The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 3

by Maxim Jakubowski

  “Hell, no,” he said with a weary smile. “You’re too damned skinny.” He pulled a pack of cigarettes from a drawer in the counter and lit one on the scarlet candle. “You’re getting a job as a cocktail waitress.” He sucked in some smoke and examined her, while she slowly got dressed. “This way you get paid regularly and get to keep your tips too.” He frowned as he realized that the T-shirt she was struggling into had more holes than fabric.

  “That shirt’s nasty,” he commented. With a tired groan he dug into a lower drawer and yanked out one of the XL black T-shirts imprinted with his shop logo. “Put this on. It’s clean.”

  “But . . .” she whispered as she tugged her dirty sneakers on. “OK.” She tugged the dirty shirt back off then pulled the new one on. The Alchemist yanked her old shirt from her fingers and threw it over his shoulder. She looked over to the corner where her old shirt flopped half-in and half-out of the small trashcan in the corner.

  “Oh? But?” he repeated with a tight grin. “The shirt’s free, or you can pay me back after you get paid. As to the job, she’s a friend of mine. She helped me once so I’m sending you to her, so she can help you too.” He rose from the stool and wearily dragged on his jeans, zipping them but leaving them unbuttoned.

  He led her by the hand to the front door. Night had fallen and the moon was up and full, sailing through a clear starry sky.

  Angel gazed at the lights on the buildings across the street then up at the moon. “I guess I better be going.”

  “My friend should be there right now,” said the Alchemist softly. “So why don’t you go straight there?” He tapped the parchment letter in her hand. “She usually has food too; she likes her girls well fed. I’ll call her and tell her you’re coming.” The bells on the door jingled as he opened it for her.

  “I guess this is goodbye and I won’t see you again,” she said softly. Hurt crept into her eyes.

  “Shit, no, Angel. I expect you to come back in a few weeks so I can check on that tattoo.” He grinned then opened his arms, offering a hug. “Then you’re going to tell me all about the new place you’re staying in and how crappy your job is and . . .”

  Leaping into his arms, she practically knocked him over. Laughing, he folded her into a firm hug. She squeezed back with surprising strength.

  “Take it easy,” he grunted, as she hugged him hard. “That’s a brand new tattoo you’ve got there.”

  “Oh, I’ll be careful,” she said, pulling back with a sniff and damp eyes.

  “Oh, yes, you will,” the Alchemist said softly. “Whether you like it or not.” Her new tattoo would forcibly keep her out of harm’s way. It would also compulsively keep her from touching drugs or drinking.

  “Huh?”

  “Nothing,” he said with a chuckle.

  “Thank you,” Angel said then practically ran from the parlour. At the corner, she suddenly turned to look back at him as he stood, framed in the light pouring from the open door. She waved.

  He waved back then closed his door, locking it. Letting her go.

  Hopefully the tattoo would encourage her to begin a new life. He wanted her to be able to keep a job then go back to school and use those incredible creative talents he had felt simmering in her soul. The artistic abilities that had burned brightly enough to draw the predators to her in the first place, such as her ex-boyfriend.

  This time, with a little Alchemical help, she’d be able to protect herself from the soul-devouring animals of the street.

  “Been there, done that,” he sighed softly to the empty parlour. “I was living and starving on the streets myself, not all that long ago.”

  Making Woofie

  Lilian Pizzichini

  He was silky and smooth and brown as an otter. Furthermore, he was the best lover she had ever had. So Bella wasn’t surprised when the puppies she bore him were the colours of chocolate and liver. They had been walking in the countryside. Timothy, her boyfriend, was wading through the thicket in waterproof trousers. He always made sure he had the right gear. This made Bella wonder what he saw in her because she had got it wrong again and was wearing shorts; purple satin, crotch-hugging, disco diva shorts. Practical yet comely, Bella had figured, with plenty of room for manoeuvre. Even so she could tell, from his glance at her bare, plump legs that they were hardly the thing for a hike through autumnal woods. Her vision of a verdant landscape – a glimpse of lush valley through leafy bowers – left no room for nettles, awkward stiles or clinging mud. But she was stomping down the lane bravely, splashing her legs with clomps of earth. She liked to think she was at one with nature; she liked even more to get down and dirty. Dirt made her feel alive, unlike pristine Timothy who was striding far ahead, walking stick in hand.

