I did not answer but pulled my buttocks up, and pulled off the piece of underwear obstructing you. And wedged myself deep into the seat, opened my thighs and again closed my eyes.
Your hand sported intelligence. At first, it made no demands. Wandered quietly over my fur, knuckles slowly skimming over its surface, a pleasing caress. The hum of the lorry’s engine and the bumps in the road echoed all the way through to my sex, where I could feel a whole network of nerve terminals vibrating in unison. It was like a sort of telephone switchboard in my lower stomach, impatiently awaiting calls and demands.
“Tell me . . .” you asked.
I did not misunderstand your request. All you wanted to hear from me was how I felt right then.
“I know it’s called a pussy,” I said. “I feel as if it’s about to miaow!”
“I love animals,” you answered.
“They always return your affection,” I whispered back, my voice suddenly quite hoarse as one of your errant fingers penetrated me.
You found it amusing to enter and withdraw from me in a slow, gentle rhythm. I slipped my hand under the palm of your hand, still warming my mons, found my bud and delicately landed on it, careful not to rush anything, to make this holy moment last as long as possible, this very instant when imagination moves residence and settles in highly secret places.
My dreams were at sea, balanced on the waves. My cunt was the sea, waves crashing against each other, ebb and flow, ebb and flow . . .
I was in the depths, dark, salty, wetter than wet and my stomach was initiating a new, steady pulse, ever increasing in strength: hold back, hold on, hold back, hold on . . . I was becoming an underwater cave, a dizzy abyss. Soon I would require something stronger, something to war against, to fight back, to digest. I beckoned the myths of the great sea serpent, the indefatigable swimmer, the steel-membered Argonaut. I begged to be taken . . .
You were still driving, your eyes on the road, a foreigner to all that was happening between my thighs. You kindly offered me another finger. It was welcome, but the angle of penetration slowed its movements, causing pain in the midst of pleasure.
“You’re wet!” you said.
“You’re the one who’s making me wet. I’m like a jetty covered in kelp, you know, after the wave has subsided . . . A jetty after the storm . . .”
I thought of mooring bitts. I placed my left hand on your flies.
You raised yourself slightly to allow me to unbutton your top button, as it was too tight. The rest came easy. I quickly found you.
It’s damn crazy to jerk off like that, a thick cock in hand, and dreaming of being elsewhere. Can drive you mad.
I don’t really know you, but there’s a place for you inside of me. Several places, even. This was the moment when I realized how perfectly we complemented each other. This cock I held in my hand, I wanted to take it everywhere into me, wherever it might fit. I also felt like devouring it, an imperious desire, a ferocious appetite, a pressing need to be one with it, to commune in agony. But if I bent towards you, you would have had to let go of me, and I did not want that. The explosion was approaching, I could no longer control it. I looked around at you, disturbed.
“I think I’m . . .”
“Yes, of course. Yes!” you gently said. As you would put a friend at ease. The kindness of this permission reassured me and banished all the mental storm clouds away.
But, please, don’t let it make you stop!
And you understood so well both the situation and the urgency clearly, and your fingers pursued their passionate, dizzy journey inside me, this hesitant waltz strong enough to melt all resistance, travails worthy of Sisyphus and the ocean and handfuls of planets. Forward, further, much further, gently, back a bit, almost pulling out, ever so slowly, forward, much further, back a bit gently . . . I keep company with you, with all my soul, with all my guts and I’m chased by a giant wave riding behind me, biting at my heels, catching me . . . Lo, here it comes . . .
I held your cock tight in the grip of my hand, froze, winced, riding the crest of the giant tidal wave lifting me up, sitting on the throne of an eruption of sheer undiluted pleasure, cushioning all its aftershocks . . .
You parked smoothly on the side of the road, switched off the engine. I turned towards you, short of breath, still boiling. You explained: “It was either that, or move into second gear . . .” I acquiesced. Yes, yes, you were quite right to do so! If you’d switched gears, the let-down would have been awful, a true low in my career . . . The teacher in me smiled at the analogy, but offered him no explanation . . . Anyway, all my energy had quite dissipated . . .
