Carrie leaned forward and gently kissed my lips. She smiled and said, “Goodbye.”
She waved as the taxi pulled away to disappear in the heavy traffic of the piazza.
Turning back to the Arena, I passed through the gate and the statue of the three nymphs. I looked at each face, which seemed caught in rapture, and wondered if they indeed had had an orgy as they posed.
If so, they couldn’t have had the time we had under the warm Italian sun. Romeo and Juliet’s Verona will never be the same for me. It’s Carrie’s Verona now, and those magnificent breasts and silky pussy.
And I’ve got pictures to prove it.
Fleshpot
Lisabet Sarai
Cas was right. It’s a disease. She was right to cut the ties, when she found me in the garden shed with sweet Susan the babysitter, in flagrante. I offer no excuse.
It doesn’t feel like a disease, though, when I’m in the throes, my senses drenched in the seashore scent of my latest conquest. It feels like I’m on the edge of a revelation, like this is the fuck I’ve been seeking all my life, the one that will make everything clear, new, beautiful and real. When I burrow into that mysterious place between her thighs, I’m not just looking for pleasure. I’m seeking some kind of truth, or at least that’s how it seems, like this is the time that I’ll break through that barrier. I catch tantalizing glimpses of brilliance, just out of reach, shining like the grail in some celibate knight’s vision. That’s me, on a quest for the ultimate knowledge. Except of course, I’m not celibate.
When the papers came from her lawyer, my transgressions sucked dry by legal language (“extramarital liaisons”), my kids stolen by some judge’s whim, I took off. My business – electronics OEM – can always provide an excuse for a trip to Asia. My meetings in Bangkok consumed a day and a half. Since then I’ve been here in this sleazy coastal resort town two hours from the capital.
I’ve done it all, in the past two weeks, tried everything. The lithe Thai beauties who twine like snakes around the poles, in all the bars and clubs along the Walking Street. The buxom, pushy Russian girls, with their milky complexions and succulent nipples, ripe to the point of bursting, eager to empty both my cock and my wallet. The ladyboys, as slender and graceful as their sisters, even more feminine, in fact, the prick erupting from their hairless, perfumed loins as much a shock to them as to me. I’ve sampled the exotica on sale here, the dwarfs and the cripples, the grossly obese young woman who nearly smothered me in her lush, unutterably soft flesh. I’ve been whipped and returned the favor. So far I’ve managed to resist the fifteen-year-old boys, but just last night a youth of terrifying beauty who claimed to be nineteen drained me in the men’s room of one of the go-go places. An acrid mixture of urine and camphor stung my nostrils as I pumped my come into his agile mouth. And in that transcendent instant, as always, I felt myself on the verge of understanding.
I’m taking a break from the throbbing music and naked skin of the indoor clubs. I perch on a bar stool at the edge of the pavement, watching the parade of tourists and touts ambling by.
I’m tired. The twins I fucked earlier, in a red-lit, windowless room above one of the bars, drained me with their convincing enthusiasm for my body. Nee and Nu were indistinguishable, two toffee-skinned tarts who claimed to be eighteen but might have been anywhere from fourteen to thirty. One sat on my face, the other on my cock. Nee (or was it Nu?) made short work of my hard-on; I exploded into the condom with just a few minutes of massage by her muscular pussy. Nu, though (or maybe Nee?), humored me, letting me lick her bare twat and breathe her low-tide scent for as long as I wanted – until I hardened again, earning laughter and admiration from my two playmates.
Sitting here, I can smell the exposed mud flats beyond the row of rickety buildings that shield the Walking Street from the sea. Fifty years ago, I’ve heard, this was a quiet fishing village. The men harvested the bounty of the gulf. Their wives raised children, prayed to the Buddha, left flowers and rice for the older gods. Then came the soldiers, with their insatiable hunger for flesh, looking for that brief instant of communion to erase their pain – the little death that helped them forget the constant threat of annihilation. Bars and brothels mushroomed, appearing like magic. The Thais are an accommodating people.
The soldiers are gone now, but the hunger remains. Men from a dozen countries stroll along the pavement like sunburned, hairy ghosts. And I’ve become one of them.
