Down and Dirty

by Alison Tyler

  But not Ed. Ed had a knack.

  When I read back over my diary from the time we were together, I can tell that he knew precisely what he was doing. Yet at the time, I didn’t have any idea. Why should I have? I was eighteen, a freshman in college, without a clue about the fetishes that make different people tick. He was twenty-one, a junior, and he knew exactly what he liked.

  Some call it vampire sex. He never had a name for what turned him on. Never once spoke about the concept out loud. He only came by my room, cuddled up with me, held my hand or stroked my hair. And if my roommate left us alone for a moment, he’d pin me down on the long, thin, twin mattress and kiss me, sweetly, firmly, until I felt myself start to respond. It wouldn’t take much. I liked Ed, so when he started to tease me, I always felt my body answer his overtures.

  But at some point, as his strong hands wandered to my plaid pajama bottoms, I’d realize that I’d have to tell him—“I can’t tonight.”

  “Why?”

  Soft shrug, embarrassed grin. A look in my eyes that begged him not to make me say it. I was shy. An eighteen-year-old sexual novice. I didn’t have any of the necessary experiences to help me muddle through situations like this.

  “Come on,” he’d press. “Why, baby?”

  “I’ve got my—”

  But Ed would never let me finish the sentence. He’d silence my words with a well-timed kiss. And then we’d do it. Somewhere, anywhere. In my room, if my roomate was out of town or studying in the library. In his, if we could bribe his overzealous roommate to go read his chemistry books out in the lounge. Ed didn’t care about the mess, or the stains. He just wanted to fuck me, and his obvious want fueled my own desire. The way he looked at me with his hazel eyes, the way he touched me, stroked me, and talked to me, made me as turned on as he was.

  And I still remember—

  The feeling of being incredibly sexy without worries. The feeling of being wanted, without rules or barriers, without the need to be freshly showered and powdered dry. Since Ed, I’ve never been with a guy so in tune with my rhythms. Most of my men haven’t wanted to broach that area, but he showed me that it didn’t matter. The mess of it. The stickiness. He went deep and let everything happen. That was his fetish, the slight bit of kink that he liked, even though we never talked about it.

  I’m more aware now. I can spot someone who needs a little something extra to get into the mood. Whether it’s dressing up in frilly lingerie or playing with edible oils, using sex toys or viewing porn, I can easily read that yearning look in a lover’s eye. I can spot the glazed gaze of someone who’s addicted to some sort of kink. Any sort of kink. And, really, we all are on one level or another, aren’t we?

  But Ed had made peace with his. He knew that if he played me just right, I would melt into his embrace, liquefy in his arms. I think I understand, now, too. I think I can picture what he liked about doing it during that particular time of the month, the baseness of the act. The natural flood of it. I was warmer and wetter. There was something ancient, animalistic, about the way we fucked.

  When he moved to an apartment off campus, he still seemed to know the right time to call. “Come see a movie,” he’d suggest. “My roommate’s out for the night.” And I’d drive the half-mile to his place and we’d sit on the sofa as if we really were going to catch a flick.

  As if.

  Within moments, he’d be on me, pushing me down. I’d run to the bathroom to get ready, and he’d call me back to him, fucking me on the brown shag rug, making such a mess that we had to move the sofa to cover the stains.

  But he didn’t care.

  That’s the part that I remember the most. He didn’t care.

  Just now, after reading through a chronicle of my freshman year in my battered old diary, I realize that every month, like clockwork, there he was. Ready and waiting to see the stains we could leave.

  DEBUT

  Sasha Johnson

  My lover, a director-to-be, staged a fabulous filming fiesta on Saturday. Screenwriter/director/ producer/caterer (providing pizza and beer for all), she generously cast me as the star of her semi-autobiographical video.

  I played her.

  This taxed my already quite limited acting abilities to the max. Conveying a drop-dead redhead with Mediterranean blue eyes is difficult enough for a brown-on-brown girl, anyhow. But after three beers on an empty stomach (which might not fell your average movie star, but knocks this featherweight down for the count), I sprouted a full-grown Hollywood ego. Soon our guests/ co-stars began to wonder who died and made me Sean Young.

