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):
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.