December 24, 2013


Awhile back (no, really, I don't have time to keep track of dates and fancy things like that), I decided I wanted to do the past tense verbs. I mean, you know, "did" them. Basically, my concept was to write a story for each one. (I like setting big old goals for myself.) To this end, I've penned:

Pierced—a romantic BDSM short which you can read for free here.
Pegged—a revenge anal sex tale in Bad Ass.
Cubed—a filthy little stranger sex story from the anthology Cuffed.
Plucked—a femme-domme piece from Smart Ass.
Burned—a BDSM, bi-sexual story. Steal a snippet here.
Peeled—oh, I just finished this one. M/M and hot!
Screwed—we'll return to this in a moment.

I've also written: Broken—better than Broked, right?—which appears in Twisted (out in February from Cleis)—but that doesn't really count.

But back to Screwed. I wrote this over quite a long time, and I missed several collections I was hoping to submit to. In fact, I have no idea really where to put a story like this. So I decided—hey, freebie! It's long. Almost 4K. Let me know what you think...

By Alison Tyler
            Dean missed Danishes.
            Oh, god, how he missed them.
            He stared at the woman across the table from him and he thought about pastry, the flaky type with a fruit filling and a drizzle of pure white icing on the top. Then he thought about something else.
            Mirabelle had a perfect body, all soft curves and creamy skin. She was a pastry chef and wore the scent of desserts in the very air about her, powdered sugar, vanilla, nutmeg, cinnamon. She’d be perfect to fuck, Dean thought. Bend her like a pretzel, pierce her with his cock on a flour-dusted counter.
            It wasn’t that Randi didn’t have a nice body. Dean’s wife worked hard at keeping her tall, lean figure at 14% body fat. She knew the number exactly, dunked herself in a special tub every three months to be sure. She measured her meals on a sophisticated metal scale in the kitchen, making certain she didn’t overeat even by a milligram.
            A fucking milligram.
            Randi was a counselor, specializing in eating disorders. She didn’t seem to get the irony of the way she watched Dean’s physique, eyes narrowed when she caught him “cheating.” So he liked a Danish in the morning with his coffee. Liked snagging a greasy meatball hoagie with the men at the roach coach at lunch. When he’d stood in front of the altar, he hadn’t realized he was vowing to fit in the same-sized tuxedo for better or for worse. His wife insisted he try on the suit every six months, when they changed the smoke alarm batteries—January and June—just to be on the safe side.
            He never told anyone. He felt like a dog on a leash.
            Mirabelle was an angel, with her long straight blonde hair, the color of wheat in a cereal commercial. She had the type of gravity defying breasts that made her look as if she was skimming the surface in a pool. Buoyant. Round. He wanted to peel off her stretchy tank top and reveal the pink nipples he knew must cap those mounds of pale flesh.
            Randi had no breasts to speak of. She was more of board. Nearly five-ten, she had a hard, taut body like a jaguar. He’d admired her speed, her lean lines, when they’d first gotten together. She looked good in her clothes, denim and t-shirts, embroidered hippy styles minus the extra fabric. He’d thought she was one of those relaxed outdoorsy types—she’d fooled him into thinking that—but on closer inspection, she was a health nut, an exercise freak. She didn’t work out because she craved the endorphins. She worked out because if she gained even half a pound, life became unlivable in their small townhouse. She’d stand naked in front of him and demand, “Where? Where is it? I don’t see the fat. Do you?” squeezing herself all over. Trying to pinch an inch. And he’d know this wasn’t the time to try to fuck her. He’d have to assuage her fears. Tell her the scale lied. Tell her maybe she had drunk more water than usual. Ask if she had to pee?
            Then he’d gaze out the window and think of Mirabelle and her luminous skin. She always wore straw sun hats so she didn’t tan. He’d think of her lips—raspberry hued. She liked gloss with a little gold-flecked sparkle. Randi only wore all natural products. He’d appreciated her clean scent when they’d met. But once, when Mirabelle had hugged him, he’d smelled perfume—sandalwood—and he’d almost gotten a hard-on.
