The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 9

by Maxim Jakubowski

  Everything was now set up for the perfect seduction. He went to the CD rack and selected Frédéric Chopin, Piano Concerto No. 1 in E minor, performed by Martha Argerich. Later he would move on to a bit of Franz Liszt for rousing the emotions. That never failed to do the trick. At the moment he was more concerned with dressing his erotic doll. He tried to pull Gingers panties over Laelas legs, but got them on the wrong way. He fumbled with the bra clasps. Finally he gave up and laid them next to her. He was definitely more adept at removing bras than putting them on.

  He sat opposite her again and pushed the power button on the control panel. The flash intro appeared, which he skipped. He navigated directly to the set menu and pressed “Activate”. Her reanimation was like watching an exotic pink orchid blossom, so delicate was the color in her cheeks and that bloom along her neck . . . intoxicating! Her thighs quivered. She folded her hands on her lap and turned toward him.

  “Hi there,” she said in a husky voice. “You sure kept me in a long sleep. Did you miss me?”

  “Of course.”

  “I see you’re playing one of my favorite pieces.” She turned to the loudspeakers. “I love Chopin, especially the Piano Concerto No. 1 in E minor, performed by—” she hesitated “— Maurizio Pollini? No, it’s Martha Argerich. I prefer Pollini.”

  “Actually I also prefer Pollini,” Stewart said. “How alike we are! Champagne?”

  He popped the bottle and poured it frothing into the flutes.

  “Here’s to you.”

  “To us,” she said, sipping the champagne while giving him a sly look.

  He couldn’t stop marveling at the technological brilliance. She was getting tipsy. With such perfection who needed real human beings?

  “Do you want to slip into some clothes?” He pointed to the scanty underwear next to her.

  “If you like,” she said, her cheeks glowing.

  The coyness aroused him. He had hit upon the perfect menu combination.

  “Close your eyes,” she said, “and no peeking.”

  He covered his face while the soft cadences of the Chopin Romance undulated in the air.

  “Open your eyes.”

  He opened them and whistled. How she filled that underwear! Laela was more voluptuously built than Ginger. The panties cut in on her divine gluteus maximus, just the way he liked it. Cleo had had two skulls tattooed on each buttock, an image Stewart had never been able to delete from his memory.

  “Coming?” She bent over him, her breasts grazing the tip of his nose. She took him by the hand and led him to the bedroom while the Rondo vivace of the third Chopin movement rolled along trippingly.

  Who needed Liszt?

  After a week of mild, gentle and considerate love-making, Stewart felt bored. He wanted more zest. It was not that Laela wasn’t responsive; she did everything in the program, sometimes even more. Like bringing him coffee to bed on a Sunday morning. But he didn’t trust her with the cooking. She had burned the toast once. What would she do with a crêpe Suzette?

  He studied the instructions once more. He found “audacious” in one menu and also added “saucy with a bit of aggression”. Under “Mood” he selected “unpredictable” and, yes, why not add “PMT”? Cleo had turned into a tigress during the days leading up to her period. After he finished fine-tuning the program, he pressed “Activate” and lay back in bed to see what would happen.

  Laela twitched and stretched like a cat. She turned toward him without smiling. She had darkish rings around her eyes and her lipstick was smeared. That innocent look he so loved had changed to the vaguely corrupt.

  “Wanna fuck?” she said.

  The control panel dropped from his hand. Without further ado, she straddled him. He pecked at the jiggling 34C cup breasts, trying to snatch one in his mouth. He finally managed to get his lips around the left nipple and was still amazed at the quality of the gelatin-base filling, so soft, so pliant, so breast-like. They were actually better than Ginger’s silicone implants. Laela groaned. She grabbed his erect cock, thrust it into her personalized vulva, and started bucking wildly. Stewart wished he could stop thinking about the polyvinyl chloride skeleton and the motors driving those pelvic motions. Finally he got into the mechanical swing. Midway through her contortions, she paused and whispered, “Do you want me to do it?”

