The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 5 Page 2

  Besides, I had been feeling restless. That tension in the back of my neck was back again and I wanted it to go away. No point in going to the clinic since the pills they always gave me to release the muscle spasms were archaic, a throwback to the days of my grandmother when sleeping pills and tranquilizers were all the rage. Even if they are “newly engineered” “purer” and “safer,” as they claim, it’s still all the same – a blanket for the brain. I want access to the modern school of medicine, where they treat the cause, not the symptom. They zap your brain for about two minutes, I’m told, with electricity, and stimulate all sorts of reverse psychology that fights the anxiety. It has nothing to do with the electroshock therapy they used to do in the old days. Much more advanced than that. They use lasers. It’s supposed to be brilliant, but still experimental. I saw a documentary short about it at the videoport in my doctor’s waiting room. But the treatment’s not open to the public yet, being practiced only by a few up at the Lehigh Medical Center at Yale or someplace like that.

  And the salons are supposed to be really well run. A friend of mine (actually, a former friend) worked there for a time. She wasn’t one of the personal service workers, just someone who handled the paperwork and check-in. She was a seasoned professional, and organized to a T, and I’m sure she did an A-l job with the clientele. After we lost touch, I found out she had left the salon to work as the administrator of a cooperative farm in Birmingham, Alabama. I thought it was probably a good career move when I first heard about it but, now that I’m at the salon, I’m not so sure.

  This salon job is turning out to be one hell of a trip – and not the type I would advise others to go on. It pays well, and my days are an endless siege of varied stimulation from all angles. Sometimes I leave exhausted but most of the time I’m light and airy and I flit around the streets like a moth. I have nothing more left to give by the time my shift is over, and the emptiness is cool and vast and weightless. The wet streets look slippery, but they are not, and I can move effortlessly while the wind cleanses me of my day’s work.

  If I can call it work. It’s not work for me. I love it, and I live for it. And I live for that special person – I’ll call him Jose, because I once thought I heard him exclaim “¡ Ai, caramba!” when he was coming. Ever since then, he’s been Jose for me. He comes in most weeks on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and he usually chooses the Full Anonymity wing, which is where I work. Because of the rules, I’d never seen him, but for some reason I always pictured him as having short, curly dark hair and big teeth. I pictured them shining as he sat and flossed at night.

  The set-up at the salon is top-notch. The cleaning crew does a great job, spraying everything down practically constantly with that odorless anti-germ stuff. I don’t think even the tiniest germ would have a chance in hell of surviving more than five minutes in that place. I haven’t had so much as a cold since I started this job.

  I think it was primarily because I mentioned my ex-friend’s name that I got the job in the first place. That, and because I have such a terrifically large mouth and protruding jaw. I’ve always known it, and hated it, but now I feel kind of special because of it. When I was a kid, I heard that they could break someone’s jaw and reconstruct their mouth to make it right, but no one especially wanted to do that for me, so I set out to break my jaw myself. I tried jumping off of the wall that jutted out beside our condo unit but, at the last second, I put my hand out to break my fall onto the pavement and ended up breaking my wrist instead. I made a few other half-assed tries, but most of them ended in a lot of pain, so I gave up.

  But my mouth got me this job, which just goes to prove what I’m learning more as time goes on – everything has its time and purpose. What’s a liability today may be my saving grace tomorrow, so don’t ever say “Never.” You just don’t know.

  At first, I was uncertain about the Anonymity Section of the salon, but the staff suggested it for me. They said it was often a good start for new people because there is no need to look anybody in the eye. Hell, you don’t have to look at any part of them actually, except maybe their balls, but you can keep your eyes closed if you want.

  The set-up here is ingenious. I’d like to get into the brain of the person who designed this place. Such creative brilliance. Such endless attention to detail. I’m in awe.

