July 1999
The traffic lights across from my window keep flicking green-yellow-red-green-yellow, a slow disco flooding the apartment. I don't remember the first time I noticed this little light show, but I see it every night, pacing around my living room, thinking about what to say, what to wear, how to fix my hair, how I should handle things.
Tonight might be fun, though.
It's drizzling outside. Steam lifts off the pavement. I look away from the lights and sink into the couch with the back half of a Pall Mall. Smoke curls out the end. The apartment's a hundred years old, there's no air-conditioning to speak of, and the smoke continues its lazy journey up the plaster walls uninterrupted. High ceilings, at least.
Three things rest on the opposite wall from me: a CD deck playing Mezzanine competing with the thumping of the street below, a wrapped baggie stuffed with pills, and—hung from a hanger on an old pipe going to the fireplace—a black sleeveless dress.
It's almost time, I think, getting up to switch tracks. I tousle my hair, recently razored into a short bob. I have to get to Neolithiq by 11:30 or else they'll charge cover for girls and search me more closely, which is just a big crashing bore. It also makes my job harder.
After I click Play I size up the dress I've chosen, a waxed linen sheath. I shrug off my cargo pants and tank top (no bra for this number), and lift the dress over my head. It's not exactly the most forgiving thing to slip on. Wiggling into it makes me look like one of those inflatable dancing figures from a used car lot, until I dimly remember a zipper exists in the back. Real smooth, Kate.
I stop fighting, unzip, and step into the dress. Wearing this would have been unthinkable a year ago. You've come a long way, baby. Maybe it's the spliff I smoked earlier, but as I zip up I can feel the micro-fine clicks of the zipper's teeth between the backs of my thighs, around my ass and curving up my spine and shoulder blades.
The zip ends just above the shaved nape of my neck, and I'm careful to not snag the ends of my hair. There. I turn around and look at the full length mirror, leaning against what used to be a plate rail.
The dress has a racerback bodice and an asymmetrical hemline, swooping from my left knee to several inches above it on the right, and tight enough to delineate the swell of my hips before they taper into my waist. Let's see pants do that.
Turning to the side to admire the slope of my breasts, I think, yeah, this is the one. I bought the dress a while ago, never quite finding an occasion where it would work until now. It's the perfect night.
I look good.
Sometimes, like tonight, the traffic glow is the brightest light in the room—I dislike too many lamps because I look out on Queen West where you can see everything anyway. No need to add to the show. Unless you want to, of course.
There's still time, i think. I peel the hem of the dress over my thighs, wondering who would get next to come between them. I marvel at the slight mound my pussy makes under the surface between my hipbones, my clit mere inches from my fingertips.
I'm buzzed now. Lying on the couch in front of the mirror, I slowly spread my knees. My underwear fits snug against the outlines of my outer and inner lips. Even just looking at it from my vantage point is arousing, feeling the breeze from the window as my fingertips absentmindedly stroke my inner thighs. That feeling, combined with thinking about Iain's cock—well, any cock, really; just cock—makes some wetness seep through, a lick of it through the gusset. I gently run a little finger through it and taste, closing my eyes as I appreciate the sticky saltiness it offers me, a spider's-web whip of moisture on my tongue.
My cunt's starting to swell at the thought of getting myself off. My clit's pulsing against the fabric. There's no way I can't finish now; I'd be a wreck later if I didn't. And I need my wits about me.
I pull the dampening underwear to my ankles, savouring the restricted movement of my legs. I reach back to my cunt, just teasing below the entrance where the wetness is brimming.
It's getting slick down there now. I slide my fingers up and down and around, spreading it around my lips, making a mess, and I moan as my fingers start slipping into the folds, making little wet noises.
I draw back and rest on my elbows, spreading my legs wide in front of the mirror, just to see what I look like, what I'd look like to a man about to fuck me when I'm like this, stroking this wet cunt, daring him. What a view.
Below the fuzzed dash of my pubic hair my lips and asshole are shaved, showing the glistening juices pretty well, catching the light. They're seeping down my ass, framing the curves of my buttocks, below my vulva that looks so ripe. My clit is aching, I need to finger that wet hole, just get in there and fuck it until it splashes me, and I can't take it anymore—with my middle finger I start teasing the base of my clit. It stiffens like a tiny cock, the hood sliding back, and I start moving the hood up and down and then in circles with my cunt-glazed fingers.
I tilt my head back, finding a groove, fingertips stroking my clit up and down. Sometimes I dip my finger into my cunt and lavish the wetness all over my clit, but my clit's so greedy that even this brief interruption of contact is agony. It's amazing how such a small part of you can take hold of your body—it takes hold as I hear the schlick of soaked inner cunt lips beneath my fingers, before I brush my clit again to bring me jolting back.
I could do this push-and-pull for ages, but instead I wiggle my hips up to slide a hand underneath, teasing the entrance to my cunt while the other hand steadily rubs my clit. It feels less like my own hand and more like someone else's, having it reaching from underneath, and its wetness feels wholly new.
I start to pump one finger, then two, into my cunt, letting it grip, trapping them in as it squeezes every time I touch my clit. I slow down my rhythm and feel how tight I can willfully contract. The sensation is exquisite. I use my clit like an on/off switch as the fingers stuffed into my cunt feel the ripple effects.
After a few delicious squeezes I settle back into a steady rhythm, moving only for the relentless demands of my clit and cunt, in that order. I'm a fuck machine, pumping and circling and pumping and circling. My legs strain deliciously against the underwear wrapped around my ankles.
I can't ward it off anymore so I just go for it. My hips start bucking, my back arched off the couch. I pull two fingers out. I wait a moment, then shove them in again, rubbing my clit really fast, running headlong into the orgasm. That does it. My thighs start shaking, and I throw my head back as the first throb of orgasm finally hits. Lips parted, I ride out the climax, giving my clit what it needs. My cunt keeps pulsing until I allow myself to slump back, my fingers pruned with wetness and a tingling spreading all the way down my legs.
"Holy shit," I say out loud, laughing as I gingerly get up from the couch to walk bow-legged to the kitchen. I tear off a paper towel and press it to my cunt, admiring how much fluid it absorbs.
Maybe I won't wear underwear tonight, I think. Maybe I'll just let this freshly masturbated pussy hang like ripe fruit just underneath this dress, so that someone could come up and feel the full effect of my careful ministrations and finally give it the cock it deserves.
I smooth down my dress and do a twirl in the mirror. As the fog in my head ebbs I feel a lot more confident to face tonight.
No underwear, though. Just in case.
I hit stop on on the CD player and select a thin leather moto jacket—a blazer, really—to shrug on, one with a necessary hidden pocket. Walking back to the kitchen, I fill a glass with ice and vodka and sink it while sitting on the counter, briefly contemplating toking up again. But I'm late.
