The Mammoth Book of International Erotica Page 3

  Cyn screamed and toppled sideways, over the chair’s arm, to plop to the floor, sprawling, limp, lifeless.

  I hadn’t come. It’d been an incredible experience. I’d never known a woman so totally consumed by her passion, but I hadn’t come. She looked to be absolutely sated, but I hadn’t come and my cock was nagging at me. I gave myself a stroke.

  Cyn sat up. “Don’t you dare! That’s mine.”

  “I thought . . .”

  “I told you I was multi-orgasmic. Be patient, damn you!”

  She crawled around in front of the chair again, put both hands flat on the foot-piece, and pushed it down. I was lifted up. She leaned over my thighs, dragging the points of her nipples over their hairiness and took me into her mouth again. Her two hands lifted the edge, pulling me back, drawing me almost out of her mouth and then pushed down, driving me back into the steamy soft cavern. Up and down. In and out. I just lay there, letting her rock me towards . . .

  My cock’s head exploded inside her mouth. She sucked and sucked until I was dry.

  “I didn’t spill a single drop,” she said.

  “No – you didn’t.”

  “I never will. If I do, you must punish me.”

  That was the first time she’d mentioned my punishing her. I didn’t take much notice. It was just a figure of speech, wasn’t it?

  It was down before she let me rest. That was okay. It was Saturday morning. I could sleep in.

  I woke at noon to the smell of bacon and eggs. After breakfast she suggested I might like to go get some wine and vodka because we’d drunk the last of her booze. When I got back she was madeup and wearing that jersey sweater and nothing else but a pair of metallic black stay-up hose.

  I’d been contemplating maybe another session that evening, not at two in the afternoon, but my cock took one look at that tiny triangle of curls, black on white and framed by black jersey above and black nylon below, and made my decision for me. I took her in my arms for a long kiss with my hands checking out how well the weals on her bottom were healing.

  They were doing well, but still tender. Whenever my fingertip grazed a ridge she shivered and gasped into my mouth. Her pubes bumped at me as well, which didn’t discourage me.

  “I wasn’t nice to you, when you were on the recliner,” she said. “I plan to make that up to you.”

  “You were fine – more than fine – fantastic,” I said.

  “No – I forgot your pleasure. I feel guilty. Let me do it right, please?”

  It’d been a while since a woman had asked me to let her screw me, “please”. I let her undress me and sit me back on the chair. She poured two half-tumblers of straight vodka over ice, set them on a side table, and climbed up astride me.

  “I’m not ready,” I apologised.

  “You will be.”

  She did that shared-drink thing again, with vodka. That, and the heat that was radiating down from her pussy onto my cock, started to take effect. She chewed at my bottom lip for a while, tickle-touching my ribs and chest, brushing her fingertips across my nipples, and then she swooped down and bit one, quite hard.

  “Ouch!”

  She grinned at me. “Did that hurt?”

  I rubbed my chest. “Some.”

  She tugged her sweater up into a roll above her breasts and said, “So – take your revenge.”

  I nipped.

  “I bit you harder than that.”

  “Harder.”

  I clamped my teeth as hard as I could short of drawing blood. Cyn sucked air, arched at me, and clawed one hand down my chest.

  I jerked back. She’d drawn blood. There were four parallel furrows with little curls of skin at the ends.

  Cyn said, “Kiss better.”

  Her tongue-tip traced them, one at a time. When all four had been tingled she sat back and said, “And antiseptic.” She poured icy vodka over my chest. It stung the scratches but then she put her tongue to work again, lapping and sucking it out of my wounds.

  “More?”

  I nodded.

  “Watch closely. Don’t be chicken.”

  I watched. She rested the heel of her hand on my sternum. Her fingers curled. Four nail-points prickled. I stared down as they made tiny dents.

  “Say when.”

  The tension was unbearable, so I said, “When.”

  I reared from the searing, but it was good. Her nails had cut deeper this time, but that just left wider wounds to be tongue-lapped and vodka-stung. She was still licking at me when her hand groped to wrap around my shaft and she lowered herself onto it and I sunk right up into her sponginess.

