The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 3

by Maxim Jakubowski

  The pillows were a sea of writhing limbs and colours, Edward’s blond head and long arms moving in an orchestrated dance the way a conductor controls his music. There was not a single part of his body, a single appendage or muscle that was not somehow making these women sigh and moan and weep in almost religious ecstasy. Even the crowd, in a strange kind of sexual osmosis, writhed in tiny movements as they watched Edward bring the symphony to a close.

  The moment was right. In that bubble of expanded time that only included Edward and his creations, he watched each woman carefully to determine the right moment in which to bring her to climax. He decided to go with the blonde first, then the Asian woman, and then the African-American woman in a dazzling sexual spectrum. While he moved gently in and out of the delicate Asian beauty, his lips and tongue danced between the legs of the blonde. Edward’s art had become so refined that he didn’t need to see the blonde to know when the timing was right to release her; he felt it in the core of his being. As her back arched and her eyes closed, he watched her quiver and clutch the pillows by her head in orgasmic ecstasy. In an instant his attention was focused on the Asian woman, her dark hair scattered over the pillow under her head like a halo in shadow. She came seconds after the blonde, her tiny mouth open in a small O. Finally, he moved to the African-American woman, who he had been saving for last, keeping her on the edge with his free hand. He moved down between her legs and watched as she threw her head back with wild shrieks.

  The room exploded in raucous applause, shouts of “Bravo!” filling Edward’s ears.

  It capped off the closing of the decade nicely. Through the early eighties, Edward was often asked to repeat the performance, but he felt that every woman was an individual creation under his body, and any work of art that she was involved in was an extremely limited edition.

  As the years wore on, Edward Grable grew tired of his art. In his seventies, he had begun to feel that he’d exhausted all the creative possibilities that sex and women afforded him. He had seen every nuance of the female orgasm, had seen every conceivable contortion of the lips, the eyes and the face. There was simply nothing left.

  He had gone to a bar near his small studio apartment in L.A. to try and forget what the passage of years had done to him. As he ordered a gin and tonic and fixed his gaze on the old television above the bar, he heard the most beautiful voice reverberate next to him as its owner ordered a drink.

  She was stunning. She looked to be in her late twenties. Her hair was gold without somehow being blonde, and her face held all the images that Edward had mentally collected over the years, all of his most striking compositions. This was a woman who would awaken his muse, he thought.

  “You’re Edward Grable, aren’t you?” she asked politely. He could tell that she knew exactly who he was, but was demure enough not to fawn. “I’ve heard so many wonderful things about you.” She extended her hand firmly.

  They talked over drinks, and once again Edward could almost feel that bubble in time, and he tried expanding it and transforming it, not wanting the moment to end for a while. But it did end, and they sat across from each other and stared.

  “I think we should go back to your apartment,” she said quietly. It was not a question, or even a statement inflected as a question. It was almost an order.

  Edward did not refuse it. His seventy-odd-year-old bones felt almost twenty again, almost as young as when he had first walked into Mrs Carlson’s house that day and drank her lemonade and saw her bedroom and made her come. He watched this woman’s hips lead him forward the same way that Mrs Carlson’s hips led him forward as they climbed the stairs to his apartment. And he almost felt the same nervousness that he felt with Mrs Carlson as the young woman removed her clothes in a seductive striptease that elicited a croaking moan from him.

  They eased to the bed. Edward instinctively covered the young woman’s body with his, but she put a hand firmly on his chest.

  “Let me,” she demanded.

  He gently lay back on the bed and let her.

  She moved like a cat above him, her hands and mouth and legs all working in concert. He was amazed. The heavy lids of his eyes closed and he was back in Mrs Carlson’s house, in her bedroom, listening to her sugary voice whisper, “Don’t be nervous, honey. It’s perfectly natural.” And he heard Marilyn Cullers ask desperately if he would go home with her, and he heard himself answer that he would. And he saw the three beautiful women he had made sexual art with and heard their sighs of contentment as the audience applauded.

