The Mammoth Book of Short Erotic Novels by Maxim Jakubowski Page B

is little pain and he is almost disappointed.
    The feeling doesn’t last and soon he is biting his lips to repress heartfelt sounds of anguish as Thalie goes to war on him, viciously twisting the implement of torture within his gut as
she endlessly adjusts her stance to increase its depth, the angle of attack and the unremitting pressure on his protesting bowels. He knows she is enjoying this. But he reasons, beyond the valley
of pain, that she deserves at least this; that this is his own particular way of experiencing some of the humiliation that has been lavished on her by so many others. He communes with her as she
keeps on fucking his arse, until the skin inside and outside is raw from the friction. His heart beats wildly; bile pools at the back of his throat; he has difficulty breathing. There is no longer
any pleasure in the act for him.
    Then, as suddenly as she entered him, she pulls it out in one swift movement and he momentarily feels as if his whole insides are being suctioned out.
    He collapses, stomach first, onto the hotel room floor.
    “There,” she says. “I think you would make a better slave than a master. Very docile. You take your suffering in silence; that’s a good sign,” she remarks.
    For a moment, a germ of an idea settles in his mind. An image of the two of them as slaves, collared together, made to perform for the benefit of others.
    At last, he rises, as his breath returns. Thalie now sits on the bed, watching him. The strap is now detached from her; her hands shield her jewelled pubes.
    “I hurt you, didn’t I?” she asks, watching him rub his hole with the back of his hand. There is some blood.
    “You did,” he says.
    “Then I must be punished,” she says. “That is the way.”
    As he washes the traces of the fuck away some minutes later, he realizes she is now testing him. It’s scary: could he ever become her master? Keep her?
    He dresses.
    The crease of his boxer shorts rubs painfully against his bruised flesh as he walks back into the room. Thalie is watching a game show on the TV set.
    “I’m taking you out,” he tells her, switching the programme off.
    “Where to?”
    “Never you mind.”
    Somehow, he always knew it would come to this.
    She understands.
    Asks: “How should I dress?”
    “Like a whore. Wear that blouse and no bra, and stockings. And your shortest skirt. No underwear.”
    She nods.
    Night falls as their cab rushes down Fifth toward SoHo. He instructs her. At all times, she will sit with her legs open; there is to be no false modesty. She is his property for tonight and the
following day and he will brook no disobedience. She will only talk when spoken to.
    She indicates her assent to his terms.
    “You will take no pleasure from what is done to you, because I won’t, either . . .”
    “A master would take pleasure in displaying me,” she interrupts him.
    He slaps her cheek, as punishment for her uncalled verbal response.
    “Quiet, now.”
    Her cheek reddens from the blow. She lowers her eyes. The driver looks inquiringly into his rear mirror at the older man and the young woman. Even though the light outside is dimming, he clearly
saw her nipples through the shimmering blouse as she entered his cab, and he tries to get a better look.
    A jazz club. Grimy walls, cigarette smoke, dissonant melodies running like waves across the ceiling over the sparse audience. He has her drink vodka and orange, although he knows she dislikes
the concoction. Men at the bar glance in their direction. Her skirt is hitched up to mid-thigh. He fingers her under the table. She squirms.
    Her rings are wet with her secretions.
    He informs her of the fact. Presents a finger to her.
    “Lick me clean.”
    She does, just as the waitress approaches their table, inquiring after another round.
    “Touching,” the waitress mumbles, visibly disapproving and mistaking Thalie’s appetite for a gesture of love.
    “Isn’t it?” he responds with a wry smile.
    The tension is