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

by Jakubowski, Maxim

  “Done deal!”

  Since she was bringing food, and since public transportation is notoriously unreliable on Christmas Day, I offered Shazam a ride to my place.

  “Great,” said Shazam. “I’ll have everything all ready.”

  When I drove to her pick up, however, a tipsy Shazam said she had no food at all. “I didn’t have money to shop.”

  Oh, for godsake. It was mid-afternoon on Christmas Day, and Safeway was about to close. Shazam was half drunk, and when she told me she had another date later in the evening, I got annoyed. Another date?

  “Calm down,” said Shazam. “Her name is Sugar, and she’s a real hottie. We met on Craigslist Casual Encounters last month. Sugar is a sex worker who calls herself an ‘adventuresome bisexual.’ Maybe we’ll have a hot threesome.”

  So, I lightened up. I bought a big juicy steak, a bag of Idaho potatoes, a hunk of sharp cheddar, a head of iceberg lettuce – and a quart of vodka for the girls.

  At my place, I served pot brownies while Shazam mixed a strong vodka drink. We smoked a joint, nibbled a brownie, and began preparing our Christmas feast.

  As we peeled potatoes, I asked Shazam to tell me more about Sugar.

  “Oh my,” she said. “Sugar is a trippy girl. It was actually her husband who saw my ad and suggested we hook up. Sugar is an escort who charges her male clients $350 an hour. She’s my favorite fuck-buddy. Let’s send her a text – maybe she’ll join us.”

  I put scalloped potatoes in the oven, made a big salad, and prepared the steak for broiling. After that, I asked Shazam if she would like to see the manuscript of Dirty Old Man, my recently completed memoir.

  We looked at my memoir, and I read Shazam part of the first chapter. But Shazam seemed restless. “Can we look at your book later? she asked. “Right now, I want to suck your cock.”

  Whoa!

  I wasn’t disappointed. I flew into magic space as I watched the hungry wench devour my meat. The pleasure went on and on, with me urging Shazam to slow down, make it last . . .

  But Shazam sucked me hard and fast. Just as I popped – ahhhhhhh – the kitchen timer went Ding! The scalloped potatoes were ready. It was time to toss the salad and broil the steak.

  I was plenty high from my world-class blow job, and the pot brownies were coming on strong. And when Shazam received a text message from Sugar saying she would join us, I felt a warm golden glow.

  Christmas dinner was perfect. The scalloped potatoes were excellent, the salad was tasty, and I broiled Shazam’s steak “bloody,” just the way she liked it. Bing-Bong. The doorbell rang. It was Sugar! I was surprised – Sugar looked a hundred per cent straight, like the girl next door. Who would guess Sugar was a high-priced call girl? She was in her late twenties, tall and leggy, short brown hair, nice breasts, pleasing face. “Hi Charles,” she said. “I brought you some tequila.”

  I poured Sugar a drink and took her on a tour of my studio. When she saw my nude pin-up photographs, Sugar said, “Could you take some photos of me? I need new pictures for my website.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Just don’t show my face,” said Sugar. “My mother would have a cow.” Minutes later, Shazam started kissing Sugar, woo hoo. I watched the girls strip naked and curl up in the white leather chair near the fire. Shazam gave Sugar lots more kisses as Sugar fingered Shazam’s pussy.

  “Can I take photos?” I asked.

  Sugar pulled away from Shazam, laughing. “Here, take my keys. My red Honda is parked in your driveway. There’s a bag in the front seat – with a harlequin mask inside.”

  I ran downstairs, zoom zoom, unlocked the Honda, found Sugar’s bag, ran back upstairs, pant pant, totally out of breath. I found Shazam and Sugar sprawled on my living room futon, kissing and hugging and fingering each other. I loved watching their mad passion and the way their bodies glowed under the colored Christmas lights. I sat close, a few feet away. The naughty girls, flying high, were deep in the pleasure zone. By the time they stopped to catch their breath, my penis was standing at full mast.

  I showed the sex-crazed girls my magnificent Viagra erection, and moments later I had the joy of watching two naked girls pleasuring me at once. The girls took turns licking and sucking my cock, just like a porn movie.

  “Click,” I said, taking a mental snapshot.

  “Oh, you can take photos,” said Sugar. “Look in my bag for the mask. And can you bring us some lube?”

