DUMPSTEROTICA:How Dirty Are You?
by Allie Beck
Dumpsterotica: How Dirty Are You?
Allie Beck
Copyright 2011 by Allie Beck
Smashwords Edition
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This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Dumpsterotica: How Dirty Are You?
It all had to start with a bottle of champagne. Not just any champagne, and not just the right bottle of champagne. It had to be a bottle of champagne expensive enough to get her to fuck Joe.
If he was lucky, Marcia would be in the mood once a month. But a bottle of Taittinger—and it had to be over $100—was good for at least one or two rounds of sex on any given night.
Lately, though, even the champagne wasn't cutting it. He had to combine it with a really nice restaurant. And really nice as in—bend over and shit $100 bills. Joe sighed and made a reservation for seven o'clock on a Saturday at the new French-Thai fusion place he read about in a friend's Tweet. He called Marcia at work to tell her about the reservation for dinner. She wasn't at her desk, so he left a voicemail message.
Marcia wasn't at her desk to answer Joe's call because she was in the bathroom masturbating. Most women prefer to keep the skin on their clitoris, but Marcia didn't much care anymore. The head of her electric toothbrush faced away from her clit most of the time, though, and the vibrations were finally clearing her mind. No more thoughts of benefits packages and coworker complaints about harassment or body odor-challenged colleagues. Licking her fingers, she touched herself to lubricate and felt her hard nub. Rocking her hips lightly against the toothbrush, she caught the tight rhythm that would make the tension go away.
Warmth flooded her pussy and her labia ballooned, throbbing and hot now and so wet that the head of the toothbrush slipped, tangling with her pubic hair. The hair tugging felt good, adding a jolt of exciting pain as she put the vibration back where it belonged, her clit suddenly catching exactly what it needed. Inner thigh muscles screamed, strong and hot as red steel as she came and came and came, her hips curving up and in at the exact moment she plunged the spinning toothbrush head inside her vagina, the soft bristles scrubbing her G-spot.
Through gritted teeth, she let a low moan escape as she looked at the ceiling and bucked against the toothbrush as if she were riding a mechanical bull, careful to hold the handle firmly.
Experience had taught her that the vagina can be a vacuum at the most inopportune of moments. A few years ago she'd paid a $3,000 emergency room bill out of pocket to avoid having the charge appear on her insurance, where her colleagues in Human Resources might have seen the claim. The damage to her cervix had been minimal but she had become a legend on ER doctor Internet forums, known as “Vagina Dentata.”
Marcia masturbated at work every day because it was the only way she could come. She and Joe had been together for four years, married for two, and for the most part she enjoyed sleeping with him. But no matter what they did, from vanilla sex to BDSM to sex toys and porn, she just couldn't come with him inside her or from oral sex.
She turned off the toothbrush, carefully extracted it and set it, head first, into a glass of mouthwash. Then she cleaned herself with scented wipes, washed the toothbrush, and freshened her makeup. A quick hand washing and an inspection of her skirt in the full-length mirror showed she was put together. By the time she walked back to her desk she had nearly forgotten the release and felt ready to take on the monthly planning meeting in an hour. Checking voicemail, she was startled to hear Joe's voice and smiled tightly, knowing what he wanted.
Joe poured out the last of the champagne for both of them. Marcia made a great show of sniffing the glass and then downed its entire contents in a single gulp.
“I need to pee!” she announced in a voice loud enough to turn heads. She wobbled off to the powder room. Her glass was empty and Joe's was half full. He took a calculated risk and emptied half of his champagne into her glass. Marcia returned and downed that, too. He poured the rest of the bottle into his glass and sipped it slowly, staring at his beautiful wife. Tonight he'd make love to her for the first time in nearly a month and he was eager to have sex with someone other than a woman whose last name was jpeg or gif.
This was working better than he had hoped. In fact, it was working a little too well. It was all Joe could do to pay the bill without attracting too much attention to the fact that she had now slid all the way around the booth and was blatantly rubbing his crotch with a dinner roll, not bothering to be discreet.
The waitress came with the bill. Joe fumbled his credit card and bent down under the table to get it. Marcia looked up at the attractive older waitress, who was standing with her arms folded and a smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes. Marcia took a bite of the dinner roll and asked for more butter.
