The Mammoth Book of the Best New Erotica

by Maxim Jakubowski

  She’s been standing there silently, surprised that they hadn’t even acknowledged her presence until now, seeing they had summoned her here.

  “My dear, what do you think? How do you refer to your sexual organ?”

  She is somewhat taken aback, but replies: “Actually I seldom refer to it by any sort of name.”

  “But if you had to?”

  “ ‘Hole’ or ‘pussy’, most often. No, not really. It sort of depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On the situation. Sometimes I will enjoy shocking myself by using dirty words. Especially when it comes to the rear. I seldom use ‘sodomy’, too biblical in essence. ‘Fucked in the ass’, that’s what I say, when it’s about me. But that’s mostly when referring to the act, not when it’s actually happening.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, ‘I’m being fucked in the ass’ occurs so often figuratively speaking, that I can’t really use the expression properly, if I think about it . . . But ‘I want to be fucked in the ass’ presents no ambiguity.”

  “And right now?”

  “I’ve just been fucked in the ass,” she says. “By a very well-endowed black man. His come is still inside my ass. See how useful the right words can be . . .”

  She emphasizes this as the two robes both open like a theatre’s curtains and two honourably sized cocks are standing to attention, like twins, ever so slightly curved, thick-veined helmets shining between the folds of the material.

  She moves towards the men, gets on her knees, and caresses them both, although neither of her hands can grasp the full girth of the cocks. Slowly, delicately, she jerks them off; then, moving her head from side to side, she alternately sucks them both. They taste the same, smell the same . . .

  But their reactions are different. Very soon, the man with the white hair lies down on the bed and pulls her onto him and positions himself deep inside her. As this happens, she feels the other man’s hands spreading her ass cheeks and a cock, identical to the one fucking her, forces its way into her anal opening. She screams as he tears her apart, and realizes she has never been filled this way. Just a moment later, all three are motionless, she is impaled on their twin cocks, and feels they are surely about to breach the thin membrane that separates them and merge into one single hammer. One of the men is gently biting her breasts; the other scratches her shoulder. She flexes her whole body, offering her crotch even more fully, tightens her sphincter muscles and feels the cock’s swollen ridge move deeper inside her, while the one in her cunt almost slips out. The invading cocks are burning her alive, but still manage to penetrate deeper within her, and as the one in her ass settles for a second, her cunt gapes open fully.

  They all come almost at the same time. The ever so slight time delay allows her to experience the stream flooding her ass, and then the waves breaking inside her belly. Then the cocks lose some of their hardness, dilate and soften, and pleasure now takes a firm grip of her own body, she whimpers and squirms while still breached by the hot twin cocks and, in a moment of panic, she seeks the mouth of the man with the white hair.

  They have not even undressed and, as soon as she leaves the bed, she is once again the image of a perfect, if somewhat crumpled, maid.

  All of a sudden a telephone rings.

  One of the brothers – they are both lying flat out on the bed, side by side, breathless – rises and picks up the antique set from the bedside table. “Yes?” he says.

  She looks around her. Inevitably, on the wall, there is a painting. This one shows two men sitting, discussing literature, on either side of a small table, the man on the right-hand side holding a sheet of paper. Close to them, a naked woman, kneeling, visible only from the back, her long blonde hair reaching down to her waist, is seemingly sucking off the man on the left, the one with the white hair.

  “You’ve been summoned,” the brown-haired man says. “Room six.”

  As she leaves the room, they are already deep in conversation on either side of the table, with the sheet of paper held by one of them. She hears only the final words, read out by the white-haired man: “ ‘She flexes her whole body, offering her crotch even more fully, tightens her sphincter muscles and feels the cock’s swollen ridge move deeper inside her . . .’ ”

  The other protests: “ ‘Sphincter muscles’. What about Sybil’s hole?” “The artist’s entrance?” “The purple flower?” “Saint Luke’s grotto?”

  The door closes and she can no longer hear them. Room six? The sperm poured into her is running down her thighs.