            The problem wasn’t that Dean was married. There were cures for that. The problem was that Mirabelle was, and to his best friend. William wasn’t like any old friend. William had gotten Dean his current job, had helped him through the hardest patches in his life when Dean’s choices were a room at the Y or Will’s foldout sofa. William had supported Dean during his lowest times. How could he think of cuckolding him?
            Didn’t matter how. Dean just did. He imagined William going away on a trip, of Mirabelle needing something done around the house, of Randi telling him, “Don’t be such an oaf in front of the TV every night. Don’t eat all those peanuts. Go help Mirabelle put up her screens.” Anything. Something. He deserved Mirabelle. That was the honest truth. Why? Well for one thing he was better looking than William. He looked like a model; everyone said so. And Mirabelle was better looking than Randi. Maybe at the start—before Randi had gotten that strident, shrill edge to her—the girls were comparable. But now Mirabelle was like a lick of sweet cream in an antique silver spoon and Randi was the nutty crunch of good-for-you granola. Nobody chose granola if they didn’t have to.
            Dean missed his Danishes.
            Sometimes, he ate one. He hid it. He’d buy the pastry far from home the way some men buy porn. He wouldn’t crumple the white paper bag and leave it in the wheel well of the truck. He’d get rid of the evidence, every last crumb. But while he ate the treat, he’d imagine Mirabelle sitting next to him in his Ford pick-up, of her watching him pick the frosting off the Danish, licking the icy whiteness from his fingertips.
            Christ, that thought gave him a woody.
            William said something to him, something about the movie they’d just seen, and Dean nodded, trying to keep up. The two couples went out together often, which to Dean was heaven and hell combined. They’d been so happy to connect at first, each feeling like this was right. We’re two attractive couples—same economic level, same interests, we should go out together. People will be jealous of us. At least, that’s how Randi looked at the grouping.
            Now, Randi kicked him under the table. She hated when he zoned out. It was embarrassing. She knew he wasn’t as smart as she was. But his looks made up for his lack of brainpower.
            Of course, Randi believed she was prettier than Mirabelle. What was Mirabelle at the end of the day? Some candy fluff on a stick. Pink cotton cloud of spun sugar. No substance. Now, in her opinion, Randi possessed real beauty. She had the razor-sharp cheekbones women longed for—as long as she was thin enough to show them off. She had the runway body. Mirabelle must be, what, 22% body fat?
            Butter cream, that’s what Dean thought when he looked at Mirabelle. She probably tasted like butter-cream frosting, the kind his mom had made from scratch on holidays. Then he looked at William. The man had a bit of paunch, now, didn’t he? Not doing the endless crunches that Dean put in every morning under the watchful eye of Randi. And that beard. What was William thinking with the shaggy dog look? He wasn’t a surfer boy anymore. He was pushing forty, there was gray in his curls. Mirabelle needed someone more fit, someone who took pride in his appearance. Sure, William had landed Dean his job, but Dean was a hard worker. He would have gotten a job at some point, wouldn’t he?
            He looked at Mirabelle as she darted out her tongue to lick the salt rim from her margarita, and he thought: You should be mine, little girl. You should be mine.

            That night, as Dean and Randi fucked in their by-the-book manner, his mind was off and wandering. Were Mirabelle and William fucking, too, he wondered. What size cock did William have?
            Randi said, “Counter-clockwise circles, Dean. Where’s your head? You know what I like.” He did. Six times this way then a little probing with his pointer, not his middle finger. Get the tip nice and wet with her pussy juices before he stuck it in her ass. And had he cut his nails ahead of time? He better have. She did not like to be scratched. Would he like his pucker scratched with her nail? No, he would not.
            Pucker. He would never say that. He wouldn’t even think it. Mirabelle didn’t have a pucker. She had a rosebud. He could imagine bending her over the bed and pressing his face to the split of her ass, of licking in tiny circles around and around her little hole. He would take all the time in the world, eating her ass, devouring her so that she came on his tongue. He could hear the noises she would make when he took her over the edge, the sultry sounds that she’d let loose, not the seal-barks of Randi’s orgasms.
            And you know what? Dean missed Danishes.

