The Mammoth Book of the Best New Erotica

by Maxim Jakubowski

  The sound of her voice took me out of my misery for a moment. I helped her to her feet and brushed her hair from her face, an awkward attempt at apology. She smiled at me as if to say she too was sorry.

  We linked arms and made our way more deeply into darkness as we moved unguided towards L’Enfer. The last chimes of Sacré-Coeur sounded off the damp sides of the crumbling buildings of Montmartre. We stopped in front of the same nondescript door. My mistress boldly stood forward and knocked three times, waited, and then five more times. The tiny wooden-hinged window inset swung open and the grey eye of the Gypsy could be seen clearly. He closed the small window and opened the door just wide enough for us to slip inside.

  Tonight the Gypsy doorman wore a black leather mask over his entire head. It was a sort I had never seen at any masquerade and resembled a medieval executioner’s mask. His beautiful black hair and handsome face were hidden and all that appeared were his eyes. There were holes in the leather for his nostrils and an aperture for his mouth, but this was sewn shut, a feature both violent and alluring. His chest was exposed, assuring both my mistress and me that it was indeed the same man who had greeted us two nights before. His body was unmistakably magnificent, even more enticing with the sinister black mask. Without hesitation, my mistress reached into her small beaded purse and withdrew a bundle of francs. I noted that her hand trembled slightly and I thought that unusual. She was ordinarily so calm. The doorman had enough manners not to count it, but he seemed to know by the sheer weight of it that it was not enough and he bowed discreetly and urged my mistress to give him more. She did, and she trembled more at this. We both seemed to know that more money meant something more rare, and probably more terrifying. The doorman seemed satisfied and bowed again at the waist then turned to lead us down the narrow red corridor, towards the theatre of L’Enfer.

  We were prepared to witness something at least as bizarre and exciting as we had seen on our previous visit yet, in retrospect, I don’t believe either of us was prepared for the excesses we were to witness on the eve of All Saints.

  The dark space appeared to have changed so radically that for a moment I thought we had entered another place altogether. We faced a circular stage surrounded with heavy velvet curtains in the centre of the large underground room. The place was filled with the smell of opium and tobacco, and the queer scent of marijuana clung in languid clouds in the humid air. Groups of people sat at elegant little tables clustered towards the stage. In front of the stage was a pit just large enough for a small band, which was playing blue jazz that made the room hotter and my heart bitter. The darkness to the left and right of the tables held voices and the shimmer of expensive beaded dresses. The dark offered up a jeweled hand here and there and now and again I caught a glimpse of rouged lips and cigarette holders. As my eyes grew accustomed to the dark I realized that it was from erotically disembodied hands and mouths that the smoke came, and after a time I could see the languorous forms of opium smokers stretched out on tapestried pillows, the long stems of the pipes in their hands. It seemed that their bodies were dilating en masse, and all the smokers caressed one another in lingering, slow motions.

  At last my mistress said, “I am going to try some opium. I really must – have you ever, darling?”

  I just shook my head. I was not afraid of the drug, but afraid of myself. I wanted to stay lucid, yet I knew it was impossible in the hallucination that was this nightclub. But I knew that if she wanted to try something, she would. I thought perhaps if she tasted the opium she would lose the anxiety and fear she was feeling towards me and, in a moment of compassion, I wanted her to be less afraid. But I knew her fear eroticized my violent motivations and suddenly I didn’t want her to smoke the drug. But it was too late. Not wanting to cause a disturbance, I let her go. She moved hypnotically towards the dark figures on the pillows. I thought to follow but turned away, thinking that I would return for her before the show started.

  I walked towards the tables, each lit with magnificent candelabra. In the dim light I could make out women’s elegant fingers decked in jewels, and I could smell the fashionable scents of Chanel in the air. People talked secretively with one another, their heads tipped towards each other’s lips to listen or to steal a kiss. I felt suddenly alone and excluded and was about to turn and find my mistress. Just then I felt a hand at my elbow attempting to lead me somewhere.

