The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 3

by Maxim Jakubowski

  Yeah, you can see where this is going.

  Fuck, I say, that’s crazy glue. But its too late. She’s already got the thing on her and its good and stuck. I’m telling you, what they say about that stuff is absolutely true. It gets you in seconds.

  Yeah, you must hear a lot of people saying this. I heard of one girl who glued her eyes shut.

  Yeah. So anyway, here we are, me lying on the mattress looking at Janice, who is standing there with a strap-on literally glued to her. And she looks – sorry Janice, but you did – she looks totally ridiculous. Plus, I can see the expression on her face. That thing is not all that comfortable.

  Oh come on, Janice. It was not.

  Yeah, that’s her in the background. She hasn’t got much else to do but comment on this.

  Anyway, I’m watching her. And I say something dumb.

  Never mind how dumb. Let’s just say it’s one of those typical male comments, and leave it at that, OK? She gets this gleam in her eye as she says, oh really, and she comes over to me, swaggering, with this strap-on thing, and I’m still laughing. So she comes up and suddenly leans against me and with one hand pulls me down to her, so now I’m caught between a kiss and a laugh except that I’m not laughing any more, I’m kissing her, hard, because, damn it, it’s laughable, but she’s still got a way with her tongue, and the next thing I know, I’m sitting against the hard chair with her on my lap and that damn strap-on pushing against me, not that I care, because she’s got her mouth on mine and her hand on my dick and she’s rubbing it up and down gently, and I’m so fucking absorbed in this that I totally don’t notice that she’s also got my left hand, which is why I miss her slipping my hand into one of the metal handcuffs.

  Now, I do notice the click. But hey, I’ve got her hand on my dick, and we’ve played this sort of thing before. I have a safeword, she has a safeword, and I don’t think it’s time for that sort of thing yet. So I go on kissing her, and she goes on threading the handcuffs through the back of the chair, and then she grabs my other hand and shoves it into the other cuff, so I’m firmly cuffed to the floor. And I’m thinking – I know it’s stupid, but I’m thinking, oh man, I am going to get seriously fucked here. And I’m incredibly excited. She only cuffs me if she’s really going to be driving me to my limits. I am almost jumping in the chair, I’m so ready for her.

  She kisses me for a few more seconds, and then stands up. I give my hands a little tug – oh, yeah, I’m secure, and I wiggle a bit, just to show her I can. She grins at me, and then slowly turns and wiggles her butt at me. It’s pure torture. I try jumping the chair a bit closer, and she shakes her head at me. Screw you, she says. Laugh at me because of this? Well, I tell you what. I’m going up in that swing, and I’m going to fuck myself up there with this thing, and you’re just gonna watch. That’s it. Nothing more, loverboy. And you’re not even gonna be able to touch yourself now to get off. You’re just going to have to watch and watch and watch as I get off. Funny, huh?

  Now, of course, what I really want her to do is sit on me, even with that damn strap-on, and ride me hard. Or kneel down in front of me and give me a blowjob. Or something. I want her hands all over me. Of course, I’m too dumb to say this. I just say, hey, don’t you think we should have a doctor check out that crazy glue?

  Yeah, I mean, I thought it was a medically good idea too. She just turns and wiggles her butt at me. Oh, we can play doctor later, she says, as she saunters over to the swing.

  I’m telling you, I forgot I was in that chair. I tried to get up and follow her, and of course I got slammed back down. I was a bit worried – usually I help get her into the thing, and I wasn’t sure she could do it herself with any safety, but I guess we’d been using it enough that she had no problems. She put herself in so that her breasts were hanging down, and as she got in, one little nipple popped out, looking unbelievably tasty. I started moving my chair forward again. I had to have that nipple.

