The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 3

by Maxim Jakubowski

  She spun around, trying to cover herself with her arms.

  “What are you doing in here?” she demanded.

  He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached into his tuxedo jacket and pulled out a seven-inch, serrated knife.

  Anna screamed as he leapt at her, and caught his arms in her hands. The knife hovered inches from her body. The butler had a surprising amount of strength in his small frame and, as Anna’s arms started slowly bending, the knife moved closer to her bare skin.

  He sank the blade into Anna’s chest, all the way up to the hilt.

  The little butler opened one of the mirrored panels in the wall, and stuffed her body into the space behind it.

  “There’s only me,” Priestess repeated, pulling Mark toward her and kissing him again.

  Mark knew she was right. No other woman could give him everything he wanted, everything he needed; not Anna, not Arianna, not the model on the beach. He belonged with Priestess. He belonged to Priestess.

  “Come see,” she said, taking his hand and leading him toward the thick metal door.

  The enormous room beyond it was black, too. An unearthly green light filtering through the darkness.

  A wretched orgy filled the center of the room. Mark was certain the desiccated, spent things writhing like snakes on the floor had once been human. The ravages of time and endless exertion had turned them into dry, withered, furiously copulating mummies.

  Their jerking movements told Mark they had no control over their actions.

  Their wasted shapes told him they would have died long ago if someone – something – wasn’t keeping them alive, keeping them fucking.

  Their dead eyes told him to run.

  But Mark’s legs wouldn’t respond. He couldn’t move at all.

  The door slammed shut behind him, and Priestess took his hand, bringing him forward to join the fray.

  Cactus Ass

  Cheyenne Blue

  Susan often joked about cacti. Made innuendo-filled quips about the pricks; big pricks, little pricks. But she had never had a close encounter of the personal kind with one. She was a city girl; she lived in Denver, a western city to be sure, but a city that boasted as many espresso bars and alternative newspapers as it had cowboys and bucking broncs. And the only cactus she knew intimately was the one that grew in a terracotta pot on her kitchen windowsill, resplendent with prints of howling coyotes wearing bandanas.

  Geordie Mick was from England, and he was the son of a school friend of her mother’s. Which didn’t mean much to Susan, except that she was duty-bound to entertain him. He was in America for two weeks, and had an impressive list of things he wanted to see and do. Most of them were garnered from the movies, and an outsider’s view of contemporary American life. He also didn’t comprehend distances too well, and Susan had to point out that a day trip to climb the Hollywood sign was not very practical from Denver.

  So they moved on to numbers 23 and 24 on his list, which were a lot simpler. A visit to a real western town and a mountain hike in the Rockies. Susan had no idea what constituted a “real western town”, but she consulted the tourist information and they came up with a suitable candidate that had the advantage of being in the mountains. Best of all, from Geordie Mick’s point of view, it boasted several bars in its historic downtown district.

  They set out on Sunday, but by the time they had found the “real western town” and Geordie Mick had tried several of the authentic and historic cowboy bars it was far too late to consider climbing any mountain. The altitude was affecting Geordie Mick as well, so they settled for a stroll close to the river near town.

  They were a mile or so from town, following the beaten hiking path that ran above the Arkansas River. Below them, the river churned its way through the canyon, a deluge of water, ice blue from snowmelt. Rubber rafts filled with city people like themselves bucked and weaved their way down river.

  The two pints of amber ale she had imbibed made her giggly. And she had a bursting need to pee.

  “Wait here,” she told Geordie Mick, who propped himself against a rock to wait, unencumbered by neither a small bladder nor a woozy head.

  She started down the slope to the river, dropped her jeans and panties and peed like a faucet for a minute; a rush, a clench, a gush, a strain. The relief was incredible. She snapped her jeans, and started back up the loose slope to where Geordie Mick waited patiently. She was halfway up, using her hands to steady herself, when she slipped. She landed heavily, on her butt, and slid several feet down the slope towards the river.

  Geordie Mick heard the thump and the howl of pain. He came galumphing to the rescue, a big uncoordinated knight with a shining face. His large, meaty hands lifted Susan carefully to her feet.

