DIRTY: THE EROTIC ADVENTURES OF THE HARLEQUIN

Chapter 1: Wild Wild Wolverine!!!!

Excerpt From "Wild Wild Wolverine!!!! , by Oliver Clozzoff, SuperXXX Books. Fully illustrated.

…Alison followed the short and stocky muscular, hairy man with his old cowboy hat over his bushy black hair and wolfish blue eyes out of the bar and into the snowstorm.

"Truck's over here." He told her.

They both got into the cab of the old pickup, and he turned on the ignition so he could put on the heater and the radio.

She wasn't sure what to say to him, but he was in no mood to talk, he just backed out of the parking lot and headed out onto the road.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"Motel up on the interstate. You pay by the hour." He said.

It was a sleazy sort of dive, sleazy and impersonal, but that's what Alison was looking for.

That was why she left the bar with the man she did.

He closed the door behind them and locked it, kicked off his boots, tossed his ancient, battered bomber jacket onto a chair and began to undress.

Sleazy, and impersonal, the man didn't hardly speak to her, and when he was naked, he looked in her direction, smiled, and beckoned to her, crooking his finger.

When she was close enough to him, he wound his arm around her waist, pulling her even closer, made his hand into a fist, and with a sound of metal against metal, three long, silvery, deadly claws sprang out of his huge, meaty fist.

They were less than an inch away from her face.

"Oh my God! You're…the Wolverine!"

"That's right, baby. And you're wearing too many clothes."

A scream of fear turned into a moan of desire as the Wolverine sliced off her clothes, deftly, leaving not a single mark on her creamy white skin.

He tossed her onto the bed and sheathed three of his weapons, as, before her eyes, another weapon unsheathed itself, long, thick and heavy, with a massive purple head.

Alison lay naked before him, feeling fear and desire.

She tried to get under the covers, but he wouldn't let her; he was on top of her before she could move another muscle.

She was terrified, but excited; she had never been with a man so much like an animal as him; she only hoped he wouldn't hurt her.

"What do you think I'm going to do, baby? Bite you? Eat you all up?"

"Don't bite me. Please, don't!' Alison cried.

Wolverine laughed and his laugh turned into a growl of desire, cupping her breasts in his hands.

His hands which contained six deadly weapons, something Alison tried to remember but couldn't, as he ran his rough hands all over her body, pushing her thighs open.

Somehow he knew she would be wet, and ready.

Her fear that he would bite her faded in the pleasure of the rough scrape of his stubble, hungry kisses on her neck and her breasts as he rubbed her hot, swollen clit with his calloused fingers, making her gasp and pant.

"That's a real good girl. Come on. Come for me." He commanded her.

Alison had never had an orgasm with a man in her life, but she had to listen to him, she just had to.

While she was still riding the wave of the unaccustomed pleasure, the Wolverine pushed her legs open further and mounted her.

Alison was a changed woman, crazed with lust, she wrapped her legs around him, and cried out in a combination of pleasure and pain as he thrust his thick, hard, heavy cock into her.

"Don't stop!" she sobbed, clinging to him.

The dull ache gave way to a feeling of slick, ravenous lust; never had her tight little pussy been fucked so hard by a man with such an immense cock.

Alison gave into it, wantonly.

"Yes! Yes! Fuck me harder! Harder, you son of a bitch!" she cried.

The Wolverine was happy to oblige her.

Alison thrashed around on the bed, screaming in ecstasy as she came, violently, over and over again.

With an animal snarl, Wolverine pulled his massive cock out of her, and she could feel his hot come spurting onto her belly.

Sighing, Alison reached for him, but he was out of bed already, putting on his shirt, heading for the bathroom.

When he came out, he was dressed.

"Where are you going? You can't just leave!"

"Sure I can. I paid for the room the whole night, you can have it. Here's five bucks for the cab home in the morning."

He sat in the chair to put on his bomber jacket and his boots, and then stood up, and put his hat back on.

"But my clothes! You ripped them up!"

"Then call one of your girlfriends, and have her bring ya somethin'. Sorry darlin'. I got to go. I know you'd like me to stick around, but I ain't that kinda man. Here's another ten bucks. Have the bellhop go buy you a new dress."

He opened the door to the room.

"Seeya 'round, baby." He said.

As Alison heard him start up the old pickup and drive away, she knew that Wolverine had made her a different woman, and awakened a lust in her that she realised she was going to be hard-pressed to slake with lesser men.

And after wild, wild Wolverine, they would all be lesser men.

