“Okay, come on, now,” Steve says brusqely.
She keeps on standing there, hesitant.
He is becoming increasingly irritated.
“Eddie, I’m losing patience.”
He suddenly takes hold of her shirt and pulls it open. Reluctantly, she takes it off.
The men all smile.
“Orlando, she’s all yours. Let’s see that famous big black dick at work,” Steve says excitedly. “Ride the white bitch. Ride her.”
She unbuttons the shorts and slides them down her hips and legs. Her black knickers haven’t been washed for a few days. There’s a small hole on one side. She blushes, bends and with her back to the ring of businessmen, takes them off. She looks up. Orlando is already down to his underpants. His chest is quite hairless, the colour of ebony. He wets his lips as his gaze explores her exposed body. The bulge in his crotch rises slightly as he catches sight of her shaven sex. She places her hands needlessly in front.
He extricates his cock from the pants.
It dangles out against his taut thigh.
“Jesus Christ,” she says.
His penis, still soft and unaroused, is enormous. Like a donkey, she thinks. I can never take that inside. It’ll rip me apart. He faces her, a few inches away from her. She shivers. His thing down there is like a stick of wood, heavily veined, delicately textured. She smells the man, his odour is strong, fierce. She accumulates saliva at the back of her mouth and swallows it down.
“Suck him, make him grow,” a voice says in the background, outside of the circle of light in which she feels imprisoned.
She kneels down, touches Orlando’s cock. Lifts the shaft to her dry lips. Underneath she sees the heavy sack of his balls, the lined thin skin holding the heavy testicles, the bulging scrotum. She approaches her mouth. She can feel his member throbbing as she holds it. It’s growing already. Her tongue emerges and reaches the tip of his glans. He has no foreskin. She closes her eyes and moves her head, her mouth forward. The cock slides between her lips, brushes against her teeth and, pulsing all the time, lodges itself against the back of her throat. She almost chokes and has to adjust her position, raising her head slightly, still the sportsman’s penis grows until she feels her whole mouth full, invaded. Her tongue moves around the thick shaft, licking, caressing, tasting the man.
“See, it fits,” she hears Steve, commenting. “I told you she was a big girl. Look at that ass, the butt of a queen, truly.”
She sucks and sucks to little emotional reaction from the black giant. She’s afraid he will come in her mouth, literally drown her throat with his semen, choke her to death. Right then, he places a hand on her freckled shoulder and says: “I’m ready, girl, now.” And pulls his cock out of her aching mouth.
The massive member stands tall, an inch away from her face. She finally opens her eyes. She’s never seen a cock so big, so thick, so long. No, she mentally protests, it’ll kill me. It’ll never go in. It’s physically impossible. It stands at attention, rigid and hard, like a lethal weapon.
She turns around. Steve and half the men have got their cocks out or trousers down. They all seem incredibly thin and long.
“He’s got to wear a condom,” she protests.
“No,” says one of the men.
Katherine stands firm.
“Then I can’t go along with it, I just can’t,” she says. It’s possibly her out.
“For a thousand bucks, you’ll do what we say,” Steve screams at her. “This ain’t no government health education advertorial.”
He walks over to her and suddenly punches her in the stomach. She bends forward, not so much in pain, but out of breath.
“There, that’s a gentle warning.” He pushes her head down to the floor, “Okay, black stud, poke her. First, turn her over so we’ve a good view.”
Orlando moves her body round, spits into his palm, wets his cock and positions his raised dick right by her opening. Katherine is on all fours, rump raised to his level, he pulls her hips up and she almost loses balance. She feels the tip of the cock brushing hard against her outer lips. The black man thrusts hard and the glans enters and jams, only, partly embedded inside her. Her muscles already feel so stretched, she squirms. Her involuntary movement loosens the inner labia and the main shaft moves an inch forward. It hurts. Bad. His large hands seize her rump as he pushes again.
Two of the men are betting.
‘It’ll never go in.”
“Yes, it will. She can take him. Hey, Steve, the stud needs some lubrication, help him out.”
