Down and Dirty

by Alison Tyler

  I howl for her, I give her everything she asks for. I mew and cry and rock my hips back and forth on her fingers and thumb. I beg for her to fist me, and she does, expertly, ramming me in and out, driving me. I’m able to turn over, to grab her headboard, and I steel myself and take it, take it, while she describes the tattoos she’d like me to have: locks of silver ink around my waist, a sign on my back proclaiming me to be hers. She paints pictures with her words until I see this new reflection of myself in the mirror over the bed. I can see two tattooed bodies, hers and mine, no blank skin between us, no empty canvas.

  In the morning, when the sun wakes me up, she’s gone. I roll onto my side, slowly, achingly. I stand and make my way to the bathroom where I look into the mirror and see the black markings she’s penned on me, all over me, the visions, the dreamlike images she’s drawn while I slept.

  PACKAGE DEAL

  Alex Reed

  You’re bent over my lap, your ass high in the air. You’re stark naked, your body slim and helpless in my grasp. It’s time for you to get what you deserve.

  I run my hand up the inside of your thigh, feeling you quiver with anticipation. I know you’ve longed for this moment as much as I have, but even so I can sense you’re very nervous.

  I touch your pussy, stroking your moist slit up and down. Your clit is very firm, erect with arousal. I slip two fingers into you, and you moan in response. I finger-fuck you just enough to get you going—just enough to make you want more.

  Then I push your thighs open wider.

  The first blow lands on your sweet spot, a loud, open-handed blow that makes you jump. No doubt you can feel my hard cock against you, and I wonder if it makes you want to be fucked. I spank you again and this time you don’t jump; you sink into it, moaning softly. Again, faster, alternating from cheek to cheek as you squirm and writhe in my grasp, whimpering, “No, no, no, no!”

  That makes my cock even harder. Hearing you plead with me to stop, knowing there’s no way that I will. Not until you’ve come.

  I spank faster, hitting harder, concentrating on the areas I know will drive the vibrations right down into your cunt, into your clit. Your pretty butt wriggles back and forth, the butterfly tattoo serving as a perfect target on one cheek while the swiftly reddening curve of your sweet spot beckons me to the other. I grasp your hair with one hand and spank from one cheek to the other, pulling your head back while you whimper, “No, Daddy, no, no, no, no, no!”

  I feel your cunt—wetter than ever. I finger you some more, two fingers this time, opening you up. When I start spanking you again, I make sure the flat of my hand strikes your pussy. You shriek, “No, no, no, no, no!” even as you push your ass high into the air. I move back to your sweet spot and it’s that combination that drives you closer. I can tell you’re going to come.

  I let go of your head and reach under you. I stroke your breasts, pinching your nipples, knowing that the combination will bring you over the edge. When you come, you desperately grasp the legs of the chair and beg me all through your climax: “No, no, no, no, no, Daddy, don’t make me come!”

  I slide my fingers into your pussy so I can feel the quivering spasms that come with your release. You’re whimpering deliciously, your body rubbing against my hard-on.

  I pick you up in my arms and lay you out on the couch. Spreading your legs, you lift your ass into the air, asking for something different this time.

  I open my pants and mount you from behind. Your pussy is so wet that it envelops my cock hungrily, clenching tight around it even as the post-orgasmic spasms go through your snug channel. I fuck you fast, not caring to make you come—this is for me, our agreement: I spank you and you let me fuck you. But you do come, unexpectedly, pushing desperately back onto my cock, lifting your ass high, rising up onto all fours and arching your back. I feel the spasms, hear you moaning—a telltale sound that no woman can fake. You’re still fucking yourself onto my cock when I erupt inside you, my come filling you.

  I pull out of you, come around to the side of the sofa, and let you lick me clean.

  I tuck my cock away and run my hands over your backside. It’s red, hot to the touch.

  “Next week, same time?” I ask.

  You flush, your face red as you smile.

  “Um...I don’t know if I can wait that long. I was thinking, maybe, Thursday? About four?”

  You give me a flirtatious wink.

