Message-ID: <22014asstr$946350601@assm.asstr-mirror.org> X-Original-Path: not-for-mail From: "Erin Halfelven (Joyce Melton)" Subject: {ASSM} Dirty and Dangerous by Erin Halfelven [nc rape reluc MF FF anal] Reply-To: Joyce@qnez.com X-Original-Message-ID: <8gvf6sopdne8smqk6kbum1tpharr99u892@4ax.com> MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 615 NNTP-Posting-Date: Mon, 27 Dec 1999 16:06:37 PST Date: Mon, 27 Dec 1999 22:10:01 -0500 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation X-Story-Submission: X-Moderator-ID: dennyw, IceAltar Copyright 1998 by Erin Halfelven. All rights reserved. Email Erin@qnez.com website at http://www.naughtywords.com This story is mostly true. Names and dates and places have been changed and the drama improved, but the rape in the story happened to me. Thanks to Mat for helping me get this one out. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Dirty and Dangerous by Erin Halfelven I parked under the shade of the sycamore tree and checked my appearance in the side mirror. Hair, eyes and lips looked fine, good enough for visiting an old friend. I wondered if I were procrastinating about going in. I didn't want Anna to come outside and see me just sitting there so I got out of the car and made my way up the walk to the little bungalow-style house where Anna lived with her husband these days. Husband. That still sounded strange. Anna and I had been lovers a few years ago but I hadn't seen her in several months. She had called to ask me to come and visit her and I had driven up from Newport Beach to the little desert town where she had been born and raised. I knocked on the door and Anna answered, her dark hair falling around her face, her pregnant belly swelling inside a bright turquoise blouse. I must have stared. "Didn't I tell you I was pregnant again?" she asked. Laughing in her little girl, gotcha! chortle she pulled me inside. I remembered the Spanish for pregnant, "embarrasado." It has the same root as embarrass, both from a Latin word for carrying a burden. We hugged and called each other pet names in English and Spanish. Her tummy felt like a ripe plum, tight-skinned and fruitful. "I will always love you," I said in my broken Spanish. She looked so beautiful, so happy and I wanted her to be happy. Why were we both crying? I remembered how it had begun to happen, that night more than two years ago when I realized that Anna would leave me for a man. *** I held no grudge against men, still don't. I've always liked men as friends, in fact I have a few more male friends than female friends. Several of my female friends are ex-lovers although most of them aren't really bi or lesbian or whatever; just experimental. Almost all of my friends in high school were boys. I wasn't a tom boy or anything; my friends were mostly quiet, scholarly types, nerds in the modern vernacular. Most of the girlfriends I had were so into boys it was hard to have a conversation with them about anything else. Well, maybe clothes. With the boys, I could talk about chess or art or books or just about anything. Except sex. See the problem of having sex with boys, or men later, was that it felt wrong. Dirty, dangerous and likely to get me in trouble, at least with my folks if not literally, or cause problems with a guy I just wanted to be friends with. So, I had to decide that I wanted to try it. Found out I liked it. Liked getting a big, old hard prick shoved way up inside me. Liked making love to someone who was hairy where I was smooth and had hard muscles and was lots stronger than me. Liked exploring around a stiff dick with my hands and later my tongue while he played with my tits or my pussy. Liked the feeling of being fucked. Discovered my passive self, if you like. Another problem with guys as lovers is so many of them are so bad at it. I got lucky my first few times so I know it doesn't have to be that way. But some men are just better lovers than others, some know how and some don't. Making love is mostly a matter of caring about your partner's pleasure and I really believe that more women are good at caring than are most men. But I guess Anna never really felt comfortable having a female lover. She'd never been with a woman before she met me except for some experimentation during high school. Almost everybody does that. Our time together had seemed short enough, less than four months. I felt the end getting nearer when she insisted on going to a particular party because of a guy she had met while visiting her mother. "We'll just go in and I'll talk to this boy," she promised. She always spoke of "boys" and "girls" rather than "men" and "women." Maybe because she was a hairdresser; maybe her thirtieth birthday just a bit more than a year away scared her a little. She snuggled against me, her slenderness spooned