Funkytown

By Daddy X

This is the first chapter of a WIP (with emphasis on the IP, going back five years, Gulp.) that I’ve posted in lieu of other excerpts considered and dismissed because they all take on religion. Others have done such a good job in that direction, I’d as soon not embarrass myself.

This piece has never seen an editor. If nothing else, it’ll show just how much I need Lisabet, who has edited 90% of my published material.

Dragging It Up

Here we go again. In the same shithole bar in the same shithole street in the same shithole town where we were both brought up. Some say we were drug up. Drug up out of the red steel scale that used to coat all the cars around here, along with everything else in this god forsaken purgatory. Dust swirled as well in the air we breathed, rendering us dirty, inside and out. All of us. How did I get here? Again.

What I couldn’t believe was that I’d agreed to this. Agreed to meet him (now, with a buzz on) right where I met him (with a buzz on) 25 years ago. We were taken with each other from the start. If I only knew then, about Frankie, what he was.

Frankie was so handsome. Hailed from an old union family. His father, Frank Brazoli Sr. presided over Local 521 for more years than appropriate. Frankie Jr. is said to have “inherited by election” the position when his father retired.

Where we lived wasn’t like the prestigious Management homes on the other side of the river, where company men lived with their scrubbed families. The prevailing winds blew the smoke and filth over to our side, just as planned when this company town was built.

Sure, Croyden was coal mining country back then. Before they cut off all the mountaintops in the area to scrape the anthracite from the earth. They only resorted to a steel economy when it proved less expensive than sending men down holes some never came out of. The ones that did manage to come home every day mostly died of the black lung before turning fifty.

A steel company, figuring the miners, whose livelihoods damn near approached used up, having extracted all the coal that was profitable, would be desperate for work. So they built the mill. They were right. Men flocked to it like fish to bait. Nearly every family in town owed something to the mill. They owed their lives—which the mill was more than happy to take.

Those who came of age after the coal ran out didn’t have to worry about black lung anymore. Instead they died of cigarettes, emphysema and lung cancer. That and nothing to do.

But even in towns like this, action could be found if one cared to look.

Frankie had been Croyden’s town hustler. He bought us beer when we were too young to buy it on our own. He could find pot before it was hip to smoke pot. He could get in trouble because of his father. Well, not exactly because of his father, but for whatever trouble Frankie wound up in, his daddy could certainly finagle him out. That gave Frankie a great deal of confidence; confidence he wore like camouflage to disguise a weak soul. He would take advantage of anybody. I fell for the camouflage. And he sure took advantage of me. 

The pool table—that’s a newer one over there now, I’d imagine. But they’re all alike anyway, pool tables.

“Pool tables are made to fuck on,” he’d shout over the din of the bar. He’d see if he got a rise from any chippies hanging around. Often there would be a girl drunk enough, infatuated enough with his sideburns and thick chest. All the more impressive in a white tee, the word LUCKY in a red ring twisted under the rolled up sleeve. Wavy hair, long lashes and the cigarette hanging from the bow of his fleshy lips made him appear a lot dumber than he was. 

Yeah, they’d sidle up. They’d press a tit on his arm while reaching for the chalk, pretending it’s somehow an accident. Soon he’d be dry-humping her over the table, the horny young thing’s cunt pressed over a corner pocket, his pelvis shoved tight against her ass, everyone watching the girl of the night humiliate herself. Frankie grinding a circular how-do-you-do as her eyes sagged. They all lost whatever comportment they were born with … we were born with. They’d moan in feigned emotion, we would.

The first time he ever talked me into doing anything for money was the time he told me he’d give me five bucks to fuck my ass. I was so in love, already fucking and sucking him for weeks, so I figured a few bucks on the side wouldn’t be so bad. After all, I was poor; I did love him, and ultimately, all of me already belonged to Frankie.

Or so I thought at that young age. But every time we did it there, he’d stick a rolled up five dollar bill up my ass afterwards. He’d push it home with his thumb before my sphincter had a chance to close back up. At first it annoyed me, the rude way he did it, but like everything else, I wound up getting used to that too.

I washed out the bills and mother spent them for our family table, since Dad had perished in a crane accident at the mill when I was nine. Of course I never told her told her how the money came into my possession. I would secret the bills in her purse without her knowledge. She was always good at stretching a dollar.

It hurt. Hurt like hell. Frankie was big as the dickens and not very sympathetic to screams. He refused to allow that others’ discomfort was genuine pain; he insisted they were screams of pleasure. A guy like Frankie wouldn’t allow for conflicting opinions. But, if that was what it took to keep him, I figured I’d get over it. The same way I’d gotten over the pain of him tearing my cherry.   

It really got started with guys at the mill. The hooking. Frankie worked graveyard, and we’d set a designated time to meet at the factory’s fenced-in dock near the greasy river that runs by the factory. I’d back my ass against the cyclone fence and he’d fuck me that way in one of my holes. We’d laugh about the patterns the wire fence made on my pale buttocks. Sometimes he had me suck him off through the fence. He’d poke it through for me. We called it my midnight snack. When we did it like that, he’d satisfy me after with his fingers as I faced him, panties long gone. I’d hook my toes in the fence up above my waist in my short summer dress. Pressing my pussy against the hard steel wire, mouths together in a 3x3 kiss, his fingers working inside my slick channel, driving me to distracted ecstasy. I’d scream in delight to his insistent manipulations.

Unlike the other screams.

One warm, still, summer night, over a glass-like river, my screams were heard. The ass screams. We were sharing a beer through the fence after. I was holding the can so he could suck out the contents. Something like I’d suck jizz from his dick.

Then suddenly- a booming voice:

“Ok, Brazoli- You wanna get fired for ditching work? For drinking on the job? Or for fucking some chick’s ass while on duty? … Your choice.”

