When She Was Good

by Tristan Taormino

  Abundant ass and pussy bulged and burgeoned stupidly from their confines. Yes, some women have neat-looking labia majora below a flat tummy with a dainty bit of inner lip demurely poking out. But she had a delightfully fat cunt.

  And the fur! Damn, she was a beast! Involuntarily, I licked my lips.

  She gasped and tottered backward, as I said, hooks scrabbling ineffectually at the hatches, pushing first one, then the other down, but unable to get them to latch together. Then, one by one, they would flip out from under the slippery plastic hooks and spring up to the open position again.

  “You bitch! You rotten miserable bitch! I’ll show you… you…”

  “You must be hot in there, Mrs. Wellington. I thought you could use some ventilation.”

  She turned her back to me in her clumsy contortions and I saw her firm buttcheeks, the lower third of them or so, bulging out of the open hatch. How the hell had she ever gotten it closed, I wondered, even with hands? I let out a low whistle.

  “Prove to me you’re not an idiot who’s gotten herself trapped in her own costume. Prove to me you wouldn’t have had to go from door to door, asking your neighbors to rescue you. Why, there’s Mrs. Nixon next door—that old pervert—that would have been humiliating, wouldn’t it? Then there’s those slutty young Sycamore girls across the street who’d have laughed at you. Now, unless you’re nice to me, you’ll have to do all that with your pussy open to the world.”

  She turned back to me and advanced, menacing with her hooks. “Damn you, insolent hussy!”

  The very archaic nature of her insult made me laugh outright. “Hussy? You’re the one in the fetish gear flashing her cunt all over the place.” She turned her ant face to me and I could hear her draw her breath in as if to protest, but I pressed my unjust insinuation ruthlessly. “You have a daughter the same age as me, Mrs. W., surely you know how horny we young chicks are. And surely you must know that that costume you’re trapped in isn’t without its, shall we say, fetishistic elements?”

  She was too angry and confused to articulate the obvious objection to this insinuation: that she had had no way of knowing I was even going to be there that morning. Flustered thus, she failed to prevent what had just been her weak spot from becoming her weak spot again. I jumped out of my chair and pretended to back up a little as she advanced, then lunged and grabbed a big fistful of fur with my right hand.

  “Yowk!” she cried. “My pussy! Unh! You beast!” She struggled, doing a little dance on her heels, starting to moan. With my hand still on her snatch, I grabbed her with the left hand around the waist and pulled her in toward me.

  I slipped my hand down and into her fanny crack.

  “Oh! Betty! Goodness! Oh! Are you sure you…?”

  Her arms went from pushing me to slipping around my own waist, running up and down my back in a confused action. It was as if, trapped in an ant costume, she was compelled to imitate some sort of primal ant ritual, some ancient insect sexual motion….

  I let my middle finger find its way to the rim of her anus. I played about, slowly, gently, without entering.

  We did a kind of slow dance, human and bug, with her trying to articulate her confusion. Her ass was dead tight, but the rest of her did not resist. I still had a good grip on her fur.

  I backed her toward the little table on which I had put the kitchen tray, and throwing off the concealing tea towel, grabbed the K-Y tube (which I had gotten from the bathroom) underneath with my left hand. Popping the cap, I poured some down the deep crack of her abundant ass, to her surprise.

  “I’m going in, Mrs. Wellington. Any objections?”

  I peered through the dark glass of the bug eye, and from this close distance I could indeed vaguely see her face. There was a frightened, dreamy look to the eye, and heavy, husky breathing….

  She whispered, “No girl ever dared…”

  I slowly forced my finger in and she groaned a little, her ass sashaying more widely for a moment, then winding quickly into a brief, frenetic wiggle before surrendering to the slower rhythm of our strange little dance as my imperious finger established its dominance in depth.

  I let go of her pubic hair. But I still had her by the anus, on the end of my left middle finger. She had a grip of steel, scared as she was. I wondered if my finger could get stuck in there and we’d have to walk this way to the nearest hospital. “What I have here,” I said, “is a great ant perched on a little twig. Let’s see if we can’t anchor you a little more firmly.”

