In The Zone

by Daddy X

For this post, let’s say that ‘dirty’ means the most transgressive of acts. When sexual intensity overrides the intellect to such a degree that all sense of propriety takes a back seat to gratification, without concern for mental or physical well being. When extreme desire conquers our better judgment.

Consider this excerpt from A Woman In My Position, now firmly ensconced deeply within “The Gonzo Collection”.

I want to add that this is an early work of mine, written in 2012 when my libido was considerably more lively. (Also first story requested for the ERWA Gallery and Treasure Chest).

You all know the feeling of being in The Zone: When our fingers can’t keep up with what’s playing out in our heads, the story taking on its own driving inertia, the details of which we learn as we dance across the keys. I loved that aspect of writing and wish it occurred more often.

For the bulk of this story, told in the first person present, the main character (we never get her name) is crouched on the floor, ass in the air, face resting in a massage table donut. She’s waiting at home, just inside the vestibule, anticipating her husband coming through the door. Quite thin and not a pretty girl, her only attractive assets are her ass and cunt, which are truly beautiful and that her husband truly admires. He calls her ass her “Golden Arches” when she’s in this position. Meanwhile, multiple personages inside in her head (actually aspects of herself.) make their presence and opinions known.

In this scene, she experiences flashbacks of her time before she married Eduardo, an oily skeeveball from uncertain areas of South America. He’s been thrown out of several countries for public sexual occurrences with prominent figures, not to mention other reasons left to the reader’s imagination. At Arturo’s party, the attendees do ‘tricks’ to show off their kinks.  

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Yeah, Arturo’s big party. That same girl showed up. That little masochist girl who came so hard from the spanking. Where I’d met Eddie. Well, it was a couple of years later and she had a different guy with her. To show her off. Just for fun and games. She looked much older than when we had first seen her, still cute in a heroin chic sort of way. But terrible. Used up. All dark circles and all. Eddie and I think there may be something kinky in their relationship. 

For the most, the party was nothing special. Ho hum at first. The hostess gave “really fantastic” blowjobs, or so said the men. But I think they were just being polite because only two of them even came in her mouth. Then some guys excused themselves or just put it in for a couple of sucks, saying “Oh, wow,” and then said they would have to save themselves for their own tricks. Ha! But then they would go into another room and stick it in someone else’s mouth.

And then Arturo brought out a bowl of coke. He said that now that his wife had sucked so many cocks, her lips were all puffy and sore. That she would have to service the ladies at their next party. All the girls pretended to be disappointed, but I don’t think so.

Arturo had a really big dick and several of the women and girls snorted up a shitload and tried taking the whole thing on. In several positions. I got the whole thing in my mouth and in my pussy when Eddie said I should.  After all, I’m the guy’s guest. But Eddie didn’t want me to really fuck him, or suck him till he came. Don’t ask me why—I guess he just wanted to see if the thing would go in all the way. Or maybe just to show me off. And maybe too much of the blow made him a little nuts.

You know, the usual sort of thing. Some of the younger girls thought picking up things with their snatch was a big deal. Of course somebody balanced on a dick.

And, ha! That two-bit size queen. Yeah, sure. Tried. And failed. Failed to take Arturo up her ass. How embarrassing for her. I didn’t try, but I probably could for crissakes. And I don’t even call myself a size queen.

Size princess?

A young girl in a Catholic school uniform brought a small inflatable swimming pool. Green and white. She did a mini-bukkake that was pretty hot, but for the most part, you know, pretty dull stuff.

Until that dark haired girl got rolling, that is.

Where did that voice come from? 

Yes, the position that one was put in that night.  

The blood in my head whirls. The word “position” reverberates in my head. The wonnn-wonnn-wonnngs waver like a wha-wha pedal. My cunt juices up even more.

The little slap girl did the same trick as the last time we saw her. But only from the one guy this time. And then, after she came—

Guy must have wailed on her for fifteen minutes or more! comments my timekeeper. She’s not too precise.

Both of them… Exhausted. My empathetic personage.

But the host and his wife said that the girl had faked it. Arturo said that she only peed herself and “Where?” and in “What depraved world,” was “Pissing one’s self anything tantamount to having an orgasm?”