  I chuckle.

  “Remember,” I say, “it’s a package deal. You want this ass of yours treated right, you’ve got to treat my cock right.”

  You nod, eagerly. “Yes,” you say.

  “Not just your pussy,” I say. “If I’m going to make time in my schedule...”

  I let the demand hang in the air as my thumb teases open your lips. Your tongue slips out and licks the tip of my thumb.

  “If I’m going to make time in my schedule,” I say, “I want to see what this pretty mouth of yours can do besides say ‘No.’ Understood?”

  Blushing gorgeously, you nod. And smile.

  I cup your ass in my hand, feeling how hot and firm it is.

  “See you Thursday?”

  “Come around the back,” you say. “My husband will be playing cards on the side deck.”

  “Sure thing,” I say, and leave you there stretched out on the sofa, ass red and pussy filled with my come.

  LIFE LINES, LOVE LINES

  Jennifer Smith

  Deirdre asked us to attend the party with her as backup. She had fought with one of the other attendees, and didn’t want to be caught alone with her. Helena and I both said, “Sure.” How often do you get the chance to go to the largest mansion in Beverly Hills? In her BMW, on the way to the bash, Deirdre said, “Just let Joelle try to start something,” shaking her fist in the air for emphasis.

  I didn’t think Joelle would have the guts to attack, not in front of everyone. Not when her boss, her boyfriend, and many of her richest clients were surrounding her. But she did. She came right up to Deirdre and snarled at her, truly snarled, her teeth bared, her orange-glossed lips pulled back. While the rest of the partygoers hushed, Helena walked up and said, “Joelle, that rubber dress looks incredibly lovely on you. And those extra pounds you’ve added? I must say, they do wonders for your ass.” Joelle didn’t know what to do. She skirted away like a mouse, retreating to her corner of the room.

  Helena grinned and downed another glass of champagne. I went to explore the chateau. On the second floor of the party, fortune tellers had been hired to tell guests about their futures. There was a palm reader, a woman with a crystal ball, and a tarot card enthusiast. I stood in line for the palm reader, and, when it was my turn, I sat across from her and placed my hand in hers.

  “Long life line,” she said, quickly, her gently calloused finger rubbing into my smooth palm, “and strong love line.” I heard a tittering laugh behind me, but I didn’t turn, just let the lady continue with her shtick. When it was time to leave, however, I saw Helena, champagne glass in hand, leaning in the doorway.

  “What nonsense,” she snorted, grabbing me around the waist for support and leaning her willowy body against mine. “Life lines...” She reached for my hand to look for herself, but I steered her down a darkened hall and into one of the many bedrooms.

  “Is Deirdre okay?” I asked as Helena seated herself on the chintz comforter, kicking off her shoes and crossing her long legs beneath her silver gown. I sat in a chair nearby.

  “She just decked Joelle, so she’s fine now.”

  I made a move to stand, but Helena placed her now-stockinged feet in my lap, keeping me still. She set her champagne glass on the floor and motioned for me to join her on the bed.

  I moved her feet, first, and walked to the door, locking it. Then, while watching my drunken silver-clad nymph, I peeled off my tux jacket and undid my shirt. Helena giggled again, saying, “Tell me more about your fortune.”

  “There’s love in my future,” I said, undoing my slacks now, letting h
er see that I was packing.

  “Close in your future,” she agreed, hiking up her dress to reveal a silver garter belt and no panties. Keeping my pants on, I moved to her side, and she gracefully lifted her ankles and placed them on my shoulders, allowing me easy entrance to her wet and willing cunt.

  “You made a spot on your dress,” I admonished her, using my thumb to rub her clit while my cock stroked her insides. The altercation below had obviously turned Helena on.

  “I told them I spilled champagne,” she said breathlessly, rocking her hips back and forth to get the rhythm going that she likes best. She needs it steady, in long, even strokes. I know how to give it to my girl, but I do like seeing her work for it.

