Susi stationed herself there and undressed. “You all stay dressed,” she said to the five men. “Just cocks out, OK?”
She positioned herself and, as the men’s eyes followed her every movement, she opened her legs and stuck a finger inside herself. She was visibly already very wet and there was an audible squishing sound as the finger penetrated her. Louis unzipped his jeans and pulled his cock out. The others followed his example. One of the black guys, he noticed, was enormous, at least ten inches and thick as hell. He discreetly examined the other cocks, and was reassured that his was still reasonably sized in comparison. Joint second biggest, he reckoned, not without a wry thought.
Susi now introduced a second finger into her cunt, secretions now flooding out and dripping down the gold chain.
There was both a sense of the ceremonial and a sense of the absurd about them all. Six human beings masturbating frantically. Five men with their cocks out, fingers clenching their shafts, rubbing their coronas, teasing their glans, heavy balls shuddering below as the woman in white at their centre teased her cunt in a parody of lovemaking.
“Not yet,” she warned. Had one of them intimated he was close to come?
Time felt as if it had come to a standstill, swallowing all their halting sounds of lust.
She adjusted her stance, now kneeling, her hand buried deep inside her crotch, almost like praying, and indicated she was finally ready for her baptism of come.
The men came, one by one, spurting their thick, white seed into her face, as she leaned forward to receive them. He was the third to orgasm and noticed the arc of his ejaculate strain in the air separating him from her body and the final drips landing in the thin valley between her muted breasts. Soon, she was covered with the men’s seed, like syrup dribbling across her thin eyebrows and down her cheeks. He didn’t think she herself had actually come, although all five men had.
There was a long silence as they all stood there, the men with their cocks shrivelling already, the drenched woman in quiet repose.
Finally, Louis spoke: “Well, Susanne, just the way you wanted it?”
She nodded as the men began zipping up.
“Care to move on to your next fantasy?”
What next fantasy? he wondered. What else was she after?
“Yes,” she said, rising to her feet and picking up the green towel Louis had previously left on a nearby chair and wiping her face clean.
“Good,” Louis said. “There’s quite a crowd out there waiting.”
Still not bothering to put her clothes on again, Susi asked him: “Can you give us a few minutes alone, before, please?”
“Sure, Susanne,” he said and the four men trooped out of the room.
“So,” he asked her the moment after they had closed the door. “What else have you planned for the menu, Susi? It must be a fantasy I am unaware of. You’re full of surprises.”
“I know,” she answered. “I should have told you before. I’m sorry. It’ll only happen once and then I shall return to my boring life, you know. Maybe the time will come for me to settle down, marry some decent guy and even have kids. A nice hausfrau.”
“What are you talking about, Susi?”
“I want to be fucked in public . . .”
“What?”
“Just one man, that’s all. But I have to know what it feels like with people watching, you see. You said this was a city of sex, I’ll never have the opportunity again. Just this once. We’re miles away from home, no one knows us, we’ll likely not come here again. Only you and I will know . . .”
“You mean with me?” he asked.
“Yes. If you wish to be the one.”
“I . . .” He was at a loss for words.
“It’s all arranged with Louis. We’ll even get paid five hundred dollars.”
“It’s not the money . . .”
“I know . . . I understand if you don’t want to. Arrangements have also been made for another man, if you decline. But I do want you to watch . . . really . . .”
His thoughts were in turmoil. This had all gone too far. He had played with fire and the flames were now reaching all the way through to his gut. As they always did. He never learned the lessons, did he? Long before Kathryn, he’d been going out with a woman who was avowedly bisexual and it had planted a bad seed in his mind. Not for him the common fantasy of watching two women together, no. The idea of bisexuality had preyed on his mind for months and one day, curious to know what it must feel like to suck a man’s cock, from the woman’s point of view (after all, they never minded sucking his, did they?), he had agreed to an encounter with another man. He distressingly discovered he enjoyed sucking cock and had been irregularly doing so for years now, in secret, whenever a woman was not available and the tides of lust submerged him. He had never told any woman about this. Feared they would misunderstand. Blamed his insatiable sexual curiosity. Even Susi wouldn’t understand, he knew. Not that this was the time to tell her. He always went that step too far. And paid for it. Emotionally.
