Down and Dirty Read online

  Sara, finally opening her eyes and seeing her audience, felt something inside her give way. Some long held beliefs about herself disintegrated, instantly replaced by a new view, a new concept of both herself and the world around her.

  THE DIRECT APPROACH

  Thomas S. Roche

  Misty usually favors the direct approach. I guess this was fairly direct, but still allowed for an element of surprise.

  I’ll admit, it took me a few minutes to figure out what she was getting at. After all, it was nine a.m. on a Saturday morning and I couldn’t remember ordering anything by FedEx from an address in Wichita. I was just innocently reading my newspaper on the front porch, enjoying the last wispy strains of morning before the sun pumped the temperature into triple digits. Misty is a night person, and was still slumbering torridly in bed as the heat of the summer morning slowly built up.

  A van pulled up and a guy in blue shorts exited and walked up the path.

  “Package for you,” he said.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’m not expecting anything. Jeez, Wichita?”

  “Maybe your wife, then?”

  I looked at the small, oblong package and narrowed my eyes.

  “Nope,” I said. “It’s addressed to me. Thanks.”

  I returned to the porch, sat at the white metal table and did some tentative shaking of the package—about the size of a thick hardback book, brown cardboard and sealed with plain paper tape. I went into the house for my pocket knife, then slid it under the cardboard and slit the package from end to end. Whatever was inside was bubble-wrapped. I sliced away the bubble wrap and held a wonder of technology in my hand.

  It was a vibrator.

  You would think a girl of Misty’s age would have long ago bought her first vibrator, but for a chick with a voracious sexual appetite, she’s a little unusual. She almost never wanks. I’d never experienced such a thing, but she says she’s always had a boyfriend, so she never “had” to.

  Of course, the first thing I did when I heard that was make her masturbate for me, but the temptation of those pretty legs spread wide as she rubbed herself, panting, her eyes wide open and pointed at me, was more than I could handle. I interrupted her moment alone with a moment of my own, and we’d never gotten back to it.

  The other thing about Misty is that, as she said, orgasms had always come so easy to her she’d never been inspired to explore new and different ways of coming. Her girlfriends all had vibrators, but she’d never “bothered.” Such a bother, I told her. Oh, such a bother. She’d blushed.

  I can vouch for Misty’s orgasms—they’re testament to the fact that every woman comes differently. She comes fast and easy, and repeatedly, sometimes coming as many as six or eight times during one of our marathon lovemaking sessions. Any fewer than four just makes her horny. “If I masturbated very often,” she once said, “I’d have to quit my day job.”

  But I suspected there was something else going on—Misty could be shy, in a way. Shy at trying new things, sometimes. Always eager, she nonetheless had a little trouble starting things.

  I regarded the vibrator. It was one of those oblong, vaguely phallic ones, but this one had an attached power pack and a clever little dimple at the tip—presumably for cupping over the lucky lady’s clit. The accompanying flyer informed me that the Pulso-Ultra-Thousand or whatever the fuck it was called was more powerful than any other vibrator on this green planet, and its Pulso-Ultra power could offer ten—yes, ten!—different speeds, styles and pulses. “Choose your pleasure!” the sex carny bellowed. “Or set it on RANDOM and let chance be your mistress!”

  It came with batteries. I put them in and tried the thing out—they weren’t kidding. Ten—yes, ten!—different speeds. Enough to fill up a long, lazy summer afternoon of sweating on each other. Enough of a reason to go wake up Misty.

  Misty sprawled on the bed, the tangled sheet tossed to one side. She sometimes slept nude, but last night she’d put on a long threadbare T-shirt and a pair of panties. Maybe she’d anticipated the express delivery of her message in a bottle and become unexpectedly shy.

  I took off my robe and climbed onto the bed, setting the Pulso-Ultra-Whatchamacallit next to me. I said Misty’s name several times to see if she was still asleep. She was out like a light.

  I slid onto her with the vibrator tucked behind me, and she started suddenly, mumbled a rapturous “Mrrf” and pressed her butt against my crotch. She clutched my hand and stroked it, saying, “Hi.”

