The Mammoth Book of International Erotica

by Maxim Jakubowski

  She lets herself go, agile fingers skimming across her skin with exquisite softness, slowly untwisting her nerves, polishing her muscles, effectively providing her with strength again after her energy has been sapped by the bath. The maid has her lie down over a folding table once she has slipped out of the robe. First, on her stomach, she is massaged from her neck down to her heels unavoidably feeling something stirring inside her when the long, brown fingers knead her arse and thighs. But she’d rather believe it’s just a feeling of comfort. She almost falls asleep anyway, listening to the gurgling sounds of the emptying bath.

  She is then turned round. Above her, the mirror is clearing up.

  The young Creole girl is working her shoulders, the birth of her neck, grazing her breasts whose tips are hardening, not that she notices as her hands lower themselves towards her midriff, before moving back to polish her nipples from time to time. Her brown hands make the extreme winter pallor of her blonde skin appear almost indecent.

  The young woman looks at herself in the ceiling mirror, and from her perspective, the mulatto girl massaging her appears closer to her than she in fact is, as if it were her mouth, her lips massaging her and not her fingers. But very soon, it is actually her darker lips that are now attaching themselves to her taut nipples, licking then sucking on her hard tips, racing across her tremulous skin, her pretty café au lait face soon ensconced between her thighs. All she can see is the back of her head, a mass of short, dense curls when the maid’s mouth alights on her cunt, and the masseuse’s tongue separates the delicate lips of her opening, skims across her dilated clit. She feels as if she wants to come that very moment if only to release all the tension building up inside her since she walked into the house. With her hands, she grasps the short dark curls and pulls the girl’s face hard against her stomach – black against white – her lithe tongue butterflying over her clit now feeling more forceful, more incisive.

  The young maid pulls her body down towards the edge of the table, both her legs now winging over the sides, the indefatigable tongue squirming around her red-hot button, plunging down into her wet vagina, tip-toeing across her anus and delicately forcing it open – she has never had the courage to tell any of her previous lovers how much she likes to be sodomised by a hard, burning tongue, all this while her long bronzed fingers keep on playing with her breasts. Finally she comes, no longer able to restrain her voice, flooding the mulatto girl’s face with her juices. The maid rises, wiping her mouth, her chin, her nose with a towel and, curiously enough, smiles not at her but towards the mirror on the ceiling. The thought that someone has just witnessed the whole scene through a one-way mirror dawns on her with absolute certainty. What other traps are to follow? She slides off the massage table, pulls the young maid by her hair as she was doing earlier, and forces her to kneel before her and presses her face against her cunt, the heavy-lipped and violent mouth against her small blonde bush.

  “Drink,” she says.

  And she slowly pees into the open, willing mouth that doesn’t miss a single drop, still watching the ceiling as she does so, now smiling at the mirror, pleased to be conveying in such a way to the master of the house that by defiling his slave, she is resisting his will.

  She is then made up, slowly, a bit too gaudily to her taste. She is then given a long evening dress, a glossy couture piece with classical lines that Madame Grey would have much appreciated. Once inside the formal dress, she feels like a marble statue sandwiched inside a skin of blackness, the exquisite pallor of her skin enhanced by the night black of the material.

  No underwear or lingerie underneath the dramatic dress. The silk adheres to her breasts, her arse and her stomach; the sudden crispness of the wrap awakens her nipples.

  “You are beautiful,” says the young mulatto girl. “I’m happy the Commander has brought you here.”

  Once again the stairs. The maid guides her from one door to another. She hears a rumour of conversation; she knows that very soon she will be told where she is. She is both curious and worried and slows her steps.

  The mulatto girl swings the door open and invites her in.

  First, it’s the intense light. There are four or five men in dinner jackets and six or seven elegantly attired women; they all briefly fall silent and watch her walk towards them. Meanwhile the grey-haired stranger moves in her direction, takes her by the hand and smiles, putting her at ease.

  “You are quite ravishing,” he says. And truly looks as if he believes it.

