The Mammoth Book of Erotica presents The Best of Maxim Jakubowski

by Maxim Jakubowski

  Steve takes hold of her wrist and twists it hard.

  “Eddie,” he says, “you’re a bit of a tease, aren’t you. I remember the last time, you like to play hard to get, hey; you always have cold feet, don’t you?”

  Markie the assistant comes over as they set Katherine down on her stomach and help her raise her rump so that the camera can catch it all. They adjust the lights. Shine the warm spots on her utterly exposed rear. Markie carefully sponges Katherine’s genitals and between her cheeks, to clean the perspiration away and then gently pours some oil around her anal aperture as well as Steve’s penis still standing at attention.

  Katherine closes her eyes. She’s never been entered there. Penetrated. Fucked. Sodomized. But, she remembers all those nights lying in silence next to her sleeping, cuckolded husband, her whole body consumed by the thoughts of transgression. Her lover had soon discovered how sensitive she was down there and they had often speculated about it. Sometime after they had split up and he was writing her these desperate letters to get her back, change her mind, he had revealed that for weeks he had kept some butter in the fridge in his office for that very purpose.

  The cameraman adjusts his focus.

  “Filming.”

  Steve inserts one finger inside her to spread the oil around. With his other hand, he parts her arse cheeks as wide as he can and places his hard cock against the puckered opening. Initial pressure, the sphincter muscles resist and he makes no headway. He grabs his stem and holding it in a tight vice manually begins to spear her anus. The head moves an inch or so past the outer ring. It feels like constipation backwards. She clenches her teeth. The lubrication takes effect and with one swift move the head inserts itself. Katherine holds her breath.

  “Yeah, nice and slow,” the cameraman, or is it the director, says.

  She’s tearing, she knows it. Her opening is being sundered. Literally split apart. She’s often fingered herself there, but this is like a knife, a pole, a gun.

  Steve thrusts his hips and breaks through. The cock savagely tears in and impales her to the hilt.

  Katherine screams.

  This is worse than anything ever. She wants to faint, die, make it all go away. Her whole soul seems focused on the opening to her arse where the long, thin cock is planted. Steve ceases all movement. She senses the cock still growing inside her, her inner walls being forcibly pushed further and further back.

  “Focus closer. Now. Now.”

  The man initiates a steady movement, a quick coming and going inside her guts. To her utter shame, Katherine feels an odious sort of pleasure, excitement radiating out from her forced aperture down to her cunt, up through her stomach. Her heart falters. The movements increase. Every reverse movement of the cock a few inches out of her hole pulls the inner flesh out, the tight, textured pink private flesh sticking like glue to the dark thrusting cock, and then back in again. Secretions accelerate, coat the moving penis trunk in a ring of white thin cream.

  “Hey, she looks good,” another male voice explains. The others have come in from the pool to watch the action.

  “Yes,” says Steve, between regular thrusts. “She has the perfect butt for anal. Great fit, man.”

  The other man is in front of the kneeling Katherine. She looks up. He’s growing erect, his pole rising steadily as he keeps on watching the Cuban digging into her depths in a metronomic movement, and her head shaking forward with every thrust.

  “What about a DP, man?” the voyeur asks the director.

  “Good idea,” he says.

  Katherine’s mouth is so dry. She gasps for breath.

  “Look, she’s all flushed,” the other man says.

  Katherine’s face and chest have gone a deep shade of pink. Like a stain racing across her body, as the orgasm approaches, stronger than anything before. The cock in her arse still keeps on moving deeper, seemingly labouring her intestines, she wills it further, her inner muscles gripping the hard tool, sucking it in a vampiric embrace.

  Steve slows down, pulls her back slightly, still carefully lodged in her rectum and the other porno actor slides down on his back and moves under her raised upper body. She can feel her sweat raining down over him. He slithers into position and positions his cock under her sex lips. She feels the wetness shamefully dripping from her cunt onto his glans and he inserts himself.

  “Jesus, Jesus, Jeezus . . .”

  Both men are now fucking her.

