The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 2

by Maxim Jakubowski

  “Hours?” He tried to slow his own fingers, found this impossible.

  “We’re so turned on by this time that we can’t stop – it becomes endless. It tortures the audience. The men have their fingers up and down their dicks and the women are playing with their clits, aching for me to come. Waiting for me to release it. And when I finally do, they gasp out, and come too. Almost at the same time. Five hundred simultaneous orgasms. It’s wonderful. It’s art. They’re gasping and cheering and calling out to God.”

  “Do I get to come, too?”

  “Oh, yes, just after I do. While the audience are still recovering from me. You come, and when you do, they all come, every one of them, all over again. Five hundred people coming at once. All because of me.” She circled her hands around her breasts, looking up at him through her eyelashes. “Their moans go right through my body, making it vibrate and shake.”

  “Because of you.”

  “Well, and you too. A bit.” She gave her nipples a sudden pinch; he watched blood rush into her cheeks. She placed her hands carefully on the sides of the chair, drawing her legs together. “What do you think?”

  “That’s your idea of art? Basic fucking?” he asked.

  She leaned back in her chair, the picture of calm domestic comfort. “What else? How would you do it?”

  He mimicked her movements, sinking back into his black chair, placing his hands on the arms and gripping them firmly. “Well, for one, you never described the set.”

  “I was just thinking a bare stage.” Her grip, too, he noted, was fairly tight. He kept his grin to himself.

  “Oh, come on. For one thing, it’s too hard on the knees. We’ve gotta have something there – some type of elegant Oriental rug at least. It’s the only old thing on the stage, though. Everything else is absolutely modern – black leather couches, those real ugly black lamps, you know. Everything in black. Except us.”

  “We’re not wearing anything, right?” A few of her fingers lifted off the chair’s arm.

  His own hands stayed tight. “We’re in costumes. But the costumes don’t fit.”

  “They don’t?” Her fingers moved back down.

  “No. When the audience first sees us, they think there’s something wrong with our costumes – that we’ve stepped onto the wrong stage. We look like figures from the Commedia D’ell Ante – you in a soft pink gown and a butterfly mask, me in a Harlequin costume. Almost. The mask is right – slightly primitive, a leather one rather than that plastic crap you see on stages – but the patches on the costume aren’t diamonds, they’re dicks. Red against the black.”

  “Erect?” Her hand trembled.

  “Of course. Not that I’m giving anyone time to study the costumes. The stage goes dark almost immediately. Five seconds of total darkness, and then the spotlight comes back on. Two tiny narrow spots that just illuminate our masks, nothing more. The audience watches, puzzled and just a bit bored. They can’t see that, behind your mask you’re beginning to moan, and they can’t see that in the darkness, I’ve flipped up your skirt – it’s cut short in the back – and I’m running my hand up and down your clit.”

  He took his hand off the chair, moving it towards her, keeping just inches away from her hand. “The audience is starting to get a bit suspicious though. Even though you’ve been told to keep absolutely still, you can’t help breathing more deeply, can’t help moving your face a little with my fingers, a movement that makes your mask dance in the cool spotlight. And they’re starting to hear something as well. You’re trying to stay absolutely quiet, but my fingers just happen to strike that one place on you, and you start to moan. Loudly. You tilt your head back, and suddenly another spotlight comes on, aimed directly at your hand and my fingers. The audience blinks, not quite sure what they’re seeing at first, and then suddenly gasps. When I hear them, I stop.”

  “Hey.” Her fingers backed up along the chair, away from his.

  He extended his arm. “It’s only for a moment. I show them my hand, still dripping with your juices, and let it shine in the spotlight for a moment, before I lead you to the table, making you sit on its edge. I want to make sure that they have a good view.”

  “No cushions?” The arm crept back out.