“It was good!” I said, with a lack of conviction that saw you roar with laughter.
“I’m absolutely delighted,” you declared theatrically, waving your hands upwards, and for just one second, I saw the sheen of my lust shine on your fingers.
Wait, just you wait and see how I can please you too!
I bend toward you. Your cock had a heady smell. Reminiscent of the corduroy fabric of your trousers. But also the smell of man. Wild. Lingering . . .
The joy in my stomach, which still hadn’t subsided, rose sharply again. I laid my tongue on the tip of your cock. It was slippery. A thin, appetizing, salty stream pearled out of the thin hole and I spread it all over the pink, round, bare, stirring glans. Men’s cocks are custom-made to be devoured. There’s nothing more eatable in a man. It’s firm, elastic, spongy, so soft you feel your tongue should dance on tiptoe over it, like a cheeky skater on a bed of ice.
Your cock is so thick I don’t think I could suck on all of it . . . At any rate, not in my present position . . . Under my skirt, the echo continues. My cunt is still quivering.
“Give it to me . . .”
“Ask, come on, you can ask better . . .”
“Please, please, please. I want it badly . . .”
“You can do better!”
“Come to me, please . . . I am so hot inside. Touch me, touch, I’m on fire, I’m so wet, put it inside, I’ll go crazy. I’ll suck you off so good. Come!”
“Ask! Ask again!”
“Damn it! Come . . . Look, how it needs me too: it can’t even stand still, it’s ready to burst if you don’t put it in, put it inside me, fuck me, please? Come. I’m hungry, hungry for you, hungry for it. Look, it will slide in so easily, it’s ready . . . You can’t keep it, this big dumb thing, all to yourself? Look, look, I’m opening up for it, see. See how I gape wide open, hurry, hurry, or I’ll come without you, just the thought of you screwing me . . . We will lose it all . . .”
The threats had the desired effect. You laid me down onto the seat, down on your knees on the other seat you pulled me across, pushed your trousers down . . . Lust stabbed through my heart. And I still hadn’t even seen your balls!
You move into me like butter. I can almost feel your taste. It’s a famished beast I have between my thighs. Eat, feast yourself, my little animal! It’s Christmas, I’m your midnight supper!
I swallow you whole with torrid pleasure. Your cock is hard, I can feel it butt against my walls, at the back, and the soft blows reverberate all the way through to my arse. It’s exhilarating . . . I’ve a finger on my clit, doing God knows only what, and it feels good, like a mandolin player. And with my left hand, I held your balls, heavy, thick, gorgeous. My imagination is on fire thinking of them, swollen and creamy. Eat, kiddo, eat! Soon it will be time for dessert . . . This guy is soon about to spurt all the way into you, the way you like it! My brain grows more excited as it pictures visions of eruptions surging upwards at the speed of light. I naively press hard against your balls, as if to empty them.
“Come, come . . .”
“No, not before you do. Come quickly.”
“I can’t. I just can’t, yet.”
How could I explain that my lust was dependent on yours?
“You first, you first. . . you keep on saying,” and I realize that you are going to wait as long as it takes while I’m almost suffocat
ing here, suspended above the abyss.
“Tell me what you want me to do? Tell me . . . You’re so good to me.”
“Take me everywhere. Behind, also.”
You are obedience personified. My desires are orders. You stab my arsehole with your thick, aggressive, fiery thumb. It scares me and fills me with joy at the same time.
“Do you feel me, there? [Hard not to. I feel only you.] Are you ready to come, now? Ready?”
“If you keep on stretching me open so, everywhere, yes, yes, it’ll soon come . . . Listen, listen, it’s coming, it’s coming, it’s almost here, it’s . . . now, right now, give, give it to me, you too . . .”
You fell upon me. You’re much heavier than I thought you would be. And so much more gentle, too.
When I opened my eyes, the snow had stopped falling. You caught your breath back, readjusted your clothing, settled again behind the steering wheel. My chest is still resonating, my ears too, full of the roar of the giant wave that has washed me away. With sharp burns everywhere, their scars gradually declining and being replaced by a wholesome feeling of lassitude.
“You can sleep, if you want to.”
