Dirty Laundry

by Penny Birch

  ‘You just want me to talk dirty, don’t you?’

  ‘Whatever turns you on.’

  ‘It doesn’t turn me on, Monty, it turns you on, you pervert.’

  I was lying, but I was getting so high on tormenting him that I didn’t want to stop. He was red in the face, with sweat running down his cheeks as he hammered at his cock, all the while with his eyes glued to my body. I could sense his guilt and shame, just like my own for what I’d had him do to me, and it was great, revenge and sadistic delight at the same time.

  ‘You love this, don’t you,’ I went on. ‘I bet you do it all the time, over porn, you dirty bastard, in your bedroom, wanking over some poor girl’s tits and bottom. Imagine it, Monty, some poor girl who’s so hard up for money she has to pose in a dirty magazine, hating every minute of it, and what are you doing? You’re wanking over her, aren’t you, you filthy little pervert, wanking your cock over her bare body, just like you’re wanking it over mine. Jesus you’re dirty. Look at you, with your cock out and your eyes fixed on my tits. Do you want more? How about some pussy, with my legs apart? How about some bum, with my cheeks nice and wide so you can see the hole? That’s what you’d like best, isn’t it? I bet it is, jerking off your filthy little cock over the sight of my bumhole, isn’t it?’

  It was what I wanted, badly, and I rolled in the bath as I spoke, sticking my bum up out of the water and pulling my back in to make my cheeks part and show my hole, the rear of my pussy too. I was looking back, and I could see his face, bright red and wet with sweat, while his hand was jerking frantically at his cock. He was staring at my bum, his eyes fixed on my most intimate details, and at last it was too much for him and a spurt of white fluid jumped from the tip of his cock, then another, to splash across his belly and run down over his fingers.

  ‘Pervert,’ I told him one last time as he slumped back against the toilet. ‘Now get out.’

  I wanted him out because I needed to come myself, and having taken charge it didn’t seem right to let him watch. He went, not even stopping to clean up, but waddling out of the room with his cock still hanging out of his fly. My hand went straight to my pussy as I rolled on to my back, my eyes closing in bliss. I was grinning as I masturbated, imagining his shame and confusion as he brought himself to orgasm over the sight of my body. I’d made up the bit about glamour models hating it, and it was probably rubbish, but I’d guessed it would make him feel worse, so much worse. He’d come though, and I was sure he’d felt as much of the guilt and shame he’d made me suffer for two long weeks.

  That was what got me to orgasm, as much as the feel of my soapy body and the thought of what an exhibition I’d made of myself: sheer sexual revenge. When I opened my eyes it was to find him peeping in at the door, so I threw a sponge at him and called him a pervert again as he beat a hasty retreat.

  What was left of my coffee was cold, but I drank it anyway, and finished washing before climbing out of the bath and putting on the robe. Monty was in the kitchen, stuffing his fat face with jam sandwiches. I made toast for myself, not really sure what I should say, until he broke the silence.

  ‘You liked that, didn’t you?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course I did,’ I answered. It seemed pretty pointless to deny it.

  ‘You’re a dirty girl, aren’t you?’

  There was something about the way he said it, ‘dirty girl’, as if it was something clear cut, classified, and my mind went back to my thoughts of brunettes and blondes. There was something really smutty about the concept, humiliating too, as if it gave him the right to use me, because I was dirty, soiled goods.

  ‘I can be,’ I answered cautiously.

  ‘You are,’ he said with certainty. ‘You asked to kiss my arse last night, you did, and you call me a pervert.’

  ‘You are,’ I replied. ‘Peeping Tom. I was drunk last night.’

  I’d said it, but without much conviction in my voice. He knew.

  ‘Drink brings out the truth,’ he said. ‘Come on, dirty stuff turns you on, doesn’t it? What do you like best, that, kissing a man’s arse?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What then? Come on, tell me, please. I want to know what really turns you on.’

  ‘Oh, all right, it is that, sort of, sexual submission anyway. You really got to me when you threatened to sit on my head, if you must know. That’s why I went with you, why I wanted to kiss you like that.’

  ‘Hang on, it was you who asked me to do it!’

