The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 5 (19 page)

“Of course, when I was a girl.”

“But as an adult?” His smile warms my face. “You know, it’s different when you’re all grown up. Quite different indeed.” He nods toward the folding chair where I am allowed to sit briefly during the slower periods. “Would you like me to show you?”

Without waiting for my answer, Mr Bach takes a seat and beckons to me. I approach with caution, still holding my hands behind my back. He looks up at me; even in the scant light, I can tell that I have become an object of great fascination. For a moment, we just stare at each other. Then he puts one arm around my waist and in one swift movement, pulls me across his knees. I yelp.

“Shh!” he cries. “I can see you’re going to need to be silenced.” Cool air brushes my derrière as he pulls off my panties and twists them into a compact little ball which is then crammed into my mouth. “Now, on to the business at hand.”

I hold my breath. The first blow is coming, I just have no idea when. He surprises me with a caress instead, down one cheek and up the other, his palm tracing large circles around the contours of my flesh. I sigh – how good it feels! No one has ever touched me like this. I want more, but all too soon, he lifts his hand away.

And then – smack! I startle, but his arm holds me fast against his knee. Again – smack! Smack! Three more times he lets loose, stinging first the left side, then the right. “Equal treatment!” he says. “We wouldn’t want one pretty globe to be jealous of the other, now would we?” Back and forth he goes, until the pain begins to melt into a curious warmth. I feel moisture gathering in that secret place between my thighs. Once again, I want more, I need more. I squirm against his gabardine slacks, unable to help myself, the mix of pain and pleasure is that delicious.

The loud thump of a fist against the closed door demands my immediate attention. “Madeleine! What are you doing? Come out here immediately! You have people here who want their coats!”

But Mr Bach chuckles, and gives me two more slaps in quick succession, right-left. “Madeleine is a little preoccupied, Cleo. Tell them to come back tomorrow for their damn coats.”

“Maximilian Bach!” The door flies open and Madam Cleo is standing outside, four feet and ten inches of rage. “What are you doing?”

“Come on, darling Cleo. Surely you don’t expect to leave a tasty creature like this one out here in the cloakroom, do you? She surpasses anything else you have to offer.”

“Don’t touch her!” Madam Cleo grabs my arm with unexpected force and yanks me to my feet, grabbing the panties from my mouth and throwing them in Mr Bach’s face. “I have a house full of fine merchandise, and this is the thanks I get!”

“Fine merchandise? Maybe at one time, Cleo, but not lately. I have been sorely disappointed for quite some time now. In fact, I was thinking about going elsewhere – until you placed this tempting creature in your cloakroom. This one has spark, passion, she’s ready to learn and to be properly trained. A refreshing change from the jaded sluts you’ve been pushing on me.

“How dare you!” The tiny room echoes with the sound of Cleo’s slap across his face.

Time seems to come to a halt, as it often does in moments like this. My stomach quivers and I suddenly realize that I have forgotten to breathe. Mr Bach rises to his feet, taking his time, coming up slowly until he towers over Madam Cleo. Without taking his eyes from hers, he speaks to me. “Madeleine, get my coat.”

I do as I am told, drawing in his scent one last time, so I will never forget it.

“Now, get your own,” he says. “That is, if you would like to come with me.”

“If you do, you’re fired,” Madam Cleo growls through her teeth.

So, it is up to me.

I pause. My coat hangs at the end of the rack, a threadbare trench coat I’ve had since high school. I’d been saving for a better one, a faux fur that I’d seen in a second-hand shop on the way home. If I go, that coat is nothing but a broken dream.

Or is it? I look at Mr. Bach, and he smiles. “Get your coat, Madeleine. You will not regret it.” He touches my cheek. “I know what you need.”

I melt inside. I can’t put on that coat fast enough.