  Beneath where the tea towel had been there was not only the K-Y but two handsome zucchinis. Yes, I had taken them from the kitchen. Turning her head toward the table, she saw them.

  “Wh-what are you going to do with those?” She slowly pulled away a little from me, but her ass was clenched so tight on my finger she didn’t get far.

  I spun her a little, so her back was toward me, to get to the zucchinis. I greased them with my right hand, took one.

  “Spread your legs, ant queen.”

  She did so, her head turning back toward me as if to ask a question or to ask me to be gentle, and slowly, but firmly and steadily, I pushed the zucchini up her snatch, inching in slowly as she groaned.

  “Oh god!” she said, “zucchini! Stan would never have…”

  “Shut up about that stupid man, will you? He’s gone. Pay attention. I’m filling your thing with zucchini. How does that feel? Nice and tight?” I pushed it in nice and tight but left quite a bit of it sticking out. “Ah, very good. A meat sandwich with fresh veggies.” I continued to hold the veggie while I eased my finger out of her asshole. “That’s quite a grip you have there, Mrs. W., both ends. I think what’s coming up next will be especially difficult so just relax, let all thought leave your buggy little head, and don’t resist me.”

  I reached now with my left hand for the second zucchini and started to push it home, slowly, up the poop chute.

  “Oh! Betty! Do you think you should, I mean…”

  “Shhhh, relax queenie, relax that tight asshole, that’s a girl, it’s going in, yes it is, so you may as well not resist it. Yes, it’s going in….”

  “Uunnh! Oh! Ooooh, this is so filthy! You filthy bitch, I’m old enough to be your mother. You sneaky little thing, you you…”

  Then they were both in, but I was careful to leave enough sticking out for safety’s sake. I pumped them a little, fingered her clit, which was enormous, and watched it grow helplessly. She did a strange thing with her arms, moving them around in a dancing fashion, then reaching back with them to touch me as best she could.

  I stopped for a bit, and began to take more pics. I think she was so confused, her hooks hovering over the zucchinis deep within her, she didn’t realize quite what I was doing.

  “Next time you feel proud, Mrs. Wellington, just remember I COULD have done that even if you’d said no. I wouldn’t, but I could have. Well, thanks for the pictures, but I really have to be going.” I didn’t mean it of course, but I was quite convincing.

  “Huh? What the—”

  “Surprised? You didn’t think I was going to bring you off or anything, did you? That would have been too forward, I think.”

  “But you—”

  “What would your daughter say? I mean really, Mrs. Wellington, have a sense of propriety. And even if I didn’t oppose bringing you off on principle I’m still mightily pissed off by your haughtiness toward me not so long ago.”

  She exploded, testily, “You think you’re so smart just because you—”

  “What? Still not humbled? Even with your ass and pussy full of vegetables? Well, I’m off then.” I prepared to leave. “I guess it’ll be your daughter who finds you. Just tell her it was a masturbation accident—it could happen to anyone—because I’m sure she doesn’t want to know her best friend’s been boinking her mom.”

  She grappled ineffectively at the zucchinis. “The zucchinis. I can’t get a grip on them. They’re stuck.”

  “Not for human fingers, ant lady. Why don’t yo
u take those hooks off? Oh that’s right, Mrs. Out-of-Your-League, they’re stuck too. Listen. I’d tell you to get stuffed, but it looks like somebody already did it to you.”

  “Betty! Please don’t go. You’ve got me all hot… I was an idiot. I’m begging you, please do me. I haven’t had it in ages and now…and I just can’t be found like this. Not by anybody! You don’t understand, the humiliation would—”

  I turned to her. “Begging is best done on one’s knees. Get on your knees and beg this chit of a girl for a thorough fucking, Mrs. Wellington, that’s it, humble yourself.”

  Awkwardly, and leaning against some deck furniture, she stumbled onto her knees on the blankets and pillows poolside and groaned out her humble request, promising she would be mine “on any occasion” if I gave her relief now and rescued her from an intolerable public humiliation.

