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

Home > Other > The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 12: Over 40 outstanding pieces of short erotic fiction (Mammoth Books) > Page 32
The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 12: Over 40 outstanding pieces of short erotic fiction (Mammoth Books) Page 32

by Jakubowski, Maxim


  Clinging to me, inviting my sperm to enter her, wanting it, needing it.

  I’m now drawing her closer, all but crushing her skull between my bear claws, mashing the side of my face into hers, pumping and pumping my hot load up into her warm, creamy crevice; filling her fey, frail body whose eyes suddenly bolted open.

  “Wait,” Amy said, as though shocked back to life.

  Uh, oh . . .

  Amy’s surprisingly iron grip on my back and shoulders loosened and she pulled away from me. I had heard it all before and knew it was coming. Here we go . . .

  . . . But, no. Instead of How dare you, it was, “I suddenly have . . . thee . . . best . . . idea . . . for a poem . . . ever!”

  Navigating around my body, Amy stood up off the couch, tugged up her leggings and shorts, and was out the door and from my life for good. Out of the coffee shop, even.

  About a year later, her two-volume poetry collection (Before the Storm and After the Wake) were bestsellers, single-handedly revitalizing the fledgling poetry industry. Meanwhile, I . . . I couldn’t write line one of my grand poetry opus.

  Not after that evening with this bright new star.

  You may have heard of her, in fact. They call her “ Anaïs” Annie. Actually . . . Yes! That was her name. Annie. Not Amy. Annie.

  The memory flashed to finito and I was left vacantly flipping through the TV channels in my otherwise dark studio apartment with one hand holding my emptied, limp dick. Literally marinating in my own juices of failure.

  And what followed was yet another rerun of Some Young Broads (now on three channels, as you may know; one of the runs dubbed for Spanish-speaking audiences, which finally makes me laugh in a way that the English version never could).

  So these fucking bitches keep stealing my ideas. My energy. My power. My . . . me.

  Whether I’m pumping into her twat, face, or even TV image, it doesn’t matter. Off they go to become bigger, bolder, better than I could ever imagine (and if I could imagine, they would steal that from me, too! Whores!).

  You don’t believe me?

  I tell you, the more I jerk it to this Trini Dobowitz slut – to her fat fucking face – the more powerful and successful she becomes. It’s happened all year. OK? The same fame and power that then eludes me.

  It’s mine. There inside me, percolating inside my loins, incubating and ready to rock and/or roll . . . then POW: a simple lapse of judgement and I flush it all out of me and into HER. Whomever SHE may be at the moment of too-tantalizing temptation.

  But . . . wait! Why hadn’t I realized it before? (Christ: the latest promo for Some Young Broads says Trini has been nominated for an Award for Brilliance in Women . . .)

  And, more importantly, why hadn’t I done something about it? How could I have been so foolish? So weak? So cowardly to face the all-consuming fait accompli of the thing: Each time I come for a girl, she absorbs my ideas!

  Really, it’s not even my fault. Or their fault. Like Chanel. Poor thing is (was?) so scatterbrained, I was always a bit surprised when she actually remembered to remove her tampon before our getting down to business. Then, suddenly, she’s deconstructing the double negations of Hegel through the perspective of Lacan’s Seminar III? Becoming some kind of grand poobah in the psychoanalytical Academic Circle that continues to shun me?

  Clearly, this was happening all along.

  I knew now what I needed to do. This would be the thing. This would be the one that would bring me to that next level of my career. The elusive “loose fish” mariners tried to best in the stories told by Moby Dick’s faithful crew.

  Here it was. I couldn’t believe my luck once it all came together in my mind: I possess some weird “reverse” magic power, if you will, and now I can write about it. Do a stand-up act! Sure! Who’s doing stand-up these days? A bunch of hipster kids talking about their troubles with social media? Bah. I could do better!

  I could wrap an entire set around this wacky story!

  All I needed to do was write the Christing motherfucker!

  My palms were sweaty with exhilarated anticipation. Oh, how fun it would be to write! Oh, the exuberant joy of seeing my story told. And how – oh, yes! – how amazing it would be to at long last land myself in the coveted Victor’s Throne!

  And I was off!

