The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 5 (13 page)

“Yes,” she had moaned, begging for the pain.

He had soon forgotten the initial ecstatic vision of her smooth cunt as further excesses quickly suggested themselves to him, none of which she rejected during the course of a long night of sheer, mutual madness.

But the fascination remained. Encouraged, exacerbated, provoked, kept alive by the torrent of images of exposed, naked cunts he kept on coming across in magazines, books and even movies (European ones by Peter Greenaway, Julio Medem, Mike Figgis and others . . .).

So, it was no surprise that one summer whilst on holiday on a small Caribbean island, his enfevered mind should spin an unlikely variation on the theme. This was not a place where nudity was tolerated on beaches, despite the idyllic setting that so effortlessly evoked the Garden of Eden and its bucolic innocence. Even topless displays of female pulchritude were few and far between here. The heat over his first few days at the resort had proven oppressive, steamy, sticky, with no relief in sight. On previous trips here, he had been close to the hurricane season and there had always been a gentle wind rising over the ocean from mid to late morning to cool one’s body down. By lunchtime, every day, he was sweating profusely and his trunks or shorts stuck aggressively to his skin, the friction between the material and his flesh annoying and increasingly unpleasant. Dredging up instant nostalgia and longing for those nude beaches in France he had frequented some years back.

Maybe he should shave. Like a woman. It might feel cooler, he thought. And then remembered how some past conquest had once mentioned how unpleasant it could become when the hair inevitably grew back, the skin irritable and prone to bursting out in unseemly bumps. He would choose cream. It should be safe if women used it under their arms, he reckoned. He located some in the hotel’s lobby shop and deciphered the instructions in Spanish as best he could . . .

Straight from the tube he squeezed out the thick white paste that smelled of almond oil in parallel trails across his thick, dark curls and flattened and liberally spread the viscous substance until his bush was fully obscured and covered. The label said to leave it soak in for five minutes, although to take care not to rub it in and especially not to exceed ten minutes. He kept an eye on his watch. Then, with the help of the green plastic spatula supplied in the depilating cream’s pack, he began gently rubbing the drying cream away. It worked. The hair was coming off with a minimum of effort. He sat on the edge of the bath tub, his legs spread open and began to systematically scrape away the dead vegetation surrounding his now half-erect penis until the whole area looked uncannily bare, the paler than pale skin a mighty contrast with the onset of a deep tan across the rest of his body. After rinsing the newly depilated zone with some warm water, he passed his fingers over the whole area and found it surprisingly, pleasantly silky. Which conjured instant memories of the cunts of the women he had caressed lustfully during the course of recent sexual encounters. His hand moved down to his cock, and he was taken back by the fact that some stray, almost spiky hairs still adorned the lower reaches of the thickening trunk of his member. His fingers lowered and swept across his testicles and again became aware of the sprinkling of hairs that coated them. Out came the cream again and he covered his balls all the way down to his perineum, as well as the stem of his cock. Soon, he was totally bare, all the way from his lower stomach area to his anal opening.

It felt good. Curiously arousing and it proved difficult during those few first days of total nudity not to touch and finger himself constantly. As if the skin above his jutting cock had acquired a new, sensual texture and the taut sack of his balls invited the tentative contact of errant fingertips as he explored the newly uncovered territory. He imagined how a woman’s tongue would taste him, lick him and again came hard in the wink of an eye.

At regular intervals, he would examine his genitals in the mirror of the bathroom, or the half mirror that the hotel provided in the bedroom. He became an inveterate voyeur of his own parts, finding new subtleties in the ever-changing shades of white and pale brown in the virgin skin that dominated his cock, the reddish hue of his heavy balls. Actually, his cock now appeared longer, thicker, bigger, not that he’d ever had grounds for complaint previously. There was a nagging desire to expose himself, to surprise others, to reveal to the world at large how utter his nudity now was. He even began to dispense with underwear altogether, dangling loose under his trousers and shorts in the resort’s large dining room that overlooked the sea, joyous with the secret knowledge of his uncommon state under the already thin material. It was definitely most arousing. One morning, he even deliberately left the room around five in the morning and walked a few miles up the beach to an area he had once spotted, far from the hotels and beach guards, and swam naked. More than naked. The lapping of the water against his parts was joyous, liberating, even stronger than the feeling he had experienced the first time he had swam on a nude beach, albeit with his previous abundance of pubic hair. It wasn’t just the sexual effect of his newly acquired nudity but a weird sense of possibilities that engulfed his brain.

