writingdirty

Dirty stories by Jack Stratton

Category: Fiction (page 3 of 4)

Betty the Bruiser

I came home to find the apartment in disarray. A lamp, which was still on, was laying on the floor, shining a spotlight on the half empty bookshelf. The books were strewn about floor and one was soaking up the water that a vase once held, the violets having been trampled.

My Betty was a bruiser, a broad shouldered girl, too tall to ever be comfortable in her own skin. She’d been beaten into shape as a kid by her step-father, that was until she was old enough to kick his ass.

She sat on the kitchen floor with the last of my good bourbon. Unlaced roller-skates, a black skirt, and one of my old white t-shirts. Her tattoos were nothing but shadows under the white cotton, thick black and red lines peeking out.

“We lost,” she slurred and gave me a particularly petulant glare.

I poured myself a glass of water and leaned on the counter of the small kitchen, looking down at her as she rocked the bottle of amber liquid on the black and white tiled floor.

I looked over to the living room and then back at her.

“I couldn’t find a book,” she shrugged.

She took one roller-skate and tried to push off the other with it, failing miserably.

“I couldn’t find a book and I can’t get these stupid things off,” she said, and kicked at the floor with her skate.

At 25, with a messy black bob, a cut lip, and the beginnings of a black eye, she did her best to pout like a little girl. Roller derby was good for her because she needed a healthy outlet for her violent nature. Plus I was there to pick up the pieces after a match.

“Help me get ‘em off?”

Kneeling, I took one of the black leathery boots by the thick front wheel and pulled. She winced as the skate slipped off her sore foot. Her shin looked purple and yellow, she had a scrape on her knee. My eyes lingered up higher to the edge of her skirt, then abruptly back to her other skate. I pulled the second one off and I stood up, holding out my hand to help her up.

She groaned as her sore and swollen joints creaked and then she was holding on to me with both hands on my shoulders, her cheeks red, her eyes glazed by the bourbon, but still shining. Our eyes met and there she was, smelling like whiskey and sweat, the Betty I fell in love with. We were about to kiss, but her knees gave out and she almost pulled me down to the floor with her.

“I’ll put you in bed,” I groaned as I lifted her back up.

“Tuck me in, too?” she teased, smiling and limping with one arm around my shoulder, “you can be the big spoon.”

“I’m sleeping on the couch, Bette.”

“Pshh, I bet you ten bucks you’ll be in bed in ten minutes. And don’t fucking call me Bette, you know I hate that.”

I sighed. I was too old for this.

I was sleeping on the couch because this whole thing just wasn’t working and we knew it. She was all rough and tumble, late night at rock clubs and drunk five nights a week. I was in a PhD program, I had a full time job. My punk youth was long over, though not forgotten. That’s not to say I grew up and became boring, but I just wasn’t in the same world she was in.

That’s one of the many things that can happen when you date a girl who’s ten years younger than you. Even if she is taller than you.

It was more than that, though, and we knew it. We just didn’t click anymore. I was a city boy, through and through and deep down she was a Midwestern farm girl.

She put her weight on my shoulder as I led her to the bedroom. The only light was street lamps coming in from the window. It illuminated tangled sheets and books all over the floor and nightstand.

I sat her down on the bed and she put her arms around my neck.

“I miss you,” she whispered. It made my throat tighten and my heart ache.

“Just get some sleep, Bette, we can talk tomorrow.”

She kissed my chin.

“Don’t you think I’m pretty anymore?” she said kissing my cheek, catching just the edge of my lip.

“I think you’re drunk and sweaty and you have a black eye and probably a sprained ankle,” I said trying to untangle myself from her arms, but she was already pulling me in for another kiss.

“You used to give me black and blues, remember?” her voice was rough, she gave a throaty chuckle, sad and dirty.

“You always end up getting bruised, one way or another,” I started, but she kissed me.

It had been a while, probably three months. She was depressed and her sex drive disappeared. The roller derby brought it back a little, but this was something else. This was goodbye.

I eased her onto the bed, hovering over her. I kissed her bruised face. I kissed her chapped lips. She rubbed her cheek against my stubble. She pulled her shirt off.

It’s superficial, but I’d miss her tattoos most of all. It was the main physical trait that would define her in my mind. As I kissed her shoulders, my lips traces the minute raised skin of the thick black letters and all the little symbols and secrets. I remembered every story, every detail. I still remember the why and where of all of them.

Her kisses grew wilder and so I held her down. Given time every action turns cliche, but just then it seemed more like nostalgia. That was until she started to fight. This wasn’t a little wilting flower, this was a tough girl who could take most people I know in fight. This wasn’t submission, this was making me earning it. I held her down by the wrists with all my strength and all my weight.