  The scene in the new room is almost symmetrical to that in the previous one. Two women, both naked, are sitting on either side of a table, their positions, their dark-red hair held up in chignons, not unlike creatures by Rossetti, the heaviness of their breasts, the exaggerated length of their nipples, the pale complexion of their pink skin and haughty, almost disdainful, facial expressions, all striking features including, as she moves closer to them, the colour of their eyes, grey changing into green.

  However, this time around, they are not identical.

  “Come, my dear,” one says. “Come.”

  They ask her to stand still, between the two of them, and four hands quickly undress her, throwing the maid’s outfit aside. They only allow her to retain the stockings, which emphasize the pallor of her thighs. The pale hands roam across her even paler skin.

  “Look, she’s just been fucked . . .”

  “In front and behind,” says the other. “There’s a small stream of come emerging from her ass . . .”

  “She’s been well fucked,” the first one says. “She is still very dilated.”

  “So it seems,” the other calmly declares. “I could push my finger into her ass without even touching her edges.”

  The girl is momentarily shocked by the contrast between their poised appearance and the filth of their language, and particularly the clinical way in which they are describing her, as if they were conducting an autopsy.

  She stands between them and, suddenly, the two women get down on their knees and without a word begin sucking her cunt and her ass, licking up the drops of come drying on her skin, biting the delicate flesh, digging their tongues into the still bruised openings.

  The girl feels dizzy. The two women are so artful, even their violence has a touch of elegance, teeth assaulting her lips, fingers sliding deep inside her . . .

  No man has ever sucked or penetrated her like this. The first one then the other, thrusting two then three fingers inside her cunt and her ass, withdrawing them and then occupying her again but this time with four digits, as if their hands were becoming slimmer, thinner, and soon she has a whole hand inside each of her openings. She moans when the hand forces her doors, but now her cunt and ass tighten around the invading wrists and she feels delirious.

  Inside her, two hands are searching her, carving her innards apart, parallel hands as if in prayer, as if she were the object of a terribly ancient cult, being honoured and consumed by the members of her sect . . .

  She has never experienced a vaginal orgasm this strong. Her sphincters are seizing up so hard they could cut the hands off at the wrists, to hold them captive inside her forever.

  “She’s really enjoying this, the bitch,” the first one says.

  “You’re right,” says the other. “It feels as if her ass is breathless.”

  “She’ll never want to come any other way,” says the first one.

  They gently pull their hands out and the pain is atrocious, not just the initial one in reverse, but the very thought of losing them, to be confronted once again with the terrible void inside her, the emptiness of her life . . .

  “Don’t worry, my dear,” says the first one. “We have many ideas where you’re concerned.”

  “Do you want to take her to fifteen?” the other asks. “You were thinking of that, too, weren’t you?”

  Both women slip on almost transparent negligees, those spiderlike clouds a star of the silent cinema
would wear, and move forward with the grace of goddesses. But as for her, they leave her naked; they just slip a dog collar around her neck and lead her all the way down the corridor and up to the next floor on a leash. She is surprised at how obedient she has become, so unlike herself. Or maybe they recognized this docile streak within her, the desire to submit to a master’s orders, the repressed craving for slavery and the whip.

  Had she known her tarot better, she would have realized that in room fifteen she would find a photographer, and one of those old-fashioned devices standing on a single leg and under the black cloth of which the operator must dive to ensure he is focused correctly on his subject.

  The photographer is waiting for them. He is dressed in Second Empire attire, a short blouse and crumpled trousers, with a thin moustache and small Napoleon III-type beard. Next to him is the young man she had met at dinner: now undressed, she can see he is no more than sixteen years old at most. He sports the thin and curvy shape of a classical catamite, a lazy if gracious body spread over the bed, distractedly playing with his half-erect cock as they enter the room.

  “Hello, darlings,” says the tired adolescent.

  “Hello, asshole,” says the second woman. “How are you?”

  “So-so,” says the young man. “He’s only fucked me twice since night fell. Do you think he no longer likes me?”

