The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 11

by Maxim Jakubowski

A long silence followed. Arousal swirled between my thighs but at the same time, I was braced for Jackson leaving the room. I sensed him move closer. My entire being was so attuned to his nearness I swear I felt his shadow fall across me, felt his cool dark image bring a tingle to my skin. I hardly dared breathe. Then Jackson curled his hand around my wrist, lifting my arm.

  “So anyway,” he said. “I went to the hardware store.”

  I jerked my head to see Jackson wrapping a double-length of rope around my wrist. I squealed, my pussy blooming with sudden, swollen tenderness. But we didn’t do this kind of thing! It was for perverts and weirdos and we lived in the suburbs. Not only that, my husband was semi-famous. Supposing this got out? The newspapers would have a field day. I could see the headlines: From Moon Man to Monster! Rocket Man off his Rocker!

  Nonetheless, I offered only a token objection as Jackson ran long rope ends through the loop then tightened the bangle. From the corner of my eye, I drank him in. He was wearing black yoga pants, nothing more, and I was delighted to note his broad-shouldered, taut-bellied strength was intact, as was his libido if the bouncy tent at his crotch was anything to go by. His torso rippled with movement and his skin, filmy with sweat and as pale as the moon, slipped and shifted over tendons and muscle. When he pulled the rope, his forearm tensed and soft, brown hair flashed in his pits. The scent of him reached me in rich wafts of memories – memories of nothing in particular, just of Jackson. I felt I was coming home, except it wasn’t the same because the furniture had been moved and the walls were another colour.

  A beat drummed in my groin and my mind spun, a fever heating my skin. I couldn’t isolate the greatest surprise: was it that Jackson was into bondage or that I was finding the experience so wildly erotic and also, so strangely comforting? Because amid the excitement coursing through my veins, a stiller sensation located me. The rope around my wrist reassured like a small, strong embrace. I felt safe and calm, confident that Jackson could carry me through this. As he stretched my arm sideways, something seeped out of me, a tiny piece of tension relating to a matter I no longer knew or cared about.

  Jackson was back. He was in control again and my months of worrying and waiting were fading fast. It seemed churlish to point out we weren’t in zero gravity so I didn’t need to be strapped down. If my husband wanted me to play out-of-this-world games, I was happy to oblige. Clearly, he’d spent time working out how to fix me in place and I simply let him do his thing, cooperating as he hiked up the mattress, ran the rope beneath and bound my other wrist. Using a second length of rope, he repeated this at the bottom of the bed, and all the while I was dissolving further into a floaty sort of lust. Minutes later, I was stretched out like a star, wrists and ankles tethered at four corners of the bed.

  My pussy was too exposed and between my legs the summery air tickled my wet lips. I sensed Jackson studying me, his eyes roving over my flesh as he debated what to do with me. I was nervous and yet I didn’t quite care. I felt half-drugged. Jackson could do whatever he wished. All I wanted was to receive.

  Clearly pleased with his handiwork, he struck a triumphant, glancing blow across my buttocks. “An ass like the moon,” he said. “And she wants me to fuck it.”

  I squealed and wriggled, suddenly caring. Had I actually said that?

  “You know what this reminds me of?” Jackson continued.

  “Honey,” I said, trying to hide my concern. “Are you OK? Maybe we should talk this through first.”

  Jackson took a couple of pillows and worked them under my hips to raise my butt. “Reminds me of those crazy alien abduction scenarios,” he said. “You know the sort? She gets laid out on a slab and a bunch of one-eyed, green freaks perform depraved sexual experiments on her.”

  “Jackson,” I murmured. I wasn’t sure how relieved I ought be that he’d moved from anal sex to alien abduction. But I was relieved. All the same, I desperately wanted him to touch me rather than embark on a mad schoolboy fantasy.

  After a while, he did touch me, a single finger running down my spine, from the nape of my neck to the tip of my ass. My skin prickled and I moaned quietly. “I think this must be the earthling’s central stem,” said Jackson. Gently, he traced snaking patterns across my back, making me whimper again. “Oh, and I think it likes our touch.”

  I winced. This game was silly, yet I had to admit Jackson playing the role of an emotionally detached experimenter was pretty damn hot. Ironic, really, given that his insularity had caused me so much heartache of late. Clawing one buttock, Jackson vigorously shook my flesh then slapped me there a couple of times. I yelped. “I think it likes that too,” he said, wobbling my other cheek.

