The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 1

by Maxim Jakubowski

  “You all right?” Derek asked Fran.

  She nodded, pursing her lips and looking away as the snooker woman sank to her knees. Hard Rock groaned and jerked his hips, and Derek had to look away too. The size of the house had promised so much – he’d remembered that Christine Keeler film, men in DJs around a swimming pool – but inside it looked like it hadn’t had so much as a J-cloth run over it in twenty years, fag burns making their own counter-pattern in the carpet.

  “It’s smoky,” Fran said, in a tone he couldn’t gauge.

  “Yeah,” he agreed, and gave it a second. They’d both seen the big magic-markered sign Blu-tacked to the hall wall by the stairs: ABSOLUTELY NO DRINK OR CIGGIES IN THE PLAYROOMS. NO THANKYOU MEANS NO, THANKYOU. HAVE FUN!!!!

  “You want to stay?” she said.

  “You want to?”

  “It is a bit smoky in here,” she said.

  He felt like he had in a bus shelter twenty-five years ago, telling Sarah Mitchell that it was all right, he had three in his jacket. The memory didn’t seem to come from his head. “It said no smoking upstairs,” he said.

  “Did it?” she replied, turning her head towards him.

  There was a blue bulb in the landing light, a Rasta propping up the wall underneath it. He grinned at Fran as she led Derek by the hand to the top of the wooden hill. They saw four white-gloss bedroom doors, two shut, two ajar. A rope hung across the landing beyond them.

  “Y’ all right?” the guy said.

  “Do you just go in?” Fran asked.

  He grinned, wide. She pushed open the first door, and led Derek in.

  The only light came from a TV, playing blue and grey light over the bodies packed in there. It took Derek a moment to get his bearings, concentrating on covering Fran’s back as he was: what he saw when his eyes adjusted was a master-size bedroom, three queen-sizes packed into it, three couples and an Asian girl on the beds, couples lining the walls. Everyone was wanking, or wanking someone else off; no one was talking, just moans and yeahs and wet sounds. Fran led him to a space against a wardrobe, stepping carefully over feet, discarded shoes and bags. He slipped into the space, put his back to the veneer, and she scooched her bum up against his groin, let him put his arms around her waist and watch over her shoulder.

  The TV showed a silicone blonde in a classic cross-bow, two black guys doing the honours. No one was watching: they were watching each other, or what was being done to them. After a while he was hard against his wife’s bum and felt like he ought to be doing something, so he smoothed his palms across Fran’s hips, the front of her thighs; she put a hand on his, but instead of lifting it off her she pushed it under her skirt, let him feel where she’d cut the gusset of her tights out. He tried to do it surreptiously but she pulled the front of her skirt up and he thought, what the hell, go with the flow; he was the only guy in the room with his flies done up, after all.

  He was concentrating so hard on what his fingers were doing that at first he didn’t notice the women either side running their hands over Fran’s Wolfords. It was only when she gasped the third time in a way he’d never heard before that he looked down: she had each hand wrapped around the guy on either side, holding them there in what he called the parallel bars – a rare one, but you saw it in the artier stuff – while their women knelt before them working the heads while they ran their nails inside Fran’s thighs. He kept his fingers moving, not knowing what to do, sweating hard with Fran’s body pressed against him. The woman on the left looked up and smiled around the thing in her mouth. It all escalated very quickly.

