The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 5 (3 page)

What I like about Jose is he likes to play. I have plenty of quick guys. You know, they come in, maybe stick a finger or two in with some lubricant on the ends, and then they thrust. I’m not saying that some of them aren’t good; there is at least one customer a day who can go on for at least a half hour. But there’s just no build-up there. No anticipation.

Jose’s not like that. He takes full advantage of the hour he pays for in the Rear View Anonymity room. He starts with my feet, which are always sheathed in a colorful pair of thigh-high nylons and death-defying high-heeled shoes. First, he starts by kissing my toes lightly, as his hands travel up my legs. His mouth soon follows. Then he takes my buttocks and spreads me wide open. He starts to circle my anus with his tongue, never directly touching the hole. This always gets me moaning, and I know he can hear me. The face enclosures are not soundproof, although we’re not supposed to communicate verbally, because that would ruin the secrecy.

After he’s tickled me with his tongue a while, he starts to tug lightly on my pubic hairs. It’s a little painful, but just a little. It’s somewhere on the threshold of pleasure and pain. So far, he still hasn’t gone anywhere near my clit, and of course by now it’s aching. And there’s simply no way I can do anything about that – not with my hands clamped in the front half of the Horse – and so I have this excruciating, marvelous suffering while he does his thing.

It took me a few of his visits to work out that, at some point during all this, Jose pulls out his dick and starts jerking off big time. If I pay attention, sometimes I realize his mouth and only one hand are playing with me. Where’s the other hand? He’s down there whacking off good. I can hear him.

Sometimes he even just stands there for five or ten minutes moving his lubricated finger in and out of my ass while he whacks off. Eventually, he lays his head on top of my ass and shudders as he comes.

But Jose doesn’t tire after he comes. No way. He keeps playing. I don’t know how this guy learned how to control his dick so well, but he can bring it up again real fast after he comes. Maybe he’s taking some of those new drugs, or maybe it’s just training. It doesn’t really matter.

Eventually, Jose makes use of the toys we keep in sterile solution at the entrance to the anonymity wing. It’s not always the same. Last time, he just barely touched my clit with the edge of a tiny pulsating tool while he licked my anus. Just when I thought I couldn’t hold off anymore, like I was going to have to come, he pulled it away from me. I yelled so loud, I think the other service women must have thought I was being hurt. But I didn’t press the alarm bell or anything, so they realized it was pleasure, not pain.

Finally, each time when I’m certain I can’t take it anymore, Jose presses the button to adjust the height of the floor so that he’s positioned perfectly behind me, and then – slowly, centimeter by centimeter – he thrusts into me. I feel each segment of his cock as it enters me, and it is so slow. When he is fully inside me, he starts to pump with long hard steady strokes. I can hear him sucking in long fast breaths as he uses my wet, aching hole. Meanwhile, he usually keeps one finger in my anus to steady himself. I can feel the muscles in my ass holding on to his finger.

He pumps slowly, then quickly, then slow again, building and building. If I’m lucky, someone else is down below me gently sucking on my hanging tits. If everything happens right like that, it’s as if Jose’s life is being pumped right into my body and I’m completely open. I can’t be open any further, and I’m finally alive. I don’t know what time is at those moments – it ceases to exist.

Jose knows by now that, if he even so much as slightly touches my clit now, I will erupt into spasms of orgasm, so he waits until he’s ready. When he is, he reaches around my hips and gently presses on my swollen clit. I immediately start to come in wave after wave as he bucks, and he screams as he squirts inside me.

He’s very neat when he pulls out his cock, making ample use of the paper towels we provide. By now, I feel like I have been flying, and I feel like sleeping. Jose kisses my open asshole one last time before he dresses and leaves. I hear him shuffle to the door.

It’s strictly forbidden to try and find out who one has serviced in The Anonymity Wing, but I just can’t help but want to know. I could lose my job by trying and, like I said, this is a damn good job, especially when you consider the fringe benefits. But, when something as good as this happens to someone, there’s this fear that maybe, just maybe, it will disappear and you won’t be able to get it anymore. I’m not saying that other guys in the wing don’t get me off – some have been damn decent – but this build up with Jose, it was unreal. Transported me to another dimension, if that doesn’t sound too weird. What if he just stopped coming one day? That happens all the time with customers. How would I ever find him again?