  “Take off your underwear,” I told her.

  “Why?” she asked.

  I started to kiss the back of her neck, and she shivered. My hands pulled up her shirt and slid under, and I felt her nipples harden in an instant as I nibbled at her shoulder.

  “Fine,” I said. “I’ll do it.”

  If there’s one thing I’ve learned since I met Misty, it’s how to get her panties off quickly. She was still more than half asleep as I eased them down her thighs and over her ankles. I missed the hamper by about two inches.

  I nibbled her ear, used my tongue to tease that spot at the top of her spine that always makes her go crazy. When I had her just crazy enough to want it, but not crazy enough to be fully awake, I reached behind myself and seized the vibrator.

  “You’re a very naughty girl,” I said. “And a sleepy one,” I told her, pushing her onto her belly and forcing her legs wide with my knees between hers.

  The faint hum of the vibrator coaxed another curious “Mrrf?” out of her in the instant before the tip of it touched her clit.

  “Oh, oh God!” she gasped. “What are you doing?”

  It was on the lowest setting, barely a fizzle of ecstatic energy pulsing out of the double-As. I had pulled the vibe away from Misty’s clit, which was, in point of fact, what had elicited the irritated exclamation of “What are you doing?”

  “I thought I hurt you,” I said.

  “As if,” she said, grinding her ass up into my crotch again and with Amazonian effort lifting me into the air even though I’ve got a hundred pounds on her. I guided the vibe back to the cleft at the anterior of Misty’s swollen pussy lips, and she started clutching the sheets, ripping the contour right off the mattress on both ends simultaneously.

  “Oh, God,” she moaned. “Is that a vibrator?”

  “No,” I said. “It’s a Queen Anne credenza. Yes, it’s a fucking vibrator. Does it feel good?”

  This time, her “Mrrf” wasn’t at all sleepy. I eased myself onto her, getting onto my knees as she lifted her ass high and presented her pussy to me hungrily. I pressed the tip of the vibe against her clit again and flipped the dial. She gasped and did in the contour sheet once and for all, and a couple of pillows along with it. Her hips began to grind.

  “Oh God,” she moaned. “It’s got more than one speed. What is that?”

  “As if you didn’t know, you tawdry little whore,” I said affectionately, turning the dial again and watching Misty’s hips explode in a great series of shudders as she came the first time. I eased the tip of the vibe down to her pussy, and she gasped as I slid it in and turned the dial.

  “What’s that?” she whimpered.

  “This setting is especially good for G-spot stimulation,” I said with the style of a stereo salesman. “At least, that’s what the makers of the Ultro-Pulsa-Thousand-whatsit tell me. Would you agree?”

  “God, I don’t know...” she said. Then her words were gone, as I eased the vibe out of her pussy and moved it back to her clit. The clever little dimple at the end fit right over Misty’s oversized bud, and as I held the vibe in place, her hips started to pump. She came again, gasping for air as I firmly held the toy in place, riding her. She slumped to the bed, her hips pressed tight to the wrinkle-ruined contour sheet. Then, without pause, she lifted her ass—just her ass, not her belly—in this fetching way she has that tells me “Fuck me, you son of a bitch.” I mounted her from behind and slid into her as I cupped the toy firmly against her clit. I started to fuck her long and slo
w, but she was having none of it. Her hips started to piston, and she drew me deeper into her until I was fucking her just as hard as she wanted to be fucked. The whole time, I kept the vibrator right on her clit. I got the hang of it quickly, and when I felt my shy wife’s hand over mine, taking over the vibrator, it made it quite a bit easier to lean back and fuck her rapidly, pumping my cock into her as she moaned and writhed, caught between the vibrator and me.

  I felt her pussy contracting around my thrusting cock as a third orgasm exploded into her. That was all I could take, and I came hard, deep inside her as I felt the vibrations rumbling through her pubic bone. Then I plucked the vibrator from her grasp and cradled it as I cradled her.

  “Where the hell did you find that?” she asked, her voice hoarse from moaning.