  Off to the bar calling me with clarion siren’s song. (I needed a snifter of potvaliancy here before taking on that most formidable of all foes: the white-blank page.)

  Three shots of Wild Turkey 101 and two bottles of Sam Adams later and my arm’s around the short shoulders/neck of the utterly ravishing, dark and brooding June sitting on the barstool next to me.

  I’m laughing my sick fucking ass off, and June’s trying her best to smile with a crooked, placating grin, revealing her baby Chiclet teeth all adorably misshapen. Her pillows of redred ruby lips glint in the dun-colored gas-lamp lighting of the Degas-blurry bar scene. And her blackest Snow White hair is topped by a purple-and-white polka-dot hairband affixed just so.

  Just so for me. Just so for this night of revelation, excitation, and celebration. I will be writing all the wrongs of my life and finally . . .

  . . . But, first: two more shots. And June.

  June with the shockingly penetrating onyx eyes. Eyes that are pupils only. Somehow. June with the bashful button nose that crinkles when she continues to placate me with her custom crooked grin. June with the baby powder pale skin wrapped tightly around her baby-doll frame.

  June in the flickering, fluorescent light of the drip-drop, claustrophobic box of the wet-floored, tile-floored bar bathroom.

  There we are together. And she’s about five foot four, making her the perfect height to be spun around (bathroom door click-locked), and my two lesbo fingers – middle and ring – dig up and into her slippery, slick-wet cunt from behind.

  We’re both standing, but that does not stop me from drilling her sweet vagina with these fingers, pounding her and all but scraping her bulbous clitoris along the way.

  Over and over, fingers diving deeply into her gut, palm of my hand slapping against her supple white ass enshrouded in shadow for the moments of darkness from the flickering, erratically humming low light above us.

  In the scratched, broken mirror before us, we can see through the layer of rust-brown dirt to our muddy reflections.

  June’s eyes shut as I continue to finger-ram her remorselessly, gritting my teeth and letting go of any inhibition, allowing the alcohol to take over and make my hand a machine pelting her ass and forcing my fingers up and into her, over and over, without stopping, doing all I can to rip her whole goddamn petite body apart.

  She’s loving it – I think – and I can barely see in the mirrored reflection that her closed eyelids are painted with a light lavender hue.

  There’s that crooked smirk of hers again, both of us hearing only the on-again/off-again buzz of the low light above and the quickening, gooshy flesh-slapping of my pile-driving fingers penetrating her body endlessly.

  The fingers of my left hand knowingly wrap around her left ribs to clasp her flat stomach beneath her tight black leather biker jacket whose jangling, kitschy chains assure me she’s no motorcycle rider.

  Holding her in place grants me purchase to really go to work here, forcing her to climax. My brow folds with sweaty, deliberate dedication. I want her to come and she will do it, and she will do it from my fingers alone.

  Up and in, again and again, these two of my hand’s strongest fingers, ruthlessly excavating her slimy-lipped slit; her warm and welcoming body taking each thrust, almost inhaling the entirety of my hand.

  June is soundless, licks her lips slowly, and I can then hear her deep breathing; each exhale long and quivering. Each inhale quick and strong as though her last.

  “Harder,” she whispers as I quicken. “Harder!”

  And I oblige, even faster still, pummeling her wet dripping vagina oozing with excitement and sweat.

  With each rapid thrust pumping her insides,
I feel the cold firm skin of her buttock against the palm of my perspiring hand. I notice a small brownish-black bruise just underneath the back of her knee and something about it turns me on in a way few other things could.

  I’m really railing her now, banging her with my one hand, clutching her stomach with the other and literally pulling her into each advance of my fingers inside of her, all but breaking her spine in the process.

  No sound from her at all, as I open my eyes to look into our shared reflection in the grimy mirror and see her eyes – pupils, as I’ve reported already – and her lips mouthing the word, “Please . . .”

  She whispers it now: “Please.”

  And I stop, losing my balance a bit, and with both hands (my right fingers sticky and warm from her insides) I unfasten my belt, unzip my black slacks, and drop them to the floor.

  I spin June around to face me.

  Her body trembles as I drag my sticky-wet hand up and down her tight-crack vagina sprayed with a black peppering of prickly hair, and injudiciously ram myself home (a trick, to be sure, in my besotted state; but, still . . .).

