The Mammoth Book of Erotic Stories

by Barbara Cardy

  Marian’s and Robin’s eyes squeezed shut with flaming desire as their fuck headed toward its final throes of fresh lust. He knew what caused babies and he planned on showering his lovely mistress’s torso with the juice of pleasure rather than plant his seed inside her exquisite, yet undoubtedly fertile, canal.

  The moment was upon him. Robin rose from atop Marian’s breasts. He rested his weight on his knees without breaking their bond. He took her royal ankles in his hands and positioned her reddened rump above the rock’s surface, suspending it, so that his testicles could bounce against her rectal cavity during the final pounding strokes of coitus.

  Marian groaned mightily from this repositioning. She was nearly beyond words of desire or endearment. She was experiencing total surrender for the first time in her pampered life. But she was not completely beyond words. “I would sooner die than to have you remove your heavenly weapon from my sheath.”

  “All good things must temporarily end,” Robin confided as he suddenly pulled his cock from her. His organ sprung forth with the juice of life. It unloaded its bounty on her stomach, teats and beyond. The force of his ejaculate reached even to her angelic face. Robin trembled from the aftershocks of his orgasm. A feeling of divine pleasure ran through Marian’s satiated body as well. Her hands spread the lumps of Robin’s semen about her face and torso as if applying a soothing cream of protection against the sun’s rays. It made her skin sparkle.

  The tip of Robin’s cock lay in Marion’s small navel like a large snake seeking sustenance from the nearest aperture. “I trust m’lady is pleased with our first coupling?”

  “More than pleased, Robin. There is the temptation to give up everything and remain here with you in the forest.”

  “Nay. That wouldn’t be the thing to do. You would not approve of my less-than-amorous activities of looting and thieving.”

  “But for good cause.”

  “Let us lie here and enjoy the moment of passing rapture. Then we will talk of the future.”

  After a few moments of repose, they skittered down the rock and lay naked in the stream, teasing each other as water cascaded around them. Though delightfully refreshing, the water was colder than a witch’s tit in a brass bodice. Their butts were turning blue. Robin solved that problem by coaxing Marian onto her knees. The twin sights of her shivering, white moon, alive with tiny goosebumps, and the dark fissure in her arse revived his enthusiasm.

  His phallus assaulted Marian’s cunny from the rear as the babbling waters found new courses around their bare limbs. He carried his fantasy of riding a quarrelsome steed one step further by slapping Marian’s pristine buttock with vigor, knowing no hand had been laid against her tender flesh until this moment.

  Her little yelp spurred him on. Robin pumped into Marian with such swiftness and abandon that she felt she might be driven insane with giddy delight. With their knees nearly freezing, neither of them could manage a full breath.

  “Two naked animals rutting before God like there was no worry about the morrow,” Marian laughed. “This is what Heaven should be like. This is as good as life can possibly become. Will you pleasure me often, Robin? I shall not sleep a wink if I thought you would lose interest now that the mystery has departed. Will we ever experience anything this lustful again?”

  Robin had a plethora of unscrupulous habits. They were necessary tools for survival in his line of work, but lying to women was not one of them. His lengthy cock pounded Marian’s pot of honey. He was no longer concerned about where his second seminal load might take refuge. While his long and deliberate strokes continued to delight her, he said truthfully, “Methinks you worry yourself to distraction, Marian. We in the forest live for the day and don’t concern ourselves with the morrow. But you can rest assured that a taste of your quim only increases your allure. My rigid staff and I will always be at the ready. I have only begun to share the pleasures of fornication with your body and your spirit. So come to the woods when ye may, and use your substitutes for my cock when ye must.”

  Another liquid burst sprang from Robin’s cock, this time inside of his damsel. Release. Blessed release. He moaned in harmony with the object of his desire, a woman that no longer could properly be called Maid Marian.

  Cold water and sexual warmth consumed the impassioned pair as they had performed like most of nature’s beasts in the wild. And never had a more striking duo made rut in this beautiful spot. Robin remained coupled to Marian until his spent instrument withered somewhat. He delicately pulled his trunk from her crevice. Its tip dropped harmlessly into the brook. He admired the tiny glistening hole he had abandoned for an instant then he stood before a little fishy might take his floundering prick for bait.

