And yet, like most big and sudden changes, it now seemed very far away. It seemed like a stepping-stone she'd taken leave of… a stepping stone to… she didn't know where. But changes bred changes, that was for sure, and she felt young and free and not a little puckish. She was about ready for anything-and somehow she got the feeling that anything was about ready for her.
She pressed the towel between her legs and probed with her fingers to get at those last bits of moisture lurking in the crevices between her cunt and her inner thighs. The feeling was mildly provocative. The top of her ass crack was another place where dampness tended to hide itself and she moved the towel behind her to dry that too. Lifting her breasts and drying under them was more a ceremony than a necessity but she did it anyway just to be sure. Then she let the towel slip to the floor.
With all that luscious-even though somewhat violent-water pouring down outside, why had she retreated into a tiny room with a sink and toilet and bathtub and frosted window long since painted shut, drawn a plastic curtain, turned knobs, and stood under a nozzle? Society was so absurd. If anybody had any sense, every time a rainstorm like this came along the elevators of all these fancy buildings would be crowded with people in the buff-old dowagers, pregnant young women, janitors-with towels over their shoulders and soap-bars in their hands rushing out to take communal showers in Central Park.
She got up and went to the bathroom for her hair dryer, suddenly remembering times when she'd been six or seven and the summer rains had drawn her out to play in the gutters in her bathing suit. They'd been clean gutters, marked only with the traces of gray gravel that washed down out of the neighbor's driveway and the few long, pale worms that the showers had spirited away and tangled in clotted piles underneath. Nothing like the vomitous gutters off New York with their fifty-seven varieties of dog shit, chicken bones, rotting fruit, chewing gum, old magazines whose gloss had turned to goo… You could squat in those suburban gutters, if you were young enough that nobody would suspect what you were doing, and let the rainwater sluice between your legs and tickle you.
Brooding on the storm put Andrea in an erotic mood. She got the feeling that the heavens wanted something climactic, perhaps even apocalyptic, to happen.
She threw open the door to her closet and bent over to grab at the first piece of hair-drying equipment she saw-a pink plastic air-hose. Lightning flashed in the large window behind her, lighting up her protruding ass like a spotlight. Then a peal of thunder like hearty applause rattled the window pane. She froze for a second, then grinned. Hose in hand, she turned to address the seething world outside her twentieth story apartment. "Oh, you liked that, did you?"
The hose in her hand dangled and danced absurdly like a hollow tissue-paper snake, the kind you see at carnivals. Or maybe like a water-washed electric worm. Whatever it was like, the idea of connecting it to the dryer and the silly plastic hat and letting it blow hot air out to bake her head was just too ridiculous for words.
A year before her great aunt had left her some antique tapestries that now hung in convenient spaces on her wood-paneled bedroom walls. In the tapestries satyrs and nymphs chased each other among vine-covered trees.
Maybe this was the kind of night the satyrs and nymphs would like to dance out the window and fuck among the clouds. If she dried her hair it would mess them up. Either they'd die laughing at the sight or they'd trip on the hot-air hose on their way out and break their saucy little turned-up noses.
Andrea sent the air-hose skidding back into the closet. Hell with drying her hair.
The heavens thundered and flashed with insane glee as she turned to face them. Morel More!
"Oh, you want more, do you?" she asked, sauntering toward the window.
An audience of everyone and no one. Zarathustra's audience. A better audience than she'd had for any gig in the past six months. She shook her tits as much as they would shake, cupped them in her palms, and pinched the nipples erect.
There was a low rumble from the northeast where on a clear day she could see the Triborough Bridge. Approval.
Nice to know that the gods of the sky and the storm didn't mind plain old medium-sized tits.
But of course they didn't! Whoever they were-Zeus, Poseidon, Dionysos, Odin and his pals (she didn't remember who got in on making storms in what mythology, but those were some of her favorites)-they were born and raised before floppy udders and silicone had come into style. They liked women with modest torsos and big hips; tits that showed they were female, all right, but not necessarily tits that could feed warm milk to every male, god or man, who felt like sucking on them. The gods had ambrosia and nectar. What they needed were earth mortals they could fuck when they took on the shapes of bulls and horses.
"I warn you," Andrea giggled, running her hands down over her hips and squeezing the generous flesh of her buttocks between her fingers, "I can take anything a mortal man might throw at me, but don't give me any of your overstuffed bull-pizzle!"
No answer. Resignation? Or tacit agreement?
"Playing it cook huh?"
She reached down in front of her, put her right foot up on the window sill and pulled her cuntlips apart. She was strangely, unaccountably turned on. Moisture seeped down from her inner regions and lubricated her swollen clit. It seemed one with the swampy moisture that hung in the atmosphere over the city.
"What's the matter?" she asked, gritting her teeth slightly as she rubbed up and down on her clit, "doesn't a little open pussy turn you on?"
A sudden gust of wind threw a wave of drops hard against the window pane.
"Oho! It does! And now you want to get in?"
She didn't know who she was talking to, but it seemed in some mystical fashion to be someone. Maybe every male in New York City who didn't mind medium-sized tits. Maybe some poor horny fucker walking alone in the rain among the trees of the park outside her window.
She opened the window a foot and pressed forward to present her hot hole to the elements. Another gust doused her midsection with half a bucket of chilly water. An insult, or a come-on?
"Ok, if that's the way you want to play it… "
She threw the window open all the way. Magazines blew off her night stand and the curtains fluttered up to point straight into the roof like erect penises.
"Violence! Well… take this!"
She swiveled around and bent over and spread her ass cheeks and stuck her ass out the window.
"The moon sends you greetings!"
The cold sting of drops felt good on her buttocks. A river flowed down her crack, washed over the immaculate pinkness of her newly bathed asshole, and rushed to force open her cunt with an insistent torrent.
There was half an inch of water on the floor but Andrea didn't care. She stood up straight and pulled an overstuffed armchair over in front of the window. She sat down on it, pointed her legs straight at the ceiling, and spread her cunt wide. A fat drop caught her square in the clit and sent a convulsion of pleasure running through her. The thunder and lightning responded ecstatically. Leaves blew in.
"So what do you want now… the grand finale?"
She pried at her cunt until it was wide open and she could see far down into the pulsating cavern of pink, fleshy flora.
"Come on! Bring your dick in the window! I dare you!"
Suddenly she had a thought. Could she possibly be seen from anywhere?
No. Her apartment was on the top floor.
But what if someone were crazy enough to be out on the roof now, leaning over the cornice?
No chance.
Or maybe someone was even crazier, perched in the highest branches of those tall trees on the hill in the park?