ONE HOT SLUT
N. T. Morley

Just getting it shaved is an epic feat. If you’ve never tried to shave one, I don’t think you can even conceive of just how many nooks and crannies they have. If you have tried to shave a pussy, and you’re not with me on the idea that this is a less-than-easy task, then you’re way more coordinated than me, which probably wouldn’t surprise anyone who knows me.

Once I get it shaved, though, it’s pretty fucking awesome: smooth and slick and sensitive. After I finish I lean up against the wall of the shower and spread my legs and get the shower massage down there and rinse…and the warm water feels so fucking good on my pussy that I alternate between that and my fingers for about ten minutes, just kind of touching myself. Not wanking—well, not exactly, though it definitely starts to feel good. My clit feels moderately more sensitive, definitely, but FUCK! It’s really the rest of me that feels totally new and intense and incredible. When I touch my outer lips it’s like they’ve never been touched before. I want your fucking tongue down there. I want you to fucking lick me till I go crazy. I want you to lick me till I come.

Which I might do any second, I realize, if I keep rubbing myself like this.

But that’s just the beginning, really, because my shaved puss is not the first thing you’re going to see when you come through the door. In fact, it might be quite a long while before you do see it, up close and personal at least, because I’ve already decided that as soon as you’re in the door I’m going to get your pants open and suck your cock, which is why the bright red lipstick sits on the sink half opened and glistening; I was experimenting earlier. It’s a deep ruby-red color, the kind a girl wears when she has absolutely no reason to wear it except to make her lips look good gliding up and down a cock, which is why I got kind of wet earlier and decided to shave my puss.

And it’s shaved, and I like it. It’s shaved smooth along with the rest of my body: my slim legs, my dainty pits, everything except the hair on my head—but that, too, is altered. I spent three hours in the salon earlier today. Gone is the straight dark librarian hair I’ve sported since high school; I’d already decided to cut it short, so I figured why not one last fling with it, and if peroxide fries it, c’est la vie. It didn’t get fried; it actually turned out pretty good, the color of pale straw and with about three times the volume it had before. I stand nude in the bathroom and curl and spray and fluff and tease my new platinum blonde mane until it’s the revenge of the ’80s super-starlet. Oh my fucking god, I think, as I look at myself in the mirror. Naked, without makeup, I already look like one hot slut, baby, a seriously hot fucking slut for you. I look like a whore, my hair cascading everywhere and just begging to be grabbed, grabbed hard, and pulled, and my face—Okay, no more thinking about that, I tell myself, taking a deep breath; if I get too worked up I’m never going to bother getting dressed, and when you get here you’ll find me naked on the bed—which I’m sure would be fine, but not at all what I have planned.

What I have planned involves a mesh black garter belt and fishnet stockings. What I have planned involves me wearing a tight, tiny little see-through thong that I wriggle my snatch into and settle onto my hips with the string tugging deep in my ass…but not wearing it, understand, for very long. What I have planned involves six-inch fuck-me heels that I can barely walk on, a push-up bra that turns A-cups into B-cups—look! Cleavage!—and a cheap little black choker I got at Beadland that if I play my cards right you’ll get the message is supposed to look like a dog collar. What I want tonight is for you to rip off this tiny black dress, fucking destroy it with your hands if you want, baby, or just yank it up and use me.

What I have planned involves a great big mop of blonde hair in a teased-out fuck-me ’do that’s about as classy as a truck stop blow job. What I want, tonight, is me black-eyed with eyeliner and thick-lashed with mascara, my lips pouty and bright red gliding up and down on your cock, my ass tucked high up into the air and just begging you to fuck it. You heard me. Listen to me very carefully, honey: you can put it anywhere. Because what I want doesn’t just feature me with cocksucking lips, with a shaved pussy, with tits finally big enough, or kinda looking that way, for you to slide your cock between. I did intimate things with that shower massager, baby. The hot water got me nice and clean, and now I need you to make me dirty again—all over.

Tonight I’m your whore, bought and paid for and you don’t even need to leave a tip. Tonight I’m your tarted-up fucking bimbo, and I want you to use me.

I should say before you get here that none of this was my idea. It started…well, I don’t want to go into too much detail, because I’m honestly not mad or anything. Just kind of hurt.

It started one of those nights you worked extra-late. You know, one of the ones—it’s hard to keep them separate, isn’t it?—when you called me at nine to tell me you’d be home late. You’ve been doing that a lot, baby, and I think I’ve been a good sport about it. But this was a Thursday, baby; our four-year anniversary. I hope the mailman liked his new watch.

I called Jerri and Amy and they had just gotten back from a movie. They came over and we opened off a bottle of wine—yes, that’s where the Paso Robles merlot went. And the Sangiovese. And the last bottle of table red.

I know you were saving that Sangiovese in particular, which is probably why I drank it.

