The Mammoth Book of International Erotica

by Maxim Jakubowski

  A dozen gilt bangles jingled as the woman heaved a macramé bag onto the counter, fumbled out a cigarette to slot between lips that were far too red, and started fumbling again. She found a bookmatch with just one match left and struck it. It spluttered out.

  That gave Stuart his chance to perform a tiny courtesy. He slid off his stool, walked the length of the counter, and flicked his lighter. She bent to the flame without looking at him and nodded her “thanks”.

  Stuart went back to his stool, vaguely disappointed, vaguely resentful.

  Her cup had to be empty. The kid behind the counter said something to her. She shook her head and lifted styrofoam to her lips, but Stuart was sure she was faking that there was coffee left. Her throat – her long slender throat – didn’t make any swallowing motions.

  Nowhere to go? No money? Could she be a battered wife who’d finally walked out? That’d make her even more vulnerable, more in need of his chivalry, more . . . Stuart didn’t complete the thought. Everyone has a dark side. Most of us just don’t look into those shadows, right? Best not to know what lurks there.

  She stubbed half her cigarette into a foil ashtray, faked another sip at her empty cup and groped for another smoke. Stuart decided to have a second stab at being nice.

  She swivelled on her stool to meet him, took the cigarette from her mouth between two fingers, touched the back of his flame-bearing hand with her nail-tips, looked up at him, and asked, “Should I?”

  “Should you?”

  “Smoke another cigarette.”

  The sensible answer would have been, “That’s up to you.”

  Stuart told her, “Yes,” in a firm voice.

  “If you say so, I will.”

  She had a rusty contralto. Stuart moved his neck inside the collar of his topcoat. Her voice had been like velvet stroking his nape. The sharp points of her fingernails had left tingles in his skin.

  “Would you like another coffee?”

  “Should I?”

  Stuart snapped his fingers and pointed to her cup instead of answering.

  The kid looked at him. Stuart said, “Two”.

  The woman said, “Virginia.”

  Stuart said, “Stuart, with a ‘u’.”

  They sipped coffee in awkward silence. When Stuart was done he cleared his throat. “It’s late.”

  “Should I go home?”

  “I would.” She had a home to go to? Was he glad for her, or disappointed?

  “How should I get there?”

  Stuart shrugged. “Is it far? Do you have a car? Do you need a cab?”

  She spilled coins onto the counter. Her finger counted a dollar eighty-five.

  “Do you need cab fare?”

  “Should I?” again.

  “I’m working at the TD Centre. Hawkins and Bradley – if you wanted to repay me sometime.” He pulled out his wallet, half-extracted a twenty, and paused. “A better idea. I’ll call a taxi and drop you off on the way to my hotel, okay?”

  She huddled in the far corner of the cab and looked out of the window, silent. So – he’d been wrong. It wasn’t a pick-up. At least he’d had a few words of conversation with an attractive woman. As lonely as he was, those moments were worth the extra cab-fare and the price of a coffee.

  As she got out she looked back at him, lips almost parting, but she didn’t smile and she didn’t even say goodnight. Stuart decided not to think about her again. He’d been ready to sin, so the memory would be a guilty one, but he hadn’t followed through, so there’d be no secret pleasure to savour.

  The night-line on his desk rang at six-forty the next evening.

  “Should I go for a walk or is it too cold?”

  Something icy flopped over inside Stuart’s chest. He collected himself and said, “Do you have another coat?”

  “No.”

  “It’s too cold out for that one. Stay home.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “What should I do at home?”

  He almost snapped, “Read a book, watch tv, whatever!” but he said, “Think about tomorrow and get an early night.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Meet me for breakfast. Nine-thirty. Get a cab to the Sheraton. I’ll pick up the tab.”

  “What should I wear?”

  “Hold on.” Stuart laid the phone down. He needed to think. She was the most frustrating . . . But it was exciting too, wasn’t it? “Should I this, should I do that?” Did she have no mind of her own? And if she didn’t? What would that be like? A puppet woman, doing absolutely nothing without his permission, and perhaps doing anything that he suggested?

