The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 11

by Maxim Jakubowski

  He pressed his forehead into my stomach and breathed heavily into my crotch. He breathed heavily and repeated, “You have ruined me.” He brought a long finger up and pierced my centre. He pushed it in deep and pulled it back out. Pushed it in deeper still and pulled it back out. Pushed it in as deep as he could and pulled it back out. He leaned forward to retrieve the nectar that he had stirred up and lapped, lapped, lapped at it with his tongue. He dipped his tongue into my cunt and eagerly sipped at the juices that came forth.

  I grew dizzy at his unexpected tenderness. I felt as if I would fall to the floor. I held tightly to his broad shoulders beneath that suit, pressed the fabric in as I had seen the women of his congregation do.

  He took my left foot and then the other and released them from the pile of clothes that bound them. Then, standing up, he led me to the stage. The stage where he stood Sunday after Sunday and sermonized to the masses about love and salvation. He led me naked up the stairs and once there he had me kneel before him in a position of repentance. It was here that he unzipped his zipper, an eternal ungrasping of metal from metal and at long last brought forth the heavy flesh of his cock.

  I pulled his offering deeply into my mouth and sucked upon it hungrily. I let the tip push at the back of my throat while I ran my tongue up and down its underside. I felt the heaviness of his balls in my hand as I sucked sucked sucked. I felt suddenly ravenous. I wanted to be filled with his seed. I wanted to suck suck suck until his cock exploded its nourishment, its love, its forgiveness into my ravenous body.

  I imagined his congregation lining up in the pews behind me. I imagined them watching my bare ass as it bounced on the heels of my dirt worn shoes. My red hair, ridden of its rage, cascading down the white plane of my back. I imagined them clap clap clapping and shouting out their praises as I swallowed the preacher’s cock deep into the back of my throat.

  As if my husband were overtaken by this imagery too he shouted out an unexpected and triumphant “Amen!” One that began at the root of his sex and exploded from the depths of his abundant lungs. It bounced off the barren pews and back into my ears. My heart leaped with joy, elated to have brought forth such utterances from my heretofore angry lover.

  He pushed my face away from his cock leaving me starving, leaving me hungry, leaving me thirsty for more. He shed his clothing, first his shoes, then his pants, he wore no boxers, then his jacket, then his white button-up shirt which he opened button by button as if he had all the time in the world. He carefully folded these garments and laid them atop his pulpit.

  He took my hand, helped me to my feet and led me to the piano bench. He sat down, his erection pointing towards the heavens, and then he pulled my soaking pussy onto his lap and pierced me deeply. I sat there motionless at first, savouring the way his penis filled me. Savouring the pulse and rhythm of his flowing blood against my walls. Savouring his hands wrapped around my waist, my back pressed to his chest, his lips on my neck, my nipples pointed towards the risers where not long before the choir sang its songs of glory.

  And then he began to pump into me. Deep into me. He pumped and dug his fingers into the tops of my thighs and pumped and bit the back of my neck. He pumped and grabbed a fistful of my hair and brought his other hand to my nipple and twisted it as he pumped deep into me.

  And I let my body be carried by his ravishments. I let him have his way with me his wayward wife. I relinquished control and let him love me as he knew best.

  At the moment I felt my orgasm well up inside me, at the moment that I felt his cock become as hard as it was able, at the moment that my moan overtook the vacant space, at the moment that his grip grew tighter and his breath drew harder. At this moment he crashed backwards onto the piano keys and a great discordant tune clattered about the church. And we both cried out discordantly, yet together in a great and final instant of utter satisfaction.

  We sat there in stillness for a moment, but then my husband, he pushed me from his lap. My skin unstuck from his skin and I dropped weary and sated to the floor of the stage. My husband stood and slowly pulled on his trousers, slid his shirt up his arms and buttoned it one by one as if he had all the time in the world. Drew on his jacket and pulled on his socks and shoes.

  I sat there and watched him as he put himself together. Watched him as he ran a hand over his smooth, bald pate, wiping off all evidence of his exertion. Once again he stood as before, a man in control, a man who did not want to leave our little town.

  Her First Thursday Evening

  M. Christian

  Weird little flukes rule our lives. Like Starbucks. I normally avoid the place, but that one day the caffeine demon was riding my ass pretty hard and Starbucks was the nearest source of the magic bean. She was behind the counter. That was on Monday. I asked if she’d like to get some coffee sometime, and we both laughed. Weird little flukes: I’m normally quite shy around people I don’t know, but with her, the words just came.