She hears him move close and feels a cold liquid pouring down over her ass and into the vaginal gash, pearling over the black cock. Champagne. Orlando grunts, thrusts hard, his hips dictating the sharp movement, the shaft moves further up her cunt. How much more? She moans. Tears are coming to her eyes. One final shove and he is finally all in, she is tearing, she is being cut in two. The black man begins to move inside her, the top of his cock feels as if it’s moved so far it’s inside her stomach, scraping manically against her inside walls. The movement increases and she blanks out her mind, the pain down there now feels like an anaesthetic, remote, someone else’s. Eternity and over.
“Great ass, hey. Love that mole under the left butt, or is it a beauty spot?” Steve remarks from his vantage point.
White on black.
Black cock inside white cunt.
“Turn over,” one of the men says. “Missionary, now.”
Orlando disengages. It feels like a hole inside her. He pulls her over and down, settles her shoulders and the back of her head on the carpet. She looks down on her body. She is gaping open. She gasps, it’ll never close up again. The outer lips are redder than they were with all the lipstick. The black sportsman, with his cock still at full mast kneels down and with one hand moves the cock back into her. He bobs up and down over her, as the dick slides in and out until it reaches port and impales her totally. Then he pulls her legs up and places them over his own shoulders, still thrusting savagely inside her all the time. For the first time, she feels an early wave of pleasure run through her. Her nipples are so sensitive. Why doesn’t Orlando touch them? Please. Her lover did. The black man’s breath grows shorter. She senses his climax approaching as his eyes open and close in quick succession as he pistons on inside her, his big balls slamming like a metronome against her bum.
“Hey,” Steve shouts out. “Orlando, my man, don’t come inside her. Let’s see your spunk on her face.”
The stud digs ever deeper into her. Vaginal farts punctuate his movements as the air left inside her is displaced by his sheer bulk. Finally, he pulls out hurriedly and his come spurts out like a geyser, white, creamy, burning hot over her shaven mons and her thighs.
“He missed the target,” one of the jokers says.
The black guy, spent, looks Katherine in the eyes. “Sorry,” he whispers. “I needed the money too. Gambling debts.”
He walks away, standing tall, to fetch his clothes.
Quarter of an hour later. Orlando has left and all the businessmen have had another round of drinks. Katherine is still spread out on the thick carpet of the hotel suite, aching madly, her legs still obscenely apart, the lips of her sex still unnaturally dilated, it still hurts too much to close her thighs and steal her live porno movie away from the men.
“So, gentlemen,” Steve says. “Good show, hey? Nothing beats a big, strong blonde. Any of you want a sample now? Please yourselves. No extra cost.”
How can he, Katherine mutters?
The South Americans confer between themselves. Finally, one of them says: “Thanks, but no thanks, compadre. That pussy’s been used up for today. I’d float in there. I don’t care about the black guy, they’re all bloody animals, but I don’t know where that pussy’s been before. I’ve a family, you know. Get rid of her.”
Steve pulls her up. She staggers across the room. He slips her an envelope, together with her crumpled clothes.
“It’s all there. Now you c
an nicely bugger off, Eddie. And don’t even think of ever mentioning this to anyone or I’ll cut you up so badly your mother wouldn’t recognize you. Understood?”
He opens the door and pushes her out into the corridor.
She’s quite naked, she knows she looks a real mess, the black stud’s spunk is still seeping out somehow between her lower lips, or is it some sort of personal secretion? There’s a bad bruise on the inside of her thigh.
As he closes the door:
“I’d slip something on pronto, girl, if I were you. There might be a hotel detective on the prowl,” he laughs.
She hurriedly dresses and makes her way to the lifts. Yes, her lover had once said, I will celebrate you like no man has ever done, Kate. Yes, all the things he would say as his fingers kept lingering in the small of her back after the act of love.
