The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 2

by Maxim Jakubowski

  Shiny lines of sweat trickle down the boy’s spine. I suck on my cigarette and wait.

  Soon her head begins to nod; her drawn-out “Yes” comes clearly through the window as she rises to the tips of her cerise painted toes. For a few seconds, she remains on point, then she sinks down and turns around. Her blank gaze passes over me. She is grinning.

  The boy’s cock sticks straight out. Its angry purple-black colour is at odds with the pink condom. His cock is long and thin – probably the thinnest one I’ve ever seen. She reaches out to find him. Her hand connects with his hip and moves down. She tugs off the condom and leans closer. Her pink tongue appears. She licks at the tip a few times, then her mouth slides over this licorice dick.

  Am I fascinated or horrified? I’m not sure, but something in this scenario makes my own dick lumber to middle-aged attention. I drop my cigarette and leave the window.

  The door is unlatched. I walk into the room with my best reassuring smile in place. The boy jumps back, his eyes widening to saucers. I gave him a thumbs-up, and tell him to relax. Uncertain, torn between pleasure and escape, he glances down at my wife, then back at me, then at the door. I hold up a ten-dollar bill and nod my head vigorously to reinforce my generosity. He stares at the money and remains where he is. I step out of my swim shorts and drag the small table away from the wall.

  Lying across the table on her back, legs spread on one side, head hanging on the other, she provides perfect access for the boy and me. His cock, now level with her face, slides neatly into her mouth. She cups a hand around his balls, controlling his thrusts. Each time he withdraws her teeth scrape along the length of him, the way I’ve watched her eat an artichoke. From the other side of the table, I lift her legs onto my shoulders. Her thighs are slick and wet from the boy’s previous efforts. I push into her.

  In our normal life, sex is efficient and satisfactory; far better since she became blind, but still merely pleasing. We have eliminated the unnecessary and the frivolous. Like eating, we do it often and sensibly. But occasionally we want something different, a treat, and all treats become boring if one indulges too frequently. So we save this, or variations on this, for vacations. And for lucky strangers.

  Like demented lumberjacks, the boy and I saw at her from both sides. His eyes catch mine, and I wink. He frowns. I settle into a rhythm that matches his. Small cries of pleasure seep from her. We are a fucking team, the three of us.

  She moves her free hand to a nipple, rolls it between her fingers, and immediately jerks and squirms harder. On my shoulders, her legs squeeze my head and begin to tremble. Trapped and impaled between us, she arches and twists as she comes.

  Her body relaxes. I slide out of her. His cock slips from her mouth. But she is still for only a moment before she flips over, grabs for him. Says, “Help me here.” Her expression is serious and wild.

  I take her wrist, guiding her hand towards his dick. She strokes him a few times, and then says, “Now you.”

  I put my hand on him. Her fingers close over my knuckles, feeling what I’m doing. I check his reaction. His lips slide back to reveal white teeth. I kneel and begin to work at him. His eyes close as I tighten my grip, rubbing him harder. His cock twitches, and her hand squeezes mine. Her head is tilted away from us, hearing and feeling what we cannot, living in a sexual world I’ll never know. I envy her.

  Suddenly he squirts two pearly jets of come. I hold tight, point him at her and milk another spurt from him, then another.

  Sticky white lines are streaked across her face. She laughs as she sticks out her tongue and licks a lingering drop from her lip. “A flood,” she says.

  I stand and pull her up, and tell her that kids always have a lot of spunk. And as I say it I feel him grab my own cock. I take her hand and let her feel this happen.

  She pulls me closer. “Let him, please.”

  “But . . .”

  “Please.”

  This is our game, to pretend I am reluctant. That I allow it only for her pleasure. Already hard at work, he has understood nothing of this. His roughened hands are surprisingly adept. She squats next to us, listening, a small smile on her face as her own hand moves between her legs.

  Until two years ago, I’d never had a man touch me. At first I was shocked at how much I liked it. I had no idea men did it better, that their careless aggression was so exciting. I have no interest in what label this attaches to me: gay, bisexual, who cares? It gives us pleasure. Life is for living.