  “Don’t you like him any longer?” the first one asks the photographer.

  “He bores me,” says the photographer. “So what are you bringing me here?”

  “Don’t you think she’s pretty?”

  “Very,” the photographer says. “I so enjoy such pale milklike skin.” He examines the young girl all over. She blushes at being so exposed. “Her eyes are so shiny,” the photographer says. “Have you just made her come?”

  “Insanely,” says the second woman.

  “Sit down on the bed,” the photographer tells the girl. “Take your stockings off, please. And you, little fag, come here.”

  She sits herself down on a short square of black silk, in the same pose as Rembrandt’s Bathsheba. It all feels like a dream. The photographer moves his heavy apparatus and disappears under its black cloth. She hears the muted sound of his voice, commanding her: “No, thighs apart. Good, yes, like that. Lean backwards, steady your arms, breasts to the front, perfect.”

  He reappears briefly . “You,” he says to the young boy, who is pretending to be terribly bored, “come and suck me off while I’m working, it’ll keep you busy.”

  “Yes, uncle,” says the young man with a touch of irony in his voice. “Right away, uncle.”

  The photographer again disappears under his cloth and, on his knees facing him, the boy, with obvious dexterity, pulls out a remarkable cock, disproportionate in places, whose fat and swollen helmet emerges triumphantly from a dry, nervous stem. The boy licks it quite methodically and witnesses the bulging fruit thicken even more under his ministrations.

  “Swallow,” says the voice under the black cloth.

  Obediently, the young boy opens his mouth wide and, jaws wide apart, devours the strange and monstrous fruit.

  All the while, the photographer is taking picture after picture, only making appearances to change the plates and sprinkle more magnesium into his flash, just his voice emerging from beneath the black sheet. “Yes . . . now each of you suck one of her breasts . . . like that . . . ah, a hand on her thigh . . . open wider, my pretty one . . . against that black silk background, you are just sublime. Throw her backward, now. One kissing her, the other licking her . . . yes . . . more profile, please, I can’t see your tongue . . . no, don’t look at the camera . . . very good, head thrown back . . . and you there, suck a bit better than that or I’ll have you whipped right in front of these ladies . . .”

  “Oh, yes,” says the catamite, interrupting his labors.

  Together with her two new friends, he has her adopt the most lubricious poses, ever on the lookout for the moment when she comes. Under their tongues and fingers, she experiences a whole series of orgasms, until she totally forgets where she is. Only the bright explosion of the flash, from time to time, reminds her that a man is taking photographs of her while . . .

  Is it the caresses that are generating her pleasure or the fact she is being photographed? The orgasms, the flashes of light, one or the other or both are levitating her out of her body. Every time her mouth opens on a silent scream, the flash of the magnesium betrays the fact that the photographer has captured her moment of selflessness, stolen yet another parcel of her soul, her life . . . it’s as if she was being emptied from the inside, as if her very substance was now flowing down her thighs, captured by the photograph, disfigured, transformed . . .

  The sound of the door opening . . .

  A bit later, a cock thrusting up her ass, another forcing its way down her throat, the room is now full of men and women, all the guests from dinner, each and every one fucking her in every way, and from orgasm to orgasm she feels herself grow wider, dilate until she is just a set of openings, of holes, deep abysses where cocks are ejaculating before being replaced by larger cocks or more numerous ones. Now they are penetrating her two at a time, in her cunt, in her ass, they come in twos to tease her mouth, and innumerable pairs of hands roam across her body, pinch her, sometimes spank her, and above it all the voice of the photographer encouraging them, and the brightness of the flash, and that anxious feeling that she is now no more than an empty space being furrowed, a nothingness full of come, devoured, eaten from the inside by a horde of vampires. Soon there will be nothing left of her, just some long blonde hair matted with sweat, a white expanse of flesh torn apart by caresses, a set of pale eyes she holds tightly closed while all of her is being impaled and only the violent flashes of light make their way through to her dead eyes.