“I just can’t, Susi. I can’t.”
“But will you . . .”
“Yes, I will watch.”
There was a crowd in the other room of the house on Ramparts. They had been drinking liberally for an hour or so, it appeared. There was a heavy air of expectation about them.
Louis led Susi in. Like a ritual, holding the thin gold chain secured to her clitoris, her eyes covered by a piece of dark-blue cloth. This is how she had wanted it to happen. She didn’t wish to see the audience. Just feel it and hear it around her as she was fucked.
They had cleared a low table in a corner of the room and Susi was taken to it, carefully installed across so that all the light was focused on her already gaping and wet red gash, and positioned on all fours, her fake jewellery taken from her body. She was helped to arch her back and raise her rump to the right level. The man who had won the quickly organized auction came forward. He looked quite ordinary, late twenties, an athlete’s build, not very hairy. He had kept his shirt on but his cock already jutted forward as he approached Susi’s receptive body. He was uncut and his foreskin bunched heavily below the mushroom cone of his glans. He was very big.
The man found his position at Susi’s entrance and buckled forward and speared her. A few spectators applauded but most remained quite silent. From where he sat, he couldn’t see Susi’s face, only her white arse and the hypnotizing sight of the dark-purple cock moving in and out of her, faster and faster, every thrust echoed by a wave of movement on the periphery of her flesh, like a gentle wind caressing the surface of a sand dune.
It lasted an eternity, longer he knew than he would have ever managed. The guy was getting his money’s worth. And the audience, many of whom were blatantly playing with themselves in response to the spectacle unfolding before them. She would be very sore at the end of this. Sweat coated Susi’s body like a thin shroud as the man digged deeper and deeper into her and he watched her opening enlarge obscenely under the pressure of that monstrous cock.
Shamefully, he couldn’t keep his eyes away from the immediate perimeter of penetration, noting every anatomical feature with minute precision, the vein bulging on the side of the invading cock as it moved in and out of sight, in and out of her, the very shade of crimson of her bruised labia as they were shoved aside by the thrusts, the thin stream of inner secretions pearling down her inner thigh, and neither could he help himself getting hard again watching the woman he knew he had fallen in love with getting fucked in public by a total stranger.
That night, she curled up against him in the slightly exiguous hotel room bed, drawing his warmth and tearing him apart.
They had packed and waited in the hotel’s lobby for the airport shuttle they had booked earlier that morning. One suitcase each, a Samsonite and a Pierre Cardin. They hadn’t discussed the previous night, acted as if nothing had happened. They had the same flight to Chicago where they would part. He on to London, she to Vienna. Now he knew he would want to see her again, in Europ
e. It would be easier. They had come through this crazy experience and he realized how much she had touched his heart.
The blue mini-coach finally arrived, ten minutes late, and he picked up the suitcases and carried them to the pavement. As he was about to give her case to the shuttle’s driver, Susi put her hand on his arm.
“Yes?”
He had never realized how green her eyes were.
“I’m not coming,” she calmly said. “There’s nothing for me back home; I’m staying in New Orleans.”
“But . . .”
She silenced him with a tender kiss to his cheek. When he tried to talk again, she just quietly put a finger to his lips indicating he should remain silent. “No,” she said. “No explanations. It’s better like this.”
The driver urged him to get on board.
As the shuttle moved down Burgundy, he looked out of the window and saw Susi walking to a parked car with her suitcase. Louis stood next to it. The shuttle turned the corner and he lost them from sight.
The short drive to Moisan was the loneliest and the longest he had taken in his life.
