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A Stand Up New Year's Eve


Anonymous Frottage at Luchow's

“A Stand-up New Year’s Eve.”
By
Archer Harold Sidney

New Year's Eve was coming. We all decided that we wanted something chic. We, that tiny cell of eight: the men were professionals, two lawyers, one college administrator, and one editor’s assistant at a major publishing house. The women, all college graduates, were wives, some mothers, and had worked while their husbands were in law school or military service. One of us came up with the idea of midnight supper at Luchow’s, a famed downtown New York City restaurant. We met with no difficulties in making our New Year’s Eve reservations.

We gaily ignored the cold, but dry brisk air, and arrived there with a feeling of luxury and expansiveness. It was a grand night for New Year’s Eve. Luchow’s was already crowded with laughing noisy people filling the bar and the aisles between tables. The warm smoky air hit us with a blast and we grinned openly at each other, nodding at our choice. Those not seated at tables or crowding the bar, which included our little group, were directed by the maitre ‘d to the thick and growing waiting line while being repeatedly and soothingly assured that our tables would be ready by midnight. He wished us all a happy new year.

All the men wore dark business suits, white shirts, and ties tied four-in-hands or Windsor, and their haircuts were cropped short and neat, Perry Como style, except for a few who used the greasy stuff to show off their full head of hair.

The women were dressed in their finest basic-black-and-pearls, high heels, stockings, and hair icily preserved from its recent journey to a beauty salon. Somehow they all managed to appear as though made-up in Fifth Avenue salons, ready for a “Vogue” photograph. There was no Hollywood, Catskill Mountains or Palm Beach glitz for these ladies. Some of the women were wives, and others were dates, but still others had that look that I had seen in pricey men’s restaurants: beautiful, young, a sheen to their skin, evening clothes that glittered, faces painted with a sculpted touch to attract, not to blend in, and eyes that were guardedly fixed on the man who brought them. Not our type, surely, but there was that something, that appealed.

Time moved slowly, as did the line. I began creating stories of sensual and secretive meetings with each woman my eyes feasted on. I envisioned their nakedness: pure freshly showered, lightly powdered bodies, full breasts free of tight fitting bras, and rich dark pubic hair in the inverted triangle, where my fingers stroked their labia. I dreamed of sucking at thick erect nipples.

I ignored the people standing in front of us or behind us, staring right through them, although we all had exchanged polite snippy smiles pretending we really were happy to be among them on such a festive night. We agreed among ourselves that we just had to be seated by midnight, but we were becoming impatient. Ahead of us there was only two foursomes. We might make it after all.

All at once the famed owner Emil himself appeared in front of us. We had never seen him in person, only his photographs in society columns. He was elegant, trim, with sandy hair slightly thinning, a soft pink face with loose lips. He wore a tailor-made dark blue suit, starched white shirt, navy tie white polka dotted, and gleaming golden cuff links. He was smiling and seemed quite happy, and appeared naturally at ease. He apologized to us for the slight delay, and assured us our table would be ready shortly.

Shortly? I wondered.

It was as though he read my mind.

"On the house, drinks for all of you," he waved his manicured hand over the foursomes in front of us, and as his eyes caught mine, he nodded our inclusion, and those immediately behind us. He took drink orders quickly, and hastened away.

I felt that I had received a blessing.

While time and the line seemed to stand still, a waiter appeared and offered us the promised round of drinks. We were quite pleased with ourselves that we had been given comp drinks even though we laughingly admitted we had been bought off.

“Just like whores,” a man in line said.

“I wouldn’t know,” a friend said, with an outlandishly knowing grin on his face.

I turned away from my friends and looked over the head of the woman standing directly in front of me. We hadn’t said a word to each other, although I caught a brief glance at her when Emil was offering us his blessing. She appeared to be in her late twenties, small in stature but not petite, with squared shoulders. I saw that the back of her dress covered her neck, and I wondered what her skin would feel like to my tongue. There was a slight slouch in her stance. I don’t remember what I was looking at when I felt her body against mine. Perhaps she was getting tired standing so long in her high heels. Her body’s touching mine could have been nothing more than back fatigue, an unconscious leaning against me for support, as she gabbed on with her chums. That’s what part of my brain said, but another part said no. Then I felt the slightest hint of her buttocks pressing ever so slightly against me, and she did not withdraw, as I stood firm.

I let me eyes drop to look at her more carefully. She was five-four, perhaps in her high heels. Her skin seemed pale, but I couldn’t be certain in the dimness of the room. She wore a black sheath dress with a wide belt of the same material as the dress. I could see that the bosom was square-cut open to her chest, but revealed no swell of breasts. She wore a double strand of pearls, and earrings to match. Her dark brown hair was shoulder length, with a slight wave, and I found myself moving my head forward to reap the perfume scent wafting at me. I detected the odor of cigarette smoke in her hair, and pretended it to be a shampoo scent.