  My pale shaft swells between his dark fingers. The swollen ruby head disappears and reappears as his fist slides over me. I feel young again. I wish she could see.

  As if reading my thoughts she reaches out. Her fingers are wet. “My stud,” she says. “Tell me it feels wonderful.”

  I tell her, between groans, and she laughs with delight.

  Her pleasure makes me swell even more. The muscles in my thighs harden. Warmth spreads slowly along my spine. The boy feels my reaction and speeds his stroke. The heat moves faster and accelerates, until it burns through me with a rush, and my juice makes a small arc onto his arm. My legs relax, but his hand continues to move on me with no less insistence. I am at that contradictory place where I desperately want the exquisite agony in my cock to end, but never stop. To my surprise, I pump another white stream across his hand and then the pleasure is too much. I pull away from him and sink to the floor exhausted.

  My wife leans forwards and kisses me. “Thank you, baby.”

  Too spent to reply, I gesture to the boy. It is time for him to go. He pulls on his tattered shorts, takes his money, and turns towards the door.

  My wife and I sit together, entwined on the warm cement.

  The Boss

  Jazz Lloyd

  He’s tall, dark and distant.

  Just like my daddy.

  And just like daddy – he’s just out of reach.

  He’s got daddy’s eyes. Black and dirty like marbles in the dust.

  He’s got my daddy’s big clean hands. Clean on account of having counted money all his life and pushed cold hard pieces of paper around his big leather desk.

  He smells like daddy too. Though I couldn’t tell you how daddy smells. I know it when I smell it. It’s like the BBQ going on next door. It triggers your appetite but you’re not invited to share the meat. Don’t get me wrong. I never did my daddy. We were a respectable household. There was never any suggestion of doing daddy. That would be a disgrace. But I never met a man I loved as much as daddy. I never knew a man I wanted more to impress and I never thought I would. That was before I got the job at Swelter Inc.

  That was before I met Tom.

  Tom is my boss. He tells you to call him Tom but he still wants you to think of him as Mr. He dresses like a Mr, with his Armani suits and his shiny, shiny shoes. If you stood close enough to him and looked down you could see your reflection in those shoes. I have an ongoing fantasy where he lifts his foot onto a stool so I can clean his shoes before a very important meeting. I imagine that I lift my power suit, squat down on those shoes and rub the juices from my wet and sticky pussy all over them. Dirty the image, muddy the reflection. Leave my scent all over his feet so that with every step he is reminded of my sex. I want to start my own BBQ.

  I don’t know whether he reads my filthy thoughts. Sometimes I imagine he can.

  And I am humiliated at my own depravity. If daddy only knew just what I’d like to do to him he might even invite me to sit on his lap, behind his big wooden desk. He might take me over his knee, lift my little skirt, pull down my little white panties and thrash my pretty white arse.

  He might give me 20 strokes. He might leave his handprint pink and rare all over it. He might, you know, if he knew what I was thinking. But only to absolve me of my wicked thoughts. Only because he loved me.

  I like to think of my job as a role. That makes it more fun. If I pretend I’m in a movie then even boring jobs like filing seem less monotonous. I can pretend that the camera’s moving around me on a
dolly and I’m checking out the key lights to make sure I’m well lit. I’m not worried about how I look because, when I’m the star of my movie, I’m always gorgeous. Mr Tom is my leading man. He doesn’t know that’s what he is. If you asked him about the movie, he’d probably say that he was the star and everyone else had vignettes and character parts. If you asked him to show you his script you may even find that you didn’t have a role. That’s what I’m afraid of. That I don’t have a role in his movie.

  I am so afraid of that knowledge that I have to make a conscious effort to disguise my obsession. But the smell of him is enough to throw me off balance. I attempt to keep some distance so I can think, even though I want to be near him all the time. I would sleep in the office if he’d let me. I’d sleep on his big black chair and cover myself with his long woollen coat. The one that lives on his hat stand. I’d bury my face in the leather and breathe him into my dreams.

