The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 11

by Maxim Jakubowski

  “I want to make you come.”

  Again I laughed. “You will. Trust me. But I want to see you. I want to see that handsome cock of yours. OK?” I kissed him.

  He shrugged diffidently, but I sensed he was gratified.

  He was hairier than I’d expected; but the blond, translucent fur that ran down his chest was soft and smooth, almost unreal. His beautifully proportioned cock felt smooth, too, in my hand – but definitely not soft, and certainly not unreal.

  He let me stroke him for a short while, then he dropped to his knees. He began kissing his way wetly up my thighs – he seemed increasingly passionate, now that we’d moved beyond the barriers of age and etiquette and uncertainty and clothing.

  “You smell terrific.” His face was millimetres from my pussy. “I mean, I liked your perfume, but down here – oh, wow.”

  I just stood there, clasping his head between my thighs, while he ate me out. I felt like a fine meal, like a treasure, as he sucked and kissed and licked from out to in and back, drawing silken pulses of ecstasy from my depths.

  My ass was still sizzling from his lavish attentions, and my breasts melted in my own hands – because my nipples had needed to be engaged by whoever was available, and my fingers, seething with preorgasmic tension, had needed something to do.

  His appetite seemed only to grow as he feasted. By the time my clit telegraphed a string of climaxes onto his tongue and my juice ran wild over his lip, the room was alive with his desire.

  When he emerged from my sanctum, I stepped away, turned, and bent over the back of an armchair – trusting that he would take the hint and assume his . . . entry-level position.

  He took the hint.

  Now, at last, as he fucked me powerfully from behind, Ned redeemed the voucher I’d implicitly offered him back in his cubicle – the invitation to celebrate my ample breasts. Though his thrusting honoured a steady, linear rhythm – deliciously serviceable, given that we were a good fit – his fingers fluttered capriciously, titillating and moulding me, imparting a constantly blossoming bouquet of tactile surprises. While his cock made me moan, his hands made me giggle; and, helpless in pleasure, I lost it, barely needing the feminine forefinger on my clit to fly into a heaving orgasm, as Ned pumped his condom full of raw enthusiasm.

  Later, he asked me to drive him home, rather than choosing to stay over. Yet in the same breath, he asked if he could come back the next night.

  Of course he could.

  Ned moved on to New York after a year, and I moved on to the next bohemian. We’d never felt remotely “permanent” – but I remember Ned more distinctly than most of them.

  And not just because I get a hand-drawn, one-of-a-kind birthday card every year, featuring a cartoon woman with nice boobs.

  Let’s Dance

  D. L. King

  Hands up in the air, twirling around trance-like, eyes closed, with a stupid smile on his face – or maybe it was more a beatific smile. Actually, I’ve sort of seen that same look before; seen it a lot. I mean kinda the whole thing, like if he had been tied that way and suspended, his body set to twirling in the air. But this wasn’t like that. This was on a dance floor. At a club. A regular, vanilla club. I’m just saying . . .

  Patty had convinced me to go out for drinks after a particularly long day – week – year at work and we’d ended up in this cool kid college bar. Not our usual kind of place, but it had a happy hour. We’d been scoping out the field, discussing each guy’s assets – and ass – in great detail. “Hey Eve, what about that loon?’ she asked me.

  I followed her finger and saw him. She was laughing but I was thinking “oh how sweet.”

  “What?” She looked at me like I was insane. “What,” I said again. “He’s adorable. Just look at him.” A laugh and the scent of gin wafted towards me. “C’mon. You don’t think he’s cute?” More laughter. “Seriously. He’s just into the music. I think it’s sweet.”

  “Somebody needs another drink,” she said as she pulled me back towards the bar.

  I didn’t really want another drink, but I played along. With two fresh Martinis, one vodka and one “real”, we wandered back to our previous look-out. Cute Boy was still on the dance floor, this time dancing with another guy and girl. The three of them looked like they didn’t have a care in the world.

  When the music changed, his friends left the floor and I decided to go for it. Handing my drink to Patty, I danced my way into the crowd. From behind, I put my hands on his hips and he jumped. He tried to turn to see what was going on but I pressed my body to his back, grabbing his prominent pelvic bones and grinding myself against his ass.

