The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 5 (29 page)

“Please what, Kira? I know you want it, but I won’t touch it until you say yes.”

“Please,” I gasped. “Yes.”

“That’s a good girl. Nice and polite.”

Good girl, bad girl, I wasn’t sure what I was, but it didn’t matter. My torso rippled like a column of heat between his hands, one tweaking my nipple, the other going to town on my quivering bottom. Our bodies made rude noises, swampy, squishy sounds – or was it the rich guy whacking off? He probably used a special custom-made lotion to make his dick all slippery. He’d be close to the end now, pumping his fist faster and faster, his single nether eye weeping a tear of delight. He’d gotten everything he wanted. The cool lady in the gourmet grocery store was unzipped and undone, a bitch in heat, writhing shamelessly on her husband’s cock for his viewing pleasure.

But I had one little surprise left for him.

“What if you spank it? Is that another thousand?”

“Two thousand.” I could tell Brian was close, too.

“I want him to see it. Spank my naughty asshole,” I yelled, so the rich guy could hear.

The first slap sent a jolt straight through me that quickly dissolved into pleasure, foamy fingers of a wave creeping into the hollows of my body.

“Again.”

Smack.

Each blow hammered me deeper onto Brian’s cock. I pushed my ass out to take the next one, to show that rich guy I could do it. He was so turned on, I could feel his eyes burning into my back through the screen. But it wasn’t just him. There were others watching – my parents, my tenth-grade science teacher, the postal clerk who sneaks glances at my tits, a Supreme Court Justice or two – dozens of them, their faces twisted into masks of shock and fascination. And beneath, in the shadows, hands were stroking hard-ons or shoved into panties, damp and fragrant with arousal. They liked it, all of them, and I was watching them as they watched me in an endless circle of revelation and desire.

“I’m . . . gonna . . . come.”

“Come for him. Now!” Brian bellowed. The last slaps fell like firecrackers snapping, and I jerked my hips to their rhythm as my climax tore through my belly. With the chair springs squeaking like crazy and Brian grunting,
fuck your shaved pussy, fuck it
, that rich guy got himself quite a show.

I’d say it was worth every penny.

Afterward, I pulled Brian down to the carpet with me. Our profiles filled the screen. He’d seen me and I’d seen him and we fit so well together and I loved him more than anything. I told him that. Or maybe I just kissed him, a deep soul kiss that lasted a long, long time.

The rich guy got that part for free.

“Japanese monks compose a poem on the day of their deaths,” said Madame Petra. “Words they want to be remembered by.”

Madame Petra. The big blonde. The vast blue eyes. The soppy red heart. We were at her place, a pleasant space tucked in, up?, the East End of London. It’s more or less where the prostate gland is in a gentleman’s anus, if we are using the London Underground district line analogy. As I believe we should. Lube in at Liverpool Street, ease gently, very gently, up the Hackney Road, and find pleasure gland in Bethnal Green, Tower Hamlets. Which may not be green or a hamlet any more but is adequately supplied with tower blocks.

“That makes the City of London, the financial district, the World’s Anus?” she said.

“Am I mistaken?”

“Not necessarily.”

It was full moon in Taurus. Late Autumn with a cruel wind rustling the leaves. We were sprawled inside on the chocolate leather sofa, Petra’s ample warmth wrapped in her courtesan’s kimono.

Small red paper lanterns cast a glow. She riffled the pages of her blue sky book.

“‘Autumn driftwood. My day here is done.’”

It would be good to accept death as easily as the poet did.

When I remembered to take vitamin B with ketamine I sometimes experienced blissful near-death experiences. As opposed to the often harrowing K-trips produced by coffee, stress, running around town without adequate fuel or water. The best method of release seems to be drifting gently downstream on a straw mat, head dipping backwards into the warm water. Although it might not be awkward for scribbling down any last minute pearls of wisdom, of course.

“I was thinking of what people say at the moment of orgasm, the little death,” I said. “Maybe there should be a little book of those.”

“Doesn’t matter as long as you say the right name, really.”

Yes.

Saying the wrong one in a moment of ecstatic transcendence can be tricky. It can change your whole life.

For ever.

