Fuck My Dirty-Hole

"Ah, Julia again," Angus said.

The woman looked at him, confused.

"What?"

"Julia," he replied. "You kept saying, the other night: 'Julia said it'd be a good idea'. Don't you remember?"

He added the question as a fishing exercise, trying to assess how much the blonde could recall.

She looked sheepish, embarrassed, and her eyes slipped away. "Well, it's a bit vague. I remember being determined to get you to come over to our place. I recall making some idiotic comment after I fell into you." She flicked a glance at him as though gauging his thoughts, wondering where she placed on his scale. "After that..." She paused, frowning while she groped for the memory. "After that I was on the sofa, and then ... well, you know, I felt a little ill."

"So it's Julia's fault," he said, grinning. "Her idea and all that."

The blonde returned the grin and nodded. "I'm happy to give her all the blame." Then she glanced at the pizza. "But I'm keeping you from your food. Sorry, I'll leave you to it." A pause and, "I'm really sorry about the other night, too."

"Do you have to go?" His face warmed, he felt foolish, awkward at having thrown the question at her so abruptly. It had sounded so desperate to his own ears, and Angus wondered where it had come from. Spreading his arms in a gesture of helplessness, babbling a little to mask his discomfit, he added, "I mean, there's a lot of pizza there, I don't really fancy taking it home for breakfast, and I don't even know your name..."

April left him, made her excuses to Julia and Co., and then took the seat opposite when she returned. She grimaced when he suggested a drink, talking about a raging hangover from the night of excess and having foregone alcohol from that point on. In the end, however, regardless of her initial protestations April opted for a vodka and coke.

An element of awkwardness existed between them at first, lingering embarrassment on April's part, unspoken shame on his until, a few minutes into their mutual questioning, the circumstances of their first meeting faded from the forefront of their minds.

He listened to an abbreviated life story, a potted history of major events and daily minutiae. The group of four friends belonged to the same aerobics class, Julia being the instructor. They made a point of ten days away each year – "Get away from all the day-to-day crap. Laugh it up. Have fun." April was divorced less than a year, no acrimony – "We just grew apart, changed, drifted." She lived in a flat in Guildford, owned her own boutique in the same affluent town – "Not making millions but doing okay." Two kids – "Twins, one of each. Seventeen and apparently unaffected by us splitting up, thank God!"

The remnants of the ice in her drink tinkled as April finished the vodka and coke. "What about you, Angus? You let me prattle on – what about you?"

He confirmed his origins in the north east of England, which April had already deduced from his accent.

"The name comes from my dad," Angus informed April when she asked. "Scottish."

"I never would have guessed," April teased, smiling."

Angus admitted to a university education, time spent at a local newspaper before finding a niche in travel writing.

"Those articles you see in the in-flight magazines on aeroplanes?" he'd said.

"What's on in Rome, Marrakesh, Mongolia?" answered April, putting on a voice.

Angus laughed and nodded. "No need to make it sound so lah-de-dah," he said. "But, yep, you're spot on."

More drinks followed, both waiting politely for the waiter to deposit her glass and his bottle on the table.

April filled the silence left in the man's wake. "Is that why you're here, Angus? An article about the Algarve?"

He admitted, reluctantly, anticipating what would follow, to working on his book. "Pure self-indulgence. Vanity."

And it came, as he'd expected: THE QUESTION: "What's it about?"

He looked at her, held her stare for a few beats.

"Well ... You know Fifty Shades? You've heard of it? Read it, probably."

Angus paused while April blinked, mouth opening before she seemed to think better of it and clamped her lips together.

There was a pause while she looked at him.

Then she blurted, "You're writing a dirty book!"

"No," he said, laughing at her outburst. Angus threw a quick look around them to see if anyone had heard. "But I don't like talking about the book; people always want to see what I've done. I just said that about Fifty Shades for a laugh."

"You rotten bugger." April slapped the back of Angus's hand, a light tap as she feigned umbrage. "You had me going then. But," April glanced around and lowered her voice, "I could just do with a dirty book right now," she said. Her voice dropped lower, a conspiratorial and very sexy growl. "You know how it is ... The sun, booze..." Her green eyes sparkled, "...A girl getting over her divorce. It's been a while."

