The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 3

by Maxim Jakubowski

  As if he knew she was nearly coming he stopped and stood with his crotch in her face. “Yes,” he said. She unbuttoned the six buttons and exposed his hard, thick cock which sprang out to meet her. She pressed her nose against it. The only sound in the room the sigh of her breath.

  She looked up. “You smell of leather and sweat and musk.”

  “Been riding before coming here. Friends in Biggar have a farm and stables.”

  She ran her tongue along the tip of his cock. Gently. Gently until she felt him move, oh, he was almost touching his edge, but he withdrew from her, stood still as a statue. So he thought he could drive her mad and leave himself in control, did he?

  No, she was the boss this time and this dance would be at her pace. She was so ready she could come and come. Come and come. Yes, that’s how she saw it. No, she would not let him come this way. She took a cognac-flavoured condom out of her bag and opened it and slid it onto his cock. It crackled and crinkled as she unrolled it. He moaned gently.

  She debated sucking him or shagging him and decided that she needed that beautiful, now golden, cock inside her. She bent down and took him in her mouth and gave him a couple of large long slow sucks, holding his balls in both hands. The taste of brandy tickling her palate. She turned and knelt on the floor, supported by the chair. Gently he slid it into her, at the same time stroking her clit. Tender at first and then harsher, harder, firmer, longer, slow and deeper and deeper until she couldn’t stand it any more. With thundering final thrusts he came. She had just missed him but the polite man made sure he stayed in and stroked her to an equally fine climax.

  “Goodness,” he said as he drew away and draped the full condom off his cock, tied a knot in it and deposited it in the waste basket. “That was something. Amazing.”

  He pulled a large ironed handkerchief from his pocket and wiped her with it then carefully slid her panties up her legs. He placed the buttons of his jodhpurs into the holes. Just as he did this there was a knock at the door.

  “Good timing.” She could hear the smile in his voice.

  “Yes,” she said. He opened the door and left the room.

  A young woman entered with a black leather outfit on a hanger.

  Tomatoes:

  A Love Story in Three Parts

  Claire Tristram

  I

  What made me leave my husband Boris? Tomatoes. There is no other explanation.

  When I think of those days just before I took flight my teeth begin to hurt. My husband Boris had for six years done little more than squeeze my hand and get a melancholy look whenever I asked him to make love to me.

  I persevered. I invited him to drink wine from my navel. I lost weight. I gained weight. I invested in latex and paraphernalia. Nothing. I still loved him in some ways, like one might love a puppy or a tree. I suggested counselling and he yawned.

  In Year Six I resolved to try adultery. You may wonder what took so long. Well, I am an extremely hopeful person. I hoped one day I’d come home to find Boris, bottom bared, waiting for me to spank him. Something would happen. How could it not? Also we lived in Manhattan, where making personal connections is not easy.

  Woman proposes – the universe complies.

  I was in the laundry room, there in the basement of our co-op building, musing about who to approach with my delicate need for more sex. I considered options. They all seemed very complicated. As I was leaning against the washing machine, feeling how good the spin cycle felt against my centre, I noticed the video camera in the corner of the room. Ah. Dan the Doorman. Who had nothing to do except sit quietly all day watching various black-and-white television screens for signs of unusual behaviour. Of course. So I began to behave unusually, at least for me. I rubbed my breasts through my clothes and looked into that camera lens. A few minutes later Dan himself stood at the door of the laundry room. It was that simple.

  I thought sex with Dan would free me from Boris. But the simple pleasure of getting banged against a washing machine every afternoon wasn’t, after all, what got me to leave. It was Marge, a woman who lived in our building’s garden apartment. She was old, in her eighties at least. Maybe she felt guilty about being the only tenant with a yard, because she brought us fresh vegetables from her garden all summer long. One Sunday morning she came bearing tomatoes the size of my fist. Boris was out. I asked her in. I put the tomatoes on the sill over the kitchen sink. Before I could thank her she seized my hands in hers.

  “Oh, no, you better eat those right up, honey,” she said. Her grip was amazingly strong. “Nothing gets better with age!”

