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

by Jakubowski, Maxim

  The school had seven residential houses, one of them being in the catastrophic combination of French chateau styles that was the main building. My house, Gladstone, was five minutes’ walk away. By one of those quirks of fate that almost convinces me there is an Almighty, the girls were assigned to it. All that meant was they came to Gladstone for break and to do their homework in the afternoon, while we were out being rained or snowed on and balls of various shapes and sizes were thrown at us. But it still gave us bragging rights over the rest of the school, especially when Mary and our senior prefect, Dirleton – a handsome devil who was also captain of the rugby team – took up with each other. The other girl, Fiona, was an unofficial chaperone, but she was frequently to be seen alone in the room assigned to them, sad-eyed and hunched over her work. She went to Oxford and ended up as a government economist, sometimes to be seen on TV.

  I had the misfortune to be Dirleton’s fag. For those of you fortunate to have avoided public school, despite its unaccountable attraction to the makers of films and TV series, the fag is the prefect’s personal servant – or slave, if he’s a nasty piece of work. Dirleton was all right; prone to yell if the soles of his rugby boots didn’t gleam and ungenerous with his tips at the end of term, but basically fair. Things began to get interesting in my third term, during what passes for summer in Edinburgh. The senior prefect had a bigger study than everyone else, with a small balcony overlooked by the dormitories, which were out of bounds during daylight. One evening, he sent word for me. I knocked on his door and tried to slide it open. He allowed only a small gap to appear.

  “Ah, there you are, Patel,” he said, his voice low. “I need my pillow.”

  I looked at him blankly.

  “My pillow, fool. Bring it from my cube.”

  The dormitories for older boys had partitions between them, though they didn’t go all the way to the ceiling. When the lights were out, they allowed those who played with each other a degree of privacy. As the school authorities must have been aware of such activities, I can only assume their tacit encouragement. But I digress.

  “Yes . . . sir,” I stammered. “But what about . . . ?”

  “Tell anyone who asks that I sent you. My back’s stiff after cricket.”

  Before I could respond, I heard a stifled titter, either that of a boy whose voice hadn’t broken – mine had – or . . . could it be Mary? The thought sent a hot spurt through my veins. I raced to the stairs and got up to his dorm without anyone seeing me. A couple of minutes later I handed over the pillow. As I turned to go, I heard the sound of a chair being slotted into the gap between the door and wall inside. That made my heart pound like a steam hammer. Without thinking, I returned to the staircase and went up, ready to use Dirleton’s name if I was challenged. I wasn’t.

  I entered the cube with the best view of the study balcony. The light of the long Scottish evening was still bright enough – no clouds for a change – though the house walls created shadows. I crept to the window, then slowly inched my head past the window frame. Gods be praised!

  Mary was lying on the narrow balcony, her buttocks on the pillow I had been holding. My cock strained like the mast of my father’s yacht in the Arabian Sea, but I left it where it was, my eyes fixed on the scene below. Dirleton’s trousers and boxers were round his ankles and I could see his tool waving over Mary. It was one of those weird ones that bend back towards its owner. She had taken her blouse off, but she was still wearing her bra. Not for long. Dirleton’s hands slipped round her back and, after heart-pounding seconds, loosed it. I almost choked. I’d seen plenty of breasts in the magazines that did the rounds, the best pages stuck together, but never in the flesh. Nudism wasn’t exactly the thing back home. Mary’s tits, oh save me, they were magnificent. They stood up, somehow countering the force of gravity, the nipples dark and erect like the cigar stubs in the ashtray on the old man’s desk.

  Dirleton sucked them one by one, rotating the other nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Mary’s mouth was open, her hands gripping his back. Then she pushed him gently away and took his cock, looking at it with what appeared to be wonder. She ran her fingers up the bent rod, pulling the foreskin back to his evident but stifled delight. This went on for several minutes and I was amazed he hadn’t come. Then he did, the semen squirting onto his belly and then dripping onto hers. Spatters rained over her tits and she smoothed the sticky substance into her skin as if it were a precious liniment. Then Dirleton, who’d presumably been told not to go all the way, got his head between Mary’s glorious thighs. I couldn’t see, but he must have been tonguing her because her face clenched, forehead furrowed, and she grabbed his hair. Her lips were opening and closing, but I couldn’t hear anything. As well as everything else, I admired her self-control.

  And then her torso started to undulate as she hit a rhythm that gradually increased in speed. She let her head drop over the metal railing, one hand moving between her long dark nipples and the other pressing Dirleton’s head into her crotch. The end, when it came, was a blur of movement, and this time she couldn’t restrain a high-pitched screech. It didn’t matter; there were owls in the trees nearby.

  Mary’s body was still now, but her head remained back as the senior prefect stood up, running his tongue over his lips. That was when she saw me. A smile spread across her face and she winked.

  Me? I wanked.

  Mary and Dirleton were gone at the end of the term, he to read law at Durham and she to the Edinburgh College of Art. She’s a well-known painter now. I have one of her female nudes in my den. It isn’t a patch on her as she was that summer evening.