  This is how it works: each service worker is assigned to a “Horse.” The Horses are our specially designed units. Each one is adjusted to the particular body dimensions of the individual worker. They’re called Horses because when a service worker lies on one she is on all fours, like a horse. But it’s incredibly luxurious and comfortable. Every part of the Horse is padded with vasacloth, which makes it impossible to feel any friction or skin discomfort. And I love the way the middle of the Horse, the part that supports my entire abdomen, from hips to rib cage, prevents me from placing any actual weight on my knees or elbows. They rest on vasacloth surfaces, but they’re really just dangling there, not holding me up. There are two holes in the torso support for my breasts to hang through freely. I’m told the person who designed the horse was a great mathematician and anatomist. She even designed it to prevent any backaches from lying in this position over a prolonged period.

  An equally soft Face Bowl supports our heads. It has no middle so I can breathe freely but it holds up the weight of my head. When they fitted me for my face bowl, they had me lie on the horse and they adjusted it to the angle most comfortable for my neck. The technician was impatient, though, and she made me nervous, so I think the angle isn’t quite right. I hope I don’t get that technician again when I request an adjustment.

  Once a service worker is comfortably on her Horse, she can press a button to have the Anonymity Partitions come down. One comes down from the ceiling and rests across her lower back, blocking any view of the front of her body from anybody who may come in behind her. The other is a cool, soft blanket that unrolls lightly over the front part of her body. The temperature is always kept at a strict 75 degrees.

  These horses are arranged in a row. The effect is such that any customer who requests Rear View Anonymity will walk into a long room with a line of female backsides for him to survey. The Horses are designed to keep our knees dangling with a slight outward angle, so our cunts are open nicely. On my days off, I paid to come into the Rear View Room and I must say the effect is riveting. Some of the genitalia are wrinkled and pink, some are small, some are large, some have blonde hair, some dark. And the legs are both incredibly similar and various at the same time. They all look like female legs, and there is continuity in the way they line up along the side of the room, each on its knees. But at the same time, there are differences. Some are slender and angular, others meaty and muscular. And the color variations are enormous – every hue from dark chocolate to creamy vanilla.

  The bottom view is not so much to my liking; it’s the view of the hanging tits. Customers who enter this room see a long line of tits hanging from the enclosure where the women are encased. It sort of looks like a big box jutting out of the wall. A customer can reach out and fondle the tits as he walks along the edge of the enclosure. If he finds a set of udders he finds interesting, he can press a button and a cot emerges from underneath that box. He can then lie down beneath the tits, adjusting the height with an automatic button, so that he can suck, lick, and fondle to his liking.

  It’s particularly exciting for me as a service worker on busy days, because I may be chosen for rear and bottom view service at the same time. Of course, each customer doesn’t know that the other is using me at the same time as another, which is kind of weird. I can have Jose behind me (which is where he always is) and any other Joe beneath me fondling my boobs. The double stimulation is great, but I find that my mouth waters when I get this double business. I can’t seem to control the saliva, and my face bowl gets damp and unpleasant. I don’t know what to do about that problem.

  What I like about Jose is he likes to play. I have plenty of quick guys. You know, they come in,
maybe stick a finger or two in with some lubricant on the ends, and then they thrust. I’m not saying that some of them aren’t good; there is at least one customer a day who can go on for at least a half hour. But there’s just no build-up there. No anticipation.

  Jose’s not like that. He takes full advantage of the hour he pays for in the Rear View Anonymity room. He starts with my feet, which are always sheathed in a colorful pair of thigh-high nylons and death-defying high-heeled shoes. First, he starts by kissing my toes lightly, as his hands travel up my legs. His mouth soon follows. Then he takes my buttocks and spreads me wide open. He starts to circle my anus with his tongue, never directly touching the hole. This always gets me moaning, and I know he can hear me. The face enclosures are not soundproof, although we’re not supposed to communicate verbally, because that would ruin the secrecy.