I was kind of broken up about all the extra hours you’ve been working. I got majorly drunk and told them everything. By the end of it I was crying, baby, I was crying pretty hard. Don’t hold it against Jerri and Amy that by the time we made it to the table wine, they thought you were a pretty big asshole. But before that was gone, they’d hatched a plan to make you putty in my hands, and it involved an expensive bleach job and some delicate work with a disposable razor. Jerri’s not as innocent as she looks. In fact, she was the one lobbying for the conclusion that you’re screwing around on me. Amy said she doubted it, but maybe, and I was sure you’re not. There’s no way you could, baby, we’ve shared too much; you just couldn’t do that to me. You just couldn’t.

It’s not just that you’ve been working late. It’s that you haven’t been that interested lately. I mean, it’s been over a year since you started something. I know because I keep a diary. It’s been forever since you grabbed me, forever and a day since you grabbed me and fucked me, forever and forever since you grabbed me by the hair, turned me around, bent me over and spanked me and then fucked me silly. I can’t even remember the last time you fucked me without being asked.

Don’t get me wrong, baby, I’m not looking for attention, really. You know what I’m like; you’ve always known what I’m like. I don’t need flowers; I don’t need candy; I don’t need soft romantic music and scented candles and the lights down low. I don’t even need a kiss, baby. Half the time, I don’t even want one. Any time you want, baby, you know—you have to know, I swear you have to know—that you’re totally entitled to just grab me and do me. Don’t wonder if I’m in the mood. Don’t worry about making me come. Don’t worry whether I’m turned on before you enter me. Don’t worry about whether I’m enjoying myself. I’m telling you, don’t even worry about whether you’re hurting me. Hurt me, baby, fucking hurt me if it gets you going. And I’m not kidding, darling: You…can…put…it…anywhere.

One good thing about this house on Brennan Terrace, it’s got a great bedroom. When we moved here from our loft downtown, on your insistence because we were going to start a family, I was reluctant because it isolated me from all my friends, from Amy and Jerri and all the others. But I liked the house because I liked the bedroom. I liked the sliding door onto the patio right from the boudoir; it felt dirty, luxurious, decadent. I thought it was a sexy bedroom; I couldn’t wait to get a nice big four-poster bed in there and have you fuck me cross-eyed in it. I can’t say you ever have done that, exactly…things got pretty lukewarm right about the time that we moved. But I’m still optimistic; this bedroom is going to see some action yet.

That’s why I’ve gotten the bedroom all ready, turning it into our own little whorehouse/pleasure palace. Brand new sheets, eight-hundred thread count Egyptian cotton, bright red—scarlet like the letter that belongs on my puss. There are candles everywhere—a whole box of thirty votives, scented in musk and sandalwood, and thirty new holders. On the dresser sits a silken cloth under which rest four silicone cocks of steadily increasing size, the largest one big enough to make my eyes water just looking at it—I hope you’ll put that somewhere interesting, baby, I get wet just thinking about it. There’s a vibrator and a black-and-silver pair of nipple clamps, with a shiny silver chain. There’s more lube on the nightstand, and a box of rubber gloves and a half-dozen condoms sitting on top of a big wooden paddle in case you miss the way I’m planning to wiggle my butt against you asking for it. I’ve got porn playing on the twenty-four-inch bedroom TV—dirty stuff, a four-hour DVD of nasty hair-pulling anal threesomes and gangbangs, women being fucked and spanked and double-penetrated, come on their faces, come in their hair, come all over their tits. Dirty, filthy stuff, a DVD it made me kind of wet to buy in that disgusting little sleaze shop downtown by the train station. The volume’s all the way down for now, but I’ll be happy to turn it up when we get started. If you want, baby. If you’d like that. If that would turn you on.

I’m not playing music because soft music would be cheesy, not at all what I want—and loud, pumping, earth-pounding ass-whacking hard-core would drown out your words when you talk dirty to me as you’re fucking me hard from behind. Which I very much want you to do, baby—every dirty fucking word you’ve ever called a girl, do it to me tonight, baby. Slut. Whore. Bitch. Yeah, baby, even that one. Say it while you fuck me. Because I deserve it, I guess, I deserve it because this isn’t the first time.

No, don’t get me wrong, it’s the first time for a lot of this. It’s the first time for the shaving, and the slutty hair, and the candles and all that. But it’s not the first time I’ve dressed up like a slut. It’s not the first time I’ve wanted a man to grab me and fuck me and call me names. It’s not even the first time I’ve wanted it…there. It’s not the first time I’ve told a man that he could put it anywhere.

I know, baby. I know I said I’d never done it. I hadn’t. I hadn’t done plenty of things before the affair happened. It was maybe three months ago. And I could claim it was a mistake—I could claim that if I’d done it just once. Maybe even if it had happened twice. But no…I fucked this guy seven times, baby, seven times and a couple of blow jobs in between. Plus the hand job at the office party and about ten instances of serious phone sex.

If you read my diary it’ll give you every detail of what he did to me and—Oh. My. God. It was fucking amazing. You can read it if you want, baby, you can read in my diary about how good I got fucked. I’ll let you. If you want. But I won’t tell you who he is, even if you ask, even if you demand to know. I won’t tell you, because you might go after him; you might want to hurt him or something, and I wouldn’t want that. Actually, it would be kind of hot, but it wouldn’t be fair. It’s not his fault he fucked me so good. It’s not him you should hate, baby, it’s me. It’s me you should want to hurt. It’s me you should be calling a whore, even if I like it a little too much.

