The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 2

by Maxim Jakubowski

  Rose’s paintings seemed ready to crawl off the canvas and twine tendrils round your wrists, almost too beautiful and too morbid to bear. Psychedelic washes of colour twisted into intricate, mandala-like patterns, seeming to swarm on the wall. Black-green swamp scenes so lush and organic that you swore the leaning tree trunks could be made of bone, the draping foliage and shadow a thin network of viscera, of stretched flesh and trailing, looping vein. Her paintings glistened and seethed. It was as if she mixed quicksilver into her tempera, LSD into her watercolours.

  They made Anthony think of creation and destruction, sex and voodoo, of broken skulls resting on candlelit altars, eye sockets blazing dead black light. Of the thousand ghost stories that must pervade any block of her native French Quarter, of the thousand deaths and pains inflicted there daily. And of the sodden, decadent pleasures.

  Looking at Rose’s work – even the Polaroids of new canvases she occasionally sent him between visits – was like being in a hotel room with her, her tongue working him over or her legs wrapped tight around his hips, burying him deep inside her. Sometimes Anthony felt stupidly, nigglingly jealous of the other people who must see her work, wondering if it made love to them in just the same way.

  But they did not hold her tight as she laughed and cried with pleasure. They did not bite her throat and lick her nipples, they did not spread her thighs and drink the sweet nectar of her cunt under a rainbow of Christmas lights, 31 floors above the city. They did not drink Magie Noir with her.

  At least, Anthony hoped they didn’t.

  He approached the bed. The folds and ripples of the white sheet caught all the colours in the room; they spread like a watercolour wash over the hills and hollows of Rose’s body. A comer of the sheet was draped across her face, trembling with each breath. He took hold of the sheet and gently pulled it away.

  Flawless skin paler than his, pale even against the white sheet. Mouth raw from the days they had already spent together – from kissing and the sandpaper rasp of Anthony’s scruff, since he did not often leave the bed long enough to shave – too dark in the pale face, like an overripe plum. Lashes smudgy against cheeks, twin streaks of charcoal. Hair of a curious purple-black, the colour of a bruise, teased and tangled around her head; there were a couple of patches at the back where it had begun to knot up into dreadlocks. The soft bush of hair between her thighs was the same strange colour; when wet with his saliva or sperm, it glistened nearly violet.

  Rose was thin and lithe, the upper part of her body almost boyish in the hollowness of its shoulders and collarbones, its small, vivid nipples, the subtle framework of ribs visible beneath skin white as parchment. But her hips were wide and strong, and her ass was as round and heavy as fruit, delectable. With the tips of his fingers Anthony brushed her cheek, then ran his hand down the side of her neck and cupped the small swell of her breast in his palm. The nipple puckered at his touch, and Rose opened her eyes: all great black pupil and glittering purple iris, hectic even at the moment of awakening. Huge, wild eyes; feral eyes.

  “How long did I sleep?” she demanded.

  “A couple of hours.”

  Next he expected her to ask, How many more days do we have?

  It was the only thing that disturbed the flow of their time together each year: halfway through the week, Rose would start counting off the days until they had to part, then the hours, and finally the last, excruciating minutes before Anthony boarded a plane for the other side of the continent, back to the wealthy wife he could not bring himself to leave, and she hopped a southbound Greyhound. The diminishing time seemed to twist inside her, to cause her actual physical anguish. At the end she could not even bear to lose time to sleep. If Anthony slept, she would sit awake watching him, studying the tightly drawn, compact lines of his face and body as if memorizing them for another year.

  But she didn’t ask the question, not this time; just pulled him down to her.

  In lust her voice became thick, clotted, like slow southern sap, like sweet oil. Her sobs and her cries of pleasure were curiously muted, as if her strongest emotions burned pure and hot enough to drain the air of oxygen. “Come into me,” Anthony heard her say faintly. “Come to me now. Come into me now . . .”

  He descended into the moist, fragrant world of the bed and the body of his lover. Nothing mattered but Rose’s tongue in his mouth, his hand between Rose’s legs, sliding up and down the wet length of her cleft, then sinking two fingers deep inside her. It felt like wet silk in there, like the slow rippling muscles of a snake. She groaned way down in her throat and moved hard against his hand, forcing it deeper. For a moment his fingers found her rhythm, heightened it.

