Dirty Bad Strangers
Dirty Bad Strangers
Jade West
Dirty Bad Strangers copyright © 2015 Jade West
The moral rights of the author have been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the email address below.
Cover design by Letitia Hasser of RBA Designs http://designs.romanticbookaffairs.com/
Edited by John Hudspith www.johnhudspith.co.uk
All enquiries to [email protected]
First published 2015
Warning
I guess it’s that time again… the time we all know and love. PLEASE don’t read this book if you are easily offended by dirty, kinky, filthy, obscene sex with multiple strange men. Please don’t read this book if you don’t like grit, and anal, and a healthy dose of pussy pumping. If in doubt, don’t consult Google - if it sounds like something you’d find icky then trust your judgement. Seriously.
Please don’t put your personal safety at risk in order to meet some random from chatline or the internet and re-enact this book. There are plenty of weirdos out there – and not in a good way! Play safe, people.
Finally, I’ve been informed readers should seek out insurance against ‘clitoral demolition’ before reading this novel. Please take that warning seriously, I cannot be held accountable if any of you lovelies inadvertently jill yourselves to death, or friction burn your most sensitive places beyond repair. I leave that to your own discretion.
MOST DEFINITELY 18+ - early reviews point at this one being the dirtiest of the Dirty Bads so far, and that’s not a title easy to take.
I really hope you enjoy this one. Thank you!
For Tracy.
May we always share such laughter. Your support and enthusiasm are tireless and inspiring.
I’m so lucky to have you on my team.
Contents
Gemma
“The last two digits,” the voice on the line said, “what are they?”
My eyes darted to my laptop screen, skirting over my instant messaging list. My supervisor was listed as
away,
but I couldn’t be sure.
I held the handset tight, ignoring the trembling in my fingers. “Shh... you know I’m not allowed.”
A crackle on the line as he shifted position. “Come on, Lucy... is that even your name? You sound like a Lucy, I think? Are you really in London?”
No. It’s not my name. Yes, I’m really in London.
“They listen in to the calls...” I said. “I’ll get fired...”
“But they aren’t, are they? I can hear it in your voice when they’re around. Can you see them? Do you have a high-tech chatline system that shows that kind of shit? Is that why you make me call so late?”
“Let’s talk about fucking...” I purred. “What would you do to me... if you were here right now?”
“Last two digits...” he said. “…and I’ll show you.”
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I should hang up. Return to the script.Wait until the twent
y
-
minute automatic cu
t
-
off and log out of my shift. I should report it too, report him… block him from my client list…
“You’ve given me the others... don’t think I didn’t know what you were doing... you want this to be real as much as I do...”
“I... um... I’m not who you think I am…”
“Lucy, whatever your name really is... tell me those two digits, or I swear to God I’ll try all ninety-nine combinations until I reach you, and I don’t give a fuck how many people I wake up at three a.m. to do it.”
“Jason... I...”
“Last two digits...”
My stomach lurched.
I looked at the screen again.
Sheena RS135 - away.
Away. Away. Away.
“I know it’s real for you. I’ve called enough of these shitty lines over the years to know... you really want this... you want me... I can give it to you, real life, every fantasy we spoke about... all of it... I can set it up...”
“I... I can’t...”
“Last two digits.”
My chest fluttered, fighting the truth in his words.
Yes, I really want this. Yes, I really want him. I don’t even know his name, and I want him. I’ve wanted him for months, just from his voice, his laugh, his words... I want him to fuck me, just like we talk about. I want him to watch other people fuck me, too. Lots of other people…
“I shouldn’t...”
“Two digits, Lucy, otherwise I’m starting at zero-zero and working my way up until I find you.”
Shit.
Shit.
Shit.
I took a breath.
This was crazy. Really. Fucking. Crazy.
“Zero seven,” I said. “The last two digits are zero seven.”
The line went dead in a heartbeat.
And my mobile started up.