  As I did so, I noticed something about that strap-on. It was one of those double-ended ones, see, with a part that she could insert inside her. Now, given the way she had it glued to her, she couldn’t actually get it inside – not without getting a lot more limber, and she’s shaking her head at me even now for saying that. But what she could do, see, is rub the edge against her clit. In fact, she was already doing that naturally. I could tell, just from her expression. That wasn’t just turned on, that was totally stimulated. And, as she started to pull herself up, I could see, through the straps, that long black dildo working against her, and actually see how wet she was. So there she is, up there, suspended about six feet from the ceiling, and I’m there, moving my chair under her, begging her to come down a bit so I can at least get a taste of the nipple. She just smiles at me, and then manages to pull one hand down around to her clit. Let me tell you, I’ve been in that thing, and that’s a lot harder than it looks. She must have been getting really horny. So she reaches her hand down and over and grabs the dildo and begins moving it back and forth a little –

  Are you OK?

  OK. Just sounded like you were having breathing problems or something.

  Yeah, I can go on.

  So anyway, she reaches for the dildo, and she moves it a bit, but she’s forgotten something – the damn thing’s still glued on. OK, technically it’s only the straps, not the actual dildos, but they aren’t all that mobile at the moment. I can see it’s frustrating her. She gives up on the dildos, and instead, starts using her hand to start playing with her clit. I’m right under her, and I can tell you, it’s an incredible sight, watching her play with herself, watching her start to moan and wiggle, watching those lovely fingers move up and down, fast, slow, up, down – I’m literally going crazy. My dick’s so hard it’s actually purple.

  God, honey, I moan. I don’t think I’m going to be able to take this any more, I say. You’re going to have to come down and suck me. I’m not even sure she hears me. She’s just there, taking care of herself, breaking hard, moving her fingers in and out of herself, starting with one finger, then two, slipping them in and out, hard, and then rubbing them against her clit. I can see that she’s making this one of her long sessions, drawing this out the way she likes to do when she’s torturing me, and God, it’s working. I want her, desperately. I mean, I’m literally bouncing in this chair, which is not really a good thing, because my wrists keep hitting the handcuffs, you know, so I finally force myself to stop bouncing, and just sit back and watch. It’s one beautiful sight, watching her up there, her eyes closed, her hand moving, her body continuing to move with her rhythm, swaying back and forth in the swing. And that’s when the problem starts.

  Yeah, problem. This is why I’m on the phone, remember? Here’s the thing. As she’s touching herself, she starts to come. And I can tell that for her, this is going to be a big one. Maybe because of the pain from the strap-on; maybe because I’m down here, telling her how incredibly hot she is while she’s doing this, how much she’s torturing me, how much I want her to come down here and suck my balls off or ride me, do something with me, and I know – I just know – that she’s going to have to do this soon, because, I’m not kidding, there’s a good chance of me getting a heart attack watching this if I can’t touch myself and if she’s not touching me. I know this has to be making her more intense, because I can tell you, I’ve been watching her come for years now, and I know the major orgasms when I see them. This was one of them.

  She came, hanging up there in the swing, and – I swear to God – her body actually started to shake while the orgasm was running through her. I mean she’s bucking up there, her hips gyrating as she comes, and she’s shaking hard enough that she actually flips over in the swing. Worse, she releases the rope that allows her to go up and down, so it goes flying – literally flying up and around and around and ends up circling her. I barely even notice. The sight of her breasts quivering during this – and then suddenly the sight of that hot ass flipping around so that its dangling down, right over me, where I cou
ld almost touch it if she was just a bit lower – well, let’s say that I was a bit distracted. All I could do was watch that ass as it continued to quiver above me, until finally it stopped moving, and she just hung above me, panting. I could just see her sex peeping through, and it was enough to make me almost come, right there.

  And as she’s hanging there, she says, fuck. I think I’m stuck. And I’m looking up at her, still hard and say, what? And she says again, I think I’m stuck. So I look up at her.

  Now, usually we follow the instructions, and leave that rope attached to the wall, so this sort of thing doesn’t happen, but this time, we’ve both been so involved in what’s been happening that we totally forget about this part. Which is a problem.

  Christ, she repeats. Neil, I’m stuck.

  And I’m like, what do you mean you’re stuck? And she says, well, I’m stuck.

