The Mammoth Book of Erotica presents The Best of Thomas S. Roche Read online

  He did not undress her this time. Instead, he simply lifted the robe, bunching it around her upper thighs and buttocks. Amelia felt him pulling the robe tight through her crotch. She felt Abdelsaid pouring oil between her buttocks, some spilling on the robe. Amelia watched the three women, who had begun to kiss each other, their limbs twined in a lush ménage.

  Then Amelia felt a rush of fear and surrender as Abdelsaid mounted her from behind, but not in the fashion he had done before. The sensations were very different this time – stronger, perhaps because her need was so great. It was then that she became aware of the woman’s smell. The third wife was against her, placing herself on the mat. Her thighs spread around Amelia, and Amelia, without thinking, began to work her tongue between the woman’s legs, tasting something unfamiliar and oddly delicious.

  The third wife moaned softly.

  Abdelsaid was continuing to thrust gently inside her, silently moving in and out between her buttocks. The sensations were curious indeed, but not at all unpleasant. Amelia’s whole body began to shake. And then suddenly Abdelsaid was finished. Amelia slumped, spent, against the mat.

  Abdelsaid motioned toward the three women, speaking to them sternly. Amelia watched, without understanding. She heard the French word “Monsieur,” perhaps it was the name “Monsieur Breton”. She had known a Monsieur Breton briefly, in Nice. He had been a drifter, living nowhere, floating. But was a happy man. Amelia felt sure that she and Monsieur Breton had been lovers; fleetingly, she remembered a pleasant afternoon of sex in her hotel room. The three wives seemed to be arguing violently with Abdelsaid. The third wife was trying to open Amelia’s robe. Abdelsaid grabbed Amelia, shouting, and held her against his body.

  Sheepishly, the three women moved away from Amelia. They dressed in silence while Abdelsaid watched. Then the three women left the room. Abdelsaid followed them, and did not pause to kiss Amelia good-bye.

  Abdelsaid cursed the women for trying to engage Monsieur Breton against his wishes. “He was plainly enjoying himself with me,” said Abdelsaid cruelly. “He didn’t need a trio of women devouring him. I already told you about the French!”

  “You saw that thing the Frenchman did to Aouicha! He was enjoying it!”

  Abdelsaid was losing his temper. “No! That’s a French custom! It is not something they enjoy. It’s considered a duty.” He tried to change the subject.

  The women argued with him late into the night. Finally Abdelsaid threw up his arms and forbade any of them to lay with Monsieur Breton. They were to satisfy his hunger, and that was it. But Abdelsaid knew that it would be impossible, that his secret would soon be discovered.

  These moments with the French woman, then, were like succulent morsels for him to savor. Like the dried petals of the Black Lily. Their time together was to be brief. It made Abdelsaid very sad.

  He made his way back to the French woman’s room, his heart filled with longing.

  Abdelsaid came to her again before the next mealtime, without his wives. His passion was incredible, his thrusting almost violent. Amelia was sure that he would break her in half as he possessed her, though there was a delicious thrill to his desire and at no point was she afraid. But she was left hungry and wanting, the aching need inside her. She wondered if it was possible to satisfy it some other way, to bring on that pleasurable sensation. Perhaps to cause it herself? She tried, but found it impossible. She grew lonely and afraid and began to weep in the darkness.

  She had never had an identity, never known her name. It did not seem right that it should upset her. For she existed only in the present, only as a part of this elaborate ritual in the Sahara. She was nothing. Amelia had ceased to exist. Perhaps she never had existed. So why did nonexistence torment this nameless woman?

  She wept for a time. But when the weeping passed, it seemed that, too, was gone for ever and had never been. Perhaps as a dream.

  What happened seemed natural, when the third wife came once again to feed. Once the meal was over, the wife undressed herself and began to kiss the Frenchman. The Frenchman’s lips found the woman’s breasts and he suckled for a long time while the woman stroked her hair. Then, eagerly, the third wife lay back on the mat, spreading her legs, presenting herself for the Frenchman’s skilled kiss.

  Amelia found that as she made love to the woman, her very being was subsumed into the woman’s body. When the woman cried out, Amelia discovered that she had long ago forgotten who she was, or what she was doing.

