The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 6

by Jakubowski Maxim

  Traffic fumes sting my nose and the streets are full of obstacles. A police car, sirens blaring, half circles me as I wait to cross Shaftesbury Avenue. A group of Italians chatter away to my left while a rickshaw drawls by on my right. As soon as the rickshaw has passed, I take my life into my hands and step into the road, with a Babel of voices ringing in my ears.

  The next thing I know a bus whistles past me, taking me by surprise; I lose my balance and stumble backwards.

  I prepare to collide with the pavement, but instead, out of nowhere, I feel arms around me. Fingertips press into my shoulders and a distinctive scent enters my nose. Cinnamon. Sweat. Leather. Tobacco. A unique aroma which announces his presence with a bang. I breathe him in deeply, trapping his essence in my olfactory canal and I savour it slowly before committing it to memory.

  It’s love at first smell, and I am overwhelmed. Suddenly life narrows to a single compulsion: to make him mine. I brush my fingers over his hand. My nerve endings register the soft warmth of his body and the faint pulse of his life force. My senses race toward overload as I taste him in the air. I find myself imagining him in my bed, naked and sleeping after a night of wild sex. I would trace his body with my fingertips, and then I would . . .

  I am dragged back to reality when he removes his hands from my shoulders. I pray that now that he has lifted me back to my feet he doesn’t just walk away. I still need the sound of his voice to complete my picture of him. Silently, I will him to speak.

  “Are you okay?” he eventually asks, and his words vibrate gently in my ears. His voice is deep and warm, like butter at room temperature, and as he speaks the rest of the world fades into the background and his perfect voice fills my head.

  “Are you okay?” I repeat his words over and over in my mind until they are pitch perfect.

  I feel him looking at me, waiting for an answer. My face starts to burn, so I break the silence by mumbling something incoherent. I have no idea what I am actually saying because all I can think of is him, stripped bare between my legs, submitting to my every whim.

  Once again my fantasies are cut short when he hands me my white stick and my heart sinks as I sense myself through his eyes for the first time.

  Out of pity he offers to see me across the road. I hate myself for accepting, but I need more to create him fully in my mind. I know time is running out, so I run through a mental checklist: smell, touch, taste, sound, all accounted for . . . and our brief foreplay is over. He makes his excuses and disappears into the throng.

  London is faceless, especially when you’re blind.

  He is gone, but nevertheless, as I walk on, I lift my hand to my lips and can still smell him. He is under my nails and on my skin, and I can’t wait to get him home.

  At the station I search out the nearest invisible carriage with my stick. I wait for the doors to close and sever my connection with the buzz of the outside world. I am alone. Everything disappears. I’m used to living in this invisible world. I know there are people all around me – someone to my left is eating a burger, and the woman in front of me is wearing Dior’s Tendre Poison – but unless I hear them or touch them they might as well not exist.

  I let someone lead me to a seat, unresisting. I count the stops as they pass until the Tannoys announce that I have reached my destination.

  Only another 438 steps to go.

  When I arrive home I head straight to the bedroom. His smell is fading and time is running out so I quickly slip out of my clothes. I begin to wish I’d had the courage to run my fingers through his hair and over his face, but I tasted him in my mind and as I position myself on the bed I am sure that will be enough to bring him to me.

  The soft satin of my bedspread embraces my body as I recall the sensation of his hands on my shoulders and the taste of him in the air. I lift my hand to my nose again and inhale his odour deep into my lungs; I trap it there until I can hold it no longer. Cinnamon. Sweat. Leather. Tobacco. I run through the memory like a mantra and in the blank darkness I search inside myself for him.

  I part my legs. Eager fingertips seek out the triggers that open up the most dormant part of my mind, until, quivering with excitement, I conjure him . . . and he appears by the window.