Frankie, in addition to having an important father, was also grievance rep for his department, always a management target. If they can fuck over the grievance man, maybe they can get one of the brown-nosers who aspired to foreman jobs in his place. At least, they wouldn’t be likely to get somebody as tough as Frankie. Or as slick.

“Jesus, Sam,” Frankie said. “Can’t something be worked out here? A little quid pro quo for a guy? There’s that grievance coming up. The one where Killian’s seniority got skipped over for the hot crane job?”

The job was never posted; a foreman’s son had usurped the job instead.

Frankie beckoned to me. I thought he wanted to touch hands through the fence to appeal to the guy’s sensibilities. 

“Yeah, Killian’s an idiot,” said the foreman. “That’s why the fucker didn’t get the hot job. He’d burn himself up—or get somebody killed. Fuckin’ jerk. Doesn’t have two IQ’s to rub together.”

“We’ll put him on hold,” said Frankie. I’ll tell the asshole it’s ‘in committee’. Killian won’t know what that means, or for how long. Chances are he’ll forget if I don’t remind him. And I won’t.”

“What she doin’ here?” Sam smirked. “Oh yes- that’s right. I saw why she’s here, didn’t I?”

“That’s my girl.”

“Hi, I’m Sharon.”

“I know who the fuck you are. Folks run the hardware store. You’re Bill Snyder’s kid.”

Although part of the community, none of our family ever worked at the mill. There were, of course, lots of people who didn’t depend directly on the mill for their livelihood. We were considered somehow outsiders, even though all the resources came ultimately from one pot.  

 C’mere, baby,” said Frankie. “Turn around, up against the fence. Pull up the skirt.”

My panties still lay bunched on the ground. With my ass pressed to the wires, Frankie pried out the five-dollar bill, the one he had so recently inserted. He unrolled it and waved it at the foreman:

“Here, Fred. This make us even?” It was, of course many years ago, and five bucks was plenty for a six-pack and smokes.

“That and a blow job.”

And so it began.

“Another one, lady?” The pockmarked bartender nodded at my empty martini glass.

“No. No thanks,” I said, torn from my reverie. “Just a Perrier, please. I’d better go to a table.”

“Watch your step.”

Can’t fall off the stool. I shouldn’t have come so early. Sure, a pop or two before he gets here. Shit, I really wanted to be on my toes for this.

I found an empty table and sat facing the door.

I didn’t recognize him at first. Then the letdown. I really wanted him to be beat up, flabby belly and bald. I wanted to look better than he did, but although he had filled out from the last I saw him, he didn’t look so bad for this town. Or for anywhere.

He was graying for sure, but in such a way that accented rather than detracted from his dashing profile; the fenders of once Vasolined hair now mimicked light feathers curling past his well-scrubbed ears. He stood tall, not the immature slouch, so much a part of his character back then. His eyes lit on mine and it sparked an involuntary smile in both of us. My first reaction to my own reaction was disgust at how compelling his appeal. The feel of it. I wanted to be acting cordial. Cordial but aloof. After all, I had probably done as well financially as he. What I saw in those eyes was a benevolent smile, not the sneer I remembered from so long ago. It was hard to hate this man.

After all, he had gotten me started in my career.

It seemed that to keep the foreman happy, I had to extend certain favors whenever Frankie asked me to. It wasn’t long before Frankie owed other favors to other people. It became up to me to take care of those ‘problems’ as well. Then it was money. Money he owed to all of them, it seemed. Of course, he’d give me a cut. In fact, he said he split it fifty-fifty. I’d get five—he’d get five. 

I was in such a delirium of love and lust. Frankie was pimping me and I didn’t even know. I was so young and infatuated. One day I ran into a steelworker who I had sucked off recently and he offered me what he called “The same twenty-five bucks I paid last week. Y’know—through the fence.” Frankie was holding back on me. Typical pimp.

I needed to wise up. Frankie didn’t love me. So I pooled my five-dollar bills and bought a one-way ticket out.

                                                                    . . . .

Dirtiest Story

These days I tend to find myself writing less filth than I used to. Maybe it's an illusion. Perhaps I'm becoming de-sensitised in my old age or maybe I'm less obsessed with wall to wall sex scenes than I used to be. Even so, I didn't have to scrape the bottom of the barrel that much to come up with something pretty smutty.

This is taken from The Audition, a short sci-fi story I wrote for an anthology, Love and Lust in Space.

Here's the blurb.

When she accidentally opens a wormhole whilst working for NASA Lucy tumbles through to find herself in a parallel dimension with no way back. Ever.

In this new and terrifying world she has to choose a dominant mate from the group of males all more than happy to audition for the role.

And the excerpt...

With a despairing sob, Lucy turned and stepped forward until the edge of the mattress nudged her upper thighs. She bent at the waist and turned her face so her cheek rested on the cool, padded surface. Then she shuffled her feet until they were about eighteen inches apart.

"More, Lucy. We require you to spread your legs much wider than that, please."

Lucy complied, accepting the inevitability of this degradation. She was helpless, could only accept what was happening to her, and hoped these aliens were telling the truth that she would not be harmed. She screwed up her eyes behind the soft fabric and yearned for the monotonous drudgery of her previous life.

"Arch your back. Yes, that's good. Now maintain that posture until I instruct you to move. Nod if you understand."

Lucy bobbed her head once, and gritted her teeth.

The hands that touched her first were cool, and oddly gentle. They caressed her pussy lips before pushing back the delicate folds which concealed her clit. Lucy gasped and tensed as a finger flicked the tip of the sensitive nubbin, then slid along her slit to her entrance. She groaned as it eased inside her.

The digit buried within her cunt remained still as other hands parted her arse cheeks to expose her anus. She concentrated on not wriggling when cool lube dribbled over her tightly puckered hole but couldn't contain the soft whimper as a finger was worked inside. Whichever male it was stopped, waited for a few seconds, then resumed his questing.