  On Tuesday, we went to the movies. Something loud with explosions and much bloodshed – or was it something with “hey, dude” jokes and silicon tits? – or maybe something with tears and sunsets? Doesn’t matter, because I can’t remember. But her arm, bare because of the hot summer days, was against mine and sometime during the credits she moved it to better hold my hand.

  On Wednesday, I ran into her on the way home from the post office. Really, honestly: flukes rule our lives. We went out for dinner, a little place full of steam and rattling dishes – or was it someplace quiet and elegant, with artistically placed portions? – or maybe someplace with corporate smiling clowns and plastic tables. That, too, doesn’t matter, because all I remember was laughing and listening to her own sweet giggles.

  Her place was in the mission, just a few blocks from BART. A shadowed, narrow alley smelling of garbage and piss, a set of winding stairs up to a sloping back porch. Her front door was the back door of the flat, the apartment beyond dark and quiet. I smiled and put my hand on her back as she jingled her keys. That Thursday evening we made love: our breaths mixing in each other’s hot mouths, my hands roaming her body, trying to feel what I would hopefully soon see. Her own hands were fixed, immobile on my back, holding me close – almost too close. Eventually the clothes fell away; my coat, her coat, my fingers on the buttons of her blouse, her hands on my still-shirted chest, my hands pushing up her skirt, her hands stroking the hard outline of my cock through my pants, her panties, and then beyond them to the hot wetness, my cock in the cool air, her hands around my shaft.

  Her nipples were brown, like old chocolate, and big – which reached down somewhere deep in my body and tugged hard – making my cock even harder. Her pussy was barely furred, just a hint of downy soft brown hair. She was sweet in her very wetness, her clit hard between my lips. Her own lips were firm and quick on my cock. There was a passion about her that put a smile on my face and kept it there. Our Thursday night was a laughing, giggling, hot breaths kind of time. The best kind of sex, where it becomes nothing but play between two people.

  After, when I’d come and she’d come and we crawled into her big, crooked bed covered by dozens of cheap, heavy coats (“Better than a comforter and cheaper”) she’d cried. It wasn’t my first time, being with a suddenly crying girl, but there was something about the quickness of the transition that made me catch my breath, made me put aside the usual tricks of hand-patting, hair stroking, and “I’m here for you” things. I just held her, for what felt like a very long time. Finally, when the sobs slowed to only heavy breathing and slick heat on my neck and chest, I managed to croak out: “Tell me about it. Tell me what I can do to help.”

  Those words. Those words have got me in a lot of trouble, but for some reason speaking those to her, that Thursday evening, soft voices under musty overcoats, it was right. I didn’t love the girl, I barely knew her, but I cared about her – and the words I’d sometime spoken simply to calm troubled seas came tumbling out of my mouth with honest sincerity.

  “I was just wishing you coul
d have been around a few years ago,” she said, almost a whisper. “My first time . . . wasn’t that great.”

  I kissed her forehead. “I don’t think anybody’s first time is ever all that great.”

  She swallowed another sob. “Mine was really bad. There was this boy, Mark Bradley. I thought he liked me. We were at this stupid high school dance, something about Paris in the Spring. You know how stupid those things can be. Anyway, so I asked him . . . you know, to dance, but he said ‘no’ and gave me this nasty look. That was bad but I didn’t want to go home or anything so I just stayed around. Later, when the party was almost over and I was getting my coat, he came up to me, apologized for being such a jerk, and offered to drive me home. I know, the back seat of a car – my life is just full of clichés, isn’t it? But I read somewhere that’s where most people lose their cherries, so maybe I’m just average.” She gave me a look and a smile, but I saw the ache there and kissed her hard instead.

  “Nice,” she said, her voice softer. “Yeah, Mark Bradley. He said he was sorry and then we did it. He wasn’t any good – not like you – but that was it.” She was quiet for many heartbeats, which is the only way to measure time during moments like that. I waited, patiently, stroking her hair. Did she get pregnant? Did he beat her? Were her parents crazed fundamentalists who told her she was going to hell? Did she get the clap . . . something worse? I waited, feeling the tension rise in my back.

  When the answer came, it was like any one of my conjectures – and in some ways worse. If he’d beat her, then he was a bastard, and if I ever came across him I’d break his knees with a five-iron. If she’d got pregnant . . . then that was something I could support her with. If her parents had slapped her with the Bible, then there are other religions.

  “After, he said that he knew I’d do it with him because I was fat, and so I’d be desperate.”

  More tears, and I wondered how to get his address out of her – and where my five-iron was. “You’re beautiful,” was what I said, meaning every word. Her face was cherubic, angelic, with lovely cheekbones. Her eyes sparkled with smarts and laughs. Her breasts were plump and pillow-soft. Her ass was full and round, like a perfect peach. Her belly was silken, the perfect place to rest your head, or sweetly kiss. I didn’t see her as fat, though I knew people saw only that about her. I just saw her as a lovely young woman, full of body and big in spirit.

