The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 12: Over 40 outstanding pieces of short erotic fiction (Mammoth Books)

by Jakubowski, Maxim

  He entered her so slowly she thought she was dying by degrees. His eyes were open, locked to hers, but blind in that overwhelming pleasure of the first few moments of penetration. As he began to fuck her, she could not let go of his hand. Would not let go of it even as he slipped the other hand beneath her ass to thrust deeper into the tight liquid ache that constricted around him. Not even as they grew greedier and more frantic. Not as she shuddered and arched her body halfway off the bed, feeling the sheets stick and then rip away from her drying blood.

  She half sobbed, half screamed his name as she came and felt him thrust with more violence, through her cunt’s contractions, slipping into that strange pleasure hum of perpetual motion until he hilted, stilled, and erupted in thick heat against her cervix. She squeezed him fiercely – his hand, his cock – and the spasms of pleasure straightened his torso and locked his hips.

  Afterwards, after he’d crushed her in mock collapse, after he pressed his face into the crook of her neck and groaned, after he’d smeared his face against her cheek and kissed her, he looked at the hand.

  “I think it’s stuck,” she said, trying to disengage her sticky, interlocked fingers from between his. Finally they came free. “And I think I’m stuck to your sheet, too.”

  He kissed the top of her breast, just above a nipple. “We can fix that, love.”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I broke my promise.”

  His dark eyes settled on her face and then darted away. He shook his head and looked at her again. “I’m sorry I wasn’t all there.”

  “What do we do now, then?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She licked her dry lips. “Next time . . .”

  “Oh,” he whispered, dark and arch. “There’s going to be a next time, is there?”

  “Yes. Next time, cut me where I can see you.”

  The Blood Moon Kiss

  Mitzi Szereto

  Savannah, Georgia

  The branches of a weeping willow caress the dark grass as gently as a lover’s fingers. The artificially enhanced moonlight above illuminates the leaves with a silvery cast that’s almost ghostlike as Christine moves into place, the cool night mist swirling around her bare feet and ankles. She’s wearing only a nightgown, knee-length, pristine white, the fabric so gossamer that little is left to the observer’s imagination. She’s naked beneath it.

  “Action!” shouts Mark Gaitzberger, director of The Blood Moon Kiss.

  Strong male fingers reach out from behind, seizing Christine’s long black hair and pulling her head back to expose the vulnerable flesh of her neck. An arm appears from the same direction, fitting her waist into its vise. Her nipples stiffen as she feels a hot mouth fastening onto her jugular, followed by the pricking of sharp teeth. At that moment she experiences the shimmering of an orgasm, which begins at her neck and moves down her body, exploding into a thousand fragments of pleasure at her groin. If not for the arm encircling her waist, she would have collapsed to the ground. The bodice of her gown darkens as wetness streams from her neck. She doesn’t need to look to know it will be red.

  How did it come to this?

  Six Weeks Earlier

  When you live in a place like Georgia and you get a call from your agent telling you he’s just landed you a part in a hit television series that’s being shot in Savannah – and you don’t even have to audition for it, you aren’t about to argue. I mean, let’s get real: Georgia isn’t exactly Hollywood. And for a Southern gal like me, this is home. Despite having no blood ties, I feel rooted here, a product of the soil like a Georgia peach. It’s hard to explain, but something holds me here; maybe I was a Southern belle in a previous life, living on a big plantation and drinking mint juleps all day until some Rhett Butler turned up on my doorstep to ravish me. I just know that I don’t want to be anywhere else, even if it means I’d stand a better chance at hitting the big time if I left. I’m happy enough to get the occasional role in a play at the Actor’s Express Theater in Atlanta or in a TV commercial. By the way, that was me in the ad for Billy Bob’s Burger Emporium. I was the waitress on the roller skates. You know, the one with the big beehive hairdo balancing the huge tray of food. I nearly twisted an ankle in those goddamned skates. I guess some things are better left in childhood.