  Marian and Robin climbed the bank and dried each other while feeling returned to their frozen extremities. Robin fitted the brass and leather apparatus around Marian’s hips and locked away the entrance to her lustful cavern once again.

  “You keep the key, Robin. There is no other that shall have access, or plow my fertile field. Let the old biddy wonder where the key could have gone. She’ll have another made soon enough.”

  Before Robin could cloister his dangling penis inside his trousers, Marian knelt and kissed it tenderly to reward its performance and the pleasure it had provided.

  They dressed and mounted their horses. Robin saw Marian to the edge of the clearing where the dutiful, and well-paid, chaperone waited.

  “You have a rose to your cheeks I’ve not seen before, m’lady,” the companion said.

  “I’ve discovered the meaning of life with the application of a soothing, natural balm, dear Hilda. I have experienced the milk of human kindness, which we could all use more of.”

  “Fore and aft,” Robin said so only Marian could hear.

  Still mounted, Robin and Marion strained toward one another until their lips met. They kissed softly. Then Robin quickly turned his mount, waved farewell and rode into the forest with a lusty laugh, back to a cooked lamb, his trusty band of outlaws. He would see to it that Friar Tuck received an extra share of mutton and grog with which to wash it down for the romantic verses he had so graciously provided.

  In camp, Robin lay on the furry animal hides, thinking not of robbing the rich and giving to the poor as much as the way his obliging spear had filled Marian’s royal arse. He believed Marian would send a message soon requesting another meeting now that her cunny – her final bastion of surrender – had a proper taste for cock.

  In his own time and place, Robin was a rock star, but his most prized possession was the silver key. It lay sequestered in his tunic until such time as the delicate box again required unlocking. And again, it would reveal Marion’s Holy Grail, which he would utilize as love and lust demanded.

  BALLET DE PARIS

  Geoff Chaucer

  François Renard was a stagehand and handyman at the theater of the Ballet de Paris. He was a huge man, almost seven feet tall, with wide shoulders and hands large and strong enough to crush a coconut, but he was a very gentle giant. Most of those who saw him thought he was slow-witted because he seldom spoke. Also he had a foolish smile, which came out any time Monsieur Tibault the theater manager scolded him, or if one of the dancers from the corps de ballet made fun of him.

  François loved his work. It was sometimes hard because he was expected to move heavy scenery and stage props alone that would ordinarily take two or three men to move, but he did not really mind because he loved to be near the women of the corps de ballet. They were so beautiful! Tall and slim with small breasts, slender hips and long legs; François thought of them as long-stemmed flowers, especially when they were dressed in the short stiff tutus. He was very shy so he never spoke to any of the beautiful women, but contented himself with gazing at them as they passed in the back stage. Those gazes were not mere distant lust however, for François was an artist with a photographic eye and skilled hands. His gaze fixed the memory of each dancer’s face and body in his mind so that he could reproduce each one in ink
and paint at his studio; and there was none of the impressionistic blurring popular with artists of the time. Renard’s paintings were so photographically precise that viewers felt as though the subject could step from the canvas and twirl away en pointe.

  The dancers noticed the handsome giant staring at them, but they thought him a cretin so none of them ever spoke to him, but some of them were very cruel and would go out of their way to torment François with their beauty. They would brush close to him as they passed so that he could catch a drift of their perfume, or they would pause a moment on their way to let him look at them, then haughtily turn their noses up as if to say, Look and lust fool, but you will never have me!

  There were some that were yet more cruel. One dancer of the chorus named Giselle, a heart-stoppingly beautiful blonde with wide blue eyes, sometimes went out of her way to brush her hand against the front of François’ pants in such a way as to snag against his manhood. One night Giselle happened to find that François was tumescent, and she smiled like a lean cat about to spring on a huge mouse. “I hope you will not tire your hand too much when you think of me tonight, François,” she said. “Monsieur Tibault will be angry.”

