They play.
Vicky is the first to end up unclothed. Katherine still has her underwear on. And garter belt and stockings. She knows from experience how much men like her when she wears them. The carousing Brits are soon all shirtless, one is down to his jockey shorts.
The American woman has a small, compact body, her legs are not that great, and sports two thick gold rings on her nipples. Adorned à la modern primitive. The rings glisten inside the pierced puckered, dark red skin of the nipples. Katherine can’t disguise her intense fascination. Neither can the guys; their tongues almost sticking out when they catch sight of Vicky’s extraordinary boobs and their unnatural metal extensions. One of the medics deliberately loses his next hand to carry Vicky to the next stage where forfeits begin.
“She has to play with her tits,” one of them orders.
Vicky does.
She twists the darker skin between her nimble fingers, pulls the tips of her round breasts through the hoops of the rings, distends the flesh to impossible proportions. Asks the man nearest to her to lick her fingers and then smears the moist secretion over her abnormally erect nipples. They are all entranced. Katherine included.
Vicky tires of manipulating herself. “Next round,” she says.
Inevitably, all the clothing is shed. The men sit there around the table, self-conscious, exchanging nervous glances at each other, a couple of them are semi-erect, another handles himself but fails to harden his stem; too much drink.
“Isn’t this great?” Maurice exclaims to break the silence. “More champagne, ladies and gentlemen.” He stands up to get the last bottle from the room service trolley. He has a fat, floppy arse.
He brushes past Katherine as he pours the drink for her and, with his free hand, roughly fondles her left breast. She finds it, and him, deeply unpleasant and shivers. He ignores her reaction.
The women are now excluded from the card game and the men play between themselves for forfeits. Katherine looks over at Vicky. The auburn-haired woman has settled back on the couch, her legs wide open in a truly indecent posture. She joins her, thighs together, more demure. She can’t stop herself looking down at Vicky’s bush where she notices a thin line of secretions separating her cunt lips. Vicky notices her gaze. The inner juice seeps into the thick rust-coloured vegetation.
“I’m a bit excited,” she confesses. She’s a bit drunk. “I hope they ask us to do it together first,” she says.
Katherine bites her tongue. She’s never had any kind of sexual contact with a woman before. Well, there was this girl, Diane, back at grammar school. When they showered after hockey one day, Katherine had once blushed to her roots when she had been caught daydreaming and staring at the other girl’s budding breasts and the first growth of thin hair on her pubis. She looks into Vicky’s green eyes. She has an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of her stomach. On the other hand, she’s getting wet, inside. Anticipation?
Inevitably, British males have so little imagination, that’s what the guys ask for.
Vicky takes Katherine’s hand and leads her to the carpet. The men settle in their chairs, pulling them away from the card table, idly fingering their cocks.
She gently pushes Katherine down, her back against the floor. She slides back, parts Katherine’s thighs, opens her legs wide and moves her head towards the beckoning crotch. She licks the shaven lips, and a jolt of raw electricity runs through Katherine’s body. Jesus. Vicky gnaws at the entrance and soon inserts her tongue inside the now dripping vagina. The men have grown totally silent. The agile, experienced tongue moves in as deep as she can manage it. Katherine closes her eyes. The warm, velvety, darting tongue then moves upwards and envelops her clitoris. Katherine can feel the bud swelling. She can no longer control her body and a spasm races across her stomach. The tongue deftly extracts the expanding clitoris from its thin hood and Vicky moves her head forward slightly so that her teeth are now chewing Katherine’s button. Jesus. Jesus. She sighs. He used to do it exactly the same way. But the American woman quickly tires and now uses two fingers to bring Katherine off. As she does so distractedly, she whispers:
‘You taste really nice.”
Katherine looks down at the auburn bun bobbing up and down between her thighs and the jerky movement of the hand ending up inside her, stimulating her inner parts with knowing cunning and talent. The pleasure moves up and up through her.
“69?” Vicky suggests.