  Then she went berserk. By the time I came my face was soaked with the sweat she’d flicked with her flailing hair and my shoulders were sore from the gouges, but it was worth the pain. It was worth every delirious moment of it.

  Then we had to have a shower together. I was sure I wasn’t up to any more but she turned away from me and had me soap her long back and her round bottom and all the time she was reaching behind and slithering her soapy palm up and down on my cock, rubbing its head over her firm smooth slippery buttock, and I found that I could get another erection, and have another orgasm. I came thick and foamy, dribbling obscenely down the back of her glossy thigh.

  When you come on a woman, instead of in her, it’s like you mark her as your territory. It defiles her the way a brand defiles the haunch of a cow, making her more precious because she’s yours.

  We called out for fried chicken and she licked my fingers for me and then finger-painted her own breasts with chicken-grease, so it was early in the morning before we slept again.

  Sunday was the same, from noon till four in the morning. I was glad to go to my office on Monday.

  She phoned at three. “What time do I expect you, and what would you like for supper?”

  “Six. Whatever. Should I bring something in?”

  “Lamb chops. What are you going to do to me tonight, Paul?”

  “Do to you?”

  “In bed, on the chair, on the floor?”

  “Make long passionate love to you, Cyn.”

  “Give me the details. I want to be thinking about it till you get here.”

  “I’ll call you back.”

  When I’d thought, and I called her, all she said was, “Is that all? You can do better than that, darling. Leave it to me tonight then.”

  I came home and found her on the bed, naked except for one stocking. The other was wrapped around her wrists and tied to the bedrail.

  She said, “You bastard! You’ve got me in your power now, haven’t you. I’m helpless and you can do anything you like to me.”

  I can play games. I sat on the bed beside her and rested my palm on her pubes. Leering, I said, “Do anything I like to this,” and gave her a squeeze.

  Her thighs spread wide under my hand. “I bet you plan to oil your hand,” she nodded sideways towards the bottle of baby oil that stood ready open, “and work it right up into me, no matter what I say.”

  I took off my jacket and rolled my shirt sleeve up. The oil was cool in my palm. I smoothed it over her pubes and her pussy’s pulpy lips.

  “I might scream,” she said. “I might beg you to stop, but you’ll be merciless, won’t you.”

  “Merciless,” I agreed. I folded three fingers together and worked them into her.

  “I thought you were going to be cruel.”

  I straightened my hand into a blade and forced all four fingers and half of my palm between her lips.

  “You were going to use your whole hand.”

  I added my thumb and wriggled, pushing as hard as I dared. Cyn set her feet flat on the bed and lifted her hips at me.

  “Deeper. I can take it.”

  Women have babies, don’t they? And don’t necessarily split? I pushed harder, against slippery convoluted resistance. My hand sank in, deeper, to the heel of my palm. She was incredibly strong in there. Her vaginal muscles clamped. I struggled against the pressure. I pushed. Her constrictio
n folded my hand into a fist. It was like my hand was in a hot wet rubber sack that was shrinking, slowly crushing my fingers.

  “I have to take it out,” I told her. “I’m getting a cramp.”

  “No! Revolve it first. Twist your fist in me.”

  I turned it left and then right and then started to withdraw, slowly, gingerly, unfolding my fingers as soon as I was able, and finally I was free.

  “I’ll be loose for about an hour,” she said. “Better turn me over.”

  It took me a moment to understand, but then I did, and flipped her, and shucked my clothes. She was kneeling rump-up, ready. I oiled my cock and poured more oil over her sphincter. Two thumbs pressed her open. I got my cock’s head in place and then pushed down on it with the ball of one thumb. It slowly sank into her, and disappeared.

  “Am I tight, back there?” she asked.

  “Damned tight. Wonderfully tight.”

  “Cocks like ‘tight’, don’t they?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know how I’d be tighter?”

  “How?”

  “If there were two of you, one buggering me while the other one screwed me.”

  I stopped in mid-thrust. “I’m not into that – sharing.”