  Sugar called it her “whore bag.” It contained tricks of the trade – colored foil condoms, chrome nipple clips, a leather paddle, a black leather blindfold, a Gillette razor, shaving gel, a vial of lube, a strap-on dildo, and a novelty vibrator shaped like a banana.

  I gave Sugar the harlequin mask, and she slipped it on. And so it happened – I flashed photos as the girls took turns sucking my cock, point-of-view dream shots for sure. After she kissed Shazam some more, Sugar finished me off with a sweet, passionate suck that couldn’t be beat. I came like a champ in her pouty red mouth. I was drained, but the girls were just warming up. They kissed and nuzzled and fingered each other for the longest time.

  Shazam, crazy-drunk now, started screaming, “Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!” “Keep it quiet,” I said. “My landlord lives downstairs—”

  “Ha-ha,” said the naughty girls.

  Shazam flashed a drunken grin. “Charles,” she said, “how would you like to fuck Sugar? You want to?”

  I looked at Sugar. She was smiling. “Let’s do it,” she said.

  What thrilled me about this delightful scene was not just the crazy, spontaneous fun, but the real honest-to-goodness passion we shared. This wasn’t a play-for-pay deal, or one of those carefully negotiated fantasy role-play “scenes.” This was the real deal – dripping with feeling and wham-bam excitement. It was my hottest sex in weeks – my best Christmas ever. And it all happened because I met Shazam – the horniest girl in San Francisco.

  Coucou

  Mia More

  I love stripping on stage. I have the audience in the palm of my hand and I’m playing with them, slowly teasing them with the power of suggestion: an item of clothing shed here, a flash of skin there, the hint of a curve revealed, a coquettish smile over a bare shoulder – and I have them hooked. It’s an art, Burlesque, if you do it right, and I do it so right that people come back for more. When I scan the tables and make eye contact with my spectators, I see men exhale the breaths they’ve been unconsciously holding in, and I know women are instinctively and involuntarily squirming in their seats. Oh yes, I’m bloody good at my job – in fact I’m famous for it. “Coucou . . .” I tantalizingly beckon in French with a finger. “Coucou!” And there isn’t a person out there who doesn’t want to follow me as I leave the stage clad only in my ostrich feathers.

  Last night was no different, except for one thing: in the audience I saw someone. Someone who had a certain something about them – that sexual allure you can pinpoint a mile off, that animal magnetism you couldn’t bottle if you tried. He was suited and booted like the rest of the upmarket crowd before me, but whilst the others on his table were sitting taut and engrossed, he was relaxed and attentive, and his smile was generous and true. I knew in that way you know that he would be mine before the night was out.

  And then there he was backstage, this man: not tall, not short, which suited my five foot seven in heels perfectly. My sister Annie introduced us: “Coucou, this is Benjamin Dax—”

  “Call me Ben” he interrupted. Suddenly I was looking into a pair of brown eyes sparkling with intelligence and humour. I liked what I saw.

  “Ben then, nice to meet you,” I smiled and held out a hand. Ben took it in his, so that my fist was embraced in his palm and his fingers were around my wrist. The pressure was so subtle as to be almost imperceptible, yet somehow it felt electric. My professionalism escaped me: my legs went weak and I could only smile goofily like a teenager. Annie noticed and grinned imperceptibly.

  “Drink?” Ben offered. “I think you’ve earned it to
night. You were sensational up there.”

  “Thank you – I’d love one. But not here,” I replied, recovered. “I feel as if I’m still onstage. It’s like the eyes of the world are still upon me!” And indeed they were: all carefully selected heads present were surreptitiously turned our way, wondering what the handsome, well-dressed stranger was doing backstage with their star, their Coucou.

  “I know a great little place,” Ben suggested, “a short hop away. I’m sure you could manage it – even in your heels.”

  “Take me, I’m yours,” I acquiesced, throwing on my fake fur coat over my glamorous offstage outfit. Ben nodded approvingly. That’s the thing about being a star – people expect you to be dressed like a “somebody” when you’re not working, and I do hate to disappoint my audience, even during my time off.