***
Gemma
The bass is so loud it feels like a heartbeat. It harmonises with the vodka in my veins, and my body comes alive, dancing free amongst the crowd. The alcohol numbs me to the plight of my friends, shifting their dance circle in an attempt to keep me amongst the fold, but I’m long gone. Unfamiliar bodies press against mine only to fall away again. Spinning, whirling, free. I am the music, and the music is me.
My body registers him before my brain, grooving to his groove as he negotiates a path across the dance floor. He’s tall. Big. Not clumsy big, though. He dances like he’d know how to fuck, and I dance like I’d enjoy finding out.
I keep my eyes from his face. He is just
man
. Hot, big, sexy
man
. Chocolate skin and chocolate eyes. Big cock, too. I feel the swell of him against my ass as he makes contact, the heavy grip of his hands on my hips when I don’t pull away. I only break the connection when he attempts conversation, darting out of his grasp to dance around him, a whirling dervish, my tumble of red curls tickling my shoulders. I smile as he comes closer, only to intercept his words with words of my own.
“Don’t speak.”
He ignores me. They always do. “What’s your name, beautiful?”
“Tonight, I’m going to be... Carys.”
“
Tonight
you’re going to be Carys?” His voice is low, his laugh like black velvet. “And what’s your name gonna be tomorrow?”
“Does it matter?” I smile wide, resting my eyes on his mouth just long enough to see him smile too. White teeth, gorgeous lips.
“Sure, whatever,
Carys.
” Hands on my hips again, grinding to the beat. “I’m Tr...”
My finger is on his lips in a heartbeat, my shush insistent. “Just dance,” I say. “I don’t need your name.”
Dance is our foreplay. The courting ritual before the bump and grind. Our bodies scope each other out through movement, and mine likes what it finds. His abs are solid, firm under a loose shirt. His jeans tight against his bulge, against his ass. My legs part for his, his toned thigh pressing in just the right places. “I got what you need, babe.” He leans in. “My place or yours?”
“Neither.” I take his hand, dancing him backwards through the crowd. I feel eyes on me but ignore them all, snaking out of view amongst the drinkers and the talkers, until the dancers are just a blur. The cool air of the smoking area hits hard, but not hard enough to sober me. I’ve been here before, dragged out too many Saturdays by my friends. Enough times to know the alcove behind the outdoor speakers. I pull my chocolate stud into the darkness, and he groans, his hot lips on my neck.
“Here? For real?”
My fingers are already working their way inside his fly. He’s a big boy, indeed. “Yes. Right here.”
He presses me against the wall. “Nice... Show me those curves, babe, I love a girl with curves.”
Just as well. His big hands palm my big tits, squeezing nice and hard before he peels down my dress, yanking aside the sturdy lace of my bra. My nipples stand to attention. He rolls them between his fingers until I gasp. I’m already hot for him, five songs worth of foreplay well long enough to get me wet and wanting. “Fuck me,” I whisper. “Don’t speak... just fuck me.”
“Wanna taste you.” He lowers his head, slurping at my tits before burying his face between them, the standard reaction. I close my eyes to blank out his, pushing my weight against the brickwork as his fingers find my panties.
“Please... fuck me...” I moan. “Hard...”
“You don’t wanna know my name?”
“I don’t need a name.”
“Might wanna see you again... might wanna see those gorgeous big tits of yours...”
It would never happen
. “Fuck me, please... just fuck me.”
“Alright, babe. Alright.”
I turn to face the wall as he reaches into his pocket to fumble for a rubber. My dress tickles my thighs, barely enough to cover the swell of my arse.
“Gonna fuck you hard...”
Music to my ears.
My pussy is so ready, panties wrenched aside. His thick thumb slides its way in first, testing.
“Yes...” I reach down for my clit, bracing myself for his cock. But it never fucking comes.
“Gemma! What the fuck?! Not-a-fucking-gain!”