  In my dreams I do the forbidden. I touch him. There is no touching Mr Tom in real life. He is untouchable. On account of the woman that he married to forget. And his two baby girls who frolic in a burgundy frame on his desk. When I go into his office, early in the morning, before anyone has arrived I turn that frame to the wall just for a few minutes. I don’t want to bring them into this. In my fantasy he has no children. There is only me. Through his window Sydney spreads out in front of me. She is wild and beautiful. If I look down I feel vertigo. I imagine that Mr Tom has come early. That he silently walks up behind me and slips his arms around my waist. I imagine those arms embracing me. Exploring my forbidden arse, forbidden breasts, forbidden flesh and how I would open up to him. I imagine him bending me over the windowsill so I had to look down so I had to feel the vertigo and slipping his hard cock deep inside me. Without foreplay, without hesitation, unmercilessly fucking me. So hard, so deep, that I find a moan in the bottom of my belly that I didn’t know I’d housed. And when I throw back my head and throw that moan right through the ceiling it vibrates through every floor of the tower. And the entire glass palace shudders with the impact.

  “Good morning, Julie.”

  Unmercilessly, hungrily, so hard, so deep.

  “Good morning, Tom. I’m checking out the view from your window. It’s beautiful this time of the morning. I’m making coffee; would you like one?” The morning sun is streaking through the windows and the day is already charged.

  This is how I start every morning. Charged. I no longer eat breakfast. Some mornings I ache for him so bad that I have to lock myself in the cubicle and massage my swollen sex. Everything feels like a caress. My dress brushing against my thigh. Water running over my hands, the sound of my own breath. My nipples are always hard and they ache for release. I want him to lead me around the room by my nipples. I want to watch him suckle and play with my breasts. And when he grabs for my arse, a hand around each cheek. I want him to own it. I want to be his.

  “Julie, can you ring my wife please and tell her you’ll send a courier to pick up the Lyman papers? They’re on the dressing table beside the bed.”

  I pick up the phone and ring his wife. I’m imagining her getting the girls ready for school.

  I’m imagining the bed unmade and the sheets unstained and the papers that he studied all night strewn out over the pillows. She talks to me as if I’m her assistant too. She talks like the Master’s wife. I talk to her as if I don’t really exist. As if I’m an automaton or a wind up doll. As if I’m stupid and insignificant, just another cog in the wheel of business. She doesn’t hear the dirty great whirlpool going on under my skin. She doesn’t know what her husband does to my pulse when he walks in the room. She doesn’t see him that way. Maybe that’s because he’s not her daddy. Maybe she married the wrong man.

  I married the wrong man. I married a man with faded eyes and downy blond hair and skin as hard and cool as a pumpkin. A man I can beat in an arm wrestle and tear up slowly with my tongue. I don’t want to tear him up. I don’t even enjoy it. But he begs it from me and, ever the whore, I oblige. Still I lay untouched by even the most passionate of his attempts to conquer me. I flatten myself out and lay myself limp so as not to intimidate him. So as not to give him the sensation of being devoured. It is I who wants to be devoured. Not he. He wants to devour me. So when he is lying on top of me, the veins on his skinny arms bursting with the effort, I think of Tom. I imagine him opening his arms like a hawk and enfolding me within them. I imagine myself naked and small and lost in his flesh. I imagine his breath on my neck and his voice in my ear. He says, “You’re mine. You’ve always been mine. Open up. I want to fuck you . . .”

  I say, “Here’s your coffee, Tom.”

  He is sitting on his big leather chair, behind his big leather desk. He is wearing black and his body is open, his arms stretched out behind his head as he talks on the phone. He smiles at me and motions for me to wait. I stand on the other side of the table watching him, animated, talking to a client. I know what will happen. He will not cut the conversation short for me. He has motioned to me and it is I who have to wait. Wait for him with my throbbing cunt and my nipples alert until I have been given my instructions. I will stand very still. I will not squirm. I will not wipe the trail of juice that’s inching down my thigh. I will not unbutton my blouse and expose my breasts or squeeze and pull at my nipples. I will not find my well-marked spot on the left hand corner of his desk and massage my ache on its leather mound. I will stand there for five minutes? Ten minutes? Fifteen minutes . . . ? I will stand there until he has finished his conversation. I will stand there all day if he wishes it. And I will write the next chapter in my script.