  I did wonder about the audition issue. It’s practically unheard of to hire an actor without having that actor read for the part or do a screen test (unless maybe they’re Johnny Depp or Angelina Jolie), but as they say, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. I’ve seen several episodes of the show and have to admit it’s pretty good, as prime-time soap operas featuring a bunch of vampires go; I could do a lot worse. I also have to admit that one of the actors in it is really hot, and the thought of working with him gets me really hot as well. Not too professional, I know, but there you go. Not that I expect anything will happen – the guy’s like the biggest heartthrob on television; he probably has women (and maybe even a few men) throwing themselves at his feet on a daily basis. Fred, that’s my agent, said the series’ producer had seen me on a public service ad for a battered women’s shelter; I’d done this sort of one-woman performance deal, speaking directly to the camera as a wife who’d run away from her abusive husband. I realize it’s only a TV commercial, but I’m proud of my work on it. I think I managed to portray just the right amount of fear and anguish. It was probably the fear component that got the producer’s attention. Whatever, I’ll be earning more money than I’ve ever earned in my life. By the time my stint is finished, I should be able to put a nice down payment on a house and maybe get a new car, too. Not bad for a few weeks’ work.

  Savannah

  The night I first arrived on the set, seeing him for the first time . . . the entire planet seemed to shift. I was told in advance that most of the shooting would be done at night, so I’d already begun to prepare by sleeping during the day, practically living the life of a vampire before I’d stepped foot in Savannah. I’d met pretty much everyone in the cast and crew before I did my debut episode – well, everyone except the one person I most wanted to meet. I don’t want to sound like some starry-eyed teenager here; I mean, we’re all professionals, peers, and it’s been a long time since I was a teenager, but I felt as if my heart would go bursting out of my ribcage, that’s how excited I was to finally meet him.

  Talen Dashkovar. God, even his name is enough to give you goose bumps.

  We never got a chance to rehearse together before we came face to face for the first time. They’d used a stand-in for him, since he felt our debut scene would be much more powerful if we hadn’t met yet. Apparently Talen’s one of those method actor types who actually becomes the character he’s playing, and being as popular as he is, no one’s inclined to disagree with him. I also heard some of the crew saying that he was feeling slightly under the weather (again) and resting up for the shoot. Judging from last season’s episodes, he did seem to have a rather fragile quality beneath the boyish masculinity, though that might’ve been down to his pale complexion, which I’d assumed was enhanced by make-up so that he looked more vampiric. I already knew from the script that I, too, would become paler with each episode, indicating that my life was slowly ebbing away, along with the blood in my veins. With my naturally black hair, the contrast with my skin would be made even more dramatic.

  Our debut scene was brief, though that didn’t lessen its impact. My character and his character share one of those fleeting-glance moments, full of lust and desire and the promise of more to come. It’s late at night and Meridian (me) is walking past the fountain in a deserted Lafayette Square when Kyle (Talen) suddenly appears from the opposite direction. We both come to an abrupt stop, our figures illuminated by a full moon (with some added help courtesy of the lighting guys). Our eyes meet and hold; his are green and staggeringly beautiful, at times almost iridescent. I’ve never seen eyes like his before, not even on a cat, and they’re not enhanced by any form of trickery from the make-up department or wizardry from specia
l effects either.

  Meridian is unable to move, she’s so spellbound by him. After about a minute, Kyle smiles ever so slightly and steps aside, allowing her to pass. She awakens as if from a trance and glances around in confusion. Kyle has vanished from the square. A slow pan of the area reveals Meridian’s lone figure standing by the fountain looking lost.

  And Meridian is lost. Just as I am lost.

  It’s difficult to tell where he’s from. His accent is like no other accent I’ve heard. At times it sounds Southern, then a moment later it sounds European, but it’s always cultured, no matter which way it swings. My Southern accent has been beaten out of me by years of acting classes, leaving behind a generic North American one, which I can adapt at will, depending on what part I play. But Talen’s a mystery. It’s as if he came from out of nowhere and suddenly landed smack dab in the middle of a hit TV series. Before I left for Savannah, I tried to find out what I could about him from the Internet, but most of what came up was information related to the show, including some video interviews of him with other cast members. He always seemed to speak only if he had something of relevance to say, as though measuring each word’s importance before uttering it, whereas his co-stars jabbered away with a youthful ebullience they apparently hadn’t yet grown out of.

