The Mammoth Book of International Erotica

by Maxim Jakubowski

  “Madam, time to get off, the train is about to depart.”

  The ticket controller stole her away from her thoughts. She waved farewell to the two men and walked into the compartment to kiss her mother and the children. Like on the occasion of every departure, Sophie cried, her tears soon dried by Leone’s kisses. Jacques wanted to open the window onto the platform; his mother convinced him not to, because of the cold. She kissed her mob one last time and got off the train. The controller closed the door behind her.

  Like most people, she hated farewells on station platforms, it made her cry. Without even waiting for the train’s departure, the final kisses blown from her lips, she began moving towards the exit. She passed the wagon where the two men were standing on the running board.

  “Come, you can go back tomorrow if you want.”

  She stopped, her whole body braced towards them, torn between the desire to jump aboard and conventional morality.

  “I’d really like to, but . . .”

  The train gave a jump and slowly set itself in motion. She moved as if to climb on. She mechanically walked alongside, like someone trying to postpone the moment of separation from a loved one embarking on a long journey.

  “Come . . .”

  She felt herself lifted up, torn off the ground by two strong sets of hands and found herself in the now accelerating train, between the two men now looking at her with both satisfaction and worry.

  “But it’s a kidnapping . . . you’re mad!”

  But the sound of her voice, her bright, cheerful eyes, her moist, half-open mouth, contradicted her words.

  If looks could eat, they were already devouring each other, truly amazed by the formidable aura of desire now surrounding them.

  The spell wasn’t broken by the appearance of the ticket controller who did not appear surprised to have an extra passenger. There was a spare seat. Leone wanted to pay for her fare, they would not allow her. They ordered another bottle of champagne.

  “To celebrate our journey.”

  They introduced themselves: Gérard, Dominique. She only remembered their first names.

  “I’m Leone.”

  “Let us drink to Leone’s health.”

  They raised their three glasses. The champagne was lukewarm, but it wasn’t important; it was only a symbol of their understanding.

  Leaning on their elbows in front of the corridor window, they silently watched the procession outside of dark buildings, broken here and there by some light from a window, as they travelled through the sad Paris suburbs. Gérard put his arm around Leone’s waist, while Dominique took hold of her shoulder. Without shame or false modesty, Leone gave in to the reassuring sense of well-being running through her as well as the heat of the two men. They stayed that way for some time, savouring the certainty of pleasures to come. Soon, the lights outside were few and far between and there was only the black hole of the countryside.

  They moved into one of the compartments and helped Leone take her coat off. She remained standing, arms on her side, confident, calm. Only her breath quickened. Dominique pulled her towards him, gently kissing her face, her neck. She felt her body harden against his, thrust her lips forward and this first kiss was so voluptuous she almost fainted out of joy. Gérard turned her round and also kissed her with voracious brutality. She moaned. While Gérard prolonged his kiss, she felt Dominique pulling the zip of her dress. Without interrupting their kiss, he helped the young woman’s arms out of the garment and let it fall softly to the ground. She stepped out of it and now only wore a short grey silk slip, lined with ochre lace. The hands of the two men moved across the smooth surface of the slip. They rubbed each other against her and she felt their hard cocks against her stomach and buttocks. She moved slightly, to feel them better. She thought they were getting even harder. Gérard abandoned her mouth and, sitting on the bunk, pulled down the shoulder straps of Leone’s slip and brassiere. Her breasts burst out, heavy and voluptuous. Gérard buried his face in them, his mouth squashed against her musky mounds. He took a step back to admire them better. The train’s movements echoed through them, bringing the breasts alive, their raised nipples begging for kisses and bites.

  “How beautiful you are!”

  She pulled Gérard’s head against her chest. He greedily nibbled one tip. Leone let out a small cry.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”

  “No, no, go on.”

  Gérard resumed his caress while Leone abandoned herself, a glutton for more.