  The young woman slid down between his legs and began working her own magic, sliding him in and out of her mouth with fluid grace.

  As his back arched in delight, he heard the familiar whisper in his ear. “You were the genius, Eddie,” Mrs Carlson cooed, long dead now.

  “You gave to all of us, Eddie, but you never took any for yourself,” he heard Marilyn whisper.

  “You deserve so much,” the blonde, the Asian, and the African-American all whispered.

  Edward had never experienced the sexual ecstasy that he had elicited in hundreds of women. But as the young woman with him covered his body with hers, all the faces of all the women he had made love to, all the lips and all the eyes and all the arms kissed and embraced and smiled at him, all at once.

  Edward Grable died, his face the ultimate work of sexual art, far surpassing any composition that he had ever created.

  Alchemical Ink: Shattered Angel

  Morgan Hawke

  For Grey

  The Alchemist was getting ready to close his tattoo shop when the bells on his door chimed. He turned and there she was, a shattered angel. She stood paused, frozen in his doorway, neither in nor out, motionless on the threshold, undecided.

  The setting sun bled over the rooftops from across the street, staining her hair and cheek with the illusion of mortal wounds. The empty hunger in the crushed blue of her eyes screamed of lethal injuries haemorrhaging but invisible on the surface of her skin. Her mane was a lank yellow and her dead-pale skin was stretched tight over the finely carved cheekbones of her face. Her features betrayed a story of physical exquisiteness, brutalized to a mere shadow of their original loveliness.

  His first thought was that she was too damn young to be so broken. She was what, nineteen? Maybe younger? His second thought was more practical; he really did not have time for penniless, injured street kids. He worked to viciously stamp out the twinges of sympathy oozing into his thoughts.

  “I’m getting ready to close shop,” he growled. “Are you comin’ in or are you gonna hold my door open all night?”

  She shook her hair, dispelling the impression of blood streaked across her face. Her glance was both fearful and feral as she hunched into her dirty jeans jacket. She flashed a nervous look about the brightly lit tattoo parlour then speared him with her feverish eyes.

  “What?” he asked without humor, his tone telling her: I really don’t need this.

  With frustrated movements, he turned his shoulder to her. “Damn street kids,” the Alchemist grumped to himself. “She’s just another wounded pup waiting to be kicked.” He locked away his tools and straightened the pages of flash art lying on the counter as he tried to ignore the look in her eyes. “Looks like another walking victim begging to get killed.”

  “Um . . .” The girl’s voice was timid. “I uh, want a tattoo,” she coughed.

  Yeah, right, the Alchemist thought with annoyance. As if this kid has any money on her to buy a tattoo. She doesn’t look like she’s had enough to eat in a week.

  “Do you even know what you want? I haven’t got all night to wait for you to pick something out.” He wiped his face with his palm then glared at her. She cringed back from his glower then bravely took a deep breath. Her eyes lit up with a terrible hunger.

  “Yeah, I do know what I want.” She moved closer to his counter, her steps silent on the tile floor. “I want one of those Japanese letter things . . .” The bells jingled on the door as it finally closed.<
br />
  “They’re called Kanji letters.” His frown deepened as he noted that her voice must have been lovely once. Living on the street had burned much of its original beauty to ash. Why am I even talking to this obviously penniless kid? Inwardly he baulked. Shame at the way he was treating her, warred with his practicality. She’s obviously had enough shit in her life and here I go, being rude to her.

  “Khan-jee letters?” she pronounced carefully. “Yeah,” she breathed. “I want one of them.” She was almost panting with an unidentifiable, hungry need.

  “Sure. What do you want it to say?” he asked then flinched inwardly. There I go again. I’m just a damned bleeding heart. He swore at himself softly and bitterly.

  “What do I want ‘what’ to say?” She blinked in confusion.

  He rolled his eyes. “Kanji letters are whole words or phrases in Japanese. What do you want your Japanese word to say?”

