The Mammoth Book of International Erotica

I woke at noon to the smell of bacon and eggs. After breakfast she suggested I might like to go get some wine and vodka because we’d drunk the last of her booze. When I got back she was madeup and wearing that jersey sweater and nothing else but a pair of metallic black stay-up hose.

I’d been contemplating maybe another session that evening, not at two in the afternoon, but my cock took one look at that tiny triangle of curls, black on white and framed by black jersey above and black nylon below, and made my decision for me. I took her in my arms for a long kiss with my hands checking out how well the weals on her bottom were healing.

They were doing well, but still tender. Whenever my fingertip grazed a ridge she shivered and gasped into my mouth. Her pubes bumped at me as well, which didn’t discourage me.

“I wasn’t nice to you, when you were on the recliner,” she said. “I plan to make that up to you.”

“You were fine – more than fine – fantastic,” I said.

“No – I forgot your pleasure. I feel guilty. Let me do it right, please?”

It’d been a while since a woman had asked me to let her screw me, “please”. I let her undress me and sit me back on the chair. She poured two half-tumblers of straight vodka over ice, set them on a side table, and climbed up astride me.

“I’m not ready,” I apologised.

“You will be.”

She did that shared-drink thing again, with vodka. That, and the heat that was radiating down from her pussy onto my cock, started to take effect. She chewed at my bottom lip for a while, tickle-touching my ribs and chest, brushing her fingertips across my nipples, and then she swooped down and bit one, quite hard.

“Ouch!”

She grinned at me. “Did that hurt?”

I rubbed my chest. “Some.”

She tugged her sweater up into a roll above her breasts and said, “So – take your revenge.”

I nipped.

“I bit you harder than that.”

“Harder.”

I clamped my teeth as hard as I could short of drawing blood. Cyn sucked air, arched at me, and clawed one hand down my chest.

I jerked back. She’d drawn blood. There were four parallel furrows with little curls of skin at the ends.

Cyn said, “Kiss better.”

Her tongue-tip traced them, one at a time. When all four had been tingled she sat back and said, “And antiseptic.” She poured icy vodka over my chest. It stung the scratches but then she put her tongue to work again, lapping and sucking it out of my wounds.

“More?”

I nodded.

“Watch closely. Don’t be chicken.”

I watched. She rested the heel of her hand on my sternum. Her fingers curled. Four nail-points prickled. I stared down as they made tiny dents.

“Say when.”

The tension was unbearable, so I said, “When.”

I reared from the searing, but it was good. Her nails had cut deeper this time, but that just left wider wounds to be tongue-lapped and vodka-stung. She was still licking at me when her hand groped to wrap around my shaft and she lowered herself onto it and I sunk right up into her sponginess.

Then she went berserk. By the time I came my face was soaked with the sweat she’d flicked with her flailing hair and my shoulders were sore from the gouges, but it was worth the pain. It was worth every delirious moment of it.

Then we had to have a shower together. I was sure I wasn’t up to any more but she turned away from me and had me soap her long back and her round bottom and all the time she was reaching behind and slithering her soapy palm up and down on my cock, rubbing its head over her firm smooth slippery buttock, and I found that I could get another erection, and have another orgasm. I came thick and foamy, dribbling obscenely down the back of her glossy thigh.

When you come on a woman, instead of in her, it’s like you mark her as your territory. It defiles her the way a brand defiles the haunch of a cow, making her more precious because she’s yours.

We called out for fried chicken and she licked my fingers for me and then finger-painted her own breasts with chicken-grease, so it was early in the morning before we slept again.

Sunday was the same, from noon till four in the morning. I was glad to go to my office on Monday.

She phoned at three. “What time do I expect you, and what would you like for supper?”

“Six. Whatever. Should I bring something in?”

“Lamb chops. What are you going to do to me tonight, Paul?”

“Do to you?”

“In bed, on the chair, on the floor?”

“Make long passionate love to you, Cyn.”

“Give me the details. I want to be thinking about it till you get here.”

“I’ll call you back.”

When I’d thought, and I called her, all she said was, “Is that all? You can do better than that, darling. Leave it to me tonight then.”

I came home and found her on the bed, naked except for one stocking. The other was wrapped around her wrists and tied to the bedrail.

She said, “You bastard! You’ve got me in your power now, haven’t you. I’m helpless and you can do anything you like to me.”

I can play games. I sat on the bed beside her and rested my palm on her pubes. Leering, I said, “Do anything I like to this,” and gave her a squeeze.

Her thighs spread wide under my hand. “I bet you plan to oil your hand,” she nodded sideways towards the bottle of baby oil that stood ready open, “and work it right up into me, no matter what I say.”

I took off my jacket and rolled my shirt sleeve up. The oil was cool in my palm. I smoothed it over her pubes and her pussy’s pulpy lips.

“I might scream,” she said. “I might beg you to stop, but you’ll be merciless, won’t you.”

“Merciless,” I agreed. I folded three fingers together and worked them into her.

“I thought you were going to be cruel.”

I straightened my hand into a blade and forced all four fingers and half of my palm between her lips.

“You were going to use your whole hand.”

I added my thumb and wriggled, pushing as hard as I dared. Cyn set her feet flat on the bed and lifted her hips at me.

“Deeper. I can take it.”

Women have babies, don’t they? And don’t necessarily split? I pushed harder, against slippery convoluted resistance. My hand sank in, deeper, to the heel of my palm. She was incredibly strong in there. Her vaginal muscles clamped. I struggled against the pressure. I pushed. Her constriction folded my hand into a fist. It was like my hand was in a hot wet rubber sack that was shrinking, slowly crushing my fingers.

“I have to take it out,” I told her. “I’m getting a cramp.”

“No! Revolve it first. Twist your fist in me.”

I turned it left and then right and then started to withdraw, slowly, gingerly, unfolding my fingers as soon as I was able, and finally I was free.

“I’ll be loose for about an hour,” she said. “Better turn me over.”

It took me a moment to understand, but then I did, and flipped her, and shucked my clothes. She was kneeling rump-up, ready. I oiled my cock and poured more oil over her sphincter. Two thumbs pressed her open. I got my cock’s head in place and then pushed down on it with the ball of one thumb. It slowly sank into her, and