  The carpet is new. It smells like wool. I roam it, naked, on all fours. I’m the office panther. They let me stay because I’m beautiful. I roam the offices on every floor of the tower. I’m therapy for all the office workers. I give them permission to touch a living thing. All the love they cannot show each other they give to me. I raise morale so management allows a wild thing a home. And although I am adored by both men and women I have taken a fancy to Mr Tom.

  I like his carpet, I like to bury my face in its pile, roll on my back with my legs in the air and purr with satisfaction.

  I like to slink around his ankles and/ leap onto his desk without reprimand.

  “Thanks for the coffee, Julie.”

  He takes the cup in both hands and leans back in his chair. He takes a long sip of the strong milky brew and observes me without wavering. I don’t know if he wants me to stay or go. I smile and turn to leave the room. I am unable to talk because I know the break in my voice will betray me. I make a beeline for the door but his voice halts me mid journey. “Julie.” He says my name. And when he says my name I imagine him wrapping his mouth around it. Swallowing me whole.

  I turn to face him. He just looks at me, looks through me. Burns holes into me with those dusty black eyes and smiles. The silence is a test of will. I want to raise the white flag and admit defeat. I want to throw myself at him, rip off my clothes and parade myself for him naked, fan myself across his desk and mess up his paperwork . . .

  “Julie, there’s something I have to say to you. Can you shut the door please?”

  He is sitting on his big leather chair and his cock is slowly mushrooming in his trousers. I can’t keep my eyes off it. He’s speaking but it’s not his words that I’m listening to. His voice fades out as his cock grows and takes form in front of me. I imagine myself crawling under his desk and unbuttoning his stiff black trousers and taking that powerful muscle in my mouth. I imagine sliding my lips hungrily up and down his shaft, pausing to run my tongue behind his balls and take each one, like Chinese fruit, into my mouth. He no longer has any control. He is completely at my mercy. I tease and flick his straining member with my tongue. I take his huge cock in my mouth and feel it sliding down my throat. He’s gripping the sides of his big leather chair. He bucks and thrusts, his arse sliding down towards my open mouth, his pleasure mounting as my warm wet mouth takes him further and further insid
e. His ecstasy builds until he loses all sense of his own boundaries. He throws back his head and releases his pleasure in a howl that shoots right through the ceiling, echoing through every floor of the tower and the entire glass palace shudders with the impact.

  Suddenly his voice fades back in.

  “So, Julie we’ve decided after this three-month trial period that we’re going to let you go. You’ll be given a fortnight’s payout but we’d like you to finish on Friday.”

  “OK, then.”

  He nods his black eyes, cold, unmoved at having had to play the henchman. He’s already onto his next task for the day. “If anyone rings I’m not here. I’m just going to check my email.” He turns on his computer and begins going through his in-tray.

  I leave the room. He does not call me back. He does not follow me to my office.

  He does not throw himself at my feet and beg my forgiveness.

  He gets back to pushing cold hard pieces of paper around his big leather desk.

  He gets back to business.

  Yep. Just like daddy.

  The Devil and Mrs Faust

  Ian Philips

  Yer never gonna believe this story. I don’t blame ya. I have a hard time believin’ it an’ it happened t’me. I mean, how often does the Devil talk with a Jew?

  What? Oh, sure, Pat Buchanan an’ half of Idaho want ya t’think it happens every day. Right after the Devil calls one of us, we triangulate with our other cells in Moscow an’ Jerusalem. Actually, if ya play a video tape of the Academy Awards – any year – backwards, all his instructions are there for the year to come.

  Trust me. Whatevuh y’ve learned about Jews an’ the Devil in Sunday School or yer Rotary Club an’ yer Junior League meetin’s is all wrong. We’re talkin’ total crap here! This don’t happen every day. T’be honest with ya, I think this was the first time. An’ first time out, he shtups one of us.