Sensation overwhelmed Lucy. None of the men hurt her, their fingers were gentle as they caressed her sensitive folds or stroked her inner spaces. As she lay motionless and biting on her lower lip a second finger slid inside her pussy alongside the first, then both curled to press on a spot, which seemed to be located right behind her clit. The fingertips applied a firm pressure within which caused her sensitive bud to swell against the relentless stroking and tugging from the outside. Lucy's pussy contracted hard, the convulsions rolling through her body as the heady stimulation swept away her senses. Her instincts screamed at her to move, to shy away from the intensity of sensation, but the memory of the sound made by that cane held her in place as surely as if she were bound to the bed.

The mattress shifted continuously on either side of her as men sat, then stood, moving about to gain the access they required. The finger was withdrawn from her arse to be replaced by another, then a second. The sounds of her arousal were unmistakable, her wetness creating the slick contact, which drove her to the brink of orgasm again and again.

These men knew what they were about. They knew just how to touch, to caress, to tease and taunt. They possessed a skill bordering on merciless and used it to arouse her response and build it, feed it, until she could bear no more and tumbled over the edge as her climax wracked her motionless body.

Even that was not enough. No sooner had the ripples of orgasm subsided than someone was on his knees behind her, pulling her clit into his mouth to suck on it, to lap and flick it with his tongue, and press the tip into the hollow at the very top, between her throbbing nub and the hood which normally shielded it. There was to be no shield now, no protection, and no respite, as they drew her back to the edge of orgasm and held her there, quivering, moaning, pleading with them to stop.

Or not to stop. Ever.

Someone finger-fucked her arse, the thrusts slow at first, then building to a rapid tempo as he drove two fingers deep, again and again. Lucy was sobbing even as she clenched her rear hole around the plunging fingers and came for a third time.

She lay limp on the mattress, but still they weren't done with her. Strong hands lifted her as others gently parted her pussy lips. There was cooling draught as someone blew on her engorged folds, then drove a tongue deep inside her greedy channel.

"Oh, God," Lucy moaned, burying her face in the crisp bedding beneath her. "Stop, please. I can't bear it."

There was no answer. Any response on her tormentors' part was purely physical as the tongue-fucking continued, augmented by sweet pressure on her throbbing clit as someone gripped hard and squeezed. Fingers twisted within her arse, stretching her, working her tight opening wider until all resistance evaporated. Lucy gave up the useless pleading and surrendered to what she couldn't fight. She relinquished control and allowed herself to drift in a hazy cloud of orgasmic sensation. She was theirs, to use as they pleased. When her fourth orgasm seized her she actually felt the gush of hot moisture leak from her pussy to seep into the sheet.

They knew it, too. Lucy was mortified; her treacherous body had dictated her response and her tormentors had witnessed her humiliating physical reaction. They dipped their fingers in her drooling wetness and smeared it across her buttocks, her inner thighs, her anus. Lucy begged them to stop, even as they teased her yet again to the brink of another climax.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, all hands released her. The fingers inside her arse withdrew, the tongue thrust inside her cunt slid away. The digits holding her pussy open, spreading her wide for everyone's pleasure, released their grip and she was alone. The room was silent, quite still. Lucy hated the aching, heavy emptiness almost as much as the crowded over-stimulation, which had all but overwhelmed her in its intensity.

Lucy breathed in deep, then exhaled. She lay still, listening, not daring to move for fear that the cane might even now slice through the air to connect with her vulnerable bottom. She had done as instructed; she had obeyed, surely—

"Listen to me, Lucy, but do not move. Do you understand?"

The voice was Thane's. Lucy managed a feeble nod, beyond embarrassment. She remained just as she was, spread open, exposed, her juices dripping from her gaping pussy.

"How many times did you come?"

She remained silent, unsure if she was expected to answer.

"Lucy, how many times?"

Thane had hardened his tone and Lucy shivered in apprehension. Had she counted correctly? Would she be punished if she got the answer wrong?

"Three, I think."

A ripple of low, masculine laughter greeted her reply. "More like five."

"Five? Yes, five then."

"How many times did you want to come, Lucy?"

She shook her head. "None. I didn't want any of it. You knew that."

Lucy flinched at the sharp tap of fingers on her temple. "In here, no, perhaps not. But your sexy little cunt has different ideas. You hated us. In your head, you hated everything we did to you, but your cunt loved it. You came for us five times, but we could have taken you much, much further. Your submission was ours to take, to exploit. This is how your body yearns to be treated. Isn't it, Lucy?"

Pounded in the Butt by the Goddess—or Not

Sacchi Green

Drat. I’ve been around here too long. I thought I was all set with the closest I’ve come to a filthy story—at least there’s dirt involved, since the main character is stuck in a cave, and there’s a butt plug used, since she’s too stuck to prevent it and her companion takes advantage of the situation. But it turns out that I’ve used that story, “The Goddess Bites,” here before. I was all set with such a great title for this post! “Pounded in the Butt by the Goddess” (with apologies to Chuck Tingle.) I’m using the title anyway, which qualifies as a dirty trick, but not a filthy one.

So I’ve scrabbled around for a Plan B, and come up dry. You can’t have something both filthy and dry, can you? Filthy seems to require a considerable component of wetness. Well, so does erotica in general, but filth suggests something more akin to mud wrestling than heat between the sheets.  Speaking of sheets, my knee-jerk first image of filthy sex is the kind that, if performed in a hotel, leaves the bedding in such a state that you never dare go back to that same hotel. I’ve actually had that experience, in a way, although I wasn’t the one having the fun. It was on a club outing to Provincetown, and I was the one sleeping (but not sleeping much through the noise) on sofa cushions on the floor of the living room of a seedy hotel suite, having generously turned over the actual bedroom to a club member sharing the suite and her new acquaintance brought back from a party we’d all attended. And I was the one paying for the suite.  I’ve never used the experience as the inspiration for a story, but if I did, I think my detailed descriptions would qualify as filthy.  