  When he swiped my butt again, I pulled on the ropes, squirming with desire, embarrassment and renewed anxiety. Was he really going to do me in that most taboo of places? The prospect troubled me but I wasn’t sure why. In all our years, we’d never even broached the subject. It seemed peculiar that Jackson’s enthusiasm for conquering new territory had taken him to the moon and back yet he’d never been inside my ass. I didn’t consider it bad or morally wrong . . . just, well, wrong for a sexually unadventurous couple ending a dry spell during which I’d contemplated divorce. Wrong for us. Wrong for Lara and Jackson at number 16. It was simultaneously too honest and too impersonal. Too vulgar as well. But hey, maybe it seemed impersonal because we hadn’t yet personalized it. Maybe it would be OK, good even. Or quite possibly amazing.

  “Now then,” said Jackson. “How many holes has this one got?”

  I’d never heard him talk in such a manner. Had he left his inhibitions in space? Were they orbiting earth along with the debris of dead satellites, fragments of spacecraft, rocket dust and other sundry items of space junk? I recalled Jackson’s tale of the astronaut who’d lost a glove on the first American spacewalk. Sometimes I think about that glove, all alone up there, waving down at us from the stars.

  The mattress dipped as Jackson clambered onto the bed and straddled my waist. The weight of him pressing on me, the way his thighs hugged my ribs put me in mind of old, familiar intimacies. Like the ropes around my limbs, it was both reassuring and threatening, an embrace treading the fine line between security and entrapment. Reaching forward, Jackson cupped my chin in one hand, squeezing my cheeks to force my mouth wide. He inserted the fingers of his other hand, giving my teeth and tongue a cursory check.

  “One hole,” he said. He withdrew his fingers and skimmed them across my nostrils and ears, leaving tiny trails of wetness. “Two, three, four, five. Most interesting.”

  Edging down the bed, he wriggled out of his yoga pants then lay between my spread thighs as if to inspect what he saw. Propped up on the pillows, I was wide open to him. I only wished I could see him too, hairy and naked with his hard cock rearing up from his pubes. My memories of his body were too hazy. I pushed back, seeking his mouth, wanting him to quit counting my holes and start licking the most crucial one. He blew on me.

  “Jackson, please!” I writhed in protest, the ropes checking my struggle.

  “Please, what?” he replied, a note of humour in his voice. He knew damn well what.

  “Lick me, make me come.”

  He blew a couple more times until finally, his tongue splashed onto me. He pressed into my wetness and I was melting into his mouth, melting so fast my limbs vanished in a trice. I was all pussy and cunt, all wetness and want, all groans and moans and need. Splaying my lips, Jackson lapped along my crease, his tongue flat, sloppy and generous. My clit, big as a berry, throbbed constantly and when he danced around the bump, my ecstasy built as he nudged me towards orgasm. But he didn’t tip me over. Instead, his tongue slithered away, backwards and upwards, and I whined in frustration. Then, oh my, his tongue landed on the hollow of my ass, and I was making an altogether different noise. I gasped as he circled me there, sensation flaring in warm bursts of pleasure. I felt so tender, new and pink, Jackson’s tongue coaxing life from my soft little rim. Why had we never done this before?


  When he probed more firmly, I yielded. He could have all of me, every last scrap of resistance. His tongue squirmed deeper, then his tongue became a finger and he was inside me, stroking and swirling where I was made of the night, of dark velvet secrets and star-sprinkled bliss. Yes, he could do anything. I was completely and utterly his. Two more fingers plugged my pussy and he drove into both my openings, his rhythm sure and slow, the finger in my ass increasingly confident. So confident, in fact, that one finger presently became two. My muscled ring hugged him and I rubbed my clit against the pillows, rocking with Jackson’s thrusts and nearing my peak.

  “Is that good, baby?” said Jackson. “You want me to fuck your ass? Or you want more of this?”

  “Both,” came my absurd, breathless answer. Then, driven by curiosity and greed, I made up my mind and whispered, “My ass. Do it to me there, do my ass.” Jackson slipped out of me. “But be careful,” I pleaded, tugging at the ropes. “Don’t hurt me.”

