Fools for Lust Read online

  FOOLS FOR LUST

  A collection of twenty erotic stories

  By Maxim Jakubowski

  First published by Blue Moon Books, 2006

  Published by Xcite Books Ltd – 2011

  ISBN 9781908192165

  Copyright © Xcite Books Ltd 2011

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Xcite Books, Suite 11769, 2nd Floor, 145-157 St John Street, London EC1V 4PY

  The stories contained within this book are works of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the authors' imaginations and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental

  Other titles from Maxim Jakubowski

  9781908192158

  9781908192172

  9781908192189

  Contents

  Bottomless on Bourbon

  The Day I Killed Tony Blair

  Utterly Nude

  Phantom Lover

  69 Love Songs

  The Ballad of Scott and Zelda

  Sleep Sweetly, Tender Heart, in Peace

  In the Empire of Lust

  Edward Hopper Doesn't Live Here Any More

  Like a Virgin for the Very First Time

  The Blonde in the Caffe Cavour

  Dear Alison

  The Shape of Cities

  The Summer of Grant Lee Buffalo

  What I Did on My Holidays

  The Room After She Left

  Rachel, Queen of the Wild World Web

  A Castle in Milton Keynes

  When I Take You to New Orleans

  Hotel Room Fuck

  Bottomless on Bourbon

  He had often promised to take Kathryn to New Orleans.

  But it had never happened. They had spectacularly fallen apart long before the opportunity arose. In fact, the travel they had managed to do in between feverish fucks had proven rather prosaic. So much for promises. They hadn’t even visited Paris, Amsterdam or New York either.

  So, whenever he could, he now took other women to the Crescent City.

  For sex.

  And fantasised about Kathryn’s face, and eyes, and pale breasts, and cunt and more.

  New Orleans was for him a city with two faces. Almost two different places, the aristocratic and slightly dishevelled languor of the Garden District on one hand and the hustle and bustle of the French Quarter on the other, contrasting like night and day. The touristic charms concealing darker, ever so venomous charms. The heavy placid flow of the Mississippi river zigzagging in serpentine manner through the opposing twin shores of Jackson Square and Algiers. The gently alcoholic haze of New Orleans days and the enticing, dangerous attraction of fragrant New Orleans nights. Nights that smelled and tasted of sex.

  He loved to see the women sweat as he made love to them, enjoyed the feel of bodies sliding against each other in moist, clammy embraces as sheets tangled around them. He took unerring voyeuristic pleasure in watching them shower after, washing his seed away from their openings, cleaning away his bites, the saliva that still coated their nipples, neck or earlobes which he had assaulted with military-like amorous precision.

  Those were all memories he treasured. Stored away for all eternity in his mental bank vaults. The curve of a back, the soft blonde down slowly being submerged in a small pool of perspiration just inches away from her rump, highlighted by a solitary light bulb, as she kneeled on all fours on the bed and he breached the final defences of her sphincter and impaled himself in her bowels. The sound of a moan, of pleasure, of joy. Ohhh ... AAAAHHH ... Chriiiiiist ... The tremor that coursed through the girl’s taut body as he discharged inside her or she rode the ocean waves of her oncoming orgasm.

  Yes, New Orleans, his city of sex.

  Endless walks through the small streets between hotel room episodes. Invigorating breakfasts of beignets and coffee and ice-cold orange juice at the Cafe du Monde; oysters and thick, syrupy gumbo at The Pearl off Canal Street; loitering hand in hand in the markets full of the smell of spices and seafood, chewing on garlic-flavoured pistachio nuts; obscene mounds of boiled crawfish at Lemoyne’s Landing; hunting for vintage paperbacks through the dusty shelves at Beckham’s; po’boys at the Napoleon House; zydeco rhythms at the House of Blues; a routine he could live on for days on end. Until he would tire of the woman, because she bored him once past the mechanics of fornication, never said the right thing or talked too much or simply because she wasn’t the woman he really wanted to be with in New Orleans.

  There had been Lisa, the software executive, Clare, a lawyer who looked like Anne Frank had she ever grown up and liked to be handled roughly, Pamela Jane, the investment banker he had met at the hotel bar who wanted to be a writer and Helene the biology teacher from Montreal. He didn’t feel he was being promiscuous; four women in six years since Kathryn. Some he had found here, others he had brought.

  But somehow none had fitted in with this strange city and, even though the sex had been loose and fun, and the company never less than pleasant, there had been something lacking. Even at midnight, buckling under his thrusts on bed or floor or sucking him off under the water streams of the shower, he knew they were creatures of the day, anonymous, predictable; they had no touch of night, no share of darkness. And the darkness was what he sought. In women. In New Orleans. What he knew he had once detected under Kathryn’s fulsome exterior.

  He had high hopes for Susi. She was Austrian, in her late 20s, and worked in a managerial capacity for a travel agency in Vienna, which made it easier (and cheaper) for her to jump on a plane for purposes of pleasure.