Maybe I’ve written something filthy and don’t even know it. Some writers I greatly admire talk about how really filthy their latest story is, and when I read it I may think it’s a great piece of erotica, but not what I’d call filthy.

That’s the whole point, I guess. Filth is in the eye of the beholder. (Ouch! Sorry about that image.) When it comes to erotica (or porn) everyone has their own sense of where the fine lines fall between hot sex, dirty sex, and outright filthy sex. And for many, the filthier the better.  Come to think of it, some of those same writers like to say that they write smut; I’ve done it occasionally myself. It’s a case of claiming a derogatory term and using it with pride. Maybe that applies to calling one’s work filthy, as well.

On the other hand, some things may just strike us as honestly filthy, things we’re embarrassed to have written. They may not strike anyone else as notably dirty, or notably enough to be interesting, but they still make us squirm and feel icky. Especially when we use an imaginary character written about in several other stories who would be outraged to find out she was used that way. I, um, hope she never finds out.

You knew this was heading toward an excerpt, didn’t you. Here’s the setup. The character has left the love of her life because it’s wartime, and they’re sent in very different directions, and her ambitions as a pilot can’t be accomplished if she’s in a lesbian relationship (this is during WWII.) She’s crash-landed the Spitfire she was ferrying from London to Scotland in a storm, and injured a German prisoner of war who’s escaped from a nearby prison camp.

Two excerpts from “Spanking Gunther” (in DL King's anthology Spank):
_______________

1.(The Beginning)

Gunther squirmed in the grip of the familiar dream. Punishment, yes, surely he deserved every blow! But could justice be done when it gave him such twisted pleasure?
Fraulein Ludmilla, in the old schoolroom, raised her wooden ruler to bring it down on his vulnerable knuckles. Gunther tried to keep from hiding his hands behind his back, but failed, so she bent him harshly across the desktop, yanked down his woolen breeches, and proceeded to inscribe a lesson onto his tender buttocks, written first in red streaks by her hands and then, by the ruler, in purple welts.
Her grunts of exertion—so brutal, so unrestrained—beat in harsh counterpoint to his sobbing cries. The punishment went on and on, exciting him more and more…then ceased, abruptly, as a hail of bullets against a Panzer’s armored turret drowned out everything else.
The dream shattered in a jolt of panic sharp as lightning.
Battle-honed reflexes kept him low, struggling to shelter his head. Except that his arms couldn’t move! Something held him immobile, face-down. Paralysis? Had he been hit? No, he was able to twist his torso with an effort, but wrists and ankles were restrained by strong bonds. Oddly soft bonds, yielding a scant fraction of a centimeter before holding fast. When he fought harder to move, one ankle sent a stab of pain up along his leg. So he had been wounded! It subsided to a dull ache when he lay still.
“Take it easy, Gunther. It’s only a storm.” The voice was weary, stern, and unmistakably female. “You’re safe enough. Looks like you’re stuck with being my prisoner for a while, though.”
It was still a dream, then, taking strange new turns. But…a sharp flash and the bone-shaking rumble of distant artillery set him to struggling again.
“Cut it out, Gunther! It’s only…donder. And, um, blitzen. Thunder and lightning, and some damned impressive hail on this tin roof.”
Memory began to trickle back. The escape from the British prison camp at Halmuir Farm…the endless, bramble-strewn Scottish moors…his companions recaptured while he crouched in a thicket hoping to snare a rabbit for their dinner. And then, after two days of wandering, he’d sighted the sheepherder’s hut through pelting rain. But there his memory hit impossibility. The rest could not have been real, not here! A fighter plane roaring down on him so close that he’d thrown himself flat onto the cold, wet grass? The sands of El Alamein would have made more sense. And then the world vanished in a burst of pain, ceasing suddenly in darkness, and silence. He could remember nothing more.
Now Gunther opened his eyes to a stormy dawn. He turned his head. The dimness of the morning was dimmer still inside the little stone hut, its one window covered by a leather flap, but the rattle of hail on the roof had diminished. The narrow wooden door stood open to let in some light. And there was the woman, silhouetted against the grayness, lounging against a doorpost. She straightened and came to stand above him.
Not a woman from any of his favorite dreams. Nothing like Fraulein Ludmilla, nor even movie goddess Marlene, so naughty in The Blue Angel, so sultry in top hat and tails in Morocco, so deliciously cruel with an imagined riding crop in her elegant hands. This woman was tall, dark-haired, strong, self-assured—and in military uniform.

2. (The End)