into my ampleness. I buried my face in her dark hair and listened while she planned our breakup. Lying there in the darkness of my little apartment, Anna begged me to come with her to this party. "I'll feel safer, you'll keep me from doing anything foolish." She might feel safer but I wouldn't. My two previous lovers had both left me to live with men. They both wanted to get married, get pregnant, have kids, do the suburban thing. I wouldn't have minded getting married if it were legal or even the rest if it were possible but of course it wasn't. So I walked away, smiling, when the time came to do so. I'm still good friends with Julie and Sue; Sue's kids even call me Aunt Ellie. Life is complicated. I felt sure that Anna would soon become my latest ex-lover. I kissed her neck there in the darkness and she turned to put us face to face, breast to breast. We made love in the way I had taught her with the quick heat and slow passion of postponed good-byes. Her dark bush never seemed softer, her lips never sweeter, her scent never more dear. I seldom make noise but I moaned as her tongue brought me to a first climax. And I cried silently as I helped her toward her peak, my tears mingling with the dampness between her legs. Careful effort has its rewards, Anna and I had become very knowledgeable in how to bring each other to the heights and how to join our pleasure and prolong the sweet release. We slept, finally, limbs entangled, lives askew. I felt certain that Anna would be leaving soon. I didn't want to cooperate but I knew I would. Just like when we went shopping and Anna stole little things. I wanted to protest, shoplifting made me really uncomfortable but I never said anything. I caused distractions when she asked me to, I even wore some of the things she stole for me. "Bad Girls Go Everywhere" read the bumper sticker she swiped from the L.A. County Fair and placed on my car. I loved my "Bad Girl" and did not want to lose her but I never could say no to a lover's wish. Finally, reluctantly, I agreed to go to the party in the little desert town where Anna grew up. I knew she would dress to kill, she always did, so I planned on wearing a puffy pink blouse, deeply cut, and a short denim skirt with high-heel sandals to show off my legs. They look fat to me, but I know I get lots more compliments on them than on my rather harsh Native American face. When we got ready that night, Anna surprised me by choosing a somewhat conservative dress in a lively shade of plum. Conservative, but with a short skirt. It suited her, emphasizing her slender Hispanic youthfulness, her dark good looks. She fussed with our hair for nearly an hour, guaranteeing that we would be late. She made me wash my face and helped me do a stunning job on my make up. Nothing garish or Hollywood but I knew I would probably be getting a lot of attention from guys. "Will I be the only person there speaking bad Spanish?" I asked while she worked on her own face. She only laughed, she and her friends always laughed when I complained about my poor Spanish. Sometimes they mimicked my accent or word choice but I didn't really mind. Part of it was that I spoke textbook Spanish, though badly and they spoke "de la frontera," border Spanish. The difference was like that between Buckingham Palace and lower Manhattan. My Spanish had certainly improved and become more idiomatic since I had known Anna and mostly because of her teasing. When she was ready, I kissed her gently. She fussed and reapplied her lipstick and we left. She drove through the mountains into the October heat of the Southern California desert evening. We found the party in a two story farmhouse on the edge of town. Salsa-flavored rock music poured out of the windows into the darkness. We were more than two hours late, the party in full swing, not that it really mattered. Anna disappeared minutes after we arrived while I was distracted dancing with an assortment of Hispanic admirers. I felt awkward, out of place; in my heels taller than most of them and probably sounding a little retarded with my schoolgirl Spanish. I heard them talking about "la guera alta," the tall blonde, my legs got a lot of attention and one short man I danced with rested his head on my breast. When I noticed that Anna was gone, I determined to enjoy myself. I danced with more men. Men outnumbered women by about three to one and I had all the partners I could want. I drank a lot of beer, more than I usually drank in a month and soon felt the need to get rid of some liquid. One girl directed me to the bathroom at the top of a steep flight of narrow stairs. The whole house being in semi-darkness, I tripped coming back down and I fell, head downstairs and legs upstairs, skirt hiked nearly to my waist, chin and cheek smudged against a lower step. Quicker than you