Vicki was clearly less troubled by being alone, and although she couldn’t quite disguise the fact that she had too much space to herself, the lounge looked like somewhere she’d be equally happy entertaining friends or watching television alone. I liked the fact that she’d left stuff out (a hairdryer lying on its side next to a rectangular white extension plug; a box set of Friends episodes by the television; three cotton-wool balls dyed scarlet with nail varnish on a copy of the Express next to the electric fire), and began to relax as I settled down into her settee.
She returned with my cup of coffee. After her revelations about her childhood come-fantasies, I didn’t feel like watching her masturbate any more, and anyway, that was far too passive. It was time for me to become masterful.
“Take your trousers off,” I told her.
“Let’s see the money first.”
“What?”
“Cash up front. I don’t want you changing your mind after you’ve had me and pretending the payment thing was just a joke.”
“OK. How much did we agree on?”
“A thousand. Do you carry that kind of money with you?”
“No. Will you take a cheque? You know I’m good for it.”
“Do you have your cheque book on you?”
“No, but come on, Vicki, you’re my bank manager. You can easily debit my account whenever you want.”
“Write me an IOU.”
“I don’t have a pen.”
“There’s one on the table.”
“I got up and wrote out an IOU, wondering what was behind this banter. Although a thousand pounds wasn’t bad for one night’s work, I couldn’t believe that Vicki was genuinely only doing this for the money. The way I looked at it, the play with potential prostitution was just spice to stoke up enough excitement to get us through a one-nightstand. If she was taking it seriously . . . well, fuck it, if she was taking it seriously, I’d just make sure I got my money’s worth.
“Right. Now get those trousers off.”
She stood up, walked across to the table and checked the IOU. Seemingly satisfied, Vicki came across to me and put one foot up between my legs.
“Unbuckle my shoes first.”
I felt pleased she was bossing me back, thinking that this proved she was getting into what we were doing. I gripped her ankle before following her instruction, a motion that seemed to please her. Shoes removed, she turned her back to me. I sank down slightly so her bottom was directly in front of my face, then waited as she undid the buckle on her belt and slowly lowered her trousers over her buttocks. She was wearing a flimsy pair of white translucent knickers: the kind that pulled tight between her legs so that the material covering her bum formed a triangle. I gripped her hips. She let her trousers fall to the floor and stepped out of them.
“I bet you’re a man who likes bottoms.”
I giggled. “What?”
“Let’s see, shall we? What happens when I do this?”
She slid her fingers under the elastic of her knickers and pulled them down. Using a foot to flip them onto a pile with her trousers, she leaned forwards and pushed her bum up in my face, using her fingers to pull open her cheeks. The light was good in Vicki’s apartment and I had a full view of the soft creases of her anus. She was right: I did like this sight, although few of the girls I’d been out with had shown it to me so readily, and it was a hard thing to request of a one-nightstand. I could see why Vicki was so willing to reveal hers to me. I know this sounds strange, but it was absolutely beautiful, the skin moving so perfectly to the small hole in the centre with each tuck in exactly the right place. From this angle I could also see a rear view of her vagina, which was equally well defined, the flesh of her outer labia almost spookily symmetrical. Vicki seemed to revel in my slow appraisal and after my nice, long look I pushed my tongue onto her welcoming folds. I held Vicki’s hips and managed to get deep into her, curious whether she liked having this done to her as much as I liked having it done to me. I licked for a while and then asked her, “Can you touch yourself while I do this to you?”
“Well, I can, but you’ll have to hold me open.”
“That’s OK.”
She released her buttocks and I took over, opening her even wider. The muscles in my tongue felt pleasurably strained as I buried my mouth into her bottom, wanting her to feel totally loose. She fingered herself slowly at first, but when I showed no sign of wearying she speeded up. I wondered if she would be prepared to come with me and felt scared about how much I wanted that to happen. But I also wanted to come too, and as her moans grew shallower I stopped sucking her asshole.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing. I realize it’s not very romantic to interrupt the sex like this but, seeing as I’m paying . . .”