All he could do was swallow heavily, eyes going wide. Angus gulped, the heat rising in his face.

April laughed. "Got you, eh?"

"Bloody hell," Angus spluttered. He swigged at the beer. "Priceless." Shaking his head, a wry grin on his face, a little embarrassed at being boxed up so well, he added, "Touché," and raised the bottle in salute.

April smiled back, a smirk of triumph before she leaned over and lifted a slice of pizza from the remaining section on his plate.

"Could you do it though?" April asked before taking a bite.

She chewed as he asked the question. "Do what?"

"Write something racy ... You know ... Erotica."

Angus thought about it while April chewed a second bite of the pizza.

"Well, I suppose that depends," he replied slowly.

"On?"

"It isn't my usual genre..." A pause for more thought, choosing words carefully. "But it would depend on who was reading, the preference of the target audience so to speak."

"You mean you'd need to know what turns the reader on?"

Angus nodded. "Aye, exactly."

He experienced that thrill, the ache and emptiness, neither guts nor gonad when April's voice dropped again. The conversation had taken an unexpected and arousing turn.

"Would you write something for me, Angus?" April murmured.

He gulped again when April leaned in, the dress pulling tighter across her generous bosom.

"What about?" Angus cleared his throat when the question came out of him as a croak. "You'd have to give me a bit of a clue. I'd hate to write something you'd think was pervy. Too over the top."

April leaned back in her chair. She sipped her drink, the half-eaten pizza slice back on the plate. While considering her reply she reached for the small clutch bag she'd hung over the back of her chair. Then, after lighting a cigarette, levelled her gaze at Angus and said, "Try me. Go wild. Write something filthy for me."

Three

He abandoned the book, setting it aside while he considered the new project. Angus sat in front of the laptop and stared at the winking curser, not a word written. The keys mocked him.

Write something filthy she'd said, which was easier said than done. Sitting there bereft of ideas he was reminded of all the times people had commented upon learning of his profession, about how their perceptions of his trade differed from the reality. The popular misconception was he merely had to find a picturesque setting and, thus inspired, simply let the words flow. The truth was, writing was work. He couldn't afford, during the normal course of things, to sit there and wait for inspiration. In his experience the only way to write was to sit down and start. It took discipline.

But this wasn't work, all he had to do was bang out a quick scene of smut – How bloody difficult could it be?

More difficult than he'd imagined, obviously.

Okay, what was holding him back? The answer he decided, eventually, was fear. He was afraid what he wrote might be viewed by April as perverted, too kinky. He had no idea what went on inside April's head, didn't have the first clue about what might turn her on.

Then he recalled what she'd said: "Try me. Go wild".

So he decided to take a chance. He would go for it.

Angus brewed an unprecedented second pot of coffee – two cups in the morning was a self-imposed limit, but he thought that he might need to boost. Then, with the scene forming, Angus began to hit the keys. He started slowly but once he got going, as usual, it got easier. The rhythm built and the scenario developed with little backstory and the merest outline of the characters – This was, after all, a stroke-piece.

He wrote about a voluptuous blonde with a penchant for anal sex. Angus recalled his fantasy about dabbing his tongue into April's anus, and he used the images in his mind of a woman splaying her buttocks, the puckered sphincter a target for a wriggling, squirming, invasive tongue.

Angus described sights and sounds and scents and emotions, all the time holding April in mind.

There was some oral sex: her sucking cock, him lapping at her clit and pussy, and a minimum of straight sex involved, with the female character predictably climaxing on the male character's predictably large penis.

Then, with a little coaxing, the female character went for the idea of taking the big cock in her arse. She agreed to anal, and, so the story went, once she was jammed full of meat, with the cock well-greased with lube wedged in her anus, sphincter stretched around it, she came and came and came.

Angus closed it down just shy of five thousand words, at a point right after the male character squirted his lust into the woman's rectum. He did a quick spell-check, scanned for errors and then, before his nerve gave out, at four in the afternoon he was surprised to realise – he'd worked right through – slid the printed sheets of A4 into an envelope.

He walked out of the gate and along the path to the villa next door.

A statuesque Amazon with lean thighs, long black hair and pneumatic breasts answered his knock.

Julia? Angus wondered.

"This is for April," he mumbled.