  She twisted her hips, plucking herself off me. “How dare you! I’m a one-man woman. You should know that. I was just thinking of something special to make you happy. Now you’ve spoiled it.”

  I apologized, but it was no good. She didn’t speak to me for the rest of the night. I felt bad, but at least I got some sleep.

  We made up the next morning. I moved in on the weekend. On the Monday I found she’d thrown out my robe and bought me a new one. I understood. Women always do that when a man moves in. They think they can smell the previous woman on it.

  “It was a horrible disgusting thing. I don’t know how you could have worn it.”

  That wasn’t necessary. Perhaps my anger at her rudeness showed, because she instantly begged my forgiveness and suggested I might feel better if I punished her.

  In the brief interludes between sex, she sometimes talked about her past. She’d been raped by a friend of the family when she was thirteen. She’d been raped again when she was twenty and working as a model. A guy she’d lived with, Bill something, had brought three friends home once and gang-banged her.

  If I’d kept track right, she’d been raped on a total of seven different occasions and abused in other ways by every man she’d ever known.

  We watched tv once in a while. I counted five celebrities that she told me she’d either had affairs with or fought off, including two women.

  I found out what she’d been getting at when she’d suggested she’d be tighter if there were two men. She liked it if there was a vibrator deep her rectum when I took her vaginally, and in her pussy when I buggered her. When I couldn’t get it up, two vibrators were fine. It was best for her if I tied her up before going to work with the twin dildos, then “she couldn’t stop me, no matter what I did to her”.

  Once she told me, “I wouldn’t need this if you were as big as Jeff was.”

  Later she apologized again – and suggested I punish her again. That time I did. She complained that I didn’t spank like I meant it and my hand was too soft. Mr Fox had done a lot of woodwork so his palms were hard. When he spanked a woman she knew she’d been spanked by a real man.

  One night when I was seeing to her pleasure she made a pencil mark on a pad. When I asked why, she told me I’d given her eleven orgasms so far that night and she wanted to keep score. I really worked that night. By morning the score-pad read “twenty-seven”. I remarked, hopefully, that it had to be some kind of record. “Not by a long way. Bill got me up to fifty, once.”

  We didn’t go out much. When we did, she flirted with the waiter or someone at the next table and we ended up fighting.

  I took her swimming in the pool in her building. That was fun until a couple of young guys came in. Somehow or another she lost the top of her bikini and that made her squeal loud enough to turn the lads’ heads. I left her chatting to them, clutching her bra-top to her breasts.

  When she finally came up she woke me to tell me I’d misunderstood her natural friendliness.

  “I suppose you expect another spanking,” I said.

  “With your soft hands? Anyway, you aren’t man enough, you hear me? You’re a wimp, Paul, with a puny little cock. Those boys down in the pool, though, they were real men. You should have seen the size of the erections they got from looking at me.”

  I grabbed her and got her over my lap but even mad as I was I had to take care not to break her arms so she managed to wriggle off me. I pushed her down flat on the bed. The cords were there, tied to the four corners, ready for “play”. I used them.

  I slapped her bum four times, almost hard.

  She said, “Wimp.”

  I grabbed my belt off the chair, lifted it high . . . and tossed it aside.

  She twisted her face towards me as I pulled my underpants up. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m going. This is where I came in.”

  TRUCK STOP RAINBOWS

  Iva Pekarkova

  Translated by David Powelstock

  I LAY NEXT to the road – and only the sensations I desired had permission to approach me. But a hostile, disturbing sound invaded my pleasant and harmonious space, and began to come nearer along the highway feeder road. At first it sounded like the buzzing of a bumblebee somewhere in the distance, but then this bumblebee began growing and getting closer, until its buzz became the unmistakable sound of a motor.

  The sound did not go whizzing by me – the car stopped, and I lazily prepared to open at least one eye: it was probably some kindhearted guy who wanted to give me a ride and would ask me envious questions about my vacation; I’d have to explain that I was sunbathing at the moment and wasn’t interested.

  I raised an eyelid.

  Two cops stood next to the ditch. Each one had the sun in his hair and one flat shoe half imbedded in the clay; they looked at me with a suspicious expression that struck me as kind of cute. I smiled, at both of them.

