The Mammoth Book of Erotic Stories

by Barbara Cardy

  “Remington. I say, nice of you to abandon your proclivity for a few moments and accept my invitation,” the mouth somewhere beneath the whiskers said.

  “I could hardly refuse a chance to see what colonization looks like from the upper rung,” he answered.

  “Come, come. None of your Yankee holier-than-thou. Look here, I didn’t ask you here to debate power or politics,” Caruthers said. “It’s a matter concerning my wife.”

  Remington had met the alluring Mrs Caruthers at a recent lecture. Imagining that beautiful creature polishing the colonel’s knob was somewhat of a stretch, not to mention the image of her delicate features under the weight of the huffing and puffing Caruthers.

  “You see, she was recently presented with an unusual piece of jewelry by one of the local servants,” the colonel continued. “She’s been told the necklace possesses magical powers. It’s all poppycock of course, but I believe someone with your knowledge may help solve the riddle.”

  “How so?”

  “Your background with gemology and metallurgy. The servant has convinced her that it’s a necklace once owned by the goddess Shiva.”

  “But surely she knows Shiva is a mythological figure?”

  “She’s a woman of high breeding and intelligence, I can assure you. At least, she was until she came under the spell of this native woman.”

  “Sounds like a medical doctor might be more suited to the task than I.”

  “Here’s the crux of the matter, good fellow. I believe a man of science might be able to clear Constance’s head. If you could meet with her and catalog the origin of the piece, she might give up her foolish notions.”

  “What powers does she believe the necklace to possess?”

  “When she wears the necklace, she believes she is the goddess of passion and desire. To put it bluntly, she wants to shag me to death.”

  Remington blushed a bit. “I’d consider you a lucky man.”

  Caruthers harrumphed. “I have a duty to my command, sir. I cannot tolerate a woman to whom I’ve been married some twenty years suddenly becoming a creature who drops her knickers like a common tart and grabs at my privates incessantly. For the past few nights I’ve billeted at the barracks on the pretext that a campaign is in the works just to escape her constant wanton desires.”

  “But couldn’t you simply take the necklace from her, or hide it?” Remington queried.

  “I tried to pull it from her neck, but she threatened to take me into the next life in some appalling fashion should I try such a foolish act again – if I should, in fact, betray Shiva.”

  “This is a sticky wicket,” Remington said, to use the colonel’s term, but he was thinking that the woman apparently needed an asylum’s restrictive jacket.

  As if reading his mind, Caruthers said, “Though she sounds to be completely off her tether, I believe someone outside our social environs could convince her that her present infatuation with, ah, hmm, sexual obsession, has nothing to do with this piece of jewelry and everything to do with a fanciful divergence placed in her mind by a persuasive servant girl.”

  “Why me?”

  “Constance caught your lecture at the museum. She raved for days about the Yank who was working with the gemstone curator. I’d go so far as to say that your interest in native decorations may have set her on this gullible path.”

  “Surely you’re not blaming me for your wife’s malady?”

  Caruthers sighed. “I’m only asking that you speak with her in hopes that a comment might provide a breakthrough to her delusion.”

  “How shall I approach her?”

  “Go to our house tomorrow morning and say the Garden Club has requested your attendance for the purpose of speaking about your work here and that Constance could arrange it.”

  “And what of the necklace? What if? I mean?”

  “Constance is still a creature of habit. She doesn’t put on the beastly thing until she’s had her late morning eggs and kippers. That is the time frame in which she’s been willing to give my family jewels some respite.”

  Remington was reticent until Caruthers added, “I don’t expect you to do this merely out of the kindness of your heart. I will happily give you £100 now to go see her, and another £200 if you can find the words to restore her. A man doing research is always in need of funding, is he not?”

  There was no arguing that logic.

  Remington made his way to the Caruthers residence the following morning at nine sharp. An Indian woman greeted him at the door. She wore a traditional emerald green and gold sari and possessed deep-set, piercing eyes as black as a moonless night. He wondered if this was the woman who peddled magic necklaces.