  “Do you have one for ‘beautiful’?” she asked then blushed furiously. “I want to be ‘beautiful’,” she added then sharply turned away from his gaze. Catching her image in a mirror, she glanced away from her reflection quickly. “Then maybe people will love me,” she added in a whisper he could barely hear. Her eyes were suspiciously bright with unshed tears.

  “Yeah.” The Alchemist flinched as pity stabbed through his heart. He pulled out the page of flash featuring the Japanese letters he had collected. Sullenly he turned the page around for her to see, pointing out the simple but decorative oriental letters, or glyphs.

  “Oh, how pretty,” she sighed. He watched her eyes come alive with an unholy hunger and a joy too defiant to be as simple as hope.

  “It’ll be fifty dollars and take one hour.” He raised his pierced eyebrow sardonically.

  “I want a tattoo, but I’m broke. Uh, can I, um . . . Can I pay you without cash?”

  “Pay me how?” the Alchemist asked, crossing his arms on his broad chest. “I don’t do drugs so I won’t take drugs as payment.” He was pretty sure that she was going to offer to blow him or fuck him in trade for the tattoo but he wanted her to spit it out herself.

  “Yeah, I heard you were clean,” she said then looked down at the floor. “Um, I really want that tattoo.” She glanced at him from under pale lashes. “Will you do it for sex?” she offered very softly, folding her arms across her narrow chest.

  “You want to fuck me for a tattoo?” His smile was thin-lipped and without humour. I hate this kind of shit, he thought in annoyance. At the same time he felt pity creeping through his heart. It wasn’t as if she had much else to offer.

  “Yes.” She blinked, eyes wide, caught off guard by his deliberate rudeness. “Sex for a tattoo.”

  “You any good?” he asked, trying to see how far he could push her. If he was lucky, she would leave on her own and he wouldn’t have to join the ranks of all the rest of the people who had obviously taken advantage of her.

  He cocked his head to one side in slight confusion. For someone who was trying to get something using sex, she wasn’t even trying to work it. She didn’t flirt and her jacket was closed to the throat. Not a speck of tittie was showing. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear she’d never tried to use sex to get anything before. She was acting like she didn’t know how.

  “No, I’m not really that good,” she said through clenched teeth. Her gaze darkened in rebellion then faded to sullen hurt.

  Well the kid certainly has guts, the Alchemist admitted to himself. “All right, I’ll do it for a fuck.”

  “Great.” She smiled with a slight tightening of the lips. “But no weird shit, OK?” she added, taking a step back from his counter, her gaze defiant. “No hitting or cutting.”

  “Gotcha, no weird shit, just you, me and my dick in your twat. OK.” He smiled ruefully. What the hell have I gotten myself into this time?

  “Good,” she said. She nibbled on her lip then her lips bowed into a dazzling smile in return. He was knocked flat by her smile’s sudden and searing brilliance. He found his heart pounding and his palms dampening in sympathetic anger. And lust. His dick was hardening just looking at her smile alone.

  Not that long ago, this little broken doll with her shattered eyes and straggly form had been a spectacular beauty. He could see from the smile alone that not all of her soul had been destroyed. Possibilities still shone, though dimly.

  “Right,” he said, unnerved, then flipped up the counter. “Come this way.”

  The Alchemist led her back to the stark white room he used, with its black leather medical table. His counters gleamed pristine with sterile cleanliness. His chrome tools glittered coldly in the harsh overhead light. The walls were covered with immense framed paintings.

  “Wow, these are incredible,” she breathed as she gazed at the swirls of colour and exotic, esoteric imagery on the massive canvases. “Whose art is this? I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

  “It’s mine,” he said curtly then knelt and opened the cabinets under the counter. “I did all of it.” Efficiently he pulled trays of plastic coated, sterile needles and a couple of disposable wells for inks. What the hell am I doing, tattooing this shattered angel for a fuck?

  “They’re gorgeous.” She sighed in awe as she looked at all the art covering his walls. “I wish I had the cash to get some of your stuff,” she said in barely a whisper. Then her smile reappeared like magic. She was transformed, practically glowing with a creative potential, a blinding inner beauty, that shone through her damaged body and refused to die.