  He looked as though he were about to take command of an army and invade the scene that splayed out before him. He stood atop a grassy mound, his binoculars at the ready for a rare sighting of some bird or other. Bruno – the faithful hound – romped backwards and forwards between them, appeasing his master and waiting for his mistress to catch up. Bruno, unlike Timothy, was always pleased to see Bella and didn’t give a fig what she was wearing. He loves me for me, she told herself, and ran to him.

  Her enthusiasm was contagious and Bruno knew exactly what to do to engender more. He rolled onto his back, legs akimbo, in a tacit plea for attention and tickles. His tongue lolled sideways and his eyes rolled into his skull. The delirium caused by her fingers as they roamed across his belly, combing through the thick mud clogging the hairs on his tender skin, was too much for him. She paused at the slick tassel that signalled his penis. It lurked deep in his hindquarters and Bella often wanted to give it a little tug. She really shouldn’t go further. But she was feeling rebellious. Why shouldn’t she give pleasure to one who gave pleasure to her? A green eye peeked at her from underneath a floppy brown ear; his torso was rigid with expectation. She passed the palm of her hand down the length of his hairy penis and cupped the purple plums at its base.

  “Here, Bruno. Chase the stick,” Timothy shouted. One long arc and Bruno was gone.

  “Labradors are known for having a prolonged puppyhood,” Timothy explained to Bella, searching her face for signs of eager attention. “Their attitude completely disregards their physical maturity. Take Bruno; at two years old he is still very much a puppy, and attendant with that, has a puppy’s exuberance and energy. Labs don’t start settling down until some time between two and four years of age.”

  You boring bastard, thought Bella.

  Stick in mouth, Bruno yelped with joy as he threw himself at Timothy’s feet awaiting further orders. But Bella noted that he turned his face towards her before their execution. The stripes of mud on his nose, ears and noble forehead were hardening as it dried.

  “He looks like a Masai warrior,” Bella mused, “daubed for war.” She didn’t share her aperçu with her boyfriend because she knew he would look at her strangely. He’d already said, with the air of a savant, that she was a psycho-traumatic unit in the hospital of the mind. He was always saying things like that. He was pretentious.

  The indefatigable Bruno was true to his nature and retrieved the stick once again. Bella ran into a copse, beckoning him to follow her and disregard his master. Now that his blood was up, she knew what would ensue. Bruno galloped after her, barking and wagging his thick, stubby tail. His eyes were sparkling, the stick forgotten. His tongue was long and bubble-gum pink. She watched saliva cascade in bubbling streams over his serrated black lips. She loved his exuberance. It matched her own. Bruno and Bella, the perfect couple with their dark looks and sea-green eyes. They emerged in a vast, ploughed field where corn had been sown and the sky lay heavily above them. Husks were on the ground and Bruno rootled.

  Bella needed a pee. She rolled her shorts down to her ankles and squatted underneath a bush. Her urine formed a puddle between her feet. Bruno smelt that something interesting was happening. He came up behind her and she felt a cold nose investigate her bottom. It was moist and
left a damp trail between her buttocks. His whiskers tickled her cheeks, his nose probed her anus and his tongue swept the length of her welcoming slit. It felt good and right and Bella liked it.

  Bruno was excited now. He could smell sex. As Bella rose to her full height, he saw his chance and grabbed hold of a leg. His forepaws were surprisingly muscular underneath that velvety pelt. He was no puppy now, Bella thought. He was bucking against his mistress’s leg. A spurt of warm, sticky liquid shot up the inside of Bella’s thigh. She wiped herself briskly and pulled up her shorts. She was just in time.

  “I’ve spied a great spotted woodpecker,” Timothy cried. “You know, Dendrocopos major. It must have been a male with that scarlet nape-patch. I must make a note in my book.”

  Bella held Timothy’s binoculars while he pencilled in the details of the bird’s undulating flight in the notebook he kept for such sightings. Bruno raised an eyebrow. Such an expressive face, marvelled Bella. Now it was betraying a quizzical air as he sat at her feet. He had paused from licking the mud from her boots to observe the self-absorption of his master.