  She smiles back, still cautiously, but holds on to him, surrounded as she is by all these unknown faces.

  “Friends,” he says, with a semi-circular gesture of his hand. “All charming people, as you will see.”

  Why does he not introduce her to anyone? Why isn’t she even provided with a name, a surname?

  Right then a servant attired in quite incongruous Louis XV style calls out loudly that food is served and they all march on into the immense dining room, where a very long rectangular-shaped table dominates the proceedings.

  The plates are exquisitely sober, the silver knives and forks and crystal glasses shine wildly beneath the glow of the candelabras.

  The man is at the top of the table and indicates she should sit to his left. Facing her is a very beautiful woman whose splendour has seen better days, a thousand wrinkles smiling, a thousand small pains betraying her long and cruel past history.

  On her left is the the youngest man in the room; he is younger than her, his face and skin barely out of teenagehood, radiant, almost effeminate. He is all smiles and his conversation artfully banal.

  The meal offers all that Provence can supply, from the most refined to the most colourful dish. Her taste buds sing along. Stylish servants see that their glasses are never empty and provide the right wine for each course: a sublime Cassis white followed by a racy Gigondas from the Aix vineyards, and soon champagne, small bubbles adhering under her gaze to the shape of the cut glasses. Very soon, she experiences a new kind of drunkenness, like an aggravated echo of her dizziness on the train. The feeling surrounds her like a scarf; she feels she is burning, her legs are like cotton wool, her breath short. Her breasts rub anxiously against the silk of the dress, her tips harden again under the black material, becoming quite visible. She has the impression that all present are watching her, evaluating her, judging her, as if the woman facing her, eating her strawberries and drinking her champagne is already promising her a whole set of caresses and indulgences. She feels as if her stomach is incandescent, a combination of fire and water, and the wide smile of the woman in front of her indicates she is aware of it, that she recognizes the torment inside her body, that behind the combined fragrance of the wines and the food spread across the now crumpled tablecloth, she has caught an early whiff of the purple taste of her inner juices. Right then, a foot deliberately brushes against hers, caressing her ankle, gliding across her leg and the silk sheathing her. She isn’t sure if it is the smiling woman or her attentive host or maybe the gauche young man on her left. The champagne bubbles float upwards to the surface of the crystal glasses, and her eyes are transfixed by the thin rising columns, as if she were the one drowning inside the glass and her oxygen was running out. . .

  When they all rise to make their way to the salon, she stumbles.

  “Come,” says the woman, holding her arm, “Are you feeling unwell? You must lie down for a quarter of an hour, allow all that alcohol to settle . . .”

  Together, they climb the monumental stairs.

  “I’m in number Seven,” she stammers.

  “No need to go that far,” the woman says. “I’m in One.”

  The room is predominantly green, with an array of scattered heavy brown curtains; the bed is covered with a dark green satin quilt, which feels so wonderfully cool when she settles her cheek against it and allows herself to relax. The woman helps her lie down, pulling her shoes off, caressing her thin ankles, taking them into her hands as if she were about to handcuff them.

&n
bsp; But the young girl is still overcome by that dizzy feeling and knows she would allow anything to happen.

  She tries to overcome the feeling, she turns her head around, sees a painting on the wall, attempts to focus on its image, to capture some sense of reality from the shimmering fog in which the painting floats.

  It’s a small canvas, like the country scene in the picture in room Seven, in which a court jester is offering a rose to a comedic maid – the very image of card One in the Tarot – but the woman here has pulled her skirt up and is displaying a regal, sculptured arse to him. On closer inspection, it appears that the jester is not about to offer the rose to the young woman but is readying to pin the thorny flower straight into her satin globes. It even looks as if he has begun punishing her: a long, pink cut already crisscrosses her right arse cheek, and petals lie on the ground following the first blow, and the girl’s face reflects pain and submission.