            “Tell me,” Mirabelle begged William. “Tell me again.”
            “You were the prettiest girl there,” William said dutifully as he bounced his wife on his lap.
            “Prettier than Randi?”
            “No contest,” he said, and as he palmed her tits, he knew this was true. Dean had told him what Randi was like behind the scenes. She was one of those girls who thought she was better than everyone. He could never figure out women like that. Didn’t they know how unappealing that air was to men? Why Dean had fallen for that scam, he couldn’t fathom. But then, who was he to talk?
            “You’re always the prettiest thing in the room,” he assured Mirabelle, gently rolling the nubs of her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers.
            And she was. But pretty wasn’t so magical for William anymore. Not now that he knew what it took, the constant compliments, the handholding, the keeping the anxiety at bay. Her first sign of crow’s feet had meant $200 at the beauty store and weeks of watching her stare at her reflection in the magnifying mirror.
            “Prettier than the waitress?” Mirabelle asked as William stroked her pussy.
            “What waitress?” he responded, knowing this was the right answer, but remembering the pert redhead as he said the words.
            “Tell me more,” Mirabelle begged, and William whispered to her. “You’re so beautiful, Mirabelle. You’re so god damn beautiful.”
            And she was.
            But what he’d give for some peace.
            A little peace. A quiet place.
            Mirabelle reached her peak and William sighed, coming to an image of a sandy white seashore with nobody around but him.
            The next time the foursome got together was a barbeque at the beach. Randi was in charge of the food. Randi was always in charge. She made pesto right there on a table in the sand, pounding the basil she grew on their window sill, using a mortar and pestle. She really put her arm into it, and her muscles flexed and danced. Mirabelle relaxed on a checkered blanket. She had on a white bikini that tied in the back and on the sides of her hips, but she stayed beneath the protection of the coral-colored sun umbrella. Dean stared at her body surreptitiously while he played ultimate Frisbee with William.
            If only… if only he’d gotten to Mirabelle first. If only he’d been the one to spot her, to court her, to wind up next to her in bed every night instead of the 2 x 4 he was married to. Randi was turning into a man, all sinew and gristle. Then there was Mirabelle, two scoops of French vanilla melting in a crystal parfait dish.
            The Frisbee would have hit him in the face if William hadn’t called out, “Dude!”
            That was the moment when William first realized what he ought to have caught at the start. Dean was into Mirabelle. He pondered this fact for the remainder of their double date. As Randi chastised Dean for having a second helping of the pasta. As Mirabelle toyed with her hair and batted her lashes, as she giggled whenever Dean told a joke. William’s dark eyes darted back and forth between his best friend and his wife. Randi didn’t seem to notice anything. She was too busy telling Dean that his jokes weren’t funny, that his hair was getting too long in the front, that he’d better go get another blanket from the car, the wind was picking up and she was cold.
            There was something in the air, William thought. He breathed in. Smelled honeysuckles. Thought of paradise.

            At work on Monday, Dean seemed a little distracted. William couldn’t come right out and ask him what was on his mind. They didn’t have a relationship like that. They were buddies, yes, but they were men. Working men. William was the foreman on this job, and Dean was beneath him. But they had lunch together, and they shot the shit the way they always did.
            But different.
            William had convinced himself that nothing was up, that he had imagined something, and yet now, he wasn’t so sure.
            He felt Dean staring at him and he said, “What?” and rubbed his hand over his mouth. Did he have food on his face, cookie crumbs in his beard?
            “Nothing. Nothing,” Dean said, thinking: You get to put your dick in her. Every night. You lucky fucking son of a bitch. He drilled every hole that afternoon thinking of Mirabelle. How he’d like to drill her. How he would take her if he ever had the chance. She’d traced her foot against him under the table on Friday night. She’d shot him look after look on Sunday at the beach. She wanted him. He knew it.
            The drill hummed in his hand.
            He bit his lip, focused on the wood in front of him, and fucked sweet Mirabelle up the ass—all at the same time.