  “What else...” she started, having a hard time forming the words, her hips doing their jiggity-bounce against that expensive comforter, her cunt closing around my cock and sucking on it as if it were a second mouth with a will of its own. “What else did the fortune reader tell you?”

  “Long life line,” I repeated, bucking against her, humping against her. A band had started up in the courtyard below, and I switched gears and clicked onto their rhythm, a rock ‘n’ roll beat that was a tad faster than Helena’s inner metronome. It worked to bring her to the edge of climax, but I removed my thumb from her clit, unwilling to make her crest just yet.

  “Strong love line,” I said softly, using the flat palms of my hands on the backs of her uplifted thighs, stroking her, gently spanking her, catching the undersides of her thighs, then her ass. The rhythm section speeded up downstairs, and I joined them, really rocking into her now, letting her have each full stroke from the tip to the base of my cock.

  She purred as she came. Her heavy-lidded eyes closed tightly, and then opened and pierced into mine. She said, “That...that was good...”

  I pulled out and tucked my cock back in my drawers, liking the fact that her scent and her juices still coated it. I nodded as I said, “So, wise one, tell me the rest of my fortune, would you?”

  “It’s long.” She grinned, fixing her dress and standing to see her reflection in the mirror. “And it’s hard...” I smiled at her as she slid back into her high-heeled sandals. “And I’m in every single frame of it.”

  WITHIN

  M. Christian

  My five fingers, my five cocks, my five dildos, touch and probe and move, knocking to be let in—all the way in. Such a harsh word for such intimacy. Maybe “reaching”? Maybe “handling,” but not fisting. Too rough, too violent.

  The mechanics of it are here, on a table next to the sling or someplace near the bed: Wherever the place, they are there. Roll call: gloves (comfortable, surgical if you fancy that), lube (lots and lots and lots and lots—if you think you have enough you don’t have enough), and the other things that she might need (vibrator, small whips, dildo, whatever else). These are the keys, necessary but artificial—the facts of life.

  The rest, though, is not artificial—way, way beyond artificial.

  My gloved hand knocks, wanting in.

  Carefully, I dance with her lips, waltz with her minora, majora. She leads, naturally. She takes my hand with her cunt and shows me herself. She opens w-i-d-e, says hello, invites me in.

  I bow, caress, and take a first step. One finger, with a come-hither action. Not a lot. Not a lot at all—just a first step, one finger through the threshold. I have one finger in her pussy, her cunt, her vagina. One finger inside her, feeling the heat of her, taking her temperature from inside—a special, intimate, inside.

  She nods, I nod, and we take another step; both listening to the music she makes.

  Two is small. Just two. Two is a little number—just one and one. I move them inside her, feeling around, getting to know this special place, feeling her interior architecture. I feel a rough spot (G), the narrowing, slick walls (to cervix), the hard jab of bone under, the tight muscles over, the way her lips move, the way they won’t.

  Lube and more lube. She shines, glimmers with it, looking red-mirrored with the slickness, and her own slickness as well. I note the smile she gives me, with the rise and salute of her clit. Some women like it touched, during this, some don’t. I ask, and she nods, so I do: bathing her bead with a careful rotation of my thumb.

  Then—three.

  Still a small number, a little number. Three isn’t a lot, but the tightness has started. The play of one and one and one isn’t as flexible as just one, just two. It’s harder to move now, but I have a feel for the land, for the flow of her lips and walls. I turn my hand, rotating it slowly, pushing gently, massaging but not forcing her muscles, cooing with a special kind of sign language to her cunt, pussy, vagina: no one here who doesn’t love you, no one here who means you any harm. Let me in and we’ll dance...

  Three fingers, bent together: turning slowly, pushing oh-so-gently at the strength of her cunt. Not forcing. Complying, yes; easing, yes; massaging, yes; enticing—oh, yes! She opens wider, slowly allowing me passage in. Her door yields to my three long, reaching fingers.

  Inside, within, I tap her G-spot, feeling its corrugated pleasure. Within, I explore the architecture of her interior.

  More lube, come conversation. I ask and she answers: all is well. I stroke and ring her clit, making her smile wide and magical.