  ‘No, before that. The first time.’

  ‘First time?’

  ‘You know. In the Borscht.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The Polish restaurant in Lamb’s Conduit Street, you know.’

  He shrugged.

  ‘Stop messing about! You were there. I called you a . . . something nasty and you threatened to sit on my head to teach me my manners.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You must have been there, you must have!’

  I was pleading, I could hear the tone in my own voice, but I knew he was telling the truth. He wasn’t the original fat man at all.

  All the way back to London I thought about what I’d done. I kept telling myself that I could handle it, that it was no worse than many of the other things I’d done. After all, I’d kissed Percy’s anus often enough. He liked me to do it to him to say thank you for beatings, and he was fat enough, and more than twice my age into the bargain. It didn’t matter, there was just something irrevocably obscene about Monty Hartle. There was also something funny about him, almost clownlike, with his great wobbling body and fat face. That made the thought of sex with him yet more humiliating, and it also made him seem safe, completely unthreatening.

  I was doing over a hundred most of the way up the M23, until I saw the flashing blue light of a police car on one of the bridges, which sobered me up considerably. After that I was careful, and when I got to the M25 I turned west for Dorking and Box Hill, which seemed the ideal place to be alone to just think.

  I’d spent most of the day with him, waiting for my clothes to dry, in nothing but one of his T-shirts, although that covered me completely. I was still knickerless under my trousers, because I hadn’t been able to face the offer of one of his pairs of underpants, which I’d have had to tie off at both sides in any case.

  He’d given me his address, plus his landline, mobile and email, really eager that I should see him again. I’d taken them, but declined to give mine in return, although I had a sneaking suspicion he’d gone through my bag at some point. He’d even asked me out, in his inept way, using words I hadn’t heard since I was a teenager. Naturally I’d refused, but I had said I might get in touch with him, which was as far as I was prepared to go. Really I needed to get my head round the whole thing first.

  Box Hill itself was quite crowded, with dog walkers and families out for a Sunday stroll. I needed to be alone, and struck off on a footpath, off the National Trust land to a bit of woodland that looked lonely enough for my purposes. I knew I was going to masturbate, I had no illusions about that, or shame. The problem was what I was going to masturbate over.

  I would have liked to strip nude, and it was just about warm enough for it, but I didn’t really feel secure. Anyway, if I stripped I was likely to come just over the exhibitionist thrill of being naked in the open air, and I had a reason for masturbating other than simple self-indulgence. What I wanted to do was let my mind drift and see what I came over, then I would know if I ought to take the thing with Monty any further, or drop it.

  Not that the practical reasons for what I was doing stopped me having fun with it and, as I looked for a safe place, a deliciously naughty feeling was growing inside me. I’d done it quite a lot in France, where it’s so much easier to find lonely places, but nearly always with Percy watching, to stand guard as well as to enjoy the view. Now I was alone, and vulnerable, and excited.

  There is always that thrill of wondering what would happen if I got caught when I masturbate outdoors, but I make very, v
ery sure it never happens. After about half an hour of trying to choose a place, and all the while growing more edgy and more aroused, I settled on a bank of fern right at the edge of the wood. It was perfect really, because I could sit with my back to a big beech tree and see down the slope through the fronds, although there was no chance of anyone seeing me.

  I still felt seriously nervous as I undid my fly and eased my trousers down over my hips. Being knickerless gave me a nice hit of pleasure, with my pussy immediately bare, only to discover that the beech leaves I was sitting on tickled my bum. So I made myself a little seat of fern leaves, forcing myself to do it with my trousers still down to add to the thrill. It was a lot more comfortable sitting on them, and I relaxed back against the tree, with my legs wide and my jeans down around my ankles.

  It felt very good indeed, and I began to stroke myself, concentrating on my belly and thighs and deliberately avoiding my pussy. After a while I pulled my boobs out, which felt ruder still, especially when I remembered that was how I’d been while he licked me out in the garage.

