Nasty Sex Nasty Sex

Corinne was twenty-five, and she had spent the whole afternoon thinking about how filthy she wanted to get. She lived in a one-bedroom apartment with scuffed hardwood and a couch that sagged in the middle, and when Grant texted that he was on his way she had already locked the door, dimmed the lamps, and peeled off her work clothes. Grant was twenty-five too. He showed up in a gray T-shirt still wrinkled from the dryer, a six-pack of beer in one hand, and that look he got when he had been thinking about her mouth all day.

She did not offer him a beer. She took the pack, set it on the counter, and shoved him back against the door with both palms. “You said nasty,” she said. “You meant it?”

“I meant it.” His voice was already lower. He smelled like soap and the outside air. “You too?”

“Yeah.” She kissed him hard enough to mash her teeth against his. He opened for it. Their tongues were clumsy and wet from the first second, no warm-up, just spit and heat. She sucked on his bottom lip until it went shiny. He grabbed her ass through the thin cotton shorts she had put on for him, the ones that rode up, and squeezed until she made a sound into his mouth.

They stumbled toward the bedroom without turning on more lights. The hall was narrow. She walked backward, pulling his shirt up, and he yanked it off over his head and dropped it. His chest was warm. She dragged her nails down it and left faint pink lines. At the foot of the bed she shoved her shorts and panties down together and kicked them away. She was already wet; she could feel it on her inner thighs. Grant stared at her like he wanted to put his whole face there.

“Get on the bed,” she said.

He sat. She climbed over him, still in her tank top, and sat on his lap facing him. His jeans were rough against her bare cunt. She rolled her hips and smeared herself on the denim, leaving a dark patch. He groaned and palmed her breasts through the tank, then shoved the fabric up so he could get his mouth on her nipples. He sucked them sloppy, leaving them wet and tight. She held his head there and ground harder.

“Take your pants off. I want it messy.”

He lifted her off just long enough to strip. His cock was already thick, the head flushed, a bead of precum at the slit. Corinne wrapped her hand around it and spat. The spit ran down her fingers and over his shaft. She stroked him slow, making it shine, then spat again so it dripped onto his balls. He watched her do it with his mouth open.

“You like that,” she said. It was not a question.

“I like you being disgusting.”

She slid down between his knees and took him in her mouth without teasing. She went deep on the first pass, gagged, and let the spit flood out around him and down her chin. She did not wipe it. She pulled off, strings of saliva connecting her lips to his cock, and spat on the head again. Then she took him back in and bobbed, noisy, wet, the kind of sucking that made her own jaw ache. Grant’s hand found the back of her head but he did not push; he just held on while she made a mess of him. Drool ran onto his thighs. She cupped his balls and they were already slick from her spit.

“Look at me,” he said.

She looked up with her mouth full. Her eyes were watering. She pulled off long enough to say, “Use me,” and then she went down again, slower, letting him feel her throat work. He cursed. She reached between her own legs and two fingers came away glossy. She showed him, then put the fingers in her mouth alongside his cock, tasting herself and him together.

When she finally crawled back up him, her chin was wet and her tank top was stuck to her stomach with spit. Grant flipped her onto her back and shoved her knees wide. He did not start gentle. He licked her from ass to clit in one long, filthy stroke, then did it again, flattening his tongue, getting his whole mouth involved. He sucked her clit until her hips jerked, then pushed his tongue into her and fucked her with it. She was loud. The wet sounds filled the room. He slid two fingers into her and curled them while he licked, and she soaked his hand.

“Spit on it,” she said, meaning her cunt.

He spat. The wad landed on her clit and ran down. He smeared it in with his thumb and kept eating her. She grabbed his hair and held him there, grinding on his face, and when she came the first time it was messy—she clenched around his fingers and a rush of wetness spilled out onto his mouth and the sheets. He did not pull away. He lapped it up, groaning into her, and she felt him swallow.

“Fuck, that’s nasty,” she panted. “Do it again. I want you dripping.”

He shoved her legs back until her knees were by her ears and dragged his tongue lower, over her asshole, circling it, then pushing in. Corinne made a broken sound. She had asked for this. She had thought about it in the shower, about being opened up and filthy and used. His tongue was hot and insistent. He spat on her hole and worked it in with a finger, slow, then two, stretching her while he went back to sucking her clit. She was shaking. The combination was too much and not enough.

“Grant—put it in me. I don’t care where. Just get it in me.”

He knelt up. His face was shiny from her. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and it did not help. He lined his cock up with her cunt and shoved in to the hilt in one stroke. She was so wet there was almost no resistance, just a filthy slick sound as he bottomed out. He stayed there a second, breathing hard, then started fucking her in long, heavy thrusts that made her tits bounce and the bedframe knock the wall.

“Look how sloppy you are,” he said. He pulled almost out so she could see his cock glazed, then slammed back in. “You’re dripping down to your ass. You wanted nasty. This is nasty.”