  I know he is smiling as he climbs onto the bed behind me and wraps his arms around my naked body. I can feel his sweet breath on the back of my neck like a cinnamon-scented breeze and his pulsating life force warms my skin. As I collapse into him I place his hand on my breast; I shake with delight as he squeezes my nipples between his thumb and index finger. His voice, warm like butter, murmurs sweet nothings into my ear and I can feel him planting tiny kisses on every notch of my spine.

  I feel his cock hardening in the small of my back and I press myself against it. His hungry hand searches out the cleft between my legs. I arch my back and he slides his fingers into me, holding me tightly by the base of the spine with his thumb. I shiver with anticipation and hold my breath to intensify every flutter and gyration.

  As I reach the peak of my pleasure I whisper the secrets of my darkest desires to him. Without hesitation he takes my vulva in his mouth and parts my swollen lips with his tongue. I wind my fingers into his hair and pull him closer until his nose nudges my erect clitoris.

  Gently, I rock his head towards me, increasing the rhythm until I am fucking his face with abandon. My senses shift ceaselessly, evoking sight out of sound, out of smell and touch. I am about to come but the orgasm is secondary because a miracle is about to happen.

  As I writhe in his arms, the grey curtain that shrouds my life begins to pull back. He transports me to a world of light, and with a cry of ecstasy I come out of the uncharted dark. For a few seconds, colours that I don’t even know the names of fill my mind, and I snatch them from the darkness. They pulsate in concentric circles like a kaleidoscope and I stare at them in wonder as they shift like curtains in a breeze. And they are bright – so bright that I have to narrow my eyes to look at them – but they are the most beautiful things I have ever seen. I drink them in greedily while I can because I know they won’t last long. They never do and with a shudder I am plunged back into the darkness.

  Sleep comes easily. I don’t dream, but when I wake up I am still reeling. The night before gave colour to my mind and for a few seconds I had ceased to be imprisoned by my own identity. I want to feel that again.

  On the way to work my senses are on hyper-alert and I realise I am searching for him in every person I pass. I can’t concentrate on anything.

  The work day slips away, almost unnoticed. Before I know it I am back on the street where we met, in the exact spot, 173 steps from my office and about to cross the road.

  I’m still there forty minutes later, sniffing the air, desperate for a hint of cinnamon or a whiff of leather. Waves of musk, citrus, clove and Brylcreem assault me from every angle but I don’t find what I am looking for. I go home alone.

  I go straight to bed. For almost an hour I try to conjure him but he remains a shadow that lingers outside my window and refuses to come in. I know he is watching me though and this quickens my pulse. I slip my hands under the sheets and slowly run my fingertips over my naked body. I know the contours of my body better than anything else in the whole world and within seconds I am rushing headlong into seventh heaven. I shut my eyes and will the colours to come, but I orgasm in the dark and it leaves me feeling emptier and lonelier than when I started.

  I can’t sleep. My mind is racing, chasing after the cinnamon man of my dreams. I try to imagine running my hands over his face, tracing the contours of his lips, running my fingers through his hair but he is fading. I have to find him again. Even though it will be like searching for a needle in a haystack, I have to try.

  Sunrise drags its feet. I count the minutes one by one until the alarm goes off.

  I rush through work on autopilot, determined to leave early. I am sure I was too late yesterday and that’s why I missed him.

  I’m outside. 173 steps. I’ve been waiting s
o long that my feet are numb. I feel faint. My mind has started playing cruel tricks on me. Every now and then I smell leather, or sweat, or tobacco – but never together, never in that evocative combination that means him. I know I’m being stupid, but I continue to stand there, smiling sweetly in the direction of every Good Samaritan that offers to see me over the road. I feel like a fool.

  Suddenly some kind of sixth sense kicks in, forcing me to turn round.

  Cinnamon. Sweat. Leather. Tobacco.

  He’s here. He’s nearby. I’ve been given another chance.

  I take a deep breath and turn in his direction. I hear myself saying hello, and it doesn’t sound like me but I know it’s me because I felt the words coming out of my mouth. Time stands still. I wish the ground would open up and swallow me.