  So when Talen invited me out for a drink on the first Sunday evening we had off since we started filming, I probably answered much too quickly. His mouth quirked up in one corner with what I came to associate as his trademark smile, as he named a popular place on River Street that overlooked the Savannah River. Apparently it used to be a cotton warehouse and was considered a place of historical interest, but one that served booze. I admit I dressed with a lot of care for the occasion, wanting to be sexy in an understated classy way – simple black dress, knee-length, bare legs, strappy sandals, lacy bra and panties, the latter of which I rarely wore (the lacy kind) since I generally had no occasion to, not being that big on dating. I guess it’s safe to say I’m a loner – no surprise, considering my background. I’m not sure what I expected to happen between us, but the fact that something was happening between us was pretty obvious.

  He was waiting by the bar, dressed casually in jeans and a long-sleeved black shirt, which had a couple of buttons undone at the top, revealing a discreet gold chain along with a tantalizing hint of smooth flesh like polished ivory. I wondered if the rest of him was as smooth and unmarred, since it looked doubtful he frequented the beach or tanning salon – at least not while playing the part of Kyle anyway. We greeted each other with a touching of hands, followed by a light kiss on the lips, which almost sent me reeling backward as if a current of electricity had been shot through me, though I managed to recover in time. “You’re looking very lovely tonight, Christine,” he said, his eyes looking more iridescent than I remembered. I nodded, unable to speak. He gestured to the bartender, and a moment later a glass of chilled white wine was placed before me. Whether I’d actually ordered it I can’t say, but it is my drink of choice. How Talen could have known this I’ve no idea.

  After a few nervous sips, I found myself talking all about my life, from my lonely childhood with foster parents who cared only for each other to my very first lover, who cared only for himself – a selfish young man I’d met at college who abandoned me when we thought I might be pregnant. I couldn’t believe I was revealing so much about myself; it’s not like me to open up to people, especially someone I barely know. Talen listened attentively and with appropriate sympathy, though he offered no private revelations of his own. I suppose I could have asked, but somehow it felt intrusive to do so.

  No sooner had I finished my wine than another was put before me, and for Talen a glass of absinthe, for which the bartender performed that whole spoon and sugar-cube thing. I’d never tried it before, and Talen offered me a taste. I found it pretty vile, although he assured me I’d soon get used to it. I thought that a rather strange thing to say, but then Talen was . . . well . . . strange.

  Sometime afterward I recall being in the back seat of a taxi, pressed close to him as the night flew past outside the car’s windows. Then suddenly we were on a deserted beach among the sand dunes, the moonlight sparkling blue-white diamonds on the Atlantic, the scent of salt in my nostrils and the taste of it on my lips. It tasted like blood.

  Her dress lies in a dark puddle on the white sand as she stands naked on the beach, facing away from him toward the watery horizon. His head is bowed into her neck, his arm crossed over her breasts, holding her firm against his chest. The nail of his thumb flicks against one nipple until it can harden no further, at which point he takes it between the pads of his thumb and index finger, pinching it lightly, then less so, varying the pressure so that she doesn’t know what to expect, stopping just short of causing actual pain. She feels herself growing wet, so wet that it reaches her inner thighs, and she adjusts her stance, parting her legs to keep them from sticking together. The sand has retained the heat of the sleeping sun, and it feels warm and comforting against the bare soles of her feet. The moonlight makes her pale flesh look even more so, though with a blue tint that gives her an ethereal quality, like that of a ghostly angel. His hand leaves her breast to locate the V where her thighs meet. With a pairing of fingers he parts her folds, exposing the intimate pink to the sea air. The shock of what he’s just done stops her from breathing. Her response is internal, all yearning thoughts and flowing juices. There’s no movement from either of them, save for the gentle suction of his lips on her neck and the rhythmic sound of the ocean lapping the shore. The progress of the moon across the dark sky is the only thing that alerts her to the fact that time is passing.