  I looked to my right and found a woman standing by my side. She was absolutely beautiful. She wore her sleek hair long, as young girls do before they ritualize their entrance into womanhood by, regrettably, cutting their locks. Behind her ear she wore a rose. She had the colouring of a Gypsy, her eyes black and her skin a lustrous olive. She wore nothing to cover her breasts, and around her hips a silken shawl with a fringe. She pulled me to an empty table further away from the opium than I wanted to be, for I did not want to lose my mistress in this strange crowd, especially not tonight. But I was captivated by the dark woman’s breasts, the tiny rings of gold pierced through her perfect nipples. The piercings looked beautifully strange and violently erotic, so much so that I followed the wordless motions of the woman without looking back towards my mistress. I wanted to touch this woman’s breasts. I wanted to taste the metal on my lips as I had done with the Japanese girl days before. I wanted to – my thoughts were giving way to more violence and it was getting increasingly difficult to stop the powerful surges that came over me.

  As though the dark beauty had read my mind, she brought my eager hand to her breast, and I reached out to take the tiny ring between my forefinger and thumb. I pulled a little, and the corners of her sensuous lips turned up in a wincing smile. I pulled at the ring a little harder and she half-closed her eyes, her long lashes brushing her cheek. I imagined that the little moaning sound that she made came from the contact of my lashes on her skin. I let my eyes wander down the front of her figure, her long, flat belly, her secret parts barely hidden by the silken shawl. I ran my hand along the flat of her stomach as I reached around her neck to pull her generous lips towards my own, because it seemed she was offering herself to me.

  She tilted her head towards mine willingly and I tasted to my fill of her lips and neck. She bit my lips with a single-mindedness that matched my mood, and her fingernails dug into the nape of my neck. As we kissed, she unhooked the cape from my neck. Once she had removed the cloak, she surprised me by putting it about her own shoulders, which made her look magnificently sinister, her bare breasts surrounded by the black fabric of the opera cape, the contours of her body trickling with red silk. The small orchestra had started to play music that filled my head with the rhythm of sex, the music of fucking. My blood was responding to the beat of the music, and my sex was responding to the cloaked image of the tall woman, who was leaning towards me over the small candlelit table.

  I knew I was about to commit an infidelity. And I wished that my mistress were closer to watch. I was going to ravish this woman, and I knew my pleasure would be that much greater if my mistress were forced to watch as I took and gave pleasure to an equally beautiful creature as she.

  The dark woman and I sat together without uttering a single word. Her black hair was falling over one shoulder, nearly covering her breasts. I reached out and touched those tempting breasts again, brushing the hair away so that I could admire them throughout the seduction. I wondered if the piercing had given her great pain, and if she had enjoyed the sensation. I began to wonder if she had willingly put those strange rings through her breasts, or if someone had forced her. This last thought enflamed my desire and gave way to more brutal thoughts. I found her right nipple with my lips and began to tease her by pulling the golden ring with my teeth. She arched her graceful back to meet my mouth. She was beautiful in the candlelight, and I was aroused beyond compare, the public nature of our caresses making me all the more excited. I reached down and unwrapped the shawl which covered her lower body. She tipped her pelvis up to meet my hungering stare.

  I nearly fell back in my c
hair, gasping when I saw what rested between my dark beauty’s legs. Tucked in the dark thicket of her pubic hair was a fully formed male member. Since I never suspected for a moment that this mesmerizing beauty was endowed with such equipment, you can imagine my surprise. When I finally looked up to her face, I was met with the shine of perfect white teeth in the glow of the candles.