  François blushed and said nothing, but followed Giselle’s shapely legs and perfect behind with his eyes as she walked away laughing. Later, after the ballet was through and most of the dancers were changed to street clothes and leaving the theater one said to François, “You are wanted in the chorus dressing room. There is something needs moving.” A knowing smile touched the corners of her mouth.

  François went. He stopped at the door and knocked rather than just bursting in. He waited until he heard the voice of Rene, another dancer, say, “Come in.”

  Rene and Giselle, both wearing satin dressing gowns, sat side by side on a couch. Their dressing gowns were only loosely closed and any movement would make them flare open to show stockings and garters. Giselle, her legs uncovered, knees crossed, smiled her wicked smile.

  “The marble top of that dresser is broken, François. The break is very rough and many of us have snagged our stockings on it. Show him, Rene.”

  Rene, a woman of pale skin, black hair and black eyes, threw back the dressing-gown bottom and lifted her leg to show François. She wore high-reach silk stockings held in place with a pink satin garter belt, and when she turned her leg to show the snag in the inside of her left thigh François could see that she wore no panties. Her vulva’s curly black fuzz was carefully coifed so that it covered only a small area of her mons. The vaginal lips were completely smooth and a slightly darker pink than the insides of her thighs.

  “Well, don’t stand there at the door,” Giselle said. “Come closer so that you can see.”

  François crossed to the couch and stood before the two dancers.

  “Kneel down so that you can see better,” Rene said, lifting her leg. He did. “Do you see it?” she asked.

  “Oui,” the kneeling giant said. “I see it.” He carefully kept his eyes off Rene’s womanhood.

  “Are you sure? I think you should look closer,” Giselle said sweetly.

  François glanced up at her then moved so close to Rene’s thigh he could feel the warmth of it on his face; so close between the dancer’s legs he caught a rich gossamer coil of perfume mixed with feminine excitement, and that was the instant Giselle popped to her feet and shoved his face deep between Rene’s legs as Rene hunched her hips up and closed her thighs around his head.

  Giselle laughed wildly, clapping her hands as she danced joyfully. “Now, my giant, you must kiss Rene’s cunt before she will let you free!” But her laughter turned to wonder the moment she looked at Rene’s face. It was a study in concentrated arousal. Her eyes were closed, but her eyelids were fluttering; her rouged lips were open and her breath was coming in short groaning gasps.

  François had begun kissing and tonguing Rene’s fleur de la femme the instant his mouth touched her flesh. He stroked his tongue from the cinnamon bud of her anus to the top of her coifed mons taking an extra moment to circle the delicate bead of her clitoris, before beginning the circuit once more. At last he closed his lips to a tight kiss and sucked her clitoral nubbin until it swelled to a super tactile ruby of pleasure. The scratch of his day’s growth of beard on the insides of Rene’s thighs and against her silk stockings heightened the sensitivity of her loins, adding an excitingly erotic warmth she had never felt with Giselle. After a few moments, François moved his tongue down to the opening of Rene’s pleasure chamber, driving it in deep, then deeper, then deeper yet until Rene moaned, “Mon Dieu! Don’t stop!”

  The cascade of orgasm flowed into Rene’s body from the tip of François’ tongue, and she could not stop her hips from humping François’ mouth. Without volition she brought her hands to the back of his head to hold his mouth against her so that he could not escape before giving her every scintilla of pleasure in him. Her knees pulled up and her legs opened wide to expose more of her wanton flesh and she half rose into an orgiastic crescent with François’ head at the center of focus. Her breathy, grunting scream of release caused the mirrors of the dressing room to vibrate and the crystal prisms hanging on the lampshades to ring like wind chimes.

  Giselle watched in alarm. This had been intended as a tease to the gigantic fool and a preliminary to a sexual session between her and Rene. But, though alarmed and piqued by what she was witnessing she was also excited by it. Tingling heat between her legs made her lubricating fluids begin to flow. She had never seen Rene so taken out of herself by sex. She had certainly never brought Rene to such an earth-shaking climax, but neither she nor Rene had ever experienced sex with a man. Technically both she and Rene were virgins since neither had ever been penetrated by a male organ. They had been lovers since they were children in the École du Ballet and most of the men they knew had little interest in women, so they had never felt any need for men – until now.