  He followed her past a series of comfortable rooms. The British certainly knew how to live like kings in faraway lands. Remington couldn’t help but wonder how many bushels of wheat a single Ming vase might purchase.

  Beyond the boudoir, the servant girl pointed to another door and gestured him to enter. He walked into a grand privy containing porcelain bowls for washing and bodily functions. The grandest piece of all was a marble bathing tub that contained none other than Constance Caruthers.

  Remington was in no way prepared for what he saw. Constance’s head was wrapped in a white towel revealing a slender neck. Tendrils of dark curls crept around her ears. A second towel rested across her bosom providing a modicum of modesty. At least twenty years her husband’s junior, her beauty was more obvious than at the lecture. Remington stood at the doorway, his heels frozen to the spot.

  “You must forgive my indisposition. I’m not used to early morning visitations.”

  “I’ll just wait in another room, ma’am.”

  “Nonsense. Do have a seat on my dressing stool. I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have visit than a handsome lad from the colonies,” she said with a noticeable sparkle.

  Remington sat. “We haven’t been colonies for more than a century, madam, but I appreciate the sentiment.”

  “And I appreciate everything I’ve heard you say.”

  Fighting an erection to accompany his longing stare, he noticed something besides the bathing Mrs Caruthers.

  The necklace.

  It rested on a velvet cushion next to the tub. Her hand teased a large centerpiece stone.

  “What a lovely necklace,” he said.

  “Yes, isn’t it,” she replied and proceeded to pick it up and put the thing around her neck.

  “You mustn’t do that,” Remington protested.

  “And why not? Have you come to examine my necklace or is it another matter?”

  The necklace was in place on her swan-like neck. She removed the towel from her chest and stood in the tub. An airy froth covered sections of her. Her pubis hid behind a sudsy beard, almost denying her nudity in all its frothy wonder.

  Taken aback at her boldness, Remington stood. “Pardon me, Mrs Caruthers, but it doesn’t seem proper for me to be in your privy and it is the necklace I’m here to discuss.”

  A pleasing smile curved the corners of her mouth. “Yes, the necklace. It is a wondrous thing. It has revealed my true mission here in India.” She stepped from the tub, one slender leg at a time.

  Remington looked for a towel he might offer, but that was apparently the domain of the servant who was nowhere in sight. “Really, Mrs Caruthers, we must talk about the effect of the necklace when you wear it.”

  One willowy hand rubbed the necklace’s surface as she slowly walked toward the visitor, flakes of bubble bath shimmering as they fell from her legs and hips like pieces of gossamer accentuating her steps.

  Remington stood like a cigar store West Indian statue as she came close enough for him to feel her breath. He blanched at the wickedness of the thoughts that glided so smoothly into his mind. A blameless life is difficult to navigate through tides of temptation.

  “You are a learned man I greatly admire. The treasure I wear has taught me how to provide pleasure. Did you ever think how India’s predicament of malnutri
tion and over-population could be curbed while providing protein and nutrients to the women? It’s such a simple thing. I will show you.”

  She tilted her head and offered her open mouth as if it were a sexual flower. Remington was absorbed by her kiss as if it were a Venus flytrap. The sudden bulge in his trousers bore against her sudsy thighs. The siren in her called to him. His hands responded and squeezed her willing, upturned breasts.

  He lost all thought of the additional £200. A sexual rush obliterated common sense and tilted all purpose toward desire. He bent from her kisses and took a nipple into his mouth. The scent of perfumed water filled his nostrils while he suckled. She found the woolen flap of his trousers and unbuttoned it. Her slender hand skillfully worked through layers of cloth until his bulbous cock sprang free to further engage in their folly.

  Constance broke free from his eager mouth and fell to her knees. She grasped hold of his cock-shaft protruding from the curly undergrowth and held it firmly. She spread a liquid tear from its guppy lips over its helmet and around the ridge, causing Remington to shudder with the deliciously sinful nature of it all.

