The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 2

by Maxim Jakubowski

  “God, she was alive inside.”

  Kate kisses me quick to get my attention. She points. The twister is down. It’s moving along the road ahead. It rips at the cornrows. “It’s coming,” she says.

  “Angela wrapped her arms around my neck and buried her face in my shoulder. I could barely see the road, but I kept the pedal down.

  “She rose and fell with the pulse of the storm.

  “Darkness surrounded us. Lightning shattered it. The rear glass of the station wagon exploded.”

  Kate pulls at my belt. I work my fingers through her hair to the back of her neck. The twister outside grows. It undulates. It slips back and forth across field and road, feeding on corn and dirt. The scream of the demons makes it hard for Kate to hear me.

  “Angela screamed in my ear,” I yell. “I barely heard her over the deafening storm.

  “I screamed, too. I couldn’t hear my own voice.

  “Hail shattered the driver’s window. Glass and rain pelted my face.

  “Angela rode me tight and hot and hard. Her hair danced with electricity, straight out, and up, bending against the roof of the car. She lifted her head from my shoulder. Her eyes were black-green. They were holes through her head, and I could see the heart of the tornado through her.”

  Kate frees me. Her damp, warm hand wraps around my shaft. She says something, but I can’t hear her.

  “The car twisted,” I say. I’m no longer telling the story for Kate. It doesn’t matter if she hears me. “It tilted, lifted, and fell.

  “She screamed. Her orgasm grabbed me, pulled me deeper into her heat.

  “A spasm squeezed my ass and thighs. I exploded into her. My foot drove the accelerator to the floor. Lightning struck. The windshield exploded.

  “She spoke into my ear. Her whisper was one with the wind, and I heard her. I heard her love and satisfaction. She said, ‘I’ll always be here for you.’

  “Then the invisible hand of her lover lifted her into the sky.”

  I take a deep breath of heavy air.

  Kate’s head comes up from my lap. Her full, moist lips part. She stares. She blinks green eyes. “No!” she says. “Don’t stop now.”

  Kate’s eyes are the storm. Sweat holds her loose hair to her forehead and neck. She slips off her flannel shirt. The white curve of her breasts heaves in time with the wind buffeting the car.

  The tornado moves towards us.

  “I don’t chase storms,” I say. I take her face in my hands.

  We kiss.

  She tears open my shirt.

  I caress one smooth breast, slide a finger across her hard nipple.

  She shudders, smiles, and cradles my balls in her hot palm.

  I touch her lips with mine again.

  The storm screams.

  Kate moans.

  I help her wriggle free from her jeans.

  My lips to her ear, I say, “Only seduction can open the heart of a storm.”

  “Yes.” She slides a leg across my lap.

  She leans back against the steering wheel. Her eyes are drowned green. Her skin glows. She guides me into her. She’s hot-oil wet. Her insides are alive like boiling clouds.

  “I’m here, Andy,” she says. “Take me there!”

  “Angela,” I whisper.

  The Perfect O

  Cara Bruce

  I never knew I liked pain, or how much I liked it. I’ve had fantasies and my bookshelves are lined with romance novels involving Victorian classrooms and harsh punishments. But I didn’t know. What I have always known is my love of jewellery. When I was little it started out as a fascination with my mothers’. I would sit for hours holding up long earrings to my tiny lobes, shaking my head so they would brush against my seven-year-old shoulders. Then it became the junk they sold in the dollar store at the mall, fluorescent parrots, rubber oranges – anything bright and fancy attached to a metal post. Every special event in my life has been marked by the gift of earrings: topaz for my 18th birthday, aquamarine from my first serious boyfriend, diamonds for my college graduation and a pair of black pearls from my grandmother when she passed away.

  I still have each and every pair. Mark, the lover before this one, bought me a beautiful mahogany jewellery box, lined in deep brown velvet and speckled with tiny holes for the thin posts of my treasures. Small, pull-out boxes ran along the bottom – the perfect place for safe storage of rusting faux silver and chipping gold. After Mark left I thought of putting the box back in my closet with the pop-up white ballerina box my father bought me years ago for my 16th birthday. The typical gift bought by a father who has no concept what 16-year-old girls need or want, a father still desperately trying to clutch on to the passing away of youth, theirs and his, by a twirling, plastic figurine. But then I opened Mark’s mahogany box, ran my finger over the shiny remnants of my life, and decided what many women before me have tearfully accepted: that just because the men are rotten doesn’t mean their gifts are.

