The Mammoth Book of International Erotica

“And some rope? Cord? Soft cord?”

“How long, Stuart?”

“Six feet should do.”

“Yes Stuart.”

He hung up before his perversity made him tell her to bring a whip or something. If he had, would she have? He wouldn’t know, would he, unless…

Stuart touched his screen-saver off and concentrated on nice safe numbers.

Her dress was a faded blue floral print, mid-thigh long and straining across the swaying masses of her breasts. She might have had it since she’d been a teen and less developed. It reminded him that once she’d been young and innocent, so he had her take it off before they sat down to eat.

It was very different, eating alone with her, him in robe and pyjama pants, her in just heels, hose, bangles and earrings, which is more naked than total nudity. He could look at her breasts all he liked, with no pretence. They had a very slight sag. He was glad of that tiny imperfection. It made her more vulnerable.

They were freckled as well. Did that mean she was a true redhead? It was strange, he’d used her mouth – used it in a way that he’d never have dreamed of using Janice’s, but he still hadn’t seen her pubes, not really. She’d turned away as she’d laid her dress aside and then she’d slipped into her chair at the table. He’d been watching the sway of her breasts, so he’d missed even a glimpse at her mound, her mons veneris. Still, he would see it. He could see it right then, if he wished. All he’d have to do was tell her to stand, come closer, and let him inspect her. He’d be able to look close, and long, in broad daylight.

He’d never done that to Janice. He’d seen her sex, of course, as she dressed or undressed, or in the dim light from the bedside lamp, but he’d never actually inspected her, like meat.

That’s what Virginia was – meat. Pliant, pliable, warm human meat, to be prepared to his own recipe and consumed quickly or at leisure, whatever his mood might dictate.

“Play with your nipples,” he said, just as calmly as “more coffee please”.

She laid her knife and fork aside. “How would you like me to do it?”

“To please yourself. Show me how you’d do it if you were alone.”

“Yes Stuart.” She cupped her breasts on her palms and wobbled them, staring down at her own jiggling flesh as if he wasn’t there. Well, that’s what he’d told her to do, wasn’t it? Her fingers squeezed and kneaded, milking herself in towards her nipples. She leaned backwards, tilting her face towards the ceiling. The stroking became more urgent, coaxing blood into those dark staring centres. They engorged, grew larger and harder. Her hands smoothed higher. Fingers made rings about each puffy halo and compressed, pouting them. She released her right breast and strummed the fingers of her right hand across the tip of her left nipple. Was her mouth slackening with desire? It was hard to tell, with her head tipped so far back.

Her fingertips caressed up the sides of her nipple, soft as petals, stroking from base to tip and base to tip, again and again. Her nipple responded, and there was a pulse under her pale skin. Her nipples weren’t pointed cones, like Janice’s, but rigid flat-topped turrets, almost the same circumference from base to tip.

She took that blunt tip between thumb and finger and pinched it flat. A sigh escaped her mouth. The bitch was getting off on her own caresses! She hadn’t reacted to him, but she did to herself.

“Suck it!” he said.

“Yes Stuart.” Two hands squeezed and lifted. Her head bent forward and down. Her lips parted. A kitten- tongue lapped out, point tickling the flat peak.

“I said, ‘Suck!’”

“Sorry Stuart.” She drew her entire nipple into her mouth. Her cheeks worked. Her lips and teeth mumbled more flesh, drawing more soft white breast into her mouth, creasing its skin, drawing it into an elongated pear.

She might have made a little growling sound deep in her throat as her head shook, but he wasn’t sure.

“Bite on it! Chew on your own nipple!”

Her mouth worked and her face looked as if she felt some pain, but how could he be sure she was really obeying?

“Come here and show me!”

She was wobbly on her heels. Her fingers trailed the table. When she stood by him her left nipple was a few inches above his eyes so that he looked up at it. It was wet with her spit, and she had obeyed. There were teeth marks, deep and almost blue. Stuart touched. He rolled the cylinder of hot flesh between his fingers, working the teeth dents out.

She sucked air. Her eyes were glazed. All he’d done was touch her nipple.

He trailed a finger down her cleavage, across her midriff, past her navel.

She shivered.

Her pubic hair was ginger and frizzy, trimmed short and shaped to end exactly at the fine crease where the curves of her belly and her mound met.

His fingers twirled a tuft and tugged. “Who did you trim this for?”

“For you, Stuart.”

The ridge of her clitoris was thick. Was it always like that, or was it because of him? He stroked the wrinkled skin and thought he felt a stirring beneath his finger.

The lips of her sex were swollen and slightly pendulous, protruding through the ginger fuzz. He poked. The lip yielded, soft, limp. His prod had pushed it back, indenting it. He watched as the flaccid flesh slowly recovered its shape.

This was fun! Her pussy wasn’t a part of a living woman. It was a toy. Stuart eased the hood of her clitoris back, exposing a tender arrowhead. When he released her sheath it crept forward again, but not quite so far. Just a hint of the raw pink still showed.

When he shucked it again and blew across it, Virginia’s belly tensed, winking her navel. When he slid a finger inside her, just far enough to get a grip on her sex’s lip, and pinched, she shuddered. Pleasure? Pain? Did it matter?

Stuart folded three fingers together and thrust them up into her, where she was slick corrugated heat, all delicate membranes and very internal.

She groaned and swayed – towards him.

He pulled his fingers out. They were sticky. When he parted them strands of translucent stuff stretched between them. It smelled like canned pineapples, with a vaguely metallic tang.

Stuart held his tacky fingers up to her face. “Suck them clean!”

She made a meal of it, gobbling up her own juices, slithering her tongue between his fingers and licking at their webs.

Stuart said, “Masturbate,” and added, “as if you were alone,” before she could ask for detailed instructions.

She spread her too-slim thighs, making shadowy hollows behind her tendons. Two fingers of one hand took her clitoral shaft in a scissors-grip. Two of her other hand hooked up inside her pussy. The fingers held still as her hips moved, slowly at first, then faster and faster. The head of her clitoris flashed in and out of view. She got wetter. Soft slurping noises became sharp wet splashing sounds.

Stuart looked up at her face. It was blank, eyes hidden behind heavy lids, but she was biting her lower lip.

She froze. Stuart thought for a moment that she had reached her climax, but then her fingers were jerking on her clit and she plucked the two fingers from her wet insides, flattened that hand and slapped it up at her engorged lips, short sharp fast slaps, wet slaps, wet enough to splash tiny drops of her oozings onto his face.

The sinews inside her thighs quivered.

Stuart grabbed both of her wrists. They fought him for a second then relaxed, but her belly was vibrating with urgency.

“I didn’t say you could come,” he said.

“Sorry, Stuart.”

“Go to the stool and bend over it.”

He lashed her ankles to two legs of the stool, low down, and her wrists to the other two legs, just below the