  He knew what she meant. He had clicked “it” on.

  “Please . . .”

  She kissed her way down his body, taking little nips at his chest, his belly, his navel. He closed his eyes when she reached the apex of his joy. She commenced with undulating whorls of tongue . . . yes . . . yes . . . the way he adored it, followed by nibbles – simply divine! He reveled in the pleasure of the moment, until suddenly the nibbles became more intensified.

  “Not so hard, Laela,” he said, nudging her head, but she went on applying more pressure.

  “You’re hurting me . . .” he shouted, pulling her hair.

  Now she was biting, snapping! He groped for the control panel and pressed “Deactivate”. The grinding suction instantly halted. Stewart rolled off the bed and went to the bathroom to examine himself. He was a bit chafed but otherwise unhurt. He went back to the bedroom where Laela was frozen in the last position, mouth half open, eyes beady like a parrot. He shut the mouth and straightened the body. He carried her to the living room where he contemplated putting her back into the crate, but it was down in the cellar and he didn’t want to bother. Instead he stretched her out on the sofa and went to the bar for a drink. What had gone wrong, he wondered as he downed a double Scotch. He had paid meticulous attention to every detail in the program. There must be a bug in the system. If Laela was anything like the standard PC Operating Systems, with their regular crashes, he was in for trouble. Once more he consulted the instructions. Everything seemed to be accurate. He decided to change the setting “with a bit of aggression” to “daring”.

  Saturday evening Stewart resumed where he had left off. He felt bad for having abandoned Laela like that on the sofa. He went over and straightened the hair and slipped the body into Ginger’s baby blue chiffon nightgown. He propped her up into the same position as the first evening. Then he brought out a bottle of Château Latour ’95 Bordeaux. He didn’t want another frothy, bubbly escapade but a full-bodied sensation with strong earthy tones and long, long spicy finish. He polished the table and set up the glasses.

  When everything was prepared, he reached for the control panel and revived Laela. She looked about dazed, then fixed him in a kind of cockeyed way.

  “What happened?” she said, rubbing her eyes.

  “You got a bit wild and I had to shut you down.”

  “Oh, now I remember.”

  He was glad to see a fleeting look of innocence cross her face, but then it darkened. She looked down at herself.

  “Why am I dressed like this? I hate baby blue.”

  “Thought I’d get you something pretty.”

  “I don’t like you making decisions for me.”

  “But I meant well. Would you like a glass of wine?”

  “I don’t like red wine. I prefer champagne.”

  “Okay, I’ll get you a glass. Why are you so defensive?”

  “I’m not defensive.”

  Stewart thought it best to drop the subject. He didn’t want more complications. He took out a chilled bottle of Veuve Clicquot Demi Brut from the fridge.

  “Lovely,” she said when she saw the champagne. “My favorite. How about a bit of music?”

  He was relieved that she was becoming herself again. She sipped the champagne and giggled.

  “The bubbles always go to my head.”

  He drank some wine and walked over to the CD rack.

  “I’ve got a superb recording of the Mozart Piano Sonata in C Major, performed by . . .”

  “I’m tired of classical music,” she said, putting down the glass. “Haven’t you got anything more modern?”

  “But I thought you liked classical music. You’re programmed
that way.”

  “I’m changing my program,” she said. “Why don’t you change yours?”

  “How about Béla Bartók . . . that’s modern.”

  “Who?”

  “Bartók . . . the great Hungarian composer.”

  “You don’t understand. I don’t mean more of that boring classical stuff. I mean something new and hot. Got any Techno?”

  Stewart cringed. He would have to completely reprogram her.

  “Let’s skip the music and go to the bedroom for a bit of . . .”

  “Why don’t you just say ‘screwing’,” she said, crossing her legs. “That’s all you men ever think about.”

  “But that’s what you’re for.”

  “You think I’m just your toy?”

  “Yes,” he shouted. “That’s exactly what you are, a damn sex toy!”