  They move in unison. As one thrusts, another retreats to the edge of his respective opening. Fire races through her. Her mind is on fever. They now coordinate their movements and thrust inside her together. The cocks rub against her inner walls, teasing each other through the thin layer of skin separating them. She imagines the vision of her double penetration on the cinema screen: the two inhumanly large cocks tearing her pale, white skin in two, digging ever deeper holes, the inhumanly dilated ringed anus as one pulls back, the gaping vaginal gash open like a flower of desire as the foreign object buries itself inside her ever-accommodating cunt. Her husband and her lover watching, both masturbating away. This is me, this is me, she says.

  “I’m running out of film,” the cameraman says. “We need the come shot.”

  The two men withdraw violently, wrenching her guts, take hold of their cocks and pump away manually at speed and come. Over her. Her face. Her rump.

  “Lick it,” the director says.

  Her tongue moves across her lips, tastes the salty emissions, it sticks in the back of her throat when she tries to swallow.

  “Good show, Eddie,” Steve says, smearing his come all over her smooth back side. “We should do it again, in private, you know. I can teach you some more tricks.”

  The other women quickly expedite another sequence where they gluttonously eat each other out for the length of another roll of film. Katherine rests. Sips several cans of beer. It grows dark outside. All the actors are growing tired.

  “I’ve got another few minutes of film left,” the cameraman points out. “Waste not, want not. Anything we haven’t got in the can yet?”

  Steve says to the director: “Do you want to try and do something different? I’ve only seen it done once, you know, by Cameo, a double cuntal.”

  “That would be good,” the young man says. “Who?”

  “I’ll do it,” Katherine says.

  The positioning is awkward. It’s not painful; since the black guy in Vegas, she knows she can take any size. And by now, neither of them can stay fully hard. They clumsily do the act. One of the cocks keeps slipping out. Neither man feels the friction of the two pricks against each other inside her very stimulating. Ten minutes is all it takes. They might salvage two minutes in the edit.

  Cut.

  That night, she writes again in the yellow legal pad.

  “My lover is a pornographer. My lover writes vile stories in which he degrades me. I am always amazed by how white his eyes are, peering into mine as he moves inside my body. He has dark curls on his chest and whispers dirty words in my ear when we are engaged in the act of love, making wild promises he will never keep of all the cities and places he will one day take me to. My wild lover whose hair never stands still says he no longer wants to share me. He betrays our original agreement and scares me deeply. He is unpredictable. I never know what he will say or do next. To me. To my ignorant husband.

  “When my lover loves me he positions me on the bed or, more often because of the unfortunate nature of our clandestine encounters, on the floor. He cups his hands under my bum, and raises it slightly while his mouth approaches me. He parts my lower lips with gentle, loving care, brushing my moist curls back and kisses the outer folds of my sex. He takes his time. He does not hurry. He teases my senses like an expert. He knows every inch of my body and trips the light fandango all over. He divides my sex into dozens of distinct areas and knows the right word and touch for each. Mons. Outer labia. Inner labia. Folds. Bud. Hood. Walls. Vagina. Cervix. Spots all the way from A to G. Where did he learn all
this? Watching porno movies, he says. His tongue moves inside me and he takes my clitoris, the small bud, in between his lips. He chews, he licks, he sucks and bites it and the inside of my cunt. He tastes my moist intimate secretions and never protests. I know I smell down there. He sniffs me and smiles. He perspires and I drink in his sharp scent. Until I cry enough, I want you inside me now. And his thick, dark cock plunges in to me. Chews my ear lobe. Licks the acrid perspiration from my arm pits. He has no shame.

  “As he fucks me, my lover inserts a slow finger up my arse, beyond the tiny ridge of flesh that just hangs there like a superfluous growth. We copulate, his finger pushes, slides, swivels, rotates inside me and a warm feeling invades my stomach and I almost pee all over him as we move together convulsively and my head bangs against the bed rest or the office wall.

  “After love, we talk. And he frightens me again. We share saté sticks and Tesco dips in the darkness. Once he brings sushi pieces.

  “We fuck again. Like animals. Over and again. He never tires. We are sore. I never want to go home.

  “The last time I saw my lover, it was pouring and my hair was flat and he held an oversize umbrella to protect himself. I shouted at him, swore. He didn’t say much, just handed me this letter he had written and walked away through the drizzle. Peace, is all he asked. How can you, I thought? But my erstwhile lover sometimes has no decency. He is a wild, dark-haired man. My late lover who angers me so much I once almost tried to hire some thug to go and break his legs. I suppose I read too many crime books.”