As Madam Cleo hustles us past a cluster of customers who are no doubt baffled by all this brouhaha and just want their own damn coats, I take one last look at the painting. A forgery, if Mr Bach is to be believed, with the real one hanging in a museum somewhere – but does it matter? The man in the shadows looks back at me, holding the ropes that control the swing. Go, he seems to say. And remember – the girl in pink, she could not fly without me.

I take Mr. Bach’s hand and we walk into the cold, cold night. The ropes pull me back, deep into the shadows. I know I will be happy there.

I’ve got six hours of VHS tape with women getting their asses fucked. I’ve pieced together all the anal scenes from forty or so different pornographic films. At four bucks a rental that’s one hundred sixty dollars, or one percent of my annual net income. But that’s an underestimate, as I’ve had to rent more than forty videos since many don’t contain gaping scenes. See, it’s not sufficient that the woman’s ass be vigorously penetrated, no, the penis or vibrator or dildo (no cucumbers – I can’t stand the mixing of food and sex) must be fully withdrawn while someone (the woman herself, the third or fourth or fifth partner in the scene) spreads her ass cheeks apart as wide as possible – hopefully the penetrating object is plunged back in and withdrawn again repeatedly – this allows the anus (or is it the sphincter at this point?) to remain dilated or, in common pornographic parlance, to gape. It depends on the scene and the angle and the lighting, but ideally it should appear like a small cavern with a red mouth between two fleshy mounds.

On Sunday mornings I wake up early, have my regular bowel movement, wipe thoroughly, take the enema bag out from the bathroom cabinet, fill it with warm water, hang it on the towel rack, grab the Astroglide, slip on some latex gloves, lube up my asshole and commence upon a series of two quart enemas. From what I’ve read, the industry standard is two enemas prior to an anal scene, the first to clear away the big stuff and the second to clear away the soupy remnants. It takes me at least three and sometimes up to five to get to where the toilet water is as clear when I’m done as it was when I sat down. I don’t know if I’m particularly foul or maybe it’s just that many women in the porn industry are anorexic and/or speed freaks and subsequently don’t have as much to clear away.

After the final enema I take a long bath. It takes my ass a couple of hours to recover from all that water rushing out. The filling up is actually the easy part – once one becomes accustomed to it – in fact, after five enemas I’m sometimes so chapped I have to kiss-off the rest of my routine. Typically, I do household chores at this time.

When my ass feels ready I tack sheets up over the Venetian blinds, strip, switch on the afore-mentioned video tape, grab the blue duffle bag from the closet and set it on the bed. In the duffle bag is: another bottle of Astroglide; another box of latex gloves (at this stage they’re not for the sake of cleanliness, as by now I’m quite clean, but to avoid any rough edges on my fingernails); two smooth vibrators, the first is small and silver, maybe seven inches long but narrow, I use it to get comfortable having something in my ass after thoroughly lubing myself up with the latex gloves and more Astroglide, the second is a larger gold vibrator that I use to really break myself in; lastly there’s a large black strap-on dildo with a harness.

I fasten the strap-on to a long piece of rope tied around the edge of the bed. I set a folding mirror on the bed above the dildo, place a towel on the floor underneath it, get on all fours, back myself up onto the dildo and rock back and forth, pulling it out and pushing it back in spreading my ass cheeks with my hands. My face is half against the floor but I can look back over my shoulder and stare up at the reflection of my gaping asshole.

Michelle would spank me before shoving the gold vibrator up my ass. She’d coo in my ear while pulling my hair, “What a dirty little boy.” When I was ready to come she’d cup her hand over the end of my dick and catch my come and smear it on my face or make me lick it up, whichever I wanted. I was the bottom, but I was in charge. Afterwards she’d hold me while I cried into her neck and asked if she thought I was sick or not a real man. She’d say she didn’t think I was sick and that only a real man could expose himself like that – until she couldn’t take it any more: instead of giving those soothing answers she finally started crying, started saying she couldn’t do it any more, saying she felt like an accessory: unnecessary to my pleasure.

