It’s the position.
Whenever I’m propped up like this, I— I get so fucking hot. I feel like … Yes, I’m so exposed.
I know what it looks like, up like this. I’ve seen the photos. Yes, I’m a slut. I’m His slut. Waiting here. Waiting for him maybe ten minutes now. Like this. Waiting for him to come home. He’s gonna surprise me.
I like getting into position early. It’s not uncomfortable and … and the silence gets me to thinking … Hope I’m open for him.
Sometimes I think this is the best. The best part. This anticipation.
An inner voice tells me, “When he gets here, that’s the best part.”
Yeah. That’s when it gets good. Real good.
The same voice asks: “Doesn’t it?” I relax my back. The spine goes limp. I keep my skinny thighs parallel- tip my ass up. She goes on: “Round ass. Chubby little pussy. Only round things on this bony body.”
He says it’s my best side. He’s written sonnets, odes to what he calls my- my Golden Arches.
I have these narrow hips which flair wider than they are when I’m …When I’m down … uh … up, like this. And… and Eduardo appreciates a full-bodied woman. He says the way I’m spread makes me look like one of his country’s Samba dancers. Upside down.
Yes, see. See how we connect.
But the wait, the anticipation. The unknown. A gift.
“Like waiting for Christmas,” The interior argument echoes from another opinionated character in my brain. They live in different places there.
“Wetting my panties over this all day,” she tells myself, drawing us back to the time at hand.
Ever since Eduardo woke me this morning. All spooning me, dick so stiff like it was. All… Feeling me up… All those slender… those manicured fingers. Sticking them into me. Oh, so sweet. We haven’t had any sex now, for a week. Unusual for us. Yes, ’cause we mostly tend to get it on, every day or two.
“Oo… Don’t we,” she says. I drift off again.
I was so, so happy- thinking I was finally going to get laid- but he suddenly slipped the oh so closely trimmed forefinger from-
“Sssshhhh,” he shushed, finger to his lips. It diverted his attention; I had to wait while he sucked on it. Oh, he’s so one-track for me. And yes, his breathy whisper mouthing my smaller ear:
“Medio pero. Usual spot.”
I was thrilled.
I melted. I knew what he meant- to some it’s half dog. We love calling me that- so degrading. But to real yogis it’s the position of the melting heart, the pose to bring gratitude and compassion into the soul. My ribby chest presses down on the rug. I sense my heart melt into the floor, inviting him inside through his choice of portals. And now, I sense that familiar cramp, churning once again inside me. My pussy. Heated liquids will follow, I’m sure. Never fails. Just the suggestion. This position. I can never tell what he has in mind with this one.
Some of the others? Those other ways he likes me?
Well, it can get pretty obvious what direction the “trick” (we call these little diversions ‘tricks’ when we do them) …um, where it’s gonna take us. Sometimes.
My cheeks ball up in a smile, the smile confined in the cushioned donut. My nether cheeks sense the chill in the late afternoon hall air. And now, even though I’m alone … the smell of sex.
“It must be me,” she says. And I dream on.
Like in the mornings when he whispers the kiss that gets me hot that steams the glass in the vestibule door. And then if he mouths the suggestion of the day- “On your knees, right here. Black turtleneck” I can be pretty sure of his intentions. “Yes, I’ll be sucking cock behind frosted glass when he gets home.”
I realize I’m mumbling out loud here, but no one can hear. “No one to listen but me,” I say out loud to the lonely hallway. “Except for us,” say those inside my head. And there’s that echo in here when it’s this empty.
I took the entryway table out of the hall this morning. Put the antique clock and vase of dried flowers where they wouldn’t get broken. Just me and the rug. Pug face in the gray donut. Can’t see behind me. I’m aware of the lighted vestibule back there, but it’s dark down here for a woman in my position.
And- and then. Why he wants me like this- backwards. I never know, do I? What’s he up to back there? Is anyone with him? Oh my god, my cunny’s cramping again.
I’m assuming I’m to be naked tonight. Just me and the donut. He didn’t mention any other equipment. No special outfit this time. Sometimes I think he doesn’t have anything particular in mind.
But the way he is, simply imagining his red haired trailer trash mulatto this way, all day. Makes him so hot, he says. And he just- he says his so sophisticated reserve, it just shatters. Darker impulses take over when he gets to me. Or, if he does have a specific humiliation in mind, once he sees me, like this, he’ll- he’ll forget about everything. Sometimes, and- and he- he’ll just get carried away.
Yeah, when he walks in on me- those times. I don’t know what it is. The position? His mood? The drugs? What? He gets so fucking warped with me. He just squeals out loud- sounds like a horse’s whinny- so cute- and then just slams the living hell out of me. Right there, wherever I am, whatever hole he winds up in. Ramming in and out. The proverbial pile driver out of control. I don’t care. That’s when it’s best. Those times when my Eddie’s so sophisticated emotions become so overwhelmed by the very target I present. And represent.
My slut me. When my lover is seduced by, trapped by his love for me. Just looking at me. The sight of me. Like this. Ugly me. The fuck-blinded Me transforming him into the The Fuck Blinded Him, in Love. In love with me. My Eduardo.
Here’s his wide open, willing lover. The abandoned scene. The first thing he sees on the floor inside his doorway. For Eduardo my ass waves in the hall air- both openings wide, willing for him. I’m all there. For him. His own slut. All for him. He loves me for Me. Loves me for who I am. I’m his Then and There, his Here and How. I’m his Time and Space in the Cosmos. Accepting me, loving me for how I have positioned myself in the scheme of things, simply because I’ll do it. I’ll do whatever he wants.