  “You OK?” His hands moved carefully over her body, patting gently. Checking for broken bones, Susan thought in exasperation.

  “Kinda . . . sorta . . .” she mumbled. “I landed on a cactus. I’ve got the spines in my ass.” She looked down at her feet, at the barrel cactus.

  Geordie Mick stared at her for a moment. “In your arse? Lemme look . . .”

  She had no choice. She could hardly walk with several spines jabbing her backside at every step. She turned around, leaned over a boulder, presenting her ass for his scrutiny. He flipped up the loose top she wore and studied her butt. Tentatively he pinched one of the larger spines between his stubby fingers and yanked. It came out, and he displayed it proudly. “Got it.”

  “And the other few hundred?”

  Geordie Mick bent to the task with a will. The spines were shiny and slid away from his grasping fingers. He smoothed the denim, trying to stretch it, get a better lock on the spines. He started to sweat. The sun was hot and the air thin. And that arse, presented in the air for him. His cock twitched.

  “Can you get them?” Susan’s voice, muffled by her arms and embarrassment, reached him. “I have tweezers in the car. Strong, surgical ones.”

  “I’ll get them.” Jeez, and maybe he could have a quick wank on the way back. A woman’s arse always did that to him, tight and curvy. Geordie Mick loved that part of a woman, loved the feel of it slapping against his balls as he fucked. And he hadn’t had a woman since he came to America. Fucking an American chick was pretty high on his list, number three in fact, right behind a visit to the Coors Brewery in Golden, but he hadn’t told Susan that. He thought he better get the tweezers.

  “Half a mo,” he said.

  Susan waited, listening to his shuffling feet and muffled curses as he ascended the hill. Really, it wouldn’t be so bad if her ass didn’t tingle. The sun on the back of her neck burned a little, scorching fair skin. The river roiled past. If she closed her eyes the sound of it filled her head and she felt encompassed by the outdoors. Nature girl. She envisaged herself spread over this boulder like a sacrifice, spread-eagled on sun-warmed rock. She wondered if Geordie Mick liked to eat pussy. Maybe not. He didn’t seem the type. More of a missionary stroke type.

  Falling scree alerted her to his return. He came down the slope too fast, arms waving as he fought to keep his balance. “Sod it.” He was breathless with the altitude and his rush for the tweezers. “Here we go, love. Let’s get them buggers out.”

  She felt his hand stretch the denim over her ass. The tickle of the tweezers and his grunt of satisfaction. “Got another.” He returned to the job. Susan wiggled a little. His paw was almost cupping her ass as he concentrated. When he stretched the denim sideways, his thumb dropped down, brushing between her legs. She tried not to gasp, she didn’t think he had noticed, and it wasn’t his fault she was getting so horny.

  Geordie Mick had noticed though. If she weren’t wearing jeans or knickers, his thumb would be brushing through her bush. Just tickling her outer lips. His twitch of arousal had grown to a full erection. He wondered if she would notice if he adjusted himself. He applied himself to the task at hand.

  “Last one!” He pulled it out and held it aloft.

  Susan sighed, relief surely, but
the fantasy of Geordie Mick fucking her here on this sun-warmed boulder was too delicious to let go easily. She moved slightly, stood up. And yelped as the unseen finer spines jabbed her anew.

  She couldn’t meet his eyes. “There’s more of them,” she said. “If I drop my pants, can you get the fine ones out of my panties?”

  Strewth. Geordie Mick couldn’t believe his luck. He averted his eyes as she stripped off her jeans, working them over her sneakers.

  “Ready,” she said.

  He turned back to her. Glorious arse, sheathed in some sort of high-cut bikini pants. Red. He bent his head close to study it, and saw the curling blond pubes peeking out the side. His hands wavered in the air, before he put them decisively down on her arse. She yelped.