  What have I done? My mind is spinning; did he hear me? Is he ignoring me? Is he as embarrassed as I am? Is he still here?

  Then I hear it, the same warm, buttery voice that melted my heart. He remembers me, asks how I am, tells me his name. Charles. I smile and I know he is smiling back. He asks me how I am and if I plan on throwing myself in front of a bus today. I laugh. He laughs. It’s all going so well.

  He asks where I am heading and I reply. Charing Cross.

  He’s going to Charing Cross too, and offers to walk me there. I accept and I know that by the time we arrive I’ll be 438 steps away from seeing again.

  Author’s note: Charles Bonnet Syndrome refers to persistent and sometimes startlingly real visual hallucinations in the blind. Charles Bonnet described the condition now named after him in Switzerland in 1760.

  Everything That You Want

  C. D. Formetta (translation by Maxim Jakubowski)

  If you are born a slave, you will also die a slave.

  Don’t listen to anyone who says otherwise, and don’t believe those who say they spend their time ordering others around, but who in private prefer to be dominated. They are lying to you.

  Slavery is not a choice, and neither is it a lifestyle. Or a set of clothes you only wear a few hours every day. Slavery is both a sentence and a virtue. It’s a punishment one must be proud to earn. It is the pain of brutal intercourse that draws you to pleasure, it’s the voice of your Master ordering you to do something and the mark of his fingertips searching between your legs until it hurts. But pain is also a sweeter form of pleasure.

  I was born a slave thirty-five years ago. My parents shaped my will into the virtues of obedience. They always chose for me, first my friends, then university, and of course the young men I was allowed to go out with, then the husband I wed. I did everything according to their will, without ever complaining. I graduated in architecture, frequented the best families, only went out with serious and respectable young men, and finally I married Alberto.

  I married him and almost immediately betrayed him.

  You might say that’s a contradiction in terms, an awful form of rebellion, but it defined me as a slave. Or maybe not.

  But it was no rebellion, because Alberto is not my Master, and never was.

  Alberto doesn’t really know who I am. He looks at me and only sees his adorable wife, a woman to be looked after, treated with respect.

  I am aware I am not worthy of his respect.

  I forget the roast in the oven, only remember to take it out when it’s badly burned and I say nothing to him about it. I drive the car against a lamp-post, and he stays calm. He forgives me.

  At least once I would like Alberto to slap me. Just once would I like to receive the punishment I deserve. If Alberto had somehow been my Master, he would already have dragged me into the room and ripped my night-dress off my back, thrown it to the ground and left me there, naked and humiliated before his eyes. He would beat me just because he felt like doing so, pinched my nipples until the pain roared.

  Had Alberto somehow become my Master, I would have been his faithful slave, forever. But Alberto doesn’t have the character, or the necessary inner strength to impose himself and dominate me. Alberto always takes a shower before he makes love because he is afraid his smell will bother me, and he sleeps wearing a cotton vest because he has allergies, suffers from dermatitis and scratches himself all night.

  Alberto is a discreet and well-educated husband, but he is not my true Master.

  My Master is another.

  I met Franco two years back, on the occasion of a work dinner.

  We were introduced and quickly discovered how much we had in common, his work as an architect, his passion for French cinema, a fond affection for jazz. Most of all we were brought together by the discovery of these similarities. We completed each other.

  He was a dominant; that was obvious at first glance, just watching the way he moved and spoke. His gestures were precise and secure, he never hesitated or stumbled. His words did not make demands, they just affirmed the certitude of his will. And his answers obviously precluded any comeback.

  Franco was born to command, and I was consumed inside by the will to obey him. Together we formed a perfect combination.

  We chatted all evening about everything and nothing, our conversation full of banalities, clichés, maybe so as not to provide any suspicion to the other guests.

  Following the dinner, Franco offered to walk me back home, and no one else objected. I had drunk, but not too much, but I pretended I had, so that his offer did not sound unusual. It was the first of many times I would say yes to Franco.

