The Mammoth Book of Short Erotic Novels (11 page)

He inserts a finger, then two, inside her cunt. She is like a furnace inside. He moves his other free hand towards her rear and sticks a finger inside her arsehole, where she is still gooey from
their earlier exertions. Thalie gasps as both her holes are invaded.

Through the incandescent body heat, he feels the pulse of her heart beat against his probing fingers. He bends. Withdraws the digits and takes her now protuberant clit between his teeth and
nibbles away at it. He feels her close to coming, for the first time since they have been together. His mouth takes leave of her copiously flowing juices and he climbs over her and inserts his cock
inside her.

A wordless sound passes her lips.

Tenderness sweeps across his heart as he begins moving inside her. The fit is exquisite. The gold rings on either side of her cunt lips slide effortlessly against his shaft, enhancing the
sensations without overpowering them. As he thrusts in and out of her, the thought occurs to him that if he were her master, he would have her pierced yet again, a ring or a stud in her clitoris,
just to enhance the friction against his glans as it labours and retreats against her opening time and again. Yes, a nice thought. And a big if.

He closes his eyes in turn and surrenders to their first moment of love.

Q & A

“How did things begin to change in your relationship?

“She liked to show me off to others. Demonstrate the extent of her power over me.”

“Men? Women?”

“She would invite friends to our home and play at humiliating me in front of them.”

“How?”

“By having me wear the outfits she had bought for me. Playing games she knew I was bound to lose, and then punishing me for my missteps. I would have to strip in front of her guests and
have my rear caned or whipped. If there were other women, she would make me lick her sex in their presence: sometimes had me lie on the floor while they peed over me. I would have to serve food
naked but for a dog collar and was forbidden to react while they pinched me, touched my intimate parts, sometimes tried to trip me to cause further punishment.”

“But were there men?”

“Initially, only one. A close friend of hers. His name was B. He’s a lawyer from the city.”

“Was he her lover?”

“No. Anne-Louise hates men, sexually. But she was close to B. She liked exposing me to him, making me bend over so that he could peer inside me, even touch, which she knew I hated. The
more ill at ease I was in these situations, the more it excited her and the crueller she became with him as witness to my degradation.”

“What sort of things would she do for him?”

“She liked to demonstrate my absolute obedience. One day, I was made to lie on my back on the floor as she inserted a series of ever-larger objects inside my vagina, which I had to hold
wide open for them. First a dildo, then a bottle, then a cucumber. All the time, I could see the bump inside his trousers swell as she teased him that wouldn’t he like it to be him in that
nice virgin cunt.”

“You were still a virgin?”

“Technically, yes. I hadn’t yet been penetrated by a man. By Anne-Louise and objects only.”

“How did it happen, the first time?”

“With B. One morning, Anne-Louise summoned me and instructed me that I should take a taxi to his apartment and do every single thing he would ask me to do. When I protested, she whipped
me badly. Said I did not understand what true love was. I argued that I did. But she owed B. some debt, and he wanted me and that was that. Anyway, she told me, it would be good for my training, I
had to be broken in. I went to him. Hated every moment. Later, there were other men she loaned me to.”

“Did she ever want to watch you being fucked by them?”

“No. If she was there, she would move to another room.”

“But did she ever ask you about what happened with the men?”

“Curiously, no. Although I was avid to tell her all, to demonstrate the extent of my affection for her by describing the pain they had inflicted on me, how they had used me, violated
all my holes, made me choke on their filthy penises and forced me to swallow their ejaculate, played with me, beat me too. I wanted to tell her, ‘Anne-Louise, I have accepted all this for the
sake of you.’ But she never asked. And if there were marks, cuts, bruises on my body, she would whip me in response, as if it were all my fault.”

“Sounds very much like one-way traffic to me.”

“She said that the coming of my seventeenth birthday would mark a significant point in our relationship. That I had satisfied her so far and she would show me her gratitude on this
occasion.”

“What did she do?”