After the waitress left with the check, Joe went to the bathroom, hoping he could safely leave Marcia alone. During the walk back to the table he watched her drink the rest of his champagne and slip a foil-wrapped pat of butter into her purse. She stood and leaned on him, her breath hot and sour against his cheek.
“The champagne worked, honey. Take me home and fuck me,” she said in a loud, slurred voice.
Other patrons tittered and Joe chuckled, then quietly asked her, “Can you use a softer voice?”
“I am whispering!” she shouted. Now other customers were openly staring and laughing as Joe spirited her out of the restaurant, leaving a large tip.
They stumbled out into the parking lot behind the restaurant. He didn't see the car anywhere and remembered that he had parked it in front. She was all over him, shoving her hands down his pants and kissing him forcefully, open mouthed and panting. Joe wasn't sure he was okay to drive and Marcia sure as hell wasn't. Besides, he wasn't sure she would still want sex by the time he got her home or that she wouldn't fall asleep on the way.
She bent down and licked the zipper of his suit pants, leaving a dark trail of wetness. The feel of her tongue through the cloth made his erection go up a notch, to a level he'd never felt before, as his whole body flooded with crushing excitement and a buzzing that was all-consuming and made him want to fuck Marcia right there under the street lamp.
An old woman came out of a clothing shop and locked the back door. She looked over in time to see Marcia undoing his belt. He yelped and pushed her behind a car as she took a pat of butter from the restaurant out of her purse and started smearing it all over her fist. Terrified and yet intrigued, he shoved her behind a dumpster labeled “Food Waste” to get away from the glare of the security lights and to regroup. Marcia started shoving her fist down the back of his pants as they collapsed to the ground, stifling their giggles. Her fist slid down past his butt crack and he felt a finger searching, her manicured fingernail poking hard.
She suddenly gave up on the fisting, much to Joe's relief and dismay, and instead started kissing him. She reached for his zipper and he felt the strain of his bulge. Freeing it, she began stroking it with her butter-covered hand. He sucked in sharply, then noticed the rotten air from the dumpster and started laughing, looking around and seeing broken glass, pieces of paper, smears of undetermined origin and his wife's beautifully-manicured hand milking him under the glow of a street lamp.
Marcia said, “Oh, shit.”
Joe looked up and saw a police cruiser rounding the corner. It was going to drive right past them. He froze.
Still holding his naked, tight cock, she asked, “What do we do?”
He looked down at her shining lower lip, lipstick smeared across her cheek. He glanced back at the cruiser. Sliding open the plastic door of the dumpster, he shoved her inside and climbed in after. Marcia was so drunk she was like a wet noodle. A wet noodle with his glistening cock in her buttered-up hand. She settled right in among the cardboard and bags and recommenced stroking him, her eyes wide and unfocused, her other hand traveling up her skirt to start touching herself.
Joe stopped her, then reached for her crotch and met the cool netting of pantyhose. He peeked out of the dumpster door and watched the cruiser slowly pass, its lights off, driving between the back of the mini mall and the row of store dumpsters. The crunch of tires on asphalt faded and Joe nearly blew his wad all over a bag full of day-old bagels.
He flipped Marcia over on her knees, took both hands and ripped her control-top hose from waist to crotch. She screamed with laughter and he put his hand over her mouth, smearing something on her lips. She licked his fingers and laughed again, turning around to kiss him. He tasted ketchup. No—mayo. Maybe mustard? He wasn't sure and didn't care as he turned her back around, sliding her underwear down around her thighs and entering her from behind.
He knew he had a few minutes, at best, before coming. That wasn't anything new. Baseball scores, third grade teachers, Newt Gingrich, Kate Gosselin, Snookie—thinking about turnoffs never held him back from coming. Fucking Marcia from behind was new; she never let him do this.
His right knee adjusted as a garbage bag filled with coffee grounds and empty milk cartons shifted under him. The change in angle made Marcia buck backwards against him, slamming him deeper into her at a slight arc. Joe saw her use one of her hands to brace herself against the dumpster's rust-covered wall, her fingernails ragged now and a crumpled, stained napkin pinned between her hand and the side.