He would, in the following years, continue to write many stories. That was his job after all. In many of them, women had red hair, green eyes and bodies of porcelain white. And terrible things happened to them: rape, multiple sex, prostitution, drug addiction, even unnatural forced sexual relationships with domestic animals. But they all accepted their fate with a quiet detachment.
He would continue to occasionally meet up with strange men and take uncommon pleasure in sucking them off. This he did with serene indifference, because in his mind it didn’t count. It was just sex, meat, it was devoid of feelings.
He never visited New Orleans or saw or heard of Susi again.
Paying My Friends for Sex
Matt Thorne
Not having money was hard. But sometimes having money seems harder. It’s not as if I’m rich or anything, but having enough cash to get yourself in trouble, well, you’d be surprised how quickly that becomes a burden.
I’ve never been an avaricious individual. Ever since I was a kid, my cash has gone on three things, and three things only: CDs, books and the cinema. Most of my clothes were given to me; the rest come from second-hand shops. And although I spend more money on food than I used to, all this really means is these days I eat in expensive restaurants instead of McDonald’s. I always eat out, and will do so until the day I die.
So when I unexpectedly started having more money, the only real evidence of my newfound wealth was in the increase of my book and CD collections. My cinema habits remained unchanged: there are, after all, only so many films you can see in a day. But although it was fun to fill out my literature and music libraries, after a while I realized there was little pleasure in buying music or books by bands or authors you didn’t like. After that, I confined myself to only buying new books or CDs, or the back catalogues of bands I knew I loved. Even that got tiresome after a while (as much as I love Neil Young and Lou Reed, there’s really no reason to own copies of Landing on Water or Minstrel ). This meant I needed to find some new way of enjoying my money. At first I considered developing an interest in pornography. There seemed to be hundreds of adult videos, and it seemed likely that collecting these sorts of films would give me pleasure. But after I had ten or so, I realized I didn’t really enjoy pornography, and was also embarrassed about having the tapes around the house.
The same morning I chucked the cassettes away, I got a letter from an ex-girlfriend. When we’d broken up I’d been quite stern with her, telling her not to try to get in contact with me. It was over two years since we’d last seen each other, and she was writing to ask whether I would now be prepared to meet her for dinner. She made no mention of her own romantic situation, although she did say in one line that she just knew I would have a girlfriend and if I wanted I could bring her along. I hadn’t thought about this ex-girlfriend that much, mainly because I had been so upset when she’d broken up with me that I’d experienced a mini-breakdown that I didn’t want anyone to know about. The main reason why I had told her not to get in contact with me was because I knew she had a habit of falling back in love with her boyfriends after she’d broken up with them and I thought it was probably safer to stay away from her until I’d made a fresh start. Once I’d got back on my feet, I’d always intended to contact her, but for one reason or another I didn’t get round to it, and as I’ve never been one for nostalgia, not having her in my life didn’t really worry me.
I wrote back to her a few hours later, telling her that I didn’t have a girlfriend and hadn’t been involved with anyone since we split up. As I wrote this I remembered reading somewhere about how when writing love letters you should always forget about yourself and concentrate only on arousing pleasure in the person you’re addressing. I couldn’t remember if the passage came from Freud or Barthes (it sounded like something from A Lover’s Discourse, but when I checked my library this volume was missing) or someone else entirely, but I realized that this was what I was doing now, and wondered whether it was such a good idea for me to meet up with Tracey again. I had always composed my letters to please her, and felt wounded every time a reply arrived. Not because they were deliberately hurtful, but because they seemed written with no awareness of the emotions they would arouse in me, which was fine when we saw each other all the time, but more difficult during the year we spent a continent apart. The address on the top of her letter was from somewhere in Chalk Farm, so I suggested we go for dinner at the Lavender in Primrose Hill. Three days later, her reply arrived. She would be happy to meet me in the location I’d suggested.