“Yes?” she asked, impatient.
“What are you like with orgasms? Do you come? Can you come? Do you always need fingers, or can you come just from fucking? Can you come lots of times or is it one-time-only, lights out?”
“I’m weird. Back to front. When I masturbate it takes for ever, but I guarantee if you fuck me for more than three minutes that’ll hit the spot.”
“That’s not back to front, that’s perfect. And can you still fuck after you’ve come?”
“Yeah, but if we’re gonna do that can we use lubricant? You don’t have to wear a condom.”
“Of course. Have you got some?”
“I’ll fetch it.”
She moved away from me and went out into the hallway. I watched her go, finding it sexy to see her bare legs beneath the jacket of the work suit she was still wearing. I waited while she went upstairs, rubbing my cock through the pocket of my trousers. When Vicki returned she could tell I was looking at her cunt and stopped beneath the main light, letting me see her. As I’d expected, she had a neat bikini line, an unnecessary precaution for one so fair, but nice to look at all the same. Although this was definitely an incredibly sexy moment for me, I couldn’t help feeling slightly disappointed. Seeing Vicki Wade’s cunt . . . this was a childhood dream come true, but how could it hold the same magic for me now that it had done back then? I remembered one time when a boy from our school had told us that he’d seen Vicki doing stretches in the gym, and her leotard had ridden up so high that, as he’d put it, “he even saw her pin”. For months afterwards I’d dreamed about being in his place, even (if you’d caught me in a weak moment) prepared to give up my life to share the sight.
Maybe I should’ve offered her money back then. She probably wouldn’t have accepted it, but who knows? Of course, in those days I couldn’t even get near her, let alone start a conversation that would lead up to me offering her money to show me her cunt. It’s odd, but even now, the thought of Vicki’s adolescent vagina tucked inside that unfaithful leotard seemed sexier than the reality in front of me. I’m not a pervert, and have no interest in schoolgirls (even women my age dressed up in school uniform), but the power of that missed moment was so strong that the fantasy almost managed to obliterate what was happening now.
Vicki seemed to notice my distraction and brushed her fingers down over herself. She pretended that she too was distracted, but then quickly looked back at me and smiled when she saw me grip myself through my trousers again.
“What do you want me to do?”
“I want to come inside you.”
“I’ve already said that’s fine.”
“I know, but I need to be sucked first.”
“Oh, OK.” She walked back to me, kneeled down and unzipped my fly. Pulling open my trousers, she slid my cock out through the slit in my boxer shorts and took it into her mouth. I don’t really need to describe the experience other than to tell you she was good at it, although to be honest I’ve never been with a woman who wasn’t. Remembering her promise of how little sex she needed to orgasm, I let her suck me longer than I normally would, eventually stopping her with a gentle pat on both shoulders.
She looked up at me, and her expression seemed so op
en that I snapped out of porno mode and stroked the side of her face. She bent down, unlaced my shoes, and stripped me from the waist downwards. Picking up her blue tube of lubricant, she squeezed a blob onto her palm, spread it over my cock then rubbed the rest inside her. Pulling my cock forwards, she slid herself gently on top of me. I kissed her, realizing as I did so that it was the first time our lips had touched. It’s embarrassing and inappropriate, but the first time I fuck someone I always want to tell them I love them. Thankfully, tonight I conquered that urge and mouthed it softly to myself instead. Our fucking was surprisingly (for me, anyway) forceful: a proper, deep, heterosexual shag that carried us both to orgasm and left us woozily clinging to each other.
We stayed like that until Vicki climbed off of me and asked, “Did you get your money’s worth?”
Marianne was asleep in front of the television when I got back. She often nodded out in the lounge, waking up again about three or four and going to bed. Feeling bolder than usual, I decided to carry her upstairs. When we reached the landing she awoke and, after taking a few seconds to adjust to the situation, sniffed my neck.