  We had almost reached my house, when Franco changed his mind.

  “Come with me,” he said.

  “Yes,” I replied.

  That night, Franco became my Master.

  Franco’s house was big and luxurious. It was the house of a well-to-do man who had no problems showing off how rich he was. It was built on two levels, and you entered it through a lounge, and the bedroom could only be reached through a small flight of stairs.

  “Go up,” he ordered. “I want to see how you move.”

  I obeyed. I was wearing a black evening dress which clung tightly to my hips, and left much of my legs uncovered. As I slowly walked up the narrow stairs I knew that his eyes were examining my body. He kept on watching me as I stood in his room, and I felt short of breath.

  “You slip into a total stranger’s bedroom, and you say nothing?” he asked me. “I could be a madman, a maniac. I could do anything to you, even kill you. You wouldn’t be able to escape, there’s nowhere here to hide yourself.”

  I didn’t know what to think. I was frightened and he was in charge.

  “Are you afraid of me?”

  “Yes,” I said. And his hand slid between my legs.

  “Are you afraid of me?” Franco repeated, while his finger slipped into my cunt and explored my insides like a hook drilling through bait. “Are you afraid of me?”

  “Yes,” I moaned. Then Franco pulled his hand away and caressed my cheeks. His fingers were still wet from me.

  “Liar.”

  He made me stretch out on the bed and slowly undressed me. He enjoyed witnessing my lack of resistance, seeing that I would allow Him to do whatever he wished to me.

  “Franco . . .” I hesitantly said. But he put his hand against my mouth.

  “Stay quiet,” he said. “I don’t want you to say my name.”

  He then unbuttoned his shirt, slipped out of his trousers and stood there, by the bed, facing me naked.

  “Look at me,”

  And I looked. The Master was short and thin, with his cock out of all proportion with the rest of his body. His arms were covered by short, curly black hair, all the way down from his shoulders. I didn’t find his body pleasant. However I couldn’t take my eyes off Him.

  Now, the Master wanted to see me better.

  “Open your legs.”

  Once again I was obedient and yielded.

  “More, I said!”

  The Master took hold of my ankles and forcefully pushed my legs wide apart, lowered his eyes and began examining me in full detail.


  “You’re tight,” he said. “Hasn’t your husband yet used you thoroughly?”

  I didn’t quite understand what he was on about until the moment he violently slammed himself into me.

  “Your husband doesn’t know how to fuck you, I see.”

  No, I wanted to scream. My husband doesn’t know what to do with me, he doesn’t understand that I have no need for kisses, or embraces. Not even a caress is necessary. Only the hands of my Master forcing my legs wide, and his cock travelling so deep inside me, ripping me open like a piece of meat, sundering my life apart.

  One part of my life was with Alberto and his romantic and repetitive attentions. My other life was fully devoted to my Master. From today onwards, with Him, I would travel this new road.

  That evening, the Master allowed me to leave. But had he asked me to stay there, in his bed, all night long, I would have accepted, as I would have also agreed to return to him the following day, and again the day after. Every time He desired me, I would grant his desire.

  Many believe that slavery is violence, torture, a simple affair of whips and chains, but that’s not the way it is. Real slavery is so much more complicated.

  Slavery is most of all a mental attitude. It means to be aware of one’s own limits and understand that if you are not strong enough to be in charge, you should be strong enough to accept the authority of someone who is.

  My Master has no need to jail me, to gag me or have me wear a hood of black latex. These are theatrical props, accessories for bourgeois couples seeking a mildly transgressive evening.

  Slavery is being a thing, just an object for another’s pleasure with no questions asked, unconditionally.

  The Master calls me to join him, and I run to Him. The Master demands I not touch him, that I do not say his name, and I stay spread-eagled on the bed without moving, utterly silent, while He is free to do anything he wishes.

  When we are together, the Master knows I am no longer a person. In those moments, I am just a body, of which he will dispose whenever he will.