“You could…you could try to force me to tell you the way to the prison camp.”
“I’m sure I could beat it out of you,” she said severely, but when he stole a look at her face he caught a hint of a smile, the first slight lifting of her mood.
“What’s eating you, Gunther?” she asked, almost companionably. “I don’t need your information—you can’t grow up on a Montana ranch and then become a pilot without developing a fine sense of direction—but why the angling for punishment? Who’d you leave behind?” Her voice turned bitter with the last sentence.
Now hope seemed more permissible. He looked at her slantwise, gauging her expression, and took a chance. In an exaggerated drone he began, “I tell you nothing. Only name, rank and…” Before he could get to “serial number” she grabbed his shirt by the collar, hauled him over onto his back, and dragged his body entirely off the bed. From flat on the floor he saw her knowing glance at the bulge in the crotch of his trousers, and felt it surge even higher.
“On your knees, Sergeant Bernhardt,” she snapped. “Arms across the bed, ass in the air.”
Gunther scrambled to obey, hindered only a little by his bound ankle.
“Drop your pants.”
The dingy, grubby fabric was bunched around his ankles in moments, effectively hobbling him. He heard her move away, dared a look, and saw her drawing leather gloves from the pocket of a flightsuit hanging on a peg beside the door. He shivered in anticipation, until she drew the scented nylons  that had tied him carefully from inside her tunic and tucked them into that same pocket. Startled, he blurted out, “Will you not tie me again, Fraulein?”
She let the form of address pass. “Nope. This is your party, buddy. Just hang onto the bedframe and pretend.” In two steps she was right there, swinging the pair of gloves, whipping them across his buttocks in a series of blows so fierce that he did have to grip the wooden frame to keep from flinching away.
“Now,” she ordered, pausing and pulling up the stool so she could sit, “tell me your sins! Who have you left behind?”
Gunther had to let it out. “Mein…mein General! Feldmarschall Rommel!” Just speaking that name in German brought him close to tears.
She slapped him again. “Rommel? A fine soldier in a rotten cause. And you deserted him?” The contempt in her voice hurt more than the blow that came after, one harder than any yet. The gloves had dropped to the floor, and now she was using her bare hand. Gunther visualized how it must look against his reddening skin, and came so close to ejaculation—not yet! not yet! she might stop!--that telling his story was a necessary distraction.
“Not deserted, no, never! We were his personal troops, the very best, sent to hold off the enemy while the main forces retreated.” The chaos, the despair, the exhaustion, came back to him in waves.
“And you failed?” More blows now, from an open hand, varying the angle and the sharp, cracking sounds, striking new territory, down to his thighs, returning full force to flesh already sore and beginning to throb. Then she paused again.
“No!” Gunther was half-sobbing, as much from memory as from pain. “We held as long as possible, as long as was needed, as long as enough were left alive…” He had to stop for breath.
She struck him again, but not as hard. “And then?”
“And then we were captured.”
“That’s it? That’s all?”
“I should have died, as well.” The hot tears rose behind his eyes. It all seemed so real again, and yet so indistinct, the sand, the choking clouds of artillery smoke, the berserker’s fury that had possessed him until it crashed at last into helplessness. “I swore that I would return, or die. It was all that I dared say to him...”
“And that’s what you call a sin?” The lieutenant leaned back. Gunther could sense her beginning to retreat into her own sense of guilt.
“Please!” he gasped, lifting his hips toward her. “Please!” At any moment his arousal would turn to unsated pain. She must push him that last lap, raise him to the highest peak of intensity. “Ma’am, Lieutenant, Fraulein, bitte, mehr!”
So she gave him more, spanking his sore buttocks in an unrelenting rhythm that varied but never faltered, switching hands from time to time, driving his body into the bed’s leather straps until his cock felt so savagely huge and hard that he thought it would surely burst through them. What an arm she had, and such hands! At any instant now the impact of her blows would surge right through his flesh and set him off, soon, soon…but what was that sound? Artillery again?
“Now!” the lieutenant barked. “That’s an order!” Suddenly her hand was no longer striking his buttocks, but squeezing them, digging into the flaming soreness, making his hips move so that his cock pressed into the straps in rhythmic thrusts that drove him to a peak beyond retreat. “Now!”
And Gunther obeyed, all guilt submerged, all pleasure embraced in its full, searing glory, by the power of her authority. The flood of release spewing in sticky white bursts through the leather straps onto the floor brought also a storm of cries and harsh groans and possibly words, but if he called out any name, he could never after recall whether it had been that of the Field Marshall, or of the American woman he knew only as Lieutenant, or Ma’am. And in any case, soon enough he was crouching beside the stool with his head in her lap, face against the wool of her uniform trousers, sobbing incoherently as she stroked his hair.
“Well done, Sergeant Bernhardt,” she said firmly at last. “But pull yourself together now. That’s an army jeep you hear laboring up the hill. We’ve been found.”
________________

So much for Plan B. That’s such a feeble attempt at filth that my character would be not only be outraged, she’d be contemptuous. But she’s magnificent when she’s contemptuous! And she might even call me filthy names, so there's that.



 
 

     
 

 
 
     

 
 

 



     

Clean Dirt

by Jean Roberta

I already discussed “splosh” under a previous topic, so this time, I have to interpret “filth” as a metaphor. This is tricky. If “filth” means immorality, it can be interpreted in various ways. One person’s filth is another person’s revelation.

In my story, “The Battle Lost and Won,”* two nuns form a “special friendship.” The younger one, Sister Mary Agnes, feels horribly guilty about it, even though an androgynous Angel Gabriel has already appeared to her to warn her that entering the convent to avoid the complications of desire was cowardly, not virtuous.

Sister Mary’s lover, Sister Benedict, gives birth to a baby that seems to have supernatural origins. The Reverend Mother, wishing to avoid a scandal, threatens to cut the baby’s throat.

That’s when Sister Mary Agnes grows a spine and starts to develop her own moral code. Like many other single mothers, Sister Mary decides to keep the child alive by any means necessary:

Sister Mary held the child tightly against her bosom, where it mewed like a kitten and moved its little limbs, smearing the woman's habit with blood. Somehow Sister Mary knew the creature was female. "I will find a wetnurse for her and work for her keep. Sister Benedict, you must wait for me!"

Mother Anne tried to block Sister Mary's way. Summoning strength that she hadn't known she had, Sister Mary pushed her aside and strode to her room to collect her few belongings.

Soon, the woman was hurrying down the road that led to the village, holding the baby wrapped in her cloak.

Sister Mary walked past one humble cottage after another. Which dwelling had room for another child? None looked promising. At length she came to the inn, or so it appeared to be. A smiling gentleman strode past her to ring the bell. He was ushered inside by a plump, dark-haired woman in a bright red bodice that revealed the deep valley between her generous breasts. Sister Mary felt sure that she had come to the right place.

