Fuck My Dirty-Hole

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One for the Anal category with this submission. Nothing autobiographical in it despite some of the content. I noticed I needed to add one to the Anal category for Lit’s survivor contest, so here it is. Fairly short at 11k words. I hope you enjoy it, but would I appreciate feedback either way.

Please forgive any errors in the text. I’ve gone over it a few times but, as usual, I’ve probably missed something. In fact I could do with a beta reader, if anyone wants to volunteer. Send a PM or drop an email if you’d like a preview of stuff before it goes to Lit – a whole raft of categories are available, not just bottom-sex.

Anyway, here’s the scene.

GA – Benissa, Spain – 7th November 2013.


He heard the sound of breaking glass, and then there were some shrieks, female shouts followed by a splash, something going into the water. It sounded like murder.

Angus sighed. As if the music wasn’t bad enough, a distraction he could do without, the raucous goings on seemed to be cranking up a gear. Someone had dropped a glass – and what kind of idiots used glasses at a pool party? Plastic cups had to be the common sense choice. Now they were bombing into the water. It sounded hilarious, like they were having a great time. But Angus wondered if there would be any casualties. Booze and swimming pools didn’t mix well, and they had broken glass to deal with, too.

He sighed again, resigned to the fact that work was in hiatus, and pushed away from the desk. The chair casters slid smooth and easy over the tiled floor as Angus rolled back. He rose and leaned forward to hit the save icon on the screen while more yelps and splashes reached him.

General sounds of hilarity, people having a good time.

Despite his frustration at being disturbed, he was trying to work, Angus realised it was his own fault for hiring the place in the middle of the summer season. A resort location? Of course the adjacent villa was going to be booked as well.

He’d seen four of them in the place next door, and he thought he had them pegged: late thirties, early forties, a girls’ holiday. No husband, no kids, no inhibitions. They were there for fun, not necessarily looking for any strange, but they would doll themselves up, wear clothes they wouldn’t have the nerve to wear at home, drink too much, flirt, and perhaps one of them would be cajoled, after a few glasses and a dare, into giving a blow-job to a waiter or taxi-driver. Maybe one of them would let herself get picked up by a young studly at the disco, doing the walk of shame the next morning, dropped off by taxi in last night’s clothes, hair straggly, no make-up, reeking of sex. Angus didn’t think they were a bunch of slappers, but things happened on holidays.

He had the smaller place next door, got it because it was cheap. A good idea at the time.

Angus pondered the reason for the party, considering the possibility that the four women might be heading home soon, that their celebration might also constitute a wake of sorts, a final farewell to a few days in the sun. The thought occurred to him that the next transient tenants next door might not be as quiet as the girls had been. Apart from the current blip Angus had hardly known they were there. He wondered how the rest of the season might affect his output.

It was his routine to rise early and set to work after brewing coffee and a munching a breakfast croissant. He would go at it for a couple of hours, until mid-morning. Then it was shower time followed by a constitutional walk along the beach promenade. Then home via the market for supplies. Lunch would be bread and cheese, or sometimes sliced vegetables: carrot, cucumber and pepper, with a humus dip. The meal might, more usually than not, be accompanied by a glass of red wine. In the afternoon was siesta, then a wake-up shower and back to work until seven thirty. Evening saw a change of clothes and out for a solitary meal at one of the ubiquitous eateries, a carafe of the red or a couple of beers. Early to bed. No distractions.

And repeat for three months, until the work was finished.

He was five weeks into it when they’d moved into the villa next door.

With the noise proving too much for concentration he called it a day. Angus was ahead of it anyway, in front of the deadline by a good few days, so an early knock-off wasn’t completely unwelcome.

Which is why he was at the fridge, just reaching in for an Amstel when the knock came.

When he opened the door he blinked, surprised by a distractingly voluptuous blonde in a lime-green bikini. His eyes went straight to the crease of her cleavage, his attention drawn by a small pendant nestling comfortably in the crevice.

After a quick glance at the rounded flanks of the woman’s breasts Angus saw she was at that stage where drink had made her a little unsteady on her feet.

She leaned straight-armed against the door jamb, offered a sloppy smile and greeted him with an over-familiar, “Hi!”