She circles Katherine’s body and lowers her own, hairy dark cunt over Katherine’s face as she lies down on her, stomach to stomach, breasts almost joined, slightly out of alignment. She licks away at her cunt again in the new position and Katherine timidly extends her tongue upward where it loses itself in the woman’s thick, curly bush. She has to use her fingers to find a way through the pubic hair, separates Vicky’s cunt leaves and slips her tongue inside the other woman.
She tastes so strong. Katherine almost gags initially, but overcomes her reluctance and begins licking the inner walls opening up above her. Vicky is a prolific secreter and soon her juices are flooding Katherine’s mouth, settling in a ring around her mouth, pungent, an abundant gluey deposit.
“Wow,” says one of the men.
Soon, Katherine finds a rhythm and her tongue patterns its in-and-out intrusions against the movement of Vicky’s head and mouth lower down. It even settles into a routine. She feels the heat increasing in her throat and lungs. She must be so wet down there too. It’s both repugnant and perversely pleasing. She wonders if men really enjoy it.
A hand strokes her damp forehead. She opens her eyes again. It’s one of the men.
“Oh, it’s a waste of talent,” another says. “Now for the real stuff.”
Yet another walks over as Vicky disengages herself and Katherine is left sprawled, open, spread-eagled on the carpet as the men surround the two women.
Passively, Katherine and Vicky allow the men to position them, next to each other, on all fours as two move to the front and insert their cocks into the women’s mouths and the remaining two fuck them doggie-style from behind. The cock in Katherine’s mouth is flaccid, and all her best efforts fail to raise it from the dead. In her rear, Maurice pistons away, punctuating his thrusts with hard slaps on her rump. He withdraws, and exchanges positions with the medic who’d been screwing Vicky. The new cock plunges into her still dilated opening, and the guy quickly comes. In her mouth, the useless cock is just another piece of meat. The third man removes himself from Vicky’s mouth as Maurice, still hard, keeps on screwing the American woman relentlessly and positions himself behind her. The plump man’s labouring instrument is very thick and painfully stretches her cunt muscles. However, he ejaculates quickly, and Katherine feels her innards drowning in the mixed come of the two men. The man in her mouth still labours on, to no avail.
“Hey, not there,” Vicky screams, next to her. Katherine turns her head but cannot see what Vicky is complaining about to Maurice, or the other man. She’s no longer sure who is doing what to whom.
After all the fun and games are over, the two women wash themselves out in the adjoining bathroom. Katherine watches the men’s seed mingle in the tub with the soapy water, as it seeps, on and on from her body as she squats over the bathtub.
“Well, that was quite fun,” Vicky remarks, adjusting her make-up in front of the bathroom mirror.
They leave the Mirage together and become friends. But they never have sex together again. “I prefer men,” Vicky tells her one morning when Katherine, curious, questions her. “Anyway, your heart wasn’t in it. You’re not truly bi.”
When the cash runs out, Vicky helps her get a job in a peep show on the wrong side of town, where she herself does the occasional shift when funds are short. The money’s good and the security guys see to it that there’s no funny business. Six hours a day, Katherine sits in a cubicle in diaphanous lingerie, while men open the door to enter the other side of the closet, a glass window separating them. There is a telephone to communicate betwe
en the two areas. For five dollars, the men get three minutes during which she strips and follows their utterly predictable instructions. They are without surprises. They ask her to touch herself. Breasts. Pussy. Sometimes even feet. For an extra ten dollars, which they can insert through a hand-sized aperture in the glass partition, she will spread her legs wide and open her vulva to their gaze, for an extra twenty, she will even insert a flesh-coloured dildo inside her cunt and pretend to masturbate. Invariably, they all lower their trousers to jerk off. An attendant has to wipe the come off the glass partition and sweep the floor with disinfectant every fifteen minutes or so. When rent day approaches, Vicky teaches her a new trick, which is strictly speaking not allowed, but where the management operate a blind eye policy. For another fifty dollars, she will also allow the guy to thread his hand through the opening and paw her. One day, one man goes too far and scratches her badly. Katherine gives up the job and packs her meagre belongings. There are too many books, all used, read a few times each already, too much to carry. Vicky says she’ll join her. They leave Las Vegas and head for the Coast.
