The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 3

by Maxim Jakubowski

  I place the palm of my hand against the back of his neck. It is warm and slick with sweat. “What’s wrong?”

  He looks up, but not at me. “I’m worried about you.”

  I push him further onto the bed and straddle his lap. He closes his eyes and I caress his eyelids with my fingers, enjoying the curl of his eyelashes and the way it tickles my skin. He is such a beautiful man, but I do not tell him this. He would most likely take it the wrong way. At the very least, it would make him uncomfortable. It is a strange thing in some men, this fear of their own beauty. I lift his chin with one finger and trace his lips with my tongue. They are cracked but soft. His hands tremble but he grips my shoulders firmly. I am amazed at how little is spoken between us, yet how much is said. We quickly slip out of our clothes and his thighs flex between mine. The sensation of his muscle against my flesh is a powerful one that makes my entire body tremble.

  I slip my tongue between his lips and the taste of him is so familiar and necessary that I am suddenly weak. I fall into Yves, kissing him so hard that I know my lips will be bruised in the morning. I want them to be. Yves pulls away first, drawing his lips roughly across my chin down to my neck, the hollow of my throat, practically gnawing at my skin with his teeth. I moan hoarsely, tossing my head backwards, a gesture of acquiescence and desire. My neck throbs and I know that here, too, there will be bruises. He sinks his teeth deeper into me and I can no longer perceive the fine line between pain and pleasure. But just as soon as I consider asking him to stop, he does, lathering the fresh wounds with the softness of his tongue, murmuring sweet and tender words. Such gentleness in the wake of such roughness leaves me shivering.

  The weight of my breasts rests in Yves’s hands, and he lowers his lips to my nipples, suckling them. He looks up at me as he suckles, and it is unclear whether this is a moment of passion or a moment of comfort for him . . . for me. And then I cannot look at him so I rest my chin against the top of his head, my arms wrapped around him, my hips slowly rocking back and forth. My cunt brushes along the length of his cock, hard beneath me. I am wet already, and I want him inside me, but I wait. This moment, whatever it is, demands patience. He turns our bodies so that I am lying on my back and slowly, almost too slowly, he draws his tongue along my torso, inside my navel, the round of my belly. He is reverent in his touch and I can feel the tension in my body easing away as I surrender my trust and fear and hope to this one man.

  His hands massaging my thighs, Yves places a cheek against the soft, wiry patch of hair covering my mound. And then he is tracing the lips between my thighs with only one finger. His touch is tentative at first, and then it is possessive and insistent as he covers the most sensitive part of me with his mouth, tasting and teasing me with his tongue, that one finger sliding inside me so subtly that I gasp, and clench around him and hear a distant voice begging him for more. It is agonizing that at a time like this, Yves is making love to me in such a manner when all I want is him fucking me so hard that I feel everything and nothing at all. His tongue is moving faster, so fast that it feels like a constant, and then I cannot take it any more.

  “Fuck me,” I say harshly, and he blinks, looking at me as if he, too, is seeing me for the first time.

  “Oui, ma chère, he whispers, crawling up my body, kissing me as he slowly slides his cock, inch by inch, into the wet heat of my cunt.

  Yves takes hold of my knees, spreading my legs wide and pushing them upward until they practically touch my face. I rest my ankles against his shoulders and shudder as he pulls his cock to the edge of my cunt and then buries himself to the hilt over and over again. I am intimately aware of his pulsing length; his sweat falling onto my body, into my eyes, mingling with mine; the tension in his body as I claw at the wide stretch of black skin across his back with my fingernails. Tomorrow, he, too, will have bruises. My cunt loosens around his cock and Yves groans, hiding his face in my armpit, trying to stay in control.

  “Let go,” I urge him.

  Then, he is fucking me faster and harder, so much so that I cannot recognize him, and my chest heaves because I am thankful. A cry that has been trapped deep in my throat is finally released and the sound of it is peculiar. It is a sound that only a woman who has known what I have known can make. I can feel wetness trailing down the inside of my arm. It is Yves’s tears. My thigh muscles are screaming, so I wrap my legs tightly around his waist. I am tender inside but I don’t want Yves to ever stop, because with each stroke of his cock he takes me further away from the geography of our grief and closer to a cool dry place.

