The Mammoth Book of Short Erotic Novels (9 page)

She drops her rucksack to the floor, kicks off her flat shoes and approaches the bed. Tests its firmness with her hand and then sits on its edge as he watches her. She pulls the new sweater over
her head. Looks him in the eyes.

He remains silent.

Attempting to put off the inevitable, maybe?

“So,” he finally ventures, “am I what you expected?”

The wrong age, the wrong middle-age spread, the wrong short-sighted eyes, the wrong kind of clothes, the wrong size cock, the wrong man?

“I don’t know,” she replies. “You tell me.” Then, as an afterthought, “But I do like your voice.”

“Is it the voice of a master, or the voice of a slave?” he asks her.

“Do you really want me to answer that question now?” Thalie says.

“You’re right. I don’t. Maybe you can tell me at the end of the week.”

“Exactly. I’ve agreed to come here with you, but I can only be myself, you know that already . . .”

“Yes,” he quickly interrupts her. “And, as we talked before, back then, I respect your nature. I shall not attempt to change it. You are what you are: I accept that
fully.”

“Good. I’m not seeking to be rescued . . .”

“I understand.”

“I am yours for this week we shall spend together in this room. Totally. Do to me what you will. Use me. Beat me. Humiliate me. My only pleasure is in giving myself. For you, I will be no
different than I have been for others, with others. My holes are yours. All I am is a body, with holes made to be filled, used . . .”

Hearing her say it like this hurts even more than when she had initially written it.

But he tries to show no sign of the torment spiralling across his heart.

“I understand,” he repeats.

As she rises to her feet, she utters the last words he would hear from her until the following morning, “I know there will be tenderness, but please, oh please, do not fall in love with
me.” Thereafter, there were sounds. In abundance. But no more words. Only moans, sighs, cries, the whole orchestral palette of sex.

She approaches him. Closer than they have ever been.

Her lips move toward his.

They kiss.

She tastes of Ukrainian tea.

He takes her into his arms. Holds her tight as their kiss continues. Tongue. Teeth. Breath held back. His hands now linger all over her, feeling her softness, exploring her warmth, he feels her
eager responsiveness as tremors of lust race through his body. He takes a step back, interrupting their feverish embrace. Recalls all she has revealed of her subservient nature.

“Undress,” he orders her.

Her eyes look up towards the light fixture.

“One item at a time,” he continues. “I want to examine your body.”

She lowers her eyes and proceeds to pull the white T-shirt off, twisting its folds over her head, mussing her long brown hair which falls back down on her shoulders. Her skin is porcelain white.
His heart tightens as sudden memories of another woman with the same pale skin flood back through his mind. Small flowery patterns crisscross the flimsy flesh-coloured bra she is wearing. It has no
under-wiring. Her small, pert breasts visibly don’t require any. Her hands move to her back and she unhooks the bra and her chest is fully revealed. There is a dark mole an inch or so below
her left nipple. Discreet dots of pigmentation are scattered across the approach to her modest cleavage, too pale even to merit the epithet of freckles.

The golden rings hang from her nipples, catching a fleeting reflection of the light from the hotel room’s ceiling fixture and its three low-wattage bulbs. They are thin, half the diameter
of a wedding ring. She watches his eyes alight on them. She straightens her back, offering her ringed breasts to him. He extends a hand, touches the metal adornments. They feel light. Carefully he
twists one of the rings and observes the way the darker, puckered flesh of her nipple follows the movement of the ring between his fingers. Her gaze is unflinching. He twists further, and with a
finger of his other hand begins to manipulate the other ring in similar fashion. He watches as the pierced nipples harden and lengthen imperceptibly as he continues to manipulate the gold rings and
her nipples. He pulls on one of them and he sees her flinch. But she says nothing.

Finally, he lets go and allows his now free hands to roam over her shoulders, caress her back. He plunges his fingers into her loose hair, pulls her head back and kisses her again, his tongue
delving as deep as he can manage toward her throat. He can feel the rhythmic beat of her heart.

Her sharp nails begin to scratch his own back.