She’s travelled to Las Vegas. Another stage of her American kaleidoscope. She’d remembered someone once saying how cheap the food and hotels happened to be, subsidized as they were by all the gambling. One of her directors had been there for a bookselling convention, and mentioned the fact. Like a modern Jack Kerouac heroine she’d made the journey on Greyhound buses, crisscrossing the vast plains and their surrounding roadside galleries of decrepit motels and gas stations. And then, one morning at dawn, racing out of the desert into the garish canyons of light of Vegas, she had come across her new, temporary home.
She found a small residential hotel at an unfashionable end of the Strip, where the gamblers never went and working-class families with kids, mostly from New Jersey, stayed. She even managed to bargain down the weekly rate. She avoided the big casinos and the glittering joints. Not again. She tried to get waitressing jobs, but they all said she was too old. Did they mean unattractive, she wondered? Here, most of the women were icily perfect. Surgically designed to appeal to the average American male. Frosty lipstick, eye shadow galore, tight skirts, no visible panty line. Not quite her.
After costing her room and the steak breakfast specials ever on offer all around, Katherine estimated she could last a whole month before she would run out of cash. I need a holiday, anyway, she thought.
She often walked out to the desert when night fell, to breathe in the pure, dry air. She grew to recognize all the amazing species of cacti growing in the wilderness that surrounded the town. The night sky was so amazingly clear. If only she could remember which constellations were which from her wasted school days. The heavens were a subtle tapestry of lights, delicately enhanced by the reddish glow of the electric city illuminating the surrounding mountains.
Less than a year ago when she and her husband had moved into their new mews house, before all hell broke loose over her affair, she had intended to fulfil an earlier ambition and begin writing stories in earnest. She’d finally have a study, a space of her own. Nothing had come of it. Life had conspired to thwart her again.
Now was the time, Katherine decided, buying a yellow legal pad.
The story begins.
“My husband is a good man. My husband is a gentle man. Even though the passing of the years has hardened him and he is no longer the young man with whom I shared my early student poverty, he is still the man I sleep with. I smell his stale breath when he awakes in the morning and it does not offend me. I see the faint stains in his underwear before I load up the washing machine and it doesn’t shock or disgust me. My marriage is the most important thing in my life. I treasure it. I protect it from the storms. I shield myself behind it. I’ve messed up so many other things, but my marriage will survive against the odds and divorce statistics. It will work. It must work.
“My husband and I argue a lot. He cries when we go to sentimental films, while my eyes remain dry. I have a cold heart, you see. I’m not romantic. I don’t know why. The way I was brought up, I suppose. We’ve lived together seven years, married for five of them. Two flats. One house. No children. My husband wants us to have babies, and he is becoming more insistent. Soon I shall turn thirty; I mustn’t leave it too late, he says. I don’t want kids right now, I tell him but what I mean is that I don’t want kids at all. I don’t like the way adults go all soft and mushy in the presence of babies; children get on my nerves, they cry, they show off, they are loud. I would be a bad mother.
“Once I could have justified my actions by invoking my career, my brilliant career. Now I can no longer do so. People think I have a prestigious job, but it’s not what I thought it would be. There are too many frustrations. So, I am left with much emptiness.
“The lovemaking is not what it used to be. We’re growing older together. Too familiar with each other. All too often, at night, he is tired and falls asleep without even finishing reading the financial papers. He is ambitious, has lofty aspirations for his own career. Works hard. Some times, in the morning he feels randy and arranges his body against mine, presses himself against my back, rubs his cock against my arse, lazily fingers my breasts. I wet my fingers and lubricate my opening and manually insert him. On most occasions he’s only half-erect. He screws me in utter silence. I like being taken from behind. It makes me feel more sensitive. Our morning fucks barely scratch the itch in my guts. Oh, there’s nothing bad about it. I’m sure most other couples are no more animated or passionate than we are. Once or twice a year, he whizzes me off to a small country hotel for a long week-end. The lovemaking is better. I even orgasm sometimes. But in the mornings, it’s always over too fast. He comes inside me and my thighs are all damp as he pulls out and rushes to the bathroom. He only has a half hour left to shave, wash, dress, eat before he leaves for the studio or the outside broadcast he’s been assigned to. But, all in all, he is a good, kind man, my husband. He forgives my trespasses. Tolerates my wild, irrational tempers. The tall man I married for better or for worse.”