  When he pulled away, Rose caught at his hand. Anthony brought her fingers to his mouth, kissed their small, sharp tips. Then he pulled her legs wide. A passage more ancient than the river, with a stronger pull than the ocean’s tide . . . He lowered his face to her, ran his tongue around the swelling bud of her clit, then let it slide into the rubypearl depths of her vagina. Her smell was like flowers crushed in seawater, her taste like fruit ripened and slightly fermented. Anthony thought he would die before he could drink enough of it.

  Soon, though, he burned to be inside her. He tumbled Rose onto her back and found the heart of her womb with one liquid thrust. Her scream was like a crystal knife falling, splintering. Time went away; he might have spent minutes or hours inside her; his orgasm seemed to stretch the fabric of reality to the breaking point, then beyond.

  Afterward they lay tangled together, too spent to speak. Anthony’s penis felt as if it were melting inside her. In fact, his whole body felt ready to melt. He slept.

  When he woke again, he could not move.

  The slight, pleasant numbness he’d felt earlier had grown to vast proportions. It weighed down his body, his thoughts. His brain buzzed dully. He could not twitch a finger or an eyelid, could scarcely remember his own name. He hadn’t drunk enough to feel this bad, had never drunk enough to feel like this.

  Rose was sitting up in bed beside him, her huge eyes shining. She smiled when she saw he was awake.

  “Sit up, darling,” she said.

  Anthony knew he would not be able to obey. But even as he thought this, he felt himself bending at the waist. He looked on as if from a distance as his body levered itself into a sitting position.

  “I’m afraid you won’t be going home to your wife this year. I get so lonely, Anthony. I haven’t painted anything for months and months. I spent all that time perfecting my recipe . . . my potion.”

  She held up a bottle of the champagne.

  “Magie Noir, darling,” she whispered. “Black magic. Bufo marinus . . . itching pea . . . children’s bones . . . and datura, the concombre zombi.”

  Zombie, he heard dumbly. The word ought to mean something to him, but he couldn’t think what.

  “I don’t have much money, but that’s all right. You can go out and work while I paint. You can do anything I tell you to do . . . and not a damned thing more.

  “Now come here and fuck me again.”

  He would not move. He would simply refuse to move, would exert every ounce of his will to resist her. He strained against his own treacherous musculature. He was losing the battle.

  “Fuck me,” Rose said again. Her voice was more urgent this time, and edged with the slightest hint of danger.

  Helplessly, Anthony took her in his arms and entered her. He couldn’t feel a thing, and soon the buzzing filled his skull so that he couldn’t think either.

  “Perfect,” Rose sighed beneath him.

  Rarebit and Other Foods

  Bill Noble

  Rarebit

  Argue about whether it’s “rarebit”or “rabbit”, though you’ve had the same argument before. Do it for the joy of watching him glower like a little boy and then burst into laughter.

  Melt a tablespoon of butter as you lick his ear. Two tablespoons. Lick both ears.

  Whisk in a bit of flour and dry mustard – goose him
in time to the whisking – and pour in a cup and a half of ale.

  Simmer and whisk for ten minutes while kissing him. If you lose track of time the ale will boil away and scorch the butter.

  Grate and add a half-pound of sharp cheddar, a bit of horseradish and a clove of garlic. Lick the inside of his lips with horseradish while you pinch the tip of his cock through his pants.

  Slice and toast homemade ryebread and insist that fresh-baked bread smells exactly like good sex. Unzip his pants. Take him out. Don’t stroke him, though, until he agrees with you.

  Place each slice of toast on a cobalt blue plate. He does this part while you kneel and suckle him. It’s deliciously awkward, his reaching the toaster, then trying to get the rye on the two plates, desperate for you not to stop.

  Garnish with green apple and walnuts.

  Scramble to hide in the pantry.

  Spy through the doorcrack as he undresses his wife and serves what you’ve cooked. Analyze your feelings as they argue “rabbit” or “rarebit”. Ignore the maddening seep between your legs, the outrage.

