Down and Dirty

by Alison Tyler

  I slid easily into her ass as Joe probed her in front. His fingers overlapped mine at her waist, and I had a flash of us in the past, bent over one of the weight benches, me behind him—him behind me—never has mattered much to us.

  “It’s all about form,” Joe said. “Don’t do it if you’re not going to do it right.”

  So that’s what we did. The three of us. Me in her and Joe in her, and the pretty toned girl pumping back and forth between her two rock-solid men. That’s exactly what we did, following Joe’s mantra—

  We did everything right.

  THE LIZARD QUEEN

  Julia Richards

  I’m not a ghoul. I don’t usually hang out in cemeteries. But on our trip to Paris, my lover insisted on visiting Jim Morrison’s grave at the Pére Lachaise. “Can’t we just say we went?” I asked, not excited about spending a day with the dead. “No one will know.”

  “What’s your problem?” she demanded, shooting me a look. “It’s only a cemetery.”

  We went, of course. We do whatever Laura says we’re going to do. Always. As we made our way into the place, the gatekeeper told us that they were almost ready to close. “We’ll be quick,” Laura promised in French. I was glad for that. The days were shorter, and a cool wind had begun to blow, stirring the leaves around us.

  As we made our way through the graves, Laura grabbed me by the hand and pulled me toward one of the mausoleums. One that had a broken entrance. I shook my head and tried to stop her. But there really is no stopping Laura. When she says “jump,” I bounce like a fucking bunny.

  Inside the mausoleum, she crouched down, pulling me with her. “We’ll wait until the keeper locks up for the night,” she said, “and then we’ll go find the Lizard King.” I was against it, but we don’t have a democracy. The last rays of sunlight hit the stained-glass window, bathing us in shimmering blues and reds. The light fell on Laura’s face, on her eyes, and they glowed, a green fire burning wickedly within them.

  While we were waiting, we ended up kissing, and that’s always good. I had my shirt off and my bra undone and Laura warmed my nipples with her mouth before clamping them with the ridged clips she always carries with her. The clips have a chain hanging between them, and the weight of it makes my pussy ache with want.

  “Please,” I said, pushing against her, begging with my body and with my words until she undid my jeans and prodded me with her fingers, pinching my clit until it felt like it would burst, treating me to a few soft caresses and lots of the pain that I crave. She knows how to make me come, but she didn’t. She kept me on edge, fucking me, fucking with me, having me stand so that she could bite my shaved cunt lips until I was marked by her pointed teeth, nearly out of my skin from wanting to come so bad. She wouldn’t let me, though. She never makes it easy for me.

  It was dark by then, and we were cramped in the small quarters, so Laura pulled me out of the mausoleum after her, insisting I leave my top and jeans in a heap. I wandered naked behind her, feeling the cool bite of the fall air on my pale, smooth skin, nearly glowing beneath the moonlight. We finally found the grave, and Laura sat on the headstone and pulled out her switchblade.

  “Come here,” she ordered.

  I did, going on my knees on top of the grave and waiting. She’s into carving, now, scarification, and she drew a design on my back, over the silver lines of old scars and the dark purplish lines of new ones. I held my breath and felt the blood run free, dropping down onto the grave, and onto Jim’s bones. The pain of it was good, clarifying, and I could feel the distant climax rise within me again, coming so close to it that I felt dizzy and disoriented.

  I don’t know when the music started, the haunting few bars of “The End.” All I know is that Laura was there, with her knife and her attitude, and then she wasn’t. And I was lying on Jim’s grave watching him get into leather jeans and toss his hair out of his eyes.

  “Pamela’s going to love you,” he said, reaching for my hand. I looked down at the velvet dress that had woven itself over my skin, at the red roses that were growing where my drops of blood had fallen. Then I took his hand and followed him into the night.

  JAKE’S APARTMENT

  Tasha Dillon

  Jake’s apartment is less than five miles from mine. I can make the trip in under three minutes if I catch all the lights. At two a.m., there are few cars to get in my way, and my fear of cops decreases in direct proportion to my desire to get laid. If I were a different sort of chick, I’d burn rubber in my haste to get to his place.