            William was going to put his theory to a test. He set the trap for Mirabelle that night, creating a fictitious consulting job that he knew she’d never bother to check out. She wasn’t that deep. “Two weekends away, that’s all,” he said. “Will you be mad?”
            She had the pout on already. She was so good at the pout. “But, Billy, we have plans.” She stretched his name out in a whine when she was unhappy. Bil-ly. He hated the way that sounded.
            “Sorry, baby. We could use the extra money for something you want…”
            He let it hang out there. The bribe. He could see her calculating—how much could she get? Should she start small and work up or go big and work down.
            “The patio furniture?” she asked tentatively in her coy girly way. He remembered when these tricks worked on him. How hard he’d strived to make her happy, how each goal she set for him was like a Herculean task, one he was desperate to complete.
            “Sure, doll.”
            “And the landscaping?” He’d given in too quickly. She clearly had to push the boundaries.
            “Why not?” he said.
            “Oh, I love you.” She put her arms around his neck and kissed him. She always loved him when he gave her things. He kissed her back and wondered what he’d done.

            Mirabelle couldn’t believe how easy this all was. She fucked a lot of different guys—William never seemed to notice. Now, she was going to get to do his best friend. Score of scores. And there was no worry involved at all. She could tell Dean wanted her. Well, most men wanted her. But she could tell Dean was up at night over her, guessed he jacked off in the shower thinking of her. She was going to fuck him right under Randi’s snooty nose, and she was going to have a landscaped backyard to boot.
            She knew exactly how to put the plan in motion. She called Randi and whined. “We can’t do the beach this weekend.” She’d been perfecting this tone of voice since she childhood. It always worked.
            “Oh, sweetie, why?”
            “Billy’s gotta work. And I don’t feel right having fun while he’s away, poor thing.”
            Randi understood. Mirabelle knew she would. And she knew Randi would tell Dean the whole story. When Dean would show up, that was the only unknown in the equation. Mirabelle made sure to plan a wax job on Friday, so she’d be ready.
            Friday night, Randi said, “I lost two pounds.”
            Dean wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. He studied her expression, hoping for a clue.
            “You know what that means, don’t you?”
            He sucked in his breath, trying to stall. What did it mean? Had this ever happened before?
            “Ice cream!”
            “Are you serious?” He couldn’t believe it. Randi was going to eat ice cream? With him?
            “Will you get us some?”
            “What flavor?”
            “Surprise me.”
            That’s how he ended up at Mirabelle’s.
            He knew he didn’t have much time. Randi would be counting the minutes until she got her hands on the forbidden treat. He felt the same way. He knocked on the front door, and when Mirabelle opened, he didn’t say a word. He couldn’t. She was wearing gingham, the slut. A pink gingham sundress, like a halter style top, with nothing underneath. Her breasts—her perfect sweet breasts—spilled out at the top and the sides. Dean went on his knees on her front porch and pressed his face to her body. “I need…” was all he could say.
            “Not here,” she pulled him to his feet. “The neighbors.”
            She brought him into the house, shut the door, kissed him. It was everything he’d fantasized about, everything he’d ever wanted. Her lips on his lips, her hands on his body. She smelled like sugar, like icing, like Danish. She ran her palms up under his t-shirt and she oohed when she felt his six-pack abs. Suddenly, he was grateful that Randi made him work out.
            “William’s away…”
            “I know,” he said. “Thank god. Thank fucking god.”
            “And Randi?”
            “I’m out getting ice cream.”
            “I’ve got ice cream,” she said, and she took him to the kitchen and showed him a brand-new box. That would save a few minutes. He fucked her on the floor in the kitchen, trying to hold off, trying to make sure she felt something, but unable to be a gentleman about the whole thing. He had to be in her. He had to be doing her. He scrambled to stroke her clit as he came, and he couldn’t tell if she’d gotten off or not. He collapsed on top of her body once he’d come, and she said, “Oh, man, you were hot.”
            He was, wasn’t he?
            “I want more,” he said.
            “You have to go home, Dean.”
            “I want more.” He flipped her over as he spoke. He pushed at her dress, wrinkled and wet now. He wanted to be in her ass. He wanted to at least taste her ass.
            “Tomorrow,” she said. “Make up a reason.”
            “I want to fuck your ass,” he said, and he was hard again as he said the words.
            “Tomorrow,” she promised, and she stood and got out the Neopolitan, and handed him the box.