  “You don’t care about cushions; all you care about is getting my fingers back inside you. You sit up and spread your legs out on the table and grab my hand. The audience is mesmerized. They watch my fingers dance on and in you in total silence. The only thing they can hear is your moans, which are filling the theatre by now, especially since I won’t quite let you come. Not yet. The audience starts to mutter. They know I’m torturing you, know that I’m keeping you right at the edge, and they can’t decide if they like it or hate it. As they start to mutter, you start to beg for it. Softly at first – with the music, only I can hear you – but then louder and louder.”

  “Like you’d be able to resist for that long.”

  “Surprisingly, I can. Maybe it’s the audience, maybe it’s something else. But whatever it is, I keep you going for a long time before I suddenly twist the table so that the audience will get a good side view and, before anyone quite realizes what’s happening, I’ve slid into you, and you’re coming, moaning through your mask.”

  “What’s the audience doing?”

  “Masturbating. They can’t help it. Even the ones who’ve seen live sex shows before have never seen anything this primal, this forceful, on the stage. They’re used to bored people licking each other and going at it like porn stars. This is different. This is real. Maybe more real because they have no idea who we are, because we are two faceless people behind cold masks. They breathe with me as I tear into you, as I thrust myself completely into you, trying to become one with you even through the masks. They breathe with you as you reach up to grab my back, to dig into me, to push me into you. They can’t believe the energy that we’re creating, the energy that’s going throughout the stage and throughout the theatre. And they can’t believe how long it takes us to come.”

  “Do they come with us?”

  He considered that for a moment. “No. They’ve waited, and they continue to wait, not one of them coming until they can clearly see that it’s over, until they can see you draped across me, spent. We don’t move for a moment, wondering what they thought about it. They can’t tell us; they’re all too busy fucking themselves and moaning.”

  He paused, and looked at her. She placed tapered fingers against her lips. “That’s your form of art? Something totally fake?”

  He shrugs. “Seems to be pure Broadway to me.”

  “Not that you’ve ever been to a Broadway show, of course. And Cats doesn’t count.”

  “Why don’t we let an audience decide?” he offered. “Pure applause. Whoever is louder wins. And no cat-calling, either. Pure clapping. For you – ” he paused, waited, smiled broadly “ – and for me.” He paused again, and grinned at her. He took her hand, and they stood, side by side.

  His pants were still bulging; her face was flushed and open. He raised one hand, pointing at her, and waited for a few minutes. She grinned again, and he pointed at himself.

  “I think I win on loudness,” she offered, after a moment.

  He shrugged. “Maybe.” He allowed a doubtful note to enter his voice. “It’s very close. But I definitely win on length.”

  “Length wasn’t the criterion.”

  “Point taken.” He bowed mockingly to her. “Shall we call it a tie?”

  She bowed back, and gave him the hand that had been so recently playing under her jeans. He realized again that he should have worn looser pants. It was too late now. With a final smile at each other, they turned and bowed.

  In front of them, the audience of investors applauded again. He noted with a grin that several of the men should have worn looser pants as well, and that at least one woman was doing an odd sort of one-handed clapping. His grin got even broader when he saw that at least three of them were reaching for cheque books.

&
nbsp; They might be able to turn this from art into reality after all.

  Persona Non Grata

  Dominic Santi

  I was persona non grata at the Torelli household. Not that I particularly blamed them. Cancelling a wedding three weeks before The Event of the local social season was bad form even in my book. Tony, Marcella’s older brother and my former best friend, had offered to rearrange my facial structure far beyond the rather sizeable swelling he’d initially planted on my chin. I didn’t want to think about what her younger brother, Greg, was going to do when he showed up for his week of requested-six-months-in-advance leave from the Marines.

  “How the fuck could you not know you can’t live without dick until this close to the wedding?” Tony snarled when he was rubbing his sore knuckles. He’d knocked me flat on my ass.

  “I thought I didn’t need it,” I growled back, rubbing my hand over my very tender jaw. “I really thought Marcella was going to be enough for me.” My head was swimming, and I had the good sense to stay down. He’s bigger and meaner than I am. But I refused to look away from him. “I love her, Tony. No matter what it looks like, I love her. This whole fucking mess is tearing me to pieces.”