  But that couldn’t be, could it? No one was that pliant – that blank. Then again, what if she was? How could he resist putting her to the test? What would he be missing if he just walked away? If he didn’t find out he’d never forgive himself.

  He picked the phone up. “Something attractive.”

  “Attractive.”

  “Sexy.”

  “Very well. What do you like?”

  This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be. The bubble would burst. He’d tell her to do something, and she’d refuse, just like any normal woman. Best to pop the illusion right then.

  “Do you mean to tell me that if I told you to meet me stark naked under your coat, you would?”

  “Is that what you’d like?”

  “Of course not. Do you have a short skirt?”

  “Yes.”

  “A see-through blouse?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’ll do then.”

  “Stockings, pantihose or bare legs?”

  Stuart felt an erection starting to grow. “Stockings.”

  “Heels?”

  “High. The highest you have.”

  “Nine-thirty. Thank you Stuart.”

  He stared at his screen, blind to the glowing numbers. He couldn’t go through with this. She obviously had a problem, a mental problem. It’d be wrong, evil, to take advantage of her. He just wouldn’t show.

  And then she’d be there, with a cab waiting for fare, and her with a dollar eighty-five in small change. He had to show. Anyway – she was likely playing a game with him, right? She would be the one who didn’t show. She’d be home, with a manfriend, laughing at the poor sap who was going to get up early to meet some fantasy woman for breakfast. That was fine. He’d show, and it’d be worth the small humiliation of being stood up to have a clean conscience and it all over with.

  But she did show, her coat flapping, tottering on five-inch heels, thighs almost skinny beneath a tiny skirt. He had to endure the embarrassment of eating breakfast in a public place with a woman who was wearing a transparent blouse with nothing beneath it. Stuart supposed it was his own fault. He hadn’t told her to wear a bra, had he?

  She ordered what he ordered and he sat there staring at her breasts while trying to look as if he wasn’t. They were worth looking at, much too full and heavy for her slender frame and with dark brown nipples the size of demi-tasse coffee cups.

  She owed him, didn’t she? Two cab fares and a breakfast he’d sweated through? He’d collect, say goodbye, and forget her. Perhaps he’d pay her off with a hundred and put her in her place. She might not be a prostitute but she was certainly a slut, of sorts. She was there to be used, so he’d use her, just the once.

  Stuart signed their bill and said, “Follow me.”

  She was two paces behind him, except in the elevator, all the way to his suite. “Humble” demands humiliation. That’s what he’d give her. For once in his life he was going to screw a woman with absolutely no concern for her pleasure, unless she balked, of course. A part of him wanted her to balk, to refuse, to say, “No!”

  He’d make her say, “No”.

  “Hang your coat up and take your clothes off.”

  She didn’t say, “No.”

  “Kneel in front of me.”

  She didn’t say “No”.

  Stuart mauled and kneaded her breasts. She stared
at his belt buckle, expressionless. He pinched the rubbery tips of her nipples. He took them between his fingers and his thumbs and shook her breasts. She didn’t complain. She didn’t react. He tugged, pulling her breasts into obscene shapes. Her expression didn’t change. His thumbnails dug in. She took a sharp breath.

  “Did that hurt?” he asked.

  “Some.”

  “Do you want me to stop?”

  “Only if you want to.”

  “Do you like it when I hurt your nipples?”

  “Should I?”

  Christ she was frustrating! “Open my fly.”

  She pulled his zipper down and dropped her hand back to her side.

  “Take it out! Take my cock out and suck it!”

  Cool fingers groped inside his pants, found him and tugged him out. She held him delicately with a thumb and two fingers, like an aficionado with a fine cigar. Her mouth formed an “O”. She leaned closer and took the head of his cock between her lips. Her cheeks hollowed.

  “Deeper!”

  Her lips slithered down his stem. Stuart felt the head of his cock glide across the flat of her tongue to nudge at the back of her throat.