My beer drools with condensation. A headache tickles behind my eyes. I lift the amber glass to my forehead and get a moment’s relief from the relentless heat. Tilting my head back, I swallow the last few gulps of yeasty brew. The brief chill soothes my parched throat. Before I even set the bottle on the bar, there’s a girl at my elbow.
“You want more beer, sir?” Her eyelids are crusted with purple glitter. A gold amulet nestles in the hollow between her succulent breasts. Her smile is bright enough to make me dizzy.
“No, thank you.”
“You buy drink for me?” Her hand creeps up my thigh, heading for my crotch. She doesn’t look down. Instead she gazes into my face in a winsome appeal that’s hard to resist. But she knows I’m hard, that I’ve been hard since the first whiff of her perfumed sweat.
Pavlov’s dog, that’s what I am.
“Please, sir.” Her palm cups me through my jeans. “I have room, next soi . . .”
Why not? She’s pretty, in a plump, robust way. In the past, I’ve read, Thai women were all delicate as sylphs, but these days they come in all shapes and sizes. It’s true – I know from personal experience. I look at the girl teetering next to me on her four-inch heels and I know already how my fingers will sink into her pillowy breasts, how I’ll mark her ripe ass with my nails as I pound into her cunt. I can picture it all, right up to the moment when I shoot my load and launch myself into the ether, vainly seeking enlightenment.
Why bother?
“Sorry, no – I’ve got to get back to my hotel.” Her hopeful expression turns sullen. I slip five-hundred baht into the bamboo tube that holds my check – three times the cost of my beer. “Mai pen rai,” I tell her. “Keep the change.”
Her scowl evaporates. “Khorp khun ka! Thank you, sir!” I watch her butt jiggle in her tiny shorts as she weaves her way to the register, then lever myself off the stool and join the wandering crowd.
I’m a bit off balance, but not really drunk. You have to shell out for a beer each place you visit, but then you can sit as long as you like, enjoying the “entertainment” – girls in bikinis, girls in lingerie, girls wearing nothing at all – writhing to the music, spreading their legs, cupping their tits, kissing one another in a pantomime of lesbian lust that’s arousing despite its silliness.
The other men drift around me like specters. I see only the women. A busty pair of Swedish girls saunter by, easily six feet tall, blonde hair gleaming on their tanned shoulders. A diminutive black woman in a multi-hued African print laughs and points at a tame monkey in the middle of the road. Even the Arab women, shrouded in black, make my balls ache. What the hell are they doing in this fleshpot? They walk behind their spouses, staring with a mixture of shock and fascination at the many varieties of sin surrounding them. Their luminous, accusing eyes meet mine, then skitter away. I imagine stripping away their protective garments to probe the mysteries beneath, and know that I’m damned.
“Hey, mister. What you looking for?” The voice is like rusted chains being dragged along the ground. I try to focus on its source. A hand clutches my T-shirt.
“You want something special?” The wizened man at my side offers a toothless grin. “Got something special, very special. Sex like nothing else in the world.”
A dull blanket of despair settles over me. It’s suddenly hard to breathe. Am I that transparent?
“Leave me alone!” I try to shake him off, but he’s like a tick on a dog.
“Look, look. Very special. Most beautiful girl in world.” He pulls a tattered photo from the pocket of his sh
orts. I can’t help myself. “Look.”
The image is dark, the background indistinct, but in the center a woman’s face shines like the moon. Her skin’s so pale it’s iridescent. Her tangled hair is snow white, touched with silvery highlights. It tumbles in tangled ringlets over her shoulders and onto her chest, half-hiding luscious, ripe breasts. Erect, plumhued nipples peek through the platinum tresses.
Her body is a wet dream, but it’s her perfect face that holds me breathless. Silver brows arch over bottomless black eyes. She has high cheekbones streaked with violet shadows, a delicate nose and purplish lips so full they look bruised. She does not smile. Although her features are those of young girl of twenty, maybe less, there’s a terrible, ageless wisdom in her expression that makes my chest hurt and my cock swell to impossible hardness.
“You like?” I hear triumph in the aged procurer’s voice. He knows I’m hooked. “Only five-thousand baht.”
“Who is she?” I tear my eyes from her solemn gaze. “Your daughter? Your granddaughter? You selling your own flesh and blood for a few baht, old man?”