A screech I really didn’t want to hear. Chelsea Rawling’s pincer nails were on my elbow before I could register, yanking me aside before I’d even pushed my tits back in my dress.
“Jesus!” I hissed. “What?!”
I looked over Chelsea’s shoulder to find Tessa tagging along with her. Unlike the direct assault of Chelsea’s dagger eyes, Tessa’s gaze was firmly on the floor. Caught in the middle. Just like always.
“You can clear off,” Chelsea spat at my poor unsuspecting chocolate stud.
I felt his eyes on the back of me, but didn’t say a word. The moment was wrecked, finished, over. I hoped he knew I was sorry. Sorry and fucking mortified.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I groaned once he was out of earshot. “I’m twenty three years old! Who died and made you my babysitter, Chelsea? Can’t you leave the interfering bitch act alone for just one evening?”
“You’re drunk,” she snapped.
“I may be drunk, but you’re still an interfering bitch.”
She folded her arms, and fixed me in that Chelsea-Rawlings-knows-best stare she’s been giving me since reception class. She was worse these days, though. Our old Chelsea had been reborn as London Chelsea, the Chelsea that wanted to ditch her Hertfordshire girl upbringing and get herself an A-list boyfriend, some actor, or singer or sports star. Even a reality star would do at a push, she’d admitted as much, some Z-lister with hardly any brains and barely any money. Chelsea wasn’t fussy, just as long as they could get her in the papers.
“It’s about time someone gave you a few home fucking truths, Gemma Taylor!”
No prizes for guessing who that was going to be.
***
I made to brush her aside, but Chelsea stood firm, pouty lips pursed venomously.
“I’m not joking,” she said. “It’s about time you sorted your shit out.”
She had my attention. “My
shit?
What shit?”
She rolled her eyes. “I,
we,
thought you’d have grown out of this by now. Six months we’ve been here, six whole pissing months!”
“Grown out of what?” I folded my arms, sobriety threatening an unwanted appearance.
“This... this... desperation. This fucking around. This overcompensation thing you’ve been doing ever since we moved here!”
I looked behind her, but Tess kept her gaze on the floor, unwilling to commit either way.
“I like drinking, and dancing, and I like sex. So?”
“So, there’s more to it than that!” Chelsea said. “Overcompensation.”
“Overcompensation for what?” I laughed. “Being sober and stuck at home every evening all week? I work late nights, I let my hair down when I get a Saturday off, big deal.”
Tessa took a step forward. “We’re worried, about you,” she said. “That’s all.”
“There’s nothing to worry about,” I smiled. “Seriously. I’m all good. Peachy.”
“You act like a slut,” Chelsea groaned. “You didn’t even know his name, did you? Humped him on the dance floor in front of the whole club, practically, not caring what kind of spectacle you were making of yourself.”
“I was dancing!”
She folded her arms, scowling at me. “You think it looks good, but people are laughing at you, you know that?”
My blood ran cold. “Laughing?! Who’d even give a shit what I was doing? The dance floor was rammed.”
“This isn’t like back home,” Chelsea said. “People here are different, the place is different, so much more pressure... we get it, ok? You feel insecure and you’re acting out. We’re just looking out for you.”
“I don’t feel insecure,” I laughed. “Why should I? I just like dancing, and sex, like plenty of other people.”
“You’re pretty,” she smiled, patronisingly. “Your weight doesn’t need to be a big deal.”
“My weight?!”
“We know it must be hard, being the big girl,” Chelsea said, “but that’s no reason to act up like this, it only draws attention to yourself. So what if you aren’t thin like us? It doesn’t make you a worse person, Gemma. You’ll get a boyfriend! You don’t need to prove anything to anyone.”
“I’m not trying…” I was suddenly stone cold sober. So sober that my teeth started to chatter in the night chill. I gawped in shock. “You think I dance and have sex because I’m trying to prove I’m not too fat to get a boyfriend?!”