She put her pen down. Enough for today.
She takes a coach and visits the Hoover Dam, one hour’s drive out of Vegas.
The view is majestic. The vast expanse of water in the lake is utterly surreal in this desert environment. She journeys down with visiting crowds to the bottom of the dam, to the heart of the concrete monster and feels quite dwarfed by the sheer power of the construction. At the end of the tour, she goes to the cafeteria with its huge bay windows at water level and sits herself down with a coffee and a sticky cake. A man accosts her. Identifying his accent is easy. He’s Welsh. Works in local government or education, it doesn’t quite register with her. But it’s nice not to have to communicate with yet another Yank. He’s here with a group of friends. Fellow professionals, he insists. Enjoying a spot of gambling. They’re having a small party and card game in their room at the Mirage tonight. Yes, the Casino with the live volcano outside. Would she like to join them? She must be homesick, surely. It would be nice to hear more normal accents. Two of the boys are from Bristol, he tells her.
Once in the room, she first notices the other woman. Auburn hair, round face, dark glasses, black halter top and tight white jeans. The other men, the Brits, seem unappealing. More like lager louts on a sun, booze and sex holiday to Ibiza. Her host, his name is Maurice, effects the introductions. She quickly forgets the men’s names. Two of them are junior doctors and the third one a sales executive, a rep for a pharmaceutical company who’s probably picking up the bill. The woman’s name is Vicky.
It is not my real name, she tells Katherine when she joins her in the bathroom where they powder their nose and cheeks. “It was Liliana, but it was wrong. I just don’t feel like a Lily or a Liliana, really. So I changed it.”
She is American, from Phoenix, Arizona, has been in Vegas six months now, some waitressing, some hosting, a personal escort agency had found her tonight’s gig. “Very respectable, classy, you know, they actually advertise in the local papers. So you’re English too? Who do you work for?” she asks.
“I don’t,” Katherine answers. “Freelance,” she explains. Why complicate matters? She knows all too well why she has been invited here tonight. Fresh meat. Orifices.
&n
bsp; There are dark shadows under Vicky’s eyes. Her face is heavily freckled and the freckles continue all the way down her front and disappear inside her cleavage. Her neck is intensely pale. She wears her hair up in a delicately sculpted bun. She is quite small and delicate and once must have been ever so pretty, baby-faced until time finally caught up with her. Her eyes, once the sunglasses come off, are revealed to be dark green. Hypnotic. Under the halter top, she has medium-sized breasts, Katherine sees, as Vicky lifts the material to powder her tits. A reflection catches her eye in the mirror. Katherine can’t stop herself staring at the other woman’s breasts. They are so round. Almost perfect. Pierced. She’s even a touch envious of both these impeccably rounded orbs and the striking adornments. She’d never have the guts. She used to faint at the dentist’s.
“You’re very pretty,” she tells the other woman.
“Thanks, dear.” She readjusts her top, wriggles her bum inside the tight jeans. “Shall we? Your English buddies are waiting for their entertainment.”
The men ply the girls with drinks. The ensuing conversation is rowdy, suggestive but innocent enough to begin with. Maurice, who seems in charge of orchestrating the proceedings, is particularly boisterous, and his jokes are actually on occasion witty. They order snacks from room service, and the obligatory champagne. Katherine relaxes. Gazes at the men. Tries to imagine what they would all look like in their birthday suits. That one must have a hairy chest, what about the beer belly on the other one, another must surely have a big cock, don’t like the last one though, looks a bit evil.
“Well, boys, this is Vegas. Time to gamble. What’s your poison?” Maurice asks.
“Poker.”
“Strip poker.”
They all giggle and look toward the two women sipping their drinks on the mustard couch.
The pharmaceutical rep devises an infinitely complex set of rules for the game, to ensure they all shed clothing fast enough, including Katherine and Vicky, who are assigned to respective card players.
The Mammoth Book of Erotica presents The Best of Maxim Jakubowski Page 8