  Bacon, Lola and Tomato

  Susannah Indigo

  The first time Lola found out that Keith had cheated on her, she gained ten pounds almost overnight. I love you and I will wait for you, my sweet tomato, his email note had said when she accidentally read it on his computer, which was cute, except that he certainly never referred to her as any kind of fruit or vegetable. Its nobody, he offered with a guilty shrug as she sat slurping her second bowl of ramen noodles, just a way to waste time online and avoid working on my novel.

  “I am not a tomato,” Lola Maria Estonia pointed out to him, just in case he had forgotten. She flipped her long black hair in the way that made men crazy and wrapped it around his wrists as though she could hold him that way. “But you do always wait for me.”

  They laughed; she forgave him; they made love; she got up afterwards while he slept and made herself a big bowl of Apple Jacks with raisins and four teaspoons of sugar.

  The day Lola found his cell phone bill she discovered the joy of a box of Krispy Kremes, fresh and warm off the rack, half of them eaten directly while she was still in the bakery, the rest of the dozen melting in her mouth on the drive home. It appeared that the sweet tomato lived just one area code away and received almost daily calls ranging from ten minutes to two hours.

  “I love you, Lola Maria,” Keith swore that night when they crawled into their four-poster bed, the same bed they had shared for one year, two months, and twenty-three days. He whispered as he slid inside her and gave the extra soft flesh on her bottom a spank: “You are the voluptuous overflowing lush root of every desire any man has ever had.”

  This was why she had moved in with him in the first place, because he had the words that could change the way she breathed. But now his words seemed to be adapting to her new body – he used to only call her my fragile princess, my little girl.

  “I’m sorry I’ve hurt you,” he whispered as they laid in bed with their legs entangled. “Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?”

  She hated to think of fighting with him, or worse, to hear him lie again. “I’m hungry,” she finally answered, sure that more carbohydrates would make her vision of telephone bills disappear into sated bliss. So Keith got up and made her his special omelette with sausage and potatoes, no tomatoes, and for once she ate every single bite on her plate.

  Lola Maria Estonia was up to a size 14 from her former size 8 when she finally went to visit the mysterious tomato. The sun was growing hotter and hotter as she stood on the sidewalk across the street from the address she had tracked down from the phone number. Lola was so fascinated that she took up more space in the world than she used to, even in the middle of the sidewalk, that she only smiled as the warmth grew under her red leather jacket, newly purchased from the Coldwell Collection in a comfy size for the plus woman. She had thrown out all of her old skinny jeans, although Keith had suggested that perhaps she should keep them because she would need them again soon. Lola had just smiled and gone shopping.

  It didn’t seem that Keith spent much face-to-face time with the tomato, because he was usually at home at his computer, or at his part-time job at the bookstore, or out with Lola. She wasn’t about to ask Keith any more questions – she just monitored his email and phone calls, as though she was a detective. She also checked up on his novel that he said he was almost done with, and realized he hadnt written much of anything in a long time. Why is it that I live with this
man? she wondered on her bad days, but then she remembered all the words, and how he made love to her with such passion, and how she was almost sure he was her soulmate, not to mention a good cook.

  The tomato came out of the front door of her small house and walked directly toward a Lincoln Town Car that was parked just beyond Lola. Nice jacket, she said to Lola as she passed by.

  “Would you like to have it?” Lola asked in an awkward gesture of friendliness that she hoped covered her desperation to find out more about this tomato. She had heard that people did this in some other places – Japan, maybe? – and suddenly it seemed like offering another woman her red leather jacket on a hot summer day was a normal thing to do.

  The tomato stopped, turned, and laughed, taking Lola in fully from head to toe for the first time. Lola wore a long black cotton skirt, a white shirt with her black lace bra peeking out, and heavy silver jewellery. Would I like it? The tomato moved closer and stroked Lolas arm, checking the fabric, checking Lola, deciding. Sure. It looks like a good fit.

