We Mate in the Dark Read online

  WE MATE IN THE DARK

  Dark erotic stories

  Maxim Jakubowski

  Published by Xcite BooksLtd – 2011

  ISBN 9781908192646

  Copyright © Maxim Jakubowski 2011

  The right of Maxim Jakubowskito be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by herin accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be copied, 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 stoiescontained within this book are a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Winner of Jade Erotic Awards:

  Erotic Fiction Publisher 2010

  "Xcite has delighted its readers with a wealth of superb titles and first class storytelling. Their titles have far outstripped the others for both quality of the product and sensual erotic content."

  Contents

  We Mate In The Dark

  By The Spy Who Loved Me

  A Price To Pay

  Her Eyes Said Yes

  The Communion of Blood and Semen

  L'Americaine

  We Mate In The Dark

  Darkness comes in all shades of black.

  And then comes the darkness inside.

  His love for her was like a cancer. Eating away at his insides, every day a bite further, a stab beyond the limits of pain. An illness for which there was no cure.

  Even when they were still together, he could not manage to enjoy the moments fully, too busy thinking of all the million reasons their relationship could not last: his ugliness, the inevitable fading of his sexual potency, her blinding beauty, the difference in age, their conflicting cultural and linguistic backgrounds, the geographical distance that normally separated them, the essential contrast between their respective personalities: he glass half empty, she glass half full.

  He even privately made lists enumerating the arguments for and against their affair lasting. A man with imagination. Not a pessimist, he argued with himself, just a realist.

  Just as he would send her frantic e-mails whenever they spent more than a week apart, for reasons of work or study. Listing a round one hundred things that he wanted to do with her still, ranging from the disgustingly romantic to the outrageously pornographic. Wild fantasies, galaxies of tenderness, marathons of yearning and desire and such.

  She would jokingly reply that at least half of the things he feverishly detailed she would willingly agree to, but that some of the others were out of the question. For now.

  “You’re just too melodramatic, sometimes,” Julie would say.

  “I know,” he would reply, chuckling gently. “Isn’t that why you like me?”

  “I just don’t know.”

  And then one day, she broke it off.

  She could no longer accept his unavailability, his cautiousness, his public distance. Yes, she knew he loved her; she loved him too. But, inside, Julie guessed that love must be something more, surely, than stolen time, sharing him with others.

  “I’d like to just be able to phone you when I feel like it and ask you to meet me in town to simply have a coffee, and talk,” she said. “But it’s not possible, is it? You are in a different country, with another life.”

  “Oh, Julie...”

  “ I want a normal boyfriend, with whom I could do normal things,” she added as he struggled for words.

  “I know,” was all he could say.

  “I want life, I want adventures,” Julie said. Implying that he had lived his life already, travelled, had children, and that was a part of him he could no longer offer her.

  He pleaded for her to change her decision. Rang her several times a day. Wrote her letters full of passion and beauty. His literary version of stalking. Flew to her city and roamed its streets, seeing places they had been together with a new clarity, realising how strong his love for her was, reassessing the relationship. She discovered he was in town, but by then it was too late as he was on his way to the airport. She got angry with him.

  Finally, after a whole month or so of verbal siege, she demurred. Yes, she would see him again.

  No other promises.

  No guarantees.

  A mercy fuck. A goodbye fuck. A last few days together for old time’s sake, he realised. An act of charity to provide him with closure, he knew.

  They settled on a time and place.

  On foreign shores.

  The story of their ten months long relationship.

  We meet at the railway station. A cavernous bowl milling with people, all invisible to me, anonymous, a crowd in which I have no interest. She is the focus of my attention. Her smile is tentative but she is as beautiful as ever, wearing a flowing long white skirt that finishes below her ankles and a tight grey t-shirt top. Her usual scuffed trainers have seen better days.

  We kiss.

  Do I detect a shadow of hesitation in her embrace?

  Her shoulder bag is bulging.

  We purchase tickets to the resort. They are surprisingly cheap but then it’s Spain and not England...

  The 35 minute journey down the rugged coastline takes place in part silence and part banalities. The other passengers barely look at us, although I guess they are unsure as to whether we are father and daughter or man and lover.

  Fuck ‘em.

  The hotel she has booked is barely half a mile from the smaller train station so we don’t take one of the rickety taxis lined up on the piazza outside and walk in its direction. Her smile is now warmer, the white skirt billows like a cloud as she walks alongside me. Does her ass look a touch bigger in this skirt, I wonder? No matter, as my fingers discreetly run down her side in a gesture of infinite affection, as we head down the small hill. She does not object.

  We check in.

  The reservation we have made is for two nights. She has lectures to attend on Friday.

  The room is well-lit but a bit spartan and the large bed stands at its centre like an inescapable monument. The main window overlooks the port, sailing boats and speedboats bobbing gently in the water. At night it must be blissfully silent.

