by Violet Blue
“I was happy to—very. Thanks for asking me to…come,” Ted said, smiling, as he opened the front door.
Carol smiled. “Thank you for giving him such a wonderful gift. Next weekend then?”
“Definitely. Next time I’ll bring Alice.”
Another gentle kiss, a mutual “Good-night,” and the door closed.
Getting Dirty
ERICA DUMAS
I can smell the bay, a foggy breeze coming up 16th Street at my heels. I’m dressed to kill: tight blue PVC shorts and a red top, just like every stereotype of a whore in any Hollywood movie. And I’m a real whore tonight, a whore with a heart of gold.
I turn off onto Capp Street, bathed in yellow sodium light to match the stink of human urine. If this was the 1st or the 15th of the month, it would be hopping, but tonight it’s relatively quiet. I hear the car coming up behind me, and a shiver runs up my spine. I turn, step off the curb into the alley, and look at the driver, waving, my best whore-smile pasted on my face. It’s a businessman, his tie undone, his suit rumpled. Maybe coming from the strip clubs in North Beach, finding himself too horny to go home without some satisfaction. I feel a shudder of relief and disappointment as he goes past, his eyes studiously avoiding me. I take a deep breath, smelling ammonia and dead pigeons. I step back onto the sidewalk and hear a shout from the empty lot. “Hey, hooker! You want some action, whore?” I squint my eyes: Five or six young men, white and Latino, drinking from paper bags. One of them gets up to walk toward me, making kissing noises. I feel the cold grip of fear. That’s when I hear the shout from behind me—rude and insistent.
“Damn, now that’s what I like to see for sale!”
I turn, bending down to peer in the window of the Jaguar. I see you, your dark eyes invisible in the shadows. I pray my voice doesn’t shake as I smile and ask you: “Want a date?”
“How much?” The youths are all up, now, shuffling slowly as if waiting for you to go before they surround me. I want to name a figure as low as possible so that you’ll accept, give me a chance to get out of here.
“Eighty bucks,” I say. “Full service.” This time my voice is shaking, for real.
You laugh. “Too much.”
“It’s only fifty for a blowjob,” I tell you, glancing over my shoulder, trying not to look as if I’m glancing over my shoulder.
“Too much,” you repeat. You hit the button and the window starts rolling up with a dull hum.
They’re all shouting, crowding up behind me, now. One of them reaches out and grabs my waist, saying, “Don’t go with the gringo, baby, come home with me!” I can feel his crotch grinding against my ass, his cock hard in his pants. Another one starts rubbing his crotch and leans in toward me, one hand against the car. His cock’s hard as well. My heart is pounding, my throat constricting with terror. I tell myself there’s no way you’re going to leave me; I know you care too much to just ditch me like this. Pulling away from the other men, I bend over toward your window. In one smooth motion, I pull up my shirt, smile, and wink at you.
“Make me an offer,” I say, watching your eyes caress my tits. The boys are hooting and hollering, groping me, saying, “Come on, man, just keep driving, we’ll take care of her!” and “Don’t you know better than to mess with whores?” and “Yeah, baby, show him your tits, that’ll convince him!” I feel the first one’s cock against my ass as I bend down further to let you see my tits better. “Make me an offer,” I beg, pinching my nipples.
“I’ll give you twenty-five for full service,” I hear you say, your voice aggressive, demanding, and I know there’s no negotiating, which is what makes me say, “Thirty.” You shake your head. “For thirty bucks I want it all,” you say, and I see the window go up, feel the hot bodies against mine as fear stabs through me. I push myself up against the car door as I hear the elated shouts around me, feel a pair of hands on my bare breasts, and now I’m pulling away from them and pushing my breasts up against the cold glass of the window, feeling the nipples harden against the smooth surface even as one of the hands around me starts to unzip my hotpants.