Her mistake was to use the hand that had supported her to indicate the Demetevler Escort party next door. There was a jerk of her arm as she threw a thumb over her shoulder, an action that overwhelmed her tenuous sense of balance and had her reeling backwards. Her arms flailed and the blonde tottered, looked to be going over the steps behind her until, somehow, her windmilling arms saved her. Then she stumbled forwards into Angus.

His arms were suddenly full of her, her breasts against his chest, hair in his face, skin under his palms. Her scent was in his nostrils, her body ripe, soft where it was meant to be soft, firm where it was meant to be firm.

“Whoopise!” the blonde giggled. Then she quipped, “You’re a fast worker.”

Angus heard the slur in the sibilants and wondered just how much she’d had to drink.

The woman blinked and squinted, attempting to focus as she continued her joke. “You could at least offer me a drink before you lunge.”

His hands moved to the rack of her ribs, thumbs just beneath the well-filled bikini bra. Angus righted her, eased her upright until he was sure she could stay on her feet, and stepped back.

The woman chuckled and shook her head. She raised a vague hand on an uncoordinated arm and gave an airy wave.

“We’re having a party…” There was a pause of a beat or two as she blinked and swayed and dug deep for her next utterance. “Next door,” she added, which was an unnecessary addendum in his view.

Angus supressed the urge to say, “No shit, Sherlock,” and there was another pause while she squinted again, this time closing one eye.

“We’ve seen you around,” she informed him. “Seen you at the market and out at night.” The blonde nodded, over-emphatic in the manner of the inebriated. “On your own … Are you on your own?” Without waiting for a reply she ploughed on with: “I said we should invite you … To our party … Julia said it was a good idea.”

She lurched backwards and grabbed for the door frame.

Clutching the vertical, she muttered to herself, “God, I am so fucking pissed.”

Angus reached for her arm, fingers closing around a wrist before she keeled over onto her backside and did herself an injury.

He debated with himself for a moment, an internal wrangling as he decided the best and most appropriate course of action.

“Come in,” he offered. “I’ll get you some water. Sit down for a sec.”

Angus disliked drunks, couldn’t handle them, always seemed to say the wrong thing so they got the arse and came over all belligerent. But he didn’t want to take responsibility for walking the woman back to her own villa – What if the daft cow slipped and fell? There was all that skin on display, too much bare flesh. He was bound to put his hands on some inappropriate part of her if she did fall – And where would that lead? Yeah, a cry for help; accusations he’d molested her; a crowd; a boozed up mob; police.

On the other hand it probably wasn’t too clever inviting her in, might have been best to tender a polite no thanks and shut the door in her face.

But suddenly it was too late, she’d lurched inside, past him, shoes on the tiles before he could change his mind about inviting her in.

Angus performed a double-take, a comedic, what the fuck? when he heard the peck-peck-peck of heels on tiles. It would have been funny if anyone had witnessed the look that asked what the hell was she doing in shoes like that wearing only a bikini?

Okay, it was an arousing combination, associations with Playboy bunnies and old-fashioned beauty pageants, provocative, vaguely erotic and not quite, in his view, on the decent side of propriety. Not in these enlightened times, anyway.

Still, she looked good dressed, or more accurately undressed, the way she was. And she’d said they were having a party, a girl had to wear nice shoes to a party.

Despite his aversion in dealing with drunks, confused by her appearing at his door, flustered at her dishabille, he followed the woman into the villa.

The blonde charted an unsteady course towards the sofa, erratic, disjointed, with a step to the side for every two steps forward.

Angus blinked at the sight of round buttocks barely covered by green bikini briefs, his eyes drawn to the ripe, feminine shape of her. He registered an impression that she wasn’t the skinniest of women, but appreciated the way she was put together. Angus didn’t mind a little spare flesh on a lady, and to his mind the blonde looked good because of it. She was lush and proportioned, large breasts counter-balanced by a bottom made for spanking, caressing, nibbling. Take your pick or opt for all three.

He swallowed, gulping down the sudden thoughts of his hands on her skin, lascivious imaginings of the blonde squirming in an embrace that featured hot breath, much swirling of tongues and his hard-on in her fist.

Her voice broke into his reverie, short sentences to match an attention span influenced by booze.

“There’s a few people at the party. Otele gelen escort But it’s the four of us and mostly couples. There aren’t any single men…” The woman slumped into the settee, ungainly, limbs sprawled. “Well, no good-looking men,” she added with a leer. “S’why I thought we’d ask you … Julia said it’d be a good idea.”