  (The main thing is not to resist. Don’t be insolent, just pretend you’re an adorable, ditzy, idiot, Fialinka . . .) One of them said, “What are you doing here? Where are you from? Were you headed somewhere for vacation? Alone? Let’s have a look at your Citizen’s Identification Booklet; yes, a routine check . . .”

  He said it diffidently, abstractly – it really was kind of cute the way the practiced, subtly threatening tone that saturated the voice of every law officer was shrouded by his charming Brno accent . . . Let’s have look – he said it as if there were syllables in L written at least a fourth part higher on the scale: Let’s have a look . . . Oh, Brno.

  (Be careful, Fialinka, blush; most important, don’t be a wise-ass, for God’s sake, don’t be a wise ass.)

  “Comrades” – but just slipped out – “I just adore the way you Brnians talk. Say something else for me. Let’s have a a look at my ID . . . Let’s have a look . . . It’s so refreshing, comrades, I just can’t get over that Brno accent, I just can’t . . . Let’s a have a 1 – ”

  They released me from the police station in the center of town about three hours later. It was recommended that I head straight home and not even think of hitchhiking on the highway – the comrades would be keeping an eye on me. I was told that my behavior was extremely suspicious and that the comrades in Prague would be checking up on my studies. So I shouldn’t be surprised when they called . . . Do you understand, comrade student?

  I took the tram (without buying a ticket, of course) that ran most directly out to the Southern Road. A tight-lipped, severe, not very pretty smile of determination was ripening on my lips. A sneer.

  My mind was made up. I was on my way to look for that wheelchair for Patrik.

  The sun had been at its zenith a long time already when my tram finally jolted up to the end of the line. I worked my way over to the prohibite
d highway through the honeycombed mire of dried and cracked puddles. I ran down from the overgrown embankment and took a look around. No cops in sight. And as soon as the promisingly Western silhouette of an Intertruck appeared on the horizon, I thrust out my chest and stuck out my arm. Not the usual supplicant gesture of humble, honorable hitchhikers everywhere, I stretched it out seductively and imperiously, like a girl who had the price of admission.

  The rig began to slow down almost immediately, and the screech of brakes in that cloud of swirling dust on the shoulder added to my self-confidence. I didn’t sprint the few meters to the cab as usual. I picked my pack up out of the ditch deliberately and approached with the slow step of a queen of the highway. I caught sight of a face reflected in the side mirror. The driver backed up right to my feet, jumped out, and ran around to open the door for me.

  And since I’d noticed a little D next to the truck’s license plate, I cleared my throat and said: “Fahrst du nach Pressburg?”

  I didn’t add bitte or anything like that – I chose the informal du over Sie without even being at all sure how old he was.

  It made no difference anyway.

  He smiled (pleased I spoke German), nodded, and, when I added a regal danke after he lifted my pack up into the cab, he observed cheerfully, “Aber du sprichst Deutsch sehr gut!”

  And that was the beginning of the long period, maybe too long, when I decided to become what almost every cop already assumed I was.

  I had decided to get Patrik that wheelchair.

  After twenty kilometers of small talk I was pleasantly surprised at my long-untested German. I smoked Marlboros (somehow convinced that without a cigarette clasped between my delicately outstretched fingers – even though they were still smeared with dirt – the impression wouldn’t be complete) and, with a few successfully composed complex sentences, brought the conversation around to the difficulty of life in a socialist state. Kurt (we’d long ago exchanged names) steered with the barest touch of his left hand and, with his face turned toward me, nodded attentively. He was taking the bait. I don’t know if he was listening, probably not, but he still kept saying how much he admired my German: God knows how few of these highway girls knew anything more than bunsen, the German word for fuck. He doesn’t look unsympathetic, and I could do worse for my first time, I thought to myself. I babbled on cheerfully – and contemplated what would probably happen. This was not like an adventure that comes to you. This was not the work of my old friend Serendipity. I still wasn’t used to my role – and I knew that I was going to have to take matters into my own hands.