  In my second year there were ten girls. Two were eye-catchers and the others ranged from average to any port in a storm. We weren’t supposed to talk to pupils in different years and I was going through that awkward period when you prefer the safety of doing it to yourself than sharing with others. Several of my contemporaries had different ideas, creeping into each other’s study when working late or slipping into neighbouring cubes. I never fancied male hands or other parts, and no one made advances on me. That was maybe one of the advantages of being mixed race.

  Another of which was that I stuck out from the crowd. Occasionally I’d catch one of the girls looking at me in chapel or at lunch. I suppose I was handsome enough, I’ve never been able to judge my own charms. But those looks, which were followed by rapid turns away and red cheeks, were a good omen. They gave me something to think about as I brought myself off over the wash-hand basin or in the toilet.

  Then the housemaster’s daughter Morag – a sixteen-year-old who attended school and was definitely at the any port in a storm end of the scale – had a French penfriend to stay. She attended lessons too. I suppose it was some kind of exchange scheme. I’ll call her Christine. She stayed in the other part of the house from us, the connecting doors strictly monitored. That didn’t stop her. I was tall for my age and had good skin, both of which qualities distinguished me from my classmates. I caught Christine looking at me more than once. She didn’t turn away, nor did she blush. You know what they say about French women, not that she was fully mature physically. But near enough.

  She managed to slip a note into my pocket. I only found it after I’d finished sport, another dismal afternoon on the cricket pitch. It said, “Big shed 9.15”. I couldn’t believe my luck – or was it a trick? Maybe some of the bullies in the year above had written it. I was used to getting elbows in the ribs and shoves against the walls of the narrow corridors, as well as the usual racial abuse. I ignored it as best I could. But should I take the risk of going to the rendezvous? I thought about it, for about ten seconds. Christine wasn’t a beauty, but she was fully equipped in all areas. And I was avid to have the benefit of the experience I could tell she had.

  9.14. I slipped out the back door, past the room where fags were scrubbing shoes. The bigger of the two gardeners’ sheds was about thirty yards away. I moved swiftly in the evening light, then turned the corner cautiously. She wa
s there! What was more, her blouse was open and a lacy red bra caught my attention like a brothel lamp attracting a sailor.

  “Hello,” she said, moving her right hand to her breast. “What is your name? I cannot call you Patel.”

  Her voice was like honey and the French accent was balm to my ears. And cock.

  “Samit,” I said, stepping towards her.

  “You like this?” Christine tugged the cup down and showed her tit. It wasn’t as big as Mary’s and the nipple was no more than a tiny pink pearl. I went fishing with my tongue, one arm around her.

  She moaned and moved her hand to my groin. “He is engorgé.” My French was just about up to that.

  “You’re delightful,” I responded, kissing her on the mouth.

  “You say this to all the girls, yes?” she asked, when our lips separated.

  I shrugged, then tensed. Her fingers were deftly pulling down my zipper. I took that as a green light and slipped my hand under her thin skirt. It reached her upper thighs, which were damp, and I realized she was without underwear. I flicked my forefinger out like a snake’s tongue and felt hair and soft wet labia (we knew the terminology). Her groan showed I was on the right lines. I slid my finger all the way in, feeling no obstruction. This girl was definitely experienced.

  “Come,” she said, stepping back and leading me to the tarpaulin that covered a stack of logs. She unclipped her bra, a front loader, then pulled up her skirt with a saucy smile. Then she leaned forward, undid my belt and popped the button on my trousers.

  “Mon Dieu,” she whispered, when she put her hand down my shorts. “You are very big, Samit.”

  I bit my lip as she extracted my organ and scrotum. My pubic hair was thick and black, and she ran her fingers through it. As soon as she clenched my balls, I spurted uncontrollably, the semen landing on her skirt and that dense triangle. Drops hung on the hair like twists of cream on a chocolate cake.

  “I knew you would finish quickly,” she said, smiling. “First time, yes?”

  I nodded, both joyful and embarrassed.

  “It’s OK.” Christine put my hands on her tits. “Now the good things really start.”

  She was right about that. I drew her nipples out and they turned a burning shade of pink. Then she took one hand and pushed it to her groin, directing my finger to a lump above the labia. Hail, clitoris!

  Christine showed me how to rub it and soon she was bucking and gasping. I used my tongue on her tits and that drove her even crazier. Finally she shuddered and clenched, her eyes wide and crazy.

  “You learn fast, Samit,” she breathed. “Are you ready to come inside me?”

  My cock was at half-mast, but a few strokes from her changed that.

  “Let me,” she said, taking a foil wrapper from the pocket of her now crumpled skirt. She shook out the condom and smoothed it over my dick. It felt constricting.

  “I know,” Christine said, taking in my expression. “But you’ll get used to it.”

  Actually, I never did, but the world has enough babies. She guided me in and then ground herself against me, frowning and blowing.

  “There is a place in me,” she gasped.

  I let her do the work, aware that if I made any rapid movements I would fill the bobble at the end of the sheath.