The young nun knocked at the back door, as befitted one seeking work as a servant. A maid wearing a saucy yellow gown opened the door, looking as though she had been interrupted while dressing. Her hair hung loose over her shoulders, and she casually bent over to tie one of her garters before acknowledging Sister Mary.

"What have we here?" she sneered. "A fallen sister. Well, it's not my problem. I'll fetch the Mistress."

"Please," begged Sister Mary, "my child is hungry." But the maid had already turned away.

Sister Mary cautiously looked at the face of the baby girl she thought of as hers. The child looked gravely back at her with the eyes of a sad woman. "Whether you come from Above or Below," promised Sister Mary, "I'll take care of you."

The woman in the red bodice swept forward, her petticoats rustling under her gown. This was Mistress Alison of the house known as the Lion Rampant. She laughed aloud at the sight of Sister Mary, who had resolved to take back her old name.

"Mistress, I am Susanna," she said as sweetly as she could. "I would be honored if you could use my services. The hospitality of your house is renowned."

"You needn't tell me that, girl," smiled the Mistress. "I'm sure we can reach an agreement. You're a comely wench and you still have an air of innocence. Are you willing to please me?"

The baby opened her tiny mouth as widely as she could, and screamed in hunger. Her face turned red, and the color spread to the tender scalp under her wisps of dark brown hair.

"You may feed your child, Susanna. You needn't pretend to be modest with me."

"My milk has not come in, Mistress. Is there no one in your house who can suckle a child?"

Mistress Alison laughed and made circles in the air with both hands. Susanna felt a tingling in both her breasts. "Come," ordered the Mistress.

The former nun knew that service would be required of her, and she could guess that housekeeping would not be a major part of it.

The Mistress brought Susanna and the baby to a bedchamber where she told Susanna to lay baby Lilith on the floor and remove all of her clothes. With fear and mounting excitement, Susanna freed her hair from its covering and unplaited it, leaving it to flow in ripples down her back, awkwardly holding the baby in the crook of one arm and then the other. She removed her stained cloak, awkwardly folded it and laid it on the floor as a pallet for the baby.

Mistress Alison watched, looking as though she had just heard a colorful story. She seemed pleased that Susanna had not presumed to hang her cloak from one of the hooks on the wall.

Soon Susanna was pulling off her shift, exposing her hard, round breasts, the charming little pit of her navel, her firm buttocks, gently curved hips and coltlike legs. To her amazement, streams of milk flowed from her nipples down the slopes of her breasts and over her belly.

"The Lord provides, dear," said the Mistress, winking.

Susanna held the baby to each of her breasts in turn, and Lilith drank loudly, slurping and smacking her lips before fastening them tightly on the source of nourishment and sucking with force. Susanna was shocked by the pleasure that flowed through her, and by the answering moisture that gathered between her lower lips. Susanna felt herself melting into her role as the nurse of her child and the servant of her Mistress, bound to both by remorse, gratitude and secret pride.

Susanna is shocked by how much she enjoys her new job in the local “house of ill repute,” yet as a nun, she was expected to be of service to others. Her new form of service also involves living with other women in a spirit of sisterhood. She can’t help rejecting the conventional morality that defines her and all the other wenches in the Lion Rampant as “fallen,” while celibate women are considered holy.

Susanna is also shocked by the pleasure of breast-feeding. Surely mothers aren’t supposed to be turned on while suckling their babies? (This was a controversial issue in the Erotic Readers and Writers lists several years ago.) Yet she feels what she feels, and she can't see what harm it could do. Note that this experience does not turn her into a pedophile; for sexual pleasure lower down, she prefers adults.

Eventually, the convent is destroyed after a cemetery full of baby bones is discovered on its grounds. Susanna is reunited with Sister Benedict, a.k.a. Joan.
To this day, two lesbians raising a child (or several) are not considered “clean” by conservatives, but if they are filthy, it’s worth asking: “Compared to what?”

Regarding the moral nature of young Lilith, the Angel Gabriel answers with exasperation (after being summoned repeatedly to make announcements) that she must decide for herself whether to be good or evil; it’s up to her. Even if the child’s origins are as mysterious as the origins of life itself, she is as human as the rest of us, and she can find her own definition of “filth.”


*This story is in my collection, The Princess and the Outlaw: Tales of the Torrid Past (Lethe Press, 2013). https://www.amazon.com/Princess-Outlaw-Jean-Roberta-ebook/dp/B00EW46W66

Blueberry Brat #Dirty #Sploshing #Erotica

An excerpt from Blueberry Brat by Lexi Wood

The sign said OPEN, but the stand seemed closed. Then Karl spotted what he was looking for sunbathing on a lounger that must have been from the seventies. They didn’t make ‘em like that anymore.

But it wasn’t the chair he was interested in. It was the brat in the blue bikini, wearing sunglasses and chewing a licorice lace. He couldn’t believe the gall of this girl, lying out next to the road for every passerby to gawk at. Had she no shame?

No, of course she didn’t. That’s what brought him back to her.

Karl stood at the foot of the lounger, blocking her sun. She raised her glasses lazily, but she didn’t say a word. Just stared at him with those emerald eyes.

“Did your boyfriend buy that for you?” he asked, indicated the licorice lace.

She set her glasses back down and said, “Colin’s history. I bought this myself.”

“You sure get around.”

“I sure do.”

Karl watched the girl’s white stomach rise and fall with every breath. He wondered how she stayed so white when she worked in the sun, or at least lounged in the sun. He wondered why she wasn’t asking him what he wanted. Maybe it was obvious.

He hadn’t come back for the blueberries.

“Aren’t you afraid?” he asked. “Lying out here all alone, nearly naked?”

“Afraid of what?”

“Afraid of… anything, really.” Afraid of men, he meant, but he didn’t want her thinking she should be afraid of him in particular. She’d already called him a pervert once.