  It’s not an experience I’m proud of, and one I only (thankfully) remember vaguely.

  What I do remember is watching Cassandra shoo our company out the front door, saying in her hushed, unhurried tone, “That’s a wrap for today. We’ll finish up next weekend.”

  Then I remember her stalking, seriously stalking over to me, her calm face changing completely as she made her way to my side. “You...” she began, sticking a finger in my face. “You need to deal with yourself.”

  I was puzzled, and drunk, and I said, “What do you mean?”

  “Bossing people around like a diva. What gives? Your job was to help me out. Becoming a prima donna is not in your contract.”

  I relaxed again on our sofa and opened another bottle, feeling no pain. She ended that, taking the Corona out of my hand and sitting down next to me.

  “If you act spoiled, I will treat you like a spoiled child,” she said, more to herself, than to me. I gave her another one of my puzzled looks, and was surprised even more as she pulled me over her lap and lifted my silver-spangled dress.

  “This is not a game,” she hissed, pulling my lace panties down my thighs. “This was a serious day of filming that you ruined.”

  I felt the smack of her hand on my naked ass before I truly realized what was going on. Then, in the whining tone she despises—I should have known better—I said, “But we goof around in front of the camera all the time.” (This is true. We film dinner parties, park picnics, ourselves in bed...everything.)

  “This is my senior project,” she yelled, punctuating each word with another blow to my naked ass, making me squirm and try to get away. She held me firmly in place. “I need this film to be good,” she said, softer now, almost lost beneath the resounding smacks of her hand punishing my ass. I looked at our reflection in the mirror across the room. My bum was a deep, cherry red and by the look on Cassandra’s face, it was going to be magenta before she finished. I decided to do some apologizing. Quickly.

  “Really,” I slurred, trying to push up so I could talk to her. A firm hand pressed me back on her lap. “I was just messing around.”

  Her hand moved lower to heat the backs of my thighs. I howled and squirmed more, but she would not let up.

  “I’ll be good next week,” I said next, “I promise.” She didn’t stop.

  My mind raced with possible explanations for my behavior. When I realized that I couldn’t come up with anything in my defense, I stilled myself and accepted her wrath. I’d earned it.

  Finally, when a stream of tears had covered my cheeks, Cassie shoved me off her lap and glared down at me.

  “At least we got one good take,” she said, sounding more like herself. Calm. Easy.

  I pulled my panties up and straightened my dress. “What do you mean?” I asked, much quieter now, completely cowed. She pointed in the direction of her camera, still on the tripod, still running. I felt my face go pale.

  “We’ll start with that next weekend,” she said. “I’m sure the crew will be thrilled.”

  I stared at my hands, and in a low, humble voice, I said, “Cassie. I’m sorry.”

  She sat on the floor at my side and took me in her arms, as she always does when I’ve gone through a punishment session. “I know you are,” she said. “It’s over now. And we’ll keep that tape for a reminder...”

  Then she led me into the bedroom, where our second camera is set up on permanent di
splay, and we made another, different kind of movie.

  TEACHER’S PET

  Naomi Vanderbilt

  Practice makes perfect. You know that, Angie. C’mon girl, give it a bit more, won’t you?”

  I struggled through the text, stumbling over the pronunciation of two words that I didn’t recognize, trying so hard to grasp the poet’s meaning, all the while aware of Mr. Bradshaw pacing behind me, rapping his ruler against the palm of his hand for emphasis. If I looked toward the window, I could see his reflection, a shimmering hazy figure as he walked back and forth, over to the velvet fainting couch along the far wall, and then returning, in a looping route, by the piano, around the antique coffee table, and ending behind my high-backed chair.

  “Once more,” he said when I’d finished the passage. “Your accent is off, and it doesn’t sound as if you’re really concentrating. Do it again.”

  The tears began to well up in my eyes when I found my mind refusing to cooperate, my tongue clumsy, my lips thick, trying to waltz around the foreign words, but skipping, falling, failing him. Again.

  He stood just to the side of my chair, that ruler smacking his palm over and over, a mindless, random habit. A metronome, reminding me of punishments past and punishments present.