  I didn’t think that Kyle, the man I had been seeing for the past three months, had ever noticed that I even had my ears pierced. So the night I met him for a drink and he tenderly ran his fingertips over my tiny, silver hoops, I was pleasantly surprised. Kyle was what my mother would call “a real catch”. He had no particularly bad habits, dressed well, was gainfully employed and naturally good-looking. It was enough to make me wary and I was beginning to grow fearful that he was so perfect he would soon grow dull.

  Kyle ordered us another round of drinks. He seemed distracted, fidgeting, glancing at the clock, tapping his fingers, and adjusting his seat. His behaviour made me nervous, typical of a man who has something to tell you but doesn’t quite know how to put it into words. Finally I had to say something; if I was going to be dealt a blow I wanted to meet it head on.

  “Kyle, what’s on your mind?” I said, forcing him to look into my eyes.

  He took a moment before he sighed and said, “Your earrings.”

  “My earrings? You don’t like them?” This was not what I expected.

  “No, no, they’re fine.” He fumbled in his briefcase for a moment and brought out a plain brown paper bag, which he slid to me across the table. I opened it up and withdrew a glossy magazine. On the cover was a gorgeous woman wearing an expression of unbridled lust. I opened the slick pages and was met by various shots of women pierced – in every possible location. I flipped the pages silently – my heart beating faster and my crotch growing wet. I looked up at Kyle and comprehension flooded me. His gaze was steadfast and even though I had never known these hoops to hang anywhere but from my ears, I knew I was about to.

  I placed the magazine back in its wrapper and instead of returning it to him I slipped it into my purse.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I whispered.

  We drove in silence to his house. The faint pitter of evening drizzle drummed against the top of his car before it exploded into rain as we pulled into the driveway. We made a dash for the front door, dripping as we entered the front hallway. Without a word Kyle led me upstairs to his bedroom. I was nervous. My palms were sweaty and my cunt was throbbing. I began to ask him a question but he motioned with a finger for me to be quiet. He stood me in the centre of his room and took a neatly wrapped gift box off the top of his dresser.

  Inside lay a single needle.

  As I slowly brought my palm up to examine it my heart stopped. He began to look a little uncertain.

  “That’s OK, isn’t it? I went to the piercing shop and asked about the gauge. That’s what they told me.”

  “No,” I murmured, turning the delicate instrument in my hand, “it’s fine.”

  He smiled, instantly relieved. He placed his hands on my shoulders and gently massaged them. Then, without another word, he began to unbutton my blouse. I felt light-headed and my legs were simulating freshly made Jell-O. He slipped the white cotton over my shoulders and stood staring at the front-clasp white bra, slightly padded and frayed at the edges. I was embarrassed. If only I had known, I w
ould have bought some new lingerie.

  He took a deep breath and unhooked it, slowly, reverently. I was afraid to breathe. But he slipped it off, and smiled.

  “Perfect,” he whispered, and took a step back to examine these two mounds that I have carried with me all my adult life yet have never heard the word “perfect” used to describe them. My breath came back and without a single touch my clit sprang to life.

  He was like a schoolboy enraptured, gently rubbing his forefinger over the brown nipple, which had already hardened by its sudden exposure to fresh air.

  I closed my hand tight around the needle and moaned. In that moment all hope for my nipples’ virginity was gone. He bent down and kissed me, his strong mouth parting mine just enough to allow his tongue to slip tenderly across my teeth. Our bodies remained slightly apart and it took all of my willpower from pulling him close to me and pressing his pelvis against my aching cunt.

  “Sit down,” he said, moving away and exiting through the bathroom door.

  I had not known I was one for pain.

  “Why don’t you take off your clothes and get comfortable?” he called. My body moved without my brain, unzipping my skirt, rolling down my stockings, trembling, quivering scared . . . and wanting.