  This is when she realizes that the older woman has folded her dress back up all the way to her thighs, and is now twirling the blonde curls of her pubis with her fingers, even briefly inserting a finger into her gash, then smelling it with half a smile before licking the wet finger clean, and returning her hand below to stroke her swollen cunt.

  The woman suddenly stands and walks over to the wall where she rings a call bell. Then leans back over the prostrate young girl, lips grazing her mouth, skimming the breasts barely concealed by the crumpled silk of the dress, lingering over the uncovered stomach and the thighs that part automatically under her caress.

  There is a discreet knock at the door,

  “Come in,” she says, without even looking up.

  It’s one of the servants who had served at the dinner table; he has a peasant’s wide and tawny features, which she had earlier found almost comical beneath the powdered wig he is no longer wearing. But he is still attired in the Louis XV outfit meant to emphasize his thin waist, but which on him has the contrary effect, highlighting his thick muscles, the incredibly wide shoulders and the lack of neck. He is a heavy-set man; his ferocious eyes remind her of a dog.

  “Come here,” she says. “Take your uniform off. That’s good. Show us your cock, now. So, what do you think, my dear?”

  The object emerging from the salmon-coloured silk pants is just like the man himself: short and massive. Sitting on the edge of the bed, the woman takes hold of the purple glans between two fingers, just as earlier she had been handling the strawberries. With her nail she gently pulls on the cock’s crumpled surplus skin and the shaft begins to grow. Short but very thick, no more than fifteen centimetres long but so thick she has to use both hands to circle it. The prone young girl sees it all as if in a cloud, only the painting on the wall the focus of her attention, but another part of her is also aware that she is about to be breached by this almost unreal object. The mushroom head is dark purple, the blue black veins bulge, the hard brown shaft pointing towards her emerging from dirty pink boxers shorts, the whole thing seems more animal than human.

  “Fuck her now,” the older woman cursorily orders.

  The domestic positions himself between the young girl’s thighs, spreads them wide and places her feet high up on his shoulders, his thick shiny cock lurking at her entrance and gradually forces himself in. Slowly, his cock plunges in, her diameter expanding obscenely as if it were literally sucking in this monstrous cock, and she finally feels it head butting her inner walls as the silk of his trousers and the rough touch of his pubic hair rub against her thighs. She comes immediately – the tension was too strong, the expectation too demanding.

  Now the domestic methodically ploughs inside her with brute force and she cries out repeatedly, the inebriation of her orgasm blending with the alcohol vapours, thrusting her ever higher on the scales of sheer pleasure. She can’t help crying, throwing her body forward, impaling herself even deeper, opening herself wider. At the same time, she feels ashamed to be enjoying this weird cock so much, and the shames doubles her pleasure, as if her being whored in this improvised way gives her latitude to scream like no other man has made her scream before, to give herself like she has never given herself before.

  Prompted by the woman still sitting close to her, the domestic withdraws from her and with two sharp movements of his wrist he jerks himself off, long creamy jets streaming across the now forever soiled black dress, thick snail trails of sperm jetting from his bursting cock and landing all the way up to her neck.

  The woman dismisses him with a single gesture.

  Once again, she leans over towards the still breathless young girl, who is on the brink of tears as her orphaned cunt still gapes open, mumbling under her breath like a fish out of water, begging for the return of the cock that stretched her so and she kisses her. The taste of her tongue is sharp, warm and clever.

  She then guides the young girl to the nearby bathroom and undresses her. “Arms up,” as if to a child. Helping her out of the long soiled sheath of the dress, pulling it above her head, and then the blissful feel of water unendingly running down her neck, her back, her breasts.

  Then she brings her back to the large bed of crumpled satin, her body so deathly pale against the green surface, and dries her, methodically mapping every contour of her body, behind her ears even or between her splayed toes . . .

  The woman indicates the silk dress, now all crumpled up at the foot of the bed.

  “Won’t be much use again,” she says.

  From a dresser, she pulls out a maid’s outfit, almost the same as . . . What was her name? Nora? – was wearing earlier. A black, straight lined skirt, a black shirt and a white apron with an embroidered pocket at the front. Before she is allowed to slip the uniform on, the older woman helps her roll on a pair of holdup opaque black stockings and, finally, hands her a pair of dainty, zippered small boots.

