The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 2

by Maxim Jakubowski

  As she looked at Carla, at the viscous globules of soup that stuck to her lips, at her bright, vacuous eyes, she was vividly reminded of an image from one of those magazines that Graham kept hidden under his golf clubs in the wardrobe, of a girl who had just had a man ejaculate on her face. She would never let Graham do something like that to her, of course, although she had read somewhere that it was quite good for the complexion . . . She froze. Amidst the chatter that swirled around her she felt that touch again, and this time she was quite certain whose it was. Carla’s hand was cupping her knee, then slipping under the hem of her dress.

  She turned to look at Carla, whose blank expression provided no answers. She clamped her thighs together over Carla’s hand, which was surprisingly warm, quite lifelike in fact, not stiff and cold as she would have expected. She felt quite flushed as she gazed at Carla’s nipples, clearly visible through the flimsy fabric.

  “Go on,” said a voice. “You know you want to.” Stella’s heart began to pound. Had Carla actually spoken to her? She reached down and pulled Carla’s hand out of her skirt, trying to decide what to do. She was not one for making a scene in public. No, the best thing to do would be to take Carla into the kitchen and get to the bottom of this, woman to woman.

  She leaned across Carla to Stewart. “I’m just taking her to the kitchen to clean her up. She seems to have got a little soup on her dress.”

  Feeling rather self-conscious, she helped Carla up. She was startled to find that Carla’s limbs felt not only like human flesh but smoother, baby soft, and hot, as if there were molten liquid fizzing and bubbling beneath the skin. Despite the fact that her head was spinning and she felt unsteady on her feet, she put her arm around Carla’s waist and carried her across the room.

  As soon as she pushed open the door to the kitchen, Stella was hit by a heady gust of chocolate. The chocolate soufflés! She had completely forgotten about them. Leaning Carla awkwardly against the washing machine she pulled the tray out of the oven, turned off the stove, then, flustered, spun around.

  “Now, what’s all this about?” she asked. “What did you mean by touching me?”

  In response, Carla took a step towards her and pressed her mouth onto Stella’s, prised her lips open and poked her tongue in. Stella was surprised to find that it was enjoyable – extremely enjoyable in fact – to have Carla’s tongue in her mouth, darting about like a snake. She felt her body respond urgently, as it once had with Graham, many moons ago. A tingle ran over her skin as she felt herself becoming wet, very wet, down there.

  “Do you want to experience something different,” whispered Carla, “or do you want to end up like them in there – ” she nodded in the direction of the dining room “ – dead from the waist down?”

  It was no longer strange to Stella that Carla had been transformed into a pliable, fleshy entity, that right now Carla was pulling off her dress to expose the hairless expanse of her pussy. Stella, without knowing why, disrobed, ripped off the thong and, clad only in the stockings and heels, pulled Carla towards her, a reckless passion coursing through her as they sank to the floor.

  “You like me, hmm?” said Carla, kneeling up and scooping up a handful of the soufflé, then placing her fingers in Stella’s mouth so that the warm chocolate melted on her tongue and dripped down the back of her throat.

  Carla took another dollop of soufflé and began to smear it across her chest, laughing recklessly while Stella crawled over to her and began to lick off the soft goo that flowed between Carla’s breasts. Then, breathlessly, she pushed Carla down onto the floor and started to probe Carla’s pussy. Even after many evenings surreptitiously scouring Graham’s naughty magazines she had never seen a pussy as pale and glistening as Carla’s. As she licked at it she was surprised to find the taste had a remarkable similarity to cake batter, a mixture of vanilla and musk, with a light dusting of cinnamon. Her mouth tingling with anticipation, she started to devour her with her tongue.

  “Ooh,” moaned Carla. “That feels sooo good.” She lay flat on the floor, her chocolate-smeared fingers squeezing her breasts together, as Stella probed her clit, drinking in the nectar that ran from it, until she felt an enormous surge of heat in Carla’s pussy, followed by a tremendous shudder that shook Carla’s body.

  Carla moved on top of her and Stella felt a silky soft length of leg, dripping with soufflé, slip in between hers.

  “This is so much more fun,” said Carla, her hand moving over Stella’s pussy and slipping two fingers inside, “than that boring old dinner party.”

