The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 2

by Maxim Jakubowski

  Marianne was waiting for me when I got home, sitting in front of our television drinking a mug of mulled wine and watching a film featuring Veronica Lake. She moved her legs down so I could sit next to her. As usual, her eyes were rimmed with red and she’d dressed with the bare minimum of effort. I squeezed her hand and she flashed me a brief smile.

  The following morning I went out with three female friends of mine. Hazel, Ivy and Elizabeth were all young, recently married mothers. I had met them through Marianne. Initially, they had been her friends, calling me up for news about how she was coping. But as she hadn’t seen them in two years and they had stopped asking about her, I now considered them my friends, meeting with them once a week for a few hours of coffee and chat in a cafe in St John’s Wood.

  Every now and again, we were joined by the unofficial fifth member of our party. Her name was Anita and she was by far the most glamorous member of our quintet. Marianne would’ve been furious if she’d known Anita occasionally accompanied us, as Anita had supplied Marianne’s boyfriend Donald with the drugs she believed had precipitated his premature heart attack. Anita had been having a low-key affair with Donald for several years, and Marianne blamed herself for being so understanding about her infidelity, knowing that if she’d been more possessive she might’ve saved his life. Donald was one of many men Anita had spent years seeing on the side, although she usually went for men of more considerable means. Between affairs, she was always short of money, lost without someone to pay for her.

  Hazel, Ivy and Elizabeth were all fascinated by the fact that I had been single for so long. Ivy was the only one who flirted with me, although I knew this didn’t count for anything, as she was as certain in her marriage as the others. But they couldn’t understand why I didn’t make a move on Anita. Every time the subject came up, I used the same excuse,

  “Marianne would kill me.”

  “But how would she know?” This was Elizabeth, the most persistent of my three friends.

  “She’d know. She’d smell it on me.”

  “I don’t see why you’re worried about that,” said Ivy, sucking her lip. “You’ve let Marianne live with you rent-free for two years. She’s in no position to tell you who you can sleep with.”

  “There’s too many demons.”

  “Between you and Anita?” Elizabeth asked. “Why? You hardly knew Donald. Besides, you two have an incredible chemistry. I bet the sex would be amazing.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  “I get the impression that Anita can keep people at a distance even when she’s fucking them. I hate having sex with someone who’s got their barriers up.”

  “You only say that because you’ve heard how she talks about her businessmen blokes. It’d be different for you. You’d be able to break her down.” The other two chuckled darkly at this, encouraging Ivy to add, “If I had your body I could do it.”

  I sipped my coffee and took a bite from my Russian cake, feeling unsettled. I still wasn’t really over last night and felt less comfortable bantering than I usually did. I knew myself well enough to know what I really needed was sexual reassurance and although, in a strange sort of way, that was what my friends were trying to offer me, thinking about Anita made me uneasy.

  “Let’s talk about something else.”

  That evening, I went to a party with my bank manager. She was one of the normal girls who’d made my life so difficult at school. We’d become friends by chance when I went into my hometown bank to open a third account. She’d been impressed by the amount of money I’d been depositing and asked me out on a date. We’d quickly discovered that there were the same differences between us now that there’d been at school, and we’d gone home separately. This had been a big blow to me as she’d been one of the most unobtainable girls in my school and, having spent a large part of my adolescence masturbating with her in my head, I was keen to see whether the real deal rivalled the fantasy.

  After our unsuccessful date, we had concentrated on forming a workable business relationship. I needed more from my bank manager than most people, and was on the phone to her several times a week. And once long enough had elapsed for us not to be embarrassed in each other’s company, we started going out together as friends. I became her walker, accompanying Vicki to social events once or twice a month. These events were not grand affairs, consisting mainly of nights in the pub or dinner-parties organised by her friends.

  Tonight’s party was in Jamie’s Bar in Charlotte Street. One of Vicki’s friends had just returned from two years in Australia and a gathering had been organised to welcome him back. Vicki didn’t seem that excited about the party, and unusually for her, wasn’t even worried about changing for the evening, meeting me straight from work. Seeing her in a conservative suit reminded me of how great she used to look in her school uniform, and I wondered again about my impotent reaction to the women in my life. It was odd: I was excellent with strangers, no matter how attractive, able to go into a club or bar, find someone single, and persuade them to take me home with them. But as soon as it came to anyone with whom I had the slightest emotional connection, I became a complete drip.

  Feeling depressed, I drank too much and found myself telling Vicki what had happened with Tracey. I made a joke out of it, saying that it was probably not a good idea for me to tell my bank manager I’d been offering ex-girlfriends extravagant amounts of money for them to sleep with me.

  She downed her glass, winked at me, and said, “I could do with some money.”

  We went to her place. In the taxi we bartered about the price: Vicki saying she wanted twice the amount I’d offered my girlfriend; me saying for that much money I expected something special.

  I wasn’t that surprised by the way she reacted. Vicki had spent the whole of her adult life working with money, and no doubt saw this as a neat way of mocking its black magic. The idea of being paid for sex clearly appealed to her, as did taking a human transaction so lightly. I paid the driver and we went into her house.