I can’t say I’m proud of it, baby; I’m not proud of cheating on you. The guilt’s been consuming me. But I didn’t know what else to do. He was there, he was hot, and he wanted me. He wanted me bad enough to do things to me I’d never been able to ask for with you.

I think it was a good thing for us, baby, I think I learned about myself. I think it’ll be a net positive, if you can forgive me. If we can get past it. In the long term.

That’s why I’m dressing up for you. I feel like a slut, and I want to be a slut—for you. I’m going to give you everything you ever wanted, and I’ll never cheat on you again. I promise, baby. From now on I’m your slut, your little slutty whore. I’ll do anything, anywhere, any filthy thing your mind can dream up.

When I’m all tarted up like this I can’t figure out where to sit. I finally perch on the kitchen stool, because if I sit on the couch the dress instantly climbs up my thighs until it is far from decent. I’ve got the windows open and the curtains closed, fans going so it’s nice and chilly; my nipples should be hard, and besides if it gets even a little warm in here I’m going to start sweating before I’m supposed to. I’m seriously hoping our creepy landlord Bill doesn’t pull one of his midnight garbage-rummaging trips looking for recycling, because what he’ll find is more empty disposable enema bottles than any midsized city has use for in a decade, and if he spots me dressed up like this he’s going to have very little question who’s the culprit.

It’s six o’clock, time for you to be home. When you don’t show I get nervous; I change my thong, which is wet and feels clammy, and I fix my makeup and work on my hair a little. At six-thirty I pour myself a glass of wine. At seven I pour another, telling myself there’s no reason to be pissed. You’ve simply forgotten. You’ve simply forgotten what I said this morning: “Be home on time. I’ve got a surprise for you.” You’ve forgotten, and that’s far from a hanging offense. I kick off my high heels, pour another glass of wine, and try to relax.

I’m on glass number four when the phone rings; I pick it up already knowing.

“Hi, baby,” you say quickly, almost blurting it. “I’m sorry, baby, I have to stay late again. Tom has this problem with the Madrid project…”

Do you even remember? Even now, do you remember that I said I had a surprise for you? Have you forgotten my words entirely, or do you just not care?

Either way, I’d forgive you, baby. I’d forgive you, because you work hard, you provide for me, you’re a good husband. Either way, I’d let it slide…if it wasn’t for the laugh.

It’s off in the distance—a feminine giggle, and the first start of a sentence. Coming out of the bathroom, probably, showering clean after she fucked you silly. Coming out of the bathroom and giggling to you how she’s going to fuck you silly all over again.

But don’t get me wrong, baby, it’s you who tips me off. Because it could be a female coworker, stuck late at the office, coming by your desk and giggling for any reason. Any reason at all.

But if that was the explanation, you wouldn’t cover the phone and make a hissing sound. And I wouldn’t hear, distantly, a cruel hot whisper that sounds like “Sorry.”

“Baby? Are you mad?” You ask me the question with guilt in your voice. I answer with a casual laugh.

“No, baby, of course not. You’ve got to work. It’s no problem.” I take a deep breath, because I’ve got to fight back the tears, but by the time I let the breath out I’m not feeling like crying anymore.

I say it before I know I’m saying it: “I’m going to go ahead and go out, then,” I tell you. Now that the words are out, I can’t stop—I just talk. “Amy and Jerri are catching a movie. I don’t think it’s over until after midnight. Maybe I’ll even crash at Jerri’s place, is that okay with you, baby? It’s just such a long drive back from downtown that late.” My voice has gotten terrifyingly even, the hint of cruelty in it doubtless undetectable to anyone except me, the slut of Brennan Terrace. I can feel the energy humming in my body, the swirling sensations of wine, the empty ache in my pussy that begs to be filled, the clean tight feel in my ass that says tonight I’ll do anything—anything—and come home soiled and savaged, and never light candles for you again.

You sound distracted, baby. “No problem,” you say absently. You even make a little sighing noise, covering it and pretending it’s a yawn. Is she sucking your dick, asshole? Is she fucking down on her knees with her lips working up and down on your cock, the way I was going to be? Probably.

“See you tomorrow, then,” you say.

“Goodnight, baby,” I tell you.

You hang up with a sharp intake of breath—yeah, she’s sucking your cock, or doing something equally nasty to you. Something I would have done, if you’d bothered to come home on time one fucking night.

Unsteady and slightly drunk, I pad into the bedroom in my fishnet-stockinged feet. I go around the room blowing out candles. In the slanted light from the hallway, I retrieve the condoms and lube, and put them in my purse. On second thought, I go back in and get the nipple clamps.

I leave everything else intact, just in case you were wondering. Not that you’ll care, baby, not that you’ll care. But then I’m not sure I care, either; I’m not the kind of girl who does care, anymore. I’m one hot slut, baby, I’ve made myself one hot slut for you, and you’re not here to see it. I’m the slut of Brennan Terrace, baby—and you can fuck yourself.