  “Please, Sir,” I whispered, so afraid of saying the wrong thing, but not able to continue with the poem, not able to make my mind stretch to encompass the meaning of the words. “Please can we stop for today?”

  I was aware of the fact that he’d be disappointed. I knew I’d be disciplined. But Baudelaire in English is difficult enough for me to understand and the French can be even more problematic.

  When Mr. Bradshaw sat on the chaise longue and faced me, motioning to me, I knew what was coming. I stood and quickly came to his side, then to avoid making it worse on myself, pulled up my skirt and bent over his lap. The ruler was no stranger to my ass. I have been under the tutelage of Mr. Bradshaw for three years, since my eighteenth birthday, and that ruler knows exactly where the most tender spots are located. The plump underside of my asscheeks, the backs of my thighs.

  Failing in my lessons is good for ten blows, usually. Today, the third day we’d fought with the same poem, he meted out twenty, insisting I count each one for him. It’s not an easy task to do through choked, harsh sobs. He gave me three at once, then touched each one as I said, “One, two, three...” in a halting, humble voice. Then he repeated those same strokes, in the same places, as if for emphasis, and by “six,” my face was drenched with tears.

  Mr. Bradshaw’s job is to teach me decorum and etiquette as well as serve as my private tutor. I mustn’t squirm over his lap when he punishes me. I must stay still and take what I deserve. I know this to be so, but I cannot comprehend how to follow the rules. I rock on his lap, pressing my hips against his legs, attempting to reduce the pain by sparking that warm feeling of pleasure between my thighs.

  It’s bad, I know. But I can’t help myself. I’m weak. When he finishes, when he pushes me off his lap and tells me to be more prepared tomorrow, I will retreat to my room, seat myself on my canopied bed, and rub with two fingers around and around my clit. I will imagine that it is him, my teacher, bringing me such sinful pleasures. I will pretend that he catches me in the act, that he climbs onto my bed and finishes the job for me with his tongue, before punishing me even more severely for my transgressions, for my lack of willpower.

  It’s all mixed up in my mind. Pain, pleasure, pain, pleasure, like the slapping sound of his ruler on his palm. That’s what throws me, that noise. It makes me wet, makes me unable to concentrate, and I break down, do the wrong thing, and get what I want.

  He demands that I count now, raising the blows to twenty-five because I was unable to stay still. Then he pushes me off, looking down at me with that strange mixture of disappointment and...and...what?

  He says, “Angie, go to your room. I expect you to be more prepared tomorrow.” As I lower my skirts and adjust my petticoats, he says, “Now go upstairs...and wait for me.”

  And this time, as I leave the room in my hurried pace, there is a smile on my face beneath the tears.

  MORE THAN A MOUTHFUL

  Michael Bell

  You know how some women stress out about the size of their breasts? If you’re a woman, I’m sure you know all about it. If you don’t worry, your friends probably do. For some reason, there’s this obsession with big tits. I don’t know if it’s an American thing, or if it happens everywhere. Red-blooded American men are supposed to be into breasts the size of cantaloupes—D-cup at least, preferably double-D or triple-D. Sometimes it seems like sex is all about cleavage.

  Make whatever assumption you want to about me—I’m into small ones.

  That’s why it turns me on so much to be with Lisa.

  Twenty-six and auburn-haired, Lisa’s as slender as a gymnast even though she prefers to kickbox. She’s too big for an A-cup, but not quite big enough for a B. She calls them “A+.” I prefer the term “A++.” I’ve had girls with A+ tits before, and these are definitely better. Just a hint fuller, with big, firm nipples and almost—but not quite—enough weight to suspend a pencil under them. That’s the classic test of whether a girl needs a bra, and my own particular upward limit of what absolutely drives me wild. In fact, I think it’s perfect. If I could spend the rest of my life making love to Lisa’s tits, I would die a happy man. In fact, I would probably starve to death with my mouth on Lisa’s nipples, unaware of the wasting of my body. And I would still be the happiest man on earth.

  Am I objectifying her? Probably. But Lisa doesn’t seem to mind.