  I open my bag and give her the small necklace I had bought for her back in London. She tries it on. A couple of dark blood cherries and green leaves against the pallor of her throat. It looks good on her. A veil of gentleness has returned to her eyes.

  We sit on the edge of the bed now, knees touching.

  We talk.

  “This is the last time,” Julie says.

  “I know,”

  “Nothing you can say or do will make me change my mind,” she adds.

  The chill reaches my heart and grips it in a vice. She has always been an obstinate sod, never deviating from any promise and assurance she makes.

  I sigh.

  “Stand up, “I ask her.”

  She does.

  “Give me a twirl”

  The sharp Mediterranean light pouring in from the window reveals the shape of her legs through the thin cotton-ish material of the white skirt. She turns on her axis. Almost like dancing.

  “You’re so beautiful.”

  She says nothing.

  Shimmies a little for me.

  Somehow, the movement around her thighs and arse makes the material even more transparent and I focus on the dark patch between her legs.

  I squint.

  “Aren’t you wearing panties?”

  Her smile is impish.

  “No.”


  “All day?”

  “I slipped them off in the washroom while you were checking us in downstairs.”

  “I can see your bush.”

  “I know.”

  “You’re wonderful.”

  ‘Like that day in London.”

  “Yes... wanton, tender, available...”

  “I knew you’d like it,” she says, her sketchy dance moves coming to a slow halt.

  “Come here,” I beckon.

  We embrace.

  The softness of her body is like a balm.

  I undress her until she is bathing in a pool of light.

  My gaze focuses on the lower reaches of her stomach.

  Her pubic area is swamped by a dark forest of curls, each single one blacker than coal. I lower myself and smell her essence. Look up towards her face.

  “I want to trim you.”

  There is a look of hesitation. Then she finally nods in agreement.

  “Not all of it, “ she begs.

  “OK.”

  Later we make love, with an unspoken agreement between us not to discuss the future or our feelings, let alone the total absurdity of the current situation, even though it floats above our sweating bodies like a wreath.

  Out of breath, we finally call a halt to our sexual exertions, quickly shower separately (where once we did together), slip some clothes on and agree to go out and have a coffee.

  “Come on, you can’t wear that shirt,” she remarks as I slip on a colourful Hawaiian shirt. “You’re too old for that. You’ll look ridiculous.”

  “Oh, I like it. It’s one of my favourites.”

  “Well, I’m not going out in public with you if you insist on wearing that thing.”

  I put on another, plainer shirt and we walk to the sea front where we have our coffees in a bar in the shadow of an old gothic church.

  We lack conversation and at one stage she cries. I try to console her, but my words somehow no longer have the magic they once had.

  “Hungry?”

  “Yes,” she sniffs.

  We sit at an outside table at a restaurant on the promenade. Night is falling over the sea, a pale moon peering like a hiccup between passing clouds. The food has no taste, even though I remember how much I enjoyed it on the last occasion we ate here.

  As we walk back to our hotel, the resort is awakening, readying itself for the bacchanalia of the night, noise growing louder as every kind of music filters out from a hundred bars and conversations in the narrow street reach a new pitch, as we nudge our way through the growing crowds of drinkers, revellers and holidaymakers.

  Once back in the room, I furtively swallow a blue pill in the bathroom. My guilty secret.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Just a bit of a headache.”

  When I return to the room, she has already shed her clothes and is under the covers.

  “Oh, you know how much I like to undress you,” I object.

  “It’s not important,” she protests. “Another time.”

  But will there be another time, I wonder.

  I move to the bed, pull the cover away from her body. Unveiled, she stretches her long limbs in a semblance of crucifixion. I become hard again. I hoist myself on to the bed and straddle her and offer my cock to her mouth.

  The next hours are a sheer catalogue of lust as our frustrations are set loose, and the anger inside us is given free rein and love and hate coexist in the silent light of the moon.

  I hurt her.

  She hurts me.

  We do things we have never done before in a frenzy of limbs, body parts and uncontrollable emotions.

  Outside, above the port, the weather has turned. As if in response to us. The night sky falls into the water.

  We fall asleep, still embedded in each other somehow, raw flesh joined at skin level, sewn together with secretions and perspiration, intimately blended at primeval level.

  The next morning.

  Skies outside blue again. Not a shadow of a cloud. Sea birds chattering in the distance.

  “I love you.”

  “You said you would never do that. You knew I didn’t want it there.”

  “I know.”

  “But it’s OK. A first time for everything, eh?”

  “Does it hurt?”

  “Still a little.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You were like a savage.”

  “You too... Look, those are teethmarks there...”

  “Looks who’s talking... Those bruises will take weeks to fade.”