  After he’s tickled me with his tongue a while, he starts to tug lightly on my pubic hairs. It’s a little painful, but just a little. It’s somewhere on the threshold of pleasure and pain. So far, he still hasn’t gone anywhere near my clit, and of course by now it’s aching. And there’s simply no way I can do anything about that – not with my hands clamped in the front half of the Horse – and so I have this excruciating, marvelous suffering while he does his thing.

  It took me a few of his visits to work out that, at some point during all this, Jose pulls out his dick and starts jerking off big time. If I pay attention, sometimes I realize his mouth and only one hand are playing with me. Where’s the other hand? He’s down there whacking off good. I can hear him.

  Sometimes he even just stands there for five or ten minutes moving his lubricated finger in and out of my ass while he whacks off. Eventually, he lays his head on top of my ass and shudders as he comes.

  But Jose doesn’t tire after he comes. No way. He keeps playing. I don’t know how this guy learned how to control his dick so well, but he can bring it up again real fast after he comes. Maybe he’s taking some of those new drugs, or maybe it’s just training. It doesn’t really matter.

  Eventually, Jose makes use of the toys we keep in sterile solution at the entrance to the anonymity wing. It’s not always the same. Last time, he just barely touched my clit with the edge of a tiny pulsating tool while he licked my anus. Just when I thought I couldn’t hold off anymore, like I was going to have to come, he pulled it away from me. I yelled so loud, I think the other service women must have thought I was being hurt. But I didn’t press the alarm bell or anything, so they realized it was pleasure, not pain.

  Finally, each time when I’m certain I can’t take it anymore, Jose presses the button to adjust the height of the floor so that he’s positioned perfectly behind me, and then – slowly, centimeter by centimeter – he thrusts into me. I feel each segment of his cock as it enters me, and it is so slow. When he is fully inside me, he starts to pump with long hard steady strokes. I can hear him sucking in long fast breaths as he uses my wet, aching hole. Meanwhile, he usually keeps one finger in my anus to steady himself. I can feel the muscles in my ass holding on to his finger.

  He pumps slowly, then quickly, then slow again, building and building. If I’m lucky, someone else is down below me gently sucking on my hanging tits. If everything happens right like that, it’s as if Jose’s life is being pumped right into my body and I’m completely open. I can’t be open any further, and I’m finally alive. I don’t know what time is at those moments – it ceases to exist.

  Jose knows by now that, if he even so much as slightly touches my clit now, I will erupt into spasms of orgasm, so he waits until he’s ready. When he is, he reaches around my hips and gently presses on my swollen clit. I immediately start to come in wave after wave as he bucks, and he screams as he squirts inside me.

  He’s very neat when he pulls out his cock, making ample use of the paper towels we provide. By now, I feel like I have been flying, and I feel like sleeping. Jose kisses my open asshole one last time before he dresses and leaves. I hear him shuffle to the door.

  It’s strictly forbidden to try and find out who one has serviced in The Anonymity Wing, but I just can’t help but want to know. I could lose my job by trying and, like I said, this is a damn good job, especially when you consider the fringe benefits. But, when something as good as this happens to someone, there’s this fear that maybe, just maybe, it will disappear and you won’t be able to get it anymore. I’m not saying that other guys in the wing don’t get me off – some have been damn decent – but this build up with Jose, it was unreal. Transported me to another dimension, if that doesn’t sound too weird. What if he just stopped coming one day? That happens all the time with customers. How would I ever find him again?

  And so, I broke the rules. I called in a few favors with the girl at the desk, made promises with part of my pay-check and found out that Jose’s real name was Juan (I was damn close) and he was a waiter at the Fifth Deck, a swanky restaurant in the tourist district. It’s not my typical restaurant, considering that the bill for a meal there would be almost a whole week’s salary for me, but I decided it was worth it. Today I would be Juan’s customer instead of the other way around!

  The maître d’ seemed surprised when I requested my table by the name of the waiter. I stated it simply: “I don’t care where I sit, as long as Juan is my waiter,” I said, and I winked.