  The first time we were together, I couldn’t take my hands, my mouth, my face off of those gorgeous tits of hers. I couldn’t believe how perfect they were—the pair of tits I had dreamed about my entire life. I was surprised that she wore a bra—she didn’t really need one. She would later confess that she’d worn a bra because she didn’t want me to think she was a slut—and, I discovered, because it was one of those bust enhancement bras with firm padding underneath, lifting and separating her breasts into an approximation of cleavage. She confessed to me a week later that she’d been quite sure I wouldn’t want to sleep with her if she didn’t have at least a little more than a mouthful.

  In fact, when I eased her top off and unhitched the front clasp of her Wonderbra, Lisa blushed a little and asked me if I minded that they were too small. She was embarrassed to ask it, and covered up her shyness by giggling that some guys thought anything more than a mouthful was wasted.

  I responded by spending long hours making love to them, discovering that Lisa could come without ever having me enter her or touch her clit. Some girls can, you see. It just takes a really, really long time. Which doesn’t bother me even a little bit.

  Lisa eventually confessed to me that she loves her breasts touched, that she never, ever gets tired of it. But that night, she didn’t say a word; she just let me do exactly what I wanted to do, and while she was moaning in rapture and thinking she was being too indulgent, I was doing exactly the same thing. In her mind, she was thanking God over and over again that I was being so considerate as to lavish tons of affection on her “too small” breasts; I, similarly, was almost weeping with joy as I thanked my lucky stars that I’d found a small-busted girl willing to indulge my selfish need to make love to her tits all night.

  I even kept touching them when I ate her out that night, which I did for so long my jaw ached and Lisa told me she didn’t think she could come again (she proved herself wrong). As my tongue explored her pussy, sliding deep between her lips and teasing her clit, my hands were upthrust, my fingertips caressing her little mounds, my thumbs and forefingers pinching her nipples, her hands clutched hard on mine and encouraging me to keep stroking her firm tits.

  When she came again, the third time, I still couldn’t stop. I tried to, because I told myself I should let this poor girl get some sleep. But when she cradled my head against her chest, I was on them again—uncontrolle
d, weak-willed, so hungry for them that I couldn’t stop. My hands, my mouth, my face and my cock were all over them. I was the happiest man alive.

  I could have shot my load just from touching them, but I didn’t—because I couldn’t bear the idea that I might get sleepy afterwards, and not be able to keep doing what I was doing.

  They weren’t really more than a mouthful. But then, I’ve only got one mouth.

  That first night together, when the sun came up and I was still caressing Lisa’s breasts, licking them, sucking them, rubbing her hard nipples, now pink and puffy with wear, against my cheek, savoring the feel, my new lover asked me, “Don’t you want to fuck?”

  “I would love to fuck,” I sighed, kissing her as my hands roved over her breasts. “But I’m also totally happy to do this for another twenty-four hours.”

  She looked at the clock. Six a.m. on a Sunday.

  “We’ve got twenty-seven,” she sighed, and pushed my head back down between her tits. “Make them count.”

  And I did—just as I’ve made every hour in bed with Lisa count, ever since.

  VERONICA’S LOVER

  N. T. Morley

  Veronica’s lover had tied her to the bed faceup with leather restraints around her wrists and ankles, leaving just enough give in the ropes lashed to the head- and footboard so that Veronica could struggle deliciously. Veronica was blinded with a padded leather blindfold padlocked around her head, but she was not gagged.

  “Anything,” Veronica had told her lover. “Anything at all. You can do anything to me.”

  Which might have been a dangerous request for her birthday, if Veronica hadn’t allowed her lover to read her diary. Veronica’s diary was not like most other diaries; instead, it was a many-volumed collection of erotic fantasies, ranging from the sublime to the extreme. She knew, because she knew her lover so well, that tonight, on her birthday, she would be forced—“forced” was the word that excited her when she was tied up like this, though she wanted nothing more than to be forced, making it a strange word to use—to experience one of those fantasies. But which one? One of her fondest, a fantasy that she had written and rewritten in a dozen incarnations throughout the hundreds of pages tucked into her loose-leaf binder? Or one of the scary ones, a fantasy she had written in a moment of audacious extremity and forgotten about entirely, one that would terrify and excite her as she groped in her memory for every detail she had written down?