The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 3

by Maxim Jakubowski

  Lights flickered in the hallway. “Curtain time,” Tom and Kristi chimed together. They stubbed out their butts and returned through the rear entrance to meet their students in the lobby.

  Kristi’s Adonis already sat waiting for her, and sprang to his feet as she approached. His black hair was shaven in back but grew forward thickly from his crown, just brushing the long sculptured sweep of his eyebrows. The haircut accentuated his high cheekbones and surprisingly full lips. Where most salarymen were concave or barrel-chested, he had the full, muscled frame of a swimmer, which even his usual white dress shirt couldn’t hide. Although he wasn’t tall by Western standards, Takashi stood an inch taller than Kristi’s five foot six.

  She smiled with genuine pleasure and ushered him into their booth, where he sat opposite her on the built-in carpeted bench.

  “How have you been?” Kristi began. She watched his startled gaze travel from her reddened curls and over the black silk tank, down her patterned skirt to the slice of ankle that showed above her black pumps. Kristi was suddenly glad that she had dressed up for the day.

  “I’m fine, thank you,” he replied cautiously. She saw him grip the primer for safety as he spoke.

  “Let’s just talk today, OK, Takashi?” she suggested. “Tell me about your plans for your trip to Hawaii.”

  Panic darkened his luminous brown eyes, but Takashi gave her a tentative smile and plunged in. “I will fly to Oahu on the March ten,” he said carefully.

  Technically, Kristi should have corrected his error, but she ignored it for the moment. “What do you want to do there?” she asked.

  Takashi stammered and looked longingly down at his book. “I want to see the beach and talk to American woman,” he confessed.

  “Good!” Kristi urged. “What will you say when you meet an American woman?”

  “Will you drink cohee with me?” Takashi ventured.

  “It’s cof-fee,” she corrected him gently, but we dont really have coffee houses like you do here. What about saying, Will you have a drink with me? instead?”

  “But that is what I said,” Takashi answered with a baffled look.

  “Don’t say ‘coffee’,” Kristi clarified. “Going out for coffee is not asking for a date. Do you want to go on a date?”

  Takashi nodded eagerly for a moment, but then his face darkened again. “I don’t know what American women do,” he confessed.

  Kristi recalled the blunt proposals she received daily from drunken Japanese men who seemed to think that American women did everything at the drop of a fly. At least she could teach one guy how to get a Western woman into bed the right way.

  “You could take her out to dinner, go to a movie, or just walk on the beach and talk,” she suggested.

  “But my English is not so good,” Takashi lamented.

  Kristi smiled and leaned towards him in encouragement. “That’s why you are here.” Her movement caused her breasts and hair to swing forward, and Takashi’s gaze lingered on her cleavage for a long moment. Suddenly he doesn’t seem so shy anymore, Kristi thought. Maybe it’s the subject matter. Ask me out, she proposed, and quickly added, for practice.

  Takashi flashed an open-mouthed smile, clearly pleased with this idea. Then he frowned just as quickly, as if he was struggling with some inner conflict. Even though Kristi knew he was 25, only a year younger than she was, he seemed to speed through emotions like a child.

  Finally, Takashi spoke. “You will tell me if I say something wrong?” he pleaded.

  Kristi nodded. Was that all? “Of course,” she said. “I will correct your English.”

  He shook his shock of bangs. “No, not my English,” he insisted. “If it is bad to say.”

  “Oh!” Kristi smiled. “You mean inappropriate?” This sparked an intense shuffle through his English to Japanese dictionary. Takashi brightened again as he read the translation.

  “Yes! Eenappropree-ate,” he read.

  “I will tell you,” Kristi assured him. She sat back against the bench.

  Takashi scowled, then composed his face and asked, “Will you date with me?”

  “Will you go out with me,” she coached. He wrote this treasure in his notebook, read it silently, and continued.

  “You are very beautiful,” Takashi proclaimed.

  “Thank you,” Kristi answered, and wondered if this was part of the lesson or an actual compliment.

  “Do you like Japanese men?” he asked.

  Kristi nodded. “Yes,” she answered.