  At first I thought his smile was mocking and the humiliation I felt turned my thoughts immediately vile. But then I saw the softness of her breasts, the inviting tilt of her body and I wanted to possess her. Unsure as to what to do next, yet still aroused by her beauty, I found it difficult to fall into her caresses again for I had yet to have relations with another man and I had been taught to find the act repugnant. And that made me want him more, because he was forbidden. I kept thinking of my lover, who had disappeared into an opium cloud, and wishing she could see this anomaly of nature, this beauty with perfectly formed breasts and as perfect a member as I had ever seen. I could feel the Gypsy pulling me towards her. She began to kiss me passionately with his full lips, her dark nipples long and perfect to the touch. I couldn’t resist taking them into my hands. He slowly began to open the front of my dress shirt with her long, feminine fingers, the puzzling, maddening smile never leaving his face. I felt as though he were challenging me to make love to him, to take her in my arms and possess her. Her smile was pressing me to accept what I wanted, what I desired. I was utterly perplexed, repulsed and simultaneously wishing nothing more than to possess this man/woman. She was wrapping her arms around me and, as he did, I could feel her cock against my leg. She began kissing my chest and unbuttoning my pants, his hand having found the profound evidence of my passion within the folds of my trousers. The intoxicating sensation was not entirely unfamiliar, and as she took hold of my sex I saw the fleeting image of the day I insisted on making a man of my mistress.

  Before I could protest, he fell gracefully to her knees, her mouth over my cock. Her tongue flicked over the head and then he took the whole length into her mouth. I could feel her hair brushing my bare chest as his head fell lightly against my stomach, her cheek moving up and down against the tender flesh of my lower abdomen. I lifted my hips to thrust the full length of my member down her throat and he took it hungrily into her willing mouth. I started to press her head hard over my throbbing sex as I felt an orgasm filling every nerve of my body. I looked down to see my own hands pushing her hard, then harder over me, and I could feel the low masculine sound of his pleasure as he tasted me. She was touching her own cock and turned her body so that I might see what I was engaged with. Suddenly my mistress appeared from the dark, her eyelids drooping sensuously, obviously under the spell of the magical pipe.

  The corners of my mistress’s mouth turned up in a drugged smile as she saw the woman from behind, her dark-haired head moving languorously up and down against my belly. I opened my mouth to explain, then thought better of it. The pleasurable sensations running through my body were also making it impossible for me to utter intelligible words. My mistress moved towards me. In the hazy light she looked fantastically gorgeous. She came up beside me and began to kiss me passionately on the mouth as the Gypsy he/she continued to suck my cock. I pulled my mistress’s face away from mine and said to her in a commanding voice, “Get under him. Let him have you.”

  “Who, my darling, who?” she answered, intoxicated and compliant.

  “Her,” I said, and pushed my lover towards the dark woman, who stroked her male member slowly as he licked my own member. She gasped and tried to move away.

  “No,” she said quietly, “no . . . I—”

  I put my lips over her mouth and kissed her. Then I took her lower lip between my teeth and I bit until I drew blood as I pressed her languid body downward. I had to see this sight, two beautiful women together, one of them penetrating the other. I wanted to watch my mistress take her inside herself, I wanted to watch their breasts touch.

  “Do it,” I moaned and then let myself fall over into the blinding sensuality that had been threatening to overcome me. I pushed her down to the floor and she seemed to spill to the ground in her soft skin, her opium flesh, and her champagne-coloured dress.

  The Gypsy moved magically when he saw my mistress presented to him, there at my feet. Through the dazed comfort of the aftereffects of my pleasure, I watched my mistress struggle hopelessly for a moment under his feminine touch. He stroked her breasts with his, she fell upon my mistress, her dark hair spilling like wine, her narrow hips coming down hard upon my mistress, lifting her dress as he licked her nipples, the movement of his narrow hips flowering, slightly more feminine finally than masculine as she pushed her cock inside my mistress. And when my mistress lifted her body to greet the sensation, I let my head fall back. I closed my eyes and let the violent nausea overtake my senses. The sickness I was feeling was only a symptom of what I was coming to know as my true being. I was sick and delighted with the monster I was discovering within, the hideous malformed personality that had lain dormant, waiting for the opportunity to arise and overtake the superficial in my soul. The bestial. That is what I truly am. It took an evening at L’Enfer to allow for the inevitable release.