  So the two of us sat right down at my table and ate those tomatoes. I let the juice drip down my chin. She licked her fingers. A few weeks later Marge died of a heart attack, wearing her gardening gloves. Three weeks after that I was watching Boris sit in his favourite leather armchair, his jaw set, his temple pulsing, drinking a bottle of Evian and watching Sixty Minutes. My neighbour was dead. I thought of her poor fragile life. I thought of how old Mike Wallace looked. Boris drank his water. I thought of leaving him. I thought of killing him.

  It is at such times that all things become possible.

  II

  My mother always told me that I was begotten on Haight Street during the Summer of Love, in a room full of mattresses just four doors down from where Jerry Garcia hung out with his pals. She says my father was either Jack Nicholson or a dead ringer for Jack Nicholson. She is hazy on the details.

  I have no proof that any of her stories are true. And despite these infrequent hints of bacchanalia in her past, Mom grew more subdued over the years, until I can hardly imagine her other than as a pearl-wearing Republican. By the time I remember, she and I were living in White Plains, and she was married to Bob, a real estate broker.

  In those days there was no talk of sex. There was no sex. I buried my own urges by learning how to play tennis. Thwack, thwack, thwack. Lots of grunting. Not until I was 14 did I finally become cock-sure. It was because of the tennis. There was a local tennis player, Dick Hawkes, who was ranked in the state in mixed doubles. His partner broke her ankle and he read about me in the local sports pages so he called my parents to see if I would play tournaments with him.

  “A great opportunity, honey,” my stepfather said in his heartiest voice.

  Never mind that Dick Hawkes was twice my age. The alarm that would usually have gone off in my stepfather’s head was strangely silent. This was sport, damn it. Mr Hawkes wanted to coach me. There could even be a four-year scholarship at the end of it. So Bob and Dick shook hands, right there in our living room. A few minutes later Mr Hawkes and I were off for our first practice session together.

  “Call me Hawkso,” he said just after we pulled out of the drive. A wave of pity overtook me. We actually did play some tennis that day. By the third game he’d taken his shirt off and draped it on a bench. He had a little belly, some sparse hairs on his chest. He did not look particularly good. But the way he touched me when we changed sides – shoulder, elbow, breast, for God’s sake, this was broad daylight, people were on the court next to us – was getting to me. I double-faulted many times. He won the set. “Good play,” he said, and shook my hand across the net, sweat dripping from his temples.

  On the way home we climbed into the back seat of his Porsche where we made love over a prescient crate of beefsteak tomatoes. What were those tomatoes doing there? Making a mess, I tell you. By the time we were done no amount of bleach would take out the stain on those tennis whites. But I firmly believe those tomatoes had a purpose. Tomatoes are my totem.

  For the next four years Hawkso and I played tournaments together across the state. On the way home we would scramble into his tiny back seat where he would rip my frilly tennis bloomers off and rub them over his face while he ploughed me. Then he would swoop down between my legs and suck and drink and hum on me until I came myself senseless. Or he would nestle his cock between my breasts, which even back then were absurdly huge for my frame, and rock back and for
th until he sprayed all over my chin and lips with his come.

  I did not win a tennis scholarship. I have lost track of Hawkso since. But Richard, if you are perchance reading these words, thank you for those happy juicy times.

  III

  “Goodbye, Boris,” I said.

  “You’re on a quest to find your father,” my mother shrieked, when I called her from the Newark airport and told her I had left my husband and was about to board a 14 hour flight to Caracas. My mother has always approved of Boris. She calls him “a keeper”. But she is wrong. Oh, I was on a quest, maybe. But not to find my father. I wanted Truth. Enlightenment. Perfect Joy. I wanted it over and over again. Is it too much to ask?

  When I was younger I used to have great faith in my life working out the way it was supposed to. Whenever I was at a crossroads, something would appear out of the mist to guide me. While I was with Boris I’d forgotten. Now suddenly the world was once more filled with giddy scents and possibilities, signs of what was to come. I found myself having a difficult time refraining from touching everyone in the airport, they all looked so good to me.