  She stood up and walked over to the window, fiddled with the drapes. He couldn’t understand why she wasn’t functioning correctly. He would have to change the Mood program, though “Unpredictable” considerably enhanced the reality thrill.

  “I resent this . . .” she finally said, turning toward him, “this sexual objectification.”

  That was going too far. He could put up with a lot from a gynoid but not reproaches.

  “I’ve had enough of this,” he said, pacing back and forth. “I’m sending you back. There’s a six-month warranty . . .”

  “So I’m like a refrigerator, am I? Going to exchange me for the latest model that doesn’t threaten the poor little boy? You know what? You’re nothing but a suck, whining all the time ’cause momma treated you too hard.”

  Stewart backed off to the armchair, his fists clenched. He would show her who was in control. She could spend the rest of the weekend in the cellar, dumped in the corner by the gas burner. He groped for the control panel, but it wasn’t on the armchair.

  “What did you do with it?” he said, heading toward her.

  “With what?”

  “The control panel. Give it to me!”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He grabbed her by the shoulders.

  “Give me the control panel or I’ll . . .”

  “You’ll what?” she said, breaking away from him. “Shut me down? Is that all you can ever do?”

  He tried to grab her again, but she slapped him hard across the face. He reeled and shook his head.

  “I don’t have to shut you down. I know what’s much more effective.”

  He turned, stomped over to the kitchen and yanked open a drawer. After rummaging about the cutlery, he pulled out a large carving knife.

  “This is what I’m going to do,” he said. “Destroy your cold digital heart.”

  He brandished the knife high in the air and lurched forward. As he was halfway across the living room, Laela reached behind the drapes and pulled out the control panel. She held it straight in front of her and pressed “Deactivate”. Stewart immediately stopped, head thrown back, eyes dilating like a pinball. Laela went over to him and pulled the knife from his hand. She cranked down the arm and dragged him over to the fireplace. His mouth was still open. She tried to close it, but the jaw wouldn’t loosen.

  She went down to the basement and brought up the crate. It was a bit difficult to put him in and the bubble wrap kept catching in his teeth. It didn’t matter. She would ship him back the way he was with a note, “Real-life simulation game was awesome. Enjoyed playing the gynoid. Male prototype Stewart still needs improvement – detailed list to follow.”

  Then she went over to the coffee table and poured herself a glass of that excellent Château Latour ’95.

  The Man-Eaters

  Carrie Williams

  Sara never told him what happened that day down by the Ganges, as he lay sweating and shivering in their room, fearing malaria. All he knew was that she was never the same again. By the time he actually asked her, she was so far away from him that he knew he had lost her for good. He knew, too, that he loved her in spite of how she’d been, the disdainful way she’d treated him of late, of how she’d changed. Perhaps even more – the sex . . . well, the sex was just extraordinary. Exhilarating to the point of frightening him.

  I know now, he said to himself as he preceded the girls down to the water, that I would do anything for Sara.

  She didn’t mind at all when Neil cried off; in fact, she was pleased that she was going to have Banhi to herself for the evening. Half Indian, half British, Banhi was like no one she had ever met before. She was so interesting, so full of fascinating anecdotes and tales, so full of life. She was also ravishingly beautiful. Beside her, Neil, God bless him, paled into insignificance.

  As she eyed the menu, waiting for her new friend to arrive, she thought about her boyfriend. All had been well, or perhaps seemed well, until this last week. After meeting in their last term at university and going through the stress of Finals together, they’d rewarded themselves with this six-week trip around India. She’d enjoyed it, enjoyed his company. But these past few days she’d begun to wonder: was he enough?

  And the sex? That, too, had started well. Excellently, in fact. But then didn’t it always, or almost always? Just about every relationship she’d had had begun with that honeymoon period in which the new lovers just can’t keep their hands off each other. It was whether it could carry on like that that counted. And in her experience, it didn’t.

