The Mammoth Book of the Best New Erotica Page 36

  Now that I was having sex with Tracey so soon after I’d had sex with Vicki, and was rediscovering myself as a sexual person (albeit in quite an unconventional way), I felt like I might like to watch pornography again, using the woman on screen as a point of connection between Tracey and Vicki and whomever I ended up having sex with next.

  I was amazed at how much the money was adding an extra energy. When I’d been going out with Tracey, our intercourse had always been extremely fraught, a cycle of tears, excitement, pain, pleasure and tears. The first few times had been terrifying, a form of lovemaking I was completely unused to, having previously only been with women who saw sex as a friendly adult kinship. Now I was paying Tracey she seemed to be trying to fit her need around working out how to make me happy. The way she was kissing me showed she wanted me, which is something I’ve always needed to know in order to enjoy sex with anyone. These last two statements sounds antithetical. Let me explain. What I mean is, nothing is as big a turn-off for me as a woman saying, “I want to make you happy.” But a woman who wants me (even if she’s only pretending) is all I need for the sex to work. This is why I always aimed low when picking people up, and why paying my friends for sex was turning out to be so successful. I’m not vain enough to imagine I could sexually excite a professional prostitute, but I also knew that it would be impossible for a friend (or an ex) to have sex with me without feeling something. And with Tracey I thought it went much further than that, as I saw now that she’d always needed this sort of excuse to really enjoy sex, and may even previously have had this sort of fantasy herself.

  She stopped kissing me and pushed herself up. “How much would you pay to pull down my top?”

  “I told you. I’ll give you five hundred pounds whatever we end up doing.”

  She shook her head. “No,” she said, “I want to negotiate.”

  “OK.” I smiled. “I guess that could be fun. Are you wearing a bra?”

  Tracey got up and pulled her curtains. Then she turned on a table lamp and switched off the main light. Before taking her position on top of me, she pulled off her cardigan and hung it over the back of a chair.

  “Yes, I’m wearing a bra.”

  “So you’re only talking about me seeing your bra, not your breasts?”

  “For the moment, yes.”

  “And, let me get this straight, am I paying you to pull down your top yourself or for me to do it?”

  “Either.”

  “So there’s no price difference between those two options?”

  “No. Come on, how much?”

  “Well, it seems quite minor, so let’s say ten pounds.”

  “Twenty. I take it you have the money with you?”

  I felt surprised that Tracey was being as serious about the money as Vicki had been yesterday, especially as I’d assumed I’d have to persuade her to take the cash. But I enjoyed my role in the fantasy, taking a twenty-pound note from my inside pocket and laying it out on the table.

  “OK,” she said, fingers going to the thin cord around her neck.

  I reached up and stopped her, saying, “No, I want to do it.”

  I untied her and pulled the top down over her breasts. She was wearing a white strapless bra and her nipples were visible through the material. I attempted to stroke them.

  “No, no,” she told me, “you haven’t paid for that yet. How much to see my knickers?”

  “What type are you wearing?”

  “Does that affect the price?”

  “No, I’m just curious.”

  “Mmm,” she said, “you just reminded me of something.”

  “Dinner in the oven?”

  “No. A memory. From when we were together.”

  “Dangerous territory.”

  “Doesn’t have to be. Anyway, this is a nice memory. It was about the third or fourth time we slept together, and we met unexpectedly, or maybe I hadn’t been planning to go to bed with you but it ended up happening anyway, and you were surprised because I wasn’t wearing matching underwear and I felt really weird because I didn’t even have that many matching sets and you’d already seen most of them.”

  “So you’re not wearing matching underwear today?”

  “I am, actually, although I didn’t think about that this morning. Well, kind of matching, they’re white string-knickers, with a small red design in one corner.”

  “Let me see.”

  “How much?”

  “Forty.”

  “Cash on the table.”

  I unfolded another two notes. “Are you sure you don’t want me to give you the whole five hundred right now?”

  “And spoil the fun? I’m enjoying myself, aren’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good.” She smiled at me and pulled her skirt up. She tried to make the material stay as high up her thighs as possible so I could get a proper look at her knickers. Shortly after we’d started going out, I’d discovered Tracey’s diary. Just before we met she’d had a lonely night with some unsatisfactory ex-partner and come home and detailed all the things she liked and didn’t like. Eventually I was forced to admit my betrayal of her trust, but prior to my confession it provided a useful shorthand on how to please her. She liked having her breasts caressed rather than kissed, preferred having her knickers gently slipped down her thighs rather than taking them off herself, sometimes enjoyed being fingered to orgasm with her knickers still on, although that was never quite as nice as being eaten out. She liked sucking cock; sometimes more than being fucked. Her favourite fantasy was imaginary incest (something only ever exciting to those who hadn’t suffered the irritation of real-life siblings) and except for very, very rare occasions, hated being on top.

  She laughed. “I bet you’re just dying to touch me, aren’t you?”