He keeps his eyes open as he kisses her. Notices the faint pale pink scar on her upper lip. Almost shaped like the letter B. Remembers its origin: Anne-Louise B. and the male friend also called
B. were drunk and had heated up a paper clip in the flame of a lighter until it glowed red and tried to brand her with their joint initial.

He pushes Thalie gently away.

“Suck me,” he tells her.

Naked to the waist, like a fragile doll in her blue, now billowing skirt, she lowers herself to her knees, face in alignment with his crotch and unclips his belt, unbuttons the top of his
trousers and pulls them down to his knees. He is already partly hard and his cock is straining against his dark grey boxer shorts, an obscene bump of maleness.

She inserts a finger under the elastic and releases the cock.

He realises momentarily that he probably smells down there: the eight hours’ flight and sweat, the long afternoon walk, the sweat, the heat. He should have washed first.

Her mouth approaches. Her tongue licks his shaft, slowly, tantalizingly; a hand cups his heavy, dark balls and her lips close in on the glans as she takes him into her mouth. The heat is
wonderful. She allows him all the way in, his tip bumping against the back of her throat. She doesn’t gag as she impales her mouth over him. No woman has taken him in so far without choking.
She has, he knows, been mercilessly trained by previous users under dire threat of punishment or violence. His cock grows inside her mouth.

Her tongue surrounds his hardness, dancing lightly around his captured stem, teasing, licking, caressing. Her lips hold him in a soft but firm vice, slip sliding over his engorged flesh,
welcoming his invasion, wordlessly inviting him to thrust ever deeper into her.

His eyes wander across the horizon of the room. The Picasso head is watching them as the young girl studiously keeps on sucking his middle-aged cock.

At this rate, he knows, he won’t last much longer. He does not wish to come so soon, inside her mouth. He retreats, withdraws from her mouth. She looks up at him, puzzled, thinking maybe
she hasn’t performed well enough and is due for punishment.

He attempts a smile of kindness to reassure her.

“Undress,” he asks her. “Take the rest off now.”

She obeys.

Stands up and unzips the blue skirt. It slips to the hotel room carpet. The shape of her body is the nearest he has come to witnessing perfection, outside of no doubt doctored photographs in
magazines. At the age of twenty, neither gravity nor the ravages of time have yet taken hold and begun their seditious work.

Her knickers are modest, thick white cotton, practical, sexless.

She bends over slightly to pull them down.

He knows what to expect. From what she had written.

He also knows it’s the first thing that initially attracted him to her, and convinced him he had to see her one day. A prurient curiosity that betrays the filth in him.

The bunched-up piece of white underwear now lies in a small heap on the carpet. She straightens up. His eyes move up her smooth legs. Slowly. Almost hesitantly.

It’s as he knew it would be.

His turn to move to his knees and approach his face to her genital area.

Quite hairless, both above and around her cunt. Like the crotch of a doll or a pre-pubescent girl.

Not a wisp of hair, not even a darker shadow of hairs past. The same milky white shade that characterizes her whole body.

And the rings.

Gold.

Each one a thin band, like a cheap wedding ring.

Eight of them.

Four hanging from each labia, in perfect alignment, pulling both outer lips out of the central gash, the darker, redder skin like meaty folds on a butcher’s stall, raw, almost bloody, as
if the necessary piercings had only been done recently.

He gasps.

Incongruously wonders whether there is enough metal here to set off airport alarms.

Each set of labial rings is held together by a thin contraption of stainless steel, like a nurse’s large safety pin with three branches. The middle one is threaded through all the rings
while the two outer ones squeeze the pin tight and the whole is kept closed by a minuscule padlock.

He approaches his fingers, gingerly touches the chastity device protecting her entrance; his hand feels the intense heat emanating from the invisible depths of her cunt.

The rings effectively seal her tight. There is not even space to insert a finger. As she had warned him. Even during her period, she is unable to use a tampon and has to rely on sanitary
towels.

“It’s awesome,” he whispers in the now hushed silence of the room. “It’s . . . beautiful.” And barbaric, he thinks, but he is so turned on.

He can’t take his eyes off her locked cunt.

She remains quite silent.

Observing him.

Judging him?