  “Thank you,” whispered Lola in her smallest voice, though she knew she was the one who was supposed to say, “you’re welcome.” But she could not keep her eyes off the tomato – she had long curly red hair down to her waist, large breasts, great cleavage in a tight black tank top, and black jeans that looked to Lola like they were just about a size 14, maybe even 16. She was almost, Lola realized, identical in body to Lolas new look, and if Lola dyed her black hair red, she thought she could almost be her twin.

  “My friends call me Cherry,” said the tomato, slipping on the red jacket. And you are . . .?

  “Lola Maria Estonia. Can I come with you?” Odd words were flowing out of her mouth, like someone else was writing them – better dialogue, she thought with a sharp twist of spite, than anything she had ever read in Keith’s agonized attempts at novel writing.

  “Do you know where I’m going?”

  Lola couldn’t guess, but she knew she wanted to be there. The curves on the tomato’s hips were hypnotizing her, and she thought that maybe she wanted to touch them.

  “To meet a man?” she guessed timidly. “My boyfriend’s in love with you – maybe it’s him?”

  Cherry tomato laughed again, a long rollicking laugh, a laugh that Lola wanted to climb inside of and ride on, knowing it would carry her to a new place. They’re all in love with me, sweetheart, Cherry finally said. “Let’s go eat meat.”

  The steakhouse was wood-panelled with high leather booths, an old-style male bonding place, complete with a private cigar room. Cherry tucked Lola into the booth seat and then slid in beside her. They each ordered the 14-ounce prime rib, baked potatoes with sour cream and butter, no salads, and chocolate amaretto pie for dessert.

  “It’s just phone sex for me, sweetheart,” Cherry explained between bites. “But as soon as I tell them I have long red hair and big tits, they’re in love. The attention is great, along with the money. It supports my other passion.”

  “Keith has phone sex with you? Keith . . . pays . . . for phone sex??” Lola repeated in amazement.

  “Keith? I don’t remember their real names very well -what’s he like?”

  “Well, he’s really smart . . . and he talks a lot, but I guess everyone must to have phone sex. His words – they’re fancy, poetic, sometimes a bit over-the-top – he’s a writer.”

  Cherry scooped up the last bite of pie and turned to feed it to Lola. “Open wide, sweetheart.” As it melted in Lola’s mouth, Cherry began to kiss her and lick her lips clean. “Yes, I know which one he is, baby,” she whispered through the kisses. “I call him ‘Bacon’ – I give them all meat names, my little joke, but they think it’s a macho compliment – he’s a bit . . . greasy, isn’t he? Doesn’t seem like your type.”

  Lola couldn’t imagine why she should care, and could barely remember who he was herself. This woman, this tomato, this lovely plump mirror image of herself, was driving her wild with her lips and her fingers running up and down her legs. Maybe this is why I just keep eating so much, she thought, to be worthy of someone like her.

  Cherry’s fingers were high up her thigh under her skirt, beginning to stroke rhythmically towards her clit, when the waiter reappeared with the check. “Thanks,” Cherry said to him, “we do have to hurry and we have someplace to be.”

  Lola assumed it would be her bed, or the backseat of the car, or any place nearby where they could continue. “No, sweetheart, I’m an organizer,” the tomato explained to her on the way out. We have a demonstration this afternoon. Consider yourself recruited – I promise youll think of yourself differently after the day is done.

  A group of about twelve women had gathered in the park just off of the Walnut Street open-air mall. They were holding signs, and there were hundreds of other people on the mall, most of them barely paying attention to the women. A few of the women were on rollerblades, one was doing tricks on her skateboard, and another had a baby on her hip.

  Cherry parked the car and turned to Lola.

  “They’re waiting for me . . . for us, to start, baby. Take your shirt off.”

  “What?”

  “Your shirt – take it off. Here, I’ll help.”

  Lola decided this was a game, a tease, so she let Cherry unbutton her shirt and slip it from her shoulders.