With this new leverage Marcia thrust backwards and up slightly, and Joe gave up all thought, his leg muscles straining to hold himself steady inside her. His slick penis slid in her, then retracted, only to repeat again and again as Joe's unmeasured pleasure grew. She was dripping, her juices forming a thin band around the base of his penis like a juicy, translucent friendship bracelet, and in the glow of the moon and the parking lot light he could see, feel, hear and smell himself fucking his wife. He licked his lips and tasted her—or maybe that was vanilla syrup—all senses activated and alive and focused on the friction and the wetness and on Marcia's ass pumping him.
She seized up and Joe's cock slid further in her, her vaginal walls holding him, sucking him like a blow job. Joe tried to continue moving inside Marcia but he couldn't; she'd clamped down so hard that the vise grip made it impossible, yet sent the blood pumping through him, set the nerves on edge and massaged them as if finely calibrated by a universal maker.
Unsure of his ears, Joe heard Marcia's faint voice over the rush of blood that filled his senses. “Fuck me, Joe! Fuck me and make me come. Oh, my God, I'm coming, I'm coming—” Her body shuddered hard, as if shivering, and he saw the veins in her neck tighten as she clamped on him. He sank his hand into her messy blond curls and rode her, her ass meeting the base of his cock and his balls slapping against her as he tugged lightly on her hair.
“What is this?” she moaned. “How do I? Am I? I'm—” And now he was coming and coming, multiple waves that had no logic yet made perfect sense as he froze, awash in adrenaline and lust and champagne and the marvelous emotion of loving his wife with all his being for the first time in years. Her pussy imprisoned him as she shuddered and pulsated, arched and raked her chest with her broken fingernails, finally biting her own shoulder through the full-body muscle contractions and, as Joe could best count, at least six of them. As his own orgasm waned a brilliant clarity filled him, coexisting with a serenity he wanted to bottle and save.
He looked down and saw Marcia rubbing a banana peel all over her ass.
Still clamped inside her and coming down off the sex high and the booze, Joe took a good look around. His suit pants were under a bag of bagels. Marcia balanced herself on a few torn bags of food garbage dominated by white paper cups with a coffee shop's logo on them. Coffee grounds dotted his thighs and his wife was now writhing, her ass glowing in the open air, his cock stuck inside her while she rubbed a damn banana peel all over herself.
An audible thhwuck! broke the silence, like a bottle of champagne being uncorked. Joe flew across the dumpster and hit his head against the metal wall. Marcia collapsed into a well-dressed heap on top of black plastic bags filled with garbage, the banana peel perched over her anus like an item in a still life painting.
Marcia couldn't look him in the eye. Joe had put on her clothes, cleaned her up, and gotten her into their car. She came to as they were driving through town, minutes from home. She was sore and tired and what was that scent? Rotten bananas and rust and cum filled the tidy car.
Joe looked ripe, like he'd looked in college during finals week. His jacket was in a heap in the backseat, his white work shirt smeared with a bunch of brown stuff and what looked like half a hand print across his belly. Two buttons were missing from his shirt—and not where it stretched across his midsection, but up near the neck. She could see his chest hair poking out and glanced up at his face. There was something stuck in his beard and his hair—which was normally a neat, lovely, chestnut brown—sat like a rusted metal scrub pad on his head. He stared at the road with a perplexed smile.
Marcia looked at her hands and found four broken fingernails and some sort of gunk glistening in her nail beds. She pulled down the visor and inhaled sharply. Where her makeup normally rested, on manicured eyes and lips, there sat colored smears of what looked like ketchup. Or mustard? Or French dressing? She couldn't see the color. And why did her hand smell like butter and old tube socks?
The night flashed through her mind quickly. Dinner. Champagne. Groping Joe. Butter. Fisting. “Last Tango in Paris.” Hiding behind the dumpster. Hiding in the dumpster. And then....
Like a palpable memory, the sex flooded her, her body suddenly a movie screen, her skin playing out their lust. In the dumpster, Marcia had been in a vortex of pleasure and pain, but the pain was pleasure and it all smelled like a middle-school boys' locker room combined with a bakery, and that was good, that was sensual and fine and she never wanted to leave this place, wanted to live there forever with Joe pumping her from behind, with the cold, hard steel at hand's reach and the glow of the security lights illuminating this time, this place, this odor, this fuck.