"Really?" the Amazon replied with a smirk. "Come in, she's by the pool."

"Ah ... Couldn't you just give it to her?" asked Angus, his nerve failing. He didn't think he could hand the envelope over with the other three looking on.

He was just beginning to think the whole thing was a bad idea when it was too late and the woman plucked the envelope from his fingers. It had suddenly occurred to Angus that April might share the ten sheets of A4 with the other women. His face warmed and he felt a sudden urge to pee.

He was on the cusp of opening his mouth to ask for the return of the envelope when the Amazon nodded. "Okay," she said. "I can do that. Thanks."

And then Angus was looking at the closed front door.

"Shit," he muttered, wondering how much shit he'd just dropped himself in to.

Four

Forty-eight hours since he'd left the envelope with the smirking woman next door. Since then, with foreboding deepening, convinced the girls were having a good laugh at his expense and that they probably thought him a disgusting pervert, Angus hid. He dreaded going out in case April should happen across his path. It was a paradox – he didn't want to see her but was oddly disappointed when a hurried excursion to the market passed without doing so.

Early evening, cooling after another scorching day, and Angus, wearing wore shorts and tee-shirt, was sitting in front of the laptop, battling on with the book while a dull bass beat thumped out from next door. The girls were readying themselves for another night out.

Angus vaguely wondered when they were going to leave – How long did he have to scuttle around avoiding the four of them? It seemed like the party wasn't their swansong after all, and he'd never thought to ask April.

Angus gave it up for the day. The words wouldn't come, resistant, truculent, refusing to flow. Too much on his mind, he assumed.

As the last time, he was just reaching into the fridge for an Amstel when the knock came. His head went up like an antelope at a watering hole when the animal senses danger.

Angus didn't want to open the door, he was afraid of what might confront him, but with great reluctance, anxious in the face of possible humiliation, he sighed and pulled the door open.

It wasn't a happy face; April's expression didn't convey rapture or delight. It looked, to Angus, to be an 'oh shit' moment.

"May I come in?" she asked, straight-faced, possibly hostile.

He pulled a face, a wince in response to the pain he expected would follow before he stepped to one side and, in a voice heavy with foreboding, said, "Okay. Come in. Say what you've got to say..."

Despite his anxiety at April's reaction to the short story, Angus's body responded to the scent wafting in the wake of her passing him at the door. His cock swelled with the beginnings of interest, regardless of the turmoil tumbling his guts like a washing machine on its rinse cycle. She looked good, too, incredible in fact. Her tan was really coming along, a short-hemmed dress in canary yellow clinging to her curves complimenting her skin tone. Angus couldn't resist appreciating the swell of April's buttocks as she moved into the villa, those globes being his muse, the dark pucker of her hidden sphincter the focus for the story. When she halted and turned, her green eyes locked on him, April's dress moulded to those big tits, and Angus's penis, with an instinct all its own, thickened to full tumescence.

The urge, visceral, instinctive, speared his abdomen, desire for April's body surged inside him, hot and imperative.

"Close the door, Angus," she said.

Supressing the sudden compulsion to lunge at April, to rip the dress from her body, Angus swallowed it down and, noticing the small paper bag in April's hand for the first time, offered the blonde a drink.

"Do you have vodka?" she asked. "And coke?"

"Vodka and coke. No problem," he responded, opting for a light, breezily casual tone to mask the turmoil he felt inside.

Angus struggled against the clamour of his hard-on and supressed the ominous sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. He wondered what April had to say, and was a little concerned about the contents of the bag.

"Uh ... Have a seat," he said. Angus gestured to the sofa and saw April glance at the tiles. "All cleaned up," he quipped, his eyes moving to the expanse of thigh when April sat, the hem of the dress riding up her legs. His penis pulsed in response, and then he fled towards the kitchen before he did or said something to exacerbate the awkward situation.

April crossed her legs and smirked and dropped the mysterious parcel onto the floor at the side of the settee.

In the kitchen Angus flapped around, his mind whirling while he poured his guest a drink. He considered just how bad it was. Judging by her face, April hadn't enjoyed the story, but he did wonder why she had bothered to come over to tell him.

A short time later, after lingering in the kitchen to allow his erection time to subside a little, until the damned thing was less obvious, Angus walked back into the living room. April thanked him when he handed her the drink, sipping while Angus stood there nervous and fidgety.