  I sighed as the tenderness rolled over me like giant surfing waves and my stomach tightened at the knowledge this was going to be our last day together and that one day other men would enjoy her as I had, do those terrible things to her too. Worse, that she would enjoy it. Forget me.

  I held back a tear.

  Looked at her. Her dry lips were twisted in an indecipherable grimace, as if she was thinking the same things as me.

  Her eyes filled with water.

  I followed suit.

  And we fell into each other’s arms, hanging on to each other with desperation.

  Half an hour of silence later.

  “What are we going to do?” one of us asked. It could have been either of us.

  “Do you think the hotel has room service?”

  “Maybe.”

  They didn’t. Not outside of season. We would stay in that room all day, surviving on mineral water and fruit juice from the mini-bar and odd biscuits and nuts.

  Fucking.

  With gentleness.

  Like animals.

  Accompanied with a waltz of smiles.

  In sadness.

  Abetted, of course, by the blue herbal pills I had stashed away in my shaving kit in the bathroom.

  On our second night we just slept. Passion spent. Bodies at the point of exhaustion, stretched, gaping, throats dry, skin drawn taut and sensitive.

  In the morning, under grey skies, we finally awoke, adhering to each other, spooned, with the weight of the new day’s silence weighing heavily over us. I wiped sleep away from my eyes.

  “Morning...”

  “Hmmm...”

  We lazed for a while.

  Finally, she shook off her torpor, turned towards me, her left nipple peering impudently over the edge of the crumpled sheet.

  “I should get up,” she said, with little expression in her voice.

  “Not yet?” I asked.

  “There’s a train for the city at 10.15.”

  “Time for...” I lowered my hand on her shoulder.

  “I’m not sure,” she said.

  “Please.”

  She responded with silence.

  I caressed her arm, while my other hand moved to her stomach, my fingers following the thin trail of fuzz that descended from her navel to her cunt.

  She squirmed.

  “Enough,” she said.

  “No, I still want you.”

  “But you’ll always want me,” she answered. “That’s the way you are.”

  “You have a cold heart,” I said.

  “Maybe.”

  But she made no move to exit the bed.

  Soon, her nipples were hard again.

  I motioned her onto her knees and positioned myself behind her and entered her in one swift movement. She was still sufficiently lubricated from our earlier excesses. It felt hot inside her, like being home again. She moaned gently as I dug deeper into her innards.

  I closed my eyes, banishing the terrible sight of my cock ravaging her bowels because all it evoked to me now was the premonition of other men fucking her in the same way once I was no longer around. Was it jealousy? How could one be jealous of men who didn’t even exist for her yet?

  I was out of breath, drained of energy. It felt as if her whole body was now inert, suspended on the end of my penis as I impaled her with a metronomic rhythm.

  The bile began to rose up through my throat and for a moment there I thought I was actuall
y going to be sick, an abominable conclusion to our affair. But I succeeded in keeping the bitterness down, lodged at the back of my mouth.

  No, not another man. Men. Boys. Others.

  I screamed.

  Her whole body tensed under me as she came, assuming from the fierceness of my sound that I was about to explode too, flooding her insides with my warmth.

  But that scream was no form of blessed relief. It was anger. Undiluted rage. At losing her. At her betrayal, her new-found indifference, at the world.

  Somehow, out of my direct control, or was I just deluding myself, my hands moved slowly from her butt cheeks where my fingers left pink parallel indentations, towards her head. Still in the blissful throes of her orgasm, her body straightened and I took hold of her long, ebony hair. Pulled hard. My cock moved even deeper inside her.

  By now the bile floated like lead inside the roof of my mouth, poisoning me alive.

  I closed my eyes and my fingers circled her neck.

  She was too weak to resist the sudden pressure.

  She struggled a little but my grip was firm. Madness had provided me with the extra strength required.

  My cock went limp and flopped out of her, a pitiful puppet now abandoned by the gods of lust.

  I don’t know how long it took her to die. I was elsewhere altogether, in a world where thoughts had no sense or logic. A merciless universe where no other man would ever touch her, or be loved by her. A world where I was the only one she would ever love.

  He wrapped her lifeless body between the sheets they had spent so long making love in. It felt right.

  She looked peaceful in death, even younger than she was.

  He washed her face, then with infinite care and attention her body. Wiping her away all traces of sin and sex, all the smells of him.

  Then left the room, after putting the ‘don’t disturb’ sign on the door handle, and impressing on reception his instructions that she should be allowed to sleep as she was unwell and the fact that room service was not necessary today, thank you.

  He spent most of the day mostly wandering up and down the promenade, lost in thought.

  He returned to their hotel room by early evening. His request had been obeyed and the room, and her dead body, had not been disturbed.

  As night fell, he kept on staring at her growing pallor but the tears wouldn’t come. Which made him angry at himself. Surely, now was the time for mourning?