Napalm's Notes: Corny as hell, and Logan's a little too mean, but I really dig the sleazy truck-drivin' cowpoke vibe, and the whole idea of getting screwed into the wall by the Ol' Canucklehead in a "motel up on the interstate" is shit-hot. Having done the dirty dirty deed with Logan in a lot of motels up on the interstate, I know what I'm talking about. Nice setup, fairly good smut, talks about him more than Miss Faceless Groupie Chick. One of my favourites, especially the way he cuts all her clothes off her and leaves fifteen bucks for a cab home and a new dress. Logan would have left her 20.

Brooklyn, New York, Winter 197o-71

I: Logan

Even in the nicest of neighbourhoods, there's always some dive of an eyesore, some wretched hive of scum and villainy, some back-alley, back-door, roadhouse pool hall juke joint bar with a parking lot loaded up with motorcycles and rusty pickups and muscle cars all full of drunk and lowlifes and bikers and loonies and misfits and outlaws and freaks and trouble where there's always a good rock band playing on Friday and Saturday nights and decent people are scared to go there.

About ten minutes drive from the X-Mansion and about five minutes off the New York Thruway and about a mile off the interstate, nestled among some back roads in the not-so-posh part of Westchester county was just such a place, called the Thruway Tavern, and the man known as Logan was a regular there to the point where even when he wasn't at his seat at the bar nobody sat in in, and when he wasn't at his table in the back corner, nobody sat there, either.

Now, since he had made her acquaintance in the summer of '70, Logan met with Napalm, his friend to whom he was bound by a blood oath, every Wednesday, sometimes at Trivelino Mac's in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, and sometimes at the Thruway Tavern.

Trivelino Mac's, in Bensonhurst, was more of your typical neighbourhood bar, but that didn't mean it was any less rough, just rough in a different way.

John "Mac" McClatchey's regular clientele was a mixture of Italian and Irish hardhats, tradesmen and other working guys, lower level wiseguys planning their next big score and the kind of women who hung around with both. Mac didn't put up with any bullshit in his place. If you wanted to fight, you had to do it outside, if you wanted to puke, you had better do it outside or in the john, if you didn't like smoke you could leave, and if you were a Republican and had anything good to say about Nixon, he'd throw you out.

And if you were crazy enough to want to rob the place, or break it up, that's what the shotgun behind the bar and the shotgun mounted under it were for.

Logan was at the bar, in the waning hours of a cold Tuesday, any cold winter Tuesday in the winter of 1970-71. He was nursing a pint of Guinness and watching the New York Rangers get their asses kicked, eating peanuts when, bundled up in a sheepskin and courduroy jacket and a thick blue watchcap and gloves, stomping the snow off of her insulated Frye engineer boots, Liv blew in the door.

Under it she wore an OD military sweater and a pair of low slung dirty Levis.

All her clothes had a few flecks of blood and motor oil on them.

"Hiya, Uncle Mac. Shitty night out there. How about a Guinness for me, and another one for Logan. Drink up, man, it's on me, tonight. Shit, it's snowin' like a motherfucker out there. If you wanna get back to the X-Mansion tonight, we better make it a short one."

They only stayed an hour or four, and only had 12 beers and a fifth between them, and it was just a little fight when the guy nobody knew, the one who looked like some rich fuck slumming it interrupted them while they were playing pool and asked Liv if she was some kind of bull dyke, and if she wasn't, why not ditch ugly and hairy and come with him.

They took him outside, after all, it was Liv's Uncle's place, and they took it easy on him and his friends. No claws, no weapons, no broken bones, just smacked them around a little, showed them what you could get for coming into a dive and fucking with the wrong motherfuckers.

On another night, with different adversaries, the lot of them might have ended up dead.

They finished their game, and then the two of them stomped outside into the howling snowstorm, cursing volubly.

"Shit! Where the fuck are the fucking snowplows? Bet they cleaned up goddamn Manhattan. If I try to make it back in this on the bike, it's gonna end up hurtin'. A lot." Logan complained.

"Don't worry about it, man. You can take my truck. It's parked out back."

Napalm was a genuine motorhead, she owned ten cars, five of which she had rebuilt from wrecks and the other five which she had rebuilt after wrecking them, and she was also in possession of a 1947 Ford panel pickup truck, which she used to convey her vehicles in their varying degrees of wreckage and repair from her private garage on the grounds of Wayne Manor to Hollis Mason's garage in Manhattan, for a consultation, or some more serious work.