  “Don’t worry, hun. I bought us some KY.”

  The extent of Jackson’s preparation sent my excitement a notch higher. While I’d been despairing, he’d been mulling over what he wanted to do to me, making sneaky purchases so he could put his plan into action. Hell, who needs red roses? I kept on grinding into the pillows, my closeness hovering. The jelly was cool but before my indrawn breath was done, it was at my own temperature and Jackson’s fingers had darted into me with a delicious new ease. I tensed, however, when he positioned himself behind me.

  “I’ve greased my dick too,” said Jackson, uncharacteristically crude. “I won’t hurt you, I swear. This is going to be so easy, so good.” But it wasn’t easy at all because instinctively I clenched when he tried nudging my entrance wider. A stab of pain made me yelp. Despite the lube, I was suddenly tight. I jerked on the ropes, wanting my freedom. Jackson withdrew a fraction.

  “Relax,” he breathed.

  I tried my very best but the pain kept flashing. I thought penetration was going to be impossible, that flying to the moon would prove easier, until Jackson dipped a hand beneath me, offering my clit a firmer surface. Suddenly I ceased to care, I was loose and open and reckless, I just wanted him in my ass.

  “Again,” I cried, but Jackson was already there. I wailed, my aperture opening around his girth as he burrowed into me with slow, solid insistence. The pain was a tiny pinch of grit in an ocean of bliss and within a moment, he was snug and hard and deep. We held steady, panting and amazed. His cock was wrapped in a grip so tight it smacked of desperation. A fierce, black intimacy locked us in. I couldn’t conceive of anything, not even a molecule of lube, existing in the space between my membrane and his meat. For all I knew, his cock might have fused with my ass. I had never felt so stuffed before.

  Cautiously, Jackson began to move. Soon, I was urging him on with ragged, wordless cries. My bloated clit rubbed against his hand, my climax flickering closer. He slammed into my ass, increasingly powerful and rough. With my body pinned open, I had no choice but to take his invasion, and that’s all I wanted to do anyway.

  Jackson bellowed freely and when one thunderous, heartfelt groan reached my ears, I began to come. My thighs trembled, my mind turned vaporous, and I hit my peak, ecstasy pulsing out and spilling through my body. Jackson gathered momentum. Memories of him rushed in, of how his cock swells so hard just before he spurts, of how abandoned he sounds when he finally comes. And then it was happening for real, Jackson’s noises crazier than I’d ever known them. I was seeing stars and so was he. He uttered lusty, baritone gulps of bliss, sounding as if his orgasm were being dragged out through his fingertips, the pleasure almost too much for him to bear. Clutching my butt cheeks, he thrust deep and long then shuddered his release on an incredulous roar.

  After a pause, he gave a long sigh, ending on a mellow laugh. He eased out of me, leaving my ass glowing with heat. “Oh, man,” was all he could say but it was two words more than I could manage. Untying the ropes, he caressed the soreness from my wrists then flopped down beside me, his face glinting with sweat, his smile deeply dippy. He stroked a length of hair from my face and softly kissed my lips. For a long time we lay there, our legs entangled as we came back down to earth. Shadows stole into the room. A water sprinkler hissed over a neighbouring lawn. In the distance, a dog barked.

  Later, the moon rose in the sky, silvering the room with a ghostly light. Naked and asleep, Jackson seemed an other-worldly being. But he wasn’t. He was an earthling in my arms, back where he belonged and here to stay, I hoped.

  The Amazing Marvella

  Elsie McGraw

  “I am the Amazing Marvella” I said with a flourish of my ruby-sequined cape. “I am the Amazing Marvella and this is my lovely assistant Bridget.”

  I was dazzled by the spotlights pointed at me with their multicoloured gels. The stage was hot and bright. The theatre was small, but the house was packed full. Beyond the apron, I could just make out the audience: mostly middle-aged and older, with a sprinkling of younger faces – well-dressed, eager faces anticipating an evening of novel entertainment. Wealthy old ladies and their tolerant ageing husbands; aunts and uncles and grown-up nieces and nephews out for a night on the town. College boyfriends and girlfriends dragged along for the ride. A few hipsters, looking knowing and cynical. How many of these people had any idea of what they were getting into?