Rocking against the bed.
I’m sorry
. Lube trickling out of my ass and down the back of my balls.
No, I’m sorry
. It hurts. I want it to hurt. To put me so in the moment that I cease to be, become egoless, until I’m nothing but the rush, no more conscious than the big black dildo eight inches up my ass.
I just wanted to make you happy
. Mouth dry and sticky.
I thought you liked it
. The scene on the video cuts to two women, I’m too fixated on the reflection in the folding mirror to look at the television.
How could I like it? What does it do for me?
But I know the scene: the dark-haired woman is on a gynecological table, her feet in the stirrups while the blonde, dressed as a nurse, pushes and pulls on a butt plug in the patient’s ass. The butt plug is connected to one of those bulbs used on blood pressure gauges, this allows the size of the butt plug to be expanded after having been securely inserted in the anal cavity.
I’m sorry
. The look on the dark haired woman’s face is extreme: her eyes wide, she alternates between wailing and sputtering obscenities through clenched teeth.
It’s only when we’re done, and I’m holding you, telling you it’s OK
. The blonde is working hard, sweating even, the nipples on her large fake breasts point straight ahead without so much as a jiggle.
It’s not OK, is it?
And I’m thinking how lucky they are, how desired, how literally thousands of men have jerked off staring at them, wanting them, hating them.
What am I supposed to say?
And I want to know do they hate themselves as much as I hate myself?
You don’t even need me to be here
. Do they look at themselves and feel shame or is it just another day on the set, giving the public what they want, providing a community service.
I’m so sorry. God, I’m so sorry. I do need you
. An article of trade is more than I want to be.
I can’t do this any more. I’ve got to get out of here, I’m sorry
. I want nothing, blankness, emptiness.
No. please.

If I want to come I have to take one of my hands off my ass and start jerking off. I grind up against the bed as hard as I can, pushing the dildo as deep as it will go, then start making short violent thrusts. My prostate is positively bruised. It only takes a minute. My back and shoulders go cold, my vision blurs and my heart skips or jumps or seizes or does whatever the fuck it does. My ass clenches around the dildo and a spasm shoots semen onto a towel.

I stay right there for a few moments. Slowly pull myself off the dildo, sometimes some air escapes, not with the bubbling sound of gas but more like its being let out of a tire. I ease myself down on the towel and feel the come stick to my belly. My legs are shaky and my ass is sore. It will be a few minutes before I can stand. I rest my forehead and the bridge of my nose on the carpet. With my eyes closed I let out a self-pitying sigh.

“I know lots of ghost stories, I could keep you awake until dawn recounting some of the bizarre tales I’ve heard. But if we’re all ready for bed, I’ll just tell you this one. Mind you, it’s rather a special story because it happened here, in this house. And it’s not actually a ghost story. The word ‘story’ implies that it’s a made-up tale or that it didn’t really happen. But this one most certainly did happen – and there’s proof.”

Serena shivered nervously. She glanced at Charlotte and saw her sister was studying Parnell with the same dreamy smile that she had worn throughout their meal.

“I already feel spooked,” Charlotte whispered.

Parnell smiled, adjusted his spectacles with a gesture that looked embarrassed, then cleared his throat. “It’s difficult to tie the story down to an exact time period but since this house was built around the 1840s, and the incident happened shortly after that, it’s safe to say it was the early Victorian era. The grounds stretched for miles around, and the owner was making fortunes from his thriving investments in the railways. He had a beautiful wife, two lovely daughters and a host of staff that included a gamekeeper for his pheasant.”

“Barbaric,” Serena whispered.

Seeming uncomfortable beneath her criticism, Parnell shrugged apologetically. “It was the two daughters who caused the problem. They’d both spent some years away from the house, enjoying an education in one of the few private schools that catered for the fairer sex. When they came back to the house they grew a little bored. The eldest daughter had seen the gamekeeper thrashing the bushes, trying to startle the pheasant with a stout length of birch. She watched him do that for three months before she came to a decision. She wanted him to try thrashing her.”