can say, "Are you all right?" some guy rushed down the stairs, spread my legs further apart and slipped me the cold hot dog. He had to pull down my pantyhose but not my panties, he just sort of bypassed them. "I've been raped," I thought. I looked around and he was gone. I was so drunk I started laughing. It hurt but it hadn't felt anything like I had expected a rape to feel like. My pussy felt bruised, even scraped, but my hands and knees hurt more, just from the fall. I must have been a little wet from the dancing or it would have felt much worse. I was so drunk I almost decided that I had imagined it but there's no mistaking the feel of cum dripping down your leg when you stand up. I went back to the bathroom and cleaned myself up and threw away the pantyhose. They were ruined, first from the fall then from being forcibly stretched out of shape. I had to take off my high-heeled sandals to remove the hose. I looked at myself in the mirror. I looked fine. It surprised me not to see tears. I felt like I ought to be crying; I'd been raped for God's sake. The one bare bulb in the bathroom hung on a cord from the high ceiling, the world's most unflattering light but the party girl in the mirror smiled at me, her blonde hair un-mussed, her makeup still fresh. I put my shoes back on and went looking for Anna. I found her in a downstairs bedroom with the guy I knew must be the one she had talked about. They lay together on a pallet in the corner of the room, Anna's plum dress carelessly flung across the bed, her lavender panties and bra partly concealed by his dark body. I stared at them. "Wait," Anna begged me. So I waited, in the darkened room while she and her male lover had slow, quiet sex on the pallet in the corner. I sat on the bed and watched them for awhile. The man smiled at me, now and then, his white teeth flashing in his dark Indian face but her back was mostly to me. I watched her legs scissor open as she took him inside her and I drank another beer and shivered and finally cried a little but I didn't think I made much noise. Jaime, the man, got up and left the room, saying he had to piss. Anna asked me if I wanted to leave. Leave, I wondered? The room? The party? Our relationship? The room was spinning as the rest of the alcohol I had drunk caught up with me. "Are you finished?" I asked. "No," she said. "Jaime and I want to talk about when we will get together again." She re-hooked her bra but left the panties lying where Jaime had tossed them on the floor. The lavender lace gleamed against her dark skin. "I got raped on the stairs," I said. I could still hear the party going on outside the room. Everything seemed unreal, the party, the near darkness, Anna lying on a pallet I now saw was made of coats, brought to the party by guests, I supposed. I imagined someone getting home and wondering where they had picked up that stain. I must have been wrong because no one ever came looking for the coats. Anna said nothing for awhile. She sipped a beer and lit a cigarette. "Did he hurt you? Who did it?" "I don't know, it happened so fast. It doesn't hurt much now, but I want a bath." "We'll go when Jaime gets back," she said. "He'll walk us out to my car and we'll be safe." We sat and smoked and drank beer and Anna asked how the rape had happened. I told her, too drunk to really be ashamed or embarrassed. I didn't know how much Anna may have had but she did not seem drunk and listened to the story gravely and without interrupting. "It must have been a small man, that it didn't hurt," she said when I finished. We giggled, drunkenly on my part, at least. I am five-nine, without heels, and my figure, then and now, is most charitably described as "generous". I had no visual image of my attacker at all and Anna had not meant a small man in a gross physical sense. The idea of having been raped by a midget presented an irresistibly comic scene in my mind. Jaime came back and with him another taller man. "We want to go," I said. The other man sat beside me on the bed. I stared at him, another beaky Indian face. "This is my cousin, Paul," said Jaime. "This is his room." I realized I was sitting on Paul's bed. "Are you hungry?" Paul asked in Spanish. I shook my head. "You want a beer?" he asked, still in Spanish. Jaime took back his place on the pallet. "No," I said. "I need a cigarette." I still smoked back then; everybody at that party did, both marijuana and tobacco. Paul lit two cigarettes at once and passed one of them to me. Unfiltered Camels. "You speak Spanish?" he asked in Spanish. "Poquito," I said, meaning a little bit. He smiled, another white set of Indian teeth. I took a hot, ragged puff of the raw tobacco. Most of the rest of this was in Spanish by him, broken Spanish by me or English when I didn't know the words. Mostly we understood each