  Her insides ache. She goes to sleep.

  A few days later, Katherine almost collapsed with pain while serving behind the hotel bar. The head barman sent her home and she went to see a doctor. She had a bad infection. No doubt someone on that crazy film shoot. At least it wasn’t Aids. All the money she had saved had to pay for the necessary antibiotics.

  Vicky has gone. One morning, her clothes and belongings were no longer there. On her own, Katherine could not afford the rent.

  She looked at her face in the bathroom mirror. Her brown eyes seem dull. She has spots. She took a long bath, soaking in the warmth. The hairs above her crotch are growing back, hard, wiry, the shaving had irritated the skin and she squeezed some yellow pus from a small pimple there.

  She packed her clothes in a canvas tote bag, leaving the legal pad on the dresser. She had only managed to write a few pages. E for effort.

  Once on the highway, she hitched North to Seattle. Not one driver made a pass at her during the course of her journeys up the coastline.

  They seek her here, they seek her there, they seek her everywhere, but Katherine hides her shame among the deep forests of the Pacific Northwest, reaches the Seattle hills and the vast expanses of blue water that surround the city. She takes up smoking. It rains a lot. On clear days, she gazes at Mount Rainier looming over the horizon of the Seattle skyline. On the way here, she has lost most of her clothes, and barely has enough to keep her warm as winter approaches. But she still holds on to the sheer silk lingerie from Victoria’s Secret, even though she has no occasion to wear it any longer, living as she does in tight, soiled tee-shirts, an old brown leather waistcoat, a birthday present from her lost husband, and patched-up jeans.

  She moves like a white ghost through and beyond the sexual pale.

  There’s an advertisement in the local free paper. An agency is looking for entertainers. Good pay. Open mind required. The first job she is given is to jump out of a massive cake at a party for a group of Microsoft localizing editors celebrating the completion of another software development project. She is given a skimpy outfit, all glitter and vulgarity. She emerges from the hollow cake. They’re all so young. Boys really. She steps out and dances on the table top. They holler and cheer like frat boys. She shakes her butt, tweaks her nipples inside the thin fabric of the oversize bra, and then pulls her small tits out to another triumphant roar from the boys. Later, she smears the remnants of the rich cream from the cake all over her body and allows the drunken technicians to lick it off her. Very few actually take advantage of her, barely a tongue or a hand ventures lower down. After she has cleaned up, she joins some of the guys for a friendly drink. They’re rather boring. Even here, most can only discuss computer lore. One of the young men stares at her behind thick round glasses. She goes home with him. He’s clumsy but gentle and she stays with him for a fortnight. He buys her small cute presents, a teddy bear, a bracelet. Katherine doesn’t like cute. He’s besotted with her. Gets a small ring, some special alloy that means a lot in computer land, proposes marriage. He doesn’t care about her past. Loves her. Will make her happy. It’s never an option for Katherine, Martin is kind but he just has no poetry. She leaves his condo without even writing him an explanatory note. That’s what I do to men who worship me. You should have known.

  She is used and abused.

  In a vacant car lot next to the Egyptian Theatre, she gives blow jobs for just a few bucks. The men come in all shapes and sizes. When they lower their pants or open their flies, she smells the evil in them. They come unwashed, young and old alike. She retracts the foreskins and licks away the smegma, swallows them with her eyes wide open. Soon, she has a regular clientèle, all modestly content to be fellated by the tall English chick, who will eat cock to their heart’s content, but no she won’t fuck. She doesn’t do that, dear. She could open an art gallery with portraits of men’s appendages. Soon they all taste the same and she grows used to the salty streams coursing down her throat. They like it when she swallows and some pay her more.

  Some local prostitutes object to this outsider taking business away from them. They ambush her one night and kick her badly in the ribs and the face. Cut large chunks of her hair off, but she has wild curls to spare. She hurts for weeks and accepts the needle from some biker on Capitol Hill. It helps. Blanks out the hours. The memories. The guilt. The biker shares her with some friends. She needs the dope and indifferently becomes their plaything for a while. Deke, the leader, brands her, an inverted swastika on the inside of one thigh, she’s property. She sleeps with three bikers in one filthy bed, they take turns with her. The session lasts three days as they move from orifice to orifice like a sexual tag-team, violating her without feeling, playing with her like a raggedy doll, inserting objects, bottle tops, Swiss army knives, fruit. To keep her submissive they feed her the heroin. Needle marks, punctures on her arms would scare away the punters, oh yes they have plans for her, so they teach her to inject the dope into her cunt lips. The high is phenomenal.