It may alter your profile, blacken an eye or two. But don’t take any advice from me. I just spent a weekend trying to get up a lovely post-op transsexual’s derrière when the only thing post-op transsexuals want – reasonably enough – is to be treated like a lady. And this wish should certainly be granted after the lengthy ordeal they have been through on their long, difficult journey. We did satisfy each other eventually but it’s sometimes embarrassing how much of an obsession anal sex can become. It’s hardly the Holy Grail, that renowned vaginal cup. It’s closer to a dance with My Lord Lucifer – not that you need adolescent bogey men when you have reached a state of mellow grace in your forties.

Madame Petra liked to be listened to. Shame we are a couple who both like to talk too much. Although we are now learning to pause, in the twilight of our youth. We are both still pretending middle age isn’t happening – despite my glasses and her various ailments. We still stay up all weekend every now and again. Which is easier now the chemistry students have shared their homework with the DJs and the club owners.

I always thought the best times were private parties, most especially ones where there were only two guests. Where pleasure eventually mellows into an absence of strife. Chasing evermore frenetic highs can be a good way of checking out for good. I had so many near-death experiences with Ketamine that eternity will come as no surprise to me. Not after all those chats with St Peter, work experience as an angel and experiencing the interdependency of all matter and energy beyond life and death. You used to have to meditate to get to those places. Fifty years in a Zen monastery. Now it costs about ten quid and a train to Peckham.

“Some of these sound like you,” she said, flicking through the book of Death Poems. ‘Fifty years. More than enough for me!’”

“I suppose if you just spent fifty years on a mountain top eating cold white rice that’s probably an adequate sufficiency.”

I was hoping she wouldn’t put another Rock Hudson – Doris Day movie on; she was hoping for some protestation of eternal love. Maybe that’s why there was extra warmth in the pussycat smile. There was a time when we could make each other literally groan and moan with gratitude. “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” we said, where other people would say “Oh God! Oh God! Oh God!” Not much of a poem. But heartfelt.

However.

What goes up must come down. And the many extremely bitter “this time it’s final” tussles sometimes lasted for months at a time. E-mails that would sizzle Charles Manson’s hair off. Vitriolic phone calls. Letters written in bile, baked in blood, then soaked in cat piss. It wasn’t nice. Not nice at all.

Time eventually heals and there came a day when they started to tentatively take steps to start again. Four or five slumber sprawls into the peace process we were on the queen-size chocolate leather sofa, small black cups of aromatic green tea at hand. Various other aromatic herbs were being ingested as we discussed recent club depravity.

“I saw a Domme make her sub beg for release while being stuffed over a trestle in a club,” I said.

“Did he ask nicely?”

“It was a woman. All that ‘Please may I come, Mistress’. It was really horny. It was Mistress Mayhem. And Mitzi. And the biggest strap-on I have ever seen.”

In cold, damp weather I can still feel her strap-on – a multicoloured totem pole we named after an Amazonian lesbian tennis player. This particular item was not penis-shaped – therefore the weapon of choice for those who did not wish to be associated with men in any way whatsoever. She was the second women I had seen who put a smaller strap on and said, “I wish it was bigger.” Tell me about it.

So we got the top of the range, if a thing’s worth doing, it’s worth overdoing. Back then our rule was no penetration by penis, to honour my primary partner, my dear beloved ex-wife. Perhaps it’s why our energy kept building. It’s harder to come, sex lasts much longer, you are forced to be more inventive.

Actually all we ever needed was the scent of her breath or body, some lewd game that fired us up and small amounts of herbal inhibition-suppressants. That and not being chained together by marriage. (“They met, they fell in love and then tragedy struck . . . they got married . . .”)

Our preliminary fumble was certainly working right now.

“Look at
you!”
she said, speaking as if to compliment a child or a pet. Even feminists eventually discovered you get more out of a man with a compliment. Jolly good! And it only took them about twenty years . . .

“It’s not Viagra, is it?”

“Your blue eyes are the only blue pills I need.”

She smiled. “You’re a poet.”

Certainly poor enough to be one. That’s why you have to be charming to get past women’s insatiable desire for money. And their immediate perception that you don’t have any.