  I could feel his pulse speed. He was a gazelle. I was stronger and more powerful. And I was hungry.

  “Um, Alice?”

  “Who’s Alice?” I asked.

  “Oh. I thought maybe you were Al . . . coming back from the bar. Do I know you? I mean, it’s all right. I mean, who . . .”

  “No, you don’t know me.” I moved my hands in from his hips, and down, keeping the pressure on. “Would you like to?”

  “Uh huh.” He put his hands over mine and we continued to dance, my fingers stroking his cock through his jeans.

  I love those baggy pants, especially on skinny white boys. You can hide an embarrassment of riches in there. My hands just naturally found their way past the waistband to his naked cock. That was when his hands grabbed mine from the outside.

  “Aren’t you just the cutest thing? Are you nine or did somebody shave you? And, by the way, do something else with those hands, unless you want me to go away.” He let my hands go and tentatively reached back to cup my ass.

  “Like what you feel?” I asked as my fingers found damp balls and toyed with them. As I worked my way slowly back towards his hole he almost collapsed forward.

  “I was right: you are adorable,” I said. Moving my hands back, I gently squeezed his balls. “Have a girlfriend?” He shook his head. “Have a boyfriend?” He laughed. “Keeper?” He shook his head again and turned back to see who was tormenting him. “What’s your name?”

  “Pete.”

  “Wanna go somewhere, Pete?”

  “I . . .”

  “Yes?” I asked. I pinched the tip of his cock and squeezed his balls with my other hand. He jumped. “Oops,” I said.

  “I . . .”

  He jumped again when I pulled my hands from his pants, slammed them onto his hips and moved him away from my body. “Oh, well.”

  “No, wait. Yes. I mean, yes.”

  “Good answer.” Keeping my hands on his hips, I led him off the dance floor, towards Patty and my drink. I put my arm around his waist and picked up my Martini. “Patty, this is Cute Boy. Cute Boy, this is Patty,” I said as I took a healthy swig of vodka.

  “Pete,” he said, reaching out his hand to Patty.

  As Patty reached for Pete’s hand, I put my empty glass in hers. “I gotta take Cute Boy home now. See you next week.” I could hear her bark of laughter as I guided Pete to the door.

  Once on the street, Pete put his arm across my shoulder. “What’s your name?”

  “Eve. Short for Evangeline. But I haven’t decided whether you get to use it or not.” I hailed a cab.

  He looked so bewildered. He wasn’t at all drunk. “What do you mean I don’t get to use it? What am I supposed to call you?”

  Once in the cab, I said, “Hey, Cute Boy, who shaved your boy parts?”

  A blush began at the top of his ears and travelled to his cheeks. “Um, I did,” he said.

  “What made you decide to do something like that?” The blush spread to his forehead and neck simultaneously, and he looked at the floor of the cab. “Aw, c’mon, you can tell me.” I rested my hand on the inside of his thigh and gave him a good-natured squeeze. He shifted in his seat and looked at me. It looked as if he were trying to gauge my politics – or where I might stand on certain topics – or maybe whether he could trust me. Whatever he was thinking, the body butt I gave his shou
lder must have swayed him.

  “Well, see, I was reading this book . . . and the guy in it – I guess it was a dirty book . . .” He looked out the window at the Manhattan Bridge. “Where do you live?”

  “Brooklyn. Go on.”

  “So, yeah, anyway, this guy was in this experiment and the women who were doing the experiment had to shave him, see.” I nodded my head. “And he seemed to like it. The way it felt. In the book. And I thought maybe I might like it too.”

  “And do you?” The blush got more prominent, as did the tent in his jeans. “Cute Boy, you’re so cute.”

  “I’m kinda embarrassed. I just did it last night. Didn’t know if I could, well, be with anyone – this way, you know?” He shot a glance at the back of the cab driver’s head.

  Where was HBO when you needed them? The driver wasn’t paying any attention. He was on his cell, having a heated discussion, in low tones, in an unrecognizable language as the cab shot across the bridge.