  They had met in New York some month earlier. It was Spring and the weather was appalling for the season. The rain poured down in buckets and all Manhattan was gridlocked like only New York can manage. He’d been in town promoting a book and negotiating the next contract with his publishers there (he never used an agent) and was booked on an evening flight back to London. He’d been staying, as usual at a hotel down by the Village, off Washington Square. He had booked a car to JFK and it was already half an hour late. They had checked at reception and found out that the driver was still blocked in traffic near Central Square and Columbus Circle. He had promptly cancelled the car and rushed with his suitcase to the hotel’s front steps to hail a yellow cab. They were few and far between, and he wasn’t the only hotel guest heading for the airport. Both he and the tall, slim red-headed woman went for the same cab which declined the airport ride pretexting the conditions. They agreed to share the next cab to come along. She was even later than him, as her flight preceded his by twenty minutes.

  ‘My name is Susanne, but my friends call me Susi with an “i”,’ she had introduced herself as the driver made his slow way towards the Midtown Tunnel.

  Despite clever shortcuts through Queens, the journey took well over an hour and a quarter, so they had much opportunity to talk as they inched towards their planes. She had been in town for a week, visiting her parents who both worked as diplomats for one of the big international organisations.

  She did miss her flight, while he caught his with a few minutes to spare. E-mail addresses were exchanged, and they had remained in touch since.

  They had quickly become intimate. He’d sent her one of his books, and she had remarked on the sexual nature of many of his stories and confessed to some of her own sexual quirks. She was an exhibitionist. Would sometimes take the subway back in Vienna dressed in a particularly short skirt and without underwear and allow men to spy on her genitals. She was shaven, so they had a full view of her naked mound. She was also in the habit of masturbating i
n parks, where she could be seen by passers-by, actually encouraged voyeurs to do so and knew that, sometimes, men were jerking off watching her just a few metres away. She would pretend her name was Lolita. He asked her why.

  Because she had little in the way of breasts and her bare pubis evoked a child or a doll, she answered. She was submissive by nature, she told him.

  She sent him a series of photographs taken by an ex-boyfriend she had broken up with shortly before the New York trip. He found them wonderfully provocative in a tender sort of way. In the first, her long, skinny frame stood in contrast to the sluttish, traditional black lingerie of embroidered knickers, suspender belt and stockings almost a size too big for her. Yes, she had no breasts, barely a hillock worth of elevation and no cleavage and, he imagined (the photographs were all black and white), pale pink nipples like a gentle stain in the landscape of her flesh. Her hair was a bit longer than when she had been in New York, her eyes dead to the world. In the second photograph – he could guess the sequence they had been taken in, pruriently imagined what the boyfriend in question had made her do, perform, submit to, after the camera had been set aside – she was now squatting only clad in suspender belt and stockings, her cunt in sharp focus, lips ever so ready to open, her head thrown back so you could barely recognise her features. Photograph number three saw her spreadeagled over a Persian carpet and parquet floor, one arm in the air, both legs straight, holding herself up by one arm, like a gymnast, her face in profile, a most elegant and beautiful vision of nudity with no hint of obscenity at all, her body like a fine-tuned machine, a sculpture. In the fourth, she was standing and the photographer had shot away from crotch level and her body was deformed like in a hall of mirrors by the skewed perspective, the focus on her enlarged midriff. The one thing that struck him as he kept on examining the photos on his laptop screen was how her sex lips didn’t part and how he wished to see inside her. The final photograph she had sent him (were there more? more explicit or extreme? she answered that others were just out of focus but his imagination as ever played wildly on) was both the sexiest and the most vulgar. She was on all fours, her arse raised towards the camera in a fuck-me pose, long legs bent, rear a bit bony, the line of her cunt lips straight as a ruler and continued by her arse crack and darker hole. Every time he looked at this one, he couldn’t help getting hard. And he knew that she enjoyed knowing that.

  He told her about the delights of New Orleans and invited her to join him there one day.

  To explore possibilities, he said. Initially, she only said maybe.

  But he persisted, courting her with a modicum of elegance, and she agreed. It took a couple of months to find a week when both could free themselves from previous commitments (ah, the sheer logistics of lust!) and arrangements were made. Flights to New York were coordinated – her job came in useful – and they both arrived in Newark an hour or so apart.

  Curiously enough, there are no direct flights between New York and New Orleans and their connection went via Raleigh-Durham.

  As they emerged from the airport luggage area, Susi smelled the heat that now surrounded them like a blanket and turned towards him, kissed him gently on the cheek and said, ‘I just know I’m going to like it here ... Thanks ever so much for bringing me.’

  By the time the taxi dropped them off at the small hotel he had booked on Burgundy it was already dark.

  It was summer. Moist, no wind from the Gulf, the air heavy with the powers of the night, the remains of the day lingering in patchy clouds, they were both sweating, their bodies not yet acclimatised.

  They dropped their bags, and he switched the air-conditioning a notch higher and suggested a shower.

  He undressed her. Now she was no longer black and white. The nipples were a darker pink, closer to red than he expected and darkened a shade further when he kissed them. Her pale body was like porcelain. Long, thin, exquisitely supple. Since Kathryn, none of the other women, here or elsewhere had been anywhere as tall.