  I heard my mistress crying out. It was a strange sound of grudging pleasure mingled with humiliation and rage. It was a sound that satisfied me. I felt more alert. I leaned towards the ground to find my mistress’s lips and chin covered with what was presumably my sperm. The freakish man/woman heaved into her one last time, releasing a masculine groan of sexual release. Then the creature’s cry turned to a roar of frustration, a keening sound of anger. She lifted herself away from my mistress and disappeared into the dark. My lover fell to one side, rolling slightly back and forth, her body not quite recovered from the trauma of such a pleasure. I realized that the dark-haired creature most probably took no real pleasure in possessing my mistress, but had done it for my pleasure. For when the thing had looked up towards me as he arched her back, we met eyes, and the calculated cruelty she found there was most telling, I am sure. She had therefore run. He was a wise woman, that poor forgotten creature. He was a very lucky girl. If she had stayed, I am afraid of what I would have done to him . . .

  At last my lover opened her eyes and I found that the opium had not worn off in the least, yet a new expression was clinging to the sides of her mouth. It was a confused turn of her lips and I realized that the effects of the opium and the dark-haired creature that had possessed my lover were a trifle horrifying. I laughed as she half-stood and fell into my arms. Many eyes were looking upon us with great appreciation. I turned to find that the mysterious Gypsy had vanished into the opium darkness, leaving my lover to our private kisses. I pretended to give her comfort. But inwardly I laughed, and my hysterics, had they had a colour, would have been scarlet and shameless. I stroked my lover’s hair. My affection for her had turned to hate, to resentment. I kissed her neck and put my arms around the fragility of her body. Again I was consumed with thoughts of the simplicity of murder.

  My mistress was overcome with the seductive languor that opium induces, and she rested in my arms as I ordered a bottle of champagne. She fell in and out of her opium stupor, made worse by the champagne that I plied her with. She lay her cheek against the tabletop and I noticed how lovely she looked, her lips swollen from my kisses, her eyes mellowed and half-aware of the nightmare she had stepped into unknowingly. The nightmare she had in fact paid for.

  After some time, the little orchestra began to play a low soulful tune. The guests at the tables readied themselves to watch the show. Slowly all light, aside from the candles on the tables, was doused. The lamps at the foot of the stage were lit, and at long last the curtain that surrounded the little stage in the centre of the club began to part.

  The tableau was fantastic.

  In the centre of the stage was an extraordinarily large chair. The back of it rose up at least six feet. Seated on it was a woman whose face was hidden by a black leather mask similar to the one the doorman h
ad been wearing. In this instance, the only part of her face that was exposed was her mouth, a hole showing her lips painted bright red. Her hands were held with leather thongs threaded over her head and pinioned to an iron eyebolt in the centre of the back of the chair. Her legs were also bound, her sex shaved and widely exposed, her ankles tied to the front legs of this throne of sorts. The stage-lights caught a golden flash from between her legs and I realized that this woman wore rings of gold pierced through her labia, just as the Japanese girl had. A thorny shiver of recognition, of memory, rasped through my body. I studied the little chain that ran through the rings on the outer lips of her sex and then encircled her waist.

  There was nothing more on the stage. Except a sleek black panther. The magnificent beast lounged alongside the girl’s chair, its black fur gleaming in the theatrical lighting. It was an extraordinary animal. It lay with its mouth open, panting. It was chained to the massive arms of the chair, and, though the chain kept the animal at a safe distance from the audience, the beast was not going to be kept from the girl. The tension in the air matched my mood. It was a murderous perfume and every nerve of my body waited. I wanted to watch that creature tear into the flesh of that young girl. I wanted to put my hands round my lover’s throat. I wanted to hear screams of shock mingled with my own delighted cries.

  “Let’s go home, darling,” my mistress managed to whisper. She sat staring at the potentially gruesome tableau, unable to move. She was waiting for me to motivate the action of fleeing this scene. She was going to have to wait a long time. Or so I thought.

  The panther stood up lazily, but her movements became more agitated, more predatory, as she heard and felt the sound of human fear. For some of the guests this bestial passion play was a bit too realistic.

  “I only came here to realize fantasy!” I heard one woman exclaim indignantly as she and her escort stood to leave.