And the little girl cried, pushing out her bottom lip and her backside too, right there in the middle of us, sobbing about how it’s “Not Fair!” And how if they would only “Give me forty minutes or so and I’ll do it again!” and I thought that just the way she said “again” that probably she did come the first time.  Her date said that he just couldn’t hit her for that long again. Not just now. She pouted. Stood half naked from the waist down in the center of the room, rubbing her eyes with her knuckles. Standing with her feet a foot apart, bent a little forward, her inflamed ass stuck out from under a t-shirt, staggering around, stumbling like she’s drunk for chrissakes, begging for coke. Her round steaming ass with a thick network of blue streaks running mottled throughout the glowing hot embers. Finger shaped 3-D blisters where her date’s individual digits had slapped her skin over and over again so damn hard in the same spot. Heat waves rippled off her ass and somebody held a platter of coke under her nose. She mashed her face into it, raising a cloud of the stuff. Then the guy smacked the platter hard on the girl’s ass and she thanked him very much but said that it would still take another forty minutes or so. And she huffed and puffed and blubbered on and on.

She stuck her hand between her legs and choked out, “Feel! It’s not all pee! Boo hoo!”

And all the women and girls in the room looked at each other and rolled their eyes like “Yeah, like we’re all juicing up here for heavens sake honey. So what’s the big deal?”  

And then the girl said it would “Prob—prob—bub—probably—wouldn’t take as long the next time ‘cause—’cause (according to her) it really hurts like the fuck already back there to start with and what if—if she just didn’t pee at all the first time and how there wouldn’t be any question at all if she just didn’t pee herself. It was just a little. But how she was so sorry but she just couldn’t help it, it hurt so fucking much she just lost control, and how she was having such a goo—good time before all this shit and how it was such a great party until all this shit. And why this kind of bullshit shit always winds up happening to her? How she’s always such a good sport at these shit things even when that one time they told her there was some shit party and then when she brought her sister and it turned out it wasn’t a real party. Just six guys, a jar of coke and the two of them. And how she didn’t mind so much—what happened. But then the guys didn’t even consider what might have been a brand new dress her sister had worn to the so-called party. And now how the sister wants the boys to buy her a new one and how the sister hasn’t even talked to her since that night and how the sister won’t even return her calls and that if someone could please bring her some fucking coke and she screamed that the host was just mad because she wet the floor. And how it’s really ‘cause his wife couldn’t suck cock for shit and- And if… if only somebody else would please help her date spank her and could someone melt some ice on her fucking ass (which looked like you could roast marshmallows on it)… 

And of course the thought that was going through everyone’s head was why the fuck would anyone let someone blister the bejesus out of their bottom and not come for chrissakes? Unless of course she was just a little slap slut or if she’s just doing it for the guy’s pleasure alone and not getting anything out of it herself or maybe it’s just for a place to stay for a night or something. And, or—or god forbid—taking money for it.

And then the cruel host guy stroked his big dick and said that if she didn’t cork her bellyachin’ he would really give her something to cry about.

And the little girl said how that would be ok too, but that her ass still needed forty minutes or so to settle down.

For sure everybody hearing this thought how from the looks of it, how it looked like it would be taking way longer to settle down than that (like a month.) And then the host said “Maybe. But from now on, this is exactly why there had to be some better criterion for this shit.”

And then my brainy Eddie got an idea. He said, “Watch this-”

He had me sit up on the couch, legs spread. I—

Cool you heels, baby girl. and Whoa girl!

I take a deep breath. Chill, Slut! says an attentive mind-attendant. I take another breath. Continue.

I wore no undies that night. That kind of party. Beside himself with lust and passion for me, my loving Eddie ripped my blouse apart. Popped the buttons around the room to expose my skinny chest. Wrinkly little tits. Looked like a freckly grasshopper on the sofa with the black leather mini skirt skinned inside out above my waist. My bony legs spread flat against the back of the sofa, pink pussy glistening wide open for everyone to see. I felt so ashamed of myself I started to juice even more. It stained the sofa cushion. That embarrassed me plenty. When Eddie said “Watch this,” again, he stood in the middle of the room. Everybody gathered around. Eddie started pointing at me, telling all these funky stories about me and who I’ve  “focked” and how many I’ve “socked” and about the things people have talked me into sticking up my ass. What “feelthy” things I’ve done, just because he’s asked me to, ‘cause I will.

He talked of how “nobody should laugh at her big Dumbo ears, because they made such good handles.” Because… Oh it was so embarrassing. And the longer he talked. Oh! I just. Oh! So wet.