I peeked into the open neck of her dress, and stared at the dark, laced brassiere holding full breasts. Without hesitation, I let my head slip down further until my chin touched the very top of her head. When she remained motionless, I pressed my chin slightly, but she didn’t move. She seemed only to be looking forward talking to her friends. I dropped my chin and rested my lips in her head, and waited. She didn’t seem to notice. I held my lips in place, and then pressed ever so gently. She braced herself, but did not move away from me.

She took a swallow of a drink, and appeared to laugh at a comment or joke uttered by one of her companions. Her voice was throaty with a bright sliver at its edges. She was holding a cigarette in her other hand.

I was frozen in place. I could barely carry on the conversation with my friends. I saw and felt only the trim, shapely young woman standing against me.
As my lips lay against her head, I found myself sucking in deep breaths of the tangy scent of her hair and body. I was trying to inhale her. Every fiber of my body was aching to touch her’s. I lost any sense of time or place. There was no din in my ears, only a deep steady throbbing in my head. There was no world outside of me. I was growing intoxicated by our closeness.

She moved softly gently fluidly and quite firmly pressed her buttocks into my groin, and held them there. I didn’t move. I resisted rubbing my cock against her butt. I knew that she was above a dirty groping. She just had to be! Yet I needed to answer her, so I leaned forward allowing my chest to touch her back, first lightly, then with added pressure, and then knowingly. She rested her head against my chin, and I let my lips roam freely over the top of her head, and I even placed the tip of my tongue in the end of her part, and pressed it into her hair, nibbling slightly. My touch, my signal was now clear.

She responded by leaning her entire body against mine, and at the same time turned her head toward me allowing me to see her face. Her gray eyes probed mine, and a slight smile curled on her lips, which moved, but I couldn’t hear her. She held her smile, and I desperately wanted to kiss her, to run my tongue over her lips and to let it swirl with hers inside her mouth. Her lips opened a bit wider and she sipped at her drink rolling it around her mouth and letting a drop run down her lips, inviting me to lick it off.

She returned her glance to the front of the room, as I, oblivious to everyone in the room, slipped my arm around her waist, and placed my open hand on her pelvis drawing her further into me. My thumb found her broad belt with its bow in her middle, and hid under it. As I drew her closer she moved her butt slowly left and right caressing my erection. I moved my hand further down, fearful that I might touch one of her companions, but she was making it safe for me. My fingertips arrived at her pussy, and I pressed firmly, not allowing any separation. Her thighs were taut and firm, and I could feel her garter straps beneath her dress. She spread her legs as far as her dress would permit. I continued my unremitting pressure on her pussy, and openly breathed her into my body. My cock was aching, but I was overcome by a delirium of sheer exquisite pleasure. My mind was a soft lime-vanilla cream pouring over every sense that tried to blot away the pleasure of her closeness.

Emil appeared again quite suddenly, pleased at seeing the drinks in our hands, and announced to his own very great pleasure that we would be seated just a minute before midnight. Everyone cheered, except her, and me. I furtively set my glass on a nearby table and drew my other arm across her bosom, pressing her even tighter against me. My God! If anyone saw! She too freed her hands using one to cover mine, which she placed over her breast. My head felt block-ice solid. There were no words running threw it. I was terrified. I was drunk on her sex.

At once, we saw the maitre ‘d lead the first foursome in line to their table, leaving only her group in front of us. I became frenzied that our connection was going to be broken. I was furious, and silent, and fearfully anticipating a deep painful emptiness. Not yet! I screamed inwardly. I tried to maintain a rigid stare on my face. There was no way I could offer up a smile. I knew she had to feel as I did, and I knew her urgency was greater. She leaned her entire body against mine. If her companion or mine saw us, there would not be the slightest doubt as to our actions. We were engaged in stand-up fucking, and I didn’t give a damn about any one, only the sheer joy and fragrance of her body, her hair, the grasping of her ass against my stiff cock.

I continued to press my fingers into her pussy when she suddenly tightened her buttocks against my cock. She looked at me over her right shoulder, her eyes slightly closed, and wet. I pressed harder, and she nodded, more. Then her body stiffened. I held her as tightly as I dared, but I didn’t move. I waited. She remained rigid.

She drew a deep breath and held it for what seemed like minutes, and then as she slowly exhaled she began to relax her body until it lay still against mine. She turned to me again. Her eyes were softly open, her lips parted, but she said nothing. I let a moment go by, and then began withdrawing my arms from around her. She began to stand on her own, sliding her hands up and down the sides of her dress as though straightening out any wrinkles. Her movements seemed dream-like, as if she were sleepwalking.

My last connection with her was a gentle kiss on the top of her head. Looking forward, she shook her head slightly. Yes.

At that moment our Emil host reappeared.

“Your tables are ready. Follow me, please. And, Happy New Year.”

Copyright © 2000 by Archer Harold Sidney. No part of
this story may be reproduced in any form without the permission
of the owner.

End of Story