  Bridget curtseyed and we got a polite round of applause from the audience. They hadn’t quite decided what to think of us yet, but they were willing to give us a chance.

  “Tonight,” I said to the audience, “We will play with magic. Together we will show you some things that you may never have seen before, that you may never have thought were possible . . . Observe!”

  I waved my hand, and there was a blinding flash and a puff of smoke. Then Bridget stepped forward out of the acrid cloud, wearing nothing but a smile, a pair of black garters, and her scarlet stilettos.

  Shocked silence. For just a second, the audience couldn’t believe its eyes, didn’t know quite how to react. Then, a smattering of applause, slowly building into a low rumble. I heard one old lady in the front row exclaim: “Well! I never!” Her companion, a fat lady in her mid-sixties wearing an antique-looking floral party dress responded loudly: “That’s not what I heard, dear!” which earned her a burst of appreciative laughter. Bridget grinned widely, displaying her perfect white teeth, and posed and vamped for the audience, showing off her large perky breasts, making them jiggle, while she kept one hand demurely in front of her neatly trimmed little red pubic triangle. The applause got significantly louder, and I took a little bow.

  “You may find,” I went on when the applause died down, “that the normal rules of the universe do not apply in here.”

  I opened up the props chest and took out my wand. The wand was ten inches long, made of shiny black rosewood, richly carved and polished. Its features were that of a stylized, fantastical phallus, with a bulbous glans at one end, and a rounded grip that suggested testicles at the other. It was a thing of beauty, an artefact handed down through the centuries.

  I shrugged my cape off and hung it on the stainless-steel rack that stood next to the props trunk. Then, with a sorcerer-like flourish and a show of extreme concentration on my face, I waved my wand.

  Bridget floated slowly up off the stage floor, and with a mock-surprised look on her face, she pivoted around on her long axis until she hovered parallel to the ground, as if lying on her back on an invisible bed about two feet above the stage. There was a smattering of applause from the audience, but mostly hushed, expectant silence.

  I unbuttoned my frilly white dress shirt and stepped out of my black dress pants, hanging them carefully on the rack. I was now wearing only a skimpy black push-up bra, a matching pair of lacy bikini panties, and my comfortable black Mary Janes (more practical for making magic in than sassy heels). Though the air in the theatre was warm, I felt a pleasant nervous chill run through my body. I’m not really any sort of an exhibitionist; that’s
much more Bridget’s department.

  I waved my wand again, and Bridget’s legs spread open, up and out, ending up sticking straight up in the air, a big capital V.

  There was a little commotion in the front row. The disapproving old lady stood up with a ‘Harumph!” She was wearing a powder-blue pantsuit and a blue pillbox hat. “Obscene . . . disgusting . . . unheard of . . .” she could be heard muttering as she made her way to the aisle. Her rotund friend could be heard chuckling. The back door of the theatre creaked open and slammed shut with a clank. Nobody else got up from their seat.

  “Watch closely,” I said. I began waving my wand rhythmically, like a maestro conducting the overture of a symphony orchestra. Up and down, left and right, back and forth.

  As my wand moved through the air, Bridget’s body reacted. Her large nipples hardened and grew, until they looked like a pair of pink gumdrops protruding from her big round pancaked breasts. Slowly, like a flower unfolding on a spring morning, the plump pouting crease of her vulva parted, revealing the hidden wonders within.

  Bridget let out a low, throaty moan that was audible all the way to the back row. As my wand traced its invisible pattern in the air, Bridget’s inner labia started to swell and turn purple; the lips parted open, revealing her entire vulva like a flower in bloom. Her clit was clearly visible, straining out from underneath its little hood. The wetness could be seen coating her pussy, drooling out. Bridget sighed and moaned, writhing and twisting, struggling softly against invisible bonds as my wand worked its magic. Her pussy gaped hungrily open. Her clit was swollen and pink. The audience was completely enthralled. I loved this part of our show.

  I set the wand aside for a moment, leaving Bridget helplessly gasping. Out of the prop chest, I retrieved our little purple bag of tricks.

  As soon as I opened the drawstring, sixteen shiny golden balls the size of large marbles leapt out. With a rush, they swarmed up and floated above Bridget’s head like a halo, orbiting slowly and buzzing like a cloud of angry hummingbirds.