I’m so scared when I feel them undressing me that for an instant I think I’m going to wet my pants, as if they weren’t wet already. You just keep driving. My voice cracks as I shriek out: “All right, thirty—thirty for around-the-world,” but you don’t stop, and I shout, “Twenty-five! Twenty-five,” and you flip me off. I’m desperate, terrified, feeling hands down my pants and rubbing hard between my legs, fingers pressing the thin PVC deep between my lips, and once they get that zipper down there won’t be any PVC between their fingers and my crotch. I feel lips kissing my legs, hot breath and tongue on the back of my neck, fingers pinching my exposed nipples, hands tangling in my long hair. I’m desperate, tears of terror forming in my eyes, but you don’t even look up at me until I scream, “All right, twenty! Twenty bucks! Twenty bucks for everything, around the world for twenty dollars, mister, and I got a real nice back door!” You brake, look at me as I pull my top back up, glance around to see all the faces and hands swirling around me. You cock your head toward the Jag’s passenger door. “Fuck off!” I shout to the guys all around me, pushing them back, shoving their hands off me, kicking and spitting, grabbing wrists and twisting to get them out of my hair. I get away, scurry around the back of the car. I hear the disappointed shouts, curses in Spanish and English. I realize I should have gone around the front of your car; what if you change your mind and decide to drive off all of a sudden? I know there’s no chance of that, but it all seems so real I can almost believe you would.
The door lock goes popping up; I yank the door open and get in as the guys crowd around. They don’t try to stop the car; you floor it and I see their upthrust fingers in the side mirror as I pull my top back down, my hands shaking. I look over at you and smile nervously, feeling my stomach melt as you give me that cruel, heartless look I so rarely get. I can really believe that you don’t care that you almost got me raped—and do I really know any better? “What’s your name?” I ask.
“Jake,” you tell me, and I love that. It’s the name you use when we’re playing together, when you have to be the sort of bastard I so want you to be. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-three,” I say, cleanly shaving ten years. Not because I need to be young, but because any street whore would probably bullshit you.
You snort in disgust. “Yeah, right. How old are you really?”
“All right,” I say, smiling. “Nineteen.” Not the answer you were expecting, but you just smile grimly.
“I’m Cassie,” I tell you. “It was twenty-five, right? For full service?”
“Twenty. For around the world,” you growl, and I feel a quiver inside me that tells me you’re not taking any shit. “And I hear you got a real nice back door.”
I smile. “Oh, yeah, that’s right. Twenty.”
“Reach in my front pocket,” you tell me.
I smile and reach into the pocket of your scratchy wool pants. There’s a small roll of bills in there, and the feel of it in my hand gives me a surge of pleasure. I take it out and my heart sinks. I count out two crumpled twenties.
“Put one back,” you say.
I hold it out for you; you snatch it and stuff it in your shirt pocket. I scowl at you but tuck the single bill into my boot.
Then I brighten, knowing it’s time to start really working. “Where do you want to go? I know a parking lot that’s good, over on Harrison. Or we could always park and get a room, if you want to pay for a whole hour—that’d be another twenty dollars.”
“I don’t need an hour,” you tell me, and then say, “Twin Peaks” as you turn right on 18th Street.
“There’s a lot of cops up there,” I say .
“They won’t mess around with us,” you answer. “I’ve always wanted to take a whore up there.”
“I’d like that,” I say, and that’s what I am: your whore, being taken up to Twin Peaks so that you can use me, around-the-world, use every part of me for
twenty bucks. In my real life, I bill at two-forty an hour, and I spend all those hours with my clothes on except when I’m reading briefs in the bathtub.
You growl at me: “You don’t kiss, do you?”
“Kiss?”
“On the lips.”
“If you want to,” I say coquettishly.
“I don’t want you to kiss me. I know where that mouth’s been.”
“All right,” I say. “I don’t have to kiss you. It’s easier that way, anyway.”
“Good. And don’t talk too much.”
I lean against you and let my hand drop into your lap, gently massaging your crotch as I take a deep breath and smell your sweat. I don’t have my seat belt on—another turn-on. I haven’t ridden without my seat belt since I was sixteen. I feel you getting hard against my palm. I lean harder and press my cheek against the bulge in your pants. I start to kiss your hard cock through your pants.
