Maxim Jakubowski: The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica. Volume 3

Over freshly ground coffee we discussed, briefly, bands I had never heard of, politics I had long since abandoned and why consumerism meant the end of the planet. I had lived long enough to prefer central heating to squats with broken windows so I let her talk. And I had thought the same at her age so I couldn’t really complain.

She might have disdained consumerism but seemed to like trying out whatever new therapy had just been invented – the more the merrier. Although they didn’t seem to fix whatever it was that was wrong with her. She worked for a charity but played very hard indeed – sex, drugs, fags, booze. Truly had a light Northern accent but appeared to have a vaguely genteel background. Just like me. And she was actually scanning her way through our many bookshelves.

“You’re a writer!” she said, eyes shining.

“Not any more,” I said. But not so retired that I don’t want people to read what I have already produced. My books are left where our visitors can see them. No one ever picks them up. But Truly had found one of the novels and was flicking through it avidly.

“What are you writing now?” she said. She actually wanted to know. I was already lost – not yet “in love” – but afflicted with something or other. Something heart-shaped anyway.

“I packed it in,” I said. “But you write.” She raised her eyebrows.

“How did you know?”

Probably because anyone other than an aspiring writer would have ignored the book. She was looking a little awestruck. I was obviously psychic. It is amazing what you can do with a bald head and a bit of enigmatic silence.

“You keep a journal,” I said. It seemed a safe bet.

“Wow!” she said. I had passed the audition. I would be able to sort out her life.

“Where’s Katrin?” she asked. “I really like her.”

“She’s whipping an old tart called Ernest,” I told her. Although I didn’t mention that this was an entirely financial arrangement. Or that Ernest still wore fishnet stockings at the age of 72.

“You have an open marriage?” asked Truly, surmising correctly.

“For S/M play, yes. And we discuss everything. No secrets. Playing is fine. I don’t do intercourse. You have to keep something for your primary partner. But playing lasts much longer anyway. So it’s not so much of a sacrifice, anyway.”

A wicked little smile slowly spread as she sees the logic of this.

“She’s out?”

“Yes. Till tonight.”

“And she won’t mind, then?”

“No,” I said. For this is what Katrin had said that very morning. Although she may not have actually meant it, of course.

“I can be a slut, then?” she asked. She was easing into her minx persona. The bad girl who was about to use her body in ways that would have broken her mother’s heart. I blame Roman Catholicism myself. Although, as it produces a regular supply of especially wicked women, perhaps we shouldn’t complain too much.

Her eyes widened. Her lips were moist. After a flirtatious shake of head sideways she gave me the full moon eyes back again. They were big and blue, although the whites were strewn with red wreckage. This was a reminder that she had a plentiful supply of her own demons. Perhaps she didn’t always like what we were about to do. But was driven to do it anyway.

She stood up and kicked her red Converse sneakers off. Then eased her jeans and knickers down. She laughed as she threw her T-shirt in a corner and unhooked a bra that was never going to feature in a lingerie catalogue. But with firm, full breasts like hers she did not need to spend money to look stunning.

Naked, she stepped into my space. The warm scent of her breath sent the blood racing around my body. Something bigger than the two of us was setting this in motion. The force that impels sperm to impregnate a fertile womb. Well, not on this occasion, Grandma. Mother Nature was just going to have to wait. But the Devil himself was coming out to play.

“I’ve been bad,” she said, taking her voice back some decades. And jutting her lower lip out.

“You’ve been wicked, my dear,” I told her. “You need firm handling. Someone to take care of you.”

I don’t always feel comfortable mouthing these shop-worn lines. But it was what she needed to hear. Besides, I can credibly personify authority in short, sharp bursts. Particularly when there is a flawlessly pert bottom to be unveiled. With a rapidly moistening, slitted pouch peeking out from between her long, lean legs.

“Do I need a spanking, sir?” she asked, her eyes twinkling, though her voice seemed anxious.

“You certainly do,” I said. “It’s the only language you understand.”

She laid herself over my lap and sighed gently as she made herself comfortable. Some think you should start a spanking with outstretched fingers, gauging the required force of the slaps by the sighs of gratitude or the squeals of pain. I prefer a multi-disciplinary approach myself, a little of everything. A cupped palm here, a little pull and prod there. Tweaking the springy bottom flesh between finger and thumb made us both sigh. With so much moisture coagulating in her pussy cleft it seemed a shame not to put a thumb inside her. Soft sighs of satisfaction mingled with my own less than graceful groaning. We both needed this. Badly. A few more taps with my fingers and it was time to cup my hand. And strike where the curves were at their roundest.

Part of me was thinking it would be always be like this: the lover’s fallacy that strikes when the blood first drains from the head to more erogenous zones. Perhaps that’s why the rational part of the brain ceases to function. We never did get to repeat this peak moment often enough for me, but the memories still remain.

Sometimes, when lost in lust, she would turn around and pull the cheeks of her bottom apart. Do me. Do me now. I found this sort of thing passed the time quite adequately. It was an absorbing hobby. One I never got tired of. Although Truly was infuriatingly unreliable when it came to arranging our diary. Understandably enough, she was looking for a life partner and not someone to do sex with occasionally. And then there was the new age tripe. “I am choosing to experience life on a higher plane,” she would tell me, when cancelling dates to which she had only just enthusiastically assented. Still, there’s nothing like spirituality, is there? “Choosing to experience life on a higher plane”, indeed!

Even on the first day she offered herself to me I was irritated by her recommendation of some new age twaddle called “Conversations with God”, which had, needless to say, sold several million copies.

My own “Conversations with My Lord Lucifer” was unlikely to sell a similar amount, even if I ever got around to writing it. Thinking of this particular idiocy I smacked her squirming bottom three times in quick succession, hard enough to hurt the palm of my hand. I’ll give her “choosing to experience life on a higher plane”, I thought, starting to warm to my task. An indignant “hey” soon disabused me of the notion that this was acceptable behaviour.

Well, sometimes you have to do what is good for the person over your lap rather than what they think is good for them. And the warm glow spreading from her chastised cheeks appeared to be bucking her up no end. But I slowed down anyway, as the customer is always right, once they have placed their trust in you. In any case, just watching her get lost in the moment was exciting enough to make my heart pound.

“Yes! Yes! Yes! Oh, thank you! Thank you!” she said, giving sincere thanks for something for which she had waited too long. I was beginning to feel a little blessed myself. Fortunate to have found her. I stroked her slowly, front and back, until a note of desperation entered her voice.