  Oh, that’s why, he reminded himself as his dick suddenly sprang to attention in reaction to her untapped power. I could bring all that a little closer to the surface, he mused. Make it easier for her to utilize . . . Damn it! I am not a charity worker. I am gonna get my dick wet then go home, eat a burger, drink a beer and watch TV and not feel guilty!

  “Thanks, I’m glad you like them, now take off your clothes.” He dropped onto the small rolling stool by the table and rigged some needles together.

  He watched her closely as she shrugged out of her filthy jacket then put it on the end of the medical table.

  “Do you have to stare at me?” she asked defiantly.

  “I’m going to be fucking you in a minute, I wanna see what I’m getting.”

  She flinched at his apparent coldness then turned her back to him. She toed off her filthy shoes then peeled out of her ragged T-shirt exposing a loose and grayed bra. Neatly she folded her shirt and placed it on top of her jacket.

  Jee-zuz, I’m being a real bastard tonight. A twinge of guilt and compassion made him regret his harsh words. He bit his lip. “Actually, I want to find a good place to put your tattoo, so I need to see your skin,” he said gently as an apology.

  “Oh,” she responded, very softly. “OK, sure.” She shimmied out of her torn jeans then dropped her panties and worn-out bra on top of the pile. Carefully she collected her things then placed them on the end of the medical table. She was surprisingly clean. He hadn’t expected that, from a kid living on the streets.

  She turned and stared at him, silently, perfectly still. Bird delicate and fragile as blown glass. She wanted this tattoo awfully bad.

  The Alchemist stood up and appraised his canvas of human skin. There wasn’t much to work with. She was thin, too thin and made up of sharp angles. Good thing she had chosen a small design. His sharp gaze caught the tracing of old needle marks in the bends of her elbows and knees from drug use.

  “What the fuck is this shit?” He felt anger beginning a slow rolling boil from his gut, helpless anger for the beauty that used to be there and had been wasted.

  “I’m trying to quit, been off it for a week now.” He saw desperation threaded in her wide, faded-blue gaze. “I’m tryin’ to stay off the alcohol too.”

  I can fix that, his inner thoughts whispered. I can make her new again. I can kill her need for drugs and booze, give her a little confidence . . . The Alchemist’s thoughts rambled with formula and incantation. I can bring her cre
ativity to the surface so she can get a real job. Unconsciously, an Alchemical spell worked its way to the surface of his mind. Change the symbol, use the special inks . . . he mused.

  Damn it. I don’t do charity work. He snarled at himself, snapping out of a half-trance, awake and annoyed. I am not some Knight in Shining Armour out to save these kids from themselves. He angrily approached her, fingers outstretched.

  “Please.” She flinched at the look on his face. “You promised not to hurt me.” She crossed her arms over her naked breasts.

  Guilt and sympathetic compassion crashed down on his head. His hands dropped to his sides. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t just fuck and tattoo this shattered angel. He simply couldn’t be one of the animals that ate chunks out of her then spat out the remains. He wiped his hands down his face. She had nothing left to take and already teetered on the edge of the abyss.

  He shook his head as he gazed at the floor. If something wasn’t done, she’d be dead in a dumpster by this time next week. An image of her lying with her eyes open and lifeless, covered in refuse, flashed like neon before his eyes. Her tattoo wouldn’t even be healed yet.

  All right, I give up, damn it, he sighed in submission to his conscience. I’ll fix this one. He shook his head and glanced up to the ceiling, at the powers that be. Resigned, he turned around and left the room.

  “Hey!” the girl shouted. “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to get the inks I need,” he tossed over his shoulder, “I’ll be right back.” Resigned, he went into the back room where he kept his special locker. He whispered three ancient words then tapped his fingers on the metal door over the handle. The magical lock disengaged and the door swung open.

  The Alchemist pulled out a blue silk velvet-lined bag where he stored the tools for his Magikal Artes then slung it over his shoulder. Roughly he pulled out his Grimoire, the book he recorded all his incantations and his magical recipes in. He slammed the metal cabinet closed.