  Tracey never used to be this confident. I knew it had something to do with the money, but I also thought it was probably connected to her new job. I’d always known Tracey had the perfect voice for sex-line work, but felt surprised that she’d actually gone through with it. I wanted to ask her more about what the job was like, but after her previous outburst, felt scared about spoiling the mood.

  “Can I touch your cunt and breasts at the same time?”

  “If you’re prepared to pay for it.”

  “I’ll give you fifty pounds. But you also have to rub my cock.”

  “For fifty, I’ll only do it through your trousers.”

  “That’s all I want, for the minute.” I counted out the cash and put it on the table. “Although let me touch you for a bit first.”

  “OK. Can I lie back more?”

  “Of course. It’ll make things easier.”

  She shuffled backwards, reclining against the arm of the sofa. I moved round between her legs, leaning in to kiss her as I began to gently stroke and squeeze her breasts. Her kisses were more open now, her mouth more relaxed. I quickly embraced her and then began to rub the heel of my hand over her cunt. I touched her breasts at the same time, kissing her again. After a few minutes, she pushed me back up and began stroking the tight crotch of my trousers. She stroked her hand around my shape, the heel of her hand rubbing my cock while her fingers softly dug against the underside of my balls. I let her do this for a short while, then pushed her back.

  “Another fifty to see your tits.”

  She laughed. “Shall I undo it?”

  “No, let me.”

  I put a fifty-pound note on the table, and Tracey leaned forward to let me unhook her bra. I was amazed at how unfamiliar her breasts looked, and wondered how I could’ve forgotten something so important. Why are visual memories the hardest to preserve? Especially sexual memories. I couldn’t believe that in my fantasy world I had robbed Tracey of her real body and replaced it with an anonymous alternative. I had forgotten how easily she flushed; that her shoulders were lightly freckled. Her breasts had become bigger in my memory, her nipples smaller, and the real-life combination was much sexier. But strangest of all, I had forgotten how Tr
acey looked at me differently when I started to undress her.

  She kissed me. “Knickers too?”

  “Let me do it. You know what you said earlier about not wanting to have sex with me, do you still feel like that?”

  “I don’t want to have penetrative sex. But everything else is OK.”

  I considered this. “All right then, I’ll give you a hundred and fifty pounds to pull your knickers off and go down on you.”

  “OK.”

  Placing the cash on the table, I gently lifted Tracey from the sofa and brought her down onto the floor. She raised her knees and I slipped my fingers under the waistband of her knickers and gently tugged them down. Her cunt was already wet and slightly open, the pink bright beneath the spring of her light-brown pubic hair. I pulled her legs slightly more open and gave her cunt a first kiss. She murmured something and I moved up to hear what she said.

  “What was that?”

  “I said I’ve fantasized so much about you doing this. Especially since the other night.”

  Remembering Vicki, I asked, “What did you do when you fantasized?”

  “Touched myself, of course,” she said, sounding surprised.

  I couldn’t stop myself asking, “When was the last time?”

  She sounded slightly irritated as she replied, “In the shower at the gym this morning,” and, not wanting to push my luck, I went back down on her.

  It was incredible to be between Tracey’s legs again, and I felt disappointed when she came quickly. I wanted to carry on and see if I could bring her to a second orgasm, but she stopped me and made me come up alongside her for a hug.

  We lay like that for a while and then I asked her, “Would you like to see my cock?”

  “Do I have to pay you?”

  “No.” I laughed. “It’s a freebie.”

  I pulled open my fly. She looked at me, surprised.

  “You wear underwear now?”

  “Since Michael Hutchence died.”

  “Show me then.”

  I pulled out my cock. She stared at it for a minute and then looked up at me.

  “I remember it.”

  “Do you?” I asked, surprised. “Exactly?”

  “Exactly.”

  I looked at her, wondering if women’s memories worked differently to men’s, or whether the fault lay solely with me.

  “So,” I said, “two hundred quid for a blow job.”

  “It’s extra to come in my mouth.”

  “Two-fifty, then.”

  I counted out the cash and she went down on me.

  Marianne was already in bed when I got home. I knew she was probably still upset about what I’d said that morning, but found I didn’t really regret it. Since I’d started paying people for sex, my generosity to her had started to seem unfathomable, and I couldn’t understand why I’d been kind to her for so long. No one else seemed interested in her (in the whole time she’d lived with me she’d never mentioned her parents once) and she hardly contributed anything around the home. Besides, if it wasn’t for her living here I could have my sexual adventures without venturing outside the front door. I wasn’t quite ready to kick her out, but from now on I felt she should start doing something to justify her board.

  I didn’t have much to do the next day. I arose late, masturbated, then went out for lunch alone. When I got back Marianne was sitting in the garden, reading a book. I went through to my study and called Vicki.

  “Hi, Jesse, how are you?”

  “Good.”

  There was a moment of silence. I hadn’t imagined that it’d be hard to talk to her, assuming that we’d quickly fall back into a friendly intimacy, maybe with a pleasant new sexual undercurrent to our conversation. But suddenly I was experiencing the same sort of shyness I usually only felt when I was talking to someone I really fancied.

  “Is this a money conversation?”