He thought he now understood why some women depilated their sexual areas. He sympathized. Empathized. This was more than mere hygiene or practicality. To the extent that the compulsive desire to present himself in total submission, in all his childlike nudity, began to dominate his dreams. Surely there was no greater sense of vulnerability to be displayed thus, so shorn of all protection, sexually available to all comers and potential users. For the first time, he was beginning to understand better the mind frame of submissive women, all those doughty heroines from O to the legions of abused women from the Roquelaure tales of Anne Rice and her cohorts of more recent followers. He could close his eyes and silently yearn to be tied to some pole or tree, legs held apart by a spreader bar, ridiculous cock dangling in the forest breeze, while men of all shapes, sizes and sexual persuasions could liberally gaze at him, touch his parts, weigh his melancholy nudity in the palm of their hands, poke his holes, gently slap his butt cheeks, examine his teeth as he lay waiting to be auctioned. Yes, knowing how unprotected he was down there literally made him feel like a sexual slave in waiting. He did have a roaring imagination, he surely did.

Back in Europe, he would often wake at night from savage dreams of exotic, novelistic adventures full of rape and heavy use by Masters. His lust raged at the idea of such ravishment and in each scene or sequence that his fever lust conjured, there were also beautiful women watching as he was being defiled, all with Mona Lisa smiles, some clothed in sheer silk, others in progressive stages of deshabillé, calmly appreciating the sheer art his torturers exercised as they took merciless advantage of his now so prominent cock and shiny balls, and induced endless after endless erections until he felt he was about to burst, as each toy, object or alien penis dug its painful way into his innards, stretching him more than he ever thought possible, deep-throating him until he gagged, and all because his shaven parts betrayed his abject condition as a sexual slave available to all, obedient, displayed, ripe for defilement.

He even went so far as advertising himself in veiled terms as a sub for use when he ventured onto Internet chat rooms, hoping for takers and resolute enough to follow through should someone local and reasonably dominant actually take him up on the offer. But no one did; all they sought were female subs, no doubt similarly shaven. His sisters in arms.

And, at four or so in the morning when the dreams came to their spectacular climax (you couldn’t call them nightmares after all), he would invariably be untied, his collar straightened and a chain attached to it and he was led, so naked and proud, to a stone table where the spread-eagled body of the most beautiful young blonde he had ever dreamed of was on public display to the leering gaze of a growing crowd, and, as a reward for having survived his own ordeal, he would be summoned to mount her, required to perform, take her virginity. And always he would note that she also had been depilated, her cunt lips gaping open like flowers and the skin surrounding her gash slippery like glass, smooth as a window pane, and when their flesh made contact, it would be like an electric shock. Nakedness touching nudity, as obscene as two skeletons mating, the nee plus ultra of performance art. At which stage, he usually woke up, his cock hard and raging and ready to spill, like the lone tree in a defoliated forest.