  “Brooklyn?”

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s not a foreign country,” I said. “I think you’re gonna like it; the shave, I mean. Anyway, you’ll know pretty soon, one way or another. And I’ve decided: you can call me Miss.”

  The cab stopped. I paid the driver and waited for Pete to get out.

  “You live here?” he asked. He gazed up at the six-storey Red Hook building that had done duty as a warehouse at the turn of the century and was now artist lofts.

  “Yeah,” I said. “And we have the whole place to ourselves.” The elevator opened onto a large, open, industrial space. Photographic equipment was off to one side, a couch and two overstuffed chairs faced away from the windows, towards a big flat-screen TV, leaving the window side of the room empty.

  “Make yourself comfortable. My roommate’s out of town, on a photo shoot. He does fashion and fetish. What would you like to drink?” I asked, from the kitchen.

  “I was drinking beer at the bar. Eve, right? This is awesome.”

  I handed him a bottle of Beck’s. “That’s ‘Miss’ to you. Take off your clothes. I want to see if you did a good job.” He looked at me, and then at the windows, which looked out onto the harbour and darkness. “It’s OK, Cute Boy; no one’s gonna see you except me.” I slid his T-shirt up over his abs and past his chest. I loved the little patch of black hair he had between his pecs and around his nipples. I ran my hands over them and he sighed. The scent of beer lingered after. “Come on, Cute Boy, chop, chop. Let’s go.” I raised the shirt higher and he pulled it over his head.

  “You were so cute, dancing at the bar. I loved the way you had your hands in the air, sort of like you were in another world.” I unbuttoned his pants. Oversized, they immediately slid down to his ankles, leaving him completely naked. Pete’s hard-on curved to the right. “Don’t you think it makes your cock look bigger?”

  “What?” he said, reaching for the buttons on my blouse.

  “Later, maybe, if you’re very good,” I said. I brushed his hands away and ran mine up his shaft. “Shaving off your pubic hair,” I said. “It makes your cock look bigger.” He shuddered and tried to bump himself against me. “Doesn’t it feel nice in the air, bare like that? I bet you’ve hardly been able to keep your mind on anything else, or your hands off, ever since you did it.” I ran my hand softly over the shaved skin around the root of his cock. “Isn’t that right?” I could see pre-come beginning to leak from the tip.

  He groaned. “Don’t you wanna get naked?” he asked.

  “Ever been tied up?” He watched my mouth as if I were speaking a foreign language. “I know what kind of book you were reading.”

  My hands explored his hot skin and I felt the familiar cunt tingle I always get at the start of the game. Naked boys, especially when I’m clothed, just do it for me. My breath hitched as I reached for his balls and gently rolled them around in my palms.

  He shook his head no.

  “Wanna be?”

  His cock waved. “Um . . .”

  “Yeah, I guess you do, don’t you?” I looked him in the eye and nodded. He copied the nod as he looked at me. “I do the rigging for my roommate on some of his shoots.” He just stared at me as I fondled him. “I tie his models up.”

  “Oh,” he said. “Oh. OK.” Goose bumps appeared on his chest and arms.

  “All right, so, if you don’t like it, or you want to stop, you have to say, I’m done, understand? If you say anything else, I might not know what you mean, so you have to say, I’m done.”

  “I got it,” he said. “It’s just like in the book I was reading. Oh my God.”

  I spread a blanket on the floor, by the window and had him stand in the centre. I began with a utilitarian chest harness. The pattern incorporated diamonds in both back and front as well as two horizontal ropes falling above and below his nipples. Checking in with him, I asked him how he was doing.

  “Fine,” he said. “This is fun.”

  I ran my hands over his imprisoned nipples and watched the waves of goose bumps travel up and down his chest. “Nice, huh? Everything feels more intense in the ropes, doesn’t it?” His body gave a little involuntary shake and I set to work on his thighs and groin.

  Putting double wraps around each thigh at three separate points, I joined them on both the outside and inside of his legs. I brought the tails, from his back tie, down the crack of his ass and up between his legs. Pulling them tight, I tied them off at the waist.