other. "I am called Pablo," he said, not Paul. "How are you called?" "Felicia," I lied. It means "the happy one." "Where do you live, Felicia?" he asked. I didn't answer right away. Anna moaned on the pallet though Jaime still had his pants on and for that matter, Anna had pulled on a pair of jeans. Jaime's, I supposed. Or Paul's. Pablo's. We watched the lovers for awhile, their hands in each other's clothes, their faces so close together they became one blurry tan blob in the darkness. We smoked. "Sant'Ana," I said, the Chicano way of saying Santa Ana, another lie. Also, a pun, "santana" is the devil. "I've been there," he said. "How old are you?" "I'm thirty," I lied again, still not sure why he was asking questions or I was bothering to answer them, even to lie. He put his arm around my waist, "I have twenty-one years of age," he said. His Spanish was pure, not the border mush-mouth mixture I had heard most of my life but the Spanish of Mexico City I had learned in school. I took his hand and put it back in his lap. "No," I said. He smiled at me. "What is your work?" he asked. "I'm a writer," I answered. "A secretary?" he asked. I shrugged. "Yes," I lied again. He put his arm around me again. "No," I said again, and this time I dug the nails of my hand into his wrist. I keep them a little over half-an-inch long and it must have hurt. He did not rub the spot where I had tried to emphasize my denial. "You are not married?" he asked. "No," I said, telling the truth at last. "Then why not? You are a pretty woman, Felicia. A blonde North American. Do you think I am not young and a man?" He opened a beer and passed it to me. I had been a blonde only a week, courtesy of Anna's course at the cosmetology school. "You must love the fat little women," I said. I'm not little but I was smaller than he and that is the idiom, "gorditas." The modern advertising slogan sounds vaguely suggestive in Spanish, "Viva Gorditas!" "Hurrah for the fat girls!" Gordita is also what a Mexican man may call his wife when she is pregnant without being in the least insulting. Unless he is married to a gringa who doesn't understand that she is being compared to a ripe gourd, symbol of the Indian mother-fertility goddess, and is not being accused of ugliness and slovenly disregard for her appearance. "It is true," he said. "So, shall we make love, Felicia? Like our friends are doing?" Two pairs of pants tangled around two sets of ankles on the piled-up coats, he can't get inside her like that, I thought. Pablo's arm went back around my waist. This time he did not yield when I pried at his hand, not even when I dug the nails again into his wrist, trying to hurt him. His strength surpassed mine and he may have been too drunk to feel the pain. He pulled me close to him, I put a hand against his flat, hard chest and pushed. He ignored that, too. "No," I said. The simple word is the same in English and Spanish. "Why not?" he asked quietly, his voice still gentle, his face right in front of mine. I smelt his body as I heard Anna moan softly in the corner. "I was raped. Earlier tonight," I said. He didn't understand, I didn't know the Spanish word for rape. "An assault, a man took me when I fell coming down from the bathroom. By force. An assault." "Who did it? Are you hurt?" he asked. "I don't know. No, I am fine. The fall hurt me worse. I skinned my hand." I showed him the scrape. He kissed it. I thought of my skinned knees but I did not mention them. "Are you going to the police?" he asked. "If I do, many people will be caught by La Migra," I said. The Department of Immigration. Anna had some of the strangest sets of friends. "It is true. Many of us are illegal. All who live here." "Everyone must work to live," almost a Spanish proverb, I knew. "You are farmworkers?" "Yes. You will go to the Free Clinic?" Free clinic was said in English. "To my doctor," I said. "Tomorrow, then." He bent his face to kiss me. I put my hand in the way and he kissed that instead. "You are an Indian," I said. "Yes, an Aztec. Why do you say that?" "I am an Indian, too. Blackfoot, my grandmothers were from Canada." "It is true? How were you knowing I am an Indian?" he asked. His arm still encircled me, pulling me closer, his face hovered over mine and he bent again to kiss me. "Your nose," I said. I put my hand on his nose, fingers on one side and thumb on the other. I squeezed, hard. I bent his nose to the left then the right. I did not try to break it but I meant it to hurt. He had tears in his eyes when I let go. "Your nose is like mine," I said. He touched the tip of his finger to my own Indian nose and wiggled it gently. I laughed softly though I had not intended to. He kissed me. I sat still. He kissed me again and nibbled on my earlobe. Taking one of the earrings Anna had stolen for me between his