  Six weeks later and Bella was the proud mother of six Labradors crossed with Caucasian. She had left Timothy before the birth, giving no reason, and had taken a flat with a large garden for herself and her litter. But all was not well. You try raising four dogs and two bitches by yourself. Bimbo, Bimba, Baby, Bubber, Biba and Boyo needed their father. So Bella stole him one day while Timothy was at work.

  Bruno loved his new home, and what’s more, he loved making love to the new mother. She had not been rent asunder by the birth. The little darlings had slithered out, wet and winsome.

  She was ready for more sex with her beloved quadruped. All the more legs to wrap her thighs around, she reckoned. And this time it wouldn’t be a rush-job, a crude knee-trembler in the woods. It would be slow and languorous and stretched out on Bella’s king-size bed; the lighting low, the music moody. She wanted to feel the length of his big, rough tongue lapping the contours of her body. She wanted him to make her come with a few rapid strokes along her clit and vulva while she plunged her hands into his sinewy back. She grasped his shoulders and, as though it were a distant rumble of thunder, heard her blood coursing as she orgasmed. Now it was his turn so she took his sausage dick and guided it into her hole. Bruno howled with joy and relief.

  The lovers enjoyed a post-coital dinner of steak tartare and pommes frites eaten from the same plate, their jaws mashing and munching side by side. Their bliss was complete.

  The telephone interrupted their drowsy canoodling in the specially extended dog basket Bella had had made to order. It sat under the wooden table from whence Bella scattered spare scraps of meat to her doggy brood. A voice rang through the kitchen.

  “Bella, I need to talk to you. Bruno’s gone. He’s missing. Someone’s stolen him.”

  Bruno’s ear cocked at the sound of his master’s fretful voice. He emitted a small, sharp whine. Bella patted him and rolled over to sleep. When she awoke, her man was gone.

  “Bella, it’s okay. He’s come back,” Timothy’s voice told the answer machine the following day. “He must have found his way home by himself. Good dog,” he exulted, and Bella heard a bark of compliance.

  Bloody men, she thought.

  She wasn’t a woman to take her troubles lying down. Her pups needed a father so she would supply one. The home check was a piece of cake; of course she met the requirements. All she had to do now was to choose her future partner.

  A gallery of strays and waifs greeted her with sniffs and snufflings, yelps and eager tails. The white-coated attendant guided her down the aisle. She pointed out an angry-looking bull mastiff.

  “Heathcliff came in as a stray two months ago. He is our grumpy old man,” she laughed coyly. “He loves going for walks and spending as much time as he can patrolling his kennel yard.”

  Never mind that, what’s his cock size? Bella wanted to ask.

  “Next up is Alfie. He is a Boston Terrier mix. Unfortunately he is epileptic and has cardiac and respiratory problems. He needs medication twice a day.”

  Bella was beginning to despair when she spotted a young, blond Labrador smiling at her.

  “Aah, Billy . . .” said the guide, following Bella’s ardent gaze. “He has had two homes but didn’t behave appropriately so he was returned. He is a very dominant boy who . . .”

  “I’ll take him,” Bella barked.

  “But he hasn’t been neutered yet.”

  And indeed he hadn’t. Bella could see the pink tip of Billy’s member protruding above a mound of bristling hair. It was like a salmon leaping out of the water; untouched, virgin game, waiting to be plucked and plundered. Bella knew that Billy possessed the loving disposition and lust for life that only she could appreciate. She could tell it in a glance. His eyes met hers – they spoke of devotion. He was gagging for it – that wide, wide mouth promised licks and nibbles galore. She would let him bite her nipples and ferret in her undergrowth. They would go for walks and bring up her babies. They would eat from the same bowl. They were in love. She was sure he nodded and stamped a paw in approval of the short, thick chain she held in her hand. She couldn’t wait to slip the halter around his ruffled neck. Once again, Bella was captivated, but this time, he wouldn’t escape.

  Six Before Nine

  Michael Crawley

  He – 6.

  Her thighs were slender and pale. Even with the left laying on the right there was a triangular gap – well, not triangular, exactly. There were no straight lines. The two longer sides were subtly curved. The shorter one was bow-shaped, a cleft arc. All the lines were clean, no fuzz. She’d shaven, perhaps for me. I hoped it was special, for me.