  “Kind of,” I laughed.

  “Oh,” she said, “I’m glad you’ve brought that up. The thing is, Jesse, the other night and everything I did enjoy it, but I don’t think it should happen again.”

  “Really?” I replied, wondering if she was serious, or just wanted to be persuaded.

  “Yeah,” she said, “I’m sorry. I can’t really explain. It’s not you, or the money. It’s just that I’m not very good at the stage between casual sex and a proper relationship, and I know you’re not looking for that right now . . .”

  “Well . . .”

  “I mean, I’m not either, and I want you to carry on being my walker, and well, if I’m going to be absolutely honest, the next day I was a bit freaked out by the fact that I’d taken money from you and if you’ll let me I’d like to give it back.”

  “No, Vicki, don’t be silly, it was worth it.”

  “I don’t have to give you the actual money. If you want I can just credit your account.”

  “No,” I said, “I’m glad I paid you. But I understand why you don’t want to do it again, and don’t worry, this won’t damage our friendship.”

  “Oh, good,” she replied, “thanks, Jesse.”

  I finished the call, found my address book and flipped through until I found Anita’s number. I dialled, and got her answerphone. So I tried her mobile.

  “Hello?” she said, the background noise of a lively pub behind her voice.

  “Hi, Anita, it’s Jesse.”

  “Hi, Jesse, how are you?”

  “Good. Where are you?”

  “In Soho. Why?”

  “Are you alone?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “I wondered whether I could meet up with you.”

  “Now?”

  “Is that OK?”

  “Of course. I’m in Waxy’s Little Sister. Do you know where that is?”

  “No.”

  “Opposite the Metro.”

  “The cinema?”

  “Yeah. How long are you going to be?”

  “About forty-five minutes.”

  “OK. I’ll see you then.”

  I told Marianne I was going out and took a taxi into Soho. Part of me wanted to reveal that I was meeting Anita, just to see how she’d react. But I worried that giving Marianne clues as to what I had planned might inhibit me, so I kept quiet.

  During the drive, I thought about Anita and wondered whether she would go for my suggestion. The fact that she was drinking alone in the afternoon seemed a good sign, as she only lapsed back into alcoholism between affairs, focusing more heavily on drugs when she was involved with someone.

  I remembered talking about Anita with Hazel, Ivy and Elizabeth, and how they were convinced I’d be able to seduce her. It was almost worth not using the money as a motivation, but I realized when I thought about having sex with Anita the financial transaction was the part I was looking forward to most. It was knowing that I was going to offer Anita money that stopped me feeling intimidated by her, as it seemed more adult, honest and decadent than her booze, coke and affairs.

  Waxy’s Little Sister was a ghastly Irish theme pub, and I couldn’t understand what Anita was doing there. She was sitting alone with a pint and a small glass of whisky. I walked across and joined her.

  “Hi, Jesse. So what’s wrong? Is this to do with Marianne?”

  “No, nothing like that. I was just at a loose end and wanting someone to have a drink with. You were the first person who came to mind. Well, second, after my bank manager.”

  She chuckled. “Isn’t he working?”

  “She. And yes, she is. But I thought I could persuade her to knock off early. Anyway, I’m glad you were free. Are you all right for drinks?”

  She nodded. I got myself a pint and pulled up a chair beside her. Even when she was getting wasted alone Anita looked incredible. She looked posh and innocent, a fatal combination even without the added spice of her exciting private life. I’d always wanted her, but had been held back by fear. Her red hair (always a warning sign to me, since that first experience of adolescent rejection) made her look a little lik
e Nicole Kidman at her most elegant, although with a slightly more inviting, open face.

  “How are you then?” I asked, still nervous.

  “All right. Starting to get a little bit wobbly. How about you?”

  “OK . . . a little drained.”

  “Ennui?” She smiled.

  “Something like that. Too much money and too much free time.”

  “I wish I had that worry.”

  I sipped my beer, sensing an opening. “You’re all right for money, aren’t you?”

  “Are you kidding? I’m broke. I’ve never had this little money in my life.”

  “Really?” I said, and after enough large swallows, began my pitch.

  The following evening I was feeling lonely again. I couldn’t get hold of Anita, or Tracey, and knew it would be undignified to have another go at persuading Vicki to change her mind. Frustrated, I went downstairs to the lounge.

  Marianne was lying on the floor, watching television. She was wearing a short skirt and a black top and when I sat on the sofa behind her I could see her knickers. She paid no attention to me, concentrating on the television. I stayed there for fifteen minutes, but finally couldn’t take it any longer and asked, “How much money would you want to suck my cock?”

  Marianne moved out the following morning. I would’ve been happy if she’d left the night before, but she clearly wanted to drag out her departure. I wasn’t sad to see her go and, although I had said some seriously mean things to her in our argument the night before, none of my comments had been unfair. Two years of frustration had come out too fast, that’s all. I wasn’t a bad person.

  “I think it’s good that you kicked Marianne out,” Elizabeth told me. “She’s been sponging off of you for far too long.”

  “What was the argument about?” asked Hazel.