  She lay, in a curious, pleasant warmth, as the woman rolled her over and began to slip her hands under the robe. Amelia tasted the woman’s tongue, and they kissed deeply as the woman’s fingertips traced a path up her thigh.

  The woman’s fingers slipped between Amelia’s legs, searching, seeking. The woman’s eyes grew wide.

  Flushing red, the woman drew back. It sounded as if she were cursing. She quickly gathered up her clothes, bursting into tears as she carried them away. Sadly, Amelia watched after her, confused, the ache of her desire unsatisfied. She wondered again if it was possible to bring the sensation upon herself, but it seemed as hopeless as before.

  This was unacceptable. Abdelsaid knew it would be so. He had been flirting with disaster by bringing the woman here, even disguised as she was. He had become wealthy, by local standards, from the trade and export of the Black Lily. He could certainly afford a fourth wife. But the three existing would not stand for it.

  “She will take away your affection!” they shrieked. “She will devour all of your love! They are like hungry beasts – especially their women! It is unfair – we cannot have a French girl here! It is improper! You must send her away!’

  The three wives spoke in unison, overwhelming Abdelsaid. He would have fought with them, but he knew it was a fight he could not win. On the rare occasions where the women agreed on something, their collective will was unbreakable. Abdelsaid knew, sadly, that it was hopeless.

  But he could not send the woman away. He had lost all sense of reality. He felt that he must make her his, for ever. Abdelsaid had fallen in love with the strange French woman without a name. With Monsieur Breton.

  There was only one way that the French woman might be allowed to stay in Abdelsaid’s house. Abdelsaid argued with his three wives for what seemed like hours. Finally, they agreed. Upon this condition, the French whore could live with them indefinitely. But Abdelsaid had to provide the Black Lily from his private stock. He assured his wives that there was more than enough Black Lily to accomplish the task.

  The third wife returned to Amelia, bringing food. Amelia’s memories of the incident were vague at best, but she felt an overwhelming sense of worry and of emotional need, and a desire to make love to the woman, to make everything all right. Amelia reached out, but the woman resisted. Finally, she gave in and allowed Amelia to kiss her, but her lips were stern and unmoving.

  Amelia finally let the woman go, accepting the food. After the long hours of unknowing worry, she was famished. She ate greedily. In addition to the usual food, there were several large, dark flowers. The third wife plucked off the petals and encouraged Amelia to eat them. Amelia sniffed at them, unsure, but finally let the woman put the petals in her mouth. The taste was thick and sweet. It was some sort of dessert. But not a terribly exciting one. Amelia swallowed each of the petals, and the wife looked satisfied.

  Amelia tried to kiss the woman again. But the woman pulled away and Amelia was left in the darkness, lonely and filled with a terrifying desire.

  She slept more deeply that night than ever before.

  In the morning, the first wife came to her with food and the black flowers. Amelia ate first the food and then the flower petals, wondering. It seemed more savory to her this time. Again the woman refused to kiss Amelia after the flowers had been eaten. Amelia lapsed back into sleep. She did not know how many times she awakened and ate and drank. The taste and smell of the flower seemed to fill her consciousness.

  When Abdelsaid came to her, many meals later, her n
eed was intense. Abdelsaid kissed her, deeply, for a long time before he unfastened her robe and helped her out of it. He touched her chest, feeling the thin hair growing there between her breasts, toying with each of her nipples. Slowly he drew his other hand over Amelia’s thigh. His hand came to rest in the hollow between her legs, seeking, more clinical than erotic. Amelia felt a curious absence of sensation, though her desire was still overwhelming, perhaps more than before. Abdelsaid seemed satisfied, and left Amelia with no more than a kiss.

  Amelia was not disappointed, only curious. Why had he not wanted to make love this time?

  The hair of her loins had begun to fall out, scattering across the mat like leaves in Autumn.