  With a casual wave to Annie and the others I followed Ben out of the door. This was no longer my usual way of doing things, so I was slightly nervous. But, true to his word, Ben’s “great little place” was just around the corner, and he was a real gentleman the whole stroll there: taking my arm, he walked on the outer part of the pavement, sheltering me from passing vehicles, whilst on the pedestrian side he answered any questioning glances from passers-by with “No, it’s not . . . she gets that all the time”, turning to me with, “Honey, you really should change your hair, people are confusing you with Coucou again!”

  I could actually feel myself relaxing in Ben’s confident and charming company, and as we walked into the bar I took the strong hand he offered as he helped me up the stairs, and I deliberately didn’t let it go until we were sat in our private booth. Ben smiled at me over the table as the pretty waitress took my order, his eyes never straying from my face. “I’ll have the same,” he said. “Mojitos for both of us.”

  Over the next few hours we chatted and laughed in our secluded sanctuary. I felt elated: here was this perfect stranger sat opposite me, unafraid of my fame – my face – and yet still perfectly attuned to my body, my womanliness, but without the cachet of celebrity. I was impressed – and entertained. I felt recklessly intoxicated: the feel of Ben’s knee pressed against my leg was driving me crazy, and as his hand massaged my thigh I felt like some kind of glamorous courtesan, dressed up to the nines with my stockinged feet in his lap. I was flirting like a demon and loving every moment of it. And so it was that my professional mask slipped bit by bit, so that by the end of the evening I was no longer Coucou but Elizabeth once more – I was me. And I was having a hell of a lot of fun again.

  As the bar closed, we called a cab – to Ben’s. “No chauffeur, I’m afraid.” He smiled ruefully. “A refreshing change,” I beamed at him in response. As per our historic family rules (although it had been a long time), I sent my sister Annie a “safe” text to let her know where I was headed and with whom, and I stifled a smirk at the thought that since she was probably tucked up in bed she would read it in the morning – which is when a barrage of return texts would be coming back my way begging me to tell all. This evening I really was being the old me again – how wonderfully invigorating!

  I felt all dizzy with joy at the thought of truly shedding the stage for a night. But not, it has to be said, as dizzy as when in the back of the taxi Ben stroked the hollow at the back of my knee, both reassuring and exciting me at the same time. I turned to him as the street lights flashed by, looking up at his face to get the measure of him. “Yup, I’m still here,” Ben laughed, now squeezing my leg with his hand. I placed my own over the top. “Me too.” I smiled. Ben’s eyes danced, and his grip tightened, but he made no move to kiss me.

  Soon enough we drew up outside a smart block of flats. The building was Art Deco in design, and as Ben helped me out of the cab I read the words “Underwood Mansions” inscribed over the grand entrance. “I’m on the third floor,” he said, showing me into the old ornate lift. Holding my hand, he surveyed me in the mirrors, drinking in the sight of me.

  I couldn’t help it: “What do you see?” I asked, pouting my famous lips, my elegant reflection echoed back to me in multiple by the fabulous gilt-edged mirrors surrounding us.

  “I see a beautiful woman who needs to stop working so hard,” Ben smiled.

  “Just as well I’m making the most of my time off right now then, isn’t it?” I batted back with a wink of my stage lashes.

  I noticed Ben’s even teeth under the ornamental light, the beautiful curve of his mouth, and the softness of his skin. I wanted to touch his face, but didn’t quite have the courage, so I did the next best thing and took his other hand in mine so that we stood face to face. Despite the warmth of my fur coat, the hungry look in his eyes gave me goose bumps, and I trembled slightly in anticipation, my very essence vibrating with desire at his touch. I was eager for him too.

  The bell announced the third floor, breaking our reverie, and as though in a dream I tottered along the corridor to Ben’s place, my arm threaded through his. I could feel the strong muscles on his forearm and smell his fresh masculine aftershave. I was under his spell, and my body hummed in recognition.

  The flat was small but functional. As Ben fetched me a drink of water, I looked around the living room. It was very male, very clean, and very, very comfortable.

  I yawned. “If you’re not careful I’ll be crashing right here, Ben!” I called through to the kitchen.

  “Would that be such a bad thing?” he asked as he came in and passed me my drink.

  “Cheers.” I smiled in response, clinking my glass with his, not quite daring to meet his eyes.