I pushed her legs open with my own and pressed against her. She writhed, she bit my lip when I tried to kiss her again. I let go of one of her wrists and she immediately pushed at my chest with her free hand. I pulled the cups of her bra down and sucked at her thick brown nipples, I bit down just enough to make her yelp. Her hand was in my hair, pulling me to her and pushing me away at the same time.

The haze of a long day at work and the sadness of the whole situation were gone for a moment. I was strong and she was hungry. I reached down, pushing away her skirt. I found her panties and pulled hard, ripping them, but not enough. She raised her ass, trying to push me away and trying to get more of her clothes off. I pulled again and came away with most of the fabric.

She was gasping and moaning. This wasn’t playful roughness, this was the death throws of our love. This was the only thing keeping us from crying. I pulled at my belt, I pilled at my zipper, I pulled out my cock. I had to concentrate on her, I had to bury my face in her tits and kiss her copper tasting lips just to get hard. I had to do anything but think.

Still reality was there, in the background, and as I held her down, my fingers moved to the bedside table. There was a little ceremony in that motion, in the creak of the drawer. Familiar squares of foil right where I left them. I remembered these same motions a hundred other times, in the salad days, in the laughing midnights.

She eyed me, ceasing the fight long enough to let me me slip the condom on. Then she smiled as she arched her back in my moan and my cock pressed against the coarse hairs of her sex.

She was wet, I could smell it, strong and tart. It smelled like Betty. She was fighting again, but her hips were bucking up, her legs open, her moans turning into needy whimpers. I rubbed against her, I slipped against her, and then I pushing into her.

Sex with Betty was always a quick affair for some reason. Maybe that was one of reasons it was going to end. I liked to draw things out. I liked to tease and play. She was impatient and deep down very ashamed of it all. All that wanting went to waste with her.

She needed to be hit and be needed to be held down, but she could never talk about it. Those secret moments of violence, when she pulled my hands to her neck. Electric and forbidden and lost once they ended.

All I ever wanted to do was remember and record it all, but that was me. I over-thought it, or so she said. If I tried to make her beg she would grow cold, and really, for me, the begging was the best part.

All that fluttered through my mind as I fucked her. Looking down, her eyes were closed and she bit her lip. She was wet to the point that I could feel it on my thighs. The muscles of her sex were tight; her powerful legs were wrapping around me and pulling me in.

She didn’t want foreplay and she didn’t like her clit played with. It all bored her, she would slap my fingers away. Going down on her was occasional and for my benefit. She just wanted to fuck and she wanted it to hurt.

As I fucked her I remembered that first time in a motel. She was strong and wild, so different from other women I’d been with. It was awkward, because I didn’t know how to top her the way she needed to be topped, I didn’t know if I was strong enough physically or emotionally, at least not in that moment, in that motel room, both of us drunk and high from a concert.

As I fucked her that last time, I felt myself grow more and more detached. She was lost in it, though, and I watched as her body went through the motions and cycles. Her blush spreading down her chest, her breath growing faster. When she came she came hard and punched and then clawing at my shoulder, needed something to hold on to as I fucked her through it.

After the waves of her pleasure broke, I lost my drive. The moment had passed and I grew soft. I just pulled myself off of her and she didn’t seem to notice that I hadn’t come. She rolled onto her side, our bodies no longer touching. I couldn’t tell if she was asleep or crying. I crawled off the bed and pulled the blanket onto of her.

I cleaned up the mess in the living room and wrote through the night, knowing the next day she would leave, and knowing I had to get the memories down before they were tainted or gone.

After that it was all packing and crying and the long days of uncertainty. I came out better in the end. She moved back west and found another boy to hurt her, one way or another.

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I held out my hand and she looked at Tom, my roommate, before shaking it, as if asking permission.

She was cute in a very girl next door sort of way. Straight mousy brown shoulder length hair, sort of dull brown eyes, pale skin that was peppered with freckles. She was a little chubby, sort of holding on to baby fat around her middle and on her bottom. She didn’t really seem to know how to dress, with her long skirt and her three layers of shirts which she was wearing to try and desperately cover up the fact that she had quite a nice chest. I think she noticed me staring at her chest, because she folded her arms in from of her breasts and blushed slightly.

“How old is she?” I asked when she got up to get a drink.

“She’s 20, why?”