  “As if you didn’t know, you saucy tart.”

  “No, really,” she said.

  “You didn’t order this,” I said flatly.

  She narrowed her eyes, took the vibe out of my hand, and looked at it.

  “You didn’t buy it for me?”

  “It just came FedEx,” I said. “Addressed to me.”

  “Oh, God,” Misty sighed. “It’s Virginia. I told her I’d never used a vibrator and she was horrified.”

  “Why’d she ship it to me instead of you?”

  Misty glanced from the vibrator to me and back again.

  “I guess she wanted to be sure I’d use it.”

  “We owe her a thank-you call,” I said.

  “Yeah, we do. Later,” said Misty, drawing my hand back down toward her pussy. “Later.” She kissed me softly, then harder, her tongue teasing mine. She gasped as I flipped the vibrator on and touched it to her clit.

  “Later,” she moaned softly. “Much, much, much, much later.”

  THE NAUGHTY NANNY

  J. Nelson

  It was to the final strains of my favorite Queen song that the call came in. As Freddy Mercury crooned about his naughty nanny, my secretary buzzed me about a new job for my security company. An easy one from the sound of it, but you never know in this business. That’s what I’ve learned after five years at the helm. Security. Sounds good, right? Upstanding. Protective. A job to be proud of. But sometimes, it makes me feel so fucking dirty, I can’t even stand to look at myself in the mirror.

  This new assignment wound up being one of those sort of jobs.

  The call was from a lady in the upscale section of town. She wanted video cameras installed in the nursery, so she could check to see how her new nanny was treating the kids. Fine. We get calls like that a lot.

  I sent two of my best guys out to install the devices, and when they came back, they had a story to tell. Of course, the lady wanted the cameras to be invisible. That went without saying. But she also wanted the bill to be invisible, meaning that she paid immediately with cash. “Don’t want to bother my husband about it,” is what she explained to Larry. “Seemed strange,” Larry told me. “None of my business, you know. But wouldn’t the dad want to be in on the surveillance?”

  I just shrugged. I try not to get involved. “Anyway,” Larry said, “you should have seen this piece of ass—”

  Now, I looked at him, curious. The woman had sounded icy on the phone. I hadn’t imagined her possibly being hot. “Mrs. Miller?” I asked.

  “No, the nanny—”

  “Oh,” I nodded, “the nanny.”

  “Yeah, she was this blonde thing. Tall and lean, long hair, great body. Even just in jeans. She was hot.”

  I don’t know why, but I had a feeling right then. A premonition, I guess, that this job wasn’t over. The easy ones, at least the ones that appear easy on the surface, those are generally the jobs to worry about. I’ve learned my lesson many times over. And I was right.

  Next day, Mrs. Miller called again. She sounded insanely snobby on the phone, and I could tell that she was very accustomed to getting her way. That’s how she got to me through my secretary. Wouldn’t take no for an answer. Turned out, she was having a difficult time with the film and the cameras, and I told her I’d send a man out.

  “That’s not what I want,” she said. “I want the boss. I want you.”

  Okay, fine. I had a light day planned. I went myself. I was interested in catching a look at the nanny, I have to admit, and I wanted to see what Larry considered a piece. The lady of the house was exactly what I expected—a washed-out looking brunette with one too many visits to the Botox doctor racked up on her Prada belt. She was also one of those non-mechanical-minded people. All she had to do was pop out the cassette and plug it into her viewer. But I did it for her, and what we saw was—well—shocking.

  At first, all seemed fine. Lovely nanny, sweet to the kids, no yelling, no hitting. And Larry was right. The girl was unbelievably hot. Blonde and Nordic-looking with a body to lie awake at night and dream about. Nothing wrong with her at all, as far as I could see.

  “Guess that’s it,” I said, but Mrs. Miller shook her head.

  “I want you to show me how to fast-forward it. I want to watch the whole tape in its entirety.”

  So I showed Mrs. Miller how to fast-forward, and that’s when things got interesting. After the kids were asleep in the bed off of the nursery, a man entered the playroom.