  “You like it, don’t you?” he demanded.

  She nodded.

  “You’re a horny slut! A whore!”

  She nodded again.

  “I’m going to fuck your face! What do you think of that?”

  She withdrew, slowly, smearing his stem with brilliant red lipstick. “If that’s what you want, Stuart.”

  It was lust and it was anger, so mixed together that he didn’t know where one ended and the other began. He locked his fingers in her riotous hair and thrust deep into her waiting mouth. He’d take his pleasure of her mouth. He’d choke her with his cock. He’d make her gag. He’d . . .

  She took his pounding, her tongue pushing up under his cock to press it hard against the roof of her mouth. She’d done it before, often. She was nothing but a . . .

  He came.

  She showed initiative for the first time, sucking hard and long, drawing his come out through the eye of his cock like an infinite length of knotted silk. She sucked and gulped and gulped and sucked until his guilty pleasure became a shameful ache.

  “Enough!”

  She gave one last hard draw before releasing him.

  Stuart didn’t tuck himself in. Leaving his cock dangling from his fly would show her how little he thought of her. He dropped a fifty at her knees and told her, “There’s cab fare. I have to get a nap now. I work late hours.”

  She dressed and left without a word.

  When the phone on his desk rang at six-forty he knew who it was.

  “Do you want to see me for breakfast?”

  Did he? Of course he didn’t. This whole thing was sick, kinky. The sooner it was over the better.

  Did he? Of course he did. Being married didn’t equal “all fantasies fulfilled”. His Janice was a reasonably sexy woman. They made love twice a week, most weeks, which wasn’t bad after twelve years of marriage. He respected his wife, and that was the problem. She was worthy of his respect, which meant there were things she wouldn’t do, and that he wouldn’t dare suggest she did. You don’t risk a marriage for the sake of a few extra thrills, do you?

  That meant that there were sex acts he’d never tried, and had half resigned himself he never would. Now – now the opportunity had leapt into his lap, as it were. How could a man turn his back on that? Anyway, the chances were that those things weren’t that great, once you’d tried them. Get them out of his system, that was it. He was far enough from home that what he did wouldn’t be real, anyway. Work out those dark desires and then he’d be much more content with what he had at home. In a way, he’d be doing Janice a favour, not that she’d ever know, of course.

  A voice cleared its throat on the line. She – Virginia – was waiting patiently for his answer.

  “No – I won’t meet you in the lobby. Come straight up to my suite. I’ll order room service.”

  “Nine-thirty?”

  “Yes.”

  “What should I wear?”

  Damn the woman! How was he supposed to know what was in her closet? Still . . .

  “Hose and heels again.”

  “Yes Stuart.”

  “Do you have a button-through dress?”

  “Yes Stuart.”

  Yes, yes, yes! Didn’t she know any other word? He’d push. There had to be some point that she’d say, “No”.

  “No underwear.”

  “Very well, Stuart.”

  “Do you have some lubricant? Baby oil or something?”

  “Yes Stuart.”

  Hell! She didn’t even ask what for. Perhaps she knew. Perhaps that’s what she wanted.

  “And some rope? Cord? Soft cord?”

  “How long, Stuart?”

  “Six feet should do.”

  “Yes Stuart.”

  He hung up before his perversity made him tell her to bring a whip or something. If he had, would she have? He wouldn’t know, would he, unless . . .

  Stuart touched his screen-saver off and concentrated on nice safe numbers.

  Her dress was a faded blue floral print, mid-thigh long and straining across the swaying masses of her breasts. She might have had it since she’d been a teen and less developed. It reminded him that once she’d been young and innocent, so he had her take it off before they sat down to eat.

  It was very different, eating alone with her, him in robe and pyjama pants, her in just heels, hose, bangles and earrings, which is more naked than total nudity. He could look at her breasts all he liked, with no pretence. They had a very slight sag. He was glad of that tiny imperfection. It made her more vulnerable.