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Mister McIntyre’s Secret, Part Eight

Mister McIntyre’s Secret
Part 8

I didn’t know where I was. I didn’t know what I was wearing. I remember a flash of small white polka dots on a sea of black. Some little pill box hat. My face got flushed if I thought about Miss Peterson pulling up the stockings that clipped to the garters under the dress. Every thought in my head made me blush. Every memory of the past few hours and every expectation about what was to come in the future.

We were walking down the street and she hailed a taxi. It was something I was never able to do. People always seemed to walk in front of me and take mine. We were going to the train station. I sat, still wet under my dress and frilly underwear. I wanted to stop being wet desperately, but thoughts were attacking me like Miss Peterson’s fingers and having almost the same effect.

I followed behind Miss Peterson, the world a blur of men in suits and pretty women. She bought tickets, she bought magazines and cigarettes. I shook my head to coffee after she asked me the third time. She had a smile as she looked at my hazy confusion, like she’d just won a bet.

On the train she sat in front of me, legs crossed and reading the French Vogue. She smoked, she radiated sexiness and power. I wanted to radiate that. Apparently all I radiated was a signal that I was obedient.

As I watched the city fade into trees and water I realized I still didn’t know where we were going. Some of the landscape seemed familiar, but I was not very well travelled. As the stops shifted from odd Indian names to things that ended in Hampton I started to realized exactly how fancy the place I was going was. Then it was more people, more following Miss Peterson into crowds. Busy train station, a shiny black car waiting for us. Tinted windows and a quiet ride.

We arrived at the most unlikely of places; a stable. I followed Miss Peterson into the place, trying to walk on heels I was already clumsy in the hay and grass. Miss Peterson met a young woman who was my age with very large pouting lips and curly copper hair pulled back in a ponytail. The two exchanged a few words and the girl’s eyes narrowed on me.

She walked over to me and looked me up and down. She had pinkish white skin that was covered in freckles. She seemed to be constantly pouting and frowning and bratty. She said nothing, but started walking giving me a nod that said to follow her. We walked through this strange world of horses, which I’d never really been up close to but seem almost alarmingly large and powerful. I almost couldn’t look at the rippling muscles of the animals because they seemed so nakedly masculine.

We came to a huge wall that looked like an outdoor theater, but as we entered I realized it was some kind of track. I wondered if it was a horse race, but it seemed the wrong size. We walked past men in white suits and women in elaborate dresses with huge hats. These people were rich and probably famous. I hadn’t read enough of the gossip column to really know who was who. We walked and walked and then there he was sitting in a booth wearing a suit I had never seen and sunglasses of all things.

Mister McInytre in a blue stripped seersucker suit. He looked like a movie star. To his right was a younger man in a white suit who was very thin and had sharp almost feminine features. His blond hair was combed back dramatically and he wore a bright periwinkle ascot. The girl led me to there booth and the two men stood up to greet me, which made my face flush. Looking up at Mister McIntyre, who towered over me I had to squint in the sunlight.

“Abigail. I’m glad you made it.” he took my hand and held my arm out so he could look at my dress.

I squirmed as he looked me up and down. He was touching me. He was looking at me. He was showing me off. I looked down. I wanted to crawl out of the spotlight. Then as sudden as I thought that the vision of Marcy on top of me popped into my head for some reason and my knees almost buckled.

“Marcy did a lovely job.” he said looking at the man next to him who gave a begrudging shrug of approval.

“Abigail, this is Chase Daniels.” he fair bow smiled noncommittally and then took a pair of opera glasses from his pocket and looked at the field.

“And of course you’ve met Gertrude.” mister McIntyre said, and as he moved towards her the pout melted a bit and her eyes got larger.

“Say hello to Abigail, Trudy.”

Her snotty facade gone, the girls green eyes sparkled above her high freckled cheeks. “Hello, Abigail.”

I smiled. I tried to smile politely, but it may have came out as a little too happy at her change in attitude. I realized that Mister McIntyre had the same sway over her. It was strange to think of that. I watched their body language, how she teetered next to him, wanting to be at his side, but knowing her place at the moment.

“I… I’m going to get a pop. Would you care for one, Abigail?” she offered, her cheeks reddening at the forced kindness. Mister McIntyre smiled and put his hand on her shoulder. This caused her body to tense.

“Oh, yes. Thank you. A coke, please.” I said, politely.

She walked off, her eyes on mine communicating something, maybe ownership?

“Have a seat Abigail.” Mister McIntyre motioned to a chair beside him.

I sat down, I remembered Alice in Wonderland suddenly because that’s what I felt like. Looking out at the field I realized it wasn’t a race but some sort of jumping and riding competition.

“Dressage.” said Chase, pronouncing the word with a certain French flair.