  On this night, I find him up, as I thought he would be, wide awake and relaxing on his battered blue sofa, watching the type of late-night black-and-white movie that isn’t considered a classic. It’s just considered old. I see through his large picture window that he’s watching the flick with an intense expression of concentration on his strikingly handsome face, and he only casually turns to look at me when I slide my key in his door and turn the knob, then shut the door quietly behind me.

  There’s a moment when I actually think he’s going to make me beg. That he’s going to explain in a dark tone how interested he is in the plot of this fifty-year-old dog of a movie, that I’ll have to wait until the film is over before we fuck. If he says that, I’m going to cry. I know it. I’m going to dissolve into some pathetic creature who will absolutely beg him to take me. No holds barred. I’ll fall down on my knees in front of him, scrambling to undo the fly of his faded jeans, to withdraw his cock and suck it deep down my throat.

  Don’t make me beg, I think. Just fuck me.

  Please, just fuck me.

  I got so wet on the drive over that I’m almost out of my head with lust. Sure, the journey was brief, I know, but then I was actually wet before I left my apartment. Sopping as I slid into my lizard-green hot pants and my stretchy black off-the-shoulder top. So amazingly wet as I slicked on my favorite lipstick and fluffed my hair. I look as if I’m ready for a night out at one of our favorite clubs, when all I’m interested in is a night on the floor with Jake. Or on the sofa. On the balcony. Outside under the stars. Anywhere.

  So don’t make me beg, I think. Come on, Jake. Don’t make me.

  Then, like an angel, he smiles at me, mutes the TV, and stands. We don’t go to his bedroom. Not tonight. There isn’t time, and he knows it. Maybe he can smell the arousal on me. Maybe he’s feeling as intensely turned on as I am. Instead of ushering me to his bedroom, he brings me to a chair and sits me down, then pulls my stretchy black top down past my shoulders to reveal my naked breasts. Can’t wear a bra with this sort of flimsy contraption. That’s my excuse, anyway. He bends to kiss my tits, his mouth soft and warm on my nipples, and he moves back and forth, making sure to treat both equally.

  I’m humming with pleasure already. And I close my eyes, feeling the movie flicker over my shut lids. Seeing without seeing.

  Jake goes on his knees to kiss me, and I feel my lipstick smear from my mouth to his, feel his teeth on my bottom lip, tugging, worrying my lip for me. He nips and bites his way back down again to my breasts, and then he moves his hands to cradle my waist. I think that I’ll have to stand to get my teensy shorts off, but he has other ideas. First, he slides his hands up my thighs, slipping under the edges of my shorts. Somehow he manages to touch my pussy through my panties but under my hot pants, and I feel myself shift forward on the seat, groaning at the connection.

  Now, he moves his hands and rips open the side zip, then slides my shorts off and down. When he sees the pretty little G-string I have on underneath, he’s the one to sigh. He presses his lips to the lacy hot-pink triangle covering my pussy. The fabric provides no protection at all from the warm soft wetness of his mouth. But that’s okay. I don’t want protection. I want the wetness. Drippy and hot. I want everything about this—the way he slides his tongue in dreamy designs over my pussy lips, traces invisible pictures around and around. He kisses and licks until I am babbling urgent requests for him to continue, to please not stop, to just make it happen. And he doe
s.

  He eats me relentlessly until I come on his tongue, and only then does he slide my G-string off and turn me so that I’m bent over the chair. He takes his position behind me, releasing his hard-on and fucking me deep and strong. I gaze at the floor as I feel a second climax build, and I memorize the patterns in the rug, intricate boxes within boxes in shades of brown and beige and gold. The designs remind me of his tongue against my clit, and I run one hand between my legs, touching myself when I sense Jake is about to come.

  We climax together—in thundering waves—in the late-night movie glow of Jake’s apartment.

  THE PARTY

  Alison Tyler

  Carrie put her hand on my arm as she made her way through the party. That light touch, almost a tickle, made me turn and watch her move through the crowd. And in that second, I wanted more.