“I do what he asks,” sings another little birdie in my head.
Yes. That’s when. That’s when I’m at my best. Living my life. Yes, this life. Like I’m the biggest freewhore slut in town. That’s me.
The acceptance of the reality of my position in life sends my clit into twitchy paroxysms, whipping the insides of its crusty purse to a froth. Just me with the mere thought. My sluttyness.
I’m sure he had something else in mind that last time we did this one.
“That time he forgot to hide the things he brought with him for the trick,” says someone behind my mind. “Never used ’em. He just went crazy instead.” Crazy for me. I forget which hole. He just did his … heh-heh … He’s so one-track for me. Came in the door and- Jesus, he did that squeal.
“Damn! It was our cunt! He fucked our cunt.”
Oh, yes, my cunt. He did. He fucked it.
Later, along with the mess on the floor, I found a pair of fleece mittens- like you polish a car with, several brand new Gumby dolls, of assorted colors, and a long, skinny eyedropper of some sort. In the vestibule. Never used. There was a jar- still sealed. Some kind of … something.
Unaware, my hips laze, rolling. A smooth sway. My bony pelvis slowly shifts the firm round tushes balanced up top. Skinny thighs list from side to side, as I reminisce.
“I have the time,” another says.
Remember back. That time a few weeks ago. That time. The day he said the thing about me in the foyer. And about on my knees.
“Remember the black turtle neck.”
We have two sets of double doors that lead into our house. I love the old east coast ‘air lock’ principle. Keeps the place warm in winter. Frosted glass panels grace the outside doors, decorated with nude deco figures etched in the full verticality of the panel. The design somewhat obscures from the outside whatever activities may be going on inside. Although fuzzy and indistinct, people and movements can be seen from the street, if the light is on.
As I knelt there, waiting for him, I could see people walking by. I wondered if anyone could see me there on my knees in the vestibule, a turtleneck and nothing else. I would probably be discernable but I believed that no one should have noticed if I didn’t move at all.
I was wrong.
It wasn’t long before I could perceive several milky figures. Kids, loitering about to take a longer look. Walking home from practice, they held their bats and balls. Probably already late for dinner. One boy pointed at me. He commented to a friend; it was mortifying. The group got larger and I could hear childhood laughter and I blushed in shame in spite of being alone and almost incognito. As embarrassing as it was, I almost came, just kneeling there.
“But our Eddie did. He came home, didn’t he? Hee hee.”
Already had his cock out under the overcoat, he did.
Yes, he did, that day. And- and then. Then he just- just like I knew he would. He… he just slipped it into my mouth. Yes, as he came through the door. Just inside the frosted- he just slid it in. Just like I knew he would.
O yes, He did.
“Well, there was sure some movement behind that glass then oboy!”
I smile at the hardwood floor. I know it’s right there in front of my nose.
Back and forth he worked my head. When the UPS man stopped by with a package (sex shop return address) I was so embarrassed, the front of my turtleneck such a mess. The guy helped hold the clipboard so Eduardo could sign (Not his real name and fuck the authorities anyway) with one arm out the door. The other- that other delicate little hand, remained twisted tightly in my frizzy hair, shoving my head back and forth, round and round.
The timing was so perfect. Eddie, that UPS guy- I had to wonder. Had he set it up for that guy to arrive? Right at that time? While I was sucking?
Such a love he is. He- he goes to so much trouble. Always thinking. Thinking of me, his ‘Skinny Trailer Trash Twat,’ as ‘Mr. Sophistication’ calls me.
I can be so sure of my Eduardo. Yes, well- but still so unpredictable, in that way. I love him so and his love is so dependable. It’s true. He would never hurt me. Even in- in this, my most vulnerable position. My Eduardo. I know he would never, ever hurt me. In spite of why he can’t ever go back to Ecuador. And- and-
“He knows I’m not a masochist.”
But that’s not to say I don’t like being told what to do. Told to do- nasty things.
“Yes, nasty,” they reverberate. Voices twisting, threading their way through the more difficult knots of my intertwined personalities.
“It was never an easy thing for me. The… the meeting men thing.”
My extracurricular personas are so compelling. I question whether I’m thinking out loud or merely mouthing a monologue into a face support from a massage table.
“And I’m no ten,” I muse out loud. Sounds muffled in the hallway runner. Still the overriding echo rings as I feel another grin press into the smooth leatherette.
“All freckly. And that… that Palooka nose.”
Oh no! Now it’s my poetess voice. She feels it’s time to chime in:
Girl in high school
broke it in a fight.
Never got fixed,
No, not right.
Called me a slut
I called her a cunt.
Said I fucked her guy
that I wasn’t tight.
T’was probably true ’cause
I fucked and sucked
The whole team that night.
“Her boyfriend may well have been one of them.” A tender one declares. “But why… why would she hit me?”
Jesus, she was such a gorgeous cheerleader and I’m- “Heh heh,” I say out loud- “I’m a slut… It’s all I have,” The muffled declaration bounces down the long hall of the ‘railroad’ flat.
After all, I am all by myself. I hope I’m all by myself here, naked on the hall floor. Just the little shag rug beneath me. Keeps the floor dry if he- if he… Yes, and it’s soft on my knees.