“You smell of sex.”
I didn’t say anything. She smiled, and let me carry her to her room and drop her on the bed. As I turned out her light she said, “Someone called for you. There’s a message on the machine.”
I went downstairs and played the message. It was Tracey, apologizing for the other night and saying she wanted to see me again. Tomorrow. Although it was after one, I called her straight back. She reminded me of her address and told me to come over at seven o’clock. I replaced the receiver and went to bed.
The following morning Marianne and I both awoke earlier than usual and decided to have breakfast together. This was quite an unusual occurrence for both of us and, as we lacked even the most basic supplies, I headed off to the deli. When I came back Marianne had made me a coffee and was sitting at the end of the table sipping hers, wrapped in a dark-blue silk dressing gown.
‘So,” she said, as I hunted for a grapefruit knife, “who was the lucky girl?”
“On the phone?”
“No . . . last night.”
“Oh. My bank manager.”
“Really?” She laughed. “I thought you were too rich to have to sleep with someone for a raised overdraft.”
“I was. Until someone started eating me out of house and home.”
She looked at me, clearly shocked. I’d never referred to money before, and she’d stopped bringing it up after her third straight week of thanking me for my generosity.
“I do feel ready to start looking for a job,” she said in a small voice, “although if it’s all right with you I’d rather stay here and pay you rent than move out. I’m just so comfortable here.”
I didn’t answer, preparing her grapefruit in silence and placing it in a bowl in front of her.
I arrived at Tracey’s house an hour and a half late. This was a deliberate tactic, my childish way of getting revenge for her knocking me back after our previous date. She pretended she wasn’t aware of the time, greeting me with a hug. Feeling optimistic, I’d stopped off at an ATM on the way and taken cash out of each of my three main accounts, now having nearly a thousand pounds on me. It was good to feel my ex-girlfriend’s body against mine and I clung on to her until she broke away.
“Would you like a drink?” she asked. “I have beer. Or whisky.”
“Beer, please.”
She fetched a bottle from the kitchen and handed it to me. Tracey had already strategically placed an opener on the coffee table and I used it to uncap the drink.
“Aren’t you having anything?”
“I will in a minute. I already had a little too much this afternoon.”
I could tell she was nervous. Tracey was not a casual drinker, and when we’d been going out together she had only drunk at home at moments of extreme emotion.
“Are you OK, Tracey?”
“I’m fine,” she replied, sitting on her sofa.
She was wearing a cream cardigan, a white halter-neck and a short grey skirt. Tracey had always had a thing for flesh-coloured stockings, and was wearing a pair this evening, with no shoes. I sipped my beer, waiting to hear why she had summoned me here.
“The offer you made the other night.”
“Yes?”
“Does it still stand?”
“Of course.”
“What if I don’t want to have sex with you?”
I wasn’t in the mood for this sort of game playing, and wasn’t about to beg. I put down my beer and stood up. “Then I don’t think you should.”
“No,” she said, looking up at me, “I don’t mean that. Oh, God . . .” She rubbed her forehead. “What if I want to do other things?”
I sat back down. “What sort of other things?”
“Safer things.”
“I can wear a condom.”
“I don’t mean that sort of safe. I mean, emotionally safe.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“Well,” she said, “would you want to see me?”
I smiled. “Of course. But let’s not make this so clinical. Why don’t you come over here with me?”
“But how will we work out the money?”
“The money doesn’t matter to me. How about if I give you five hundred pounds anyway, and then you can decide how far you want to go?”
“And you won’t get angry with me?”
“Of course not. Don’t be stupid.”
“Or tell anyone? Or hold it against me?”
“I don’t know anyone you know. And it’s my idea. How can I hold it against you?”
She still didn’t seem satisfied. I was beginning to wonder if this was such a good idea, but was feeling too turned on to leave.