  “Sorry.” He bent to the task. It was easier at eye level. He knelt down on the ground, feeling the sharp little rocks gouging his knees. He kept a wary eye out for cacti. He moved his face closer, the better to see the fine cactus hairs. Jeez, he could smell her. Strong and pungent, blending with sunshine and fresh air. At eye level he could see the goose bumps on her thighs where he touched her, see the small damp patch on the gusset of her knickers. He kept plucking cactus hairs to distract himself, but it didn’t work too well. Now his thumb rested between her thighs, a thumbprint into the yielding flesh. Her knicker elastic brushed the palm of his hand as he stretched the cheek of her bottom, the better to grasp the spines. She moaned slightly, a breathy little sound, barely discernible above the noise of the river.

  “Am I hurting you?” His voice was raspy, as if he’d smoked his whole stash of weed at once. Number 14 on his list. Californian weed.

  “No.” A feathery little sound. He could see her hesitating. “Take them off,” she said.

  “What?” Obviously he’d misheard.

  “My panties. Take them off. You’ll get the fine hairs better.”

  “OK.” He rubbed his thumb over the moist crotch of her panties with enough casual disregard that he could pretend it was an accident if she turned and decked him.

  “Fuck,” she gasped. And pushed her arse back against his hand.

  He stood and pulled her panties off. She lifted her legs in turn so that he could pull the panties away. He put them in his pocket. She arched herself over the boulder again. Geordie Mick ran his hands gently down over those white flanks, dipping around to curve under the crease of her bum. His thumbs met in the valley between her legs, lightly brushing the pale pussy hairs.

  She shuddered. “The spines, Mick.”

  Ah, the spines. He bent to the task with a will. Sun-warmed rock, ice-blue river, salty twat in front of his nose. He felt like someone had dropped a coke bottle down the front of his pants, they were that tight. A bit of friction and he would blow like a rocket. He stroked those pale globes, pink pin-cushioned peaches. The spines were gone, but he continued his ministrations. Around and around he circled, each touch between her legs bringing him further to the front, stroking through the moisture. Christ, she was dripping, her thighs were wet, and her clit, when finally he dared to touch it with a finger, was like a bullet. He wondered if she would let him shag her.

  She could blame the two pints later, Susan thought hazily. But right now, she wanted to be fucked. A nice solid thumping fuck, no romance, no tenderness. She wanted him to push into her, his fat pecker filling her. She spread her legs further apart and one thick finger brushed past her clit again and inside her. She was close. Geordie Mick had short, thick fingers. She wondered if that meant his cock was the same. One finger was still inside her, his thumb rubbing to and fro over her clit. The other hand pushed on her ass, callused fingers rubbing over the cactus rash. She didn’t want to look at him, turn and say the words, but she heard the scrape of his zipper, the rustle of jeans and then the fat weight of his cock against her ass cheeks. She pictured him, bemused-looking probably, standing there with his pants around his knees, his cock dripping on her butt.

  She curled her fingers around, embraced the rock and waited. She felt his cock drag down over her ass cheeks, push slightly between. God, he wasn’t going to do it to her like that, was he? The tension tightened her cheeks, and he moved away down lower. She felt his erection weaving and bumping its way down to her pussy lips, hesitate and push. Wrong angle, the blunt press pulled her hairs. She tilted her pelvis; he grunted and wedged himself further in.

  She stood on tiptoes, he bent his knees, she pressed back, and finally, thankfully, he was inside her. He pulled back, a tentative movement forward. And now, she thought, a good hard fuck.

  He obliged. Seesawing strokes of his pecker. His hand crept around her hip, cradling her mound, rubbing her clit. Christ, she was hot and tight. And he could see that glorious bum with each out stroke, see his cock, veined and glistening with her juice, the clench as he thrust into her, the release as he pulled back out. Geordie Mick fucked like a train, just to hear the slap of his balls against her bum, the squelch of an aroused pussy. His fingers burrowed and teased her clit. God, she was wet, and moaning fit to bust.

  Geordie Mick threw his head back, saw the wide blue Colorado sky above him, felt the shift and slip of sharp frost-weathered pebbles beneath his feet. Felt the cactus that had got him here in the first place prick his leg through his jeans and heard the race of the river through the canyon. And he was coming. The orgasm started from the pit of his belly, raced up his dick, tightening his balls hard up against his body.