“We drove to Brussels on a Saturday morning. I thought she would be getting me new outfits at the shop in the Galerie, but this was not the case. It was a large building in the suburbs,
a doctor she knew well. I would come across him again at the special parties. He used electrolysis to depilate my pubic area. I’m told it will never grow back again. Then, he pierced my
breasts and fitted the rings I still have now. I was in heaven. I was Anne-Louise’s slave, in both body and spirit.”

“What are those special parties you mentioned?”

“They occurred later. I will tell you.”

“OK.”

Their second full day in Manhattan. The spring weather is clement. They walk. Catch cabs. Shop. Snack. Battery Park. The Cloisters. Central Park, watching the squirrels hop
along the scarce vegetation.

They talk.

“Are you happy?” he asks her. “It’s such fun showing you this city, all these places I have known and liked for years. I try and imagine what it feels for you to see them
for the first time.”

“It’s nice,” she answers. “But you’re too soft with me. I don’t deserve this, you know. If I were in your place, I would be crueller, much harder. Somehow I
think you’re too sensitive. Almost like a girl . . .”

His face clouds over. “If you were in charge and I was a girl, would you fuck me?” he quietly inquires.

“I would,” Thalie says. “I would stretch you, hurt you until you plead for mercy, but I wouldn’t give you any. I have been taught well. Switching is no
problem.”

“I see.”

“Would you prove your devotion to me by letting me treat you like that?” Thalie asks him as they cross toward the Plaza Hotel.

He doesn’t hesitate. “I would,” he replies.

“OK,” she says.

They catch a cab which takes them to a dark side street near the Port Authority Terminal. In a sex shop manned by Pakistani assistants, they buy a strap-on dildo. Flesh-coloured, veined,
awesomely realistic and life-size. And handcuffs. So that he doesn’t change his mind, she says.

He is in no hurry to return to their hotel room.

He reminds her she wanted to go to Macy’s.

She wanders indifferently through the designer label departments.

“I want to buy you something nice,” he insists.

“Why?” she queries. “How do you want me to dress? Like a whore or a princess?”

“As a young woman.”

She agrees to stockings, a silk cream-coloured see-through blouse and a flowing skirt in rainbow colours.

They arrive back at the hotel mid-afternoon. The room has been made, and the smells of sex have faded.

“Undress,” she orders him, herself stripping from the waist downwards and fitting the strap-on belt around her waist. He notices she has reattached the safety pin and the
padlock.

He silently sheds his clothes, takes a step towards the bathroom, planning to wash the sweat away from his body.

“Don’t,” she forbids him. “I want you dirty. I want to smell your vileness as I fuck you.”

He knows he shouldn’t protest; his face reddens as his arse crack feels all clammy, and his feet sticky.

“On your knees. NOW!”

He gets down on all fours.

“Raise your head.”

He does. His eyes are parallel with her labial rings. He notices she is seeping there. She is excited. She thrusts the artificial cock toward his mouth.

“Suck me,” she intimates.

The rubbery material fills his mouth; the taste is unpleasant. She only lets him suck the dildo for a minute or two then withdraws it and places herself behind him. All she wanted was for him to
wet it.

She places the strap-on head against the outer ring of his sphincter and begins pushing it in.

It enters him with surprising ease. Initially, there is little pain and he is almost disappointed.

The feeling doesn’t last and soon he is biting his lips to repress heartfelt sounds of anguish as Thalie goes to war on him, viciously twisting the implement of torture within his gut as
she endlessly adjusts her stance to increase its depth, the angle of attack and the unremitting pressure on his protesting bowels. He knows she is enjoying this. But he reasons, beyond the valley
of pain, that she deserves at least this; that this is his own particular way of experiencing some of the humiliation that has been lavished on her by so many others. He communes with her as she
keeps on fucking his arse, until the skin inside and outside is raw from the friction. His heart beats wildly; bile pools at the back of his throat; he has difficulty breathing. There is no longer
any pleasure in the act for him.

Then, as suddenly as she entered him, she pulls it out in one swift movement and he momentarily feels as if his whole insides are being suctioned out.