  She cried for a little while more, eventually lifting herself from my shoulder to sniffle and snort. Fumbling around for a box of tissues, she loudly blew her nose, bursting into a lovely laugh at the sound. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I don’t normally do that. It just came up suddenly.”

  I sat up, kissed her forehead, then her cute little mouth, her full lips. “No apologies. I understand. Well, as much as I can.” I smiled. I’m thin, always been that way. “Tell you what. Right now, right here, let’s fix that right away.”

  She smiled, and it was a lovely sight. “I don’t think my cherry is something you can put back.”

  “Let’s give you a new story – something nice, sweet, and special. Come on, it’ll be a fun game.” I put my hand under her breast, lifted it to kiss her nipple. “Someone as lovely as you deserves a good first time.”

  It was a nice Thursday. One of those Thursdays that doesn’t feel like the middle of the week, but rather just one day short of Friday. [What time of year was it, sexy?] It was a lovely summer Thursday, warm but not hot. You were thinking of the dance, walking across the campus, just daydreaming, when BAM, someone runs smack into you [Yeah, I know it’s a cliché but what do you expect, right off the cuff?]. In a tumble of books and legs you both fall flat onto your asses in the grass. “Are you all right?” a young guy says, helping you to your feet. You get up, brushing grass and twigs from your [skirts or pants?] skirt. At first you might have been a little pissed. I mean there’s all your [favourite subject, sexy?] math books and homework scattered all over the place. But then you recognize him as someone you’ve seen around school. Not a jock, not a nerd, not a “perfect” kid, just a nice boy. Maybe a little unusual, but in a good way; like there was something more to him. He laughs and smiles and says something like “Boy, I want to go where you’re going – must be fun if you’re trying to get there so fast.” [Lame joke, I know] So you laugh and stay a little while, just talking. It turns out that he’s interested in math as well, but maybe isn’t as good at it as you are. But he’s curious and maybe a little bit shy, nervous around you for some reason. Finally the bell rings and you have to go, but he asks you – almost blurts it out, actually – if you’d like to go see The Rocky Horror Picture Show that night [I didn’t know, love; I just guessed]. You stand there for a second, wondering if you should go to the prom with all those stupid paper decorations, watered-down punch and decades-old tunes or go with this sweet – though a little nervous – boy to see one of your favourite flicks. Before you know it, you say “Sure!” and, giddy as all get-out, you float through the rest of the day. PE, Art, English, even your beloved Math all slip by in a haze. Finally, you’re home and facing your clothes. What to wear? What to wear? You don’t want to be too provocative, but you also don’t want to be too dowdy. You finally pick a simple black skirt, a white blouse, and before you head out you check yourself out in the mirror . . . and it hits you so hard you just have to stand there and look at yourself. Yes, you’re a big girl, but you’re also really pretty. You’re pretty – very, very pretty. Something else, too, something you knew about but didn’t really understand before: you’re damned sexy. And standing there, smiling, you unbutton the top three buttons on your blouse and skip out. It takes you a little while to get to the theatre, and you’re nervous all the while, but get there you do – then the young man is nowhere to be found. [Don’t worry, girl, you’ll see.] But then someone touches you on the shoulder and you spin around and . . . almost burst out laughing. He’s not a good Riffraff, but it was the thought that counted, right? He smiles at you and you melt a bit inside. You also notice that he’s very fascinated in those undone buttons, which makes you smile a bit more. So you go in and, gallantly, he pays for you both. It’s a great night. You’ve seen the movie before, of course, but this time it’s even more fun. The place is full but not packed, but everyone there is into it: rice flies, toast sails, and everyone screams “ASSHOLE!” at just the right moment. Then, right in the middle, you’re kissing. There are good kisses and fair kisses, but this is a great kiss. This is a kiss that’s so good you feel yourself just melting right there in the theatre seat. It’s a kiss so good that one moment your lips are touching his, your tongues – at first hesitant and then with urgency – meet and move together, and then hours seem to have passed; from the rainstorm to the Time Warp in wonderful bliss. It’s natural, right, and perfect to be kissing this boy. It also seems right that your hand should be resting on his strong thigh and his hand should be cupping your breast, thumb nervously resting on your hard, throbbing nipple. Then the show is over, the lights are rising, and you both giggle, aware that the real show was between the two of you. Suddenly shy, you both giggle and then you’re kissing again, drawn together like two magnets. You would have stayed together that way, it seemed, forever, till a young guy, all white-face and garters, yelled “get a room, you two” with laughter. So you get up, adjusting yourselves as your cheeks burn with embarrassment, and dart out. The night has grown cold, the sky black between blazing summer stars. You know that you should go your separate ways now, but for some reason you can’t let go of his hand. Then you’re kissing, and his hand falls to your side. Smiling as you kiss him, you take his hand and place it on your ass. He’s shocked somehow by this, and squeals and breaks your dance of tongues and lips. A sadness comes over you, almost a prelude to tears [Don’t worry, sexy, you’ll see] and you mumble something about needing to get home. He looks very sad too, but then says something like, “Would you like a drive home?” Still somewhat quenched by his shock at touching you a few minutes before, you almost back away –