  “Have you kissed Japanese man before?” he probed, meeting her eyes.

  Kristi considered, and decided the question was allowable. “No,” she answered.

  “I would like to kiss you now,” he declared.

  So would I, she thought, dwelling on the fine definition of his full lips. Impulsively she said, “Maybe you should, just for practice.”

  He nodded gravely, and then leaned forward and placed a cool hand on the back of her neck to draw her closer. She thought he would kiss her gently, but as her lips parted he pressed firmly, opening his own mouth and caressing her lips with his tongue. Kristi nearly fell into him as he released her.

  “Was that right?” Takashi asked innocently, but she caught a hint of arrogance in his eyes.

  “Right,” she repeated, stymied now. “That was good.”

  “Maybe I need practice to make love,” he considered aloud and drew his hand softly over the curve of one breast. His hand fluttered, then pinched her nipple. Kristi looked down at the hand that triggered a sudden pulse in her groin. He released her breast, stroked her cheek instead, and lowered his mouth to her erect nipple.

  Kristi moaned as he bit through the silk. Her own hands reached for him as he knelt before her and cupped both breasts. She unbuttoned the starched shirt down to his navel, and slid her hands over his solid, hairless chest. Takashi coaxed her to the floor until they both knelt facing each other.

  “I want to feel your ass,” he whispered into the tendrils of hair tickling her ear. Takashi caught an earlobe between his eager teeth and moved his hands behind her until he cradled her ass cheeks. Kristi couldn’t speak, couldn’t think of anything but grasping the bulge beating behind his blue wool trousers. She traced the line of his fly, felt the rock hard erection, and descended until she could rake her fingers along the underside of his balls.

  “Iro-poi,” Takashi murmured into her neck. “Sekushi,” he translated, pulling her skirt up from behind. “So sekushi,” he added, rubbing both index fingers along the edge of her panties. Suddenly his lips pushed into hers again, and his tongue darted in to lick her own. Kristi felt the answering warmth under his fingers and the throb of his cock under her own hand.

  “I want to feel you,” Takashi groaned, lifting her again to the bench as he grasped the hem of her skirt with his perfect teeth. She watched the top of his spiky head descend to the place where her black silk panties met the inward curve of her stomach. Takashi pulled them down with supple fingers and his tongue touched the tangle of her pubic hair.

  “Eat me,” Kristi gasped, arching her back against the wall. A cold rush of air met her pulsing pussy as he backed away to look up into her eyes.

  “Eat?” he asked, puzzled.

  “Please,” she urged, unable to explain in words. Instead, she pushed his face into her wetness.

  Takashi paused to absorb this information. Then he smiled and parted his lips.

  “I eat you,” he said, and fastened his lips to her pink clit, sucking it into his mouth. His tongue gathered the liquid pouring from her as two fingers explored her opening. Kristi lifted her right leg to his shoulder and kicked off her shoe. Without a pause, he caught her ankle with his left hand and drove his tongue deeper to meet his fingers. Then he pulled back just enough to lick the root of her clitoris until it swelled with blood. Kristi bucked under his mouth, and he deftly sucked again and then drew away and released the seal of pressure around her clit. She exploded in orgasm and an urgent moan broke from her
throat.

  Takashi put his pungent mouth to hers, kissing away her sounds of pleasure. “Please be quiet,” he begged. “I need inside you.”

  She fumbled for his fly and unbuttoned the top of his trousers as he unzipped them, but missed the inner clasp and could only tug desperately at his waistband. Takashi groaned and pulled the clasp open, revealing white briefs and tip of his uncut cock straining to greet her.

  “Oh,” Kristi crooned. “Let me suck on you.” She grasped him as he was standing up, and the skin of his cock slid down to reveal a glistening knob.

  “No!” Takashi hissed just as her tongue touched the opening of his cock. “I come too soon,” he confessed and snaked his arms around her to lift her away. Kristi reached up to lace her fingers around his neck as they stood. She felt his warmth graze her pussy lips and then sink into her, and he took her ass in both hands and plunged so deep that her feet left the floor. She felt her panties slip down one leg as he rocked in and out.