A swell of anxiety and shame rose up in her, mixed with her raging arousal, and she closed her eyes as she sighed, resting her head against the back of the seat. But she couldn't will this away. Her orgasm in the dumpster had been more intense than the time when the electronic toothbrush had been hoovered all the way in, only there was no vibration, no bristles, no pain, just the feel of Joe and the warmth, the warmth, the omigod! of something new and fresh and butter and rotten bananas and flesh and bagels and the warmth got bigger and then she was wet, so wet, and Joe had screamed through his teeth, his orgasm blending with hers into one big postprandial sex juice bath.
Arousal swept over her yet again, a flush in her groin and that painful, irritating blue clit, an urge that meant she had to come—whether she wanted to or not. She pushed the arousal aside as best she could, cringing.
At home they took separate showers in separate bathrooms and when Joe came to bed he touched Marcia's shoulder. His mouth was open and ready to ask a question. She yawned and said, “Goodnight,” ignoring the obvious tent his erection created in his pajamas. He turned out the light and she hoped he'd go along with her, pretending that what just happened could wait another day to process.
Marcia's entire body pulsated, though, as if each molecule vibrated at a slightly faster speed than the high setting on her electric toothbrush. She had come! She'd never orgasmed during sex before. And that was nothing like any orgasm she'd ever experienced! Normally, it was like a controlled wave that needs to crest and be done, the energy concentrated and then dispersed.
This time her whole body had pushed and groaned and exploded at once. Feeling him move in and out, stroking her insides and slamming against her cervix, the rawness and wholeness of the night above them without filter. She had smelled and felt texture and rot and slime and ick and she liked it. Liked being an animal among the waste and the discards, loved the mixture of her juices and Joe's cock and the coffee and bananas and bagels and how their bodies had compacted the trash with their bends and twists and gyrations and thrusts, like a human composter you'd never find for sale in a Gaiam catalog. How many day-old bagels can I fit on Joe's penis? she wondered.
Blood vessels had swelled and burst and a new plane of existence stretched out before her, standing ready for her to access whenever she wanted with Joe.
Her arms ached to reach for him and celebrate, to be held and to hold, but she was also mortified and so embarrassed she wanted to crawl into a hole and hide. What kind of woman gets off from sex in a dumpster? The sights and sounds and feel of it all came together with the alcohol and the forbiddenness of it, and in the end she turned off the CEO in her mind who constantly ordered her (and Joe) around and became all sense, all flesh, all decomposition and decompensation in the nerve endings between her clit and tailbone.
A smile crossed her lips and she almost rolled over to whisper something, anything, to Joe that might get them to talk about what had happened. She was ready. A faint snore began to build from his side of the bed and her shoulders sank in disappointment. She swallowed the lump in her throat and tried to fall sleep.
Joe woke up to the sound of a faint hum. He looked at the clock: 3:51 a.m. As his brain cleared, he realized he knew the sound. It must be Marcia brushing her teeth in the middle of the night again. Man, was she ruthless about dental hygiene.
Coming Soon
Dumpsterotica: Talk Dirty to Me
by Allie Beck
Like how Marcia and Joe put the “ick” in erotica? Read this excerpt from the next story in this erotic comedy series, Dumpsterotica: Talk Dirty to Me, coming in June 2011:
The head of the toothbrush thrummed and massaged her clitoris like a belt sander on a bedpost. The need was so strong, the pent up orgasm resting in that tiny piece of bulging red flesh, so simple and small, so frustrating and engorged. Nothing would let her catch that wave to ride out the climax.
Normally, thinking about “The X-Files” got her going, but even her fantasies about removing Scully's microchip implant and The Smoking Man punishing them with alien probes didn't cut it.
Her mind controlled her more than ever and it wouldn't let her go. She took out the bottle of lube they used for sex and poured it over the head of her toothbrush, using the bristles now on her clit, hoping the pain would be enough to tip her over. Sometimes, the little CEO in her head who managed everything let go just long enough to give Marcia a break. In the dumpster, the CEO had disappeared.