  He couldn’t remember after how they’d got on the beds. No one was behaving like people, and you probably had to go a few times to get used to that. In the meantime it’d just been hands, everywhere, curves connecting, no one thinking or talking. His shirt was off while Fran was sucking him and a woman ran her hands over his back, said “ooh, you’re sweating”, and licked it off his bare shoulder blades, ran her tongue down his spine making him buck hard and Fran squeal in protest. A guy started playing with Fran’s bum while she knelt but she just sucked harder, going to town with it until she had to just clutch his thighs and gasp at what was being done to her. When he knelt down to help her with her clit he felt the guy going into her, and while he was still registering that, suddenly there was another guy filling her mouth. He stood back, not knowing what to do; he couldn’t object, no one else was, and the guy getting blown by his wife was smiling at him, for fuck’s sake. Grinning. He turned away and a woman in brown stockings and what looked like one of Charlie’s trademark white Doreens, nothing else, pulled him further onto the bed. She was soft like a lilo and gasped like a puncture whenever he pushed: he fucked her next to the guys fucking his wife, listening to her lose it, unable to see her face. The bed was too soft and it took him a long time to come. The woman was about ready to spit in his eye by the time he finished: Fran was still going strong as he left the room, he wasn’t sure where for.

  They posted pictures from the party in the members-only section of the website later in the week. There weren’t any with him in. The three with Fran – from the back, all the women were from the back so you couldn’t see their faces – were from after he’d gone back downstairs. She’d enjoyed herself a lot more than he had, but that had to be a good thing. The only thing she’d said after was that she’d had her cap in so it ought to be all right, medically. Daewoos and Hyundais, he’d thought, driving back under the orange lights, Jazz FM on the stereo. The odd Jag.

  He couldn’t help himself, saved the pictures out of IE5 on the computer at work, built shortcuts onto the desktop so he could get to them when he wanted to. Looking at the pictures was a way of not thinking about it, or of processing the information outside of his head. That felt like the best thing to be doing.

  He’d never looked at her back so much before, the curve of her spine. The party had shown him a kind of competence in her that he didn’t seem to have: he’d know what to do better, now he knew the lie of the land. The location came as an e-mail Friday nights, was the way they liked to work it. He got through the week, same as everyone does. Friday afternoon she rang. He turned away from the screen to take the call.

  “I said yes to Dave and Angela for tomorrow night,” she said. “That’s all right, isn’t it?”

  “Tomorrow night?”

  “Barbecue. They asked us August Bank Holiday, remember?”

  “August.”

  “I just found it in my diary. So I rang her and it’s still on.”

  “OK,” he said.

  “Is it?” she said. He glanced at the screen, reached out, hit control-W.

  “Yeah, course,” he said and changed the subject, stretching out his shoulders as he talked. His back was killing him.

  Bahn

  Zoe Constantin

  From the cool darkness of the train station, Sarah emerged into the harsh sunlight of August. Germany was never this hot, she thought. The air shimmered; already, a gloss of sweat covered her skin. And yet, the immediate difference revived her. When an elderly woman prodded against her back, Sarah gave way with an apology in her best German.

  The woman narrowed her eyes, glanced over Sarah. No words, but her face clearly expressed her amusement at Sarah’s accent.

  Sarah shrugged. So, some things had not changed. She would not let one encounter spoil her plans. Spotting a bank kiosk, she let the crowds sweep her in that direction, past throngs of chattering schoolchildren, wearied travellers, and untidy students.

  No help for that, she thought. Even before she found a hotel, she needed to change money. She’d changed ten dollars in New York, but that would only buy her a cheap dinner.

  A shadow crossed over her shoulder. A man brushed against her, then spoke. She ignored him, until he spoke again.

  Sarah turned, shaded her eyes against the sunlight, too surprised at first to understand his fluid German.

  Immediately, he smiled and said in English, “You will have a long wait, I fear. T
he lines for summer tourists . . .” Then his expression changed slightly. “Are you American? You could use dollars in most hotels, you know.”

  Again the instant recognition of her nationality. She bit her lip and did not answer.

  The man continued to smile, undaunted. “However, if you do want to change money, you could take a streetcar to the town centre. The banks there give a much better rate.” He appeared to accept that she wanted his directions. “Take the number one streetcar to the Friederich-Ehebert-Platz,” he said. “There you will see a Deutsche Bank on the corner. Not far. Do you have a ticket for the streetcar?”