  He came back in, naked except for a pair of white boxer shorts that showed the line of his erect cock pushing against the thin fabric.

  “The alcohol,” he said, and held up a bottle and cotton like a track star with a trophy.

  He came over and knelt before me, placing his toys upon the bedside table. I sighed as he gently kissed the point where my calf began to curve. His mouth worked its way up along the soft inside of my leg, pausing on my thigh. He parted my legs slowly, forcing me to bite my lip to keep quiet from anticipation, and attached them to leather buckles that must have been previously secured on the bottom of the wooden posters.

  I jolted at the feel of the cool buckle against my ankle. “It will be easier if you can’t move,” he explained calmly. He reached up and took my right arm, bringing it to the post as well. The buckle was secured against my right wrist, then my left. Not only were the restraints keeping me still, they were making me terribly aroused. I sat on the edge of his bed: wet, wanting, and spread out for his needle.

  He uncurled my hand which was still clenched around the instrument. Then, with careful precision he wiped it clean with the alcohol. He blew on my nipples. They were so hard they looked as if they could have been popped off by a simple flick of his thumb. I gasped. He drew the soaked swab across and smiled as they amazingly grew another millimetre. He looked into my eyes. “Just relax,” he whispered.

  I felt the needle as soon as it touched the edge of my breast. He was teasing me, tracing the curve of my falling bosom with the cool metal. He traced my areola, then brought it to the edge of my hard bud. I moved against the restraints but they were too tight.

  “Relax,” he said. “I’m just going to push the needle in, leave it for a moment, pull it out and replace it with the hoops. Then, once they are in, I’m going to kiss you all over. I’m going to make circles on your clit with my tongue, I promise you are going to feel good.”

  As he spoke he began pushing the needle in. It was cold then burning hot. I heard him telling me how he was going to fuck me, I felt the metal piercing through my tender flesh, the endorphins from the pain flushing my face and making me woozy. It was almost orgasmic. And it was in.

  “There, that wasn’t that bad.” He stood up and surveyed his handiwork, slipping out of his boxers and allowing his thick dick to spring fully to attention.

  He opened the drawer of his bedside table and brought out another, matching needle. Then he knelt again.

  “Are you OK?” he asked me. His eyes were sparkling.

  Through my reverie I managed to nod. He smiled, white teeth shining. He came towards me, bringing his mouth down over the untouched breast. I felt his tongue caressing the brown skin made smooth by excitement. My other tit was straining itself against the metal lodged inside, increasing my pain and arousal to a point where I was again dangerously close to climax. He removed his warm mouth and cold air blew in, then, slowly, so slowly, he began pushing the other needle. The pain made me high and his voice hypnotized me. He was agonizingly slow and I imagined with what tenderness he would glide his huge cock into my wanting cunt.

  The second needle was through.

  He slid his hand over his long dick. “Beautiful,” he whispered. I had stopped breathing long ago.

  From the bedside table came two matching heavy silver rings. He held them up for me to see.

  “Do you like them?” he asked. “I went to three different shops to find these. They’re perfect for you.”

  I nodded, wondering how my old bras would rub against that heavy silver, afraid they would look so obvious against a white T-shirt, excited at the thought of him gently tugging them as he pulled me close.

  He slid the needle out quickly. The sharp pain was replaced with a rush that forced me to cry out from the intensity. He pushed the pointed spike of the earring through and hooked the loop. I moaned. My nipple was dragged downwards by its heaviness. The pain faded into a dull ache. He did the other one with the same quick yet precise care. My entire body seemed to hang forwards with the weight of the metal. He lifted my chin. Now even his touch was electric. I was over sensitized, ready to come in an instant. His tongue was so warm in my mouth. His hands so firm as they undid the buckles.

  My head was spinning as he lifted me and laid me back on the bed. Every nerve-ending of my body led directly to the metal hoops. I was a magnet waiting for a charge.