  My adventures as a whore, she reflects in a rare moment of lucidity. Might even be a book in it, she thinks. Kate in the land of cunt.

  A businessman picks her up one evening while she is cruising Mercer Street. He’s good to her. Convinces her not to return to the bikers. Even accepts to provide her with the now necessary junk for her habit. He sets her up in a small apartment. He’s married of course. He visits her three times a week. Gives her some spare cash. She starts buying books again. But she’s too passive and he soon tires of her. Takes her to a leather club and offers her in exchange for some form of life membership. She is trussed up, whipped, fucked in the darkness by one man after another until she is sore and her lower lips actually blister, she can’t see any of them as a latex mask covers her face. She is roughly handled, fisted by men as well as women, tied to a rack, pissed on, slapped. In the cold morning they let her go. The businessman has taken back the keys to the flat. He’s out of her life. She wanders the wet streets.

  There’s a reading and signing at the Elliott Bay Bookstore. It’s a British mystery writer. She once met him at a party at some conference she’d had to attend in Nottingham. He doesn’t actually recognize her but takes her back to his hotel afterward. She’s pleased to follow, having nowhere to go. He’s very full of himself, actually reads her a new story he’s working on once they’re in bed together. The story’s okay, but the editor in her does feel it still needs some more work. He’s obsessed by her ars
e, fondles it with genuine awe and affection, but draws back when she presents her damaged sex, and refuses to make love to her. Scared of catching something. He leaves her sleeping in the hotel room when he departs very early in the morning for his next gig in Vancouver. She has a mighty breakfast on the room. His publishers are probably picking up the tab, anyway. She smiles, the industry at least owes her this; she was bloody underpaid . . .

  Her cunt heals. It’s a resilient body part.

  She finds a job in a peep show cum strip joint on the corner of First and Pike, facing Pike Place Market where they sell English papers, only a few days old. She does a girl-girl show, anonymously Frenches these other chicks while the thin audience sip their microbrews against the roar of the rock music on the sound system. One of her co-workers takes a shine to her, but Katherine easily convinces her that on stage it’s fine, a job, but she has no further interest in women. The woman, her name is Judy, dolefully accepts this and they become friendly. Judy keeps on raving about the sheer beauty of Katherine’s body. It’s unusual, not common, she points out, you’ve got style, girl. She convinces Katherine to go in for a piercing. Judy sports a ring in her navel. The guys love it, you know, you’ll get much better tips. Body jewellery turns them on. In the basement of a record shop that specializes in vinyl, she slips her knickers off while Judy smiles at her. The heavily tattooed owner guides her to an operating table, lowers it and places Katherine’s ankles into stirrups. He rubs ice over her cunt. Says it’s better than an injection. His fingers part her and he presses against the thin hood of her clitoris, the membrane swells. Nice, he remarks. Nice and plump. As Judy, whose idea it all is explains, you’ll see Katherine it’s even more spectacular than the navel, hands him the sterilized needle and walks across to hold Katherine’s hand. The universe explodes inside her head when he threads the needle into and straight through her clit hood. Hold on, one of them says. The pain doesn’t last long. Fucking Jesus. Her lower stomach is on fire. She clenches all her vaginal muscles, breathes deep, relaxes one moment, breathes deep again, expels the air, her sphincter lets go and she feels a thin stream of shit extruding out of her back orifice. She blushes deeply. Don’t worry kid, the guy says, I’m used to it. But already the localized pain is less intense. She feels all wet around her thighs. God, has she also peed over herself? The guy wipes the black plastic table. He threads a small pearl onto the needle and it slides down to lodge itself between the fleshy hood and her bud. It’s beautiful, Judy exclaims. Suits you fine says the man with the tattoos. More ice to dull the sensation. Katherine finally manages to relax. Don’t touch yourself down there for a few days, the guy says as he later releases her from the table, the pearl now fixed in place, this foreign object peering out all shiny and precious from between the lips of her sex, this adornment, this jewel inside her jewel.