“No, no, she not family.” He clutches the amulet hanging around his scrawny neck in a strange, superstitious gesture, then grins up at me. “Just a lost woman – work for me – she work for you, mister, believe me. Make you so hot, so hard . . .”
“If she’s just a woman, I don’t need her. I can get lots of women.” Something contrary makes me argue, though in truth I’m dying to meet this exquisite creature.
“Not like Nangloy. Nangloy special. Only one like her . . .”
He shoves the photo in my face. I want to look away – her loveliness only sharpens my anguish – but I can’t resist another glance. I imagine those pale, rounded arms twining around me. I wonder about the taste of that lush dark mouth. She snags me with her cold eyes, not pleading like the other girls, but challenging me. Do I dare take her?
How can I refuse? Perhaps this is it, at last – what I’ve been looking for.
“Three thousand,” I say finally. I don’t want him to know how eager I truly am.
“Cannot, cannot! Must feed her, take care of her . . .”
“Never mind then.” I shrug and stride away.
“Wait, wait!” He scampers like a crab, trying to keep up with me. “Three thousand five hundred.”
“Three thousand.” He’s as desperate as I am, for some reason.
“No . . . Cannot. Nangloy special, cost a lot . . .”
“Then find some other sucker who’ll pay for something so ‘special’.” I stop walking and fold my arms across my chest. I’ll let the universe decide. If the geezer will drop his price to my level, that’ll be a sign. Otherwise, I’ll find some other flesh to console me. “Three thousand or nothing.”
“OK, OK. Three thousand. But you come now, OK, mister? Nangloy, she waiting for you.”
What better time than now? I’m hard and ready. Meanwhile, a ray of unlikely hope dispels a bit of my gloom. I can tell by her face Nangloy is like no one I’ve met before. Maybe – just maybe – she’s what I need.
“Come on,” the skinny old man urges. He leads me down a narrow corridor floored with scarred planks, between two seafood restaurants. I hear sports announcers and rock music, then clattering plates and hissing oil. There are still a few diners loitering on the wooden balconies overlooking the bay. Kerosene torches smoke in the limp air. The half moon above us is blurred. Lights from the luxury hotels on the cape to the south twinkle like distant stars in the mist.
The path becomes a rickety wharf, stretching out into the sea. “Careful, careful,” the old man warns. “Some missing boards. Watch out.”
“Nangloy is out here?” The tide has turned. Murky water laps at the piles ten feet below.
“Yes, yes. Just a little way.”
The pier ends in a wooden shack. The old man unfastens a rusty padlock then pulls open the door. The place stinks of stale beer and rotten fish. Dread crawls up my spine.
“Never mind. I’m going back.”
My guide grabs my wrist with surprising strength. “No, no! She waiting you. Don’t be chicken shit farang.”
“This place looks dangerous.”
“Sure, Nangloy dangerous. Most beautiful girl in the world – of course she dangerous. Everyone want her.” He lowers his voice, as though telling me a secret.
“Tonight, she yours.”
He flips a switch – I’m surprised to discover the hut is electrified – and a bare bulb in the ceiling throws the rough space into sharp relief. A table and two chairs – a wooden platform with a thin, stained mattress – some shelves holding a bottle of Thai whiskey and a couple of smeared glasses. A rectangular hole in the far wall offers a view of the bay.
Such a lonely, desolate place . . . if I scream no one will hear.
The twinge of fear banishes any residual drunkenness. All my senses are on high gain. The rising tide splashes below us. The briny smell is almost overwhelming, but now, I’m starting to find it pleasant. It reminds me of the woman I am about to meet.
“Where is she, grandpa?”
“She down there.” He points to a trap door in the floor. “Leave your clothes on bed. Then you go down.”
I follow his instructions. I feel him staring at my cock as I remove my jeans. I am iron-hard. I wonder how I can be so clearheaded, with all that blood swelling my penis. Nangloy’s pimp had opened the flap in the floor while I was undressing. I head for the aperture, eager to meet my fate.
“Wait, wait. You pay first.”