You indicate the cot, behind the front seats. No, I don’t wish to leave you on your own. I will not sleep.
And the journey continues, quietly, slowly. We’re in a sleigh smoothly sliding through a white and sleepy landscape.
From time to time, you stop. People wish you a merry Christmas. We go again. There are bells in my head, champagne flowing through my body, and my heart. Small bubbles sparkle and tickle me everywhere. You’re nice, you’re funny. I don’t regret anything.
In the morning, you lightly brush against my drowsiness.
“We’re arriving in La Rochelle. Where do you want me to drop you?”
I open my eyes, see a dead town amidst a still black dawn.
“At the railway station.”
“What?”
“Yes, I have to tell you. You know, when we met, I wasn’t leaving Lyon. I’d just arrived. I was going to spend Christmas there. I didn’t feel like it . . .”
“You’d just come from La Rochelle?”
“No, from Grenoble.”
“But . . .? Why did you tell me of La Rochelle?”
“I saw you. I saw your lorry, the sign ‘Marennes’. I thought, ‘That’s where that guy is going back to, tonight.’ And I reckoned ‘Why not?’”
Your eyes flickered with laughter.
“It’s funny.”
“Why?”
“Because, when you saw me, I was about to hand over the lorry to a mate. I wasn’t supposed to bring it back. I was scheduled to sleep in Lyon. I’d already been driving all day.”
“That’s why you had to go to the office?”
“Yes, that’s where I was meant to meet up with him. I told Dupre, ‘I’m replacing you.’ He didn’t mind.”
“Is it legal?”
“No, not really, but it can be done . . . He’d found this chick in Lyon. Gave him the chance to spend Christmas Eve with her. He was pleased.”
“Weren’t you supposed to spend Christmas with your family?”
“No, I was going to wait for the next lorry to do the journey.”
“So, now, what are you going to do?”
“First, sleep a bit. Then return to Lyon.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow morning, maybe.”
“So . . .?”
“Yes, why not?”
THREE FOR THE MONEY
Marilyn Jaye Lewis
Yesterday, I went to a funeral uptown. When I left my apartment in the morning, it had been the proverbial spring day, birds chirping, daffodils blooming in the park – the works. Naturally, by the time I came up from the subway station an hour and a half later, it had begun to rain. Funerals are a bit like rain dances in that way; people gather together in mourning, and the earth itself cries.
The dead guy, Marten Santos, had been notoriously rich and depraved while he was alive. He had never tried to pass as righteous, though, never pretended to be perfect. We all knew about his peculiar tastes and erratic passions, and loved him for that. Nevertheless, he’d been raised a strict Roman Catholic and so the funeral was a stuffy, conservative affair, held at Our Lady of Divine Sorrows. After the funeral, as the teary-eyed pallbearers removed the casket from the church and solemnly loaded it into the back of the hearse, Our Lady’s bell tolled mournfully, sounding all the more poignant in the gray drizzle of rain. He was a man who was going to be missed by a lot of good people.
In life, Mr Santos had been one of my favorite tricks. When he died suddenly of a heart attack three days ago, the newspaper said that he was pushing seventy. During the year when he’d been one of my regulars, he claimed to be fifty-five. It says a lot that after all these years I was moved enough by a sense of loss to attend his funeral. But then, he hadn’t always been a trick. With Mr Santos, I’d done the unthinkable and allowed a favorite John to become a lover, or nearly so. The shame of that slip-up on my part, and a difficult scene he put me through in a cheap hotel room, had caused us to part on uncomfortable terms. Still, it made me no less fond of him.
I don’t turn tricks anymore, I haven’t for years. I’m almost forty now. I work in a respectable office and I earn a respectable living. I present a very hard-assed, successful-bitch version of myself to the world and it’s helped me to succeed and keep my past where it should be, in the past. The frantic, frenetic survival skills acquired by all New Yorkers makes the town a forgiving place. As long as you don’t wind up at the heart of a sordid public scandal in a court of law, where New Yorkers show their ugly sides and revel in seeing your past mistakes slung at you like so much mud, you can do just about anything to get ahead in this town and not have to worry too much that it’ll come back to haunt you.