He told the one about me and the museum guard. Then the one about him propositioning that bartender to trade blowjobs from “that sock-happy redhead over there” for the drinks.  Eddie said how the guy said: “No way would he put heess sweet deeck into that face” And then about him telling me to slip a goose under the skirts of several waitresses the same night. Yeah. And then how they all stared at us from the bar, shaking heir heads, frowning. That’s when Eduardo went up to the bar. He said to apologize to the bartender. Then he, the bartender, waitresses, all stared from way across the room. They pointed at me, laughing together.

I fingered myself. I flashed ‘em! Reminds my trickster gal. Then Eduardo came back but all night after that he had to go up to the bar himself for drinks. And, he told about the time I flashed the teenagers on the bus. And, what I did in front of the nuns, and what I—Well, he had me sit there hearing all these seamy things about me and telling these stories to strangers and to almost strangers. I was mortified to tears. I tried to hide my parts. I tried to hide my nasty face. I tried to hide my bigger ear and I tried to hide my ugly flushed countenance. Tried to hide it craned into the back of the couch from the shame. Archetypal ancient protection instincts kicked in, trying to squeeze my legs together from the shame. It took two people to hold my legs open. Someone threw a handful of cocaine at my pussy. Somebody else held my freckly mooshed monkey face so I had to see the camera and everyone else could all see my hot flushed face, my hot pink cunt and all the contradictions down there, and up here. And my shiny brown asshole and my ugly face and the yin and yang of it all and all my stiff clit sliding in and out on the filthiest parts.

Then Eddie shouts: “Hold her! Hold her hands! She gon’ feenger herself.”

But honest, I just wanted to rub the coke in, but somebody held my arms back and then he started to tell a story about me that wasn’t at all true. I cried. He was making it all up and I cried “Oh no!” and “I didn’t do that! Please! Don’t say that!” He made it seem like I was the liar. That I was really capable of such things. I was so wet. That I had no limits and about farm animals, about—good god, motorcycle gangs. Gang bangs. About removing bottle caps with my asshole!  Echhh!  And you know how it is when you’re accused of something you didn’t do, couldn’t possibly do? My head was about to explode because my cocaine-dry tongue had pasted itself, folded double, trying for a quick breath through my gaping mouth. Blocked all possible air passages to my lungs. Stacking up the oxygen in my head. Turning redder and redder.

I was coming.

That film. It’s so—so Me. The close-up shows first my ruddy face, already pug ugly, now morphed into the ugly of abandon. Someone’s hands grip my head from behind, folding the bigger ear forward. One end of my open mouth turned down like a stroke victim. Gaps, the missing teeth, eyes watering.  Mortification. Lust. The underside of my tongue glistens purple in its open cavern. I howl at the bunch of them.

They took a full frame sequence. My whole humping torso bridging my heels on the cushions, head on the sofa back, screaming up at the ceiling. The pelvic rolls, the gaping rosy center of it all gyrating in mid air. A man off-camera, doesn’t speak very fluent English. He makes a guttural comment. Sticks in a forefinger, fucks it back and forth a few finger fucks.

Eduardo’s yelling something about a Great Dane and fucking Interpol!  And then—then the camera tries to focus in on my cunt. I’m grinding deep pelvic rolls bridged in the open air. Some people shove my middle down. My ass on the cushion once again. A man and a woman I don’t know hold my knees to the back of the sofa. They keep me still for the kneeling girl taking a close-up.

In the background Eduardo’s hollering and waving his arms, pointing at me, shouting, spitting. He’s sputtering on about the apocryphal Twelve Pound Dildo.

At that point I quit fighting them. I looked down at my snatch. It was for the best.

Up close the fleshy lips had swollen to the point of puffing into a pair of pink peeled peach parts contracting in pulsating plips. My clit, now completely freed of its sheath, wiggled about like the head of a pearly albino tadpole. Very pretty.

I was yelling, how can you do this, how you can say things like that about me? About the one you love and about how you love me so. How I love you so. How we understand me so well. And how I don’t know a fucking thing about you, your past. Why you can’t even go back to certain countries. How I trust you and the way you make it all. And if all of them out there just went and jumped in the fucking lake and if he didn’t stop saying all the filthy things about me—The Sphincter and the Potato, my god! — I’d pop! And then... I… I…   

There was no mistaking it. Super Squirt was coming. Talk makes me come. Yes, dirty talk.

No one disputed that orgasm, says my wise guy girl.

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BTW- This is my only story where drugs are featured, except perhaps the mention of a joint or two here and there. I really don’t think drugs and sex go together well. Ummm...  Not on the page, anyway. ;>)