This was fun! Her pussy wasn’t a part of a living woman. It was a toy. Stuart eased the hood of her clitoris back, exposing a tender arrowhead. When he released her sheath it crept forward again, but not quite so far. Just a hint of the raw pink still showed.
When he shucked it again and blew across it, Virginia’s belly tensed, winking her navel. When he slid a finger inside her, just far enough to get a grip on her sex’s lip, and pinched, she shuddered. Pleasure? Pain? Did it matter?
Stuart folded three fingers together and thrust them up into her, where she was slick corrugated heat, all delicate membranes and very internal.
She groaned and swayed – towards him.
He pulled his fingers out. They were sticky. When he parted them strands of translucent stuff stretched between them. It smelled like canned pineapples, with a vaguely metallic tang.
Stuart held his tacky fingers up to her face. “Suck them clean!”
She made a meal of it, gobbling up her own juices, slithering her tongue between his fingers and licking at their webs.
Stuart said, “Masturbate,” and added, “as if you were alone,” before she could ask for detailed instructions.
She spread her too-slim thighs, making shadowy hollows behind her tendons. Two fingers of one hand took her clitoral shaft in a scissors-grip. Two of her other hand hooked up inside her pussy. The fingers held still as her hips moved, slowly at first, then faster and faster. The head of her clitoris flashed in and out of view. She got wetter. Soft slurping noises became sharp wet splashing sounds.
Stuart looked up at her face. It was blank, eyes hidden behind heavy lids, but she was biting her lower lip.
She froze. Stuart thought for a moment that she had reached her climax, but then her fingers were jerking on her clit and she plucked the two fingers from her wet insides, flattened that hand and slapped it up at her engorged lips, short sharp fast slaps, wet slaps, wet enough to splash tiny drops of her oozings onto his face.
The sinews inside her thighs quivered.
Stuart grabbed both of her wrists. They fought him for a second then relaxed, but her belly was vibrating with urgency.
“I didn’t say you could come,” he said.
“Sorry, Stuart.”
“Go to the stool and bend over it.”
He lashed her ankles to two legs of the stool, low down, and her wrists to the other two legs, just below the padded seat, leaving her enough slack to flatten her palms on the green velvet. With her body leaning like that, at forty-five degrees, her breasts hung. There were tiny silvery creases radiating from where they were rooted, beneath her armpits, another delicious imperfection.
Dangling like that, her breasts seemed almost detached from her body, separate entities. Stuart prodded one. It swung, slapped the other, and sent trembling ripples through it.
“Sway,” he said.
She did. He watched, directly and in the dressing table’s mirror. He stood behind her and reached around her body, taking a breast in each hand. His fingers milked at her. He stared into the mirror, watching disembodied hands manipulate Plasticine breasts, pluck pretend nipples.
His erection grew, tenting the silk of his pyjama pants out between the flaps of his robe. The wet spot on the silk nudged between the cheeks of her bum.
“You brought baby oil?”
“In my bag.”
He parted her buttocks and dripped oil onto the base of her spine. It trickled. It ran the valley to the little brown crater and soaked into it for a dozen drops before overflowing and dribbling to coat the backwards pout of her sex. Stuart’s finger traced the glistening, pausing at her anus, rimming before probing.
She inhaled sharply, but the ring of muscle was totally relaxed.
“I’m going to bugger you,” he said.
“Yes, Stuart.”
“Have you been sodomized before?”
She paused before saying, “Would you like me to have been?”
“I want the truth, damn you, not what you think I want to hear!”
“Then – yes, Stuart.”
“Did you like it?”
She didn’t answer. He slapped her bottom. “Did you like it?”
“I think I’ll like it when you do it, Stuart, if that’s what you want.”
He wasn’t going to get the truth out of her. There was no truth in her. It didn’t matter. She was going to have something else in her, something more powerful than truth – his cock deep in her rectum. A universal truth?