  He was aware of the woman, upon him. He could not recall how he came to be there, or what his name was, or even whether he had ever existed. Encompassed in her caresses, the insistent mouth and breasts of the woman, guided by her demanding movements, he came to want her. A curious sensation came over him as the woman sank down upon his body, pressing his cock deep inside her. Had he been here before, thrusting up into the woman’s naked body while she whispered soothing luxuries to him? He found, after a time, that he could understand her words. When the sensations exploded inside him, he felt an intense pain, as if his body were being torn in half.

  Later, much later, he became aware of another woman. But the first was still there. There was a warm touch upon his cock, the taste of her tongue, the texture of female flesh under his hands. There was the warmth, the muscled figure of the man behind him, penetrating him while the three women took their turns using their mouths and hands upon his shaft, their bodies sprawled underneath his kneeling form, pressed as it was against the man. He knew, somehow, that he belonged to these four people, the man and the women. They were as one being with five bodies.

  He tried, shortly after the moment of his orgasm, to remember his name. It was only then that he understood. He did not have a name, and never had.

  Abdelsaid was optimistic. The trade in Black Lily was increasing. The decadent palaces of the French, it seemed, couldn’t get enough of the flower. And it was indeed rare. It grew only in the mirage oases in the southern part of the country, and the plants would not take root anywhere else. And Abdelsaid was one of the few traffickers who could find the flowers in the wild, and lead the caravans out again.

  While the colonial government had declared an official crackdown on sale of the substance, and promised brutal retribution against all traffickers, the soldiers and policemen preferred to line their pockets rather than interfere with the rights of free trade.

  The locals mostly smoked the drug. The Europeans indulged alternately. It was only those who ate the drug who experienced its most extreme effects. Regardless, once the substance was taken out of the desert, it lost some of its secondary properties, and served primarily as a hallucinogenic. Certain of Abdelsaid’s business partners were discussing the possibility of establishing an export trade through European shipping companies, of smuggling the substance to a country where it could be sold legally.

  Now that he had Breton to lead the caravan, Abdelsaid was able to devote his attention to these more complex matters of business. Breton had learned the trade, had learned to speak and understand Arabic. He had proved an excellent guide. Breton’s knowledge of French had suffered, however, as he learned Arabic. Abdelsaid supposed it had to be a heretofore unknown side effect of the Black Lily. There was nothing to be done about it.

  And it was such a small price to pay. Any price was small, for Abdelsaid had kept the Frenchwoman he desired, albeit in a somewhat different form. But the love of the Black Lily knows no boundaries. Abdelsaid told himself this whenever he looked with pride at the Frenchman. Whenever he shared him with his wives.

  It was enough, to have this small bit of luxury in this cruel world, thought Abdelsaid. For any amount of luxury is preferred to none, and some is preferred to very little. And no one can stop the wind, nor make the sun stand motionless in the sky.

  Breton guided the caravan endlessly, from Abdelsaid’s town to the oasis many miles across the phantom sand. He was one with the desert.

  Breton knew he was from another place. But he also knew that place no longer existed.

  Breton knew that he had been sent here, to guide the caravan through the endless desert. Perhaps he had been sent by the gods of his tribe, cast out. Perhaps to bring a blessing to Abdelsaid and his family, for Abdelsaid was infertile. Breton would be the father of Abdelsaid’s children. Already Aouicha was with child, and Mimouna suspected also she might be pregnant. Breton imagined these children, in a sense, were a gift from a merciful deity, perhaps a gift from the Black Lily. Breton thought of the sons or daughters as a gift from the universe to Abdelsaid.

  Perhaps these gifts were like the visions Breton saw as he slept or daydreamed. The sensations that flowed over him in his dreams. The intimate knowledge of a woman quite unlike Aouicha or Mimouna or Outka. She was more like a boy than a girl, and a mournful boy at that. She was English, he thought, or possibly French. He wondered if perhaps he had loved this woman at some point. He felt sure that he had not, that his union with her had been a matter of convenience.

  Breton released his thoughts of the strange woman as he guided the camel train into the oasis, knowing he must turn his thoughts to practical matters of trade and the highest possible price for the blossoms of the Black Lily. He let his memories of the strange woman fly away on the wind, scattering like grains of sand through his fingers. He knew the woman was gone now. It was over.