And so, I broke the rules. I called in a few favors with the girl at the desk, made promises with part of my pay-check and found out that Jose’s real name was Juan (I was damn close) and he was a waiter at the Fifth Deck, a swanky restaurant in the tourist district. It’s not my typical restaurant, considering that the bill for a meal there would be almost a whole week’s salary for me, but I decided it was worth it. Today I would be Juan’s customer instead of the other way around!

The maître d’ seemed surprised when I requested my table by the name of the waiter. I stated it simply: “I don’t care where I sit, as long as Juan is my waiter,” I said, and I winked.

I was trying to be sly or coy or something, but it went right over the guy’s head. Either that or he was so over the hill and undersexed that he couldn’t care less about whether I wanted to fuck Juan or not. He didn’t even look at my breasts, even though I was wearing a sheer white blouse that clearly emphasized the outline of my nipples. What a prude.

But he escorted me to a table, and I felt my pulse start to rise. In a minute, I was going to meet the only man who had ever brought me to complete and utter ecstasy. This was the man who left me panting and satiated, and who made my body into a violin. Only he could play me. Finally, we would meet.

Juan’s face was severe as he approached my table. He had thick black eyebrows, and they burrowed into the middle of his forehead. His hair was slicked back and shockingly long in the back, although tied neatly into a long pony tail. His lips were almost a candy-apple red, and I couldn’t help thinking he had been sucking on some sort of lollypop recently. He was around thirty-five, and a little pudgy around the middle. He was neither more nor less appealing than I had expected. I’m not sure I would have made much of him if I happened to run into him elsewhere. He was simply a guy – perhaps a little darker and a little older than I normally like them – but not half bad.

Besides, this was the guy that fucked me right, wasn’t it? I was prepared for almost anything. I didn’t care. He was my magic. He was my instant turn-on. I wanted him, and I wanted him without the anonymity booth. I wanted to see him pull out his dick and whack himself on me. I wanted to see his face contort as he moaned in mounting tension. I had had enough of this hiding behind a partition.

I couldn’t help smiling when he stood by the table. He had no idea who I was. He had fucked my cunt and my ass, fingered my clit, rested his head on my ass, and licked me all over, but he didn’t know it. It was a hoot.

I pretended interest in the menu, but I’m not one for playing games for long, so I cut right to the performance. I knew that he had heard me moaning. I just knew he would recognize my voice, so I closed my eyes and imagined he was behind me fingering my ass. I imagined that he was licking my clit, like he had just the night before. I transported myself back to the booth. I felt my knees in the horse, and my legs spread apart, and I felt the liquid start to run down my inner thigh right there in the restaurant. And then I let out a long hard moan. I didn’t hold back. I just moaned and moaned, and arched my back in the seat, for all to hear.

When I opened my eyes, Juan was gone. The other customers in the restaurant were staring at me, and the maître d’ was shuffling nervously in the corner with another waiter. He was whispering, and both were looking my way.

I grabbed for my napkin to wipe my brow. I wasn’t sure how long I had been moaning there. I started to come to my senses. I was moaning in a public restaurant. This stuff was supposed to stay in the salons. Absolutely no sex that is not regulated by management. I had broken the rule.

The whispering in the corner became more urgent. I looked around frantically for Juan. Surely, he had not deserted me in the midst of my ecstasy? Surely, he had recognized me for who I was and he would soon emerge from the kitchen to lead me from the restaurant? Surely, this man – who had opened my cunt in ways I had never dreamed of – had been dreaming of this moment as I had? Surely?

When Juan didn’t appear, I grabbed for my purse and jumped to my feet. I was frantic now, humiliated and covered with a cold sweat.

“Where is Juan?” I shouted at the maître d’. “You! Tell me! Where did he go?”

I took a step towards him, and he took a step back. He was shocked, I could see. This was an unusual disturbance.

“Miss,” he said calmly. “I have called the authorities. Please do not cause any more trouble.”