Once was enough.

He spent so long watching her breathe that his every inhale matched hers. She stopped chewing the lace and just sucked it. Her dark glasses reflected the brutal sun, so he couldn’t be sure whether she was looking at him or she had her eyes closed.

“You want more pie?” she asked.

He didn’t know how to answer that question.

Sighing, she slipped both feet over the side of her retro lounge chair and into a pink pair of flip-flops. She walked toward the whitewashed hut, swinging her narrow hips as she went. Flipping the latch on the door at the back, she turned to Karl and asked, “Your wife run off with another guy?”

“No.”

“Is she climbing Mount Kilimanjaro?”

“Hardly.”

“Is she dead?”

That question stopped Karl in his tracks, or would have done if he’d been walking.

“She’s dead?”

The way the girl said that word, so casual and yet so final, made him wonder who’d failed to teach her proper manners. “Yes, my wife has passed.”

“So your kids are orphans?”

“They’re not orphans. They have me.”

“So half-orphans.” She opened the plywood door. With the end of a licorice lace hanging out of her mouth, she said, “I’m a full orphan. Both my parents are dead.”

Karl felt strangely numbed by this admission, but he said, “I’m sorry to hear that.”
With a shrug, she said, “It’s better this way. Now it’s just me and my grandma—and my grandma doesn’t drink.”

Karl’s stomach knotted.

She stepped inside the blueberry hut.

When he didn’t follow, she stuck her head out and asked, “What are you waiting for?”

He was waiting to wake up from this strange dream.

They’d covered quite a lot of heavy territory, which weighed Karl down immensely. This girl seemed to hop over tragedy like a jump rope.

As he approached the white hut, he asked, “How can you be so cavalier about losing your parents?”

“It was a long time ago,” she said from inside.

“Even so…”

“If you had the kind of parents I had, you wouldn’t have to ask.”

When Karl arrived at the open door, his mind drew a blank. He forgot their entire conversation. All that remained was the image before him, of a naked eighteen-year-old surrounded by baked goods.

“Come in,” she said. “Close the door behind you.”

He did as he was told, though he knew no good would come of it. He crossed the threshold and stepped inside, all the while staring at the girl’s small white breasts with their soft pink peaks.

Her pussy was shaved bare, which he would have guessed after seeing her in a bikini, but she stood there like it was nothing. Like she hung out naked in the blueberry hut all the time and why was he making such a big deal about it?

She hadn’t taken off her flip-flops, and she hadn’t taken off her necklaces. The beads and feathers and strips of leather danced against her chest as she made space on one of the low shelves. Karl’s heart clenched as she jumped up on it, because he was sure it would collapse beneath her, but either the shelf was stupendously well-constructed or the girl weighed next to nothing, because she sat easily upon it, not a trace of worry on her face.

“You haven’t fucked anyone since she died.” The girl leaned against the wall, which was painted the same glossy white as the rest of the hut. Then she added, “Your wife,” as if he wouldn’t know who she was talking about.

“That’s right,” he said. “I haven’t. Haven’t even thought about it, to be honest.”

She opened her legs. “Until now.”

He nodded. “Until now.”

Her pussy lips were the most perfect shade of pink. Though the closed hut had no windows, enough light came in through gaps in the loose slats to make her juices glitter like diamonds. He’d never seen anything so alluring.

“Lick it,” she said, kicking off her flip-flops.

When he didn’t move, she walked her bare feet up his chest and pressed down on his shoulders with her heels. He let her move him down to the ground, which was the same glossy white as everything else. Felt nice and cool against his knees.

She slid her feet down his back and said, “I hope you’re good at this. There’s nothing worse than a grown man who can’t eat a pussy.”

Karl wondered if she was speaking from experience, and how much experience, but put the question out of his mind. He inhaled deeply between her legs. All he could smell was blueberries and pastry. Probably because there was an open pie sitting beside the girl and she was idly picking away at the top crust, eating it while she waited for him to begin.

“How do you stay so slim when you eat sweets all day long?”

She flatly said, “I’m eighteen. That’s how.”

At least she knew it wouldn’t last. Most girls her age didn’t realize there was a best by date on their effortless figures.

Karl extended his tongue and lovingly fed on the sweetness of this stranger’s pussy. An eighteen-year-old pussy was like nothing else in this world—not that Karl had any recent experience with young women. He was around them all the time. Taught them. Evaluated them. But he didn’t see them as potential sex partners. He was too shaken up after his loss to see anything. And, prior to that, he’d been so happily married he forgot other women existed.

Sounds impossible, but that’s how much he loved his wife. While she was alive, there was only her. His whole world was her.

And now his face was buried between the legs of an eighteen-year-old blueberry vendor. He really ought to have some feeling about that, but he didn’t. All he felt was arousal.

Wicked arousal.

Wild arousal.

He still had all his clothes on, but he was already so hard it hurt.

“What, are you hourly?” asked the brat.

“Hmm?”

“Lick my fucking cunt,” she said, over-enunciating every syllable. “I’m trying to get off, here. This isn’t charity work.”

“Sorry,” he said, and licked her clit with focused intensity.

“Better,” she said in a tone that sounded undecided. “But still not great. Try sucking it.”

Karl wrapped his lips around her perfect pink clit and sucked, but the slippery thing kept escaping from his mouth.

“Were you ever any good at this?”

He pressed his face between her legs so his cheeks touched her inner thighs. Wrapping his mouth around her bare pussy lips, he slobbered and sucked. She wiggled around on the counter, like she was looking for a better position, which meant he wasn’t pleasing her.
Picking at her pie, she said, “Oh, this is going nowhere.”

Every jeer was a challenge. He worked harder, slurping her pussy lips, sucking her clit with ever more force. He’d wanted to start slow and build up steam, but this girl was obviously looking for a cold, hard fuck.