            A few houses down the block, William sat low in the rental truck. He hadn’t been surprised when Dean had shown up. He hadn’t been shocked to see the way Mirabelle had greeted his buddy.
            So what he was feeling. Sadness? No, not that. But an unknown emotion was definitely twisting inside of him. What was this? He could burst in right now and confront Mirabelle. But why? He went to the hotel he’d booked and he watched TV late into the night, smoking Marlboros even though he’d rented a smoke-free room.

            Randi was waiting with the spoons on the counter. Had they ever had ice cream together? He couldn’t remember. Too little too late. He dipped in with her at the same time, and he saw Mirabelle with every bite.
            They ate in silence. It was like a ritual, except one they’d never shared before. He thought of what he’d just done, and he didn’t feel guilty. Not one bit. His mind was already on the next day.
            To his delight, Dean didn’t even have to make an excuse. Randi said, “William told Mirabelle she could landscape the backyard. She wants you to go over and check out the workload. She’d like to do it right for him as a surprise.”
            The ice cream Randi was gone. Back was the old Randi, who didn’t even ask if Dean minded going to do unpaid work on a weekend. He was so excited, he had to remind himself to act the way he normally would. He bitched, “It’s my day off.”
            “She’s a good friend,” Randi said in that no-argument-from-you-young-man tone. She was like his mother. Scratch that. She was meaner than his mother.
            “Fine,” he said, in the petulant tone he couldn’t help. “Fine.” He stomped into his jeans, his work boots. Made a big-ass production of getting his tools together. Let her know with his actions that he thought she was a cunt. Didn’t even say goodbye when he slammed the screen behind him. But oh. Heaven. He was going to see Mirabelle. He was hard before he got to the truck.
            William opened the door to see Dean balls deep in his wife’s ass. Oh, Dean, he thought. You poor fucking slob. Don’t forget to tell her she’s pretty. Don’t forget to say she’s the star of the show. Don’t stop petting her long blonde hair and kissing her pearly painted toenails.
            Mirabelle’s expression was unbeatable. She had Dean’s cock stuffed up her you-know-where and yet she tried to play hurt, as she always did. “Oh, William…” but her brain couldn’t get her up to speed fast enough. What could she possibly say? I didn’t expect you. That was certainly true. I didn’t mean to… Well, she hadn’t meant to get caught. He’d had inklings in the past, but no real proof. The gardener. The paperboy. The way men in the neighborhood looked at him, same way he was looking at Dean. You poor fucking slob.
            Now he had the proof. He could smell the animal-scent of their fucking in the room. Ass fucking had its own special aroma.
            He shook his head. He gazed from best friend to wife to best friend and he could almost hear the sound of Dean’s dick going limp. Dean tried next, “Listen, man,” William wondered if he was going to pull his cock out of her ass and come try to make amends. Good luck with that. Had Mirabelle’s sphincter tightened or gone all slack?
            William slid his wedding ring off his finger and set it on the nightstand. Right by the bottle of lube. He didn’t say a word to either of them. He didn’t have to. He turned and walked out of the bedroom, down the hall, out of the house. He could hear the sounds of the couple talking—wow, fighting already. They were in for a long, hard ride, weren’t they? Because, oh, what was this? Randi on her way up the path carrying a folding beach chair and a striped canvas bag filled with magazines. She was probably there to tell Dean exactly how to do the backyard job.
            “I thought you were away,” she said, brow furrowed.
            He held the door for Randi without offering any words of explanation other than, “They’re in the back.” He wished he could stay to watch this—to see Randi’s reaction to the situation, but he was done.
            He headed into the pink-streaked afternoon, thinking of a white sand beach and nobody around but him.
            From the back, he might have appeared dejected. Shoulders down. Head low. But from the front, he had the biggest shit-eating grin on his face of all time.
            Because you know what?
            William was free.

So there you have it. A happy little sex story with no home. Merry merry to you and yours! Hope your holidays are divine!


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