I wasn’t any competition for her. I’m- Jeez, got the frizzy red hair. So skinny. Built like a stick. Straight up and down, I am. Tits- a sorry pair of floppy triangles.
My channeled southern belle mind-soul interjects “Ceptin’ fo’ that cute li’l round butt, there’s not much relief from this Olive Oil body.”
Imagine my looks. I’ve seen the photos, the films. Feels so good. “The way he loves me The Way I Am.” I hear the words shiver along my spine, chilling me up through the V of my buttocks and down again, my vulva now aware of the damp. An involuntary twitch crimps the seeping package, an attempt to hold fast against the hall’s atmosphere. It’s not cold, not really.
“What kind of trick is it this time?” It’s getting hard separating them, those personas in my head. My sensitive pussy begins to cramp again. That certain cramp. I feel the liquids boiling in there.
“But he- he likes me so, this way,” I, myself, interject out loud, taking new stock of my being.
And, he knows. He- he knows I’ll do anything. Anything for him. I’m his sure thing; I have no decisions to make. I grin in stark satisfaction of myself and am aware again of the constricting donut surrounding my face. The satisfaction, all mine. The power, all mine.
That’s my strong suit. My melting heart swells at The Truth. The knowledge of who I am, what I am. Accepting me and that I am. That I am my true being, My Self.
That’s Slut Power.
The others. The other men. All those men I knew before Eduardo. Didn’t… uh… they… couldn’t understand this me. No, no one’s fault. Not something someone can broach on a first date. “Is it?” I ask myself.
And the poet answers-
“That I am willing to do anything the right guy wants me to.” Calls out the here and now me. The On the Floor in the Hallway Me.
The others, those men … once the big step was taken. The top/ the bottom thing. The points we occupy in the universe. I think about them. I think about them all. The men, our place in the scheme of things as well as the pinnacles we strive for.
“What about the ones who ran way?”
Heh heh- Yes, I think of those too. Those who did or didn’t run away. But they, still… none of them ever got it.
“Couldn’t ever get it, could they?”
Those men, they would all think it was about physical pain. As soon as hitting me was deemed the appropriate response to a situation- I’d be gone.
“Yes!” says the sensible me. There are more than a few conversations going on in my head at the same time, all my beings taking part. I try to keep up. Helps the time to pass.
Did it. Tried that, at first, you know. No one really knows what they want, so we try things out; we experiment.
“Didn’t like the pain at all,”
And none of them could distinguish, for me, or for themselves, the Willing from the pain.”
One of the guys took me out on a date. A kind of makeout party. Uh- for lack of a better term, in English. That masochist girl had an orgasm there just from a spanking. Agreed, it was some spanking. They took turns at her. Her ass took such a beating.
“I never got her name,” springs aloud from my lips. Echoes down the hall. I had never forgotten that pretty brunette. Those people at those parties seldom give their right name anyway and I don’t know if Eduardo is even his real name. And, Jesus- And then there was that other time, I remember. That same cute little masochist. That other party.
Fuck, I dismiss that sordid scene for the moment.
“The closest he ever came to hurting me- He didn’t mean it.” My eyes well up. The memory. His tender- His… Oh, his tenderness. Such control, I sigh. He’s always thinking of me.
I sense still more moisture stirring at these steamy thoughts. My churning quim. My conscious mind floats on a river of liquid consent while the temporal conscience is left static on the riverbank. It- it… My liquids, conceived, and warmed as they were in daydreams, congeal as they ooze along the greasy slit. It gathers there, with all the other… The gummy secretions, from the day’s constant dribble. The sticky stuff, thickening, soft peaks like a sculpting gel, darkening my strawberry blonde curls. I spread my knees a little on the rug. Reaching under, I can feel it. Peaks nearly crisp on the ends. I tug at a fleshy little lip on the one side.
Short lips. I can almost hear him now:
“Got a short, chobby leettle poosey,”
“Short, fat leedle poosy lips, my Eddie says.
“Match my short and chubby tookas”
Yes. And, I’m- I’m a-lovin’ this body. Like this … Like I am. Now my vaginal me is heard from back there, again.
“I’m a slut, though, aren’t I?” says Confidence Girl. “A plain and simple slander slut who loves to be degraded and made to feel the slut… to embrace the Super Slut she is.”
Yes, I’m such a bad girl.
Sentimental me squeaks from a brain-closet:
“My Eddie. My sweet, sweet Eduardo does. He knows. He knows how. He makes me embrace me. To accept how I am. Oh, how I love it. How I miss him so.”
Oh! A trickle breaks loose back there… and there it goes… oo… Cools, trickles an inch, maybe two. Tickles me. Gravity slaloms the thin juice down through the curls. Ooo— now down an inside thigh. Stops there, dries. A twitch enquivers an unconscious tendon.
He’d never hurt me. “Not on purpose.” and…”Well, there was that once!.” Says the sensible me. Then a sing song, “Al…mooo’..ost!”
Posed just like I am now (but only on the kitchen table) I was. Like he was trying to re-create the pictures he has of the ambassador’s wife on the coffee table. I was wearing the tiny black leather skirt. It looked like hers but didn’t do a darn thing to hide my parts. Eddie came into the kitchen. And, like I say, he had a different idea when he first came in the door than what eventually happened.
He complained about, of all things, my hygeine : “You are focking feelthy back here,” He yelled.