She had studded tires with chains on them on the old Ford, and he figured he could have driven it through hell or high water, but it was one of the worst snowstorms of the past ten years, and after two hours of traffic and bullshit, Logan didn't even make it to the bridge.

He went back to the bar, parked the truck and went in, just as Mac was about to lock the door.

"You got a room for the night, Mac?"

"I'm all full up, Logan. Everybody beat ya to it. But I'm sure you can stay with Liv. She practically lives in that flop room, anyway. Oh well. At least when she's here I can keep an eye on her. An' if she's here I know she ain't lyin' in the street, somewhere. Last door on the left at the end of the hall."

Logan had never been to Liv's "flop" but he had spent half his life in rooms like it.

They were small, dark places, with rickety brass beds and lumpy, creaky mattresses.

You got a chair to sit in and a table to eat and work at, maybe two chairs, at that. There would be a closet, and a dresser, with a shitty little TV on it, a room a little bigger than a closet with a sink and a toilet in it. Room to drag in one of those little bar refridgerators, and sit a hot plate on top of it; plugged into the same outlet.

Possibly an end table with a lamp, definitely a dingy overhead light.

Neon and traffic outside the window with its faulty, yellowed Venetian blinds, hot in the summer, cold in the winter.

The lure of a place like that was that you could be alone, and it was simple and anonymous.

Sometimes, you needed to be simple and anonymous.

Logan went up to the room.

He could hear The Who playing from under the door, and Napalm didn't respond, either to him knocking or calling her name, so he popped a claw, picked the lock, and went in.

The room was just the way he'd expected it to be, right down to the stubborn cold, the arthritic, labouring old radiator, and the harshly twinkling neon lights coming in through the curtainless window with the half-broken Venetian blinds.

Except she had a record rack and a cheap stereo there, too, and the record stopped and went back to the beginning again as he shut and locked the door.

There was an end table, with a lamp on it, and also an open bottle of Southern Comfort. The trash can was crammed with bottles, beer cans, and take-out bags and boxes, and the several ashtrays around the room were full of butts.

The room smelled like booze and smoke, but her smell hung heaviest in the frigid air, that heavy, lingering Liv-smell that was sex and sweat and adrenaline; sweet and intoxicating.

The room was full of it; the air was full of it; there wasn't a woman in the world who smelled like savage, sexy, horny Napalm.

Like a whorehouse in summertime, like all of the 75 virgins in heathen heaven in holy heat, a thick, musky, heavy smell that made him think of all those warm summer days and the soft grass under his belly and the sweet smell of the flowers and the earth a pleasant undertone to hers, with his face buried right in the centre of her heavy heat, snuffling and grunting and licking up all the hellfire she had for him.

Napalm, herself was spread across the lumpy mattress of the unmade brass bed, in her strained to bursting OD tank top and the folded over, threadbare GI-issue OD boxers.

There was a stack of lurid paperbacks by her feet, and, lying open and facedown, a comic book with a well-built guy in tighty-whities wearing Iron Man's helmet walking over to a bed with a scantily dressed blond in her underwear.

"The Unflagging Iron Man!" the cover screamed.

It was hard to tell if she was asleep, or if she had knocked herself out with too much whiskey and wanking, lying there with a half-smile on her face and her hand down the front of her boxers, a favourite book of hers, "The Comedian's Caper" lying open across her chest.

Logan breathed in the heady smell of her; she reeked of sex and musk and longing, spread all across the bed in her underwear, her long red hair trailing and flying in all directions.

Flops like this meant something else to Logan than simple and anonymous, they meant fucking, and lots of it.

Over the years, he'd had done a lot of fucking with a lot of different women in cheap shit flop pay by the hour rooms like this, and whenever he walked into one, it made him think about it.

But this wasn't just any flop and any floozie, this was Napalm's flop, and she was spread out all over the bed like a picnic lunch.

Good old Napalm. She could really burn you down. With her, it was shit-hot great balls of fire claws out and roaring like a wild animal in full rut.

You didn't know if you were coming or going, and you didn't give a damn, either.

The very thought of her, with her nose in some dirty fuckbook, pawing at herself with shameless hot lust until she fell into a swoon was enough to make Logan's cock stand up and take notice; if Liv was looking for a good time, then he was ready and willing to give it to her.

Slow down, hoss. Last time you surprised her from a dead sleep she broke your nose. Better wake her up nice and slow.

He got close enough to the head of the bed to see that her other hand was by her head.

In it was yet another one of her filthy superhero comix; her face was resting on the pages.

Logan pulled it out from under her and looked at the cover.

The man in the picture on the front was muscular, fearsome, and hairy, and it was a good likeness.