  “You are so beautiful,” he said, and reached down and pulled on one of the hoops. I cried out in that fine mixture of pain and pleasure. He smiled. He began to lick inside the silver circle, opening my hot pussy with his cock. He picked up a ring with his teeth and he entered me. I no longer knew where I was. My body was flooded with the most acute sensations I had ever experienced. I thrust my hips to meet him as he plunged in deeper, his tongue finding the sore bud beneath the silver. With his mouth on one breast he lifted his hand and began rubbing the other nipple with his fingers. All my blood followed his fingers.

  I yelled, ripping at his strong back. He moved into me, fucking me hard and fast. My entire body was on edge and I had never hurt so bad, yet felt so good. As he plunged once more I began to come, but this was different. This didn’t begin in my stomach and burn through me, this orgasm was centred around those two metal rings, just like a perfect silver O.

  The Beach Boy

  Rich Denis

  My wife’s breasts stand proud as she sits up, stretching her arms towards the burning midday sun. I feel the familiar warm surge of affection. At 35, she is only a slightly more generous version of the statuesque showgirl I found, sequinned and feathered, in a Vegas chorus line. She is blind now, but I love her no less.

  She reaches for the suntan oil, pours a rich stream across her chest, then spreads the coconut-scented liquid over her body. Occasionally a slippery hand strays into her bikini bottom which, in showgirl style, is pulled up high on her hips. The shred of fabric becomes oily, defining, rather than obscuring, what it barely covers. She releases a satisfied sigh and reclines again, her skin shining. She has already turned chestnut brown.

  The young beach boy, his eyes hidden behind cheap mirrored sunglasses, leans on his rake, mesmerized. His sole purpose in life seems to be cleaning the soft white sand, to make a small portion of this Mozambique paradise neat for tourists like us. For this simple task he earns two dollars a week. Today, I know he would have worked for free.

  Though other guests are scattered along the beach, he has spent most of his time close to us, a moth attracted to the flame of my wife’s almost naked body. Each time she’s performed this ritual with the oil, she has noticed that the rake falls suddenly quiet. I’ve described him to her; his age, his height, the bulge in his tattered shorts.

  The sun is vicious, too hot
for me. I dart across the powdery sand and wade out into the ocean. The water is tepid, its colour absurdly blue. I break into a gentle breaststroke and taste salt water on my lips. A hundred feet offshore, I stop swimming and tread water, surrounded by silence. I can see my wife. She sits up, and the beach boy walks across to her. I know that she’s called to him. She is propped up on one elbow; he squats beside her, close enough that she could lick the sweat from his ebony skin. Her hand moves reassuringly to rest on his thigh as she speaks to him. Their heads turn towards me, sunlight glinting off their dark glasses. I kick into a fast crawl and swim farther out, excited and horrified at the expectation that tugs in my gut. My reaction is still the same after two years, and over a dozen of these . . . little incidents. We have long lost the logic of whether she does this for me, or if I allow it for her. It doesn’t matter.

  When I wade back to the shore, she is gone. The boy is gone, too. I relax in my beach chair, and take a cold beer from the cooler. Third world holidays are wonderful, away from the predictable tourist path. What is luxury, if not this? Beer, burning white sand, an impossibly blue ocean, and people you’ll never see again.

  I finish my drink and wander back to our tiny hut. Thick bushes with yellow blooms cluster along the pathway with a sickly, heavy scent. Freshly whitewashed, the hut nestles amid the fat, ridged trunks of towering palm trees. And there are two windows, framed in blue. I move palm fronds aside, and step close to one.

  She is bending over the back of a wooden chair, her legs spread. Her perfect rump, with its minute pale vee where the bikini nestled, is pressed to the boy’s crotch. He stands naked behind her, and fucks her.

  I light a cigarette.

  Her breasts sway and the muscles in her long legs flex beneath the skin. Her fingers clutch the seat of the chair. The boy is teenage skinny. The shaft of his cock appears and disappears with his thrusts. I wonder if it feels different to her, his shaft. Do they all feel different, and like Braille she can recognize them? If all the cocks she has ever known were lined up, and she walked slowly past them grasping and stroking each one, would she put a name to each? I’d have no idea if each woman I’d ever had were slid onto my cock, each breast I’d felt were put in my hand.