Such a kidder. Then:
“I’m not toching that!”
He complained. I got wetter.
Then he set about to scrubbing me. First with a hot and sudsy natural sponge, then the loofa… and finally, he had bought a brand new bottle brush.
“Ahh,” sighs my sensual me. “So thoughtful.”
My backside was just below eye level for him. He sniffed up close so his little mustache tickled me back there. Finally satisfied, he kissed me, nuzzling his stubbly cheeks tight between my… between those two passages to my inner person.
I was now, apparently, prepared to his liking. I think there were others in the house. If so, they were very, very quiet.
I had positioned myself. Just- just like this. I had pulled the table to the center of the kitchen, so he would have 360 degree access. Umm… to me. After the plain but sumptuous order that morning:
“Medio pero. Leather mini… Keetchen table.” The thought, the smooth cadence. His refined accent. That confidence his skinny slut will be there for him.
I had positioned myself just- just like this. On the table, all the kitchen lights on.
“Still dark for me!” The poetic voice recalls. She breaks into verse:
Just so my toes
Would clear the table.
Over the edge.
Which breaks the reverie and I swoop back into the present. I think of Eduardo, coming through those first milky doors to peer through the vestibule, into the hall, and down at his loving lover presenting to him her prettiest soul-entre.
“It’s my best side, he says,” echoes the loud brain-personality.
I reel back to that time in the kitchen. I really think there were others there in the house that night. But the rooms were dark. I couldn’t see anyway from the donut.
We had been watching a lot of lipstick lesbian films around that time.
One movie was Fisting Foursome. We were taken with it from the very first scene. Over the years, I have had plenty of hands up my snatch. And- and Eduardo has such small hands, smooth knuckles, almost feminine.
My clit jumps again.
We were playing around with that kind of stuff anyway back then. Yeah.
Huh? Somewhere, someone mumbles something indistinct… Whatever… But then…Then we go on the Internet. We looked up ‘fisting’ and wound up on some gay guy web sites. Jeez- I don’t know how those guys can do that.
“Ouch!” quips the sensible girl in me.
But that time. This position. Just like now.
“Only on the table like the ambassador’s wife,” she says. “Only with the short leather skirt hiked up over my honey buns”
Eddie got carried away that night. I didn’t know what to make of it when he plopped what felt like a pint of thick lube over the split of my open ass crack. Just piled it up there. I trusted him, though. Unbeknownst to me at the time, there was even more on his hand and in the film later he looked to be wearing a thick glove of the stuff all the way up to his optimistic wrist.
Well, to make a long story short, he managed, after a half hour or so of heavy squish and squirm, to get his four fingers, and our choice of either all four knuckles, or the thumb (not both) up my ass. At least not with any degree of comfort.
We got so very worked up again, just posing there with the four slim fingers tickling me inside and we got so very hot doing that and we started up some more. But in a while it got to hurting so much, no matter how much lube. We tried everything. Went from this… Got on my side- No go. Then, on my back. His slender forearm held a freckled ankle alongside each of my mismatched ears. No go. Then on my other side, one knobby knee bent way up to my chin. No. On my belly, where he knelt there, sitting on my back on the table. On top, backwards. He tried sitting on my calves, holding my ass open and shoving forward. Wouldn’t go. Oh, it was something else. He pried, he twisted, he stood and he held me down by the small of my back, trying every possible angle to get even that little hand in.
“Got pretty crazy, didn’t it?”
Went through a ton of lube, all that coke. Christ, had to throw away the tablecloth.
“What about the others?” and “Who else was there?” An accusation.
I try to ignore the terse comment, but my pussy tightens at the saucy suggestion. And, I’m pretty sure there were others. Looking- staring, from the other rooms… I never know with him.
He compensated me then for all that failure by putting his other feminine fist in my snatch and working it around in there like I like it. Opening and closing it like I like, his thumb knuckle grinding in the hollow behind my pubic bone, until- Until I came and came… and yeah, he got scared. My cuntal contractions. He tried to pull out at the wrong time, and although he won’t admit it, I think I dislocated his thumb.
The night was a lesson to us both.
This is quite comfortable, I muse. This position. After a few minutes, like this, all my muscles relax. I make myself- I pretend I’m a rag doll. No wonder I’m so relaxed. A soft me suggests, “Yoga pose. Melting Heart, silly!”
She called me silly.
I go all limp, relaxing my belly towards the floor. No wonder the yogi’s-
My heart melts. My shapeless breasts mash flat on the shag rug and my rust-speckled spine arches downward, hanging limp. I spread my knees out some more, hiking my ass up even higher. That opens me, a little more. I’m relying on the structure of this wanton pose to hold me up. My pucker opens and- quick- closes. Takes in a sip of the humid atmosphere. I wish Eduardo were here. To share, to see.
“Or maybe someone else?”
Bearing down on the air I’ve taken in, it escapes me. There’s a whoosh and- and I’m treated to an olfactory treat… Anise and lavender. The enema. It’s been perhaps about an hour or so. I’m all clean, ready for anything. Ready for him.
“Quiet here, isn’t it?”.
That’s always one dark and powerful aspect of these tricks we do. Who else may be privy to the satisfaction of the sex we are having? What are they thinking? Are they there in the first place? I think I know… If they are there, I think I know what they think of me. If they’re there.
My image of myself makes my center heat. If those lips weren’t stuck together, I would flood. I’m tempted to finger myself.