“Harder.” She hooked her ankles behind him. “Talk like that. Don’t be nice.”

He was not nice. He told her she was a wet little mess, that her cunt was making obscene noises, that he could feel her squirting around him every time he hit deep. He spat on her tits and rubbed it in while he fucked her. She reached down and spread herself so he could see everything, the stretch, the shine. When he pulled out and slapped his cock against her clit, strings of her wetness connected them.

He flipped her onto her stomach. She went face-down, ass up, and he shoved a pillow under her hips. He spat on her asshole again and pressed the head of his cock there. She pushed back. They had done this before, but not like this, not with this much spit and no patience. He worked into her ass slowly at first because it was tight, then deeper as she opened, and when he was in he stayed still until she said, “Move. I want to feel filthy.”

He moved. He fucked her ass with the same heavy rhythm, one hand on the back of her neck, the other reaching under to rub her clit. The spit and her own wetness made it loud and slick. She moaned into the mattress. He leaned over her and let a long string of spit fall from his mouth onto the small of her back, then smeared it with his palm.

“You’re taking it like you were made for this,” he said. “Your ass is gripping me. You’re soaking the pillow. Corinne—”

“Don’t stop. I’m close again.”

He rubbed her faster. She came with his cock in her ass, clenching hard, a broken cry, and more wetness flooding his hand. He did not last much longer after that. He pulled out of her ass, shoved back into her cunt, and came with a groan, pumping into her, filling her until it leaked out around his cock in a pale, messy drip. He stayed in her, pulsing, while it ran down her thighs.

They did not stop. He was still half-hard. She rolled onto her back, reached down, and scooped his cum out of herself with two fingers. She held them up. He leaned in and she pushed the fingers into his mouth. He sucked them clean. Then she pulled him down by the hair and kissed him, sharing it, tongues sliding through the salt and the slick. It was disgusting. She wanted more of it.

She made him lie on his back and sat on his face, facing his cock, and told him to clean her up. He did it without hesitation, licking his own cum out of her, sucking her folds, getting it all over his chin again. She stroked him while he did it, getting him fully hard a second time, and then she turned around and sank onto his cock, riding him slow at first so he could watch himself disappear into the mess they had already made. Every bounce made a wet slap. She spat on his chest. He grabbed her hips and helped her grind.

“Use me like a hole,” she said, and he did, thrusting up into her while she braced on his stomach. Her thighs were shiny. The sheets were ruined. She came again, smaller, twitching, and he followed, adding to the mess inside her until it overflowed and ran down his balls.

They kept going until their bodies were sticky and the air in the bedroom felt thick. He fucked her on her side, spooned, one of her legs hooked back over his hip, his hand on her throat not squeezing, just holding. He talked the whole time, filthy and specific, about how she looked with cum on her ass, how her cunt sounded, how he wanted to stay in her until it was leaking down to the floor. She answered in the same language. She told him to ruin her. She told him she wanted to be dripping when she walked to the bathroom. He came a third time with a shudder, weaker, and she felt the heat of it and clenched to keep it in.

Afterward they lay in the wreck of the bed. The lamp on the nightstand threw a yellow cone across the mess: spit, sweat, cum, the dark wet patch under her hips. Grant’s breathing slowed. Corinne stared at the ceiling. Her body felt used in the way she had asked for. Her inner thighs were tacky. When she shifted, more of him slid out of her and she felt it, warm and then cooling.

He put a hand on her stomach. “You good?”

She said, “Yeah.” It came out thin.

They had gotten exactly what they wanted. The filth, the slop, the way they had talked to each other like they were nothing but mouths and holes and hunger. It had been as nasty as the texts, as nasty as the afternoon she had spent getting ready. Grant’s face was still a little shiny. Her jaw ached. The apartment smelled like sex.

Something sat wrong in her chest anyway. Not the sex. The sex had been what she asked for, over and over, out loud. It was the quiet after, the way the room looked ordinary again, the way his hand on her stomach felt like it belonged to a person and not the animal they had been ten minutes ago. She thought about work in the morning. She thought about the sheets. She thought about how easy it had been to say those things and how the words sat in her mouth now like they had a different taste.

Grant turned his head on the pillow. “Hey. You’re quiet.”

“I’m just coming down.”

He nodded. He believed her, or he wanted to. She did not correct him. She got up on unsteady legs and walked to the bathroom, feeling him run down her thigh with every step, and she locked the door and sat on the closed toilet lid and looked at her wrecked reflection in the mirror—hair stuck to her neck, mouth swollen, a smear of spit dried on her collarbone—and for a second she could not tell if she had gotten what she wanted or if she had just found the edge of something she did not have a name for yet.

When she came back he had pulled the blanket over himself. She got in beside him. The wet spot was cold against her hip. He hooked an arm around her and she let him. In the dark his breathing evened out toward sleep. Corinne kept her eyes open. The nastiness was over. The room was just a room. She lay there with the evidence of everything they had done cooling on her skin and waited for the doubt to pass, and it did not.