  I inhaled. There was a trace of talc, a hint of some perfume, Shalimar perhaps. Beneath the artificial odours I could just detect her own fragrance. Her musk was a blend of lemon and cognac, heady and slightly sharp.

  My mouth was watering and she was likely growing impatient. I wanted her to be impatient. My lips pursed and puffed out a breath of air. It would have stirred fine hairs, if she’d left any, but she hadn’t. There was just porcelain skin, fine pored, infinitely tempting.

  My right arm stretched down the bed, to her knees. My hand flattened on them to hold them in place and together. It wasn’t time to part them, yet. My left hand spread across the firm cushions of her buttocks and pulled. I wanted her taut but not parted. My pressure tightened the creases of her groin. There were tiny blue veins there, usually invisible, tucked into the creases between thighs and torso, but now exposed.

  My head lifted. I extended my tongue. Its tip traced a vein. I think that perhaps she shivered. My tongue flattened and lapped, tasting her skin and the residue of her sweat. Tracing with tongue-tip is for her pleasure. Lapping is for mine. Tantalize, then taste.

  I lowered my head and repeated the lick-lap in the other crease. She made a little muffled sound. The cheeks of her bottom twitched. I could feel that had I released her knees her upper thigh would have lifted in invitation.

  Not yet, my love.

  I increased my hands’ pressure, bending her at her hips. My mouth opened wide, a short inch from her pursed sex. I didn’t blow on it, but I breathed more heavily, warming her with my humid breath. Inhaling brought a taste of her to my mouth.

  I pulled back to inspect her. The lips of her sex were still closed but they had thickened a little. My tongue crept out and touched, exactly between them but not penetrating. I held it there, letting her become aware of the immobile touch. Her hips tensed and tried to thrust but I was holding her too firmly to allow that.

  My tongue retreated, made spit, and deposited a single droplet on the edge of one lip. When I puffed on it the drop trembled. Would she feel that? Likely not.

  I released her knees. Her thighs sprang apart, the upper one at a sharp angle to her hips. When I took a sighting up along her leg it was stretched and perfectly straight, toes pointed at the ceiling. There was an angle of 90° between
her thighs, giving me ample room to play in.

  No half measures, my love.

  My palms flattened on the insides of her thighs. She’s limber. I didn’t relent until her upper knee touched her ribcage.

  The stretching raised the tendons inside her thighs. That left deep hollows. I grazed in them, lips and tongue and teeth. I nipped her skin. I pursed and sucked, and sucked, and sucked. It was not my intention to inflict pain, not then. I was leaving my mark. The bruise would be my brand. I was here. This is mine.

  I hunched down the bed to get my face deeper between the straining division. It was our first time. She’d be expecting my mouth on her sex, and she would have that, but first she had a lesson to learn. I was taking ownership. She was to be mine, to use as I wished, when I wished. No modesty would be allowed.

  My fingers parted the cheeks of her bottom. She didn’t object. With a ferocious lunge, I buried my face into her, tongue stretched and stiff, stabbing deep and wet, piercing the clench of her sphincter and worming beyond, into the dark dragging musk-laden tightness.

  She sighed. Her buttocks clenched and relaxed.

  For that, for being sweetly depraved, I love you, my love.

  My tongue withdrew. Two fingers replaced it. Her bottom accepted the deeper penetration with the same grace as it had welcomed my tongue. I made a silent promise, “All you can take, my love, and just a little more.”

  The lips of her sex were thicker and darker. Their inner edges glistened. I tried the glistening with my tongue and found it delicious. My tongue wagged, not penetrating, just slithering between them no deeper than their parting allowed. As my tongue worked, her lips sighed apart, opening to me without my demanding entrance. For each fraction they parted, I penetrated. There was a pulse in one lip. I kissed it. It throbbed between my lips, a delicate, vulnerable flutter that connected me to her heart.

  My lips sucked. The flat of my tongue smoothed. Like an orchid, my love opened up to me. An incredibly internal pinkness blossomed between chocolate-tinged petals. There were smooth, slick places and places that were corrugated and yet others that offered polyps of quivering flesh.