  At the gate I found myself in line with a group of Japanese businessmen. One gestured grandly to my chest, his hands held before him as if he were supplicating himself before two cantaloupes. I found myself wondering how I might sit next to him on the plane. Alas, I was seated instead next to a ruddy-faced woman in her fifties wearing a navy business suit, on her way to South America to buy antiques. Never mind. We talked. She seemed a safe enough audience, nodding and mm-hmming at just the right intervals. Just as we crossed the border I even let spill a little about Dan, my laundry-room man.

  “Oh, honey, you’re doing it all wrong!” she said, and looked at me, horrified, over the rims of her demi-glasses. “You just can’t have sex like that! The diseases! The consequences!”

  At that moment our dinner arrived, complete with precision-wedge tomatoes atop a salad wrapped tightly in yards of plastic wrap.

  Ah, I thought. Now I understand. My triptych message was complete. My quest was doomed. But these signs must work in mysterious ways, I argued with myself. Anyway, was I going to let a measly tomato wedge tell me what to think? So I took control right then. I unwrapped that salad. I put a wedge in my mouth and chewed and chewed until it finally spit back its measly juice on my tongue. I tried to hope.

  Nevertheless, by the time we landed I was sure I was either dying or pregnant. I must have looked stricken with fear and guilt, because as my companion said goodbye she leaned toward me and kissed me, the slightest edge of her tongue raking over my lips. Then she disappeared into the crowd, trailed by the wheels of her carry-on luggage. But her taste remains, warm, a little salty, as I stand here waiting for my bags. At times like these I understand the natural, beefy roundness of things and I want to weep from the joy of it. But I’m in a foreign country, where the customs are unknown to me, so I’ll refrain.

  The Whore Gene

  Lisa Montanarelli

  I love money. No, that’s not quite right. I lust after it. As far back as I can remember, I was trading kisses for pennies and nickels on the school playground. My father was a gambler and my mother a whore. One morning when I was about five I walked into their bedroom. They’d been in Monte Carlo for a month, and I’d missed them terribly. I knew they’d gotten back late the night before – long after my bedtime – and I wanted to see them. I heard the squeaking of the bed and heavy breathing. I pushed open the door. My parents were lying naked on a huge pile of money. My father was on top of my mother, who was digging her nails into his back and groaning. I thought he was hurting her and started to cry. They stopped what they were doing immediately and my mother got out of bed naked, money sliding off her body to the floor. She picked me up, carried me over to the bed, and placed a wad of cash in my hand.

  “Look,” she said. “Your daddy won this money. We’re having a good time.” Years later, I finally understood what she meant.

  Memories like these have been flooding over me lately. Three years ago my mother was charged with pimping and pandering. Rather than go to jail she fled the country, and I haven’t heard from her since.

  As a kid, I thought about money every night in bed, rubbing the spot on my body that felt so good. When my cunt began aching for something inside it, I slipped coins in. I was a human piggy bank. When I went to the bathroom at school, I’d find coins in my panties – coins I’d put in the night before, warmed from being inside me. They slipped out of me in class. When I stood up, they’d slide down my pants leg, as if I had a hole in my pocket. But no one guessed my secret, and I put more coins in. They jiggled, clinked, and slipped out onto the floor when I jumped up and down. I liked the weight of the cold metal. By the time I was in high school, I was a human pocket-book, walking around with rolls of dollar bills in my cunt.

  It’s not that I can’t have sex with people. I can. But there has to be money involved. Otherwise my body won’t do it. I won’t even get wet unless money’s nearby. I have to be counting it, rolling around in a pile of it, or getting paid for sex. I’m the perfect whore.