“He wouldn’t mind.” Whispers the breathy temptress. “And, you’d be… Open.”
Maybe, when I hear his footsteps, I’ll open myself. For him. Then. Yes, then… But then, when he comes up the steps, I’ll not be thinking right, then. I’ll be trying to count how many footsteps there are on the stoop, then.
It’s a game I play with myself. Eddie plays it with me. He’ll stomp his feet around and leave high heel shoes that I figure he’s been tapping on the floor to fool me. Or he’ll leave a stack of money in a paper bag for me to find with the film canisters and it makes me wonder where it all came from. Sometimes I think I smell perfume or the tang of someone else’s pussy, but I soon confuse it with my own effluvia or with scents emanating from him. Our juices? Others? I have to wonder. I ask myself.
Self! I think … I know Eduardo is very capable of mortifying me in public- he’s done it so many times. I love it so when he does. He always knows when it’s safe and he always knows how I appreciate… that… that he thinks of me that way and he takes such good care of me that way- The way I am.
The Slut in me.
Mostly, we’re pretty ordinary. On the scale of things, though, we probably have more sex than other couples. Like everyone these days, we like to watch movies. Sex movies. Keeps us up on the latest trends and, of course, for titillation. “Of course.” Sometimes we try the things we see, but our sex tends to be pretty much an exercise in erotic improvisation.
And then there’s the special nights.
Every month or two, no schedule- just happens. Or rather, Eduardo recognizes the need in me. Yes, when it’s appropriate. When we need… Something… Something More. He lets me know.
He says we need to allow me to behave like who I am, those times. The Slut.
When Eddie and I first started dating we did things in public far more often than we do now that we’re married. He would bring me to a climax on a bus, or subway, or back in some corner of a sleazy bar near a lighted pool table. A couple of times he made bets on what he could get a girl to do in places like that. There were always takers. Even when they lost the bet (always) they always got a good show.
There were plenty of guys around in those places. We would only let certain ones see. Eddie’s such a good judge of character.
One time he had me blow him at the museum. When we got caught we blamed it on Stendahl’s syndrome. He’s so funny. Then Eduardo told me to ask the guard-
“If yours truly could blow him” interjects Ms. Sassy, bringing me back to the present again. Then- “to get us out of trouble.”
They put us out instead, requesting we never return. So embarrassing. Eduardo had to fuck me like a bunny in the rhododendrons outside.
Then there’s those parties they throw. Those show-off parties so popular in those places down there. Rio, Lima, Buenos Aires. I forget the Spanish word for them. Sounds something like ‘Bruhaha’
There’s a bunch of pictures of some ambassador’s wife at one. When Eddie was told to leave Paraguay because of the “misunderstanding,” uh- as he calls it. I think she was his date.
Who knows? That was way before we met.
You know, those Euro-trash wannabe scenes you find down there. Everybody gets way loopy on lots of local coke. They go to show off their ‘something special’. In fact, I met Eduardo at the one that guy took me to where the masochist girl got such a spanking from all those people. Where she came so hard.
Eduardo had a different girl then. A pretty one, she was. But she left the party early, “Oh so insulted!”
And I met Eduardo that night. Yesss.
“But now he’s mine.” The bold, confident me literally spits at the old girlfriend’s good looks. “Red headed mulatto that I am.” She laughs, she’s wild, a crazy –“Cross eyed too, ha ha!” All the beautiful mixed race people out there in the world, and then there’s me. So ugly. But I’m a slut. His special slut. “Slutty, Slutty, slut-slut-slut.”
I know just from the feel… that yes, the crease between my vaginal lips is getting oily. the new stuff, seeping through. Puffing me out. My moist, sealed envelope is full back there. Leaking out… It’ll soak through the dried stuff soon.
“If I know me.”
Yeah, Arturo’s big party. That same girl showed up. That little masochist girl who came so hard from the spanking. Where I’d met Eddie. Well, it was a couple of years later and she had a different guy with her. To show her off. Just for fun and games. She looked much older than when we had last seen her; still cute, in a heroin chic sort of way, but terrible. Used up. All dark circles and all. Eddie and I think there may be something kinky in their relationship.
For the most, the party was nothing special. Ho hum- at first. The hostess gave “really fantastic” blowjobs, according to the men, but I think they were just being polite because only two even came in her mouth. Then some guys excused themselves or just put it in for a couple of sucks, saying “O wow,” and then said they would have to save themselves for their own tricks- Ha! But then they would go into another room and stick it in someone else’s mouth. And then Arturo brought out a bowl of coke. He said that now that his wife had sucked so many cocks, her lips were all puffy and sore. That she would have to service the ladies at their next party. All the girls pretended to be disappointed, but I don’t think so.
Arturo had a really big dick and several of the women and girls snorted up a shitload and tried taking the whole thing on. In several positions. I got the whole thing in my mouth and in my pussy when Eddie said I should. After all, I’m the guy’s guest. But Eddie didn’t want me to really fuck him, or suck him till he came. Don’t ask me why; I guess he just wanted to see if the thing would go in all the way- or maybe just to show me off. And maybe too much of the blow made him a little nuts… But-
You know, the usual sort of thing. Some of the younger girls thought picking up things with their snatch was a big deal. Of course somebody balanced on a dick.
And ha! That two bit size queen. Yeah, sure. Tried … And failed- to take Arturo up her ass. How embarrassing for her. I didn’t try, but I probably could for crissakes. And I don’t even call myself a size queen.