“I don’t need V when I’m not on MDMA. Or dead drunk,” I said, unwisely. It was true, but reminded her that all men care about is their dicks and not their partner’s emotional and physical well-being. Not to mention whatever that oxytocin nonsense is again, that hormone produced by – what’s the word we often forget when wrapped up in this stuff? Love! Of course. How silly of me . . . A type of love that is easy to reference because it isn’t a sentence of death – thirty years of shared family, money, health and property worries. Married love? Don’t make me laugh . . .

Marriage becomes a prison pretty quickly. But at least it’s an open jail. As for the transfer to death row that the divorced suffer, the solitary confinement where penniless bachelors wait to die alone . . . the place where I live. Maybe that open jail wasn’t too bad after all. If only men didn’t keep searching while women kept on nesting. If I ever meet Mother Nature I’m going to . . . what can you do? She always wins . . .

There may be short poems about divorce but I would rather write or read about actual death than spend any more time mired in bitterness, revenge and greed. Except to say: eroticism is a pitiless mistress. She doesn’t like mortgage and marriage. She likes mad dashes across town in the middle of the night and secret e-mails and guilt and terror and beauty and the inevitability of divorce. Even if you can see it coming three years ahead, as I could, there was still no stopping it.

And then the questionable stream of silly (male) sluts I resorted to when Venus slammed the door shut, the transgender caravanserai: beautiful creatures, exotic blooms. Extremely exhilarating. For a while . . . until all that chitter chatter and tranny prattle starts to pall. Like those snake oil books: “How to keep your marriage hot.” “Making Love to the same person forever.” They might sell. Diet books
sell
. Doesn’t make them
true.

Maybe I have been drawn to mysticism recently because that is all there is left. Space, silence, asceticism.

The Zen of

no

thing.

Sweet Fuck All is all I have left.

In these circumstances it’s a miracle I can persuade anyone to perform any sort of lewd, libidinous service. She backs her soft, insistent undercarriage into me.

Thank you, Lord. Such abundance. Rolling rump. Humping haunches. It’s always good to slip a thumb in her as she backs towards me, hear her sigh as she bends forward to enable a gentle stir of the honey pot. Once she had that clit bar put in there’s no real excuse any more for not giving her a proper tweak or twiddle. You can’t plead ignorance of where it is any more . . . certainly not when most people are shaved these days. The clean pucker of her anus winks seductively. Demanding to be kissed and teased gently open with the tip of the tongue.

Madame Petra certainly has one of the plumpest and juiciest rumps, firm yet tender, a big heart-sized bum that wobbles when spanked, sizzles up nicely when flogged and spreads willingly when stroked.

Her pelvis rotates as slowly and pleasingly as a bossa nova, the circular motion that makes the world go round, the dance that fires up the men and fills up the women.

It would be tempting to heat her up with a subtle prod or even a cheeky little tweak but we seem to have tired of sub/dom and the often tiresome power games that might have been hot but seemed to have dreadful consequences. We eventually discovered that playing with the dark forces of violence and cruelty was dangerous. Who’d have thought it? say the general public, shaking their heads at the idiocy of it all. Well, yes, perhaps we should have caught on to that one a little quicker. So now it’s a matter of forging an equal exchange. Match up the yin and yang. Let the water find its own level. Having said that . . . as she’s doing some sort of backwards lap-dance right in front of me, taunting me with those gorgeous honey cushions, I might as well plant one upward SMACK on the lower curves and watch her flesh wobble up and then down.

Ride the ripple. Watch the wave. She gasps and sighs. So, while we’re here, we might as well have a few more of those liveners. Just to drop some spice into the pot. And maybe her scent is a little stronger now.

She peels her flimsiest knickers down and waggles her bottom cheeks at me with a lascivious smile. Lawdy. Miss. Clawdy. Great Globes of Fire. Big heart. Big butt. Something splendid to grab hold of. And knead and stroke and kiss and . . . Stop slobbering, boy, slow down. Most of it’s pheromones and scent, of course. The merest hint of gaminess does help. While it’s nice that scene players’ asses tend to smell more like Body Shop gift packs these days, there should be a touch of truffle in the mix or there is no reason to get excited about these dark delights. It’s time to poke the tip of my tongue through the puckered ring, a moment to hear a long slow grateful moan and breath exhalation.