  Spaghetti

  Her husband left for Detroit with no clean shirts; the shampoo bottle fell on her toe; little Willie broke out in chickenpox; and the Toyota ran out of gas on the ramp to the Bishop O’Connor Expressway. Triple A had changed their telephone number, and the first call took the last of her spare change.

  She was left with an almost desperate horniness, and she knew as well as you do that penises respond in a sense exactly backward to that of spaghetti, but still, at lunch, it seemed unfair that half an hour on her knees in the darkened stockroom couldn’t coax Averill, earnest and balding, much beyond al dente.

  Tapioca

  “Tapioca beats anything.”

  “It’s lumpy and fattening.”

  “This tapioca’s non-fat, and so creamy you won’t worry about the lumps. Kiss me?”

  “OK.” She kisses. “What’s first?”

  Get a big double-boiler, an egg-beater, and a wooden spoon.

  “Gap-toothed women are definitely the best kissers.”

  “You’re pretty good yourself. Now what?”

  Two-thirds cup of sugar, a third of Minute tapioca. “I like the way you use your tongue.” Then a quart-and-a-half of milk. “Do they make bras like this to frustrate men?”

  “I’m pretty sure they do. But don’t forget the tapioca.”

  “I want to watch you do the next part. It’s pretty sensual.” Break four eggs, but just use the whites. Whip the ingredients to a light froth.

  “Hey, silly, take my shoes off first – jeans won’t go over them. You’re distracted.”

  “I’m paying attention to everything important. Can you reach the stove?” Boil the water in the pot before you put the double boiler on. “Gap-toothed women taste best, too.”

  “Now I’m getting distracted. Get a chair?”

  “You sit and stir while I . . . ?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  It takes 20 minutes to bring the tapioca to the edge of boiling.

  “It’s thick and hot.”

  “The tapioca?”

  “Mmm. You’re very silly. How long till it’s cool?”

  “The tapioca?”

  “Hey, is your wife going to walk in on us again?”

  “You want the secret?”

  “What?”

  “She’s in Seattle for the weekend.” Twenty minutes after it comes off the stove, add a teaspoon of vanilla and a splash of almond extract.

  Can’t You Write a Story Without a Penis in It?

  “So, Giselle, whadda lesbians do for Beltane?” Amy was finishing the crossword puzzle.

  “I dunno, same as everybody, I guess. Hey, be OK if I ask Melissa to sleep with me? Cuz it’s Beltane, I mean? – Fuckaduck, I burnt the toast!”

  “That lipstick gal with the unicorn tattoo?”

  “Yeah. Pass the bread?”

  “Wanna sleep with her here?” Amy passed the OJ.

  “Hey, bean-brain, the bread.”

  Amy tossed her the loaf. “Sorry.”

  “So, OK?” Giselle was burrowing for the sandwich wrap.

  “Can I sleep with her, too? What’s four letters for ‘fiduciary’?”

  “Jeesus, Amy. Ask her yourself. You’re such a penis.”

  Kissingwine

  “You can only make this in July? Jeez, this feels good!”

  “That’s when you harvest the flowers. Just lie there. Close your eyes and let me kiss.”

  “It feels . . . dangerous, doing it in your wife’s bed. Flowers?”

  A gallon of elderflowers and dandelion petals. Just flowers, no green parts. “It’s my bed, too. You put them in one of those gallon jugs in the pantry – with the little airlocks.”

  “Elderflowers. Mmm, a little more tongue. Is she in Seattle again?”

  Add half a five-pound bag of sugar and the juice of one lemon and one orange. “Does dangerous make it sexier?”

  “Yeah.”

  Boil three and a half quarts of water, and cool it until you can just hold your hands on the pot, then add it. In an hour, add Sauterne, yeast and nutrients. “After five days you strain the petals out.”

  “I can’t last five days with what you’re doing to my breasts!”

  “Silly.”

  “So, Seattle?”

  “No. After that, it’s a matter of time.” Ferment until it almost stops, then rack it, top off, and go another six weeks. Do that twice.

