Maxim Jakubowski: The Mammoth Book of International Erotica

I was as gentle as I could be. Thank goodness I’d got there on time, for there were only four weals, one high across the backs of her slender thighs, one crossing her bottom at an angle, and two, close together and parallel, blooming into darkness across her cheeks where they were fullest. There were other welts, faded to just pink lines under the translucent pallor of her skin. I smoothed ointment over those as well, though it was too late for it to do much good.

“Could you rub it in?” she asked. “It’ll sting, but it does more good if it’s worked in.”

So I smeared the stuff all over and massaged.

She said, “Harder, please. Harder than that. Don’t be afraid to hurt me.”

I felt muscles twitch and writhe under my hands. It should have been very sexy, rubbing the naked bottom of a beautiful woman, but my concern for her pain blocked any erotic response on my part.

I wiped my hands and untied her. She rolled over and sat up but she didn’t grab the bedclothes to cover herself so I found a satin robe hanging behind the door and draped it over her.

“Don’t leave me,” she said. “He might come back.” Her fingers found my hand and drew it between her breasts. “I need to have you around, for tonight.”

“I’ll sleep on your couch.”

“If that’s what you want.”

It wasn’t. Now she was untied and partly covered, my body was reacting to her body, but if I’d made a move on her I’d have been exploiting the situation, and how do you embrace a woman whose rear is so tender?

She woke me with coffee, naked under that satin robe. “Do you have to go somewhere?”

“My office, sorry.”

“Could you do my bottom again before you go?”

She lay flat on her tummy and tucked the robe up to her waist. The marks had faded to a pattern of bruises. In the daylight I could see that her skin wasn’t broken, thank goodness. The salve must have been cool and soothing on her burning flesh, because when she squirmed under my hands it wasn’t from wincing, but from pleasure. She purred once, when my fingers accidentally trailed into the crease between her buttocks.

“You’ll come back?” she asked.

“After work. About six.”

“Not for lunch?”

“I can’t. Sorry.”

When I got back she had a place set for one and a t-bone with a baked potato and mushrooms waiting. There was red wine and two full glasses. She was still naked under her robe, but dewy, as if fresh from a bath. Eartha Kitt was on the stereo, husking something about needing someone to bind her.

“Aren’t you eating?” I asked.

“I ate earlier. I’ll just watch you.”

I ate and she looked at me. “You saved me, you know.”

“It was nothing.”

“You know what the Chinese say about when you save someone?”

“What?”

“You’re responsible for them. You own them, but you have to take care of them.”

I said, “We aren’t Chinese,” but her words stirred me. The idea of “owning” her appealed to something in my libido.

“You are my knight in shining armour,” she said.

I shrugged.

“I owe you.”

“No – not really.”

“I owe you this , at least.”

She came round and wriggled onto my lap. I just had time to swallow before her head tilted up and the prickle of her nails on the back of my neck urged my mouth down to hers.

It was a nice kiss, but not a “normal” one, if any kiss can be normal. She held her face away from mine by half an inch and slavered her wine-wet tongue across my lips, from corner to corner. I went to bend lower, but she held my head in place. Her tongue lapped backwards and forwards, as if my steak had left grease on my lips and that was what she was after. With me still held in position, her tongue centred and slithered between my lips. It withdrew, and slithered in once more, making slow sensuous love to my mouth.

As her tongue soft-raped my lips, she writhed on my lap, pressing down hard. It was as if her mouth was under perfect control but her bottom was passionate. I was concerned about her soreness but my cock wasn’t. It was enjoying every urgent squirm.

She turned away at last, and took a mouthful of wine. Her lips covered mine. Wine flowed from her mouth to mine, sweet and warm with her saliva.

“Give me some wine,” she said. “Squirt it into my mouth.”

Her mouth opened like a hungry chick, giving me no choice but to jet wine in a long stream, straight onto her tongue. The more wine she swallowed, the more frantically her bottom twisted on my lap.

“Aren’t you sore?” I asked.

She jumped up. With her back to me, looking back over her shoulder, she shot a hip and pulled the skirts of her robe to one side. “See? Almost better? All it needs is…”

“Is?”

“A ‘kiss-better’.”

What could I do? I planted a peck on one cheek, but she flexed it at me, so I licked from the crease where her thigh met her bottom to the small of her back.

“Oh yes! Being a bit tender makes me so much more sensitive. More, please?”

I’d known a number of women, and no two are alike, but this was the strangest seduction I’d ever experienced. I’d licked a few women’s bums before, but never before I’d even touched their breasts, or made love to them in a more conventional fashion. The weirdness of it-the out-of-order of it -made it incredibly exciting.

I nibbled at the base of her spine.

She bent forward, hands on knees. “That’s nice. Touch me, please?”

Where? Wherever I liked, I guessed. After you’ve kissed a woman’s bottom, what caress is forbidden?

I reached around her and pulled her sash loose. My left hand smoothed up over her ribcage, enjoying the ridged smoothness, to cup her pendant breast. My right hand did spider-fingers up the inside of her thigh, touched springy hairs, fumbled, and found moist heat. I rotated three fingers on her, pressing gently. My teeth nipped at the pad of muscle just above her bottom’s cleft. My left hand spread into a fan and strummed across the tip of a springy nipple.

Cyn said, “I could get off on what you’re doing, Paul. You won’t be shocked, will you? When I blow, I blow very wet.”

I wasn’t sure which of my caresses was getting to her, so I continued with all three. My left hand flickered faster. Two fingers of my right folded up into slick softness while a third found the head of her clit, and rubbed over it. My tongue traced an inch lower, to her tailbone – her coccyx.

She said, “Harder.”

She hadn’t been specific, so I plucked at her nipple, pinching its tip, substituted my thumb for the fingers that were inside her pussy so that I could use them to manipulate her clit, and rubbed the flat of my tongue in tight circles.

In a totally calm voice, she said, “I’m going to blow now. Don’t worry. I can do it again, and again, for a long time.”

She juddered on my palm, and hot-flooded into it. She’d been right. She did “blow wet”. She soaked me to the wrist. Her spending smelled like fresh-baked bread.

“Now like this.” Her two hands took my one and slapped it up against the soft saturated lips of her sex. “Do it hard,” she said. “I’ll keep blowing.”

It made splashy sounds. I bit into her left buttock, forgetting how sore it had to be, and kept slapping up at her until she groaned and toppled forwards onto her hands and knees.

She rolled onto her back, looked at me from under hooded lids, and said, “I blew three times. Now it’s your turn.”

“I can wait a while.”

“No – I’m on the boil. Keep me boiling. I’m hot for you, Paul. Hot, hot, hot.”

I stood and tossed my jacket aside.

“No time for that,” she said. “Get it out and get it in me. Is it big? Is it a nice big one?”