  And her eyes bolt wider than I’d ever dreamed and her breath expels a galaxy of cool spritz motes in my face.

  I lean into her face, bite her lip, let her go, and birl her around again, shoving her up against the mirror with a crash and a grunt from June.

  I spread her ass cheeks apart, draw back spittle in my throat, and shoot it out at her puckered spiral of an asshole practically winking at me.

  “Wait,” she says. But I’m not listening. Clutching her pert size-Cs (impossible for her tiny frame, but not my prerogative) from behind, I bash myself up and into her, driving home and boring her tender, fleshy asshole.

  The slimy flop of entrails’ mucous skin encase my cock as I pump her faster and harder, jabbing her with all the power in my back and body, hanging on to her firm breasts underneath her leather jacket (jangling chains).

  Her onyx marble pupils always open in the reflection of the mirror against which her head is banging with each crash of myself into her cold, fleshy cheeks.

  It is in that reflection that I see her agog at me as though in disbelief, still making not a noise – petrified perhaps – and my right hand slithers down her belly button to her black-peppered, bristly twat whose lips I strum, impossibly speeding up my cadence of savage ass-fucking.

  Our inhales/exhales are in perfect syncopated sync, both of us clammy and sweating through the same jouissance and pain. June being torn from within, me tensing my back muscles and feeling the hot sting of my penis teeming with volatile sperm ready to engage.

  Then I hear it once again: “Please, please, please.”

  I let her know: “I’m gonna . . .”

  “All of it,” she says. “Please. All of it. I want it. Oh, God! Please . . .”

  And I feel it. Starting in my belly, hot and bothered like the whiskey’s gonna come back up – but it’s not – and I clench her left leathered tit with one hand, playing with the top of her ladyfinger pussy with the other; she screeching in pain as I squirt and let loose, draining my juice up and into her guck-ey mash of fenny flesh and breathing out quickly as I finish releasing deep within her asshole.

  And I pull out, wipe the excess cum on her left buttock (just above the enticing bruise), place my hand on the mirror beside her face, and lean against it to catch my breath.

  I expel a loud sigh and almost laugh.

  June turns around, exhausted and pouring sweat. She stares into my eyes as she pulls up the black skirt that had been on the ground round her white, filthy tennis shoes.

  She pivots round to her reflection. Fixes her hair, makes sure her polka-dotted hairband is just so once more.

  I grip my cramped side in pain and breathe hard, a little wobbly from the booze still violating my system.

  “Well,” June says. “Thanks.”

  I nod my head. Then she breaks out into the loudest belt of laughter.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Oh, nothing,” she says.

  “No, what? Tell me.”

  She tilts her head now, and it’s the first time I sense a semblance of sentience in her otherwise expressionless, robotic face. She’s no longer placating me with a crooked grin. This is her. This is she. This is June. And she just figured it out.

  “I just thought of something . . . sooooo funny.”

  I’m suddenly sobered. Oh, no.

  Wait, what was I gonna do after this . . . ? What was the idea again?

  “Wait!” I call out to her; but June’s already unlocked the door and is out of the bathroom. I see the back of her fake biker jacket – “Sorry! I really gotta go!” – as she’s out of my presence forevermore.

  I’m alone. Spent. With an absentee mind.

  Blank.

  And I know I’m too drunk to remember June.

  Until a few months later, that is.

  There she is. On the TV. On cable. It’s a clip from an upcoming episode of Some Young Broads. They’re talking about the season premiere.

  And it’s June. Doing stand-up at a club on the show. I remember her!

  I found her first! I . . . . . . came in her ass! I came in her. And now she’s doing stand-up. On Some Young Broads. There she is: “Hey, girls. Does your guy ever do something that just . . . totally gets on your nerves? He’s demanding anal, and meanwhile you’re all like, ‘Uh, no thanks!’” Laughter in the crowd (fake? real?).

  June finishes, “Just remember next time, when you’re feeling guilty about it: It’s not ‘complaining’; it’s ‘explaining what bothers you!”’ The audience (fake? real? Almost all females, that’s for sure) goes crazy for it.

  And now Trini Fuckin’ Dobowitz is discussing the clip and how she found June at a nightclub a few months back doing this bit about “complaining” and how it tohhhhhhtally gelled with her “aesthetic” and . . . etc., etc., etc.