But the first time after the Caribbean holiday that he took a woman to bed, she barely noticed the uncommon hairlessness of his crotch, didn’t even remark upon it. Which not only brought him down to earth but also made him temporarily impotent. They parted in embarrassment. Anyway, he reflected, following her departure, she had just been trimmed and the conjugation of his cock and her cunt would have certainly lacked the obligatory magic. From here onwards, he swore to himself, he would only have sex with women who were similarly, utterly nude. Somehow, it became a clever, subtle question he would manage to introduce into the proceedings of seduction from an early stage. Some minded and went their own way; others were coy, some intrigued, partly offended by his outrageous and indecent curiosity about the state of their parts. He was not a totally hopeless case and still practiced the art of courting with a modicum of elegance and intelligence and did not find it impossible to convince an attractive woman to go to bed with him, but he invariably became the one to surprise and disappoint them shortly after their answers to his one track enquiries always seemed to reveal their uselessness to him. It was not so much that he didn’t feel capable of convincing them, once lovers or in a bedroom, naked, lustful, to allow him to shave them; no, he wanted them to come to him in a natural state of nudity below from the outset, like Venus arising from the shell, their cunt more naked than naked ready for his kiss, his tongue, the heat of his lips. He had no wish for preliminaries, or hard work. Once together, they must both shed their clothing and witness their bare areas meeting, like waves lapping the shore, like a pagan ritual.

But somehow all the women he came across socially or attempted to weave into the fabric of his life now guarded the sanctity of their pubic hair like dragons, and bristled at his unkind suggestion they should do away with their heavenly bush.

So, instead, he masturbated a lot, familiarizing himself even better with the new texture and feel of his own cock and balls. Altogether a pitiful state of affairs for a man who had now reached the stage where he was actually turning women away. And the fact he so often would not take advantage of their proffered charms – he would never say exactly why – only spurred them to attack him with more zest. Never had he been more popular with women, and never had he not fucked anyone for such a long period of sexual drought. If only they knew, he thought, as he perused a room full of beauty and talent. But then he couldn’t just drop his trousers here and now and expose himself and reveal his secret. Or should he?

But he was a patient man. One day, she would arrive, he was convinced, and at the very moment that bare cock and bare cunt would meet, as the mushroom tip of his thick purple cock would at last breach her opening and plunge deep into her pinkness, then their sex flesh would finally meet with a vengeance. Smoothness to smoothness, silk against silk, electrons against electrons, blissful innocence against total vulnerability. And everything would explode in an orgy of momentous pleasure, like an atomic bomb exploding. Like the end of the world.

Until then, he would wait, he reckoned. And stay chaste, and shaven.

He grasped his coat below the collar and shivered against the raw dampness that seeped into his bones.

This was too much, the third time in two weeks that she had failed to pick him up on time. No more. From now on he would order up a company limo. But for the moment, he needed a ride. He loathed riding in cabs, but he had little selection in the matter. Besides, the homeless were coming out and beginning to pick through the remains of the day in the financial district.

A red checkered vehicle pulled around the corner and came toward him. He stepped off the curb and waved it down. He winced as he opened the rear door, but at least it was warm inside. He slid onto the seat, laying his briefcase beside him.

“Do you speak English?” he inquired.

“All my life,” the driver replied, eying him laconically in the rearview mirror.

“You’re white,” he said.

“Yup, been white all my life too.”

“I didn’t think there were any white cab drivers left.”

“It’s not my preferred line of work, just something to tide me over. But since you think it’s such a novelty, maybe I should levy a surcharge.”

“I can see that a smart-alecky attitude still goes with the job,” he huffed.

“Look, mister, I got to make a living. We can chat all night in one spot if you want, but I’m gonna flick the meter anyway. Or would you rather tell me where to?”

“Can you drive beyond the city?”

“Yup, but after a while we get into flatrate zones.”

“I’m going to Manchester-by-the-Sea.”

“Uh-huh. That’ll be thirty-six bucks flat.”

“Very well – get moving.”

The driver pulled away, making his way to the tunnel that would bring them north of the city. His passenger sniffed, pinching his face into a scowl.

“I don’t like cabs,” he said. “They smell.”

“Hmm, you think so?”

“Yes, they smell of the people who rode in them – unwashed.”

“You should have been in the cab I drove a couple of days ago – it smelled like pussy. I didn’t mind.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yup, someone was well and truly fucked in the backseat before I got it. Damn, made me randy all day.”

“That’s disgusting.”

The driver shrugged.

They just entered the tunnel when the passenger asked, “Did you say you were between positions?”