In her mind, she felt the nylon grip her skin. She brushed a hand over her pussy. A bit of moisture, wet but so different from the bathwater that surrounded her, greeted her exploratory finger. Pleasure and the hot water swelled her labia, which she deftly parted as her fingertip sought her clit.
In the sex club in her mind, she was drawn to dark indistinct corners of the room, even as she approached the bar. She ordered a vodka martini and downed it in a few stinging efficient gulps. She felt the warmth spread over her body, radiating outward from her throat, even as the warmth began to in actual fact radiate out from her cunt as she rubbed her clit. She put a dab of soap on the tip of her finger and yelped involuntarily as the slippery smoothness conveyed new electricity to her senses.
In the club, someone pressed up against Penny from behind. His erection pushed against her bottom, but he didn't otherwise touch her. She could smell him — musky and peppery, a bit of smoke — but she deliberately continued to look straight ahead. She pressed back against the unseen cock, and he placed his hands on her hips, pulling her lower body against his pelvis. In turn, she wriggled until her soft dampness, separated from him by only a few thin layers of lycra, centered on the head of his large, hard organ. He moaned softly and slipped his arms around her waist, holding her tightly against him. She glanced down and saw well-muscled arms, brown skin covered by curls of black hair. That and the impressive outlines of his cock was the only information she had about her bold stranger.
She felt lips against her neck. He wasn't kissing, exactly, more like tasting her. Smelling her. She tilted her head back, giving him better access, and continued to wriggle against his insistent hard-on. While one of his strong arms continued to encircle her waist, the other abruptly lifted the edge of her dress. He yanked down her stockings, impatiently pushed aside her underwear, and, without preamble, plunged a stout finger into her wet pussy. She gasped and fell back his powerful body. He was everywhere at once, now, supporting her pliant form at its core with two fingers in her cunt, kissing and nibbling her neck, pawing at her breasts.
In the tub, Penny slid a water-wrinkled finger into her cunt while working furiously at her clit with her other hand.
In the club, the man withdrew his attention from her pussy, and firmly positioned her so that she was leaning over the bar. They didn't exchange words; none were needed. Her breasts pressed against the wood of the bar. Taking his time, he pulled down her stockings and underwear, gathered up the hem of her dress and tucked it out of the way under the band of her bra.
Are there others in the bar, Penny idly asked herself. Mentally, she populated it: a bartender, nonchalantly taking note of their activities, watching but continuing to dry glasses. A few rough-looking men sitting at the bar, perhaps, largely in shadow. Watching a little more intently. The one nearest to them had dropped his hand into his lap and started to discreetly touch himself. Her proffered ass and her bare, wet pussy were fully on display, framed by her rumpled clothing. The idea of being an erotic centerpiece on the bar, arrayed for the pleasure of these anonymous men, filled her with a special kind of lasciviousness. "Use me," she hissed softly, arching her back, thrusting her hindquarters up higher, achingly available.
There was silence, a moment of extended limbo, as if her unseen lover had vanished. And then, suddenly, his thick cock was pushing its way inside her. In the tub, Penny forced three fingers into her cunt, feeling a twinge that bordered on pain, half-convinced as she was that the invading force came from someone else. In the bar, she gave a full-throated moan and thrust back against the intruder, pushing off against her hands on the bar to arch her back and raising up her ass even higher. The man fucking her ran his fingers through her hair. He gathered up a hank in his fist and used it to press her face down against the wooden bar, which was warmed by her gasping breath and slick with her spittle. She could not, at this point, she realized, see the owner of the cock inside her even if she wanted to. All she could see was the man seated nearest to her, who had now released his own engorged penis from his jeans and was stroking it vigorously. She wondered whether he would take his turn next.
Anchoring her in this way, the man inside her began to fuck her with increasing strength and speed. The hand not pinning her head squeezed her breasts and pinched and pulled at her nipples. Her breath was coming in ragged bursts now, both in the bar and in the bathtub. The man pushed his fingers into her mouth, and she reflexively began to suckle, thrusting back against him all the harder with the dizzying sensation of being filled at both ends. He dropped his wet fingers to her clit and busied them pawing at and tweaking her swollen bud.
The spinning vortex of pleasure building where he stroked her leapt like a lightning strike from her clit into her, up her cunt. She cried out as her muscles convulsed and she became liquid.
The club in her mind vanished.
She must have dozed off for a minute, because she was suddenly aware that the tub water was cold.
Matter-of-factly, somewhat chagrinned, she stood and drained the tub and toweled off her prune-like skin, taking care not to look in the mirror again. A clicheed stranger in a goddamned bar, she reproved herself. Jesus, Penny: what's happened to you?
"Mornin' darlin' — you're looking a little pale and piquey," Seamus greeted her. "Rough night?" he leered.
Penny ignored him and went into her office and shut the door. She could feel Andy patrolling outside her door, like some kind of job-preserving and incredibly dull Spidey-sense, so she did not sleep; she worked.
Warhol might have waxed rhapsodic about how the most important thing is work — or so the Velvet Underground tells us, she thought — but Warhol wasn't a mid-level manager in the authorities department of a municipal library. Sometimes she felt as though her life was probably being used as an object lesson in the halls of the Bryn Mawr Comp Lit department to scare freshmen. Study harder — or else.
By lunchtime she felt as though she'd earned a walk in the crisp but still unseasonably warm sunshine. The smells of snowmelt and thaw made her feel restless, and she walked without paying attention to her surroundings until she suddenly snapped out of her reverie and feared that she was lost. No, wait, this looked familiar. Ah, right: Marlowe Avenue.
As if it'd been hiding, the (uninflamed) tower was suddenly directly in front of her. Without breaking stride, without stopping to think about it, she went in.