Nonplussed by her forthright manner and his own sudden erection, Angus mumbled about a glass of water and scuttled off to the kitchen.

When he returned with water in a plastic beaker, cock rearranged inside his shorts, its profile less visible, the woman was out of it, slumped on the sofa, asleep or unconscious. He hoped she wasn’t dead.

Angus looked down at her and saw, in his considered opinion, decent legs. He surveyed smooth calves, tanned thighs and, due to the careless slump and sprawled limbs, bikini briefs stretched tight over a plump pudendum, the crease clearly outlined. Breath hissed in through his nose before he exhaled heavily, a long sigh while his eyes moved up over her soft tummy, his appraisal coming to rest on the globes of her breasts and the tiny pendant between.

Standing there he decided he most definitely fancied her, would love to kneel between her shoes and stroke those thighs. Looking at her face and seeing her eyes closed he recalled the colour of them: a pale green, albeit glazed and a little bloodshot. He imagined her regarding him through sober eyes heavy-lidded with desire, her legs opening to expose herself to his gaze. In his mind he watched as she slowly pulled the string to slip the bow tied at the nape of her neck, the bikini top falling away, those jugs swinging free, unfettered.

“Fuck,” Angus muttered, taking an unconscious swig at the water he’d fetched for her.

His cock was hard, stiff and insistent. His mind worked through a fantasy –

Her lips around his cock-head, eyes turned up to watch his face while he looked down at her. The bulge in her cheek, as his hips moved, spasmodic jerks he couldn’t control, the need to fuck, a primal urge that drove him into the woman’s mouth.

The blonde – ripe, naked, alluring – kneeling on the cushions, one arm supporting her as she leaned her weight on the upright back of the sofa, the other arm reaching back.

Fingertips, pearlescent nails immaculate, splaying her flesh to expose pouting labia, thick, meaty lips dangling, the stain of her sphincter a dark and taboo smudge.

Her groan as he dabbed at the roundel of her anus, the dark chuckle coming out of her in appreciation.

Her voice: Lick it. Lick my arse. You filthy bastard.

Another moan, her head lolling while he crouched, his cock huge, pre-cum oozing from the slit in the dome of it, him unable to touch his dick because both hands were needed to hold her open while his tongue wriggled into the forbidden dark.

The taste of her, piquant, an exotic taboo.

Again, her voice: That’s so fucking nasty. You, licking me there. Oh fuck … I can feel you squirming back there. So deep … So fucking deep…

Him rising to his feet, his erection, bigger than he’d ever known, so stiff in his fist, his hand working, cranking at it as he moved closer to her. The dome nudging her sex, her pussy opening, the spongy softness of her yielding as he slid in, balls deep, the grunt bursting from her chest.

They fucked, the sound of them rutting a wet and juicy squelch, her insides tight and clenching. She moaned and sighed and muttered obscenities.

– Then his head cleared and the images evaporated. He was horrified to discover he’d placed the beaker on the low table in front of the sofa and was next to her, sitting on the two-seater with his hand on the blonde’s leg. Her thigh was right there under his palm, his fingertips close to the bulge of her mons.

God, he was stiff.

The yearning to touch her pussy was a dull ache, an empty hollowness, a simultaneous and conflicting feeling, a deep and visceral need in that nebulous, indefinable place, neither gut nor gonad, a gland of insanity that seeped madness into him.

He succumbed to the compulsion, allowed his forefinger, just the tip, to slide along the vertical crease so obviously defined along the gusset of her bikini briefs. His free hand caressed the pliant swell of one breast.

When she shifted and moaned Angus leapt back as though scalded, gasping with the shock and an arterial burst of adrenalin as his heart beat quickly in response, an urgent lub-lub bouncing in his chest.

Her eyes opened, heavy-lidded and bleary as she blinked in confusion.

“What?” she mumbled.

Struggling upright she sucked a deep breath in through her nose and slowly shook her head. Her hazy gaze settled on him.

“You,” she said, her meaning unclear to Angus as she pointed a finger at him.

Obviously the blonde hadn’t been as out of it as he’d thought. Filled with remorse and dread Angus waited for the explosion.

The tip of the finger she pointed described erratic Balgat Escort circles. The blonde blinked again, swallowed.

“You should come to our party. Julia said it’d be a good idea.”