  Sarah kept her expression friendly but her eyes neutral, something she’d learned over the years. She deflected his questions politely, nodded or shrugged, until at last he departed.

  She waited another moment. No stranger returned. With several more nervous glances, she threaded her way to the streetcar station. She boarded the number one, where she made a passable exchange of German with the conductor. “Sehr gut,” he said when she gave him the correct change. He was grinning carelessly.

  It rankled Sarah that the first man had spoken English, and that he’d known she was American. Some things never change, she thought again. When she had lived here before, she’d tried to escape her American identity, without success. Though she studied the accent and memorized pages of vocabulary, her face – with her direct eyes and expressive lips – betrayed her nationality even before she spoke. At best, she convinced a few shopkeepers she was English. For an American, her accent was good, they told her.

  The loudspeaker announced a stop, interrupting her thoughts. “Stadt Bibliotek,” she thought she heard the conductor say.

  Two stops more, maybe three, until the bank. Reading the map, she noticed a few changes in the route. Perhaps it was better she’d accepted the man’s directions.

  Sarah watched the line of stores blur past as the streetcar sped through a long stretch without stops. Bahn, she thought. Strassenbahn, Eisenbahn. Variations of the word for train, the first word she’d learned in German. The streetcar’s rhythm conspired with a ripe, August sun to rob her thoughts of clarity. She shook her head to disperse the cloud of sleep. Exhilaration alone had carried her from the airport to the train station in Heidelberg. There, she bought a newspaper and soda and felt remembrance slip beside her, whispering memories of ten years ago.

  I want it to be different this time, she thought.

  At the kiosk outside the station, she made hotel reservations, then lingered, drinking her warm soda and translating handwritten signs in a collection of languages. Most were from students travelling across Europe. She knew – she’d been one.

  “Friederich-Ehebert-Platz.”

  The streetcar stopped abruptly in the present. You will see the bank on the corner, near the Bismarkplatz. She remembered the man’s clean English, spoken with an accent neither German nor American, and she wondered where he’d studied English.

  Memory and language followed Sarah through the summer afternoon, from the bank where she changed money to the hotel by the train station, where she listened to the shriek of trains until sleep came to her at last. From sleep, she drifted into the unsheltered territory of dreams.

  Dreaming, she walked the main street of Heidelberg, moving like a swimmer against the pulsing heat. Sunlight brushed her with sweat. Too hot, she thought, turning down to the river.

  At the intersection of street with an alley, a man appeared. She decided, I’ll start with him.

  Sarah tapped the man’s shoulder. “Fuck me,” she said in cool and perfect English.

  The man nodded as if he understood perfectly. He led her into the narrow alley, to a doorway littered with newspapers and cardboard boxes and the rich, lingering scent of decay. Sarah leaned against the door and raised her skirt. “Do it hard.” She kept her voice level, only her lips trembled.

  With a practised motion, the man opened his pants and lifted a stiff organ to her naked sex. “Wet,” he growled. “Oh, yes.”

  He entered her smoothly. She stifled her cry, though a quick pulse of orgasm penetrated her body. She wouldn’t cry out, not yet. “Fuck me harder,” she said.

  At her command, he slid her into a corner of the doorway and braced himself with one arm against the frame. His body moved in a steady, rising beat against her, as if he wanted to break through the barriers of her flesh. “Is this what you want?” His voice grated in her ear.

  Short, scattered sensation broke through her orgasm – the heavy musk of garbage, a sharp clatter of traffic from the upper streets, the chiming of bells from the nearby church. The only emotion she let herself feel was determination. At last, the man gave a tremendous thrust and strained against her, crushing her into the soft wooden frame, releasing his flood into her body and over her legs. Loosed from her waking prison, she cried out in pleasure.

  A train whistle broke her dream.

  Sarah sat bolt upright in bed. Oh, God. Not again.