  “Nice, baby, good girl . . .” Cherry was unhooking Lola’s bra and kissing her nipples, sucking on them, pulling slow and hard, sending the tingle right down to Lola’s toes. “We should get them pierced,” Cherry told her between kisses. “That always stops the cops.”

  “Cops?” Lola pulled away, just as two women with their picket signs approached the car and banged on the window for Cherry. The sign that Lola could see said: TOPFREE! TAKE YOUR SHIRTS OFF FOR EQUALITY!

  “Yeah, you know, cops – pigs – that other mostly white meat around here,” the tomato answered. Technically, they can arrest us, but they rarely do, as long as we get the girls with the best tits to talk to them.

  Cherry pulled Lola out of the car before she could answer, looping Lola’s shirt into her jeans belt beside her own top she had stripped off. “You’re a goddess,” Cherry said as they joined the group on the lawn, “and you have as much right to be shirtless as any man does.”

  It was hot, and there were lots of men on the mall with their shirts off, and nobody looked twice at them. Lola watched as all the women around her took their tops off, in awe at the variety of breasts and backs and skin tones.

  “They’re beautiful,” she whispered to the tomato.

  “Exactly. So why is it that women have to keep their shirts on? Because they can feed babies from their nipples, a purely natural act? Or is it because women are nothing but sex objects to men, almost like pieces of . . . meat?”

  Lola laughed and stood up a little prouder, her newly plump breasts perking up a bit more. “I’ve never even thought about it,” she confessed.

  “I know. Yet if you go out and do it by yourself somewhere, even on a beach, it’s a criminal act. Equality for women is my passion, sweetheart, and nothing makes a stronger statement than this.”

  Lola had to agree as they began their march down the mall. Some people cheered, some booed, and a lot of men hooted and cat-called at them. But no one stopped them – Cherry went in the record shop to buy a CD, and though the manager asked her to put her shirt back on, she said, “No,” pointed to a man in the jazz aisle with his shirt off, and then proceeded to make her purchase and leave.

  “No. Thats about my favourite word for women. Cherry had big, gorgeous, heavy breasts, and though Lola was trying to think about politics and womens rights, sex was churning between her thighs. No whining, no fuss, just ‘no, I won’t’ does wonders.

  Lola trailed behind her like a puppy dog, trying to remember if she’d ever said “no” very firmly to Keith or any other man anywhere in her life.

  “Hey, T-Bone, what’s happening,” the tomato said to a tall dark-haired man who greeted her near the central water founta
in. Lola watched as the man kissed Cherrys hand, never touching her breasts, chatted for a few minutes, and then turned to go into a pizza shop.

  “One of my clients,” Cherry explained.

  “Your client? They come here to see you? Does Keith . . . come . . . see you?” Lola raced over her words as she tried to wrap her mind around the sudden image of Keith seeing her half-naked in a public street mall.

  “Bacon? He has. Some do – after I know them for a while, I tell them to stop by one of our demonstrations, it’s good for them – seeing me in the flesh raises their consciousness and their cocks at the same time.”

  Lola stood speechless as she watched a security guard approach the group. He looked them all up and down – one woman was quietly breastfeeding while sitting on the edge of the fountain, others were chatting, some had packages from their purchases, and one woman with lovely brown breasts who looked like she might be 60 or so had pulled some yarn from her fanny-pack and was happily knitting and purling while waiting for the group.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” the guard said, a bit tentatively.

  Cherry held Lola’s hand. “Well, she’s shopping for some new clothes, Afton there is making her granddaughter a sweater, and the rest of us are just relaxing. Cherrys breasts were about two inches from the guards chest while she was talking, and Lola knew, just knew, that when he put his hands in his pockets it was not to pull out a gun, or even a ticket, but to keep himself from stroking her nipples. Well . . . I think you should all put your tops back on, maam . . .

  “No. We can’t do that. I know you believe that women and men are equal, right? So if you ask us to do that, youd have to ask Bratwurst over there to do the same. She nodded toward a stocky brown-skinned man who had his shirt off and was talking with the woman on a skateboard. The guard looked towards him for an explanation.