  Some of the other girls don’t think so. I work at the Coochie Ranch, a legal brothel in Washoe County, Nevada. As far as I know, I’m the only girl here who actually enjoys having sex for money. Oh, I’m sure the others do too; they just won’t admit it. They think it’s sleazy, degrading. As long as they don’t get turned on with clients, they can pretend they aren’t really whores. It’s as if they’re saving their virginity: if they don’t have orgasms with customers, they’re somehow pure. Gail says she’d be cheating on her boyfriend if she enjoyed sex with clients. Lanna says the pimp who turned her out taught her how to have sex without getting aroused. He got all his friends to fuck her, while he sat right beside her on the bed, coaching: “Just think about anything else – beaches, your kids – anything that doesn’t get you hot,” he said.

  I think it’s sad that these girls don’t enjoy their work the way I do, but I keep my secret to myself. Not that I’m ashamed of it: it makes me one of the top earners at the ranch. Once a guy comes to my room to talk prices, he rarely ever leaves. Just talking about money turns me on. As I lead him to the cashier, I feel his come dripping down my thighs. I rarely ever put money in the bank. I keep the cash locked in my closet, so that I can take it out and roll around in it. And when payday comes, I get a rush as the cashier hands me the money I’ve been waiting for all week.

  I’ve been having little orgasms with clients and with the cash in my closet all week long, but this is the big one I’ve been waiting for, tension building in my body. I take the envelope to my room, let the cash spill out on the bed, and run my fingers through it. I start counting and soon lose track of the numbers – lying on the bed, smoothing the loose bills over my chest, stroking my wet pussy lips. Since we can’t lock the doors to our rooms, I hide the money under my covers in case anyone walks in. I don’t want them to catch me masturbating in a pile of money. Sometimes I go on like this for hours, rolling over the greenbacks, soaking them in my sweat and come.

  One day Suzanne, our Madame, calls all the girls into the parlour and announces that a scientist named Dr Maude Baine is coming to live at the brothel to study us. We groan; we’ve heard all the media hype about her study. She’s trying to find the so-called “whore gene” – a gene that determines whether or not someone will become a prostitute. A lot of people think she’s a total quack, but she’s still getting tons of publicity and government funding. She’s been on Oprah with a pair of identical twins who were separated at birth. The twins, Vanna and Lanna, wear the same skimpy white dresses and have identical blond perms. Reunited 25 years later, they are shocked to discover that they’re both prostitutes. Even more remarkably, they both charge $300 an hour for full service, and their specialities include Greek, golden showers, and strap-on play. All these weird coincidences are supposed to convince us that Vanna and Lanna are genetically predisposed to whoredom.

  After the show, p
rostitutes’-rights activists and geneticists criticize her work, claiming that identical twin whores simply aren’t common enough to be statistically significant. Several whores come forward and claim that Vanna and Lanna met several years earlier and only became working girls after meeting Dr Baine. But despite widespread criticism and accusations of fraud, Dr Baine wins more grant money to study whore twins, and Vanna and Lanna quit prostitution and start a business making T-shirts and bumper stickers that say “Genes ‘R’ Pimps”. They donate 30 per cent of their proceeds to Dr Baine’s research.

  Suzanne says we all have to participate in the study and consent to being interviewed by Dr Baine.

  “Why?” asks Sheila, as we groan in unison.

  “Because her project is funded by the federal government, and the brothel is making a lot of money off her,” says Suzanne.

  “But what do we get out of it?” Justine asks.

  “You might get some money for your participation.”

  “She should pay us as much as our customers,” says Justine, “since she’s taking up our time.”

  “We’ll see about that,” says Suzanne.

  When Dr Baine arrives Suzanne calls all the girls into the parlour again. Dr Baine looks prim and schoolmarmish in her tailored gray business suit and pince-nez. She explains her study in the simplest terms, as though we’re children. She’s trying to find the gene that determines whether or not you become a prostitute. This gene, she says, accounts for the occurrence of prostitution throughout history and in all cultures.

  “I am not a prostitute!” shouts Maria. “I’m only here for another week to make some money to support my kids. Then I’m outta here!”

  “Yeah!” says Victoria. “What are you calling ‘whore’ anyway? Do we have the same gene as streetwalkers and gay hustlers and geishas? Do wives have the ‘whore gene’ because they get money from one man instead of hundreds? Are you looking for a ‘wife gene’ too?”