  Tony just gave me one of those looks. After all, it was a rhetorical question for him anyway. It was one of his tricks who had gotten me going. I let him vent while I tried to clear my head. Tony and I had fucked around as far back as I could remember. Other than a few mutual JO sessions, we’d never gotten it on together. But he knew how much I liked sex with men. I liked sucking cock and getting my cock sucked, and when I got a wild hair up my ass, the hunger stayed with me until I got fucked until my eyes crossed. I couldn’t count the times I’d watched his thick Italian meat ploughing some bottom-boy’s hole while I massaged my tonsils on a well-hung stud’s swollen shaft.

  For me, sex with guys was just good old fun, horny sex. When I fell in love, it was always with women. I loved their softness and their high voices and how half the time, I couldn’t understand what the fuck they were talking about but I didn’t care, so long as they kissed me. I loved sucking warm, heavy breasts with big nipples and burying my face in hot, fragrant pussy. I could eat cunt until my tongue was numb and my hair hurt from being pulled and my ears rang with screams. But most of all, I loved sinking balls, deep in Marcella’s quivering cunt and fucking until I came so hard it felt like my heart had exploded. I could spend hours on the couch with her, kissing and sucking and fucking while we pretended to watch TV. Shit, I even liked the way she gave head. She took me deep and wet and she used her hand when her throat bottomed out, and she sucked hard when she pulled off. Even when we weren’t in bed, we had so much fun just doing shit together. Man, I just plain loved her. I wanted to marry her and have kids with her and make a life with her. I hadn’t known it was possible to care for someone that much.

  Which was why I’d called off the wedding. Until last weekend, I’d thought I’d loved her so much that my passion for her eclipsed even my need for dick. I thought that right up to the moment Tony’s latest blond, blue-eyed, twinkie boy with the well-toned swimmer’s build and the bulging dick strolled into Tony’s apartment. Golden boy winked at me and wrapped his arms around Tony. They started swallowing each other’s tongues and grinding their crotches together. When they tipped towards the couch, I had to leave. All I could see was golden boy’s cock snaking down my throat. I went home and beat off, trying to concentrate on my upcoming date with Marcella. But when I tugged my balls and squeezed my dick and my come spurted through my fingers, it was his climax I was seeing, not mine. I wanted golden boy so badly I could hardly breathe. Even after I came, my dick wouldn’t settle down.

  Marcella had made it plain that while she didn’t care that I thought I was bisexual, an open relationship with her was not an option. She said she was not going to share her husband with what she called The Competition. I remembered that all evening long, when we were laughing at the movie and later on when I was fucking her deep and hard and it felt so good, so fucking good, and I was getting off on her so fucking much. Even then, in the back of my mind, I kept seeing golden boy’s heavy dick swinging in front of my face. And when I finally came, when Marcella’s wet, clutching pussy spasmed around me so hard it felt like her cunt was sucking the come right up out of my balls, in my mind, I still imagined golden boy’s velvety soft cock flesh sliding over my lips and down my throat. I spurted into the rubber buried deep in her shuddering pussy and I let the tears flow down my cheeks as I came and came and came until it felt like my soul was shattering into her.

  The next morning, over a breakfast of peanut butter toast and coffee, I told her I was too queer to get married and I broke off the engagement.

  I hadn’t mentioned it to Tony, but Marcella packed a backhand that had my cheekbone throbbing damn near as much as my chin. And her voice was a helluva lot more shrill. When she finally calmed down enough to ask just why the fuck I’d waited until now to tell her, I reminded her that I’d told her I thought I was bisexual and that I’d sometimes “experimented” with guys. I told her that I could only hope she believed me when I said what I felt for her was so overwhelming that I’d truly thought it was enough to overcome my need to be with men. OK, so fuck it, I was crying when I finally told her that nothing about my feelings for her had changed and that breaking up with her was ripping my heart out. But I said I understood, really understood, how important monogamy was to her. I loved her, and myself, too much to end up cruising the parks after work ten years from now while she was at home alone with the kids, suspicious and hating me.