teeth, he pulled, gently. It stung a little. I kept my hands on his shoulders, pushing him away but I said nothing. He kissed me on my neck, sending shivers down my back. The drunkenness seemed all gone now. I felt everything, including the wetness in my bruised pussy. He pulled me back, laying us both on the bed, crossways. He kissed me again. I kept my mouth closed, not clenching my teeth, just mouth and lips closed. He kissed my eyes and I closed them. I was still drunk I realized, for the bed seemed to spin with my eyes closed so I opened them again. Through a window I hadn't really noticed before, I saw the half moon shining between the leaves of a very large sycamore tree. He placed a hand on my left breast, pinching my nipple right through the fabric of my blouse and my bra. It made me ache in both nipples. He began unbuttoning my blouse. "I only love women," I said, lying again. "Like Anna," he mocked me. "That is why I want you so, Felicia." I pushed against his chest again as he rolled on top of me. "No," I said. "Why not?" he asked. His weight left me as he stood, stripping off his shirt, his t-shirt and standing above me, his smooth Indian chest glistening in the moonlight through the sycamore. He dropped his pants, and either he wore no underwear or he dropped his shorts at the same time. He was the least hairy man I have ever seen naked. His penis arced out from his body, not fully erect but seeming nearly as wide as three of my fingers, more than wide enough. "God," I heard Anna whisper from her corner. "It will hurt," I said. And I meant it. But I lay on the bed and I did not try to get away. "Only a little, at first," he said. He teased the end of his dick with his fingers and it rose, bending now slightly upward, stiff and hard, the uncircumcised foreskin peeling back as the head engorged with blood. The first uncircumcised cock I had ever seen in the flesh. He reached under my skirt and pulled my panties down to my knees. I arched my neck so I could better look out the window at the moon. I realized I had been playing with my nipples under the pretext of rebuttoning my blouse. But somehow, sometime, he had reached behind me to unfasten my bra, or I had, and now it lay across my breasts like an underwire doily. Buttoning up over that seemed silly, so I reached above my head to put my hands against the wall. My abandoned nipples still ached but I did not want to bump my head on the wall later. He pulled my panties on down to my ankles, pushed my skirt completely up to my waist and stepped into the loop of my legs. My ankles were trapped, the panties would have to be worked over the strappy high heels I wore or the straps undone and the shoes removed again before I could stand or get away. He leaned over me, bracing himself with his hands wide on either side of my head. His cock poised above my pussy, he took his left hand and stuck his thumb slowly part-way into my cunt. He played with it there a little, searching for my hidden clit with his thumb, rubbing the ball of his index finger against the flesh above my pussy, tangling his fingers in the dark red-brown hair. I took little in-breaths and saved up for a moan. He didn't like the angles, perhaps. He suddenly lifted my body with one hand and pushed the pillows under my back with the other. I lay there, hands against the wall, weight mostly on my shoulders, clothes disarrayed but except for my panty hose, still fully dressed and with my pussy pointed more nearly right at his cock. I couldn't picture it; somehow, I still can't. Where were his feet, his knees, I don't know. Was my ass at the edge of the bed or in the middle, I don't remember. Being drunk will do that to you. He smiled at me. He put something in my cunt again, not his cock, his fingers or thumb again. I tried to lie still but my hips pulsed against him wanting to take him deeper inside me. I forgot about the bruising I had suffered, the rape earlier in the evening by the pervert with the tiny cock. I felt his blunt-nailed thumb move from my pussy to my asshole. Oh, God, I thought, he's going to backdoor me. He's too squeamish to take sloppy seconds. He doesn't know I've never been fucked in the ass, it is going to hurt. But the well lubricated thumb slipped inside me more easily than I would have imagined and the sensation caused me to release the moan I had been saving. He twisted his hand to bring his fingers back to my cunt. I tried to breathe deep and slow. I watched his face. He kissed the air in my direction and smiled as he played with me like this for several minutes. To keep his cock hard he rubbed it against my thigh occasionally. I tried to relax, to go limp. My arms ached from pushing against the wall, trying to impale myself on his fingers. My thighs ached from the effort of not squeezing him between