  A trickle covered her thighs and fingers, a sharp, musky scent that collided with the bitter, salt sweat coating her lips. Through the open window, she heard the announcements of departing trains from the train yard below. Shaking violently, Sarah pulled a robe around herself and stumbled to the shower.

  That’s not what happened, she tried to remind herself. It’s just a dream. I didn’t do anything. Not this time. Still, she scrubbed her arms and legs, as if she’d lain for hours on a public street coupling with a stranger. I’m not like that, not really, she told herself and dressed quickly.

  When at last she’d regained her composure, Sarah took the bus to the old quarter of town, to a small jazz club near the University Square. Sensing her fluency return, she hailed a waitress in German and ordered goulash and wine from the scant menu. The last, hazy sunlight of the day filtered through the smoky windows, illuminating the outer rooms of the club. On the tiny corner stage, a quartet adjusted the microphones and made other, tentative preparations for their performance. Afternoon tourists of several nationalities crowded the bar; Germans populated the tables, waiting for the evening show. Sarah tasted her wine and considered what to do next.

  “Is the seat free?” A familiar voice, soft and clear, spoke behind her. In English, she realized, turning around.

  The man from the train station pointed to the empty seat beside her. “May I sit here?”

  Sarah remembered the custom that let strangers share a table. A list of German phrases, the legacy of a distant classroom, echoed through her mental speech. Out loud, she answered in English. “Of course.”

  He signalled to the waitress. “I heard you order,” he said to Sarah. “Your German is quite excellent. Where did you study?”

  “Here, at the university.”

  “Then you were an exchange student.”

  When the waitress arrived, he gave his order, quickly, and with a rich tone that skated effortlessly between the impersonal accent of pure High German and the myriad dialects of Southern Germany. It was Sarah’s favorite accent, the one she had set as her goal ten years ago. In her mind, she found herself memorizing a new phrase he used, hearing it spoken in memory with his intonation.

  And yet, even to her uncertain eye, he did not look German.

  “Möchten Sie auch etwas zu trinken?” The waitress asked if he wanted something to drink.

  “Ja, ich hätte gern ein Pilsner.”

  He ordered a beer, then turned back to Sarah. “So, you must tell me. Do you want that we speak German or English?”

  “It’s been ten years since I lived here. You might prefer my English.”

  He laughed. “I should be gallant and say you speak perfect German. But it’s true – I heard your hesitation. Though your mistakes are not many.”

  “Now I know you’re not German.”

  His eyes were dark, almost black. “Why do you say that?” he asked quietly. Despite the music and the crowds, his voice carried to her.

  “Every other German tells me how beautifully I sp
eak their language. They must be surprised an American would know anything other than English.”

  “True. The Americans even walk with an accent. No,” he said. “I was born in Germany, but I am not German.”

  The waitress returned, carrying his beer and her goulash. “Bitte schön.”

  Throughout her meal, the man kept silent, and Sarah assumed their conversation would not continue. No matter, she’d come for the music. Wrapped in the summer evening, she listened to the saxophone echo blue notes through the smoky room, and her mood lifted to serene. She’d ordered a second glass of wine when the man spoke to her again.

  “Did you know I followed you here?”

  Sarah held still at his words, her complacency gone. She thought quickly of the hundred ways she knew to end a conversation like this, but somehow her American methods seemed inadequate with this man. “Why?” she said at last.

  “I have a proposal for you.”

  Despite the apprehension that chilled her, she kept her voice indifferent. “What’s that?”

  He lit a cigarette and blew the smoke toward the ceiling. “You are careful,” he said, as if she hadn’t spoken. “I noticed in the train station – you didn’t smile. You spoke very quietly. No up and down, no emotion. But you do this only when you feel danger. Is that not true?”

  She tried to smile. “Why should I be afraid of you?”

  “I did not say afraid, exactly. But you are, and because I’m a stranger.” Casually, he tried to take her hand, but she snatched it away. “So, you don’t allow touch.”