  Trini then explains that she and June are sooooo gelled in their “aesthetic,” in fact, that she will be executive producing June’s own series on NBC next year . . .

  And I’m in my shitty little studio apartment. Wondering how I’m gonna pay next month’s rent. No food in the fridge. No ideas in my head. In the dark. Alone. And with nothing.

  I can only look at the camera deadpan and say the line.

  “FUCK.”

  And I swear I can hear canned laughter and applause as the credits roll . . .

  Risk Reduction

  Madeline Moore

  Nikki wanted sex. All night long she’d dreamt of sex with strangers and she’d awakened with the female equivalent of a hard-on. Unfortunately, since she’d slept through the alarm, there’d been no time to slip her hand between her thighs and stroke her buzzing clit to climax.

  Work had been busy, at least. And the “sublimate your sexual energy” approach she’d been taught by Dr McConnelly had worked. She’d rocked her job. But busy meant lunch at her desk and coffee on the run. No time to duck into a cubicle in the lady’s room and soothe her snatch with some three-finger thrusts and a thumb diddle, never mind indulge in a little daydreaming about lunching under the gorgeous new CEO’s desk, he of the six-pack abs and guns that bulged when he shot his cuffs.

  Dr McConnelly allowed her fantasy as a form of risk reduction. He and Nikki were almost but not entirely sure that, disinhibited though she may be, she’d learnt her lesson at her previous job. It still made her blush and cringe and, admittedly, laugh to think about it.

  Nikki hadn’t been on the sales team for the San Franciscobased firm very long when the Holiday Season hit. What a party the company she’d worked for had provided! Being very young (this had been a few years ago) she’d drunk way too much champagne and decided to blow the boss.

  He was cute and married so she’d likely have gotten away with the fast and dirty cock-sucking she’d performed in the men’s room. But they’d been caught by a co-worker so nothing would do but that she blow him, too. And another, and another, and soon guys were
telling other guys, “Betty’s giving holiday blow jobs in the men’s room!” It’d been glorious, really: down on her knees, not caring about the ladders in her stockings or the stains on her crimson satin party dress; the smell of sex and sweat and cologne surrounding her; all those hard cocks coming at her; cream running down her chin; the groans of the one coming in her mouth mingled with the cheers and moans of those already spent or waiting their turn. Mm.

  But she’d been terminated before the hangover had worn off. Never again, Nikki.

  Never again would she drink so much or sink to her knees for even one workmate, let alone a dozen or more. She’d moved from the west coast to the east and started using her middle name as her first. And she’d gone into therapy with the marvellous, patient, brilliant and adorably Irish Dr McConnelly.

  Nikki left work early, as she had one Friday a month for the three years she’d been with her present firm, to meet with him. They were winding down their sessions. He was taking early retirement and she’d learnt plenty about boundaries, which was what he’d decided she needed after she told him her version of a Christmas story.

  Boundaries. First, she’d learnt what they were. Then she’d established some of her own. Then she’d learnt to respect the boundaries of others. Nikki’d come a long way in therapy, but she wasn’t looking forward to the day when she was released by Dr McConnelly and unleashed, solo, upon the world.

  Nikki rose from the Metro at the proper station and tip tapped along the sidewalk in her high heels. She wore heels the way other women wore crocs. Her straight cut black hair just brushed the collar of her stylish charcoal jacket. The matching short skirt showed off mile-long legs that were sheathed in dark stockings and then those killer black leather heels. If she attracted a few glances from the men and returned them with appreciative glances of her own, that was OK, right?

  Maybe she’d talk to Dr McConnelly about it.

  What she really wanted to do was kiss Dr McConnelly.

  They’d worked through her “transference” period where she’d been desperately in love with him and terrified he’d find out. It’d been embarrassing, stupid even, but it was long over. He’d promised that someday she’d come to regard him with indifference but that day hadn’t arrived and now that he was taking early retirement it likely wouldn’t. Nikki no longer fantasized endlessly about fucking Dr McConnelly, but she still had to battle a desire to flash him while crossing her legs, or brush her breasts against him when he took her coat, or just touch his hand as he wrote out their next appointment in his looping script.

 

‹ Prev