Stuart parted his fly and let his cock lance out. He slopped oil into his palm. It splashed in his haste, saturating the front of his pyjama pants. It didn’t matter what the hotel’s laundry service would think. Nothing mattered except the constricted tunnel of flesh that was waiting for his cock.
Two fingers wriggled into her anus, preparing the way, ignoring whatever she felt, pleasure or pain. The head of his cock was screaming at him, “In! In!”
Thumbs prying her open, sliding insecurely on a sheen of oil. Nuzzle up tight, an impossible invasion. The entrance was so small, and he was so bursting big, bigger than he’d ever been. Push. Push. An elastic giving sensation. Push again. A rubber collar, spreading. A – a – a . . .
A plop. My God, he was in! The head of his cock was past the ring. Muscles closed around his cock’s neck, but he was in and there was nothing that was going to stop him going the rest of the way. The eye of his cock was staring up a long dark tight passage, assessing the cruel glee it was about to feel.
Stuart took Virginia by the bones of her hips, fingers hooked into delicate hollows, and he pulled . . .
There was a long divine dragging slithery sensation, and he’d done it! Even if he stopped right then, he’d done it. He’d buggered a woman!
But he didn’t stop. His cock took insane control, making him thrust and pull back and thrust and pull back and thrust and thrust. . . and he came. He came a glorious come, pumping thick and hot, shuddering and groaning aloud.
Stuart left her there, tied to the stool, and went for a shower. She was in the same position when he returned. It was as if he hadn’t done it, except for the snail-trail down the inside of her thigh and the glistening of her still-parted sphincter.
He untied her and retied her, hands behind her back. He had her give him a blow-job like that, with no help from him. It should have taken an age, but she was good at what she did. Her mouth started soft and loose and slow and noisy, gobbling and wobbling on him. Once he was urgent-stiff again, she clamped firmly and accelerated, nodding fast, faster, fastest. His cock’s head rippled across the roof of her mouth, and he came again.
It wasn’t even noon yet.
There was compassion and affection in him. That was bad. He had to absolve himself, a little.
“Get dressed. I’m going to buy you a coat.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to. I don’t like the way you look in that one. I want you to look sexy – for me.”
The shopping concourse below the Sheraton links with another, and another. You can wander for miles beneath Toronto. In February, you’re grateful.
He bought her a short black plastic coat, lined with fake fur, and a pair of boots to match. She didn’t choose them. What he liked, she liked. It wasn’t until they passed a jeweller’s that she showed any interest in anything.
Stuart asked her, “What are you looking at?”
“Those earrings. They’re lovely.”
“They look like the ones you’re wearing, but smaller.”
“Yes.”
“You really like them?”
“Yes.”
“Then they’re yours.”
She didn’t even tell him he didn’t have to.
He told her he’d take her home in a cab again, but she said she had something to do downtown. She asked him, “Tomorrow?”
He nodded and turned on his heel before sanity made him change his mind.
She arrived in his suite wearing her glossy new coat.
“I ha
ve a surprise for you.”
“You have?”
She posed, one leg turned in front of the other, a shoulder drooping, and opened her coat. Her being naked under it didn’t surprise him at all. He’d half expected that. What shocked him was the earrings he’d bought her. She was wearing them – one through each freshly pierced nipple.
Stuart felt a twinge of nausea that was instantly washed away in a flood of lust. He took her on her back, on the scratchy carpet, thrusting into her frantic as a teen, arched up from his waist, his eyes feasting on the mutilations that she’d endured for his sake.
“How on earth did you get that done?” he asked, once he was calm and drained.
“There’s a place in a side street, between King and Queen. They do piercing and tattooing. Should I get a tattoo?”
He thought of her mound, shaved bald and reading, “Stuart’s”.
“No,” he said. “Let’s go buy you a dress.”
When her nipples had healed enough that he dared touch them he used those rings a lot. He steered her by them, and used them to tug on, and once held fistfuls of ice on them, to claw the chill inside her flesh. Stuart took her in every position he could dream up, tied and free, orally, anally, between her breasts and vaginally.