  “So,” she asked, “how do you want me?”

  I thought back to all those adolescent afternoons. My fantasy had always been that while I was masturbating about Vicki she was somewhere masturbating about me. I told her this, thinking that was maybe how we’d start.

  She chuckled. “You know, I never did. Not about you. I must’ve done it about almost every boy in the class, but never about you.”

  I couldn’t reply. She noticed my sadness and said hurriedly, “I would’ve done, though, you know, if I’d known you were doing it about me.”

  “You must’ve known.”

  “Why?”

  “Every boy in the year used to masturbate about you. We used to compare experiences.”

  She looked at me. “Really? I honestly had no idea. Can I tell you about a fantasy of mine?”

  “Of course.”

  “I used to fantasize about groups of boys in the class masturbating over me. You know, with all that AIDS talk in assemblies sperm was seen as such an evil substance. But it didn’t seem that way to me. I wanted to be totally coated in it.”

  She must’ve noticed my horrified expression, as she immediately eased back from our sexual conversation and asked me instead if I wanted a coffee. I nodded and she went out into the kitchen to make me one. I took advantage of the spare moment to assess my surroundings. Houses always look strange when there’s only one person living in them, but Vicki had done a good job of making her place look comfortable. Before Marianne moved in with me, there had always been something defiant about my decoration, as if I was trying to create a home that would be the envy of anyone who visited it. But nothing I could buy from a shop could add the warmth created by another person’s belongings.

  Vicki was clearly less troubled by being alone, and although she couldn’t quite disguise the fact that she had too much space to herself, the lounge looked like somewhere she’d be equally happy entertaining friends or watching television alone. I like
d the fact that she’d left stuff out (a hairdryer lying on its side next to a rectangular white extension-plug; a box-set of Friends episodes by the television; three cotton-wool balls dyed scarlet with nail-varnish on a copy of the Express next to the electric fire), and began to relax as I settled down into her settee.

  She returned with my cup of coffee. After her revelations about her childhood come-fantasies, I didn’t feel like watching her masturbate any more, and anyway, that was far too passive. It was time for me to become masterful.

  “Take your trousers off,” I told her.

  “Let’s see the money first.”

  “What?”

  “Cash up front. I don’t want you changing your mind after you’ve had me and pretending the payment thing was just a joke.”

  “OK. How much did we agree on?”

  “A thousand. Do you carry that kind of money with you?”

  “No. Will you take a cheque? You know I’m good for it.”

  “Do you have your cheque-book on you?”

  “No, but come on, Vicki, you’re my bank manager. You can easily debit my account whenever you want.”

  “Write me an IOU.”

  “I don’t have a pen.”

  “There’s one on the table.”

  I got up and wrote out an IOU, wondering what was behind this banter. Although a thousand pounds wasn’t bad for one night’s work, I couldn’t believe that Vicki was genuinely only doing this for the money. The way I looked at it, the play with potential prostitution was just spice to stoke up enough excitement to get us through a one-night stand. If she was taking it seriously . . . well, fuck it, if she was taking it seriously, I’d just make sure I got my money’s worth.

  “Right. Now get those trousers off.”

  She stood up, walked across to the table and checked the IOU. Seemingly satisfied, Vicki came across to me and put one foot up between my legs.

  “Unbuckle my shoes first.”

  I felt pleased she was bossing me back, thinking that this proved she was getting into what we were doing. I gripped her ankle before following her instruction, a motion that seemed to please her. Shoes removed, she turned her back to me. I sank down slightly so her bottom was directly in front of my face, then waited as she undid the buckle on her belt and slowly lowered her trousers over her buttocks. She was wearing a flimsy pair of white translucent knickers: the kind that pulled tight between her legs so that the material covering her bum formed a triangle. I gripped her hips. She let her trousers fall to the floor and stepped out of them.

  “I bet you’re a man who likes bottoms.”

  I giggled. “What?”

  “Let’s see, shall we? What happens when I do this?”

  She slid her fingers under the elastic of her knickers and pulled them down. Using a foot to flip them onto a pile with her trousers, she leaned forwards and pushed her bum up in my face, using her fingers to pull open her cheeks. The light was good in Vicki’s apartment and I had a full view of the soft creases of her anus. She was right: I did like this sight, although few of the girls I’d been out with had shown it to me so readily, and it was a hard thing to request of a one-night stand. I could see why Vicki was so willing to reveal hers to me. I know this sounds strange, but it was absolutely beautiful, the skin moving so perfectly to the small hole in the centre with each tuck in exactly the right place. From this angle I could also see a rear view of her vagina, which was equally well defined, the flesh of her outer labia almost spookily symmetrical. Vicki seemed to revel in my slow appraisal and after my nice, long look I pushed my tongue onto her welcoming folds. I held Vicki’s hips and managed to get deep into her, curious whether she liked having this done to her as much as I liked having it done to me. I licked for a while and then asked her, “Can you touch yourself while I do this to you?”

  “Well, I can, but you’ll have to hold me open.”

  “That’s OK.”