  “Quite the royal crown your cock doth wear, my ribald gemologist. I am obliged to see if it is as delightful to the taste as to the eye.”

  Her educated tongue teased the crown and the rim. It circled the grateful tip as she bathed his cock with her saliva. Then she swallowed him while humming exotic music for the cock-feast, sending the vibration through his entire being.

  Remington removed the head towel so her hair could fall unfettered. His eyes began to glaze over at the sight of her bobbing head. He knew he would do anything she wanted, the colonel be damned. He began to thrust his hips up toward her face. He felt the gathering that precedes a dizzying burst. She sensed it and held tightly as his cock exploded with astounding power.

  She devoured his release in apparent ecstasy. “Mmmm,” she murmured. Then she said, “This could be India’s solution, you see.”

  Remington stood flabbergasted by the incident, but did not back away or care for her hands to leave his quivering manhood.

  “Roman women bathed in slave semen. Did you know that?”

  “I’ve studied ancient history,” he said shakily.

  “Then you know how this elixir was prized by the ancients. It can be life-giving without procreating.” She pulled his trousers down to his boots. “Let us glory in unexpected opportunity. Give Shiva your cock now free of its seed.” She turned from him and bent over her dressing stool. “Come now, professor. Don’t be coy. Surely there’s a bit of pluck left for Shiva’s tunnel of desire.”

  With his garments still around his ankles, Remington positioned himself behind Constance. His cock had retained the length and girth necessary to do her bidding. He fancied himself a stallion about to mount the most salacious of mares. He glanced around her rump to admire the underside of her shapely breasts and the necklace that swayed from her neck and wondered if the necklace truly affected her, or if it was merely a ploy to fulfill some new-found sexuality unleashed after twenty years with the colonel.

  Remington guided his prick into her secret place and laid his hands upon the crooks between belly and thighs. Her stomach jumped and tightened with the tactile connection, and the lips of her sex were warm and welcoming, closing upon his stalk like a velvet glove upon a hand. They both sighed as he plunged into the abyss of carnal knowledge.

  Her sighs became words that were in praise of the great goddess. She could have sung praises to Genghis Khan for all Remington cared for he was by now shagging her in a heated frenzy and called on a deity or two from his own culture to keep his penis as hard as one of his museum gemstones.

  At that moment, his well-ordered life did not care for jewelry, or money, but only for the moment. Her magnificent ass came back toward him, moving to his rhythm, matching his energy stroke for stroke. He thrust again and again into her place of refuge while Constance raised her head to watch what they were doing in the reflection of a mirror. Her smile was that of an eager child’s. Her mouth then formed an O as if his cock still resided there. His face reflected a man in the throes of stimulated good fortune, rocking to and fro in an orgy of delight. And in a strange way, there was an innocence about it all. Shiva or no Shiva, saints by praised.

  But everything changed in a flash when a shout fell on their ears like the roar of cannon fire.

  “AH-HA!”

  In the doorway, the red-faced, mustachioed Colonel Caruthers stood. The couple looked like a frieze on the wall of a Pompeian brothel. The colonel was decked out in his red tunic covered with gold braid and metals, his white riding togs and his shiny black boots. And there was one more impressive thing about him: in his hand he clutched his pistol.

  “Caught red-handed, by Jove. The gemologist shagging away at my lovely jewel’s cunt,” the colonel blustered.

  Remington’s cock pulled free of the aforementioned cunt and pointed itself in a neutral direction, erect and floundering. With his appendage no longer restricting Mrs Caruthers’s posture, she straightened up. An extraordinary expression crossed her face – not shock or surprise, but complete mystification, for she was under the spell of the necklace.

  Remington stared at the colonel like someone who might glimpse an old acquaintance in a busy street, knowing that friend to have died years ago. If he had been able to quickly gain his senses, he might have said, “Don’t worry, old man, she’s not herself. It’s that bloody necklace.”