Katherine is waitressing at the bar of a big hotel near LAX. Randy businessmen make half-hearted passes, but don’t seem too disappointed when she politely turns them down. She’s not the Angeleno type. The tips aren’t too good and the hours are long and awkward. She still lives with Vicky; they share a small apartment in a block near Pacific Palisades. Vicky sometimes disappears for days on end. Katherine never asks where she has been. There are often marks on her body. One morning as she surprises her in the shower, Katherine sees that the small American woman now sports a snake tattoo weaving its way down from her navel to her bush. Christ, that must have been fucking painful, she thinks. Another time, she sees a bad scar on Vicky’s rump. Deliberate. Burnt into the flesh. They are seldom together at the apartment any more. Waitressing and sex work hours seldom coincide.
It’s Katherine’s day off. Big plans for today; she’s going to lounge by the communal pool and finally start Proust. She’s been putting it off for years. And next, she’s planning on Dostoevsky. She’s always been meaning to fill these gaps in her literary culture.
She lies in bed, vaguely daydreaming as always of the men she has left behind. Does she still love, miss, think of them? She just doesn’t know any longer. Vicky walks in. She looks rough.
“Hi, Kate? Got the day off, hey?”
“Yes.”
“Listen. I badly need a favour,” she says. “I’m feeling damn rotten. My period has started and I’m in pain all over. But I’ve been paid in advance for a job today. Can you go there instead?”
“What sort?” Katherine enquires.
“A film.”
“Nudity?” Katherine asks.
“Yeah, of course. But if you ask, they won’t show your face. There are lotsa other girls involved, so they won’t mind.”
Vicky runs to the bathroom where she is promptly sick. She returns, awfully pale and tense. She nervously insists. “Please, I just can’t face it today. Be a pal. Please.”
Katherine acquiesces. She’s stripped before. Never before a camera, though. And she likes Vicky in a quiet, affectionate way.
Vicky books a cab for the afternoon. It’s a villa in the Hollywood Hills. She bargains with the producers.
“It’s all fixed. He even said that if you’re real glamorous, you could get a bonus. I told him you’re incredibly tall and have wild hair. He was very excited. You’ll have to doll yourself up a bit. Here,” she extracts a note from her handbag. “Fifty bucks, buy yourself something special at the mall, something nice. You English gals have so much taste.”
Katherine spends it all, and more, at Victoria’s Secret, where the lingerie is supposed to be English but comes from somewhere in Ohio or thereabouts, she read in a magazine. The underwear is slinky, the silk glistens, she knows how easily she could become a serious silk fetishist with stuff like this. She could spend a fortune on underwear alone. A black slip that adheres to her body through the sheer force of gravity, a pair of knickers, more like a thong, the sheer fabric dissecting her bum cheeks and enhancing the drop of her wide hips. A brassiere that hooks up at the back like a corset. Stockings as soft as flesh. In the cubicle, she looks at her body in the mirror. She feels the onset of wetness between her thighs. God, I’m such a slut.
The villa has white walls, most of the furniture has been moved out the main room, and its windows open up on a large pool outside. They’re already filming there when she arrives. A brassy, artificial blonde stands inside, the water lapping around her waist, her breasts are large and unnatural. A silicone job, no doubt. A tubby guy sits on the edge and she is sucking his cock with a distinct lack of enthusiasm, while the camera peers into the action in close-up. The cameraman is incredibly hairy and wears only Bermuda shorts. Out of camera range, two other couples lounge around, some nude, others with towels around their waist. She recognizes one of the men. It’s Steve; Esteban, from Miami.
He sees and waves.
“Hey, if it isn’t English Eddie?”
She acknowledges his presence with a silent gesture.
The peroxide blonde in the pool changes position with the man and he starts sucking on her genitals, once the cameraman has changed his film. Her pubes are also peroxide blonde. The straw yellow patch seems so damn wrong. A young guy, who looks more like a student, but is actually the director, shouts out:
“Come on, give it some more life. You’re supposed to be enjoying it.”