The reason why I had been single for so long was because of a random act of kindness I had committed two years earlier. A friend of a friend had died of a heart attack at an unexpectedly early age. His girlfriend, Marianne, needed someone to look after her and, having the space and the time, I invited her to move in with me. I had expected her mourning period to last three or four months, but it showed no sign of coming to an end. Over the previous two years she had become increasingly dependent on me and, although there had been nothing sexual between us, I felt too guilty to indulge in anything other than the odd one-nightstand.
I arrived at the restaurant just before eight. Tracey was already waiting. She was wearing a short black dress. Smiling warmly as I entered the restaurant, she got up to embrace me.
“Tracey,” I said as she hugged me, “it’s so good to see you.”
“You too.” She looked down. “I wasn’t sure if you’d come.”
“So,” I said, “tell me everything. Do you have a job?”
She laughed. “You’re not going to believe what I do.”
“Should I guess?”
“Not just yet. I have to give you some background details first.”
“OK, start from the beginning. The last time I saw you, you were about to start drama school.”
Tracey smiled with her head slightly tilted to one side and leaned back in her chair. It was more exciting to see her than I’d anticipated, and I was already trying to calculate how I would feel if we ended up going to bed together. The candlelight in the Lavender was doing an incredible job of bringing out all of my ex-girlfriend’s most alluring features, from the small, springy, brown mole just above her soft upper lip to the exact colour of her curly brown hair. As always I was drawn in by her guilty-looking blue eyes, getting a sudden flashback of how her expression would harden when I trapped her into an argument.
“Drama school was great for the first term,” she told me, “because there were so many new people and you can remember how lonely I was before we split up.”
“Yeah,” I replied, “I’m sorry about that.”
“Sorry, why?” she asked, sounding as if her question was genuine.
“Gosh, I don’t know if I’m ready to get into this.”
“Get into what?”
“I had a breakdown just after you left me. And although initially when it ha
ppened I wasn’t able to do anything or see anyone, eventually I managed to get myself together enough to start having therapy. And through the sessions I worked out why I treated you the way I did.”
I noticed from the direction Tracey’s eyes were pointing that a waitress had come across to our table. I felt glad of the interruption, amazed that I’d started talking about this stuff so quickly. Then I remembered how my therapist had spent our final session trying to convince me that I wouldn’t feel properly healed until I’d seen Tracey again, and how adamant I’d been that that wasn’t a good idea.
The waitress told us the specials and we looked up to the blackboard to decide what we wanted. I guessed from Tracey’s small order that she was having money problems. While not wanting to embarrass her, I attempted to persuade her to have more than just a starter by letting her know that I’d pay.
“It’s OK,” she told me, “I’m really not that hungry. But if you order a nice bottle of wine I’d be happy to drink it.”
I ordered the wine and my food, then said, “I feel terrible now, isolating you like that. But it wasn’t jealousy. I always thought it was jealousy, but my therapist made me realize it wasn’t that at all. I just needed to get something from you, something secret, something from inside, something you probably couldn’t give. That’s why I took us away from everyone else.”
She nodded. “I do understand, and that’s kind of why I wanted to see you. You see, like I said, drama school was great for the first term, but then I started missing you. And I looked back on our time together with a fondness you’d never believe. Every day I thanked God that we’d had those two whole years together so I had something from every season to remind me of you. Like, pick a day . . .”
“Hallowe’en.”
“Scary badger.”
“What?”
“You remember.”
I thought about it and realized that I did. We’d gone to the cinema together and on the way back we’d seen two liberal-type parents trick-or-treating with a small child wearing a cardboard badger mask. And we’d joked with each other about how the parents would’ve convinced their child he didn’t want to be anything as horrible as a hobgoblin or Freddy Krueger. “No, we imagined the two well-meaning parents saying to their child, ‘what you want to be is a scary . . . badger.’ ”
The Mammoth Book of the Best New Erotica Page 33