  “Twice? Promise? Then where is she?”

  Sweeten to taste, and go another two weeks. “This is the critical part. Spread your legs wide and relax, completely.”

  “– What the fuck is that?”

  “It’s Karen, honey, licking your clit. I’m not in Seattle.”

  “Karen? KAREN?”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  Bottle and cellar for at least six months. Complex and subtle, this is the perfect wine to drink with a lover. Or two.

  Tea Time

  She set out jam and biscuits, then turned for the teapot in its flowered cosy. Too handsome for a minister. Such yellow hair, she thought. Strong-lookin’. Be out in the world, he should. Them big hands!

  He watched her move through the afternoon kitchen. As if she weighs nothing at all. His eyes caressed the pale turn of her ankle. He felt the flare of his nostrils, the bump of his heart. As she came towards the table, his eyes rose to her bosom. Smallish nipples, something whispered inside him. How would I ever know such a thing? he objected. Like fruit, it said, like berries. He flushed as she sat across from him.

  “Welcome to Pemberton,” he said with his best pastoral smile, “and to the parish.”

  “Wouldn’t you have tea?” Kissin’ lips on that man.

  His hand brushed her small hand as they each reached for the pot. Warm, she thought. A ripple tightened along her spine. Unbidden, she pictured his hands cupping her breasts, broad thumbs brushing her nipples.

  He held his cup as she poured. “This seems a small house for two people,” he said, hoping for more information. So easy to long for her to be unmarried, to picture leaning forwards and kissing her neck, there, at the pulse.

  She thought of her dour brother, away long hours at the harbour. “It’s comfortable for us,” she said. Ah, t’slip that collar off him, she thought, t’unbutton the shirt and put me hands against his skin. She nearly upended the cup with the teaspout. “Gracious!” she said. “Did I spill it on you?” Such thoughts about a man of the cloth!

  “Not at all,” he said. The hot tea sent a jolt up his arm; he surged with arousal. He saw her concern, grey eyes translucent in the late light. I want to kiss her.

  “I did scald you!” She dabbed his hand with the tea towel. Perhaps she held his hand a moment too long, perhaps not. What is it t’kiss a man with your mouths wide open? She contemplated that, looking at his rough, ruddy cheek, the incised lines beside his mouth. And if me tongue touched his? A gasp escaped her.

  He couldn’t move fr
om her touch. The urge to slide his hand into the fine hair at her nape, to pull her face towards him, was overwhelming. He was beginning to engorge. God in heaven. He scrambled up, and then, afraid his arousal would be apparent, sat heavily back down. He imagined her naked, pressed the length of him. He had imagined for years the exalted movement of his body over a woman’s body. His hips pressed against the table-edge.

  I saw a man once. Molly Hantle and I watched from behind bushes. Is this one like that, huge and red? Could I wrap me hand round him? Would he growl in his throat? She snatched her hand back and shrank into her seat.

  He gulped the tea and pushed the cup towards her. “I . . . I must go,” he said, “I’ve just noticed the time.” If I stripped her clothes, would she beg me to take her? How does a woman smell, there? Would I feel her heart? “We hope you’ll visit the church sometime, come to Sunday service.” He rose and stepped towards the door.

  S’pose I gripped him right through his trousers? S’pose I asked him to make me a woman? Her belly contracted. “Surely,” she said, alarmed at his departure. “Would ye take a biscuit with you?” S’pose I bit his lip with my hand on ’im?

  “No, no, thank you.” He groped for words, found none. Well, then . . .” he said. Would she cry my name? Would we sweat and call out?

  “Have a care,” she blurted, “the roads go icy this late of the afternoon.” Would his seed leap the way that man’s had?

  He went down the steps to his car, clumsy with his tented pants, at the wet staining the heavy black cloth. He imagined her fine, even teeth seizing his lip. He felt her hand close around his flesh, and shook in the winter chill.

  She leaned against the closed door, eyes shut, hands wandering over her apron. An unfamiliar moisture inched down her thigh. She turned back with a sigh towards two chairs askew in the late sun, towards the small disorder of the table set for tea.