February 24, 2010
Fiction
Piggy
It was wet in that alley. There’d been so much rain that everything was damp, all the time. Most of what had got soaked during the previous night’s downpour stayed soggy enough, even without the drizzle. Even without me there, leaking my — well — I’m getting ahead of myself.
Daddy likes me dirty. That is, she likes getting me dirty. That night we were headed to a party: Daddy was in her dress leathers, hair buzzed so close to her scalp it was practically just a stain, jawline severe and set. I assumed she was packing, but didn’t go examining: I always got in trouble if Daddy caught me searching out the bulge of her cock; she said it wasn’t ladylike.
I was clothed as requested: white slip, sheer white stockings, body barely covered. No earrings, no makeup, face scrubbed. No bra, even, so my period-heavy tits swung almost painfully beneath the sheer material of the slip. She told me to wear nothing that would present “any obstacle” to her — so, no panties. In deference to it being the beginning (and thus the heaviest part) of my period, I wore a tampon, string clipped a bit so as not to be so obvious. I planned to remove it surreptitiously once we got to wherever we were going.
“You look pretty, baby.” Daddy ran a hand over my hair, down along my left shoulder blade to stroke the satiny slip.
“You excited about the party, peach? What you got for me in here?” She pushed her big fingers between my thighs, up under the lacy edge of the slip. I tried to keep from gasping, from pushing my hips at her hand. I let my eyes fall closed as she shoved a finger between the slick lips of my pussy. I gasped at the sudden penetration, then clenched my teeth in consternation as she froze. I heard her sharp intake of breath.
“What in the hell — ?”
I flushed deeper, embarrassed, and glanced over at her face through barely-open eyes. “Nothing, Daddy — uh — it’s a tampon. I’m sorry. I didn’t want — “
“Nothing? Or a tampon? Seems like a tampon’s something, peach. What’d Daddy tell you she wanted?”
“Nothing in the way,” I whimpered, as Daddy slammed the car to a halt somewhere in between her SOMA apartment and the Bay Bridge. She got out, coming around to yank me out into the chilly, damp night air. Tossing me back against the car door, she roughly parted my legs and pulled the tampon out, holding it up in front of me.
“Open.”
Heart pounding, I opened my mouth. Please, please, no, I thought to myself. But then, as if doing me a favor, Daddy placed just the short, clipped tampon string between my lips and told me to bite. I could feel the cotton’s warmth against my chin, felt a slight smear, and inhaled the scent of my own blood and excitement.
“Hold that there,” she said to me, yanking me away from the car and pushing me into the alley she’d parked alongside. “Now, if you can’t follow the simplest directions, I don’t think you should really be displayed in public, do you?”
She didn’t wait for an answer. We crunched through wet cardboard and newspapers, shoving past garbage bags. It smelled of wet concrete, mildew, decaying food and piss. I was glad I’d worn my plain white Keds instead of the patent leather platforms that I’d considered.
She stopped me up short, yanking at the slip to get my attention. We were just at that point where illumination from streetlamps stopped. She came in close and I thought she was going to kiss me; my heart lept and my cunt flooded in anticipation. But then I remembered the tampon — Daddy never liked getting the mess on herself.
Her words flooded hot in my ear: “You said you wanted me show them all what a pretty pig you could be. What happened, my peach? You can’t follow instructions, can you?”
I shook my head.
“Can you?”
“No, ‘Addy,” I mumbled around the string, my teeth clenched tight, shaking my head and hitting myself on the side of my chin with the sodden cotton. Something crossed her face then, a look that made my stomach clench and my cunt flutter.
She put a hand on my chest and pressed my shoulders to the concrete wall. My hips pitched forward at her, and with her free hand, and with no other preliminaries besides humiliation, Daddy got back inside my cunt, bringing forth fingers-full of my blood to smear across the sleek white of the slip.
“Don’t you think,” she asked, her face so close that I could smell the desire and musk, even over the scent of my blood,” that I know what time of the month it is?”
I couldn’t respond. I was trying not to cry — or come. Each time she pushed her fingers into me, my hips jerked forward, trying to urge her in deeper, wanting her to really fuck me. I didn’t think what she was pulling out and smearing on my tits, my cheeks, my hair could be very bloody anymore. It had to be all my own juice, lube, need.
Daddy bent over me describing the precise dimensions of my filthiness and idiocy, fucking me slow. I whined around the tampon, sliding down the wall as I pushed my hips further out toward her.
She let me go until my back was flat on a pile of wet cardboard, slick with mildew. Daddy popped her fingers out of me and repositioned me on my knees. Then her weight was over me and I held my breath, hopeful.
“Don’t you drop that thing, peach.” Daddy’s breath warmed my chilly neck, and her voice was tight. Cars passed periodically, but it was close to midnight on a Tuesday, and not even the cops would be hanging around down here.
I heard the unmistakable pop of snaps, and pictured Daddy fisting open the fly of her leather pants, getting her cock out. She grabbed my hips, positioned me just right, and led her cock into the filth of my pussy.
I hung my head and groaned as Daddy slid out, then shoved back into me. Her grunts were hard and sharp with each thrust and I knew it wasn’t going to be long, this fuck; she’d gotten herself too excited while bloodying me up. She brought her cock out of me every other thrust or so to shove up against my clit, and soon I was up at the edge, bleating between clenched teeth, the cold tampon hitting up under my chin in rhythm with her fucking. My hands kept slipping, and the thought of being face down in a pile of decomposing cardboard, while getting fucked deep and hard, blinded me with lust. Let anyone who cared know that I’d get fucked in sewage if it meant getting fucked just right.
“P’ease, Daddy — Do ‘at! Oh, ‘Od, Yes!” She rocked her dick up against my clit several times in a row and brought me over fast: my cunt clenched in a brief series of spasms. As I came, she pummeled me back open with long, thick strokes of her cock, enjoying the muscle-clenching my orgasm provided for her to ride around and work against. She slammed hard into my cervix, the full weight of her hips ramming against my butt.
“You’re gonna — clean up — any mess that — gets on — uh! — on these goddamn pants,” Daddy managed, before she howled and came into me, allowing herself to buck for a hot minute. She yanked out of me and pulled me up to my knees.
“Spit it out,” she said, and I released the tampon, my jaw aching and cramped. She swallowed my tongue and gave me a taste of her pleasure.
She put her back to the wall and led my mouth to her crotch to clean off the bloody cock, the blood and come that had gotten on the leather around her fly. Daddy’s hands fisted in my hair and she pulled my face back now and then to see for herself the mess smearing there, telling me what a very good piggy I was — how she couldn’t wait to fill me up again. The whole alley around us smelled like fuck.
Daddy yanked me up by my elbow after she put her cock away. I wiped my mouth on the back of my hand and then smeared both hands on my slip.
Daddy laughed. “God. You’re a fucking mess. Come on. Let’s get you home before I do you over that compost bin.” Daddy led me back to the car, hand upon my mildew-stained ass cheek. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you, do I, that it took us a good long time to get home — and that my car needed a steam-cleaning the next day.
• • •
is a smut writer and writing workshop facilitator. Her work has appeared in a plethora of anthologies, including, most recently, Visible: A Femmethology (vol.1), Tasting Her (Oral Sex Erotica), Best Sex Writing 2008, Nobody Passes, and lots more. Jen leads erotic writing workshops and workshops with sexual trauma survivors, and co-facilitates the monthly Erotic Reading Circle (with Carol Queen!). Learn more at writingourselveswhole.org. This story was originally published at eros-zine.