This older man, with his thinning hair, his cock jutting out as if on military parade, his love handles, the sombre bags under his eyes, his trousers bunched around his ankles.

He finally takes off the rest of his clothes and asks Thalie to lay down on the bed, on her back and indicates she should open her legs wide.

He kneels, forces the angle between her thighs even wider and examines her like a doctor, mentally storing every detail of her adornments, her mutilation, as he gazes across the brazen display
of the wonder of her jewelled portals.

He moves his face against her cunt, feels her inner warmth vibrate toward his cheeks, tries to slip his tongue between the minute gaps between the rings, but there is no access. She is utterly
sealed.

Thalie extends a hand, musses his hair, sensing his obvious frustration.

He is on his knees at the foot of the bed, his head at the apex of her thighs, inhaling deeply, trying to seize the ineffable smell of her.

The sheer hardness of his cock weighs against his stomach.

He thinks of investing her mouth again, but Thalie shifts on her side and repositions herself on all fours on the bed, her rump raised toward him. A perfect, pale sphere, punctured by the darker
heart of her anus; both her hands move back to either side and stretch her globes apart, inviting him. He wets his cock and thrusts himself into her arse in one swift movement. His head punctures
the tight sphincter and his whole cock is quickly embedded inside her. She shifts to accommodate him better.

He digs inside her and for the next ten minutes, an eternity, he fucks her arse, watching the skin around her aperture distend with every in-and-out movement of his thick cock. He moans. She
moans. He sweats. The perspiration drops from his forehead to his chin and then onto her back, where it pools slowly, a small transparent pond of humidity vibrating intensely to the accompaniment
of every tremor that crosses her body as he tries to force himself ever deeper into her bowels. His lips are dry. She bites hers, out of pleasure or pain. His heart beats a light fantastic. Picasso
is on the wall. The clandestine sounds of the hotel bathe them in ominous silence. Their fuck is an island of motion cut off from the rest of the world. He holds back as long as he can manage.
Below the dark piston of his cock and its mechanical assault of her innards, the rings shine, wetness from above and inside her bathing them in an unmistakable sheen of lust. His frenzied eyes
mirror his soul, flitting from arsehole to ring-bedecked cunt and his hardness just refuses to fade away.

Her sounds of sex are silent. Gentle cries, repressed gasps, deep breaths. She adjusts the position of her body to accommodate his movements, to accept him even deeper, her sphincter muscles
tightening rhythmically around him before releasing his penis again, then tightening again, capturing every renewed attack. His tip is deep inside her bowels. Where it burns. And feels good.

Finally, he can hold out no longer. Thalie’s whole body is just made for sex, a finely-honed machine for the benefit of his pleasure. He comes. He roars. Her name. A profanity. Feels his
come burst out of him and bathe her insides, like a river of sin, a torrent out of control. He rests his hands on the bed, bent over her, the beat of his breath returning to normality. Silence
continues. She says nothing either. At last, he feels his hardness begin to recede and pulls back, withdrawing his still pulsating cock from her. It emerges, bathed in come and inner juices. Her
hole is shockingly dilated, red raw at the edges, like a small dark bottomless crevice. Never has he witnessed a sight so pornographic and, at the same time, so shockingly beautiful. The temporary
scar his raging cock has left on her.

But he also knows she did not come.

They lay down together, moist body against pale body.

“Tired?” he asks her.

He pulls the covers over their bare bodies.

She nods, her eyes half-closed.

“It’s the jet-lag catching up,” he says. It’s only ten at night in Manhattan.

He wakes at two in the morning, still nine p.m. European time, with a hard on, his mind and body in tumult. She is on her side, her back to him. He pulls her sleeping body toward him and the
contact of her flesh only accentuates his desire. He pushes a finger into her arsehole. She is still dripping, leaking his earlier come. He slips his cock into her and begins fucking her again. It
takes him ages to orgasm as he rages against her with every movement, angrily seeking release. At one stage, he surprises himself and finds his hands beginning to tighten around her thin neck as
his thrusts take a vengeful rhythm. He quickly releases the pressure of his fingers there. He doesn’t know whether she is awake or still sleeping. But her whole body accepts him.