When he told her that the next day would be his last in Toronto for a while, she didn’t cry. She simply told him that she really needed to borrow five hundred dollars.
That was a relief. Five hundred was cheap, and it would constitute a “pay-off. It transformed their relationship from “emotional” to “commercial”. He counted out ten fifties and waited for her to tell him she couldn’t make it for the next day, but she didn’t. She just confirmed, “Nine-thirty?”
She arrived with the vee of her coat showing a thick woollen sweater. It was the first substantial garment that he hadn’t bought her that he’d seen her wearing.
When she took off her coat the sweater was very short – covering half her midriff, and she was naked from it to her boots. She posed again, but not like a model. She put her fists on her bare hips, spread her thighs and thrust her pubes at him.
“Does this look nice? This is what I needed the money for.”
His bile rose again. She’d had another piercing – the lips of her sex. A row of tiny golden rings glittered at him, four to each side. There was a thin gold chain threaded through them, sealing her. A tiny gold padlock dangled between her thighs.
“Here’s the key. There’s just one. It’s yours.”
Stuart had to force himself to come in her mouth.
That night he had no work. He walked the frigid streets, head down into ice-particles that travelled horizontally, until he found her home. There was no answer. He took note of her address, returned to his hotel, made a tiny parcel of the silver key and three one-hundred dollar bills, and mailed it.
It was two months before they called him back to Toronto. The parcel was waiting at the Sheraton’s reception, “Return to sender. Addressee moved. No forwarding address.”
There was no message waiting at the office. The phone didn’t ring at six-forty.
The next morning he scoured the streets between King and Queen, looking for a “place that did piercing, and tattooing”.
He found one just after noon, with dusty windows and curly cardboard displays of digital watches.
“I’m looking for a woman, a customer of yours.”
The gnome with tobacco stains on his moustache said, “Yes?”
“Her name is Virginia. I don’t know her last name. You did some – work.”
“Tattoos or piercing?”
“Piercing.”
“Ears, nose, nips, navel or pussy-lips?”
“Er – nipples, and er – lips.”
“Skinny woman? Big boobs? Red hair?”
“That’s her. Do you have an address? She moved you see, and . . .”
“Against policy, I don’t have it, anyway.”
Stuart pulled out a fifty.
“I really don’t got it, but I tell you what – she’s coming in for some more work, today, three o’clock. You want to come back?”
“Could I wait?”
“Sure. Come in back. There’s magazines, and I’ll get you some coffee.”
The magazines were all “trade”. The little man brought bitter coffee in a mug with a Canadian Pacific Railways logo. Customers came and were ushered by an enormous fat man into tiny curtained booths. Sometimes needles buzzed, sometimes there was the sharp smell of alcohol and the occasional, “ouch”.
There was more coffee at one and two. It was hot in that room. That – and the antiseptic – and the thought of what was going on in the booths, made Stuart start to feel nauseous. It was a struggle to check his watch. At three the little man came back again and took a seat opposite Stuart.
“She’s late,” Stuart said, mumbling on a thick tongue. “You ain’t been so nice to Miss Virginia, ‘ave you?”
“Huh?”
“Miss Virginia. She made a commitment to you. You dumped her.”
Stuart tried to stand but his knees were jelly. “What do you – you mean?”
“You should get back with her. She’d like that.”
“I – I brought the key.”
“That’s nice. Tell her yourself then.”
“Wha? She’s . . .?”
The fat man jerked the curtains to a booth open. Virginia was there, standing naked . . . No, sagging naked. She was hanging from . . . Stuart’s gorge rose. Virginia had been pierced again, a lot. There were rings through the flesh at the backs of her wrists, and behind her neck, and her ankles and . . . and they were all on cords – cords that hung down from a framework high against the ceiling.
The fat man pulled on a dangling cord. Virginia’s head lifted. She smiled at Stuart. “Hello Stuart. You’ve come back to me?”
The fat man grunted, “Yes, he’s come back to you, Virginia.”