  I had been drunk, very drunk, but I’d done it, and at heart I knew it was what I’d wanted to do anyway. Lying to myself was futile, especially as I’d been perfectly sober when I’d been fantasising about it before, and when I’d masturbated in front of him in the bath. Watching him had been good too, as well as making me feel a lot better about myself. He was obscene, so fat, with his great greasy cock and huge balls, all hanging out beneath his massive belly.

  It was getting too much for me to hold back, and I began to stroke my boobs, cupping them, one in each hand, and running my thumbs over the nipples. I was near naked outdoors and it felt really nice, and I was going to come, over one of the rudest things I’d done in my life. I’d been right not to strip too. It felt better half-dressed, dirtier, less decent, with everything that mattered showing, with my boobs in my hands so that it was quite obvious that I was no sunbather, but a slut, playing with herself for the pleasure of it.

  For a while I just toyed with my boobs, letting the arousal build up slowly inside me. I knew that if I really needed more sex with Monty I’d come over it, but there was no point in forcing the issue. Instead I tried to think of something else, Damon and the way he liked to force me to swallow his spunk, but it was no good, that was past and I’d had my fill.

  I tried Gina next, thinking of how much fun it would have been to turn her over my lap in the club, to flip up her little floaty dress and pull down her panties, to spank her bare bottom in front of all those hundreds of women and men. It was good, especially imagining how she would have kicked and struggled, squealing out her protests as I exposed her and punished her for being such a little flirt. Unfortunately it was impossible not to imagine Amy’s reaction. She’s taller than me and fitter than me, and it would have been me who ended up getting punished.

  Not that that was so bad either. A bare bottom spanking in front of several hundred leering watchers is just my thing, at least in fantasy. Amy would have done it hard too, really making me kick and thrash, showing off my pussy and bumhole as I was beaten, then making me grovel on the floor to kiss her feet in abject apology, with my bare red bum stuck up in the air for everyone to see.

  She would have made me apologise to Gina too, kissing her little white pumps. Gina would have giggled and pulled up her dress, pointing to her pussy and ordering me to lick it. I’d have done it, in front of everybody, with my tongue well in as Amy watched in delight, Isabel and Ami in shock, Gabrielle with a detached, scientific interest. That would have been the worst of it, Gabrielle Salinger, cool and aloof, watching me lick pussy. I’d have masturbated too, unable to hold back, just as I was now.

  I’d closed my eyes and my hand had gone to my pussy, stroking and kneading, still clear of my clitty, but close enough. I was wet, and as I pushed two fingers to the mouth of my vagina they slid up easily, into the warm, moist mouth, feeling the wet, bumpy tube within, then out, and to my mouth, to suck up my own juices just the way I’d licked them off Monty’s balls.

  That was too much, and my fingers went to my clitty as I thought of the taste of his balls, sticky with my own juice from where he’d fucked me, doggy style, on all fours like a bitch on heat. It had got worse though, so much worse, with his fat, blubbery bottom in my face, right in my face, smothering me, making me kick and writhe underneath him, forcing me to kiss it, to kiss his anus, his arsehole . . .

  I really screamed as I came, choking it back only when I remembered where I was. That broke the orgasm before it was really over, and I hastily covered myself and scrambled up, retreating through the wood instead of down the slope. Fortunately, nobody seemed to be about, and I returned to the car without incident.

  It was nearly dark by the time I got back to my flat in Primrose Hill, to find the doorway piled up with red roses, bunch upon bunch of the things.

  Four

  The roses were from Damon, inevitably, which was a real pain. For a moment I’d thought Percy might have come back early, until I’d read the card.

  It was the usual stuff, a mixture of grovelling apology and the use of his strength of feeling for me to justify trying to tell me what to do, along with a touch of condescension. I’d heard it all before, and I wasn’t impressed. It was just a nuisance. I’d hoped he would be so full of himself that he wouldn’t bother to chase me. I’d been wrong.

  My first thought was to take the moral high ground, saying that I’d met somebody else in Brighton and that it would be wrong of me to see both of them or to dump the new man. It would leave Damon with some of his pride and, when men get dumped, it tends to be their pride which is really hurt, more than any other emotion. On the other hand, I could hardly present Monty as the new man and, anyway, I didn’t see why I should leave Damon with any of his pride, roses or no roses.