  Dominique was watching the spectacle of Gérard’s mouth moving from one breast to another while his hands roamed freely over her splendid chest. He slipped off the already crumpled slip and the already wet knickers. He brought them up to his nose. Leone was naked between the two still-clothed men, she now only wore her suspender belt, her stockings and her shoes. Dominique could no longer hold back. He pulled his penis out and, arching Leone back towards him, holding her by the hips, drove into her. She struggled a bit, but the young man strengthened his hold on her and thrust himself in even deeper. His sex must be quite large, for she had never felt herself as mightily invaded as this. He moved slowly inside her, whispering:

  “I love you, you are so good.”

  Gérard’s mouth and hands kept on bruising her breasts, Dominique’s cock surged on ever harder, a deep, savage lust rose inside Leone who came with a scream as Dominique spurted inside her. He briefly stayed within her, holding her up, kissing and pecking her back. Gérard pulled her away from his friend’s body and laid her down on the cot. He hurriedly tore off all his clothes, scattering them around the compartment and threw himself into Leone. He took her without consideration. She barely had enough time to register the surprise of her intense arousal before they climaxed together, in total silence.

  Leone felt as if time was standing still. Her body, blissful, floated. The swinging movements of the train completed the illusion.

  “I’m thirsty,” she whispered.

  Dominique poured her some of the tepid champagne, she swallowed it in one gulp. He ran a wet towel over her body, which she was grateful for, and assisted her in rolling down her stockings and suspender belt. He then undressed.

  Gérard grumbled. He was beginning to doze, and looking at him, Leone and Dominique began laughing.

  “Here, some champagne will do you good.”

  He took the bottle from Dominique’s hands and drank straight from it. The foam slipped out of his mouth, down his neck and lost itself in the hairs on his chest. He burped and apologized, lit a cigarette that he handed over to Leone and offered Dominique another. They were sitting on the cot, their legs hanging over the edge, curled up together, smoking in silence.

  It was Dominique who interrupted their daydreaming, sliding down to the floor between Leone’s legs. His warm and skilful tongue soon awakened her senses again. She moaned as she held the young man’s head against her stomach. With her free hand, she searched for Gérard’s penis; aroused by his fingers, it rose. Kneeling on the bunk, he brought his cock to the level of Leone’s mouth; she lapped at it gently like a cat drinking milk. Dominique helped her slide down on the cot, and pulling her up, lowered her down on his member. Gérard, disappointed, stroked himself gently. They all three climaxed together.

  Leone fell asleep in the middle of a sentence. But her sleep didn’t last long. She was woken by a cock moving inside her. Later, one of the young men sodomized her. She barely had time to register the pain before she came again, at excruciating length.

  Early in the morning, when the ticket controller knocked at the door to announce their arrival in Morzine station, she thought she wouldn’t even be able to stand up again, her whole body ached so much. Aching, but satisfied. She shrieked in horror when she saw herself in the mirror. The circles around her eyes spread all the way down to her cheeks, her lips were swollen from too many kisses and bites, her tangled hair gave her the look of a wild, wanton woman.

  “I can’t go out like this. It looks as if
I’ve . . .”

  “Yes, you did,” the men answered, laughing.

  She shrugged and tried to make herself presentable. Her night companions weren’t much of an improvement on her. Once she had dressed, they pulled her towards them.

  “You don’t regret it? You know, it’s the first time we’ve made love to the same woman, together.”

  “For me too, it was the first time,” she said, still a bit red-faced.

  Dominique cupped her chin.

  “You musn’t be ashamed. We fell for you at first sight and you for us and it was wonderful.”

  She gave them each a big fat kiss on the cheeks, like you give to good friends, or children.

  “Yes, it was wonderful.”

  “So, are you staying on?” asked Gérard.

  “No, it’s not possible. I’ll hire a cab to Geneva and will then catch the first plane back to Paris.”

  They insisted but understood that she had made her mind up. “Keep an eye on my mother and my children disembarking, I don’t want them to see me like this.”

  Gérard was the look-out while Dominique and Leone stayed back, huddled together, holding each other’s hand. Leone knew she could grow attached to this tender, handsome, blue-eyed boy who made love so well. But her own life was already so full, there was no place left for further adventures. She regretted it.