  “Which you nonetheless so richly deserve, don’t you, Audrey?”

  “Oh yes, I’ve been, I’ve been an arrogant bitch. I deserve it, but please…”

  “And you’re not very bright, getting yourself into such a vulnerable position, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? Such a seemingly strong, proud woman? Shouldn’t you be mastering me, rather than the other way around?”

  “Oh, yes, yes to all that.”

  I pulled off my T-shirt and dropped my cutoffs to the deck, exposing the little black bathing suit I was wearing underneath, as one frequently wears when visiting the home of a friend who has a pool. I pulled the string on my bikini bottoms and let them drop. I walked right up to her, felt around her neck, forced my fingers between it and the tight opening of the bug helmet, and carefully began to work it off.

  “What are you doing? Oh, you’re giving me some air,” she said hopefully.

  It was like trying to get a cork out of a champagne bottle.

  “Really Audrey, I think even with your own hands you couldn’t have gotten out of this. You are rather a stupid bitch after all. ‘Antwoman’ indeed! You have the brains of an ant.”

  “Why, I—”

  “Ever eaten pussy, dear?”

  “Why no, I…” The helmet came off with a pop. I dropped it, clattering to the deck and it rolled and splashed into the pool. She had no makeup on. Her lovely triangular face dripped with sweat as she stared at what was before her. I turned her face up to mine, rubbed a thumb gently over her forehead below the bangs of her jet-black hair.

  I bent down, grabbed both sides of her head, pressed my face into hers, and pushed my tongue into her mouth. She sucked my tongue in a hungry, imploring fashion, and in her eye I caught a look that said, Please don’t stop.

  “Seeing as you’re the one with the fruit salad crammed up her cracks, you’re going to service ME before you get any more. Get it, bitch?”

  She nodded, fear in her eyes. I could see she didn’t like the idea of pussy, except her own. But she was desperate for her turn. The zucchinis were talking to her, whispering up her big cunt and her little asshole all her desperate, unfulfilled, suburban housewife needs.

  “You don’t like pussy, do you? We’ll soon fix that.”

  She nodded.

  I shoved her face into my cunt. Her hooks flailed behind me, but eventually settled down on my ass. At my direction she sucked, nibbled, writhed her tongue.

  I was on the verge of coming right away. Not that she was good at it. She was terrible and I told her so. But I had the haughty Antwoman, a proud, big-assed bitch, on her knees before me, humbly paying tribute, desperately trying to please me lest I deny her.

  “Isn’t your tongue longer than that? You can certainly talk with it…that’s better, deeper now…that’s it, work, you lazy, big-assed housewife….”

  Finally, “Hold on tighter.” I gripped her more firmly behind the head, pulling as if to shove it up my cunt. It occurred to me she might have trouble breathing, but I was coming wave on wave. It took all my strength just to remain standing, but even at that she was totally under my control.

  “Shlurp, mmph,” she protested, pulling back momentarily for a gulp of air. Then I pulled her home again and she squeezed my ass for all she was worth. I gasped, I groaned, I told her how wonderful it was, and it was.

  I sat down to recover myself. Her mouth was wet and drooling. Still on her knees, she looked at me with an expression of humility, hope, admiration and fear.

  “Not bad,” I said laconically.

  “That certainly was a new experience, I—”

  “You talk too much. You’re being mastered this morning in case that hadn’t occurred to you, and I expect you to keep quiet until you’re spoken to.”

  She began to open her lips in protest and I reached for the little apple I had on the tray and crammed it in her big mouth. Again with the thrashing hooks, lots of grunting sounds and muffled cries of indignation.

  “You aren’t quite thoroughly broken, it seems. On all fours, bitch.” She complied, her legs wide, her ass arched high in the air. Kneeling beside her I began to pump. Oh I worked those vegetables, I can tell you, and made her nod her admission to my assertions of how good it was, and how degrading it was for her, too. I told her all the while how powerless she was, that I was thinking of leaving her this way once I was through with her, that I found older women such as herself mildly interesting but too full of themselves, that it was her daughter’s best friend who was pumping her fore and aft, that she must be pretty desperate to turn pussy eater for this even though she didn’t like pussy, that I had forced her to like pussy, that she would be eating my pussy whenever I told her to because I had conquered her proud will and she was now my bitch.