  Lady Caruthers exhibited no shame or remorse. “John, you know I’m a new woman now,” she told her husband. “Had you been home, you could have performed your duties as adroitly as this young man. In the celebration of honest desire, there should be no blame.”

  “I’ll show you blame, my dear. I have witnessed your betrayal and you will consider yourself lucky to be packed up, bag and baggage, and sent on your way back to England, where I will arrange for examination concerning you mental state.”

  Constance smiled oddly as if this was a reward rather than a punishment.

  “And as for you, my good professor,” Caruthers said, pointing the revolver frighteningly in his direction, “you proved one thing – that the smell of quim wins out over British crowns when marketed properly. I shan’t be known as a cuckold. Ridicule would never do.”

  Caruthers took dead aim at Remington’s family jewels. Remington was still shackled to his trousers lying in a puddle around his bootstraps with his dong covered in Constance’s vaginal lubricant.

  But then a miracle. The servant girl came from nowhere and crowned the colonel with a bust of Michelangelo’s David. The gun discharged as Caruthers fell to the floor in a heap, but the shot had not found flesh. The servant girl ran to her mistress and embraced her.

  Remington pulled up his trousers and made do with one hooked button to hold them temporarily in place. Fearing the colonel might suddenly regain his faculties, he feasted on one final glance of the freshly fucked goddess in the arms of his savior, the mysterious Indian girl. He bid the two women adieu, stepped over the unconscious Caruthers and found his way out of the house.

  “Another time, another place,” Constance called out as Remington beat a hasty retreat to the street and on to the train station.

  He booked passage to the coast and eventually sailed home. The £100 acquired from the colonel somewhat soothed his loss of commission from the museum. But, more importantly, once out of the colonel’s jurisdiction, he felt relatively safe that he would die with all his appendages intact.

  Remington thought about the Bombay Gentleman’s Club as he traveled to America. For a fleeting moment, his imperialistic cock had taken something that wasn’t rightfully his, as nations had done since the dawn of civilization. Did it matter that his conquest had been so willing? Moreover, was it not he who’d been conquered?

  In any case, he never forgot Bombay or the bathwater fandango with Constance Caruthers, or Shiva, or whoever the hell he had coupled with. Moreover, his thoughts of that day i
n Constance’s tub room were so strong that he was determined the incident was not to be the final chapter. Constance was like a sliver under his skin. Some months later, he tracked her down in England and began to correspond. He was told the colonel had recovered quickly from his knock on the head and had even allowed Constance to bring her native girl to England.

  Shortly thereafter, an opportunity to travel to Europe presented itself. He was to attend a gemological conference in Rome and beseeched her to meet him there. It didn’t seem to take much coaxing and, as he traveled across the ocean, he was stirred by the memory of their brief coupling. The journey’s possibilities bore a luster beyond the study of rare gems. Did she still possess the mysterious necklace? Would she have her equally mysterious native handmaiden in tow? He had much to contemplate as he sailed toward the rising sun.

  Although Constance was one-third of the world away from the concerned colonel, she confided that he still dutifully supported her. “Appearances are important to the English even with thousands of miles between us,” she informed Remington, so she would travel incognito, leaving even her loyal Indian servant behind in London.

  Rome, the Eternal City, where business was supposed to come first, but romance always flutters in the recesses of the mind. Remington held the fantasy of again mounting Constance from behind, grasping her long shimmering hair like a charioteer might hold on to the reins of a mighty horse as he races it around the oval of the Circus Maximus.

  After a day-long meeting at the museum, Remington took an evening stroll down narrow streets sized for seventeenth-century carriages to the splendid Piazza Navona. He sat on a stone bench and listened to the burbling from Bernini’s spectacular fountains, gaudily depicting personifications of Neptune and sea serpents. It was this designated spot where Constance and he had agreed to meet. He could almost picture her, adorned in Shiva’s necklace, taking a late-night swim in the fountain.