“Don’t take it out while I’m driving,” you say as I feel the car tipping and turning. We’re mounting the hill, the Jag’s suspension taking the curves and potholes effortlessly as you drive much too fast.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “I just want to kiss it a little. Through your pants.”
But I don’t just want to kiss it through your pants; I want to take it out and gulp it down, and I can feel myself getting wet under my tight PVC pants, my juices slicking up the smooth inside of them since I’m not wearing any panties. I rub my hand over your cock and inhale deeply, smelling you and loving it with all my being.
We reach the summit. You put the Jag in park and pull the emergency brake. I sit up and look out at the city, at the million bright lights diffused by the ether of the fog like fairy dust lit by a blowtorch.
“It’s so beautiful up here,” I say. “It’s gorgeous.”
Which is when I feel your hand snaking through my hair, pushing me down roughly. Just like in my fantasy, the fantasy I’ve related to you more times than there are lights in San Francisco. You push my face into your crotch and I don’t need to be told twice. I fumble with your belt and unzip your pants. Your cock is hard and sweaty, unwashed after a long day at the office. I smell the sharpness of your pre-come, the muskiness of your crotch, and I know exactly how it will taste.
I part my lips, take a deep breath, and gulp you all the way down in one smooth movement, deep-throating your cock as if I’ve been practicing on it for years, which I have. I feel my lips tickled by your pubic hair, hold my breath as long as I can, then come up for air and lick your head all over. You grunt softly, your hand still tangled in my hair, guiding me up and down as I suck you. I lick up and down the shaft, tease your balls out of your jockey shorts to lick them. You pull me back up to the top of your cock, your other hand guiding it into position. You push me down, almost choking me as I swallow you. I stay down even longer this time, seeing stars before you let me up to lick your head and pump your shaft with my spit-slick hand.
I look up at you, my eyes wide. I talk like a whore, or at least like all the whores do in my world. “You like that, baby? I love sucking your cock. You’ve got such a nice big cock.” Then you grip my hair and I take you down again, feeling your smooth shaft glide up my wide-open throat. When I come up I rub you all over my face and feel the spittle cooling my cheeks.
“That pussy any better than that mouth?”
“It’s real nice,” I smile up at you. “Want to try it?”
“You’re not going to give me any shit about how I have to use a condom, are you?”
My stomach churns as I think about the feeling of your naked cock in my pussy, seeming so new as I contemplate it. “Not if you don’t want to,” I say cheerfully.
“Then yeah, I’ll try it. Get those shorts off,” you say.
I squirm on the plush seat of the Jag, unzipping the zippers in the front and the back of the kinky little garment, then snug them down over my hips and wriggle out of them. I’m not wearing anything underneath, anything at all, and my pussy’s as slick with sweat under the sticky PVC as it is with the juice of my arousal. I lean back in the seat and spread my legs, fingering my pussy, feeling a lightning bolt of pleasure shoot up my spine as I slide one finger in.
“How d’ya want me? Front seat or back? You want me doggy style? I love to be fucked doggy style.”
You reach over me and pop my seat while pushing back on my chest; I go flat on my back in an instant, and you scramble over me and position yourself between my legs. You don’t even give me the slightest warmup—whores aren’t supposed to need foreplay. I spread wide and moan softly as I feel the head of your cock against my pussy. It slides in effortlessly, bringing a gasp from me as the head of your cock hits my cervix, jarring me but making me grind my hips up against you. I reach my hands down into your pants and cup your buttocks as I feel them flex with exertion as you begin to fuck me. Your cock feels so familiar yet so unfamiliar sliding into my whore’s pussy, and I’m so close to my orgasm I’m afraid I’ll come too soon and spoil the illusion. Whores aren’t supposed to enjoy it this much, are they?
I’m cooing into your ear as I lick your salty neck, as your hot breath caresses my bare shoulders with each grunt. “Oh, yeah, baby, I love that. I love that so much. This is my favorite position, baby.”
