear. They asked permission before kissing her goodnight.

  Then she discovered another kind of young man in the crosstown bars she sneaked off to—first, in high school, then later, in college.

  These were young men with long hair and dirty nails. Young men who worked the line, swilled beer, and fought in the parking lot. They squeezed her tits when she brushed past on the dance floor, grabbed her ass while she waited in line for beer, and pushed her knees apart in the backseat of muscle cars with the top down on hot Texas nights.

  And after she fucked them, rode and spurred them like a cowboy on a bucking steed, they’d lay back on the Naugahyde and light up. With her head resting on their substantial chests, she’d indulge herself in the smoke leaking from their churlish lips.

  When they could, she’d fuck them again, slick and hot, legs splayed across their corded bellies, until she cried out. She’d look down at them and watch the smoke gathering about their beautiful faces like a wreath.