but then you remember his hands on you, his lips on you, and, instead, you say “Sure”. The walk down the street to his car is long and cold, but he holds your hand and you find yourself warming right up. His car is old and battered, but with a strange kind of character – like the boy. Inside, it smells of paints and thinner, and you smile thinking of him in some art class. He starts the car and after a sweet smile at you sitting there in the passenger seat, he pulls away. As he drives, you notice a kind of tension about him again, until he finally manages to blurt out, “Thank you so much for coming with me. You’re so beautiful, I was really hoping you’d say yes.” Then there you are, a few blocks from your house. He asks you to point out your place so you tell him . . . but you point to a house far away from your real house. He pulls over and says again, “Thank you so much.” His eyes are drinking you in, relishing you, and you understand why he was so shy with you, why he pulled away from you. As you kiss, as you melt together, you take his hand and put it on your breast, mumbling “it’s OK”. His hands are warm on you and as you kiss, kiss, kiss, he feels the outline of your big breast [just like this] and how hard your nipple is getting. Then, with the heat growing with every second, you unbutton your blouse – and he breaks the kiss to stare at your breasts, your bra. “So beautiful,” he says kissing the tops of them, feeling the weight of them, the hardness of your nipple. Then, before you can say or do anything he bravely reaches down and pulls one of them free from your bra, exposing your nipple to the cool night air – but that’s not why it’s so hard, of course. He kisses it, then takes it into his inferno of a mouth, sucking on it. The feeling is almost beyond words, almost because three of them keep ringing through your mind: “oh my God.” Distantly, you’re aware that he also has his hand down his pants, slowly stroking his cock. What with his lips on your nipple, his hand on your breast and his hard penis so close, you can’t resist and so you mumble “show me.” He’s shocked and breaks the delicious suction to look up at you, but your hands repeat what you asked: they touch the strong muscles of his thigh and grip his so-hard dick in his pants. Then they are on his fly, then his pants have been pushed down – by you or him you don’t know – but then his cock is out. You’ve never seen one before, but somehow it’s still . . . beautiful? Maybe, but beautiful or not, it’s something you want to touch. You do, your hands stroking him, running up and down the thick shaft of him [yeah, like that] and relishing in the soft head. You could have stroked that penis forever, but there’s something demanding even more attention – something that keeps pulsing between your legs. His hand is down there – and your thighs are wide apart, and you know you’re so wet, your clit so stiff – but that’s not enough. You don’t have a word for it, but you know what you want, so you scoot up on the car seat and finally get rid of the annoying barrier of cotton between his hands and your pussy. Feel his hands really touch you. Gently but quivering with excitement, he strokes your lips, relishing in every inch of you, all the time mumbling “so beautiful, so beautiful, so beautiful . . ..” Then you’re on top of him, holding his cock down between your quaking thighs, guiding him in. He’s stopped talking – his voice having been lost to his quick breaths – but now you speak softly, sweetly. You mumble “yes, yes, yes” as his cock slowly enters you. It’s a lot of things to you – a little pain maybe, a little confusion when the act itself has started – but you know more than anything that it’s right and damned good. Up and down, up and down, you go, kissing sometimes, his hands on your breasts and nipples sometimes. Your breaths fog the windows, your hands are busy exploring each other, taking in as much of the other as possible . . . until it’s all too much, all of the sexy goodness has reached its peak and the come begins – a shattering, jarring orgasm that moans out of you both [unrealistic, I know, but sometimes we need fantasy more than reality]. After, you hug and kiss, slowly crawling into your clothes. Then you realize how late it is and your hand is on the door handle – but his hand is on your shoulder. You turn, expecting words but he gives you something better – another kiss, a kiss that combines them all in one wordless act. Suddenly crying, you step out into the cool night and drift slowly home. You see him again, of course, as many times as you can but then he moves away. You cry, he cries, but no distance can take away the specialness that you shared.