A drawing of him, in his costume, claws extended.

The title was "Wild, Wild Wolverine!!!!"

She knocked herself out jerkin' off to a fuckbook about me?

They make fuckbooks about me?

That was enough for Logan.

It was time to fuck first, and ask questions later.

That was, after all, how Liv liked it.

The growl that was building in his chest rumbled out.

He kicked off his boots, stripped off his shirt and his jeans, and tossed his cowboy hat across the room.

Naked, and with a lewd smile playing across his face, he called her name at the same time as he ever-so-gently prodded at the hollow of her neck with the nearest approaching part of him.

Wake her up nice and slow.

Liv's eyes opened, and she sat up, like a shot.

"What the fuck! Huh? Logan, you crazy son of a bitch, you think that's funny?"

"Well, darlin' I figured I'd wake you up nice and slow. I couldn't even make it to the bridge. I figured I'd be welcome here, judging by that book by your nose. Or should I get dressed and go sleep in the chair?"

"Now would I do a thing like that to you?" Naplam laughed.

She sat up on her knees and took off her tank top and then wriggled out of her boxers, dropping onto her hands and knees.

Liv crooked her finger at him.

"Bring that a little closer to the bed, sugar."

She closed her hot, sure, tattooed little hand at the base of his cock in a fist, and then leaned forward, teasing the head of his dick with the faintest touch of her lips and licked him like he was a Popsicle on a hot day.

Logan moaned, and his legs trembled a little.

Liv chuckled low in her throat and sucked his cock into her mouth, hard.

She grabbed his ass with her other hand, urging him deeper.

He didn't know how she did it; Logan was pretty goddamn big for a big guy, let alone a little guy, and she could make his whole cock disappear like a sword swallower at the circus.

He wound his fingers in her hair, and his eyes rolled in his head.

It was a heavy, obscene sort of pleasure.

Now she had both hands on his ass, urging him to fuck her mouth, and the snarls and groans were coming thick and fast now.

Lust loosened Logan's lips; he ran his hand down the sweaty small of her back and gave her a little smack on the ass.

"That's right, baby. You take it all…." he moaned.

He was trying to get his hand between her legs and Napalm squirmed closer to the end of the bed to oblige him, and she was every bit as wet and sticky-hot as the room around them and the city outside were freezing cold.

She moaned in her throat, and her hands dug into his skin as she slid her thighs around his hand, pulling on his fingers like they were his cock.

Liv gasped and he popped out of her mouth with a wet, sucking sound.

"Naked and savage, that's how I like you. I'm so fucking horny." She told him.

"I know. I can smell it. It's drivin' me crazy, darlin'."

"Good."

Logan got into bed with her, and he pushed her big, round, strong thighs apart, and twining her legs around his shoulders.

So hungry.

So hot.

So good.

She let her head fall back so it was hanging over the bed, and he could hear her, she was actually laughing, laughing and groaning and stroking the nape of his thick neck.

"…ooooo, you really fuckin' like it, don't you…"

Yes, he did.

"….oooo, I like it too."

Moving around on the bed in the moonlight.

"…c'mon, stud, gimme somethin' to suck on…"

Even better.

Almost one hundred years on this rotten, stinking Earth and there weren't many women who could suck your dick like she could.

So hungry.

So hot.

So good.

And he was thrusting into her mouth and she was grinding against his face, and there was moaning and snuffling and licking and sucking and squelching and gasping, and finally laughing and laughing.

***

Darlin', I can't make a fist. I think you sucked the marrow right outa my bones."

"Yeah, well, I can't feel the bed under me. I feel so good. My fuckin' toes are wigglin, because even my toes feel good."

Now he was holding her against his sweaty chest.

Three hundred pounds of heavenly joy.

"I got s'more good news for ya, darlin'."

"I know what that is."

She rolled over and put on the light.

"What the hell we doin' it in the dark for. God-damn, look at you. All naked and hairy and sweaty and hard. What a piece of work is man. The paragon of animals."

"You quotin' Shakeaspeare, again, Liv?"

"I dunno, Logan. Sometimes you bring out the hopeless romantic in me."

She laughed and fell back onto the mattress.

"So, ya gonna stick it where ya licked it?"

They both laughed.

"Are you drunk, darlin'?"

"Not really. I just feel real good." Liv said, and lazily tweaked one of her nipples.

"Let me do that."

Tweak.

"Oooooo…hee hee."

"You're bad. Roll it over, darlin'." Logan suggested.

With a lusty leer, Napalm got on her hands and knees, and Logan got up behind her.