A young Asian girl brought a small inflatable swimming pool with her. Green and white. She did a mini-bukkake that was pretty hot, but for the most part, you know, pretty dull stuff.
Until that dark haired girl got rolling, that is.”
Where did that voice come from?
“Yes, the position she was put in that night.”
The blood in my head whirls. The word ‘position’ reverberates in my head… the wonnn…wonnn…wonnn’s waver like a wha-wha pedal. My cunt juices up some more.
The little slap girl did the same trick as the last time we saw her. But only from the one guy this time. And- and then after she came…
“Guy must have wailed on her for fifteen minutes or more!” comments my timekeeper. She’s not too precise.
“Both of them… Exhausted,” My empathetic personage.
But then Arturo and his wife said that the girl faked it. That she only peed herself and “Where?” and in “What depraved world,” was “Pissing one’s self anything tantamount to having an orgasm?”
And the little girl cried, pushing out her bottom lip and her backside too, right there in the middle of us sobbing about how it’s “Not Fair!” And … and how if they would only “Give me forty minutes or so and- and I’ll do it again!” and I thought that just the way she said ‘again’ that probably she did come the first time. Her date said that he just couldn’t hit her for that long again. Not just now. She pouted. Stood half naked from the waist down in the center of the room, rubbing her eyes with her knuckles. Standing with her feet a foot apart, bent a little forward, her inflamed ass stuck out from under a t-shirt, staggering around, stumbling like she’s drunk for chrissakes, asking for coke. Her round steaming ass with a thick network of blue streaks running mottled throughout the glowing hot embers. Finger shaped 3-D blisters where her date’s individual digits slapped her skin over and over again so damn hard in the same spot. Heat waves rippled off her ass and somebody held a platter of coke under her nose. She mashed her face into it, raising a cloud of the stuff. Then the guy smacked the platter hard on the girl’s ass and she thanked him very much but said that it would still take another forty minutes or so. And she huffed and puffed and blubbered on and on.
She stuck her hand between her legs and choked out- “F-feel! It’s not all pee! Boo Hoo!” and all the women and girls in the room looked at each other and rolled their eyes like “Yeah, like we’re all fucking juicing up here for heavens sake honey, so what’s the big deal?”
And then the girl said it would “Prob.. prob..bub bub..pro ba ..b..bly…bub..bub.. w.. wo ..wo wouldn’t take as l..l..lonnng the next time ’cause …’cause (according to her) it really hurts like the fuck already back there to start with and that if … If she just didn’t pee at all the first time and how there wouldn’t be aaany question at aaaaallll if she just didn’t pee herself …it was just a little…But how she was sooo sorry but she just cooooouldn’t help it, it hurt so fucking much she just lost control, and how she was having such a g..g..gu..good time before all this shit and how it was such a great party um..un..until all this shit. And why this kind of bullshit shit always winds up happening to her? How she’s always such a good sport at these shit things even when that one time they told her there was some shit party and then when she brought her sister and it turned out it wasn’t a real party. Just six guys, a jar of coke and the two of them. And how she didn’t mind so much- what happened. But then the guys didn’t even consider that that might have been a brand new dress her sister had worn to the so-called party. And now how the sister wants the boys to buy her a new one and how the sister hasn’t even talked to her since that night and how the sister won’t even return her calls and that if sooooomeone could pleeeease bring her some fucking coke and she screamed that the host was just mad because she wet the floor. And how it’s c-’cause his wife couldn’t suck cock for shit and ..If..if.. only som-someone else would please help her date spank her and c-could someone mum…m…melt some ice on her fucking ass (looked like you could roast marshmallows)
And of course the thought that was going through everyone’s head was why the fuck would anyone let someone blister the bejesus out of their bottom and not come for chrissakes? Unless of course she was just a little slap slut or if she’s just doing it for the guy’s pleasure alone and not getting anything out of it herself or maybe it’s just for a place to stay for a night or something…and…or …or- god forbid, taking money for it.
And then the cruel host guy stroked his big dick and said that if she didn’t ‘cork her bellyachin’ he would really give her something to cry about.
And the little girl said how that would be ok too, but that her ass still needed forty minutes or so to settle down.
For sure everybody hearing this thought how from the looks of it, how it looked like it would be taking way longer to settle down than that (like a month.) And then the host said “Maybe. But from now on how this is exactly why there had to be some better criterion for this shit.” And then my brainy Eddie got an idea. He said, “Watch this-”
He had me sit up on the couch- legs spread… I…I-
“Cool you heels, baby girl,” and “Whoa girl”
I take a deep breath… “Chill, Slut!” says an attentive mind-atttendant. I take another breath…Continue:
I wore no undies that night. That kind of party. Beside himself with lust and passion for me, my loving Eddie ripped my blouse apart. Popped the buttons around the room to expose my skinny chest. Wrinkly little tits. Looked like a freckly grasshopper on the sofa with the black leather mini skirt skinned inside out up above my waist. My bony legs spread flat against the back of the sofa. Pink pussy glistening there, wide open for everyone to see. I was so ashamed of myself I started to juice even more. It stained the sofa cushion. That embarrassed me even more. When Eddie said “Watch this,” again, he stood in the middle of the room. Everybody gathered ’round. Eddie started pointing at me, telling all these funky stories about me and who I’ve ‘focked’ and how many I’ve ‘socked’ and about the things people have talked me into sticking up my ass. What feelthy things I’ve done, just because he’s asked me to, ’cause I will.