  He escorted Susi to the shower cubicle and switched the water on. She looked at his cock, growing slowly at the sheer sight of her nudity. He soaped her with infinite delicacy and tenderness and explored her body under guise of washing, refreshing her from the transatlantic journey and its grime and tiredness. He fell to his knees and wiped the suds away from her crotch. Her gash red against the mottled pinkness of her pubic mound. She hadn’t shaved there for a week or so; they had agreed she would let him shave her clean. A delight he had long fantasised about. He parted her thin lips, like opening a rare flower and darted his tongue inside to taste her. Susi shuddered.

  The first time was good.

  They were shy, affectionate, slow, tentative, testing pleasure points and limits with great delicacy.

  She was extremely self-conscious of her lack of opulence breast-wise and he lavished particular care on her there, sucking, licking, nibbling, fingering her with casual precision until he caught the precise pulse of her pleasure behind the gentle swell of her darkening nipples.

  They came closely together. Silently.

  The later days filled quickly between wet embraces and ever-more feverish fucks as they grew used to each other’s quirks and secret desires. She had always wanted to take a riverboat down the Mississippi and they spent a day doing so, passing the civil war mansions and lawns and observing the rare crocodiles still lingering in the musty bayous. Just like tourists. Which they were. Sexual tourists with, so far, no taste for the local fare. Breezing down Magazine Street in mid-afternoon as the antique shops reopened for business. Taking a tram to the Garden District. Lingering, with verbose guides, in the atmospheric cemeteries, with their ornate crypts and walls of bones. Visiting the voodoo museum trying to repress their unceremonious giggles. He covertly fingering signed first editions at the Faulkner House.

  Susi never wore a bra – she had no need for one – and neither did she slip knickers on when they would go out walking. Long, flowing, thin skirts revealing the shape of her legs when she faced the sun, only he knowing how unfettered her cunt lips were beneath the fabric, sometimes even imagining he could smell her inner fragrance as they walked along hand in hand and conjuring up the thoughts of other, lubricious men passing by had they know of her naked vulnerability. It turned him on, this constant availability of hers, this exhibitionistic desire to provoke. Walking along Decatur, passing one of the horse-drawn carriages waiting there for tourists, a dog held in leash by a small black child wagged a tail frenetically and brushed against Susi’s leg. He smiled. She asked him why.

  ‘He could smell your cunt,’ he said.

  ‘Do you think so?’ she remarked, her eyes all wide.

  ‘Yes,’ he told her. ‘You smell of sex. Strongly.’

  Her face went all red, approximating the shade of her short bob, and he watched the flush spread to her chest and beneath the thin silk blouse.

  ‘It turned him on,’ he said.

  ‘Oh ...’

  ‘And me, knowing how naked you are under those thin, light clothes,’ he added.

  She smiled.

  Later, back in their hotel room, she insisted they keep the curtains open when they made love, knowing any passing maid or room-service staff might see them in the throes of sex as they walked past on the steps outside the window, and as he moved frantically inside her, he saw she kept her eyes open, was actually hoping they would be seen. The idea excited her.

  The same night, a few blocks before Bourbon, she suddenly said,

  ‘I have to pee.’

  They’d only left the hotel a hundred yards or so ago, so she must have known the need would arise. He offered to go back to the room.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘The sidestreet there. That will do.’

  It was dark, no one around, although the risk of passers-by emerging off Toulouse was likely.

  Susi pulled her long skirt upwards and bunched it around her waist, her thin, unending legs bursting into pale view, the plumpness of her cunt in full display under the light fr
om the illuminated wrought iron balcony above them and squatted down. He watched, hypnotised, as the hot stream of urine burst through her labia and splashed onto the New Orleans pavement. Her eyes darted towards the main street, begging for someone to come by. None did. Her bladder empty, she rose to her feet, the skirt still held above her waist in insolent provocation.

  ‘It’s a bit wet,’ she said to him. ‘Would you dry me?’

  He got down on his knees, wiped her cunt lips clean with the back of his hand then impulsively licked her briefly. Her clit was hard, swollen. Susi was in heat.

  ‘Fuck me here,’ she asked him. ‘I don’t mind if people see us.’

  ‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘We’ve only just got out of bed. I don’t think I could get hard enough again so quickly.’

  Susi glanced at him with disapproval.

  She dropped the folds of her dress.

  They began talking.

  ‘Does it turn you on?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What is it? A feeling of control over people, men that they can see you but not touch?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Susi remarked. ‘My body is nothing special, but I love to show myself. Gives me meaning. It’s a bit confusing.’

  ‘Your body’s great. You shouldn’t underestimate yourself,’ he answered. ‘But you must be careful. On the nude beach outside Vienna, with your girlfriend along, there’s an element of safety, but elsewhere it could be risky, you know.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Some people could read other things in your need to exhibit yourself. You could get yourself raped.’

  ‘I know,’ Susi answered, with a slight sigh in her voice. ‘Sometimes, I even imagine what it would be like. Several men.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. Five of them. First they fuck my every hole, then I am made to kneel, still naked, at their feet and they all jerk off and come in my face and hair.’

  ‘A bit extreme ...’