  François lifted his face a little from between Rene’s legs and gently kissed the insides of her thighs before sitting back on his haunches and turning toward Giselle. She noticed that his chin and throat were shiny wet with Rene’s sexual essence and felt her own catkin echo that wetting.

  François stood, towering over Giselle. He smiled down on her with a look she had never seen in him before. His green eyes smoldered and she could feel his gaze travel from her face down her body, stopping a moment on her small breasts which were half seen where the dressing gown was loose, then traveling on to her pubic triangle. She glanced down to find that by habit she had taken the left knee bent, right knee stiff preparatory position for a plié. Her bent knee held the dressing gown open, exposing her stocking tops, garter belt and dark-blonde pubic curls. She quickly straightened and pulled the dressing gown closed.

  “Please—” François began. “Do not hide this treasure from me. I promise I will not touch. I wish only to see.”

  “Why?” she said with what she hoped was disdain. She looked at the rising in his pants. “So that you may use the memory when you play with your cock?” The breathy quiver in her voice gave away her excitement.

  “Oui, that, but also that I may paint a picture of it to hang beside the painting of your face in my studio.”

  “Mon Dieu, Giselle!” said Rene, who had somewhat recovered. “Let him look! Beg him to look! Beg him to—Mon Dieu! Beg him!”

  Giselle looked to her friend then back to the bulge in François’ pants. She lifted her blue eyes defiantly to his green ones. “I will show you between my legs if you will show me between yours,” she said.

  Rene gasped and stepped to Giselle’s side. “Brilliant, cherie! Brilliant! Yes my giant, show us your . . . equipment.”

  François laughed, his habitual shyness overcome by the two dancers. He began unbuckling his wide belt. “I have not played the ‘I’ll show if you’ll show’ game since I was a child.” He unbuttoned the fly and slid pants and underwear down to his knees, then threw his arms wide.

  Rene and Giselle both stared with op
en mouths and wide eyes. François’ manhood was like a thick sausage extending from a nest of shining brown pubic hair. It was longer than the breadth of two hands and as thick as an altar candle with a slight downward curve. He was uncircumcised but his virility was so engorged that the foreskin was like a straining collar behind the reddish purple head. At the tip, glistening from the tiny mouth of it, was a single crystal clear drop of liquid.

  Giselle’s eyes widened yet more and her hand, as if of its own volition, extended toward François. When she noticed what she was doing she pulled the hand back and used it to hold the dressing gown more tightly closed.

  Rene, whose lust was already raging from her previous encounter, did not hesitate, but reached forward with her forefinger extended to touch the clear drop at the tip of François’ masculinity. She found it smooth like oil but sticky like spider silk. It attached to her finger and pulled out in a gleaming strand when she took her finger away. “It is so huge!” she said.

  François shrugged. “Not so big,” he said. “There are many larger.”

  “May I touch it more?” Rene asked.

  A bit of his shyness returned and he blushed. “That is my fondest wish,” François answered.

  Rene stretched forth and closed her hand gently around the erect member. Her touch was so gentle, so silken that François could not stop a groan of pleasure escaping his lips. She snatched back her hand. “Sorry, sorry, I did not mean—”

  “No, no, cherie. It was pleasure not pain. Please.”

  Rene again reached out and put her hand around him. Her fingers and thumb could not reach all the way around. “It is so hard but so . . . soft,” she said, moving her hand up and down the length of it. “May I kiss it?”

  “Oh yes! But you must be careful. I am so— Your touch and the taste of your honey, have brought me very close to climax. I may not be able to hold it off.”

  Rene knelt and carefully kissed the tiny mouth at the tip, which had produced another drop of clear fluid. She licked her lips and the taste sent a tingling from the tip of her tongue down to her catkin. She immediately moved in and took the tip in her mouth.