Finally he couldn't stand the suspense. If she was going to berate him, best get it over with.

"You didn't like it." he blurted, a brittle laugh accompanying the question. Angus babbled on in an attempt to justify himself to the silent blonde. "You did say," he chuckled nervously, "to go wild, to write something filthy." A pause while Angus swigged beer from a bottle he'd brought through for himself. "What was it? Too graphic? Cheesy dialogue?" The nervous snigger came out of him again. "The plot? Oh," he cried, manic, hands flailing, "what plot!" Realising he sounded like a psycho, Angus abruptly shut up.

He took another hefty swig from the bottle.

April's question caught Angus by surprise. His mind had been so busy turning things over inside his head, conjuring up ways to make April understand, that he missed it when she spoke.

"Huh?" he responded when he realised. "What?"

Keeping her voice low, April repeated: "Was it me?"

Baffled, Angus replied with, "Was what you?"

"The woman in the story ... Is she me?"

The answer was simple enough in his head, both yes and no, but to explain it to April wasn't so simple. April was the idea, the amorphous entity, the physical embodiment of the blonde in the scene. The character wasn't truly her, more an extended projection, exaggeration. Angus had taken her physical characteristics and a pinch of April's personality and then ballooned that persona to fit his idea.

"Not exactly," Angus replied.

April gulped her drink. "She sounds like me."

Angus heard ice tinkle in the glass and realised April was trembling.

"Blonde," April continued. She squirmed on the sofa, her eyes sliding away from Angus as though embarrassed. "Big boobs," she murmured. "Green bikini and shoes..."

Angus's mouth opened and closed. His arm flapped at his side. "Uh ... Yeah, well..."

"The shoes and bikinis were Julia's idea," April said. "She said it was a sexy look, I thought we looked like a group of prostitutes at a pool party."

Angus didn't respond, he was thinking what a case Julia was. He decided he liked the sound of her.

"Anyway," added April, "was she meant to be me?"

Angus shrugged. "I might have used the idea of you..."

April interrupted: "Did you really think that way about me? What you wrote ... Did you think all those things when you saw me the other day? In the bikini?"

He felt the heat rise in his face at her perspicacity. Angus drained the beer from the bottle. "Another drink?" he asked, grabbing April's glass and getting the hell out of there.

He heard her shoes pecking on the tiles as she followed him into the kitchen.

"Don't run away," she called. "You haven't answered, Angus."

He kept his back to her, embarrassed in the face of April's questions and her stare.

"Tell me," she persisted. "I need to know."

She was relentless, going on and on and on until Angus rounded on her, a lime in one hand, knife in the other.

"Jesus, April," he snapped. "What is it? Are you angry with me because I wrote a scene with a gorgeous blonde? If you must know, yes, I had that picture of you in my head." His cheeks ballooned before he let the air out in one long sigh, head shaking from side-to-side. "You came over here, shitfaced, wearing the bikini and those shoes and I fancied you. You know, I think Julia was right, the shoes and bikini looked good. I mean, on you, they looked really good." Angus gave a half-shrug and pulled a face. "Admittedly," he added, managing a rueful grin, "I did connect the look with the Playboy mansion, but bloody hell, April, it was a sexy look. And suddenly, there you were, spread across the sofa, legs apart ... Jesus, I could see almost all of you ... I'm only human ... I've been busy on the book, concentrating, and then you turn up all boobs and buttocks..."

He slapped the knife onto the counter, the lime bounced on the floor, and Angus ran his fingers through his hair, eyes wild, a look of incredulity smeared across his face.

"Shit," he spat. "You asked me to write something filthy, so that's what I did. What is it about the thing that you don't like? What about it offended you?"

They were on the sofa. He sat there, bare buttocks on the seat, his erection in April's fist while the lady was laid along the cushions with an arm flung over Angus's body. April's dress was hiked up to her waist as she rubbed at her clitoris, her torso hovering over Angus's abdomen.

"I wanted it to be me," April said, her hand working at the root of his cock.

Angus winced and gasped while April cranked at him, his palm sliding from the smooth curve of her hip, the hand moving under the bunched material of the yellow dress, fingertips finding April's bra.