Лорен Хендерсон: The Mammoth Book of the Best of Best New Erotica

When it happened to me, it was with a woman. Back then, she was already twenty years older than me, so God knows , if she’s still alive now she’s using a cane to get around. But she was in fine form in 1980, thin as a rail of course. All bone, no muscle, but that was de rigueur in 1980. We didn’t lift free weights. Every ounce of energy was reserved for lifting cocktail glasses off the wet bar (a long distance endurance process) and for raising those teeny-weeny silver spoons, over and over – all right, I won’t go on. I guess your memory’s a little better than I’d thought…

So I’ll call her Giselle. Not that her name was anything close to that, but it was similarly unpronounceable and she possessed that quick, nervous energy sometimes, reminiscent of the leaping gazelle. And on our first date – or more succinctly – when we hit on each other in that 10th Avenue after-hours meat rack and went home together to fuck like dogs, she was in fine, lithe, energetic form. I know we were kissing in the back seat of that cab, but I don’t remember how we got from the cab to her sparsely furnished living room in that huge penthouse apartment in midtown, with the vaulted ceilings and all that glass. That part’s a complete blank, but what happened from that point on is clear and that’s the sex part and all that matters anyway.

Giselle’s husband was apparently loaded. And not one of those cash-poor types, either. He seemed to travel on business constantly – or so he said. At any rate, he was away an awful lot and Giselle had nothing but time and money to take his place. You’d think those two things – time and money – would have been enough, but when you’re remarkably thin and nearly forty, and beautiful and sharp and hopelessly underutilized like my dear Giselle, it takes a lot more than time and money to get your rocks completely off. Hence, Giselle’s insatiable drive towards the strange.

I’d agreed willingly from the outset, I just want that part to be clear. I had my clothes off in a hurry and was letting Giselle douche my ass, simply because she wanted it so much. I was happy to let her do it. I was on my knees and elbows in her half-bath, right off the living room, there. Completely stripped with my ass in the air, a bulb syringe squeezing warm water into my rectum while I had a lit cigarette in one hand and a nice glass of Merlot in the other.

When the water had done its trick and we were through making a mess in the half-bath, Giselle led me back to the living room and she showed me the huge leather ottoman, how it lifted open for storing magazines and stuff. But she kept her bag of toys in there. It was a pretty big bag. That leather ottoman was sort of like a Playskool Busy Box for the seriously grown up. When she’d emptied out the ottoman, Giselle encouraged me to bend over it, so she could fasten my wrists securely to the wooden casters underneath. She even had specially made rubber wedges she’d shove under the casters to keep them from rolling all over the carpeting. Right away it occurred to me, when I saw the specially made rubber wedges, that it wasn’t likely I was the first girl Giselle had stripped and douched and put over the leather ottoman. But I was OK with that. I drank like a fish and took a lot of drugs back then, so I was usually feeling pretty self-confident.

Once Giselle had secured my wrists, she inserted a steel thigh-spreader between my legs and buckled each padded end snugly around each of my thighs. And even though the thigh-spreader worked fine – it kept me from being able to close my legs – Giselle attached a padded ankle-spreader between my ankles, too. I guess she just wanted to be sure. And then she came around the front of the ottoman, gave me a hit off her cigarette and a couple of slugs of that great Merlot.

My head was buzzing. I loved the feeling of being exposed – in fact, forcibly so. Giselle leaned over and kissed my mouth for a while. It made me feel hot. It made my naked backside squirm. When her tongue pushed around inside my mouth, it made my ass arch up and it made me want to have her tongue poking into my hole.

“Look at this,” she said.

She pulled a colour Polaroid from a leather envelope and placed it on the floor under my face and went away.

I studied the Polaroid curiously. It was a picture of a girl much like myself. Well, it was impossible to tell if her face looked anything like mine, but she was totally naked and kneeling over the same ottoman, her legs forcibly spread in the same way, and she was tied down in the same provocatively helpless position. It could have easily been a Polaroid of me.

That’s when I saw the familiar bright flash coming from behind me and heard the quick grinding sound of the inner workings of the camera. In a mere sixty seconds, the colour Polaroid in front of me was replaced by a colour Polaroid of myself. It was uncanny, you know; the similarities and all.

We didn’t talk any more after that. Giselle gave me a couple quick swigs from my glass of Merlot and gave me one last drag off the cigarette, then she slipped the gag into my mouth. Tied it pretty tightly, I must say. One of those knots where you just know your hair’s in a big gnarly mess in back.

Giselle got undressed somewhere, out of my field of vision. I couldn’t see her. But when she straddled my back her slippery pussy was sliding all over my skin. It was obvious she was naked. She leaned down and spoke in my ear confidentially, as she replaced the picture in front of me with yet another one. Of the other girl again.

“She’s awfully pretty, honey, don’t you think? Her asshole’s so tight, would you look at that? Incredible, isn’t it?”

I grunted, uh-huh, and nodded my gnarly head in agreement.

“Not even a hint of a haemorrhoid, see? This girl’s in great shape.”

I have to admit, I was a little transfixed; I’d never owned a Polaroid camera that took such vivid close-ups! Giselle had obviously invested a fortune in her camera lens.

“She was very well behaved, if I remember correctly,” Giselle went on. “She took it like a champ, that one did. You think you’re going to be a good girl, too? Huh? You’ve been awfully accommodating so far.” Giselle began to kiss my neck slowly and she rubbed her wet pussy all over my lower back. “What do you think,” she repeated. “You think you’re going to be a good girl?”

Uh-huh, I grunted through my gag. I was going to be a very good girl. I was going to be stellar.

“You like things in your ass? You’ve had things in your ass before, right?”

I nodded my head, yes, but I confess I felt a little tripped up; what did she mean by things?

Then a different Polaroid was put in front of my face, a slightly more startling one. “Same girl,” Giselle whispered, “but do you notice anything different about her hole?”

It’s a huge gaping hole, I thought nervously.

“This is how her asshole looked when I was through appreciating her. Pretty remarkable, isn’t it?”

Giselle brushed some stray hairs affectionately from my forehead, I guess to make sure my vision wasn’t obscured in any way. I was riveted to that Polaroid, the crystal clear close-up of that well-appreciated sphincter.

“Of course, this sort of appreciation takes a few hours,” Giselle explained. “You don’t have to be anywhere for a while, do you?”

I don’t think I really responded to that, I was a little too transfixed. She left the gaping-hole Polaroid on the floor in front of my face and then disappeared somewhere behind me.

The anticipation is always the greatest part, isn’t it? Man, you’re just waiting and you don’t even know what the hell for. But you feel real certain that you’re going to get it, that it’s eventually going to come. And that’s the sort of excitement I was feeling; like some mad ferret had chewed his paw free from a steel leghold trap inside me and now he tore wildly around in the darkness of my intestines, wanting very much to find his way out. But that was 1980. You know I was young. I was still excited by things like suspense and fear, and the chance to get my asshole reamed by a seriously grown-up girl.