  They remain two silent figures on the beach, frozen in time and space, one fully clothed, the other exposed and vulnerable in her nudity. His fingers continue to hold her open, though he makes no move to stimulate her. It’s as if he’s tormenting her or displaying her secrets to some unseen observer – some nocturnal peeping Tom who got lucky tonight and, rather than spying on a pair of teenagers going at it with unpracticed haste and little in the way of finesse, instead finds himself being treated to the sight of a man offering a detailed exhibition of a woman’s genitals. Through half-lidded eyes she looks around, expecting to see a figure crouching in the tall grass of the dunes. But there’s no one, no one on the beach but them. For a moment she feels almost disappointed.

  A breeze off the ocean kisses her exposed flesh, as if drawing attention to her wetness. It’s bubbling from her now, frothing hot and needy. The sea mist licks at her like a tongue, licking that place the man holding her has forced into exposure. And when she comes, she weeps from the force of it.

  They lie together in a small clearing in the woods, chest on chest, pelvis on pelvis. The camera moves in on them as Kyle dips his head to drink from Meridian’s neck, his left hand tenderly caressing her face and hair as if he’s making love to her rather than placing her at risk of being transported from one of the living to one of the dead. Meridian moans with what sounds like orgasmic pleasure, and her hands reach up to Kyle’s head, her fingers twining in his dark hair. There’s a brief moment when they tighten their grip and actually pull, though this moment quickly passes, making the observer wonder if it was ever there at all. The camera lens does not pick up on the fact that Talen’s other hand has slipped between their two pelvises, or that his middle finger is wedged deeply inside her.

  “Cut!” shouts the director.

  Neither Talen nor Christine moves. He continues to lie on top of her, his face buried in her neck, his heart pounding hard against hers. Although Christine’s eyes are closed, her lips quirk upward into a tiny smile, as if she holds a secret.

  The crew collects their gear and moves off, chuckling among themselves good-naturedly at an on-camera romance that has obviously moved off-camera. Best of luck to them, they think, having seen their fair share of such things over the years. Christine and Talen make a striking couple. In fact, they look as if they’re destined to be to
gether. Why shouldn’t they hook up?

  When the echoes of voices can no longer be heard, Talen leaves Christine’s neck and positions himself at her knees, where he draws up the hem of her dress, his earlier explorations having told him that she has forgone wearing panties tonight. He does so slowly, torturously, allowing Christine to experience the erotic shock of being fully exposed to him. The wounds on her neck bubble slightly with blood, but he has only drunk a small amount, all too aware that he’s pulling her nearer and nearer to the life he has led for the last century and a half. She’s almost ready to make the transition.

  When the hem finally reaches her waist, Talen bends her legs at the knees and pushes her thighs apart, lowering his face to the portion of her that he has brought into exposure. Her positioning forces the lips of her sex to distend outward and he places his own before them, meeting their humid kiss. The taste and scent of her is such that he feels in danger of losing control and he stabs his tongue inside her, the tightness enveloping it, promising a pleasure so exquisite he fears he might not be able to wait for much longer. But wait he must.

  Each thrust of Talen’s tongue is met by a return thrust from Christine. She wants him inside her so badly; she cannot understand why he’s making her wait. But the question’s soon forgotten as Talen’s tongue changes tack, applying dizzying swirls and circuits around her inner lips, teasing and tormenting and flicking over the flesh at the center. A warm shimmering begins to move along her body, starting both at the top of her head and the tips of her toes and traveling steadily toward her middle, sending electrical currents through every pore and hair follicle. These are no ordinary sensations, no ordinary precursors to the final moment of pleasure, and suddenly she can’t breathe. She wonders if this might be it; that this time she really will die.