  Stella was so excited that she found herself shouting, “Fuck me!” as she closed her eyes, felt Carla’s fingers twist inside her, then pull out to be replaced by a cold, hard object.

  “Sorry it’s so cold,” said Carla. “All I could find in the fridge was this zucchini.” But Stella’s pussy didn’t seem to mind one bit about the coldness, as Carla plunged the zucchini in and out until finally Stella flailed against the slippery floor, her climax crashing over her.

  Stella opened her eyes and looked up at Carla, her eyes no longer blank but sparkling with lust. Her long white body was now completely smeared in chocolate.

  “What about my guests?” asked Stella, suddenly regaining her composure.

  “Oh God, yes,” said Carla. “Quick, let’s get cleaned up. Stewart mustn’t know what happened. He’s never seen me like this.” She ran a tea towel under the hot faucet and began to wipe herself clean.

  “You mean, he thinks you’re just a mannequin?”

  “Of course. He fell in love with me when he spotted me in a shop window.”

  “You’re having me on!”

  “No, seriously. He just marched right in and bought me from the shop manager.” Carla wiped her neck clean of chocolate. “I was grateful. All that standing around behind hot glass can get very tiring for a girl.” As she started to run the hot towel over Stella’s shoulders, Stella felt her pussy begin to throb.

  “So Stewart doesn’t know that you can come alive?”

  “No, and I don’t want you telling him either. It’s an easy life, just acting like I’m made of plastic. He likes to look at me, show me off to his friends, and doesn’t expect much in return.” She shrugged. “It suits me just fine.”

  When they had both cleaned up and dressed, Stella leaned over to give her one last kiss, but even as she did so she felt the life leaving Carla’s body, saw the eyes glaze over, felt Carla’s limbs stiffen in her arms.

  She pushed open the door. “Sorry I took so long.” All heads swivelled towards her as she carried Carla back to her seat. “The main course is just about ready to serve,” she said, flustered by the fact that everyone was still watching her, their mouths hanging open like dead fish. Then, finally, the silence was broken and conversation resumed.

  “What is it?” Stella hissed in Graham’s ear as she picked up his empty bowl. “Why did everyone look at me like that?”

  “It’s your dress,” he whispered back. “It’s on inside out.”

  Dive Inn

  O’Neil De Noux

  Go ahead, ruin my fuckin’ weekend!

  Goddamn FBI Seminar starts this afternoon, 14 hours after I caught my latest murder case, a girl of 17 found strangled on the second floor stairwell of a Philip Street tenement, just off Tchoupitoulas Street.

  Her name was Priscilla Lewis. Sprawled on her back on the stairs, her light brown hair tangled around her face, there was a thin rope twisted around her neck. The rope had cut into her throat which bulged obscenely around the particularly crude murder weapon of rough hemp.

  As she lay pretzeled on the stairs, I studied her, noticing how her flowered dress had been repositioned neatly around her legs. Her torn panties lay 20 feet below on the first floor landing, next to three bent-up soft drink cans and an empty pizza box, residence of two cockroaches and a host of those small in-door roaches. What struck me was the print on her panties. They were Little Mermaid panties. That’s right, from the movie.

 
Tiny for 17, Priscilla measured an even five feet on the autopsy table.

  When I spoke to her mother at three a.m., she said Prissy was “slow in the head”. Not retarded, but slow. Prissy loved going to movies and riding the streetcar to the Audubon Zoo. She liked to walk too. That evening she went out to catch the Jackson Avenue ferry to Gretna to take a bus to Oakwood Shopping Centre. Pocahontas was playing.

  It was the third murder on that steamy Thursday New Orleans evening, this one discovered by a gas company crew checking the area for a possible gas leak. One of the men vomited. The other’s eyes were red and vacant. Death’ll do that to you sometimes.

  I spent three hours processing the scene with the crime lab, while my overworked partners canvassed the area. I spent an additional hour searching the stairwell and surrounding area for Priscilla’s missing left shoe before heading for her autopsy.

  After her post-mortem, in which we discovered she was killed between seven and nine p.m. and wasn’t raped, I managed to get about four hours sleep. Reading the notes from my partners’ canvass over coffee, I found several interesting leads. We lifted a number of decent fingerprints from the scene. We also secured prints from Priscilla’s body using that new DuraPrint system.