  His cock felt long and slim inside her, so rigid that it bumped the hood of her labia and rolled over her clit as he withdrew slightly, then penetrated again. She hooked her ankles around his waist so that her thighs strained against the taut muscles of his back with each thrust.

  Takashi lifted desperate eyes to hers as they kissed again. His jaw hardened and she knew he was trying not to come too soon. She licked his upper lip and whispered, “It’s all right.”

  “Thank you,” Takashi sighed as if released from a promise. He clutched her ass checks and shuddered through one last push, then withdrew deftly and whispered, “I come now.” Kristi crouched over the head of his penis and covered it with her mouth as it exploded. She drank deep for a long moment before she closed her lips over his rod and pulled him into her throat for the last few drops. Takashi took a handful of hair in one hand and urged her gently to her feet. She kissed his lips once and then moved her head to kiss his cheek. Beyond the curve of his damp temple she saw the red light go on.

  “The light is on,” Kristi said, and Takashi silently sat her down on the bench and pulled up his briefs and trousers in one motion.

  He buttoned his shirt before gathering up his manual and notebook. Then he straightened and bowed to Kristi.

  “Thank you for the nice lesson,” he said formally.

  “Your fly,” Kristi motioned with a wave of her hand. He looked up in distress. “I mean, your zipper,” she clarified, and he blushed and ducked his head. Is that all? she thought. Thank you for the nice lesson?

  “May we continue this lesson next week?” Takashi asked as Kristi stooped to untangle her panties and step into them. She discreetly turned away to rearrange her skirt and felt a tentative hand on her elbow.

  “Please continue next week?” he pleaded. Kristi nodded and found her voice.

  “Yes, next week. See you next week,” she repeated, and he pushed open the door and slipped through. She saw the stray tail of his shirt poking above his waistband and hissed, “Takashi-san!”

  He stopped and took a step back inside the door, turning so that she could glimpse his perfect profile again.

  “You’re doing very well with your lessons,” she said briskly, as she tucked the errant tail back into his trousers and hoped he would understand her meaning.

  Takashi stood frozen until she withdrew her hand, and Kristi feared she had committed some unforgivable gaffe. Horrified, she moved back and dropped her gaze to allow him a graceful exit.

  Instead, Takashi executed a sustained bow, after which he straightened and spoke in clear, well enunciated tones. “Thank you, Kristi-san. You are a very good teacher.”

  Kristi smiled with relief and nodded her thanks. She managed to follow him into the throng of people in the narrow hallway, and watched his retreating figure until another exodus of students engulfed him. Tom waited for her by the back door.

  “How was your Adonis today?” he teased. Kristi sagged against the wall in sudden exhaustion and tilted her head up to find her friend’s eyes.

  “Oh, my God,” she wailed. “I can’t go back in there.”

  “That bad?” He put a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

  Kristi shivered. “No – that good!”

  Tom raised his eyebrows and lowered his voice. “Oh – your God. I guess he’s not shy any more. Shall I call you Venus now?” he joked.

  “Tom! How am I going to get through the rest of this day?” she moaned. Tom grasped her other shoulder and leaned in so that their foreheads touched. “I have two words for you, my child.”

  She wrinkled her eyebrows at him in confusion. “I think I’m beyond yen training, Tom,” she complained.

  “You certainly are,” he murmured. “Two words: private lessons.”

  Butterfly

  Lisabet Sarai

  After nine months laying pipe in the Saudi Arabian desert, the dusty concrete towns of northeast Thailand were paradise. Although accommodations were simple, the food was fantastic, and the local people shy but friendly. Our engineering crew was working on a dam near Khon Kaen. Irrigation and hydro-power would help enrich the farmers who eked out a living from that salty soil.

  Videos and beer were the only entertainment in the little town of Maha Sarakan where we were staying. The beer was good, true, amazingly refreshing after the heat and dust, but my crewmates wanted something spicier. So on our first free weekend, after three weeks on the site, we piled into the minivan and headed south to Bangkok.