Mr Santos and I first met in an upscale espresso shop on the Upper East Side. This was back in the 80s, when a whole lot of people had money to burn. Mr Santos was friends with the owner, Hajid, who was one of my regulars, too. Hajid liked getting blow jobs behind the desk in his office. His office was in the basement of the coffee house. It was decidedly downscale in that dark, damp, vermin-infested cellar. However, a simple blow job, as long as I was willing to have my pants around my knees and keep my naked ass out for his viewing pleasure, lasted only about ten minutes and garnered me two hundred tax-free dollars, so I found ways to make even that ratskeller seem erotic.
The evening I met Mr Santos, I was actually just having coffee. I wasn’t engaged in business. Hajid and I were on friendly terms. He introduced me to Mr Santos, with a nod and a wink, and Mr Santos pulled up a chair. He got right down to the business of getting to know me better. He ended the meeting by paying my modest tab and then asking me for my phone number, which of course I gave him since it was obvious he was loaded – even more so than Hajid.
Our trysts started out simple and straightforward. Mr Santos would always arrange for me to meet him in other rich people’s high-class apartments. The people he knew went on extended vacations, traveled on business to faraway places, or had primary homes in other countries. Mr Santos was married back then, and apparently he and his other married male friends formed a cozy circle of infidels, each leaving the rest of the crew a key to his empty apartment for extramarital liaisons in his absence. I don’t think the wives ever had a clue what was taking place in the sanctity of their homes while they were off on holiday.
I was never to touch anything, never allowed to get too comfortable in the jaw-dropping luxury of our trysting places. Mr Santos liked anal and that was pretty much the sole basis of our get-togethers, at first. Without fanfare, he would unzip his trousers; let them fall unceremoniously to his ankles, along with his boxers. He’d slip on a rubber; slather it with the lube that he carried in his pocket in handy individual foil packets. Then I’d bend over anything steady and he’d slide his cock up my ass.
He fucked me like a man who had important meetings to get to, so he us
ually came pretty quickly. I didn’t have to say anything weird, or dress in anything unusual. I simply had to show up with an absolutely clean asshole, bend over and let him ream me; that was all he required. For that, I got five hundred dollars cash; five crisp, one-hundred-dollar bills, folded in the middle, which he’d place under my nose while I was still bending over – before he’d even pulled his cock out of me, I’d get paid.
There was something about the way he paid me that tended to make me feel a little humiliated, but he didn’t seem to think twice about it. By the time I’d turn around, he’d have the used condom off, his trousers pulled up, and would be heading to the toilet to flush the condom down. He never said anything like. “Here’s your money you whore,” or “Take that, bitch.” He just had a funny habit of leaving it parked under my nose while my ass was still stuffed with him.
I remember when we had our first real conversation. It was a day when he seemed to be at leisure. He wasn’t pressed for time, wasn’t hurrying. It was a day when he wandered around the spacious apartment we were using, looking for the perfect place to bend me over, making small talk, making jokes. “Bend over that chair there, let me see the view. Pull up your skirt. No, we can find something better.”
When he finally decided on the perfect spot – an economically correct artist’s stool – he lifted my skirt himself, pulled my panties down (an intimate gesture he’d never once done before) and then said, “You know what this reminds me of?”
My naked ass in the air, my thighs spread in anticipation, my head hanging down, I said, “No, what?”
“Church. This reminds me of church.”
He didn’t elaborate and I had no idea what he was talking about. But the thought of church seemed to make him feel even more jovial. He sank to his knees and rimmed me, his hot, wet tongue expertly stroking my puckered hole. It felt sensational. I actually moaned and felt like touching myself.
Having his nose in my ass seemed to arouse his passion, for that day he fucked my ass especially vigorously, nearly knocking me off the stool several times. The mounting pressure of his thickening hard-on sucking in and out of my ass made me cry out. When he came, he pulled his cock out a little aggressively, gave me a resounding smack on my upturned ass, and said, “Here you go. Thanks, kiddo.” And the money was once again placed in front of my face – on this occasion, I’d been staring at a parquet floor.
The Mammoth Book of International Erotica Page 6