  Only I can’t follow up the leads. Hell, any good homicide detective knows the first 24 hours after a murder are the most important. No. I have to go to an FBI Seminar.

  Ruin my fuckin’ weekend! I have a murder to solve.

  “You have to go,” my lieutenant ordered me. “It’s been scheduled for six months. Don’t worry about your case. Your murder will still be there Monday.”

  So Friday afternoon, I park my unmarked Chevy Caprice in the 4400 block of Dryades Street, 50 feet from one of the great New Orleans restaurants, Pascal’s Manale. I look across the street at a pink stucco building with rows of tinted windows and recheck the address in my notepad. Apparently this is a bed-and-breakfast known as Dive Inn.

  Tucking my notepad into the coat pocket of my navy blue suit, I toss my coat over my shoulder and readjust my black canvas holster, riding high on my belt at the small of my back. In the holster is my new stainless steel 9 mm Beretta.

  Crossing the street, I can’t help thinking how only the FBI would be dumb enough to schedule a major crime seminar in New Orleans during Jazz Fest. We’ve had to stash the 200 cops in town for this seminar in every small hotel, bed-and-breakfast and rooming house we could find.

  The relentless New Orleans summer sun draws perspiration on my freshly-shaved face. I find the door to the place around the side. It’s ornate, wooden and locked. So I ring the bell. I’m buzzed into a small foyer with four steps. Turning right, through an archway, I hesitate as I take in the view.

  To my left is a large swimming pool of turquoise and brown tile. Overhead, a tinted glass skylight bathes the wide room with bright sunlight. A small sitting area to my right is crowded with high-back rocking chairs and a long wooden pew that must have come from a church.

  Across the pool, behind a large, U-shaped bar, stands a bald bartender with a reddish-brown goatee. Just this side of the bar, closer to the pool, is the only other occupant, an elderly Japanese man in all white. He stands next to a waist-high exercise bench.

  As I round the pool for the bar, a door opens to my right and a naked lady strolls out of a bathroom made from what looks like a gazebo. I freeze as she walks past, giving me a little mischievous grin. About five-five, her shoulder-length brown hair hangs in long curls. For a petite woman, she has nice full breasts and an even nicer, round, voluptuous ass.

  She waves at the bartender and walks straight to the exercise table. The Japanese bows to her and she climbs on the table and lies there on her belly. The man pulls a bottle from under the table and pours a thick slurp of oily liquid on the woman’s back.

  “What can I do for you?” the bartender calls out to me.

  Still watching the naked lady, I move to the bar and ask, “Did I just step into another dimension?”

  The bartender laughs and nods to the exercise table. ‘Naw. That’s just Mr Yokura and one of his clients.”

  The bartender is about my size, about six-two, but has a good 100 pounds on me, and ten or fifteen years. At 27 I still weigh what I weighed-in as an LSU quarterback – 175. My dark brown hair, in dire need of a haircut, reaches past the collar of my dress shirt.

  I look back at the woman as Mr Yokura rubs the liquid on the woman’s shoulders.

  “Want something to drink?”

  “A Coke would be nice.” I pull a buck out of my pocket.

  “No charge, officer,” the bartender says as he fixes me a fountain Coke. Even in civvies, I act too much like the police, I guess.

  “I’m ex-police myself.” He puts the glass in front of me and reaches his hand out. As we shake, he tells me his name is Bruce Wayne – no relation to Batman – and how he once worked the Second and Sixth Districts. A car wreck ended his career. “I’m on partial disability.”

  I leave the dollar on the counter and take a sip of the icy Coke.

  “You here to pick up Detectives Norling and Palmer?”

  I nod as I watch the naked lady. Yokura’s hands massage the small of her back, just above her ass.

  “They’re kinda peculiar,” Bruce Wayne says.

  “Huh?”

  “Norling and Palmer. Where are they from?”

  “Union Parish.”

  “Well, they’ll be out in a minute.” Bruce Wayne leans forward and lowers his voice. “That’s Mrs Sucio. Husband’s a neurosurgeon.”

  Yokura pours liquid on the beautiful ass. I have to readjust myself as I sit. The blue-veiner between my legs is a full hard-on now. The spindly hands began rubbing the ass, working the liquid into her creamy skin.