  She released her buttocks and I took over, opening her even wider. The muscles in my tongue felt pleasurably strained as I buried my mouth into her bottom, wanting her to feel totally loose. She fingered herself slowly at first, but when I showed no sign of wearying she speeded up. I wondered if she would be prepared to come with me and felt scared about how much I wanted that to happen. But I also wanted to come too, and as her moans grew shallower I stopped sucking her asshole.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Nothing. I realise it’s not very romantic to interrupt the sex like this but, seeing as I’m paying . . .”

  “Yes?” she asked, impatient.

  “What are you like with orgasms? Do you come? Can you come? Do you always need fingers, or can you come just from fucking? Can you come lots of times or is it one-time-only, lights out?”

  “I’m weird. Back to front. When I masturbate it takes for ever, but I guarantee if you fuck me for more than three minutes that’ll hit the spot.”

  “That’s not back to front, that’s perfect. And can you still fuck after you’ve come?”

  “Yeah, but if we’re gonna do that can we use lubricant? You don’t have to wear a condom.”

  “Of course. Have you got some?”

  “I’ll fetch it.”

  She moved away from me and went out into the hallway. I watched her go, finding it sexy to see her bare legs beneath the jacket of the work-suit she was still wearing. I waited while she went upstairs, rubbing my cock through the pocket of my trousers. When Vicki returned she could tell I was looking at her cunt and stopped beneath the main light, letting me see her. As I’d expected, she had a neat bikini line, an unnecessary precaution for one so fair, but nice to look at all the same. Although this was definitely an incredibly sexy moment for me, I couldn’t help feeling slightly disappointed. Seeing Vicki Wade’s cunt . . . this was a childhood dream come true, but how could it hold the same magic for me now that it had done back then? I remembered one time when a boy from our school had told us that he’d seen Vicki doing stretches in the gym, and her leotard had ridden up so high that, as he’d put it, “he even saw her pin”. For months afterward I’d dreamt about being in his place, even (if you’d caught me in a weak moment) prepared to give up my life to share the sight.

  Maybe I should’ve offered her money back then. She probably wouldn’t have accepted it, but who knows? Of course, in those days I couldn’t even get near her, let alone start a conversation that would lead up to me offering her money to show me her cunt. It’s odd, but even now, the thought of Vicki’s adolescent vagina tucked inside that unfaithful leotard seemed sexier than the reality in front of me. I’m not a pervert, and have no interest in schoolgirls (even women my age dressed up in school uniform), but the power of that missed moment was so strong that the fantasy almost managed to obliterate what was happening now.

  Vicki seemed to notice my distraction and brushed her fingers down over herself. She pretended that she too was distracted, but then quickly looked back at me and smiled when she saw me grip myself through my trousers again.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “I want to come inside you.”

  “I’ve already said that’s fine.”

  “I know, but I need to be sucked first.”

  “Oh, OK.” She walked back to me, knelt down and unzipped my fly. Pulling open my trousers, she slid my cock out through the slit in my boxer shorts and took it into her mouth. I don’t really need to describe the experience other than to tell you she was good at it, although to be honest I’ve never been with a woman who wasn’t. Remembering her promise of how little sex she needed to orgasm, I let her suck me longer than I normally would, eventually stopping her with a gentle pat on both shoulders.

  She looked up at me, and her expression seemed so open that I snapped out of porno mode and stroked the side of her face. She bent down, unlaced my shoes, and stripped me from the waist downwards. Picking up her blue tube of lubricant, she squeezed a blob onto her palm, spread it over my cock then rubbed the rest inside her. Pulli
ng my cock forwards, she slid herself gently on top of me. I kissed her, realizing as I did so that it was the first time our lips had touched. It’s embarrassing and inappropriate, but the first time I fuck someone I always want to tell them I love them. Thankfully, tonight I conquered that urge and mouthed it softly to myself instead. Our fucking was surprisingly (for me, anyway) forceful: a proper, deep, heterosexual shag that carried us both to orgasm and left us woozily clinging to each other. We stayed like that until Vicki climbed off of me and asked,

  “Did you get your money’s worth?”

  Marianne was asleep in front of the television when I got back. She often nodded out in the lounge, waking up again about three or four and going to bed. Feeling bolder than usual, I decided to carry her upstairs. When we reached the landing she awoke and, after taking a few seconds to adjust to the situation, sniffed my neck.

  “You smell of sex.”

  I didn’t say anything. She smiled, and let me carry her to her room and drop her on her bed. As I turned out her light she said, “Someone called for you. There’s a message on the machine.”

  I went downstairs and played the message. It was Tracey, apologizing for the other night and saying she wanted to see me again. Tomorrow. Although it was after one, I called her straight back. She reminded me of her address and told me to come over at seven o’clock. I replaced the receiver and went to bed.

  The following morning Marianne and I both awoke earlier than usual and decided to have breakfast together. This was quite an unusual occurrence for both of us and, as we lacked even the most basic supplies, I headed off to the deli. When I came back Marianne had made me a coffee and was sitting at the end of the table sipping hers, wrapped in a dark-blue silk dressing-gown.