Or, more precisely, a hot, hard mouth-fuck.

He stuck his tongue in her pussy and reamed her in and out.

“That’s just pathetic,” she said. “Get up. Get off me.”

He didn’t, and she kicked him with both feet to drive the point home.

As he gazed up at her from the floor, she slid down from the counter. She moved the pie she’d been picking at to the spot on the counter that was wet with saliva and pussy juice. Then she jumped up and sat in it.

Karl watched in awe as this sulky teen with the perfect pink pussy wiggled her butt in a blueberry pie. He didn’t know what to do or what to say or what this was all about. “Would you like me to leave?” he asked.

She gave him a stunned look, then hopped down from the counter. “If you left, who would lick all this blueberry pie from my ass?”

When she peeled the pan away, the bottom crust went with it. All that remained on her perfect porcelain skin was a slick helping of pie filling.

She leaned against the counter with her butt facing him and said, “You might want to take off your clothes. This could get messy.”

You can read the rest of this story in ebook form but I highly recommend buying my latest release Younger Women, Older Men: Scandalous Erotica, in which Blueberry Brat appears. 

This anthology, which includes erotic fiction from me and Lexi, is so new it's not even technically available yet.  You can purchase the paperback now (and you should!) but you'll have to wait until Friday for the digital version.

Purchase Younger Woman, Older Men in print from Amazon! 

Reflections of a Dirty Old Man, Recently Showered

I keep struggling with this topic, because I keep asking myself – what is a dirty story?

The most influential book on dirty story writing  craft  that I’ve read has been a book by exactly that title “How to Write a Dirty Story” by Suzie bright.  In this book she goes from the point of view, which time has proven to me,  that what makes a dirty story or an erotic story is as personal as our erotic nature itself.

I wrote here in the past the most erotic story I’ve ever read was by a nameless amateur and would only be erotic to me.  It was in a chat room during the earliest days of the internet, when a purportedly young man, say around high school, turned up emotionally shaken because he had just lost his virginity an hour ago.  But how he lost it!

His mother, a single mother, had a best friend he had known and grown up with like a kind of elderly aunt and trusted  old friend.  About one night a week they'd get together to watch TV ever since he was a little kid.  

So,  on this night the TV shows offered are pretty boring, she doesn’t have cable, and sitting side by side on the sofa, himself in a T shirt and jeans, her, in a loose house coat, get on the subject of birth marks.  Like Hooper and shark hunter Quint in “Jaws” showing off their scars, they begin showing each other their birth marks.  The easyones first.  My arm.  Here’s my arm.  I have one on my knee.  I have one over here.  And then the less accessible ones,  in those sweaty places you have to dig down a little to get to.  Soon she is half undressed.  Soon his jeans are pulled down a bit.  Soon she is saying those weak words “I think we need to stop.”  Which a testosterone addled young kid with a visible erection poking over the top of his underwear will say with a lamb like bleat “Why?’ 

It means nothing that she’s old.  It means nothing she’s his mother's friend.  It means nothing they’ve known each other for years.  His jeans are down, her house coat is open to reveal the final birthmark where a young man might hope to find it.  And she says, reluctantly, probably feeling irresistibly, terribly, gloriously dirty “Unless you want to go into the other room.”  The room down the hall.  That room.  He doesn’t know what to say.  She gets up and goes to that room and closes the door.

What happens in the next ten minutes will mark his life.  In his last moments in this world, hopefully many wonderful years from now, if his mind is clear at all, his last affectionate vision before going into that good night will not be of his wife or his kids or of Jesus.  It will be that woman, her clothes heaped hastily on the bedroom floor, the sheet pulled chastely up to her chin, the peaks of erect nipples tenting the thin fabric and those frightened, hungry eyes.  He will stand eternally in the doorway, right up to the instant he decides what he will do with that concealing sheet she is clutching.  And that is the power of woman.

Is that a dirty story?  Or a sweet story?  I don’t think it turns anyone on but me, but it reveals me.  It reveals what I might have wished, what would have turned me on, and how many times I’ve envied that young man, not for what followed next, but for that moment in the doorway when it’s all in front of him and there is a woman in the room waiting for him to choose.  A woman he thought he knew, and realizes now he doesn’t know shit.  His inexperience on these things falls on him with a humiliating thrill just as the rediscovery of her own thrilling vulnerability falls on her.  What will they do?

What is erotic is not the consummation of the act.  It is the offering.  The presence of untested desire, unproven manhood.  The possibility of physical failure or rejection, which would be experienced so differently by the boy and the woman.  The eroticism is what is hidden until it becomes revealed and then becomes sex and maybe sordid and disappointing or gorgeous and transformative.  Someday he’ll be married and it’ll become routine, something he does after brushing his teeth.  It will never be as terrifying and raw and primitive as it is in that first earthquake of his core.   Maybe she will have to show him how to take up the masculine posture between her knees.  Her hand on his back will lower him carefully onto her as though taming a wild animal with gentleness then her other hand will guide the tip of his shivering phallus in like a ship to a dock.  He'll get off a few thrusts before he grunts and shivers, feels something leave him and marvels over the strange hot slickness all around his cock and the sheer weirdness of inhabiting the body of another human being and ask himself is this really what people do.  He'll be too proud and jazzed to ask this woman, who looks like she should be his grandmother, if he did everything right.

 That is the power of woman also.    The eroticism is not the satisfaction of the penis stroking  for the first time.  The eroticism is all that leads to that moment that has pinned him wriggling to the wall like a bug in a glass frame, pinned between her thighs, the mystery of approaching her bed, standing next to her and looking down into her eyes and seeing the offer there, and the realization, which must always be a shock the first time, that a woman has called his bluff.  That she is standing wide open, radically and insanely nude, behind the door which she requires him to open by himself and step through.