  Yes, we’d met several times in the past. We’d been at the same cookouts, the same outdoor concerts, the same beach parties, each of us knowing different friends within the core group. But now, I wanted to learn more about her, and it was all because of that single whisper-soft touch. Trying not to look like a stalker, I followed her through the room. She sensed my presence, and my interest, immediately, looking over her shoulder at me. Winking and then nodding with her sweetly sharp chin upward.

  I raised my eyebrows at her. What exactly did “up” mean?

  She parted her lips, and I saw the glint of metal on the piercing on her tongue. “Follow me,” she mouthed silently. As it was what I was already doing, I simply continued, my eyes on her lithe body as I walked behind her up the stairs at the back of the house. Up to a series of empty bedrooms. We chose the first, undressing as soon as she shut and locked the door behind us, falling into the bed in our haste. Then we were on each other. Hands exploring. Tongues testing.

  I’d like to say that we spent hours on the foreplay, but we didn’t. We got down to serious business right away. After all, neither one of us knew when we’d be interrupted. Still, I took my time, teasing her, pleasing her, memorizing the curves and valleys of her body.

  Carrie twisted her fingers through my long dark hair, stroking it, and she sighed and whispered nonsense words that sounded like music. My new lover liked what I was doing. I could tell. Encouraged, I pressed my lips against a pussy that had a musky scent of real life to it. Not the antiseptic flavor of an overly douched cunt. Not the floral nonsense you read about in romance novels. Nobody smells like lavender. Nobody tastes like rose petals. People have real smells and flavors and that’s what makes them sexy.

  This lovely vixen had a scent that was tinted with the smell of body lotion, but tasted of honest warm skin beneath it. Her wetness lingered on my lips and on my tongue. I lapped at her, thrust my tongue deep inside her, felt the inner ridges of her body. But before I could get her off, she pushed me back on the bed and swiveled over me, positioning herself with her mouth over my sex and her pussy poised just before my lips. Again, I opened my mouth to taste her, but this time, as soon as my tongue connected with her skin, I felt her tongue probing me down below, echoing my actions.

  The silver metal ball in the center of her tongue tapped against my clit. This sensation sent a surge of pleasure through me. Concentric circles started in my pussy and radiated out to the tips of my fingers and toes, like ripples in a lake moving outward toward shore. It was delicious, how she used the metal ball to start me up, following with the flat of her tongue like a tool to tickle my nether lips, to probe between them. I didn’t stop making spirals with my own tongue, but I began to buck against my lover’s mouth as she worked me.

  Carrie knew what she was doing. She made the same circles with her tongue that I make with my fingers whenever I climax solo. Even better than what she was doing with her tongue was her steady monologue. While she worked me, she continued to murmur those nonsense words, saying, “My sweet girl,” and “That’s right, pretty thing,” and “Come on, baby.”

  Her voice sent vibrations swelling throughout my whole body, echoing and re-echoing. This was intense, hearing her voice as I felt it, and soon, I was coming, my inner muscles rapidly contracting, pulling in hard and fast. Knowingly, she slid two fingers up inside my cunt and let me squeeze and release them while I climaxed. I tightened on her fingers, spasms building and receding while my breathing caught in my chest, until I was leaning up in the bed, pulling her body harder against mine. She came a moment later, as if spurred on by my pleasure, and I felt the tremors silently wash through her until once again she was still.

  I thought we’d take a break then. Roll languidly in the rumpled sheets. Trace our fingers over each other’s bodies. Relax and remember how to breathe once again. She had other plans.

  In the hazy darkness, she rolled me over, and then I felt her hands parting my rear cheeks, her lips meeting my peach-like split. Kissing me there. Licking me. I closed my eyes tight at the decadent sensation as she spread my heart-shaped cheeks even wider apart, stretching me open. Air touched the wet places she’d kissed, and I shivered. Each move she made back there sent new waves of pleasure through my pussy. And then I felt that metal ball come into play as her tongue thrust into my asshole.