“And you accept that this will be a one-off? You won’t force me to do it again later because I agreed to it now?”
I couldn’t understand why she was being like this. Throughout our relationship I had almost always been the submissive one, never forcing her to do anything. I might have been a little more forthcoming than her about my desires, but that’d only been because she rarely talked about what she wanted, preferring to go unhappy than verbalize her discontent.
“Tracey, I’m not about to cast judgement on you. I offered you money the other night because I was desperate to sleep with you and couldn’t cope with being rejected. I can understand why you were offended . . .”
“I wasn’t offended, just scared. I’m frightened by you wanting me.”
“Why? You work on a sex line. You have men wanting you all the time.”
I realized the moment I said this that it was a mistake. Suddenly, everything became clear to me and I saw my way out of this. But first I had to listen to her response.
“Jesse, this is why I got so upset the other night. I told you about the sex line because I thought you’d find it sexy and funny, but I didn’t think it would change the way you thought about me. After I said it I remembered how afraid I was about telling you about my sexuality. This is something I’ve been wanting to tell you for ages, in fact, that’s the whole reason why I got in touch with you again. But then at dinner you told me you’d had a breakdown and I couldn’t tell you the truth . . . well, I mean, I told you part of the truth, about how I missed you and was glad we had all that time together, but I couldn’t get to the heart of it. I couldn’t tell you . . . Look, you know what you said about your therapist telling you that what you were feeling with me, when you isolated us, wasn’t jealousy but you wanting something from me, something I couldn’t give?”
“Of course.”
“Well, you and your therapist got it completely round the wrong way. What you wanted was to know the truth about me, but because you were so jealous you didn’t want to hear it.”
What she was saying made sense. I thought back to my bank manager telling me about her come-fantasy and how that hadn’t turned me on at all. I had often told Tracey I wanted to know what she
masturbated about – and in my head I thought I did – but the truth was, if she wasn’t doing it about me I didn’t want to know.
“The truth is, the reason I freaked out the other night was because it felt like you were making the offer out of anger. And it reminded me of how you always used to view sex as something you had to take from me, as if I was deliberately withholding it. That ‘something I couldn’t give’ was an honest sexual response, because I always felt you were judging me.
“But the thing is, I do want to do something with you. Something that’ll get rid of all the hurt and make you think well of me. And, although it sounds strange, and it did upset me at first, I think you paying me for sex is a good idea. Only you have to be doing it for pure motives. You have to do it because you want me.”
“I do want you.”
“Good.” She came across and sat next to me. Taking control, she straddled me and pushed me back on the sofa. She’d washed her hair recently and I could smell her shampoo as her long brunette curls fell over her face. As she started kissing me, I considered how this evening’s experience was already so different from my previous night with Vicki. I had completely forgotten how Tracey kissed, the soft pulling that felt so reassuring after her resistance in the bar after the restaurant and, as I let her take charge, I found myself thinking back to when I first got my money and was trying to develop an interest in pornography. Although it had quickly stopped working for me, it was only now that I realized why. It was my lack of imagination, and my inability to bring details from my own life into my appreciation of the films. My one-nightstands were few and far between and, to be honest, they weren’t fantasy-occasions, instead usually arising from desperation and mutual need. And although I’ve always had lots of women in my life, it’s been hard to eroticize them, as I’ve known them as friends rather than sex objects (I realize the two are by no means mutually exclusive, but until last night with Vicki, it’d always seemed that way to me). So when I watched pornography, I found it hard to enjoy the variety, which I guess is the whole point in the first place. It was difficult to identify with the well-built men, and unless the women looked like Tracey, or other ex-girlfriends, they didn’t seem sexy either. I’m not a natural voyeur, and watching other people having sex always makes me feel like I’m the one being exploited, not them, as if I’m stuck in someone’s house and still having to be the polite guest even when my hosts start going down on each other.
The Mammoth Book of the Best New Erotica Page 35