Angus was on his feet, relief flooding through him. He relaxed – she wasn’t aware of his transgression. Then the guilt hit him again. Deeply ashamed at having actually laid his hands on her, Angus stood there, gaping, unable to utter a word.

“You should come,” the blonde insisted, “to our party.”

Then, with a wet hiccup, eyes opening wide, she jack-knifed at the waist and spewed a huge volume of liquid and undigested food onto the floor.


At half-past eight in the evening it had cooled enough for Angus to replace shorts with a pair of lightweight cargo pants before he went in search of food. He found a nearby eatery he hadn’t visited before and nabbed a good table, and then sat with a cold San Miguel on the paper tablecloth, the condensation that sweated from the glass darkening the cheap, easily replaced cover. The longer the beer sat there, the larger the area of the stain in front of him, but Angus ignored the damp patch and watched the world go by. From his position facing the road, during the wait between placing his order and the pizza’s arrival, he could sip beer and people-watch, observe the passers-by and make an occasional note in the Moleskine he habitually carried.

He heard them before he saw them, four women passing by in a gaggle, all chatter, clattering heels and a waft of perfume. Obscured from view as he was Angus watched could watch, surreptitious in his observations, partially hidden by an elaborate fern and a criss-cross lattice screen. Angus took the opportunity to get a good long look at the women, an appreciative eye on his tanned, confident neighbours out for the evening.

From where he sat, the blonde didn’t see him, and Angus was paradoxically relieved and disappointed. It had been three days since she’d yacked all over the floor and then, abruptly lucid, those green eyes wide with horror, she had apologised and pitched headlong out of the villa.

The clean-up, while distasteful, was simple. A mop, a bucket and disinfectant were in the kitchen, and while he set to the malodorous task his mind was filled more with his transgression than concern about the mess.

Angus had mopped up, reliving the moment, appalled he’d been capable of an act of molestation. He was thinking about it again in the restaurant, reminded of his guilt by the passing by of the blonde when two things happened at the same time: his pizza arrived, and the woman herself approached his table.

“Oh,” she began when the waiter left. “You’re angry at me.”

It occurred to Angus the blonde had read the surprise in his face as irritation, and her misreading of his mood coupled with his own guilt spurred him into blurting, “Angry? No … Oh, no, not at all.”

Horrified and ashamed, and a little concerned that she could recall any details of the short duration she’d spent slumped on his sofa would be closer to it. But of course Angus wasn’t going to reveal anything incriminating. He floundered for inspiration, caught by surprise at her sudden appearance.

His eyes moved over the beer and pizza and he stood up, babbling an invitation. “Please … I’m sorry, where are my manners, won’t you sit down?”

They stood there, looking at each other across the table, him flustered while doubt creased the woman’s forehead.

Angus registered on a vague level that the woman was looking good. She wore a white dress, shortish, the hem at a very pleasing point on tanned her thighs. It clung in the right places, flattering and showing off her curves in such a way that men would take a second, appreciative look. When the blonde cast a look over her shoulder he saw it was a backless design, just three bootlace straps and a low scoop almost to her buttocks. Her hair was a shaggy pile held in place with a long clasp, a loose and messy arrangement that she’d probably spent an age perfecting in front of a mirror.

She blinked those green eyes that had bewitched Angus once before, pouted uncertainly and pointed towards the street behind her. “Well, my friends…”

Angus felt keen disappointment. “Oh, right, yeah,” he said.

Then, at his tone, the woman threw another look over her shoulder. She chewed her bottom lip, saying, “I came back to apologise.” She sighed and rolled her eyes, obviously embarrassed. “For the other night,” she added. “God, what an idiot.” Her hands came up to cover her face, shutters like she was playing peek-a-boo. The shutters opened and she regarded him for a few beats, arms then falling to her sides. “I’m not like that usually. I don’t normally get so … so out of control.”

“Well,” Angus said, stepping neatly in to fill the silence that followed. “You’re on holiday, right?” He shrugged and pursed his lips, forming a moue intended to convey understanding. “It was a party, you had a couple too many. It happens.”

“But spewing all over the place … And then just running off…” She let out a sigh. “Anyway, Julia saw you sitting here … I’ve been trying to find the courage to go over to your place to apologise but I was just too embarrassed … She saw you and said you were here and I just thought to hell with it … So, here I am.” An awkward pause followed by another shrug. “Okay, well … uhm … sorry.”

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