  When I had arrived the previous month, the airport was all I had seen of that loose and lascivious metropolis the Thais call the City of Angels. My first real trip there was a shock after the tranquil boredom of the northeast. Chaotic traffic, constant noise, mile after mile of grimy cement blocks interrupted occasionally by skyscrapers and the graceful eaves of Buddhist temples.

  One of my mates, Charlie, knew the city well. He checked us into a comfortable, ridiculously cheap hotel in the middle of the tourist district. Bewildered and dazzled, I followed him along sidewalks crammed with vendors hawking watches, T-shirts and toys, trying to avoid tripping on the broken pavement.

  Beggars with shrivelled limbs extended their bowls in silent entreaty. Blond, ragged-haired tourists in shorts and sandals, slender Thai women in tight jeans and silk blouses, monks draped in saffron, policemen standing stiffly at corners, their revolvers prominently displayed: it seemed that the whole of Bangkok was here on this one street. Meanwhile, an endless line of vehicles crawled by us: tint-windowed Mercedes, sooty trucks, and rickety buses with people hanging out the doors. The air was heavy with diesel fumes, frying garlic, and jasmine. We dined at a quiet restaurant on a side lane, where the young waitress giggled every time we spoke to her. Then Charlie took me off to see what he called “the real Bangkok” – the go-go bars and sex clubs.

  I can’t say that I was completely enthusiastic. Yes, I admit that I come from the Bible Belt, but it wasn’t that. I’ve been to strip clubs in the States a few times and I simply found them depressing. Everybody looking guilty as they try to have a good time. Drunks acting crude, dancers acting coy, everywhere the desperate smell of dirty money and sexual frustration.

  I’ve been with hookers, too. I didn’t enjoy that much, either. It relieved my physical needs, but it left me feeling empty, sour and old.

  My job makes it hard to have a real relationship, though. I never know where my next project will be, but I can bet that it won’t be in America’s heartland. So I read a lot, and seek my own five-fingered companionship. I didn’t think I needed what Bangkok had to offer.

  We sauntered into the “entertainment plaza”. Three stories of indoor bars and clubs surrounded a central court, which was crowded with open-air bars and stalls selling skewers of grilled chicken, fresh fruit, and fried locusts. As we walked along the second-level balcony, bikini-clad girls tried to lure us inside their establishments.

  “Come inside,” they crooned. “One beer fifty baht. No cover charge.” Briefly the woman would hold back the dark cloth
draping the door, offering a tantalizing glimpse of flickering lights and bare flesh. “Take a look, no charge, come inside.”

  The more energetic of these young marketeers would grab us by the hand and, laughing the whole while, try to pull us in. It was all good-natured, though. We’d extricate ourselves from her strong fingers and thank her. “Not now,” we’d say. “Maybe later.”

  “Why not now?” she’d say, stamping her foot in mock anger. “Don’t you like me?”

  Charlie stopped in front of a doorway surmounted by a blinking neon butterfly. “I came here last month,” he said with a grin. “The girls are hotter than average.” As if to prove his point, an exquisite creature wearing a fringed bra and a practically non-existent skirt came out to greet us.

  “Welcome to Butterfly Bar. Come inside, please.” We followed her through the curtains and found ourselves in a space much deeper than it was wide, lit like some disco nightmare. Everywhere, clashing multi-coloured lights flashed, vibrated, spun on the ceiling. Rock music pounded in our ears. Our guide settled us on a plush-upholstered bench that ran along one wall. In a moment, two frosted mugs of Singha beer sat invitingly before us, and we could turn our attention to the entertainment.

  The bar that ran along the opposite wall was also the stage. Half a dozen women wearing next to nothing danced there, churning and writhing to the music. Every single one was drop-dead gorgeous.

  One wore a bikini bottom made of chain mail, and thigh-high, spike-heeled vinyl boots. Her long hair fell over one eye, Lauren Bacall-style, as she squatted on the bar and circled her hips suggestively.

  Another beauty had short, curly hair that looked bleached, and a faraway look. She cupped her perfect breasts absently as she swayed to the beat, sequins flashing from the heart-shaped patch that covered her sex.