  Ben took the drink from my fingers and placed it on the coffee table. This was the moment we’d been building up to all night, I could feel it. We were about to flip from flirtation into fact, and the tension was palpable. The butterflies in my stomach stretched their delicate wings and took flight, and my heart beat faster in my chest, as though trying to keep pace. Ben kissed me, and I melted. It was as though I were no longer made of skin and bone, but of molten glass, flowing and ebbing. I was liquid on fire, and I wanted more.

  “Ben . . .” I breathed. His reply was a tongue dipped delicately into my mouth, searching, wanting, his lips increasing the pressure on mine as with the power of his kiss he drew me ever closer into him.

  Grabbing my handbag for that all-essential condom I habitually carried, I kicked off my heels as Ben led me to the bedroom. Pulling me to him, he knelt in front of me, and buried his face in my silk dress. I groaned as he lifted my skirt and pushed his nose to my slit, tonguing me through my lace panties. I took his hair in my fists, and as his arms reached up and encircled my waist, I moved in front of him, helping his mouth find my hot spot. It had been so long, and I was so ready to feel his breath on my skin that I couldn’t shed my underwear fast enough. “God you’re wet,” Ben panted, “and you taste delicious.” His hands went round my thighs, and his fingers separated, searched and explored my petals from behind.

  I was speared from the front and the back, and at that I lost what remained of my inhibitions. I couldn’t help but grind my pelvis into Ben’s face, and as his tongue and his fingers buried deep inside me and I moved ever closer to him, I could only throw my head back and emit a guttural groan as I came – hard. I had lost Coucou, and I was so caught up in the glory of pure physical sensation that for a moment I even lost Elizabeth.

  Once the waves had subsided and my head was mine again, I brought Ben back to his feet and took charge: Coucou was back and she wasn’t taking “no” for an answer. After pushing him backwards onto the bed, I made to unbutton his shirt. Like me he was breathing heavily, and as I pinned his wrists back with my body weight, he lifted his head to explore me with one of his magic kisses.

  “Christ, you’re good at that,” I shuddered, breathless.

  He answered the compliment with another long tonguing, taking the back of my head in his hands and planting my lips ever firmer on his. I traced my breasts over his chest, and teasingly placed a nipple in his mouth. Ben growled and tilted his head to take a
s much of me as he could into his mouth. This was pure heaven, but the star in me wanted yet more recognition of my beauty and allure, and the heat emanating from Ben told that he needed to let loose too. I wanted to prove so irresistible as to give him his own release – and more. So, taking charge, I straddled him and began to undo his shirt, nuzzling his neck as the top buttons parted under pressure.

  “Stop,” Ben panted, and then more firmly: “Stop – please.” He pushed me backwards gently, so that he was sitting upright on the side of the bed, my legs wrapped around his back. “This is amazing as it is – you’re just amazing,” he whispered. I wriggled in his lap, trying to gauge a reaction, wanting him to want me more. I craved this hot, sexy man before me, and I yearned for him to lose control and to take me fully.

  Ben pressed his face to my chest, holding me, tracing my full curves with his mouth. I was slick with desire, my body already wet with sex sweat. Ben looked up at me, and his troubled expression stopped my heart in its tracks. “What is it?” I asked. “What’s wrong?” I could’ve kicked myself as the teenage girl still somewhere deep inside me blurted out, “Don’t you fancy me?”

  “More than you know,” was his gritted response.

  “Then what is it? Something’s bothering you,” I persisted. I was not used to not getting my own way, and flushed from our passion I certainly wasn’t ready to stop there. “Are you OK? Can I do anything? Drink of water? Do you want me to call a cab? Do you want me to go?”

  “No, absolutely not,” Ben answered vehemently, “I want you to stay!”

  Unhearing, I blathered on, unaccustomed to feeling insecure and anxious: “Are you too hot? And I don’t mean this in the chat-up line sense, but would it help to take some clothes off? I’m semi-naked here, and I’m burning up!”

  “I know, and I’m loving it,” Ben grinned, his spark reignited. He lay back on the bed again, his hands around my waist, his thumbs circling lazily against my stomach. Relieved, I pitched forward and leant my head on his chest. I could hear Ben’s heart beating like crazy, and the heat coming from him was so intense that I slid my fingers beneath the remaining buttons and set them loose, blowing cool air on his skin as I went. I could feel him tense, but this time he didn’t stop me from removing his shirt.