  They were freckled as well. Did that mean she was a true redhead? It was strange, he’d used her mouth – used it in a way that he’d never have dreamed of using Janice’s, but he still hadn’t seen her pubes, not really. She’d turned away as she’d laid her dress aside and then she’d slipped into her chair at the table. He’d been watching the sway of her breasts, so he’d missed even a glimpse at her mound, her mons veneris. Still, he would see it. He could see it right then, if he wished. All he’d have to do was tell her to stand, come closer, and let him inspect her. He’d be able to look close, and long, in broad daylight.

  He’d never done that to Janice. He’d seen her sex, of course, as she dressed or undressed, or in the dim light from the bedside lamp, but he’d never actually inspected her, like meat.

  That’s what Virginia was – meat. Pliant, pliable, warm human meat, to be prepared to his own recipe and consumed quickly or at leisure, whatever his mood might dictate.

  “Play with your nipples,” he said, just as calmly as “more coffee please”.

  She laid her knife and fork aside. “How would you like me to do it?”

  “To please yourself. Show me how you’d do it if you were alone.”

  “Yes Stuart.” She cupped her breasts on her palms and wobbled them, staring down at her own jiggling flesh as if he wasn’t there. Well, that’s what he’d told her to do, wasn’t it? Her fingers squeezed and kneaded, milking herself in towards her nipples. She leaned backwards, tilting her face towards the ceiling. The stroking became more urgent, coaxing blood into those dark staring centres. They engorged, grew larger and harder. Her hands smoothed higher. Fingers made rings about each puffy halo and compressed, pouting them. She released her right breast and strummed the fingers of her right hand across the tip of her left nipple. Was her mouth slackening with desire? It was hard to tell, with her head tipped so far back.

  Her fingertips caressed up the sides of her nipple, soft as petals, stroking from base to tip and base to tip, again and again. Her nipple responded, and there was a pulse under her pale skin. Her nipples weren’t pointed cones, like Janice’s, but rigid flat-topped turrets, almost the same circumference from base to tip.

  She took that blunt tip between thumb and finger and pinched it flat. A sigh esca
ped her mouth. The bitch was getting off on her own caresses! She hadn’t reacted to him, but she did to herself.

  “Suck it!” he said.

  “Yes Stuart.” Two hands squeezed and lifted. Her head bent forward and down. Her lips parted. A kitten-tongue lapped out, point tickling the flat peak.

  “I said, ‘Suck!’”

  “Sorry Stuart.” She drew her entire nipple into her mouth. Her cheeks worked. Her lips and teeth mumbled more flesh, drawing more soft white breast into her mouth, creasing its skin, drawing it into an elongated pear.

  She might have made a little growling sound deep in her throat as her head shook, but he wasn’t sure.

  “Bite on it! Chew on your own nipple!”

  Her mouth worked and her face looked as if she felt some pain, but how could he be sure she was really obeying?

  “Come here and show me!”

  She was wobbly on her heels. Her fingers trailed the table. When she stood by him her left nipple was a few inches above his eyes so that he looked up at it. It was wet with her spit, and she had obeyed. There were teeth marks, deep and almost blue. Stuart touched. He rolled the cylinder of hot flesh between his fingers, working the teeth dents out.

  She sucked air. Her eyes were glazed. All he’d done was touch her nipple.

  He trailed a finger down her cleavage, across her midriff, past her navel.

  She shivered.

  Her pubic hair was ginger and frizzy, trimmed short and shaped to end exactly at the fine crease where the curves of her belly and her mound met.

  His fingers twirled a tuft and tugged. “Who did you trim this for?”

  “For you, Stuart.”

  The ridge of her clitoris was thick. Was it always like that, or was it because of him? He stroked the wrinkled skin and thought he felt a stirring beneath his finger.

  The lips of her sex were swollen and slightly pendulous, protruding through the ginger fuzz. He poked. The lip yielded, soft, limp. His prod had pushed it back, indenting it. He watched as the flaccid flesh slowly recovered its shape.