  Four. When all you have is five, four is a big number. Actually, all you do have is four—five is the thumb. Four now inside. Four fingers in a squeezed duckbill, forced so my tips touch together. Four inside, pushing gently but still firmly, firm but still gentle: inside her.

  Fingers are long and thin, pointed and supple (aside from the small nuts of their joints)—I perform an origami of my own hand: collapsing it, curling my fingers, cupping her from inside, sliding and dancing within her. The hard, literal, part is next, knocking on the door, wanting to be let in.

  The hard part is next. I tell her as much.

  She breathes, controlling the pain and pleasure that has painted her in reflections of sweat, preparing herself for the reverse birth—taking someone in rather than pushing someone out.

  The hard part is the thumb and bones of my hand, the knuckles. I watch her face, hypnotized by her beauty and bravery, amazed by the dance of delight that flickers and swells over her eyes (closed in concentration, open in amazement and near shock), lips (blowing bow kisses, hissing past the pain), and nose (buttoning with the rest of her face). Bathing her clit with my lube-shiny thumb, I ask, polite and civil, if she would be so kind as to allow me into her most inner of sanctums.

  Her yes is silent but obvious: with a few gentle turns of the hand, she relaxes and allows me the space and time and delight to push those last few inches in. The hard part is over, the knuckles are through.

  Welcome.

  This is it: I am inside and filling. This is it, one hand within. The rest is icing on the dessert: All I have to do is close my long, long (sometimes too long) fingers around my thumb. Fisting...still too rough and violent. I am inside, within—that says it all.

  I watch the pleasure and the pain (more former than latter) dance on her face as I slowly, slowly, slowly turn my hand with a gentle twist, rubbing my knuckles across her G-spot.

  Yes, it’s my hand, my fingers, my gentle pressure behind it all—but she is in control: She can say “yes,” “no,” “stop,” “slow,” “out.” I would, of course, because even though it is my hand it is her temple I am walking slowly into: a supplicant, a respective worshiper. Whatever you say, Goddess.

  Then she does say it—after quakes of pounding climaxes paint her even more with reflective sweat, she clenches down on my hand, arches her spine. She says, “Out,” and I do, telling her to push against my hand, to squeeze me out as I gently withdraw.

  Then I am.

  I clean up, kissing her hot tummy. I rub her from breasts to legs, from arms to cheeks, from the top of her head to the dimple of her navel. I put a warm blanket over her and hold her while she drifts towards sleep, falls towards exhausted slumber.

  I follow close behi
nd, having come much deeper from my hand—from being within—than ever from my cock.

  BLACK MAGIC WOMAN

  Anastasia Philips

  Janina had always been into the occult. She’d worn witch costumes each Halloween from first grade on. She painted the walls of her bedroom black and replaced all of the normal light bulbs with red ones. Her parents, a musician and an artist, encouraged her to explore, and, when talking among themselves in bed at night, assured each other that she’d grow out of her witchy ways. But she didn’t.

  Instead, she grew into looks that continually confused her parents. Her mother took down the family photo album and paged through it, trying to find the ancestor responsible for Janina’s eyes. Her eyes, a normal green at birth, gradually turned as she grew older, becoming a fiery emerald with purple rims and huge, liquid irises. Janina’s mother looked for the relative who had bestowed ebony hair upon her daughter, hair that had been brown when she was born. Janina’s father was a sandy blond. Her mother dyed her grey hair the same shade of brown it had always been. But during her thirteenth year, Janina, with no assistance from dye, sprouted thick, black hair that grew quickly, until she had a coil of it she could unwrap and let hang to the ground.

  By the time Janina left home for college, her friends (referred to behind their backs as “the coven”), had studied enough of the occult to be able to perform small spells. Actually, the girls studied, but only Janina could make the spells work. She was particularly good at love spells, or love potions, and all of the girls had, at one point or another, availed themselves of her services. Janina had never used a love spell herself, however. Not until she graduated from college and got her first job, one with an avant-garde ’zine called Soiree.