  I hear footsteps behind me, turn in time to see a tall man in a tan suit and a white cowboy hat come through the door that must lead to the rooms. He rounds the bar and I watch carefully as he spots what’s on the exercise table. He stops and grabs the bar for support. Leaning forwards with mouth open, he leers at the naked lady getting her ass rubbed.

  I have to ask, “Feel like you just walked into The Twilight Zone?”

  He nods slowly.

  “It’s real,” I tell him as I turn back to Yokura who moves the lady’s feet apart to massage her thighs.

  “Jesus H. Christ!” The man in the cowboy hat has a north Louisiana drawl, which sounds like a rural Texan. He stumbles to the stool next to me. He’s breathing so heavily, I have to turn to make sure he hasn’t whipped it out.

  “Norm Norling,” he says, extending an empty hand which I shake. “You Detective Ravenboo?”

  “John Raven Beau.” I pull my hand away.

  “Raven? You some kinda Injun or somethin’? Choctaw or somethin’?”

  I wait for him to look at me so he can see the anger in my eyes, only there’s no way he’s looking away from Mrs Sucio.

  “I’m half Sioux,” I tell him flatly. “Call me ‘Injun’ again you can walk to the fuckin’ seminar.” No need to tell the idiot I’m half Cajun.

  Norm slaps my shoulder and chuckles. “Don’t mind me, padna. I’m an asshole. That’s why I went into law enforcement in the first place.”

  How’d Bruce Wayne describe him? Peculiar? I finish my Coke and Bruce refills it immediately, asking Norm if he wants something to drink.

  “Got any Calhoun beer?”

  “No.”

  “Budweiser, then.” Norm taps my shoulder and points a thumb at Mrs Sucio. “Does shit like this go on a lot ’round here?”

  “All the time,” I lie. “It’s New Orleans.”

  Mrs Sucio rolls over on her back. Norm lets out a high-pitched whistle. A smile crawls on the lady’s face as she lies with her eyes closed.

  Yokura pours oil on her belly and proceeds to rub it in neat circles. He pours more between her breasts, which rise with her breathing. Slowly, he works the oil across her breasts, kneading them softly, rubbing her pink areolae, twinking her pointy nip
ples.

  “Motha-fuck!” Norm says. “What kinda show is this?”

  “Nude body massage,” Bruce Wayne answers.

  I egg him on. “Y’ all don’t have this up in Union Parish?”

  Norm points his Bud at the woman. “Who is she?”

  Bruce explains as we watch Yokura’s hands work their way down to the top of her pubic hair. He pours oil on her bush. Mrs Sucio opens her feet as Yokura rubs the oil in, his fingers slipping around the sides of her pussy. I finally catch my breath and take another hit of Coke.

  Norm climbs off his stool to get a better look at her pink slit.

  Mrs Sucio raises her knees, then lets them fall open as Yokura’s fingers slip inside her pussy. When she starts rocking her hips, it’s time for me to readjust my diamond-cutter dick.

  Jesus!

  Mrs Sucio moans and gasps a breathless, “Yes. Yes. Yes!”

  I turn to Bruce Wayne whose elbows are propped on the bar as he watches the show. I have to laugh at the way we’re leering, like schoolboys, until I hear another pair of footsteps approaching. Looking at the doorway to the rooms, I spot a young woman enter.

  In a grey business suit, her shoulder-holster rig obvious beneath her jacket, she must be Detective Palmer. I’m surprised she isn’t wearing a Dale Evans outfit. I tap Norm on the elbow.

  “This oughta be fun,” he says as he looks over his shoulder. “Here comes Ms Prude.”

  Seeing us, she comes around the bar and stops immediately. Her face blushes and she looks at Norm, then at me with an accusing look.

  “Whatsa’ matter?” Norm says. “This is New Orleans!” He laughs and goes back to leering at Mrs Sucio.

  Standing between her legs, Yokura’s face is only inches from her pussy as he stays his course, fingering Mrs Sucio through spasmodic gyrations.

  “She’s gettin’ close,” Norm announces.

  I turn back to Detective Palmer who stands there as if quick-frozen. Stepping off my stool, I move next to her.

  “I’m here to pick y’all up for the seminar.”