  Suddenly they all abandon her. From one moment to the next, it seems to her, there is no one left. She runs her hands in front of her eyes as if she were blind. The commander is standing in front of her and watching: the same cold marble eyes, the same early taste of the tomb. He gently applauds her, as he had earlier, but now there is no sign of irony on his face.

  “Very good, my dear, very good indeed. I knew we could rely on you.” He comes towards her, takes her hands, invites her to rise from the deeply soiled bed of black satin. “Come,” he says. “There is one final thing for you to do.”

  Together they walk down the stairs. There are so many rooms, so many passages she will know nothing about, whose anonymous numbers will not be revealed. What masked ball or orgy in room twelve, what improvised concert in room eight? They find themselves on the steps outside the castle. The cicadas are now silent, the night is still far from morning, but she hesitates. The moon has moved across the roof and a wide geometrical shadow now covers a whole section of the lawn. All that emerges, on the frontier of darkness, is the statue of the goddess, even whiter in the light of the moon.

  The commander leads her to the statue. The grass is mown short and feels hard against her bare feet. She shivers, not because she is cold, as spring down here already has a touch of summer, but because of the anxiety that always strikes towards the end of a night’s party, when all is over and loneliness is about to knock on the door again and all you are left with is memories . . .

  “Get up on the pedestal,” he says. “Yes, like that, with your eyes facing the eyes of the goddess. Take her into your arms – very good, now your hands on her ass, yes. Now, don’t move.”

  Methodically, he ties her to the statue with thin string. He ties her tightly, the rope biting into her flesh, her breasts crushed against the stone breasts of Venus – or is it Diana – and then her legs are pulled up against the legs of marble, ankle against ankle, until she can barely move an eyelash, her face pressed against the stone head.

  “They’re the same colour,” says a female voice.

  “That’s true,” says another man. “Maybe it’s the statue that’s actually tied to her.”

  “Predato
r and prey,” jokes yet another. Are they all there?

  “Let’s begin,” someone says. “It’s time to end all of this.”

  The sharp whisper of the first lash precedes by a microsecond the blow that lands on her rump. She screams, or is it her tortured flesh that screams under the assault of the whip? But she is not surprised; she is already resigned, abandoned, punished because she is innocent. Innocent of what?

  She screams, tries to wriggle out, but she is tied so tightly that the marble bites into her. She cries out as the whip keeps on finding her, with every new blow her skin opens up, like paper under a knife. Soon her ass, her back, her shoulders have become the mad canvas of a mad artist, blood spurting in lines and blotches, spreading, merging. The blood now turning her flesh dark, woman of bronze tied to woman of stone. Pain begins to anaesthetize pain, she is an open wound, furrowed, overtaken by heat, by fire irradiating from the very centre of her belly, and she is aware that this unbearable heat rising towards her heart will soon kill her as surely as the cold poison killed Socrates. She no longer screams, just feels the heat rising, the whip opening up new valleys, Venus watching her in silence, and when the time comes a ray of moonlight reaches out to seize her in its grasp, and she dies of unbelievable pleasure, part and parcel of the immense fire of the whip.

  The moon finally moves behind the house, the darkness drowns the statue and its victim. They leave her tied there and walk back to the house in silence, satisfied.

  There is but a bare sketch of dawn. A gentle breeze weaves across the park, though the wind is not strong enough to lift the bloodied strands of blonde hair now slowly drying.

  In an hour or two, the cicadas will begin interrupting the silence again.

  Noon, Gare de Lyon. The young woman with brown hair, captivated by the sun, has walked onto the first train. She will pay for her ticket on board, too bad about the likely supplement.

  There is almost no one in the compartment. Further down the aisle sits a man with steel-grey hair, but she can only see his straight neck. Closer to her are four men playing cards, already well into their game. One is black, very black. When she walked past them, she noticed they were playing with tarot cards, and the black man was about to throw down a fifteen: a photographer, head buried under the cloth of an old-fashioned camera, is shooting an undressed model, a pale-skinned woman with long blonde hair. At his feet, an effeminate young boy is sucking him off with studious application.