“Don’t you?” Chelsea challenged. “I mean you’ve always danced... but since we’ve been here you’ve been making an all-out spectacle of yourself.”
“I’ve been having fun...” I said. “Feeling free. I love dancing.”
“Yeah, well, maybe dancing doesn’t love you!” she said. “Don’t you realise what it looks like for the rest of us? Our bubbly slutty friend burning up the dance floor?”
Tears pricked, but I choked them back, knocked sideways by Chelsea’s attack but not sideways enough to cry. “That’s what I am, is it? Your
bubbly slutty friend
?”
Finally Tess found conviction of voice. “No, of course not.” She elbowed Chelsea aside. “We were just worried, that’s all, worried that you’re under a lot of pressure.”
“Pressure of being too fat and ugly to get laid? Is that what you think?”
“No,” Tessa sighed. “That’s not what we think.”
“That’s not what
you
think,” I said. “Unlike Barbie over here. Dancing has nothing to do with my weight. Sex has nothing to do with my weight. I’m not overcompensating, I’m not insecure, and I’m not jealous, I’m just having fun. I thought you knew that... I thought you were my friends...”
“Oh, God, let’s get the violins out,” Chelsea said. “Just because we said you could probably do with losing a bit of weight, don’t make us into demon bitches. You’ve been acting like a slut, and we called you out on it. It’s out in the open now, let’s move on.”
I stood mute. Dumbfounded.
“It’s not just the dancing, or the sex, or the drinking...” Chelsea added. “You’ve changed in London. The new job as well... who seriously does sex chatline for a living? I mean, sure, as a side thing, but what about a real job?”
“A real job?! Like
your
real job?!”
“Modelling is a
real
job,” Chelsea said.
“I’m not even getting into this,” I said. The tears were pricking again. I itched to tell them to get fucking stuffed, ached to offload two barrels straight for them, and tell them how it really was.
I’ve always been curvy, but I’ve never felt fat, and sure as hell never felt ugly. My parents always taught me that being beautiful came from the inside as well as out. They taught me to appreciate being different. Taught me to value the green of my eyes, and the rich copper tones in my hair. Taught me that my freckles made me different, and pretty, and cute. Taught me that it’s ok to dance like nobody’s watching, that it’s ok to feel comfortable in your own skin.
They didn’t teach me about sex. That came along all on its own.
Nobody encouraged the need in me for sex with strangers. The dark calling to be taken by men I didn’t know. Multiple men I didn’t know. Rough, hot, sweaty brutal men I didn’t know, who’d treat me like a dirty girl and have me any way they wanted.
That was all from me.
“Don’t let’s bloody fall out over this,” Chelsea groaned. “We’re trying to help.”
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I’ll get a cab home.”
“Don’t be like that,” she said. “Just tone it down, ok? That’s all we’re asking.”
I squeezed Tessa’s arm on the way past, horrified to find her as pale as I was. There were some words I didn’t catch, and Tessa was after me, following me through to the main doors with no sign of blondie in tow.
My tears were flowing by the time she caught up with me.
“Christ, Gem, I’m sorry. That was a right fucking pig’s ear back there.”
“Enlightening...” I said.
“You know what she’s like. Anything over a size minus zero can’t possibly be desirable, nobody really thinks that. She means well, you know she does. She’s just worried about you.”
“Yeah, well, I was doing just fine before all that shit.”
“Forget it, then. Forget she said anything.”
“I intend to,” I said. “It’s the biggest load of crap I’ve ever heard.”
She pulled me into a hug, but I was tense. “I’m sorry for my part in it.” I knew she was, too. Poor Tessa always gets dragged into Chelsea’s shit. “Shall I come with you? We could get takeout and watch late night TV.”
I shook my head. “I’ll grab the late hour at work. It’s your first Saturday off in weeks, enjoy it.”
“Only if you’re sure...”
I smiled. “I’m good. I’m fine. I’ll forget all about it once the pervs start calling.”