A smooth hand slid up from her mons over her navel and along the valley between her breasts to find an aching, arched nipple ready to be pinched. So she pinched and rolled and rubbed and ground her hips into the vibrations. Her wrists hurt now, her lower back was killing her, and every thrust and pelvic curve strained for release. How much longer would it take? She'd been at it for at least twenty minutes.
She needed something in her. Where was that dildo? She rummaged behind the big box of Epsom salts and came up empty handed; she knew there was an old baby Jesus dildo someone had given her as a gag gift at her bachelorette party years ago, though she'd never used it. Now it was gone. In a panic, she felt the volcanic rumbling within her grow and knew she'd live in misery with a violent mania for days if she didn't come soon, the hummingbird trapped in her clit now agitated and rioting.
Desperate, Marcia grabbed her curling iron, washed it with alcohol, ran it under water, and then slicked it up. The wet sensation of lube against cold steel and the inflexibility of the metal felt odd at first. At the edge of her vagina, slowly sliding in, she was grateful she only used a one-inch curl. She put her left foot on the toilet to open herself up to take in more. As she made her way through the first six inches of the device and her vaginal walls began to tighten and loosen, moisten and relax, she wished she'd gone for a thicker diameter curl, which was more fashionable anyway. Now we're getting somewhere, she thought, as the stirrings of a wave began.
Managing the curling iron in one hand and the electric toothbrush in the other was like trying to use hand puppets and stuffed animals to explain ethics to investment bankers. No matter how hard she tried, she wouldn't succeed. The curling iron and the toothbrush's battery-operated pleasure didn't match what she'd felt in the dumpster. She'd been all motion and hum, all nerve endings and desire, just a warm wall of pleasure looking for Joe's hard flesh and hands and mouth to take her to a level of existence where there was no separation between thought and touch.
Shifting garbage beneath her hips and knees, the ever-changing odor, the view of the night sky, the complete capitulation of reason, their bodies encased in old bagels and used coffee and smears and juices and spotted bananas peels and—
Nothing worked. Even letting herself travel back a few hours didn't give her that push she needed to get the urgency out. Blood pounded against her arteries and veins, her blood pressure slapping inside her, a pulse so strong the neighbors surely could feel it against the walls of the house. Buh-boom. Buh-boom. Then the blood concentrated in her clit. Buh-boom! Buh-boom!
She threw the useless toothbrush into the toilet where it gurgled and spun, flailing and sputtering without direction, like her first boyfriend's tongue during cunnilingus.
She would have to resort to intercourse with Joe.
Great. Just great.
And just then, Joe opened the bathroom door to find his wife before the wall-sized bathroom mirror completely naked, one foot propped up on the toilet, her curling iron shoved all the way up her snatch with the cord dangling like a black tampon string, toothbrush twitching its electronic death throes in the toilet and spraying water all over Marcia's ass.
Want to know what happens next? The adventures continue with Dumpsterotica: Talk Dirty to Me. Four times the length of the first story and exponentially sexier. Buy it right now on the eReader of your choice.
Learn where and how to download other stories in the series at http://www.dumpsterotica.com.
About the Author
Allie Beck's passion is writing. She knew she wanted to be a writer when she was in second grade and published a poem in her elementary school's newsletter titled: “Kierkegaard's Revenge: Reflections of Nietzsche in Barth's Work.” She came up with the idea for Dumpsterotica after watching two skunks eating a John Edwards campaign poster out of a garbage can. Beck lives in a New England town known as a refugee outpost for accused witches and in her spare time sells Baby Jesus Butt Plugs to raise money for The Westboro Baptist Church. She does not own an electric toothbrush of any kind.
Website: http://dumpsterotica.blogspot.com/
Email: dumpsterotica@gmail.com
Twitter: @Dumpsterotica
Acknowledgements
Cover design by Streetlight Graphics: http://streetlightgraphics.com
The author wishes to thank the two skunks she found chewing on an old John Edwards campaign poster, thus inspiring the entire Dumpsterotica series. You really put the “ick” in erotica, and I am forever grateful. I'll mention you in my Oscar speech for best original screenplay. Promise.