  This time, though, when Marcella had calmed down enough to talk rather than scream, she put her hands on her hips and told me to explain to her just what the hell I’d meant when I’d told her I’d “experimented” with guys.

  “Specific details, Brendan. I mean, paint me a fucking picture.” So this time, I told her, in explicit, graphic detail.

  “My fucking brother!” she yelled.

  “We didn’t fuck!” I snapped. “We just, well, we fucked around, OK? I’ve never sucked his dick or had his cock up my ass, or anything like that. We just beat off together. And we had sex with other people in the same room.” I dragged my hand through my hair.

  Marcella got quiet then. She leaned back against the refrigerator and sighed. “But you had sex with other men, right, Brendan? You didn’t just ‘experiment’. You did it a lot. You sucked their cocks and you let them suck yours, and you fucked them . . .” Her voice trailed off as she rubbed her hands over her eyes.

  “I didn’t fuck them,” I said quietly. Not that semantics really mattered, but if we were clearing the air, I didn’t want any more innuendo. When she looked at me, I shrugged. “They fucked me, in the ass. And I liked it so much I came.” I felt like I was watching a 25-year-old woman age in front of my eyes. She took a deep breath and let it out very slowly.

  “Did you at least use a rubber, or do I have to worry about that, too?”

  My eyes flashed hot. “I said I was queer, not stupid.”

  Before I could say more, she nodded and held up her hands. “I’m sorry, Brendan. That was mean, and I shouldn’t have said it. I’m feeling really hurt right now and I just realized that you’d always used a rubber with me, and I wondered if that was why.”

  “Actually, it’s not.” I lifted my shoulders and let them fall. “I’m just a responsible kind of guy, you know? And we didn’t want kids yet.” I closed my eyes, trying hard not to think about the kids I now wasn’t going to be having with Marcella. I didn’t want to start crying again. So, I looked at her and answered the question she hadn’t asked, but that I figured she had a right to hear the answer to. “I’ve always used latex, every time, with everyone, even for sucking. My tests have always been clear.”

  I tried to smile, but I couldn’t quite make it. “For what it’s worth, I haven’t been with anyone else, male or female, for almost two years – since we started going out.” I took a deep breath and decided to co
me clean on everything. “Though, for the record, Tony and I did beat off together in your grandfather’s garage a year ago New Year’s Eve, when we got drunk with the rest of your family and we were the last ones up after everybody else had gone to bed.” As fire flashed in her eyes, I shrugged. “That’s pretty much it.”

  “I’m going to kill that son of a bitch,” she snapped. Things went downhill from there. The whole scene was pretty emotional for both of us. She hugged me when she left. But I wasn’t all that surprised when Tony stomped in the door two hours later and planted his fist in my face before he even said hello.

  I’d agreed to let Marcella handle telling everyone about the cancellation in her own way. So I lied to the people at work and told them I’d been in an accident, which wasn’t that far from the truth. Three days later, I still hadn’t heard anything. I missed Marcella so much it hurt to breathe, and I was horny for her and pissed at myself that even with all the shit going on, I was still thinking about golden boy’s dick. I even missed Tony, despite how much my chin still hurt. It was Friday night, and I didn’t want to run into any mutual friends at our usual haunts. So, I settled down for a rousing evening of feeling sorry for myself with a selection of action adventure flicks and some microwaved popcorn and a six-pack of beer. I’d just popped the first top and poured some real butter on the popcorn when Tony walked in the door.

  “You got a gun this time?” I sighed, only half joking. He shrugged and shook his head. Everything else I was going to say died in my throat when he stepped all the way into the room. Golden boy was right behind him, wearing a tight white T-shirt and pair of clean but well-worn jeans that outlined his dick so clearly that I could tell for sure he wasn’t wearing underwear and that he definitely was circumcized. When he saw where I was looking, he ran his fingertips over the outline of his shaft, thrusting his hips none too subtly as the bulge started to grow.