  Pre-Party

  Thomas S. Roche

  It’s just a little meet and greet before the event; you know, get relaxed, get acquainted, get a cab – nothing big.

  Everyone’s already dressed when they arrive, but of course as always Jessa’s the last one to suit up. She’s spent the whole day slicing crudités and assembling complicated hors d’oeuvres and other comestibles she’s studied in the pages of esoteric European magazines, which is essentially what she rushes into the bedroom to do when everyone starts to show up. The main exception is that in this case the comestible to be assembled is her.

  Justin’s left on the couch in his tight leather pants, high boots and wifebeater, making kinky conversation with Tara from the kinky headshop and her girlfriend (or girl friend? He’s not sure) named Raven or Blackbird or something, Sherry from the local leather group and her boyfriend what’s-his-name (whom Justin isn’t entirely sure he likes), Mike from the gay bar and his new boyfriend from Denmark or Holland or Sweden or something, Jens or Jurgen or Jan. They’re all strapped to the nines, Mike in the leatherboy uniform, Sven in slick rubber, Tara in a PVC WAC uniform, Sherry in a corset and miniskirt, Boyfriend, kinda lamely, in a black leather duster, short-haired, butch-of-center Raven in PVC pants and halter and thigh-high boots – she’s got an overcoat in the hall closet. They’re all sipping cocktails and nibbling canapés; nibbling, for most of them, because with clothes this tight there’s not really anywhere for most of it to go.

  The cocktails, however, they manage to find plenty of room for. For the first ten minutes of Jessa’s “quick” shower – she’s notorious – Justin freshens the cocktails, but pretty soon the bottles have found their way over and everyone’s freshening their own; the conversation gets raunchier and before too much longer Sherry’s been dragged over Mike and Sven’s laps and the two of them are trading off giving her hard spanks while she giggles and then softly begins to moan.

  This seems kind of weird to Justin – like the things you hear are supposed to happen at San Francisco parties before fetish balls, but never do. Well, it’s happening, and Sherry’s odd boyfriend doesn’t seem to have a strong opinion one way or another, but from the slowly rising moans and softly dwindling giggles, Sherry certainly does. Justin shifts uncomfortably; Mike has pulled up Sherry’s tight latex skirt and from where he’s sitting, Justin can see quite clearly that she is not wearing much at all underneath.

  In fact, as the
spanking continues, Mike takes an entirely uncalled-for liberty, playfully plucking the crotch of Sherry’s G-string out of the way, giving Justin a crotch shot that reveals smooth lips flushed with excitement. Boyfriend gets a funky look on his face, staring daggers or giving a mental high-five, Justin isn’t sure. What he is sure about is that he has to shift quite nervously and attempt a little hippy-shake to pop his cock out of its awkward down-pointing position, because it’s getting harder by the moment, no less when Mike invites him to fondle Sherry a little.

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” says Justin meekly “But thanks.” How do gay guys get away with this? he’s thinking, but he already knows the answer, or perhaps knows that there is no meaningful answer, and besides, he’s less concerned about the sociopolitical ramifications of Sherry getting fingered than he is about whether his cock is going to snap in half if he doesn’t shuffle it.

  “Finger her butt!” guffaws Boyfriend bizarrely, out of the blue, and Justin makes his decision: he doesn’t like the guy. What a freak.

  “That is a naughty boyfriend you’ve got,” says Jens, the exchange vaguely comical in his Dutch/Danish/Icelandic accent, and Justin manages to sneak a hand along his crotch to readjust the damn thing, but he gets it all wrong and now his cock’s jammed in to the waistband of his leather pants. He softly says “Motherfuck,” asking himself for the dozenth time why he’s self conscious about adjusting his dong when a girl he only vaguely knows is being fingered a few feet away and oh, incidentally, the lesbians are going at it pretty hot and heavy, making out, with Raven’s hand between Tara’s thighs, pretty far up under the hem of that WAC skirt – things are getting interesting, but all Justin can feel is awkward. Even though he’s wearing leather-butch drag, he’s not much of a public top, even in his own home. Besides, he and Jessa didn’t have that conversation yet – there were too many hors d’oeuvres to make – limits? Boundaries? Who the fuck knows?