  Gérard returned, he’d found a cab and seen the family leave in another.

  “Are you sure you don’t want us to come with you to Geneva?”

  “No, thanks, I don’t enjoy farewells.”

  She got into the taxi, turned back to wave at them. Dominique was running behind the car. She guessed what he was asking: “Your name, your address.” She looked away, smiled and settled down in the comfort of the seat. It was warm in the car, the snow-covered landscape was pretty in the morning light, the driver ignored her and remained silent. Images from the previous night floated back to the surface of her memory, raising exquisite feelings of pleasure. It felt like the dawn of time: before the creation of sin. She slept all the way to Geneva, a smile of ecstasy on her lips.

  THE GIFT

  Stella Duffy

  HE HAD GONE to work. Finally gone to work after the morning ritual – pulling, dragging, wrenching him from sleep, I had parcelled him off, pressed him into his work clothes, packaging him into Anyman for another day. I stayed in the small weatherboard house, stuck in the small thin house, close and hot in early morning humidity.

  Summer lingers into late damp March.

  The kids – breakfasted, shouted at, washed, cried, dressed, tears dried, lunch packed, cuddled, kissed – finally at school. And outside grey drizzle fell steaming on a morning of screaming children and red angry women hidden in identical versions of the same day. All rubber gloved. All staring out of kitchen windows. Through dusty glass there never was time to wash, out on to the same grey green back gardens as the same thick rain beat on the same rusting tricycle.

  But for me there is a knock at the door.

  I opened the door. It was a woman. Six foot, covered in leather. Skin-tight worn leather legs, rising from heavy black boots buckles gleaming, muscled calves and smooth thighs – sinews marking the line of touch to her waist. A silver belt, two inches wide and detailed, symbols circling her torso. Cropped jacket, topped with black helmet and shiny mirror glasses. I see myself in the covers of her eyes.

  I stare at the vision, the mouth the only exposure, big soft lips parted, saying something unclear, and then –

  “So I wondered if I could come in? Until it stops raining . . . it’s not really safe out here, slipping . . . and sliding.”

  She is Maori and takes off her boots, leaving them at the door and walks barefoot into the hall, padding into the hall. It seemed larger, as if growing to accommodate this woman. This Woman. She went through the kitchen door, removed her gloves and, with the light behind her lifted off her helmet, shaking out an elbow’s length of hair.

  The Woman sat. Brown eyes deep and heavy lashed grinning at me, wide set above a broad soft nose. Her lips maroon red and wide and full like a welcome stain. There is a faint moko on her chin. Like it is just growing in. Like it comes from inside out.

  I ask where from. I ask why. The Woman begins to answer me, her voice coming low and soft as a half smile.

  “. . . and Sarah, is there coffee? It wasn’t far, but I am wet . . .”

  I made coffee.

  (She knows me. She named me.)

  The kettle on, I watched as the Woman lifted off her jacket – muscled arms hanging the heavy article on the back of the chair – and straightened her dark red shirt.

  She stretches forward, flings back her hair like an unwanted bedsheet.

  She, swinging on her chair so I can’t help but follow my thoughts to her breasts, smiles at me. Smiles, rising and falling in thin silk.

  We drank coffee in silence.

  The coffee cups drained, sat side by side on the kitchen table. I picked them up, added more hot water and watched the cups sink beneath a blanket of soap suds and scattered sodden cornflakes.

  Yellow gloved I slid my hands beneath the water.

  The Woman slid her hand along my arm.

  The water through the glove is warm. Its pressure holds the glove against my hand.

  The Woman’s hand is warm. The pressure of her lips on my neck holds my breath inside my lungs.

  The Woman is warm outside. I am warm inside.

  But my skin shivered in expectation and surprise and unsurprise, in awareness and willing ignorance.

  The cups sit side by side on the draining board.

  A fingernail-full of soap bubbles slides down the side of the cup.

  The Woman slides down the side of me.

