together an International version in 1996, of which this is now a reissue, with a couple of handfuls of the original stories consigned to the depths of the past and replaced by another ten previously uncollected tales to refresh the volume.
Initially, it was my intention to demonstrate how wide the spectrum of writing on sex, love and sensuality could be. And how the art of the erotic tale actually thrived in contemporary writing. Little did I know that over ten years later, the series would reach over 15 volumes which have since included Historical Erotica, Short Erotic Novels, five annual best of the year volumes, Gay, Lesbian and Erotic Poetry as well as two volumes I am very proud of, displaying the best of the world’s erotic photography (an ironic state of affairs as I am known to have taken a somewhat limited number of photographs in my whole life, much preferring the art of voyeurism to the act of photography…).
So, mission accomplished and, today, the bookstore shelves are now crowded by a plethora of competing, thematic and otherwise anthologies from colleagues in the UK and America, and I would hazard a higher standard of sensuous, provocative writing than was the case when this series began.
Another fact that brings a satisfied smile to my face is the fact that since the initial volume of
And there has been resounding acclaim for a whole slew of novels and books from foreign shores singing the flesh and the erotic: viz the commercial success of books in translation by Alina Reyes, Almudena Grandes, Regine Deforges, Vanessa Duries, Cathy Millet, Marthe Blau, Tobsha Learner, Florence Dugas, Melissa P. and countless others.
So, erotic prose is not just an Anglo-Saxon phenomenon but a universal one and this revised edition of this influential volume still only skims the surface of what is being written in France and Italy for instance, both countries so fertile right now that they could provide their own bumper Mammoth volumes of erotica and still neglect dozens of worthy writers such is the depth of talent currently active there. And I deplore my own lack of fluency in other languages like Spanish and German where, browsing through publishers’ catalogues reveals possible treasures…
But I am confident there is enough here to satisfy your curiosity and tease your senses most delightfully.
So I will end by repeating what I said in the introduction to the first edition: welcome again to a realm of bizarre and fascinating beauty as imaginations run galore in an empire of the senses that literally spans the globe. By ready for everything as anything literally goes, leave your clothes and your blinkers at the door, allow your emotions to control you, sit yourselves down and relax and follow the words of all these true artists of the flesh, the erotic writers who can blend emotion and sex into a dizzy, seductive maelstrom that will often have you catching your breath in sheer excitement.
Let the great worldwide carnival begin!
MRS FOX by Michael Crawley
ELEVEN DAYS AFTER I broke up with Angie I ran into Jeff, sitting in a booth at Sombrero Jack’s. He was with a woman, so I tried to make it “Hi and Bye”, but he insisted I join them.
“Paul, this is Mrs Fox – Cynthia Fox. Cynthia – Paul. We worked at Blackstock’s together, years ago.”
I half-stood and reached across to squeeze limp fingers.
“Call me ‘Cyn’.” Did her fingertips drag on my palm for a fraction of a second? I wasn’t sure.
I knew straight away why Jeff wanted me there long enough to get a good look at her. He’d always been joking-jealous of me. I was bigger, and had all my hair. Some of the women in the old office had hung around my desk during coffee breaks, playing at flirting. It hadn’t meant anything, but they hadn’t done the same at his desk. He’d resented that.
Now he was with this woman – an older woman who was quite lovely – and I was alone. He wanted to make the most of it. I could live with that.
He said, “Cynthia and I live together.”
I said, “You’re a lucky man,” and meant it. Her age showed in the laugh-lines around her big dark eyes, but her black hair was crisp and short and her body looked lithe, with hard high breasts, half exposed by the shawl neckline of a sweater in clinging black jersey. She wasn’t wearing a bra. She didn’t need one.
Jeff ordered a round and poked the gold card he’d left on the table from side to side, to make sure I saw it. I resolved that when the time came for me to pay my shot I’d use cash. It’d spoil it for him if I used
Jeff did the talking. It was impressive stuff – big deals with Chile and so on. He was selling prefabricated buildings or something. Maybe he
When she excused herself to go the ladies’ room I watched her hips slink away into crowded darkness.
“What do you think of her?” he asked.
“Very nice. A sexy lady.” I couldn’t comment on her personality because she’d hardly said a word.
“You don’t know the half of it.”
I was supposed to ask for details. I didn’t. I’m no prude, but some things should be kept private.
Cyn seemed jittery when she came back. Her arm stretched halfway across the table to fiddle with the little glass ball that held the candle, to adjust the condiments, to take a napkin from the holder and shred it. She had nice hands – longish fingernails – very pointed – painted deep pink. Her fingers were slender. Tiny blue veins showed inside her wrists. Higher on her pale arms I noticed some bruising and broken skin, as if a bracelet had caught in something and yanked off, or like a rope-burn maybe.
It was none of my business.
Her collar seemed to gape more now, or perhaps it was just her leaning towards me. There was a purplish mark above her collarbone and another mark, the size of a thumb-print, on the slope of her right breast.
It was still none of my business.
It wasn’t any of my business when Jeffs hand dropped out of sight and she winced, still looking straight into my eyes.
They stood to leave, with Jeff leering, “Bed time, Cynthia.”
She took my hand in a proper shake, not that “fingertip” thing. Something pressed into my palm.
I gave them five minutes before I looked. It was a note, written on that tan paper they use for towels in washrooms, and a key. The note read, “I must see you. I need your help. Midnight.” There was an address and a lipstick kiss. The paper was damp. Tears, or moist palms?
They were supposed to live together, but maybe Jeff had lied about that, or perhaps he was flying to Peru to do another of his multi-million dollar deals.
I thought for a while, but it had been eleven days since Angie, and I’ve always been a sucker for a “damsel in distress”, even when I’m not horny.
I knocked on her apartment door, but too lightly for anyone inside to hear unless they were listening for it. I still could have turned around, but I didn’t.
I used the key.
The hallway was dark. I said, “Cynthia? Mrs Fox? Cyn?”
There was a line of light under a door at the end. Something swished and cracked. A soft voice yelped. I strode on the balls of my feet and cracked the door. The bedroom was lit by candles. Cyn was on the bed, on her face, spread-eagled and naked. Her wrists and ankles were tied to the four corners of a scrolled brass frame. Jeff was stripped to his waist, his belt doubled in his hand, raised high. It came down hard, across her bottom.
When I see abuse something cold takes over. I did things to his wrist and his face and then he was whimpering on the floor. I prodded his thigh with the toe of my shoe and told him, “You have five minutes to get your things and go.”