“I thought you said you liked doggy style,” you say.
“I like that one, too.”
“Then get on your knees.”
“It’s easier in the back seat.”
You pull yourself off me and lean back. “Go ahead. What was your name again.”
“It’s Cassie, Jake.”
You don’t seem impressed that I remembered your name. You nod toward the back seat, and I climb over and get on my hands and knees. “What if the cops come by?” I ask.
“Don’t worry about it,” you say, and get into the back seat behind me, your hips pressing up against my naked ass. It’s incredibly cramped in here, and you have to lean forward to keep from hitting your head on the roof of the car, which makes you press your body against mine, and the heat excites me.
You enter me in one smooth thrust again, my pussy feeling tighter in this position, your cock feeling bigger. I moan as I rock back and forth in time with your thrusts; I’m incredibly close, now. Your hips pump against me, driving your cock harder and harder into me with each thrust. I feel your body slapping against my thighs, your fingernails digging into the flesh of my ass. I want to say something dirty, filthy, but I can’t speak; I’m tottering on the brink of orgasm.
“You’re really wet,” you growl. “You’re getting off on this, aren’t you? You love being fucked like this, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” I manage to gasp. “I love your cock. You’re going to make me come, baby. I’m going to come for you, Jake. You like it when your whores come for you?”
“Can you come with a cock in your ass?”
I stop moving, only half-feigning the shock and strain in my voice. “N-no. I mean, I never have.” And yet, I remember what I promised you, and the knowledge that you’re taking me there sends another surge into my pussy, making my muscles clench around your cock. “Wh-what do you mean?”
“You said around the world.”
“Yeah, but—”
You pull out of me, move up slightly, lean heavily on my body to get your cock into position as you pry open my cheeks with your thumbs. I feel the head of your cock pressing against my puckered anus as you begin to work it in. Your cock is so wet with my juices—but that’s not why it pops in so easily , making me gasp and almost sob in terrified pleasure. I’m so unused to being entered there; the sensation of your cock sliding in makes my stomach go all liquid, makes my body shudder as I mount toward orgasm. But none of that is why it slides in so easily; the lubricating suppository I inserted earlier makes my ass slick and open, ready and willing to take your cock. That’s why, as I feel your balls snuggling up against my ass cheeks, I feel the first spasms of my climax beginning, even as I push back against you hard, forcing your
cock into me as deeply as it will go. Then you’re pumping, too, and I’m coming harder, riding the wave of orgasm, feeling you fuck me there, in my darkest spot, grunting, “Come on, take it, Cassie” as you thrust into me, as you suddenly go rigid and I feel your cock pulsing in my tight hole, just as, totally unexpectedly, I reach my second orgasm and come on your pumping cock. As you fill me full of your essence.
“Oh, yeah,” I moan hoarsely. “Your cock is so good, Jake.”
You just lie on top of me for a minute, breathing hard into my ear, your breath hot on me. I reach back and caress your face.
“That was so good,” I whisper. “Did you like that, Jake?”
“I’ll take you back down,” you say, and reach down to zip up. I lie there on my belly still feeling you inside me, feeling my ass slick with lube and your come. This is part of it, for me—being used and then discarded, no strings, no attachments. No matter how many years we’ve been together, you know just how to abandon me.
You buckle your belt, climb into the driver’s seat, and start the car. As we twist down the Twin Peaks curves, I struggle into the front seat.
“Don’t get come on the upholstery,” you tell me. “My wife rides in this car.”
I almost can’t resist laughing, but I manage to suppress the urge. I turn onto my side so as not to rub my lube-and-come-slicked crack against the seat, and I wriggle back into the skintight PVC shorts. Now it feels really wet in there, my pussy mingled with your come mingled with lube. I zip up and buckle the little belt just as you turn onto 18th Street.
“Same place OK?”
“Take me up to 16th,” I tell you. “There’s more action up there this time of night.”
“All right. Capp?”
“Make it Mission. Right here’s just fine.”