He talked of how “nobody should laugh at her ‘big Dumbo ears,” he laughed. “Because they made such good handles… because… Oh it was sooo embarrassing. And the lonnnger he talked… Oh! I…just…O! So wet.
He told the one about me and the museum guard. The one about him propositioning that bartender to trade blowjobs from “that suck happy redhead over there” for the drinks. Eddie said how the guy said “No way would he put heess sweet deeck into that face” AAaand …and…and then about him telling me to slip a goose under the skirts of several waitresses the same night. Yeah… and then how they all stared at us from the bar, shaking heir heads, frowning. That’s when Eduardo went up to the bar. He said to apologize to the bartender. Then he, the bartender, waitresses- All stared from way across the room. They pointed at me, laughing together.
“I fingered myself. I flashed ’em!” Reminds my trickster gal. Then Eduardo came back but all night after that he had to go up to the bar himself for drinks… And, he told the time I flashed the teenagers on the bus. And, what I did in front of the nuns, and what I- Well, he had me sit there hearing all these seamy things about me and telling these stories to strangers and to almost strangers. I was mortified to tears. I tried to hide my parts. I tried to hide my nasty face. I tried to hide my bigger ear and I tried to hide my ugly flushed countenance. Tried to hide it craned into the back of the couch from the shame. Archetypal ancient protection instincts kicked in, trying to squeeze my legs together from the shame. It takes two people to hold my legs open. Someone throws a handful of cocaine at my pussy. Somebody else holds my freckly mooshed monkey face so I have to see the camera and everyone else could all see my hot flushed face, my hot pink cunt and all the contradictions down there, and up here. And… and my shiny brown asshole and my ugly face and the yin and yang of it all and all my stiff clit sliding in and out on the filthiest parts.
Then Eddie shouts: “Holt her! Holt her hands- She gon’ feeeen–ger her self.”
But honest, I just wanted to rub the coke in, but somebody held my arms back and then he started to tell a story about me that wasn’t at all true. I cried. He was making it all up and I cried: “Oh no!” and “I didn’t do that! Please! Don’t say that!” He made it seem like I was the liar. That I was really capable of such things. I was so wet. That I had no limits and about farm animals, about … motorcycle gangs. Gang bangs. About removing bottle caps with my- my … Echhh! and you know how it is when you’re accused of something you didn’t do, couldn’t possibly do? My head was about to explode because my cocaine-dry tongue had pasted itself folded double trying for a quick breath through my gaping mouth. Blocked all possible air passages to my lungs. Stacking up the oxygen in my head. Turning redderand redder.
I was coming.
The film. It’s so- so Me. The close up shows first my ruddy face, already pug ugly, now morphed into the ugly of abandon. Someone’s hands grip my head from behind, folding the bigger ear forward. One end of my open mouth turned down like a stroke victim. Gaps, the missing teeth, eyes watering. Mortification. Lust. The underside of my tongue glistens purple in its open cavern. I howl at the bunch of them.
They took a full frame sequence. My whole humping torso bridging my heels on the cushions- head on the sofa back, screaming up at the ceiling. The pelvic rolls, the gaping rosy center of it all gyrating in mid air. A man off camera- doesn’t speak very fluent English. He makes a gutteral comment. Sticks in a forefinger, fucks it back and forth a few fucks.
Eduardo’s yelling something about a Great Dane and fucking Interpol! And then- then the camera tries to focus in on my cunt. I’m grinding deep pelvic rolls bridged in the open air. Some people shove my middle down. I’m back down on the cushion once again. A man and a woman I don’t know hold my knees to the back of the sofa. They keep me still for the kneeling girl taking a close-up.
In the background Eduardo’s hollering and waving his arms, pointing at me, shouting, spitting. He’s sputtering the apocryphal “Twelve Pound Dildo.”
At that point I quit fighting them. I looked down at my snatch. It was for the best.
Up close the fleshy lips had swollen to the point of puffing into a pair of pink peeled peach parts contracting in pulsating plips. My clit, now completely freed of its sheath wiggled about like the head of a pearly albino tadpole. Very pretty. I was yelling, about how can you do this. How you can say things like that about me. About the one you love and about how you love me so. How I love you so. How we understand me so well. And how I don’t know a fucking thing about you, your past. Why you can’t even go back to certain countries. How I trust you and the way you make it all. And if all of them out there just went and jumped in the fucking lake and if he didn’t stop saying all the filthy things about me- “The Sphincter and the Potato,” I’d pop! and then..I…I…
There was no mistaking it. Super Squirt was coming. Talk makes me come. Yes, dirty talk.
“No one disputed that one,” says my wiseguy.
Remembering, that party. Wow, seems so long- Oh,where is he? Seems so long. Been here so long. A wetness back there chills. This ugly slut is very wet at the pussy. The sparse fringe of hairs immediately surrounding my opening has saturated. The crust has loosened up nicely back there. I’ll be ready. Yeah, ready. Swollen lips. All round, balled up, quivering. So cute, I am, back there. Yes, my bottom. So round. All round and firm back there. Golden white skin. For him.
“My best side,” echoes, “No freckles there.”
I sense the puffy lips begin to separate. Each one peels away from its counterpart. A push outward… a partial parting. My labia. Swelling, smacking open of their own accord.