them. I lost track of time, of what was happening. His cock was in me, his loins thrusting against mine, our breathing meshed and I felt him inside me, filling me. I came and I lost myself in the sensation; not caring that I did not know this man; that I preferred soft, gentle women to hard, insistent men; that I had been raped earlier in the evening. Surprised, I realized that he was withdrawing. That he had not come, his dick still hard against my thigh. I tried to clasp him, to prevent his escaping. But he completed his withdrawal. His smiling face looked down at me as he shifted position. Then he was in me again, thrusting, harder than before. I felt one tight flash of pain, and I realized that this time he was in my asshole, his big prick in my virgin ass. I wanted to come again but it wasn't happening. He shuddered and moaned, his eyes closed. I knew he was pumping his jism into my backdoor and I wanted to come, too. When he withdrew his dick, still semi-hard, I did come. A softer orgasm, satisfying but not as thrilling as a pussy-fuck. I've never had another orgasm from being fucked back there. I felt sore, I cried a little and he stroked my hair, my back and my arms. I didn't really mind that it had hurt, that he had hurt me. We lay together for awhile, his naked body atop my partially clothed self. We kissed and this time I kissed back. He asked me to marry him, "You will have a young husband who knows how to make love to you and I will have a blonde gordita for my wife. Also I will be able to stay in the United States and become a citizen." I told him no. He offered me ten thousand dollars. I wondered where a twenty-one-year-old campesino would get ten grand but I still said no. We sat up. I straightened my clothes, not sitting on my skirt, letting the jism ooze out of me through my panties onto Pablo's bed. We lit cigarettes and shared a beer. We talked with Jaime and Anna. A third man who had been sleeping in another corner got up and asked for a cigarette. I wondered if we had woke him up and how long he had lain there awake. I had never noticed him until he stood up. Pablo spoke sharply to him but seemed more amused than angry. I buried my face in Pablo's shoulder to stifle embarrassed giggles. His skin felt cool and smooth and hard. The third man left the room to look for a tree, I think he said. We lay back, right way round on the bed. I held him and let him doze for a few minutes then I woke him and told him in my bad Spanish that I needed to get cleaned up but was afraid to go to the upstairs bathroom. I needed to pee so bad I feared jaundice. He dressed and led me to a larger bathroom on the ground floor. I sponged off and then I went back and collected Anna from the arms of her male lover and we went to her mother's home where we slept on a foldaway bed in the family room. Anna left me and married Jaime within the month. Jaime gave her enough money to start her own beauty shop with what she had saved but that wasn't why she did it. I could have given her the money if she had asked. But I couldn't tie her to me with a wedding ring . *** Two years later, I came to visit Anna in her little house near her shop. I said admiring things about the way she looked in her maternity clothes. I teased her by calling her "gordita," and she blushed in pleasure. "I'm not working now," she told me. "No chemicals, no drinking, I even stopped smoking. This time the baby will live." She smiled, bravely, and I tried to manufacture reassurance in my own smile. Then she wiped her nose with the back of her hand, a gesture I knew meant she had been crying. I think we both were, I used a tissue to dab at my eyes. She seemed to change the subject, but really, it was another echo of that night years ago. "Did you know that Pablo, my Jaime's cousin was killed in traffic?" she asked. "He got caught by La Migra and tried to cross the border again so he would not lose his job. A truck hit him on the freeway near Escondido." I didn't say anything, just thinking. I thought about Beejay, my current lover, waiting for me at home. I had never told her about the night I was raped. I thought about Pablo and his insistent seduction of a woman who did not care for men, especially right at that time and place. I thought of Indian noses and felt my eyes burning again. Anna turned to look out the window, south toward Mexico and, somewhere nearer, the place where Pablo died. "He asked about you the last time he was here," she said. ------------------------------------------ Copyright 1998 by Erin Halfelven. All rights reserved. website at http://www.naughtywords.com Email Erin@qnez.com -- Read any NaughtyWords lately? -- If you enjoyed this work, take a moment to email the author. Your comments are their only payment. 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