  The woman quickly separates her hair into thick plaits and arranges a faultless chignon, with just three or four hairpins, almost a work of art.

  Inside the apron’s pocket, there is a key.

  “It’s a pass,” the ageless woman explains. “It allows you access to every room on this floor or the next. Come, girl. It’s all up to you now. You must prove to us we can trust you.”

  And with a gentle slap on her bum, she dismisses her from the room.

  In the corridor, the young girl hesitates a short while. Walk down again?

  With the pass, she opens the next door, number Three.

  It is empty.

  On the wall a painting depicting a city scene with three young women wearing fancy hats, all holding each other by the arm, but totally naked. Somewhere behind them, another woman seen from the back is walking away, same hat, same nudity. She appears to be following a soldier whose silhouette can be glimpsed in the distance.

  The three women are aligned by height, from left to right. Curiously, the shortest one sports the heavier breasts, the next one’s are pear shaped, well proportioned and the tallest woman’s are barely the size of two small apples, high on her chest, tiny.

  “The tarots,” she says to herself.

  She leaves the room just as another identically dressed maid comes running.

  “Ah, there you are, hurry. Number Twenty has called again.”

  Off they go; she follows instinctively, entranced by the madness of the place, down the corridor, up a spiral staircase, then through another passageway where they come across two other maids, one of whom is Nora, the only one whose name she actually knows, standing outside the door marked Twenty.

  “What took you so long?” Nora said.

  She knocks on the door and turns the handle while doing so, just as a loud “Come in!” reaches their ears. Inside are four men playing cards, with a fifth man watching them – the grey-haired man from the train, the Commander.

  The young girl barely has time to register the fact that these are the same four men, one of whom is an ebony-skinned negro, the tarot players from the Paris-Nice TGV train – was it just this past afternoon? – when the grey-
eyed man calls to her:

  “Come, girls, come!”

  Flabbergasted, she watches as her three companions kneel before three of the men and, without even being asked, burrow inside their respective trousers and quickly gobble up the still soft cocks they discover there.

  “Come here, young one,” the man insists.

  And now she finds herself on her knees by the black man, but the cock surging through his flies is already hard. It’s like a long ebony stick, shining like polished wood under the light of the room’s lamps, its skin taut like bark, an endless mast whose girth is fortunately moderate so she doesn’t have to dislocate her jaw to take it all into her mouth. However, the cock soon reaches the very back of her mouth and brings tears to her eyes, a sudden burst of nausea she represses as she moves her lips back down to the cock’s head. But soon she finds the right rhythm, the adequate depth.

  “Keep at it,” says a voice.

  The man exudes an animal smell, strong, tenacious. It occurs to her that she could well be sucking a horse or a wild beast. With the hand not holding on to his cards, as none of the men has stopped playing, he occasionally applies pressure to her neck, precisely communicating the changes in rhythm he wants her to follow. He holds her by the chignon, forcing her to first slow down and savour every one of the centimetres she swallows and then relinquishes, then making her speed up and suck faster and faster, as if he were about to ejaculate in under ten seconds, each time assaulting the very back of her throat, fiercer every single time.

  All of a sudden, there is a clap of hands. The black man pulls her away and fully slides his cock out of her mouth. Fascinated, she looks at the glazed, obsidian member. He pulls her up, flips her round and throws her down on the table, pulling her skirt up at the same time. She is face down on the table, as are her three companions, heads aligned next to each other; her cheek touches Nora’s. The black guy bends over her and with no word of notice forces himself inside her. His saliva-coated cock plunges deep into her arsehole, quickly reaching the bottom, and never before has she felt so deeply impaled. Like an iron bar reaching for her heart, then retreating before digging into her again. Never has she been fucked in the arse so hard, so deep than by this harder than hard ebony-coloured cock, this iron cock, this cock from hell.