  I was trying to be sly or coy or something, but it went right over the guy’s head. Either that or he was so over the hill and undersexed that he couldn’t care less about whether I wanted to fuck Juan or not. He didn’t even look at my breasts, even though I was wearing a sheer white blouse that clearly emphasized the outline of my nipples. What a prude.

  But he escorted me to a table, and I felt my pulse start to rise. In a minute, I was going to meet the only man who had ever brought me to complete and utter ecstasy. This was the man who left me panting and satiated, and who made my body into a violin. Only he could play me. Finally, we would meet.

  Juan’s face was severe as he approached my table. He had thick black eyebrows, and they burrowed into the middle of his forehead. His hair was slicked back and shockingly long in the back, although tied neatly into a long pony tail. His lips were almost a candy-apple red, and I couldn’t help thinking he had been sucking on some sort of lollypop recently. He was around thirty-five, and a little pudgy around the middle. He was neither more nor less appealing than I had expected. I’m not sure I would have made much of him if I happened to run into him elsewhere. He was simply a guy – perhaps a little darker and a little older than I normally like them – but not half bad.

  Besides, this was the guy that fucked me right, wasn’t it? I was prepared for almost anything. I didn’t care. He was my magic. He was my instant turn-on. I wanted him, and I wanted him without the anonymity booth. I wanted to see him pull out his dick and whack himself on me. I wanted to see his face contort as he moaned in mounting tension. I had had enough of this hiding behind a partition.

  I couldn’t help smiling when he stood by the table. He had no idea who I was. He had fucked my cunt and my ass, fingered my clit, rested his head on my ass, and licked me all over, but he didn’t know it. It was a hoot.

  I pretended interest in the menu, but I’m not one for playing games for long, so I cut right to the performance. I knew that he had heard me moaning. I just knew he would recognize my voice, so I closed my eyes and imagined he was behind me fingering my ass. I imagined that he was licking my clit, like he had just the night before. I transported myself back to the booth. I felt my knees in the horse, and my legs spread apart, and I felt the liquid start to run down my inner thigh right there in the restaurant. And then I let out a long hard moan. I didn’t hold back. I just moaned and moaned, and arched my back in the seat, for all to hear.

  When I opened my eyes, Juan was gone. The other customers in the restaurant were staring at me, and the maître d’ was shuffling nervously in the corner with another waiter. He was whispering, and both were looking my way.

  I gra
bbed for my napkin to wipe my brow. I wasn’t sure how long I had been moaning there. I started to come to my senses. I was moaning in a public restaurant. This stuff was supposed to stay in the salons. Absolutely no sex that is not regulated by management. I had broken the rule.

  The whispering in the corner became more urgent. I looked around frantically for Juan. Surely, he had not deserted me in the midst of my ecstasy? Surely, he had recognized me for who I was and he would soon emerge from the kitchen to lead me from the restaurant? Surely, this man – who had opened my cunt in ways I had never dreamed of – had been dreaming of this moment as I had? Surely?

  When Juan didn’t appear, I grabbed for my purse and jumped to my feet. I was frantic now, humiliated and covered with a cold sweat.

  “Where is Juan?” I shouted at the maître d’. “You! Tell me! Where did he go?”

  I took a step towards him, and he took a step back. He was shocked, I could see. This was an unusual disturbance.

  “Miss,” he said calmly. “I have called the authorities. Please do not cause any more trouble.”

  I rushed for the door, and emerged into the damp night air. I wanted to get away from there fast. What was I thinking? Why did I come here? Of course, there could be no sex without monetary exchange. It was unthinkable. I needed to recover my senses.

  I walked to the right, and rushed toward the waterfront. I think I had the vague notion of throwing myself off the bridge into the sea. I wanted to feel the cool water tugging me under and caressing my legs as Juan had done. I wanted the water to pull me down, down, down, and down further, until I was no more.