I rushed for the door, and emerged into the damp night air. I wanted to get away from there fast. What was I thinking? Why did I come here? Of course, there could be no sex without monetary exchange. It was unthinkable. I needed to recover my senses.

I walked to the right, and rushed toward the waterfront. I think I had the vague notion of throwing myself off the bridge into the sea. I wanted to feel the cool water tugging me under and caressing my legs as Juan had done. I wanted the water to pull me down, down, down, and down further, until I was no more.

Then I saw him. He was standing under a lamp-post across the street staring at me. I started to yell and run towards him, but he swiftly ducked into an alleyway. I crossed the street and followed him in.

Instinctively, I knew to stop yelling. I knew that I needed to be quiet. Secrets cannot be shouted, only whispered. Secrets must stay secrets, because once they are out in the open air, the air becomes foul with reality.

Juan was leaning against a brick wall. The night was dark, and this alley was a simple path to the back entrance to a building. No one was coming or going at this hour. I could just make out the outline of Juan’s black jacket. As I came closer to him, I could see that his pants were open and that he had his erect penis in his hand. His hand was moving up and down rhythmically as he penetrated me with his eyes.

I immediately kneeled before him and looked up at his dick as it rose above me. I rested my forehead against his leg, and let my tongue explore. I caressed the balls that had flopped against me and prayed to the shaft that had penetrated me with such slow precision. I felt my legs become weak with desire and I felt a pouring out of fluids between my legs. I rubbed his wet dick all over my face, bathing myself in my own saliva. Finally, I was touching what gave me such great pleasure.

After Juan came, he pulled his pants back up. I looked at his face again, and waited. Then he reached his hand down between my legs and slowly brought me to orgasm with the tip of his index finger.

I cried when I came. And then he smiled. It was the first smile I had seen on his worried face. And then he whispered in my ear, “See you at the salon.”

Midnight a hundred miles south of the Arctic Circle. Wind slammed the tiny tent, pressed it flat against his face for minutes at a stretch, then, relenting momentarily, let it spring up. Rain volleyed like grapeshot. The rain fly stuttered and whined but somehow held; the stakes he’d driven deep into muddy, gritty volcanic ash stayed anchored.

By first light, the violence had congealed to steady downpour. He struggled into clothes, dogged his raingear down, and crawled out into the weather to discover that his was the only tent still standing in the broad field. Dozens had been arrayed there at nightfall.

Head down, he splashed toward the park building. He shouldered its heavy doors open and found himself suddenly immersed in an explosion of warmth and light: a hundred sodden people crowded the park’s lunchroom, clutching cups of cocoa in frog-wrinkled hands and gabbling in a dozen languages. Most of them had clearly spent the night here as refugees from the storm. A stench of wet wool filled the room. When he was finally able to reach the food counter, a steaming cup was thrust into his hands. A seat opened up, and he collapsed into it, hardly aware of the other person at the table. He took a first blessed scalding sip of chocolate.

Someone laughed, a tinkling cascade he sensed was aimed at him. He looked up, already half in retreat. An elf perched on the chair across from him, knees spraddled, head canted. The hood of her parka was thrown back, revealing a helmet of copper hair brushed forward to cup her face. She had a wide, mobile mouth and preternaturally huge brown eyes.

She spoke. He couldn’t guess the language; his puzzlement must have shown because she leaned across to finger his dry sweater. Then she brought his hand to her breast to touch her bulky pullover. The wool was soaked, but her slender hand held fiery heat.

He had no idea what to say in the face of intimacy. “Uh, George,” he said, because he had to say something, awkwardly pointing to himself, the blood rushing to his cheeks. “My name is George.”

“Ah-ha,” she repeated: “Jhoorj.” And then she put a second warm hand over his. “Merete,” she said. He flinched, but managed not to pull his hand away.

He pointed. “Merete?” Her head bobbed. Through the layers of wool, his imprisoned hand felt the unmistakable nub of her nipple.

The next day began under blue skies. The knife-edged volcanic ridges of Skaftafell National Park glowed emerald, crosslit by the early light. Tatters of cloud still clung to them. The campground was spread with gear and clothing, waiting for sun to reach the valley.