  My leg is smooth. So is the Woman’s touch.

  So is her mouth.

  I fumbled with my gloved hands, stripped myself of kitchen yellow.

  Ungloved, my hands were naked.

  I will be soon.

  One glove falls, thumb filling with water.

  Turns. Sinks.

  As does She.

  As do I.

  And now hands which have been soft become sharp and lithe and everywhere, all over me, strong hands writhing and seething, and pulling at my hair, pinching my nipples, in my eyes, my ears, mouth, cunt, deep for me. Softest-in-the-world lips to breasts, mean teeth clawing their way through my thin skin. I am hip bone impaled. Ten long fingers everyplace at once, entangling my hair, toes clawing, not caressing but harassing hard and sharp and constant and overwhelming and she is touching me she is making me and she is wanting me and I am wanting too until wanting becomes hard and solid, wanting is made woman, is made flesh in our joining and into the exquisite agony of persistent touch I am teased taunted bullied goaded, into orgasm, into bloody bitter piercing coming and I cry out and I arch and I am the same shudder and am those long hands on which my body centres itself pivoting and am those dark eyes and am and am no more and I am.

  In bed, I studied the Woman. Long and wide and full. Colour glancing off her body like shaded sunlight. Heavy as warm oil. The Woman had brought food – avocados from the Philippines and melon from Fiji, strawberries and fat grapes. Summer fruits and autumn night closing outside.

  Sated, we turned to the window as the first sky rocket touched its zenith.

  Someone else was putting on a firework show, unwittingly and intentionally for the sole pleasure of the Woman and me. A single silver light climbed, disappeared for a second and became seven white stars. Points of green exploded into solid, starred orbs. It went on.

  It goes on. She and I sit spellbound. There is no “as if”. The display is for us. The last rocket falls.

  The Woman falls to me. Falls in my lap. Lapping. Lapped. I stretch my hand through the Woman’s hair and find they are not tresses or curls, but locks. I am locked in. Single strands of long black hair twist and bind me to the Woman. Lock me to the Woman.

  I don’t want to look for the key. />
  The room is bigger and the bed softer than it was before.

  Before the Woman.

  I lie in the Woman’s arms.

  The Woman lies in my arms.

  But this is the Truth.

  We sleep with the Southern Cross carved into our eyelids and in the morning are rainlight wakened.

  And he never came back.

  And they never came back.

  And the Woman stayed forever.

  And it was real.

  It is real.

  Because I say it is.

  She and I are the word made flesh. Make the word flesh.

  Because I say so.

  MOBIUS STRIPPER

  Bana Witt

  1 Hot Nazis

  I was riding on the 7 Haight bus to my massage job downtown when I sat down next to a thin friendly blonde girl. She was on her way to the clap clinic. She said she had clap of the throat. She might have gotten it from a girl she had worked with on a porno film. I had never met anyone who’d done porn before, or even seen any for that matter. She said she was working for these really nice guys called the Mitchell Brothers and told me just to call their theater if I wanted to work.

  I was very excited by the idea. I had just started to get into S&M: having boyfriends who liked to tie me up or spank me, biting hard, doing things that left marks and looking at my own marks after a long night. I thought I was about as kinky and decadent as anyone. I called after thinking about it for a few days. I went to an interview at the O’Farrell Theater and was confused by the incredible similarity between the two brothers. They were fine-boned, relatively small men, with a way of making the bizarre seem totally routine. The older brother was Jim, the younger, Artie. They asked me if I’d ever done this sort of work before and I said no, but that I was a masochist and loved to be beaten and they could really do it if they wanted. There was a list of other things they asked if I would do. I said yes to them all. They told me they were going to do a series of short, very hardcore films called Ultra Core.

  A few days later I went to a large brick building in the Tenderloin. It’s across from Hyde Street Studios now. I was overweight and not nearly as flashy as the other women, but much more enthusiastic. They had this outrageously beautiful makeup woman who was also from Fresno. Years later she would fall in love with my friend Patty at my wedding.