Stuart toppled off his chair. The gnome produced a pair of tailor’s shears and started to cut up the legs of Stuart’s pants. The fat man jingled a palmful of golden rings. His other hand held a pair of peculiarly shaped pliers.
TAROT
Florence Dugas
translated by Maxim Jakubowski
Noon was gently moving towards two o’clock. As it was already summer time, no one could tell: somewhere in the world it’s always noon.
It was as if the sun had given her a sign and she hadn’t returned to work.
The sound of her heels against the stone of the road and the side pavement is like a clamour of victory. She supplies a rhythm to the city, and her thin, long legs move, map and order its topography, like a defiant army marching ahead under the new found sun, celebrating the coming of spring. It is good to feel the heat spread across her skin, caressing her knees like two warm hands, even moving up between her thighs now no longer under the protection of nylon. The sun almost draws a crown of gold around her head, as if she is a chosen one. From time to time she even swings her head either way to the side, like a racehorse in heat. Saying “yes” and “no” to her invisible mount while her heavy stream of hair undulates across her back. She straightens her back, holding her stomach in and the flow of her hair swims gloriously in motion.
She walks as if leading a victory parade.
“Parade.” The very word echoes studiously across her brain, to the rhythm of her heels, and it amuses her to invent more meanings for it. To parade is more than just walking at random, no mere promenade where you never know where the next step leads. “To parade is to move like God across his garden,” Brisset used to say. It even makes her look a little drunk, dizzy from her newly found freedom. Walking along, parading, as if she were about to become the heroine of some medieval ballad sung by a troubadour below the window of a captive king. All this sun is so unusual. Walking as she does, head high, she can no longer hear Paris surrounding her, just the sound of her heels clicking along; nor can she see the cars and passers-by, just the winged Genie of
the Bastille, flying high up there close to Icarus. She is on parade: she’s come out of her shell, the whole world is on offer to her, her steps are conquering space, taking her into a whole new dimension.
The clock on the Gare de Lyon betrays an impossible hour, that even the sun denies.
“The next train to leave? Well, you’ve got the Paris-Vintimille, in ten minutes. Seats? Oh, as many as you want. Non smoking? Isn’t the weather lovely? The sky is so blue. Yes, I understand.”
The railways guy sitting behind the immediate departures window is actually not bad-looking at all.
It’s true, there are few people on the train. In her compartment, just five men: four of them are playing cards while the fifth further down appears to be sleeping already, with just his neck and short greying hair visible from her vantage point.
With all those empty seats available, she chooses to sit on the right hand side, so she can enjoy the sun for the rest of the afternoon.
She feels blandly happy, sunny, watching all the stationary cows outside pass by.
The train does not stop before Valence.
She walks out onto the platform to get some movement into her legs. A two-minute stop. Up there, the sun hasn’t moved at all but the heat is now more oppressive, a sign they are further south, in the Midi. She can feel the sun rising ever so stealthily up her thighs, so much more aggressively than in Paris, and this metaphor first makes her smile, then causes her to feel dreamy.
She shakes her head. “I’m becoming delirious,” she thinks.
But on the other hand she feels ever so free.
She returns to the compartment from the other end, and walks down the rows of seats, as the train begins speeding up again, swaying dizzily between the wooden seats.
The man with grey hair is not sleeping. He is watching her navigate her passage, struggling against the train’s increasing motion, as if he were looking through her and not even seeing her. The possibility that somehow between Paris and Valence, on this stolen afternoon, she has physically dematerialized amuses her when she thinks of it. Is the man not really looking at her? He is quite handsome, in a prematurely greying way. His eyes are the same colour as his hair, pale grey veined with black – a man of marble. As she passes him, she gazes at his hands, laid out flat on the table. Quite beautiful hands which in her imagination she is already placing within her intimate theatre, the hands of a pianist, or there again a surgeon’s hands ready to sew someone’s wound up, or even a pair of warm and dry hands alighting on her knees, sliding up her skirt, moving into her underwear and grabbing her bum cheeks, hands capable of measuring her arse so much more than the sun outside.
The Mammoth Book of International Erotica Page 62