  “How does that feel,” I asked, running my fingers up and down the rope that stretched his ass cheeks apart.

  “Fuck,” he said. “That’s so amazing.”

  I ran my hands between his legs, on either side of his straining cock and gave the taut, smooth skin just above his erect shaft a smack.

  “Oh my God, don’t stop,” he said.

  “We’re not done yet. Plenty of time to play later. More work to be done yet. Keep your pants on . . . so to speak. Raise your arms, with your hands in the air, like when you were dancing.”

  I wrapped each arm separately and brought the tails down his back and between his legs, wrapping and separating his balls, before creating a rope cock ring. “Still good?” I asked.

  “Yeah, but if I lower my arms, all the tension’s gone.”

  “Don’t worry, just be patient.” I helped him lie down on the blanket and then lifted his arms over his head again, spreading them wide and fastening his wrists to a stretcher bar. By the time I finished with the stretcher bar, he was drifting off into sub space. It seems Cute Boy was a total bondage slut. The noise of the electric winch snapped him out of his trance.

  “What’s going on?”

  “I’m going to suspend you. I think you’ll like it.’’ I attached the ropes from the pulley system to three strategic points on his back and waist harness, making sure his weight was evenly distributed, then I attached the spreader bar to the pulley system as well. I supported him as the winch began to lift him from the floor. When he was vertical again, I wrapped his calves to his ankles and lifted first one leg, then the other, off the ground, bending his knees and fastening his ankles about a foot from his thighs so it looked like he was jumping.

  “OK?” I asked.

  “Amazing,” he replied. “Please say you have a camera. You gotta have a camera!”

  I laughed and held him by the balls, rocking him back and forth, looking into his eyes. “You’re a lot of fun, Cute Boy.” Running my hands over his shaved groin and my fingers along the sides of the rope separating his ass, he began to shake in his harness. I played with the pre-come at the tip of his cock and stroked the underside.

  “You want to come?”

  “Oh, yeah,” he moaned.

  “What’s my name?”

  “Eve.”

  I smacked his ass.

  “Miss, Miss!” he yelled.

  “I like this smooth skin, Cute Boy,” I said, stroking the newly shaved skin. A combination of touch and gentle humiliation brought him off and, once he was done, I lowered him
back to earth and removed the ropes.

  After some cookies and cuddling, we exchanged numbers, and as I walked him to the door he glanced over at my desk. “Hey, that’s the book,” he said.

  I looked down. “That book?”

  “Yeah, that’s the book I was reading.”

  “No shit? I wrote that book,” I said, handing him the sequel.

  An Unusual Legacy

  Anya Levin

  She stepped into the room, trading the plushly carpeted, well-lit hallway for a dimmer, colder, luxurious cavern of a room.

  Though she knew Jenny wouldn’t be in the room, wouldn’t be with her again, a dark part of her thought, sending a pang through her chest, she was still warmly aroused when she moved into the room. Even without Jenny’s presence, the illusion that she would be seeing her was there. In her mind it was almost as if she were embarking on one of their usual meetings, as if she would be seeing Jenny’s blonde hair and welcoming smile, sinking into her arms and kissing her mouth.

  But she knew better, and was more reminded than let down when she saw Not Jenny waiting in the room.

  “You’re just on time,” the woman said with a smile. She was tall, trim, well-dressed. Pretty, but not Jenny. She could have been anyone, anywhere. But to Leonie’s surprise, she was no one. There was no recognition ping on Leonie’s interface. There was nothing.

  “Jenny told me to expect you,” the anonymous woman said. “I’m Raine, by the way.” She stepped forward, hand outstretched in greeting.

  “Jenny. You knew Jenny.”

  “I know she’s dead,” Raine said soberly, smile falling flat.

  The blunt declaration took Leonie’s breath away, and sent a shaft of pain through her chest. The reality was too new, too fresh. It felt like an attack to hear it professed so openly.

  “But you came anyway. And she would have wanted you to,” Raine continued.

  “Would she have?” Leonie asked. She’d wondered.

  “Yes,” Raine said firmly.

  No question, then. Leonie shook herself, clutched her fingers together and broached the real question. “Why am I here?”