  He rubbed faster, got to bring her off too, banged harder, pushing into the heat. His fingers twisted, through the slick creaminess of her pussy, coating his fingers. And finally, fucking finally, she was coming. Clench and release, shudder of internal muscles and a shout to the air. And the jism rose in his cock, up, ahhh the build up, the swelling, until finally, the spurt, the wetness, the release.

  “God.” Susan put her head down on the rock. Geordie Mick rested his chin on her shoulder. His cock softened, disconnected. She felt his thick seed slide out of her. Her head was spinning from too much beer and screaming, her thighs ached from stretching, her pussy throbbed from the double pounding, rock-hard prick behind, hard rock in front. He levered his crushing weight off her. She imagined him flipping his prick back inside his pants, doing up the zip. She was sticky and wanted to wash, but she wasn’t enough of a nature girl to imagine dipping herself in the river and letting the trails of semen float away downstream. Fish food. She found her jeans, held out a wordless hand to Geordie Mick for her panties, and she dressed, bunching her panties to soak up the worst of it. She would be uncomfortable driving back to Denver like this, but what else could she do?

  He was one hell of a fuck. Tonight she would invite him into her bed and they could do it again, properly. And she would make him eat her, even if she had to give him a map. Susan wondered what he would taste like, what that turgid cock looked like.

  Geordie Mick wondered if Susan would stop at Coors on the way back to Denver.

  The Shape of Cities

  Maxim Jakubowski

  She used to come with me to foreign cities.

  The ways of lust were impenetrable as it turned us into involuntary and much incurious tourists. After all, we couldn’t quite spend the whole duration of every trip barricaded in our hotel room fucking like rabid rabbits, could we?

  So, between the hours of sex, we walked, explored, I dived into any bookshop I would pass and she would buy lingerie (on my credit card), we ate too much, saw movies. The Grand Canal in Venice smelled; maybe it was because we were not in season; in the bay in Monterey the otters were silent; in Amsterdam, we had a rijstaffel which made our stomachs churn for hours later; in Barcelona, the Ramblas were overflowing with foreign soccer fans; in Brighton, mecca of dirty week-ends, television cameras were everywhere for a forthcoming party political conference as opposed to a blue movie capturing our sordid exploits, but somehow every city felt the same as it harboured our frantic fucks. They had no shape, just a strange presence dictated by the intensity of sex.

  Of cour
se, eventually, she tired of travel, of me.

  All I now have left of her is this photograph. Black and white. Of a woman naked against a dark background. A hotel room, no doubt. It’s not even her, I am ashamed to say. Just an image in a book that somehow reminds me of her. I never had a talent for photography, couldn’t even master the simple art of photographing my lover by way of Polaroids. Sad, eh?

  This is the way she looked as she stripped for me in a hotel room.

  Maybe it was in Paris, a hotel on the rue de l’Odéon with wooden beams crisscrossing the rough texture of the walls and ceiling. Or then again it could have been the Gershwin Hotel, just off 5th Avenue in New York City, where the smile of a Picasso heroine illuminated the wall next to the bed and watched our love-making through the walls of darkness. Or whenever we also kept the light on. Maybe it was a small hotel in Amsterdam, windows overlooking a murky canal, with the noise of drunk revellers and cars parking keeping us awake at night. Oh yes, we frequented many hotels. Those sometimes elegant, often sordid last contemporary refuges of illicit sex. The one in Chicago which was being renovated and where she preferred to sleep in the second bed because I snored too much (in fact, the final hotel that harboured our pathetic affair; maybe the excuse was just an early sign of her fading interest in me), or the St Pierre on Burgundy Street in New Orleans, far enough from the hubbub of Bourbon Street, where I forgot to take her dancing (she only did in Chicago, but it was with other men).

  Or the one whose memories I cherished best. Our marine and pastel-coloured room at the Grand Hotel in Séte, where the balcony looked out on quite another kind of canal, where local jousts on long boats took place at the weekend. A coastal port where she took a shine to the limping waiter who served us one evening in a seafood restaurant, and seriously suggested we should invite him back to the room later. Nothing happened, but for months on end after that I would fantasize wildly of watching her being fucked by another man and even got to the point of lining someone up when we next visited Manhattan, only to have to cancel it because she had her period that same week.