“OK, whatever.” I extract the wallet from my pants pocket and flip three bills in his direction. I only have a few hundred more, so I don’t worry about him robbing me while I’m with his special whore. He tucks the money into his shirt.
“You go now.” In the glare from above, his wrinkled, grinning face looks skeletal. “Enjoy.”
I start to clamber down the metal ladder, but something stops me. A last shred of rationality, perhaps. A whiff of fear, as insubstantial as the mist veiling the moon. “Wait a minute, gramps. You come too. Introduce me to your protégée.”
“No, no – you go alone. She wait for you. I come later, when you finish.”
I decide not to argue. In truth, I’m too eager to see what awaits me below. I descend the rusty steps into another chamber, filled with a dim, greenish light. The sound of waves is all around me. I must be barely above water level.
The room appears empty. The wooden floor is damp and slimy under my bare feet. As my eyes adjust to the dimness, I realize there’s a big iron tub in the far corner. In that tub, her eyes fixed on my naked body, sits Nangloy.
In person, she’s even more astonishing than in the photo. Her pearlescent skin gleams from within. Her hair cascades like liquid light over her perfect breasts. The tub’s full of water, up to her waist, so I can’t see her hips, her buttocks or her pussy, but if they’re anything like her upper half . . .
She regards me gravely. She doesn’t smile, doesn’t speak, but she holds out her arms in a graceful gesture of welcome. I take a step forward, my fingers itching to stroke that iridescent skin, run my fingers through that silken silver hair.
My pulse pounds in my temples. I want to rush to her side. At the same time, I want to stretch out this unique moment, contemplating her incredible, bizarre beauty. Who – what – is she?
Finally I’m standing by the side of the tub. She twines her delicate fingers around my raging erection. A chill seizes me. At the same time, my cock stings, as though her skin were secreting acid. The slight pain only makes me want her more. She ripples her hand down my length, milking me. My balls tighten. Not yet, not yet! The sensations she kindles are like nothing I’ve experienced, simultaneously languorous and urgent.
I reach for her, capturing both nipples between fingers and thumbs. They’re tough and rubbery. When I twist them, her eyes grow wider, but she still makes no sound, just strokes, strokes, strokes my cock, trailing fire along the shaft.
I
bend over, kneading her breasts, burying my face in her hair. She smells of seaweed and stone, pearls and foam. I brush her purple lips with mine. They’re icy cold, yet the same strange fire burns my mouth in the aftermath of contact. She won’t open to my tongue. I finally give up and try to pull her to a standing position.
“Let me see you, Nangloy – all of you. I want to taste your pussy.”
She doesn’t exactly resist but I can’t budge her from her sitting position. Her expert touch has me on the edge of coming. I want to do the same for her, yet she barely reacts to my caresses.
I crouch beside the tub and plunge my hand into the water, seeking her cunt. I find a slick, slippery, muscular slit that grips my probing fingers. Her fist tightens around my cock when I drive into that hot, wet space. I hover on the edge of climax, struggling for control.
Finally, I think I’ve moved her. Her inky eyes close for an instant, as if in ecstasy, and her pussy flutters around my hand under the surface.
“I want to fuck you,” I tell her, though I’m pretty sure by now she doesn’t understand. “If you won’t come out of the tub, I’ll have to get in.” I pry her fingers from around my organ. The taut skin tingles as I step over the rim into the water.
Something slithers past my calf, then clamps around my ankle.
“What the hell?” I teeter on one foot. What kind of kinky crap is this? My leg’s caught in some kind of slippery rope that’s pulling me sideways, slowly but inexorably. I lose my balance and tumble into the tub, onto my ass, sending a wave crashing over the rim onto the floor.
A second rope, or cable, or whatever, encircles my other ankle. My thighs are pulled apart. Nangloy leans forward to pinch my nipples with her fiery fingers as something round, smooth and slick spirals around my cock and then squeezes.
I groan. The cum races up my shaft. Nangloy grabs my wrists. I fight for control.
A million fingers dance over my submerged prick. The water’s murky. I can’t see what’s happening, but God, I can feel it! The pleasure’s unbearable, unbelievable. I should be horrified but my wildly sparking nerves smother any rational thought.
The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 12: Over 40 outstanding pieces of short erotic fiction (Mammoth Books) Page 29