  “Aaaaaaah!” she cried, and seconds later I came too. The sky exploded and I felt myself cartwheel through the universe, every nerve in my body reacting, chain reacting and connecting me to something at the heart of creation.

  “Fuck!” I said.

  “Mais oui,” she replied, laughing.

  I withdrew slowly and let her strip the condom off. The tip was bulging with my seed.

  “Tomorrow, same time?” Christine said, after kissing me with her lips and tongue.

  I nodded, breathless, then saw Morag’s face at the window above. She looked like a cattle prod had been applied to her “airse”, as my Scottish friends said.

  It was raining the next day – a year-round hazard in the Athens of the North – but that turned out not to be a problem. Christine was waiting for me with Morag, who had the key to the big shed. None of us said anything as she opened the padlock and I shoved the door enough to allow us entry.

  “So, my friends,” Christine said, a sweet smile on her lips. “Here is how it goes. Samit, Morag would like you to initiate her to the mysteries of love.”

  I stared at her.

  “Don’t worry,” Christine said, squeezing my hand. “I will help.”

  I looked at the housemaster’s daughter. She was breathing heavily, her plain face red all over. She was taller than average, though shorter than me, and there weren’t any protrusions to speak of under the cheesecloth blouse she was wearing.

  But Christine’s touch had fired me up. She undid Morag’s buttons, took off her friend’s blouse and then lifted the vest she was wearing – no bra – over her head. I gaped. Her breasts were small, but the areolae were dark and extensive. Suddenly there was a bulge in my pants.

  “Touch,” Christine commanded.

  I tweaked Morag’s nipples and they hardened, provoking a loud intake of breath. Meanwhile, Christine had undone Morag’s jeans and pulled them down. Her knickers were white and large, which initially put me off. Then her lower half was bared and I took in sparse brown hair, plump lips protruding.

  Christine fingered Morag and nodded to me. I slid my forefinger in and the housemaster’s daughter fell back against the door, panting. I kissed her tits, running my tongue over the tiny bumps on the dark pigmentation. Then I felt hands on my waist. I looked down and saw Christine’s hands undoing my belt, button and zipper, then easing my cock out.

  “Look, Morag,” she said teasingly. “Big and black and all for you. Take it.”

  Her friend did as she was told. At first her touch was tentative, but then she got interested, bending down as she moved her hand up and down the shaft.

  “Wait, I’m . . .”

  My spunk shot out, hitting Morag on the face, tits and belly. She pulled back, then saw Christine’s smile. After a moment, her tongue appeared and moved to the nearest spatter. She drew it back and tasted my gift. It seemed she liked it.

  “Very good, mes amis,” said Christine. “Now the second course.” She took off her clothes and leaned against the wall beside Morag. “Samit, you know what to do.”

  I stepped forward, applying one forefinger to Christine’s clit and the other to Morag’s – it was large, like a little boy’s cock, and it grew rapidly. The sight of it made me harden again. I sucked their nipples, darting my tongue from one to other. Christine came first, her head banging against the wall. Morag was panting, but she hadn’t climaxed. I wasn’t sure what to do. Christine was.

  She pushed my head down and took over the stimulation of her friend’s nipples. I pulled the large clit in and out of my mouth, and Morag’s thighs closed tight around my head. Then I nipped her with my teeth, only lightly, provoking a stifled scream. I thought my head was going to be shaken off, but finally the legs parted and I was able to withdraw.

  “You’ve never done it, have you?” Christine said, kissing Morag on the lips. “Not even to yourself.”

  The housemaster’s daughter shook her head, looking down.

  “No, ma chère, there is nothing to be ashamed for.” Christine glanced at my dick. “Besides, now comes the third course.”

  I gulped, unsure if I’d be able to satisfy them both. I needn’t have worried. Christine called the shots perfectly.

  “Put your finger in,” she said to me, indicating Morag’s slit.

  I did as I was told. Although wet, it was much tighter than the French girl’s. Morag quivered, her eyes away from mine.

  “Are you sure you want this?” I asked.

  She nodded, then smiled to reassure me.

  “Of course she does,” Christine said. “But we must lie down. There is a blanket over there.”

  I went to get the green tartan object. It had some holes, but seemed clean en
ough. I spread it on the earthen floor.

  “Now, ma chère, lie down and make yourself comfortable.” Christine pushed Morag’s knees apart. Then she took out a condom and ran it over my cock. “Ready to go? I will help you enter.”

  And she did, with a degree of dexterity that made me sure she’d done this before. Morag blinked and I stopped, then she nodded and I moved on slowly.

  “Is it all right?” I whispered.

  This time her nods were avid, at least in part because Christine was sucking her nipples. I reached a barrier and pressed ahead gently. Morag took a deep breath, then let out a squeak and grabbed my buttocks, pulling me deeper. She began to groan as I juddered against her, then I let out a similar noise. Christine had her fingers round my balls and was squeezing.

  Morag’s face was red and covered in sweat.

  “I have a finger for you,” Christine said in my ear.