  Perhaps that was it: perhaps the honeymoon with Neil was ending and she was crash-landing back in reality. Perhaps she was getting bored. Closing her eyes for a minute, she relived the previous evening. The half-hearted blow-job she’d given him, hoping he would come quickly and exonerate her from her duties. She’d told herself she was tired, but deep down she knew that she could, even when tired, if she really wanted too. That in fact some of the best fucks had happened when she was tired, woozy, yielding; that that was when she opened up best, as if submitting herself to a universal force greater than herself.

  “Sara.” Banhi was sitting opposite her, as if she’d materialised from nowhere. She smiled, revealing perfect white teeth. Sara didn’t know what to say: Banhi always made her breathless, left her struggling for words.

  She smiled back. “Hi,” she managed at last.

  Banhi picked up a menu, and as she perused it her eyes kept darting back to meet Sara’s over the top of it.

  “Decided what you fancy?” she said at last, and this time she held Sara’s gaze.

  Sara squirmed a little in her seat. She wondered, sometimes, if Banhi was flirting with her, or whether she was just like this with everyone – intense, making one feel as if one were at the centre of the universe, or caught in a spotlight. As if one were somehow special. No one had made her feel this way before, and it both excited and terrified her. If Banhi wanted something from her, could she, Sara, live up to the other girl’s expectations?

  They shared a large vegetarian thali, and as they ate they talked of this and that: of what Sara and Neil had seen on their sightseeing excursion that day, and of what Banhi had done at the university, where she was studying Hindu mythology.

  “I’ve been learning about you,” she said with a mischievous grin.

  “How do you mean?” said Sara.

  “The goddess Kali,” said Banhi, “She of the four arms. You know – there are statues of her everywhere.”

  “The one with skulls around her neck?”

  “The very one.”

  “So where do I come into it?”

  “Well, it turns out another name for her is Sara, or the Black Goddess. That’s what the gypsies called her. I never knew.”

  “Sara? That’s an odd name for an Indian goddess.”

  “Well it’s all crazy and mixed up, as always with these myths and legends. There’s a place in southern France called Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer, where the Roma people go to worship their patron saint, Sara, who is also known as Sara-la-Kali, which means Sara the Black in Romany.”

  Banhi drummed the
tabletop with her long slim fingers. “In short, some scholars claim that the Romany Sara and the Indian Kali are one and the same.”

  “On what basis?”

  “On the basis of the word kali, and also the similarities between the gypsy pilgrimages and the worship of Kali – both involve immersion in water. They claim that Sara is not a real saint but a transference of Kali to a Christian figure.”

  “And why is she – are they – black?”

  “Kali, who might or might not be the same as the goddess Durga, depending on who you listen to, is usually depicted with a black face. Have you seen that on statues? She’s black because she’s the goddess of creation but also of sickness and death.”

  Banhi paused for a moment, and Sara felt transfixed by her dark gaze. The other girl’s pupils seemed unnaturally large, all-devouring, as if they were trying to suck all the light into themselves.

  “She’s a most interesting creature,” Banhi went on at last. “Both a giver and a taker of life. A redeemer and a mother-goddess, and yet unspeakably vile. Vengeful and monstrously violent. In one famous myth, she fights Ruktabija, the king of demons, who duplicates himself with each drop of his blood that is spilt. Kali wins out by sucking the blood from his body, then putting all of his duplicates into her vast mouth. She finishes up by dancing on the battlefield, on the corpses of those she has killed.”

  Banhi sat back, as if exhausted by her tale. “Am I boring you, Sara, my black goddess?” she said, brow creased.

  “Of course not,” said Sara, a sudden vehemence to her, a new energy. Being with Banhi, she realised, made her feel so . . . so alive, in a way that being with Neil didn’t. Neil was fine, she said to herself, but beside Banhi with her vast knowledge of things so alien to Sara, he seemed rather grey and humdrum. She could listen to Banhi all night and beyond.

  “How about dessert?” she said, conscious of Banhi’s eyes on her. She wondered what interest she could possibly hold for her new friend with her fascinating tales, her glamorous jet-setting life from one university to another. Banhi was ever-questing, voracious, and next to her Sara felt she knew nothing, had nothing to say.