“Pardon?” I said, wondering if he was telling me something or asking me something.

“Dressage; horse ballet. It’s expensive to learn, insufferably boring to watch and taxing on the animals. We all love it.” his dry sarcasm hanging in the air coldly.

“Marcy’s been doing it since she was a girl.” said Gertrude, suddenly startling me. She handed me a coke and her eyes were somewhat less aggressive. She looked at the seats and I realized I’d taken hers. She shrugged and sat down next to me.

Just then out on the field I saw her. Marcy Peterson in gray riding pants and a crisp white shirt with a vest. Her little hat and her tall black boot and her little whip. There was something about it that was so formal, so neat and tidy, so imposing. I wanted to see it up close, examine all the details of it. I wondered what it felt like to wear those tall heavy boots and to straddle a horse like that. Looking to my left I saw similar questions in Gertrude’s eyes.

“Have you ever done it?” I asked her.

Gertrude smiled. “Nope. But I tried the outfit on. The boots are a pain, but you feel wonderfully… constricted.” she give me a look then that made me bite my lip.

And so we all watched. Ladies sitting up tall rode their horses around, making them bow and dance and do all sorts of poses both graceful and unnatural. The first few minutes were interesting as Gertrude explained the scoring to me. Then we got to see Marcy go. She got a nine, which from what I was told means “very good”. After that things got a bit boring. I turned to see Gertrude nodding off. Chase took out a little book and was silently reading. Only Mister McIntyre watched from under his dark sunglasses. I was sort of glad I couldn’t see his steely blue eyes because I wouldn’t be able to relax at all if I could.

Then it was over. Polite clapping, someone won something. I’d stop being able to follow it as my eyes got heavy in the sunlight and boredom. Then we were up with the milling crowd, making our way out. At some point Mister McIntyre left our group and I was ushered by Chase and Gertrude to the car I’d been driven in. Then we were off.

Another long drive. Chase was deep in a book, I think I saw Oscar Wilde on the cover. Gertrude was pouting and watching me like a cat watches a canary.

“So you’re Jacob’s secretary.” she said flatly.

“Y… yes. I’ve been working for Mister McIntyre for a while now.” as I said his name the two of them looked at each other and smirked.

We arrived at a huge house and I followed the two through a huge wrought iron gate up a cobblestone path to the front door where a butler met us. If I was Alice in Wonderland before now I was little orphan Annie wide eyed at the lavish place.

We came to a large drawing room, complete with fainting couches and a fireplace. Books lined the walls and there was large globe in one corner. McMcIntyre was there, standing next to Marcy. It felt so strange to see the two of them. I can’t remember ever seeing them together before, but there they were. He towered over her as they spoke, just out of ear shot.

My hands felt cold, I wondered what they were talking about. Marcy’s strong eyes and confident sarcastic grin were gone. She looked down when he spoke to her, just like I did.

Mister McIntyre didn’t look pleased, he was asking her a series of questions and she was answering with meek yeses and noes. She looked so much younger like this, with her riding unifom and her hair pulled back. She fidgeted under his gaze and fingered her riding crop.

As I watched I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Chase, smiling at me.

“Jacob told me that you were here to record the proceedings of our little meeting. I know you are used to a typewritter, but I couldn’t carry one all the way out here so just use this.” he handed me a five by seven black moleskin notebook and a heavy expensive looking silver pen.

“What am I supposed to write?”

Chase moved in and whispered conspirotorally. “Well, ‘Mistre McIntyre’ is going to…” he searched for the words “fuck Marcy and probably Gertrude” he smiled “and possibly me.”

My eyes grew wide. I stopped breathing. Was be kidding? I was young and inexperienced and innocent, he was probably playing a joke on me. A sharp crack brough my attention back to Mister McIntyre. He’d taken Marcy’s riding crop and was flexing of in his large hands. Her eyes were saucers as he gave the thing a practise smack against his hand.

Chase continued. “You should start now. I think Mister McIntyre is about to do something interesting with Marcy’s riding crop. Just write everything down as you see it, as if you were recalling a dream in your diary.”

I blushed as I opened the book. He knew, this stranger knew. All of them knew my every secret. As I looked up I saw Mister McIntyre move in on Marcy. She backed up against the wall and he was on her. I gasped and covered my mouth. I knew I should be quiet. They didn’t notice me. He was pressed against her and she squirmed. My legs closed tightly. I felt the weight of Chase sitting next to me on the couch. I saw Gertrude sitting on a chair watching Marcy and Mister McIntyre the same was I was.

My hands shook as I opened the notebook. I put the pen to the paper as I watch and wrote down every dirty detail.

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