But- What’s that?
Feel the familiar flash. The flush. That reflexive, white flash. Instinctual fear of exposure excites me further. My cunt leaks out a drop- another drop of liquid. Comes out hot but chills quickly. The outside doors unlock. My portal is opening. There’s a bell out there and a stranger should use it, but this is the city and, you know. No way I could tell. Not like this… It’s the position.
If the UPS guy gets through them… Or… those baseball boys have been hanging around since that other time. “Those doors,” myself tells myself “They’re unlocked,” The second set, the clear ones… “Someone could…They could see me.”
I can feel my cunt lips stirring. Cooler dry air meets Ms. dark, dank and humid back by my taint. The hot pocket enveloping my manic clit remains closed up until the last. In this position. My position. Labian flesh, peeling apart. An encrusted tangle of hairs looses itself. The oily seam eases one labia from its bi-semetrical twin back at… at the rear…the rearmost… Smoothly, steadily it completes its bloom. The whole plump package spreads its slutty self right up to my delighted clitoris.
In arbitrary fashion, of my own free will and without wisecracks from my mind-voices-persons I decide the plump pussy pair of lips back there need persuasion. I reach between my legs, wiggle two tactile fingers into the humid warmth. They invite themselves into the slick hole. I limit myself to a couple of two-fingered flicks in the hollow of the roof of my vagina. A thumb grazes my stiff clit. A cuntal contraction responds. My thin thighs react. They try to snap closed but the weight on my knees is enough to turn the effort into a couple of jerky isometrics. Taught tendons twitch deep in my cunt to suck at the two fingers still tickling me inside.
O my thighs… on the insides. So skinny… But… What’s that? …O! ..O!… I’m!..
The fleshy lips continue to puff, to blossom out. A silly thought occurs:
If the course of this spread… spreading of my parts. If it won’t let up? If it doesn’t stop? Stop this opening? This pussy blossoming ? Well- If it doesn’t stop…
There’s a familiar rattle. The heavy vestibule door opens to the street behind me. Hissing city noises persuade the psychic poets of poon earthward from their purview of passage.
My legs once again attempt to snap closed, but it’s a different reflex this time. I allow my jellyfish spine to sag some more. In turn, I open even more.
“There’s that gulp of air I wished he could witness!”
Another wish fulfilled. I bear down once again to push back and free the imprisoned air in a soft whoosh. There’s that aroma. Licorice. Lavender.
“No, not really…it’s delicious.” The tart in me reaches out in advance attack, allaying wisecracks that may come from less sophisticated corners of my brain.
I hear someone come through the outside door. They’re rustling in the vestibule, but the door is still open and “If someone looks in here…”
“Is that a whisper?”
Lots of street noise. Outer doors stay open. Inside ones still closed, I think. Noises. Sounds indistinct. No context.
The inside vestibule door opens, but I can tell by the short creak of the hinge that it’s only open a crack.
“Crack!” Wiseass Jersey.
His smooth tenor. The accent:
“You are so wet, my sweet. So very wet.”
“He noticed,” I chuckle to myself, as well as to my internal mind-selves.
No one hears but my inner companions. I grin, but no one sees.
“You been foolin’ ‘roun’ with your poosey today,” he chuckles.
“Maybe a little.”
“It’s okay– yay” His lilting, sing song excuse for a falsetto. “Good- Looks great!”
There’s a pause. Had he moved aside so others could see? Did someone else come in? Did he pull his zipper? Was that even a zipper? Was it even his? I never know… And…
“Well, my dear… Did you come?”
A hesitation. Keep him guessing a splitsec. Make him think I’m wondering about whether or not to tell him, the truth. “But it doesn’t matter.” I tell myself. “The result will be the same.”
I am truthful, my answer just a muffled mumble at the floor. I haven’t come for days. All is silent. The door closes. A hushed latch.
I wonder if all this small talk is just some kind of cover for some kind of audience. Getting situated back there are they? He’s keeping me occupied.
My center hangs out there suspended. There’s lots of room out in that lobby. Jesus- half a dozen people could, theoretically-
A delicate hand cups my inverted pussy. It squeezes the whole “fatty leetle moffin” together in the cool palm for several side-to-side shimmies over my pubic bone. Yes. When he releases it, he whispers. So soft. Like he’s speaking to- someone else:
“Mandrill in heat.”
A dubious one in my psyche states quite correctly: “In theory, yes, eight or nine people could get in there… The lobby, that is.”
A sudden sensation of soft lips on my sphincter intensifies into a voluptuous buss. A stiff tongue enters the tough aperture. The tongue tickles me back there as the point of the hard thing wedges itself back and forth in and around my entrance. I once more am reminded how happy the enemas make us. All nice and clean for him. I can be so, so confident. O! Feels so good.
“I have to be ready, for him. For anything, with him,”
I answer out loud “I AM REALLY, REALLY READY, BABY!” but then I try and recall if I felt his pencil thin mustache just then. Felt so good. “Was it even him?” I think. “Was it even a man?”
The thought scrambles me but I remain acutely aware of the fact that I am an open book of a sopping slander slut for all who care to peer into my life. My wonderful life. My Eddie.
I think of those parties. That cute little masochist. So pretty.
“I’m such a lucky-“ grinning into the donut. “Ugly… Slut!”
Slut slut slut.”
There’s the squeal.
© 2012 Daddy X. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.