  “John,” the woman murmured, more to herself than to me, and I slowed the tape back to normal speed.

  In moments, all became clear in my head. The wife wasn’t interested in how the nanny was treating her kids. She was interested in how the nanny was treating her husband. And let me tell you, this was one talented nanny. She treated the man of the house fabulously. Oh, lord, how I would have liked those full lips around my own cock. Within seconds, the nanny was on her knees, head bobbing up and down, and John, lucky bastard, was leaning against the wall with a look of pure ecstasy on his face.

  Christ, the girl knew what she was doing.

  She had her hand between his legs, cupping him, and she sucked her cheeks in deeply as she swallowed him down. Honestly, I didn’t know how long I was going to be allowed to watch this, so I stared hard, drinking in every frame. Mrs. Miller seemed unable to move, to think or to speak. Maybe the Botox had atrophied her brain. In silence we watched the rest of the routine.

  After the nanny had gotten John’s rod wet with her mouth, she stood and quickly bent over, offering her divine backside to her employer. He was a man after my own heart, quickly flipping up her short floral skirt to reveal a white thong neatly separating her rounded asscheeks. Once he’d pulled this flimsy piece of lingerie roughly to the side, he fingered her pussy, obviously determining whether or not she was ready for him.

  She was ready. I could have told him that without checking. He had his hands on her hips in another instant and pulled her back against his spit-slicked shaft. The camera angle caught the expression on the nanny’s face. She looked radiant, deeply lit as if from within. In my head, I heard the strains of the Queen song that had been playing when I’d gotten the job. There she was: the absolute definition of a naughty nanny. And what she was doing—man, I wished she were in front of me, bent over with her hands flat on the floor while I took her hard and fast from behind. Or I wished I were in front of her, experiencing a little oral action as her employer rode her from behind. That’s exactly what I wished—

  When I realized that I was getting aroused, I shifted around and cleared my throat. Time to make a clean getaway. That was for sure. Time to go park my car around the corner and jack off in whatever little bit of privacy I could find. But the ice queen at my side seemed frozen in place, so we stood there and watched without speaking while the hot-blooded naughty nanny continued her service with a smile.

  TRY THIS AT HOME

  Ayre Riley

  Really. I’m serious. Try this.

  That is, if you’re in the mood for a salacious evening. If you’re not, skip this advice and move on to something else. But if you are, then try this at home!

  Get yourself all dressed up in something deliciously extr
avagant. You know what I mean. Something made of crimson velvet with pale, petal-pink marabou trim, if you’re that sort of girl. Or skintight and vinyl if you’re a vixen into black. Then pose in front of your mirror as you do your makeup. Really go to town with the mascara and the lipstick. You want your eyes to stand out, and you want your mouth to look full and inviting. Now, here’s the key—don’t go out. I’m not kidding.

  Don’t even think about going out.Tonight, you and your man are going to stay in.

  Of course, the trick to this particular treat is that you don’t tell him you’re not going out. What you do, is invite him over at a specific time—or if you and your honey live together, then tell him to be ready at a specific time—then spring your X-rated outfit on him. He’ll look you up and down in that slow, hungry way of his, that he-lion way, and then he’ll shake his head slowly, as if he can’t believe his luck. Or as if he can’t believe you’re planning on hitting the club scene all dolled-up like a tart. Don’t blow your cover. Let him stare. Let him ogle. Let him get all hot and bothered. Then strip him. Do you hear me? Strip him completely out of his clothes until he’s naked while you’re still dressed sex-queen style. Slide in your favorite CD, something with a heavy, throbbing beat. Then make him sit down on an armless chair and give him a lap dance.

  You know the rules, right? You get to touch him, but he can’t touch you.

  Make sure that he sticks to those rules. Hands at his sides so that he behaves like a good boy. Rules are very important to this game. Remember that. And the thing of it is, you’re making all the rules tonight.

  Chances are, he won’t be able to obey completely. I mean, chances are that his cock will try to touch you, even if he keeps his hands welded to his sides. Can’t punish the boy for that, can you?