  He didn’t seem the type to give up so easily anyway, but I wasn’t going back with him. I’d had my fill. Nor did I want to make a big scene of it. All I wanted was for him to go away quietly, but I had a nasty suspicion he wouldn’t.

  I didn’t know what to do with the roses either. There were twelve dozen of them, and they weren’t even good ones, just the sort people who look like they’re illegal immigrants try to sell you at traffic lights. If I put them in water and he saw them he was bound to assume he had melted me. I didn’t want to do anything melodramatic, like stuff them in the outside bin or shred them all over the pavement. In fact I didn’t want to do anything that displayed emotion at all, good or bad. What I wanted to show was indifference.

  In the end I took them to a local church, where the vicar accepted them, trying to look grateful, but quite obviously wondering how he was going to find receptacles for so many of the things. I dodged the issue with Damon too, deciding to ignore him and hope he’d go away.

  On the Monday I got down to work, of which there was no shortage. Percy and I had been to all sorts of places in France, and tasted wines you don’t normally see in Britain at all. I wanted to get the best out of it before Percy got back, mainly so that I could pretend I’d ‘discovered’ things that in fact he’d shown me. Inevitably it would mean a dose of the cane, probably more than one, but I knew where that led.

  I stopped at five, because I wanted to be very firmly out for the evening. I also felt the need of some serious pampering, and decided on a trip to Haven, which meant no men and the perfect chance to think. It was exactly what I needed, because I was still considering the pros and cons of seeing Monty Hartle again. I knew I wanted what he had to give – I’d come over it – but I didn’t want him getting involved with my life in general.

  So I walked across the park, to Marylebone, and was soon lying back in a steam room with nothing on but a couple of towels. Damon, Monty, enforced cock sucking and fat men’s bumholes seemed a world away, and I’d lulled myself into a nice, sleepy haze when Ami Bell came in, looking far from happy.

  ‘Bastard!’ she said as she came to sit beside me.

  My first thought was to b
e pissed off that she didn’t seem in the least worried about my disappearance in Brighton, but my curiosity quickly overcame that.

  ‘Who’s a bastard?’ I asked.

  ‘Men, all of them,’ she snapped. ‘But most of all Chris!’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He went up to Manchester at the weekend, to watch some football match. I mean, what is the point of me have a night to myself if he goes off as well?’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘Anyway, that’s not all. He went with a tart, I know he did.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘His shirt stank of perfume, something really cheap and nasty. It’s horrible! I can’t bear to touch him!’

  ‘Did he admit to it?’

  ‘I haven’t asked! I can’t bear to. I know he’d just deny it anyway. I feel really soiled.’

  ‘Dump him.’

  ‘How can I? We’re buying the flat together, and I do love him. I think I do, anyway.’

  ‘Have an affair.’

  ‘That’s what Gabrielle suggested. I want to, but I can’t. I found that out in Brighton. Several men tried to get talking to me, but I just couldn’t respond. I didn’t fancy any of them. What happened to you, anyway?’

  ‘I just felt sick. I was actually. I really couldn’t face coming back to the club with all that smoke and noise.’

  ‘Oh, right.’

  She sighed, leaning back against the wall and closing her eyes. Her hair was wet, and she hadn’t bothered with a towel for it, leaving the strands plastered to her head and shoulders. She still had her glasses on too, and they were rapidly steaming up, making her look yet more bedraggled and pathetic.

  ‘What else happened?’ I asked.

  ‘Nothing, really. After the club we went back to the hotel. Amy and Gina went to their room and Isabel, Gabrielle and I sat up talking. I had a rotten head the next day, and when I got back I found Chris asleep and his shirt stinking of that awful perfume. Oh God!’

  A really good idea had occurred to me. Ami might not have fancied any of the men in Brighton, but she did fancy Damon. If I could somehow get the two of them together it would solve my problem and hopefully make her happier. Having said that, she never really seemed content with her life, whatever she did, but I would be rid of Damon. There was the difficulty of him being a client of her firm, but it had to be worth a try. There was also the thought of how her pretty, innocent face would look while she gagged on his cock. Not that I’d get to see it, but I’d know.