He ran his tongue from the small of her back up to the nape of her neck, tasting the salty sweat he'd made her break out in, and, moaning, Liv opened her thighs further to him, rubbing up against with a lustful laugh.

"Ain't nothin' like the real thing, baby." She growled.

She didn't want pain and he didn't want to give it to her, but she liked it hard, and fast, and for as long as she could get it; he was big but she could take it; she was one of those girls who had to have it, the bigger cock and the badder, hairier brute attached to it, the better.

Logan pushed his cock into her, slowly, letting her pull him in, and then he started thrusting hard, pumping her full of cock, the way he knew she liked it.

Liv moaned, she keened and wailed and even howled; she wasn't too talkative while you were fucking her; she couldn't manage the words.

She pushed back hard, against him, and he grabbed hold of her hips with one hand, pushing her ass higher into the air, rotating his hips around so he could hit that spot…

"YOOOOWWWWWWOOOOO! OH, FUCK, LOGAN, HOLY SHIT!!!..."

He threw back his head and laughed like a villain in a melodrama, and gave her another smack on the ass, which elicited another yowl from him and she was pushing back against him, squeezing his cock so good that the laugh turned into a great, growling rumbling moan.

Liv could feel his chest rumbling against her; she purred in kind.

"Darlin', you are gonna kill me…"

"Not yet, goddamn you…don't you dare…almost there…wooah!...Oooah!...yow…yow… AWOOOOOOOYOWOWWOWWWOOOOOOOOO!"

Every muscle in her body seized up, and she started bucking off the bed; the girl was strong for her size and she almost bucked them both right off the bed.

That was around the time he went off, while she was still going off, and when Logan went off, he went off.

His eyes crossed, his head whirled, and he took his hands off her and threw his arms out in a big hurry, shaking his sweaty head and roaring, every muscle and tendon in extremis like he had stepped on a live wire, his claws singing out of his hands as the roar tore out of his chest and throat.

SNIKT!

"!"

Then, feeling more than a little dizzy and light in his head, he collapsed over her, retracting his claws and putting his arms around her, gasping for breath with his face against her soaking wet back.

They were both panting, and heaving for air, and Logan realised it would be a little easier for Napalm to breathe without 300 pounds of jellified Wolverine pressing down on her back, so he reared up off her and flopped onto the mattress.

Their bodies parted with a rude, sticky sound that made them both laugh as Liv flopped down beside him.

"Whiskey, Logan. Whiskey." She gasped.

He took a pull off the bottle before handing it to her and after a healthy belt, Liv put the bottle on the floor beside them.

"I got cold beer in that little fridge in the corner. As soon as I can move, I'll get some."

Logan didn't have to ask what she had, it was a cinch it was Guinness in bottles or Newcastle Brown in cans.

Napalm preferred stout, but in a pinch she'd drink German, Canadian or Australian brews, but, in her opinion, American beer was like making love in a canoe.

It was fucking close to water.

She got up and got the beer, and a pizza box, and put on another record.

They sat up in bed and went to work polishing off a few beers the remaining half of a pepperoni and sausage pizza.

"Why did you run out on me, anyway, Logan? You know I look forward to fucking you, oops, I mean, seeing you, all week long?" Liv teased him.

"I didn't know you had a room here, darlin'. I thought you were gonna let me have the truck and take the subway, because of this shitty weather. I was pretty goddamn pissed off about havin' to miss my night with you."

"I gotta great idea, Logan. Let's hole up in here all day tomorrow. We can get more booze from downstairs, the kitchen opens early and closes late, and the weather out there is lousy. It'll be like in the summer. When all we did was eat, drink, drive, fuck, and fight."

"I like that idea. You got anything else ta eat?"

"Yeah. I got a bag of chips under the bed…wait…here ya go. An' don't get crumbs in my bed, or I'll shoot youse in the head."

Logan crunched away at a handful of chips and passed Napalm the bag.

"That won't kill me, yunno." He said.

"Yeah. I know. But it'll give ya somethin' to think about. Wait. I think I got a carton of chicken fried rice in the fridge, too. Lemme go check. Y'wanna 'nother beer?"

"Sure, darlin'."

Logan got , carefully brushed the crumbs out of his chest hair and onto the floor, and put the TV on.

He found a late night movie, a Western.

Liv got back into bed with him, they had another beer and polished off the Chinese food, then they pulled up the blankets, curled up together against the cold, and let the TV put them to sleep.

Just another Wednesday in the life of Wild Wild Wolverine!!!!