Allie Beck - How Dirty Are You?

This time her whole body had pushed and groaned and exploded at once. Feeling him move in and out, stroking her insides and slamming against her cervix, the rawness and wholeness of the night above them without filter. She had smelled and felt texture and rot and slime and ick and she liked it. Liked being an animal among the waste and the discards, loved the mixture of her juices and Joe’s cock and the coffee and bananas and bagels and how their bodies had compacted the trash with their bends and twists and gyrations and thrusts, like a human composter you’d never find for sale in a Gaiam catalog. How many day-old bagels can I fit on Joe’s penis? she wondered.

Blood vessels had swelled and burst and a new plane of existence stretched out before her, standing ready for her to access whenever she wanted with Joe.

Her arms ached to reach for him and celebrate, to be held and to hold, but she was also mortified and so embarrassed she wanted to crawl into a hole and hide. What kind of woman gets off from sex in a dumpster? The sights and sounds and feel of it all came together with the alcohol and the forbiddenness of it, and in the end she turned off the CEO in her mind who constantly ordered her (and Joe) around and became all sense, all flesh, all decomposition and decompensation in the nerve endings between her clit and tailbone.

A smile crossed her lips and she almost rolled over to whisper something, anything, to Joe that might get them to talk about what had happened. She was ready. A faint snore began to build from his side of the bed and her shoulders sank in disappointment. She swallowed the lump in her throat and tried to fall sleep.

Joe woke up to the sound of a faint hum. He looked at the clock: 3:51 a.m. As his brain cleared, he realized he knew the sound. It must be Marcia brushing her teeth in the middle of the night again. Man, was she ruthless about dental hygiene.