He collapses, stomach first, onto the hotel room floor.

“There,” she says. “I think you would make a better slave than a master. Very docile. You take your suffering in silence; that’s a good sign,” she remarks.

For a moment, a germ of an idea settles in his mind. An image of the two of them as slaves, collared together, made to perform for the benefit of others.

At last, he rises, as his breath returns. Thalie now sits on the bed, watching him. The strap is now detached from her; her hands shield her jewelled pubes.

“I hurt you, didn’t I?” she asks, watching him rub his hole with the back of his hand. There is some blood.

“You did,” he says.

“Then I must be punished,” she says. “That is the way.”

As he washes the traces of the fuck away some minutes later, he realizes she is now testing him. It’s scary: could he ever become her master? Keep her?

He dresses.

The crease of his boxer shorts rubs painfully against his bruised flesh as he walks back into the room. Thalie is watching a game show on the TV set.

“I’m taking you out,” he tells her, switching the programme off.

“Where to?”

“Never you mind.”

Somehow, he always knew it would come to this.

She understands.

Asks: “How should I dress?”

“Like a whore. Wear that blouse and no bra, and stockings. And your shortest skirt. No underwear.”

She nods.

Night falls as their cab rushes down Fifth toward SoHo. He instructs her. At all times, she will sit with her legs open; there is to be no false modesty. She is his property for tonight and the
following day and he will brook no disobedience. She will only talk when spoken to.

She indicates her assent to his terms.

“You will take no pleasure from what is done to you, because I won’t, either . . .”

“A master would take pleasure in displaying me,” she interrupts him.

He slaps her cheek, as punishment for her uncalled verbal response.

“Quiet, now.”

Her cheek reddens from the blow. She lowers her eyes. The driver looks inquiringly into his rear mirror at the older man and the young woman. Even though the light outside is dimming, he clearly
saw her nipples through the shimmering blouse as she entered his cab, and he tries to get a better look.

A jazz club. Grimy walls, cigarette smoke, dissonant melodies running like waves across the ceiling over the sparse audience. He has her drink vodka and orange, although he knows she dislikes
the concoction. Men at the bar glance in their direction. Her skirt is hitched up to mid-thigh. He fingers her under the table. She squirms.

Her rings are wet with her secretions.

He informs her of the fact. Presents a finger to her.

“Lick me clean.”

She does, just as the waitress approaches their table, inquiring after another round.

“Touching,” the waitress mumbles, visibly disapproving and mistaking Thalie’s appetite for a gesture of love.

“Isn’t it?” he responds with a wry smile.

The tension is palpable, as he summons his courage.

She senses it and remains damningly silent and expressionless.

Finally.

“Anything?”

“Yes,” Thalie replies. “Anything: it is my nature to be a slave.”

He rises from his seat as the band on stage finish their set in a flourish of drum rolls and reverb, takes hold of her hand and they make their way to the toilets. He briefly holds his breath
and then enters the men’s, followed by her. There is a harsh smell of antiseptic lingering in the air; the ceiling is low, the surroundings claustrophobic. There is no one there. Just a
yellowing row of urinals, a creaking fan circling like a low-flying aircraft close to the peeling, concrete ceiling, a sink with a dripping tap, a dirty towel and, behind a wooden door painted
jet-black, the lone toilet seat. He opens the cubicle and orders Thalie to sit. He pulls her blue skirt up to her waist, unveiling her rings, and opens the buttons of her blouse so that her breasts
are also on display.

“Like that. Yes.”

She doesn’t answer.

“The first man to come in,” he says.

She nods silently.

They wait. Each passing second extends to eternity.

Finally, the door to the men’s toilets swings open and a tall black guy walks in, hands already unzipping his flies. He heads towards the urinal, his back to Thalie in the cubicle.

“Hi.” He recognizes the guy, who played bass in the gang, a lanky man in denim.

“Hi, man. How ya doin’?”

“Listen. I have something for you . . .”