  The silvery ball stroked me inside as her tongue went in deep. I moaned out loud, couldn’t help it, and brought one hand down beneath my body, stroking my clit as she continued to tongue-fuck my ass. Nothing had ever felt that extreme. My pussy pulsed and twitched, my heart raced, and soon, too soon, I was coming again. Shaking the bed. My lover held on to my waist with her hands, keeping me steady as she licked my hole through the orgasm.

  Extending it. Stretching it. Taking me to places I hadn’t known existed outside of fantasies, and making them real.

  WITHOUT HER

  Jay Hall

  I never would have planned it to happen the way it did. I mean, you hear people say stuff like that all the time, and you shrug to yourself, “If you didn’t want it to happen, then you could have stopped it.” But now I’m on the other side of things, and I see life from a new perspective—and I’m starting to understand.

  I take pictures of cheating couples for a living. That’s what I do. I’m a private eye. Give people the evidence they need to confirm suspicions they already have. It never works the other way. By the time people come to me for my services, they already have the details. They just don’t want to face the facts. In plain English, I never prove innocence; I only confirm guilt.

  I guess I’d have to say I always felt above it all. Knowing I’d never bend that low, cheat on someone I loved, make them feel the kind of pain I’d seen so many times in a woman’s eyes. Why would I do that? I’d simply break off the relationship, sever the ties, and then plunge the filly that needed plunging.

  Innocent thoughts of a neophyte. I never will be that innocent again.

  Julianne and I had been together for eight months, a record for me. I’m a bit of a slut, you may have guessed that from my attitude. I don’t like to be held in. I don’t cheat—or I didn’t cheat—but my relationships rarely have lasted longer than a month. But Julie was special, pretty and smart and giving. She had me ensconced in her apartment by our third date. (I never told her I kept my own place, paying rent on an empty room as a backup in case things didn’t work out.)

  I was on a job, snapping pictures of a couple from an office building across the way. I had my telephoto lens, had everything I needed. But, as I clicked each shot, as I stared at the lovers entwined, I felt something new. A desire I’d never felt before. The two lovers were both attractive, but the sub was something special, something worthwhile. She had a mane of dark hair and a face like an angel. I wanted her. I needed her.

  I approached her with the pictures, something I’d never done before. “Your boyfriend hired me,” I said. “I don’t have to give him these...but I will.”

  She looked at me with angelic blue eyes and she swallowed hard and invited me into her office. She took the pictures from me and placed them in her top dresser drawer. Then she stared at
me, begging with her eyes and then her mouth, “Please...” (just what I wanted to hear), “I’ll do anything.”

  She sucked my cock, she offered me her ass, she called me Daddy, let me do things to her. Anything I wanted to. I tied her up. Took pictures of her with my cock in her ass and a dildo in her cunt, and a third, massive toy in her mouth. She looked glamorous when she was wallowing in the filth. But there was something even more than that. Other girls will let you do stuff to them. And if you can’t find the right ones for free, you can always pay. But this girl was magical. There was something about her, something transcendent. Her smell, her face, the way she batted her eyes.

  The way she said, “I love you, oh, how I love you.”

  I can’t describe that. Can’t believe I fell for it.

  I defiled her. I had her all chained up and suspended from the ceiling. I had her any way I wanted her. Fulfilled every fucking fantasy I’d ever even thought about. Every image that had ever flickered through my twisted mind.

  And when she went to Julianne and told her all, I can’t describe that either. But I sit here alone in this empty room and I wait for the phone to ring, wait for her to call. And I wonder what it was I saw through that telephoto lens of mine. Something angelic? Something of the devil? I don’t know.

  I only hope she’ll call.

  SUMMER RAIN

  Thomas S. Roche

  Look at that rainbow,” Lindsay said. “It’s incredible.”

  It had been raining earlier as we drove through the Napa Valley, a warm summer rain that turned the wine-swollen countryside to great fields of mud. About a half-hour before, the rain had trailed off, and now hanging in an arch over the hills was a rainbow so brilliant it hurt my eyes to look at.