The porno actor ignores him and chews away impassively.
Finally, “Cut. Let’s move on to another scene. Everybody’s here. The whole cast. Orgy time, kids.”
She’s asked to strip. They won’t even let her wear the new lingerie. A female assistant powders her thigh to hide a small bruise, then moves on to another one of the women who spreads her thighs open and instructs the gofer to powder over the pimples spreading like a rash around her cunt.
The director orders them to spread out in a daisy chain by the pool side. She’s asked to fellate the guy in front of her as he lies on his back and Steve rams her from behind and the peroxide blonde from the previous sequence licks out his arsehole and fingers his balls while he moves in and out of Katherine.
One fleeting moment, she imagines her husband out on the town with a group of other journalists and friends, maybe tomorrow his brother the architect is getting married; they have a meal in Chinatown, cruise the pubs getting increasingly drunker and land in some Soho film club to watch dirty movies. He recognizes her cunt, and is sick as he is forced to watch the alien penis invade her private sanctum in larger than life dimensions. Which is how he must have felt when he had learned of her cheating. The hurt.
Steve pumps away, whispers:
“Fancy meeting like this again, lady. Destiny, I’m sure.”
The director has them change positions.
Now a small redhead is asked to eat her out while Steve’s long, thin member invests her mouth and forces its way almost down her throat. Another’s hand roughly manipulates her nipples, twisting, pulling, squeezing between sharp nails. She can’t see anything. The strong lights blind her and all she can hear is the monotonous whirr of the nearby camera’s motor as it captures the scene and her infamy forever. The redhead isn’t very good. She has a small bald patch and a birthmark on her back, like a map of Italy. Her aroma is distinctive. Do all redheads smell this way?
Behind her, she hears one of the guys cry out that he’s coming, and the cameraman rushes off to catch the moment; the man’s momentary partner fakes aural orgasm. Katherine tastes the pre-ejaculate filtering from the tip of the Cuban’s cock shortly before he withdraws. The sparky assistant brings them all cool drinks and they move inside the villa.
The women don’t speak to each other as they troop in. The men follow. The tubby one has lost his erection. As the next camera setup is prepared, he strokes himself to regain his rigidity. It doesn’t work. The director asks the girls to help him ou
t.
“I don’t do that,” the redhead says.
The peroxide blonde says:
“He smells. At the pool was enough.”
Katherine lowers her eyes when the young director looks in her direction.
“Okay, okay already,” he calls the young assistant over. “Hey, Markie, this is what they taught you at film school, no? Help the poor guy out.”
“You bastard,” the all-purpose assistant answers, but moves over to the temporarily impotent actor and takes hold of his cock as she lowers her mouth toward it. “Better not film any of this.”
Soon, the actor is functional again.
He’s instructed to mount Katherine in the missionary position while the others adopt a variety of lovemaking positions around them. He squeezes himself inside her and quickly loses his hardness. They’re filming the others. He moves ever so slightly inside her so as not to slip out. He winks at her. She’s quite happy to keep on pretending. This goes on forever, and no one notices their lack of ardour as the other couples make up in noise and movement for the faking couple.
“Cut. You can all rest a bit now. Steve,” the director calls over to him. “You seem fresh. In better shape than the other guys. Okay, you and curly hair here, let’s do the anal.”
The others walk away to the pool.
Katherine suddenly realizes what comes next.
“No, no, I can’t do that,” she says, pleadingly, to the men, the young whey-faced director, the aggressively erect Steve and the sweating cameraman.
“Love,” the director says. “It’s part of the deal. Every hardcore movie has anals now. That’s what the guys want. Don’t tell me you’ve never done one. Everyone in the business has to. It’s the money shot.”
“I won’t come inside you,” Steve adds. “When the time comes, I’ll pull out and do a facial, okay?”
The cameraman signifies his assent.
“No,” Katherine timidly pleads one last time.
The Mammoth Book of Erotica presents The Best of Maxim Jakubowski Page 9