  And what had she to say to all this? She nodded madly, she came ecstatically, maniacal ejaculator that she turned out to be.

  It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

  TOP GIRL

  Nan Rogue

  I was lounging on the sofa in my bathrobe, applying a fresh coat of Violent Violet to my toenails, when my cell phone rang. The caller ID told me it was my boss, so I grabbed a pen and notepad before I answered. “This is Maya.”

  “Okay, you have a client in an hour and a half,” Ann said. “First-time customer.” She gave the name of a hotel and the room number, and I jotted down the information.

  “So, what’s the deal, Ann?” I asked. “Did he give you any idea what he wants? What do I need to bring?”

  My boss paused for a moment, and I could practically see her pinching her left earlobe, the way she did when she was gearing up to tell me something I wasn’t expecting. Finally she chuckled.

  “It’s a woman, actually. I don’t know who referred her to us, but she knew the code. She said she would have everything you need.” As a precaution, we used a code with our clients, so that any eavesdroppers would assume they were calling a restaurant. Dinner for two meant a fuck, cocktails meant a blow job, and a request for a large table meant you’d be servicing more than one customer. If they asked to special order something, it generally indicated some kind of fetish, so I’d pack my bag accordingly. The code was also a way to screen callers, and if anyone called and asked for sex in layman’s terms, Ann would assume it was the LAPD and tell them indignantly that they had the wrong number.

  “So what did she ask for?” I asked, leaning over to blow on my toes in hopes that the polish would dry faster.

  “She said she wanted drinks, dinner, and dessert, and said money was no object. She requested the best table in the house. That’s you, my dear.”

  “Oh Ann, you flatter me,” I said, rolling my eyes, then hung up the phone to get ready.

  Obviously, it hadn’t been my life’s ambition to go into the sex industry. Like so many other girls, I had taken off for Hollywood as soon as I graduated high school. I quickly learned that being the prettiest girl in my North Carolina class didn’t amount to shit in L.A. and that my chances of being discovered as the next supermodel, actress, or whatever were about as good as the odds of finding a rent-
controlled apartment. I had started waitressing at a reasonably upscale cafe, but as the money I had saved from graduation dwindled to nothing, I gradually sold out to make the rent.

  At first I had taken a second job cocktail waitressing at a strip club, where I quickly realized that the agony of walking around in fishnets and stilettos and balancing trays of drinks wasn’t worth it for the amount of money I was making. It was the dancers who made all the money in that place. So I had talked the manager into auditioning me on the pole, and the three years I had spent taking ballet lessons as a kid actually came in handy. So I started stripping, and I began bringing in enough cash to move into a slightly bigger studio, in a slightly safer neighborhood, with slightly fewer roaches.

  I kind of enjoyed stripping. I had always been a flirt, and I knew I had a hot body, so I might as well be profiting from it, right? It was a kind of power trip for me, teasing these men, knowing that they would be thinking of me later while they got themselves off.

  I had been dancing for about a year when I met Ann. It wasn’t unusual for us to have female customers at the club, whether they came alone or with their boyfriends. Ann showed up one night near the end of my shift, and she watched me intently. She was wearing designer labels, so I paid her extra attention, and she stuck a twenty into my garter belt before she left. When she showed up again the next night, it was obvious that she had come back specifically to see me, so I went to her table and asked if she would like a lap dance. She smiled at me and said no, but that she would like me to join her for a drink, another fairly common request. I sat and talked to her for a while, and she finally revealed the real reason she had come to see me.

  “You are very good at what you do, and I can tell that to some extent you enjoy it,” she had said to me. “I can always tell the ones who get off on it.”

  I had shrugged; after all, she was right. She told me that if I was willing to perform more intimate services, I could easily make three times the amount of money I made stripping. The funny thing was, I wasn’t even insulted, just speechless. In the end, I had given her my number and agreed to give it a try.