  And that’s when I notice it – the rope has twisted around her. And with each arm in a strap of the swing, and her torso supported by another strap, and her two legs caught in a strap – well, at this point, she’s not very mobile, especially since the rope that would give her more mobility is also wrapped around her. She can’t loosen herself, she can’t lower herself, she can’t even move me. She’s just hung there, suspended from the ceiling, with a strap-on superglued to her. And I’m here handcuffed to the chair, right below her, unable to move, looking up right at that incredible ass.

  The medical emergency?

  I could have a heart attack here. That’s the medical emergency.

  Yeah, I still had a hard-on, and we’re talking painful here. Very painful. If I could have, I would have bent over and taken my dick into my own month just to help things out. But I’m not that flexible.

  Well, it was down, but I have to tell you, I’m hard again just talking to you about this.

  What’d we do? Well, we always keep a cell phone in this room, so after I managed to get my hard-on down a bit – and let me tell you, with an image like that in the room, that was damn near impossible, I shifted my chair over across the floor, bit by bit, and opened the cell phone with my mouth, and dialled info with my nose, and asked for you guys.

  Yeah, that’s right, I dialled you with my nose. But let me tell you, that’s a lot less frustrating than being this damn close to a woman tied up like this and not be able to do anything.

  OK, so what, medically, should we do at this point?

  Yes, medically.

  Well, yes, I do intend to treat my wife to a nice long relaxing hour in a real bed very soon, but what I meant was, do you have any ideas about how I can get out of these handcuffs, so I can get up from this chair, lower her a bit, and totally, completely fuck her to make up for the way she’s been torturing me for the last two hours?

  What do you mean, you’ve gotta go to the bath –

  Crap.

  Honey, I’m sorry, but it looks like you’re going to have to hold on for just a few more minutes.

  Well, if you think telling the nurse took a while, wait ‘til I try explaining this to 911 . . .

  The Blood Virgin

  Anne Tourney

  For Joseph Nunez

  The first time you kissed me, your lips tasted of my blood. That slippery cunt-sugar kiss wasn’t what I wanted. For years I dreamed of a rough stranger who would break down the doors of my father’s castle, pushing me into the shadows while whispering obscenities into my ear. I dreamed of having him deep inside me, pounding at the bloodstone of my isolation. The last thing I wanted was a lover like you, with your dainty forked tongue, and your nipples like little red bullets.

  The first time you came to my father’s house, I wondered why you wanted to talk to me at all. My father is the one who knows about murder. He’s the world-famous poet of abnormal psychology, expert on deviance, violence, and the clotted glue of desire that binds them together. My father would have gladly written an account of your story: the story of his own brutal death.

  She didn’t bother to knock. Like a draft from the frozen lake that separates my father’s property from the outside world, she slid into our house, slipping through oak and steel to get to me.

  “Someone’s breaking into the castle,” my father warned me. “It’s a woman. She smells of Easter lilies, with a tang of cunt.” He paused, inhaling deeply. “I’ve always loved the scent of lilies.”

  My father spoke to me through a transmitter in my left ear. The device had been carved out of a shard of his skull. Years ago he had lost a piece of his cranium after being attacked by a guest in our castle. He had turned the fragment into the perfect telecommunication device, an instrument that fit snugly against my eardrum. That spectral circuitry made us closer than lovers.

  I sat at my desk in the library and waited. Spike heels clicked on the stone floor. Maybe this intruder was one of my father’s obsessive female fans, I thought, or a witness to one of the slaughters he wrote about.

  Before she entered the library, I could smell her – floral, feral. Then she stepped into the room. She was a black blade of a woman, slut and schoolgirl in the same glossy package. Black hair fell to her shoulders, framing her face in sharp parentheses. Her mouth was painted the colour of dried blood. The pouting lips glistened and quivered, true labia blossoming in the centre of her porcelain face. She wore a black silk jacket and pleated skirt. Against all that darkness, her pale skin hit the eyes like a slap.

  I asked her what she wanted.

  “I want you to interview me.”

  “I don’t do interviews – my father does. Let me call him for you.”

  “But I don’t want your father. I want you.” A strange tension seized her face, a flicker almost like panic.

  “You don’t understand,” I said. “My father is a criminal psychologist. He’s the one who interviews criminals. I’m just his secretary.”

  And his research assistant, archivist, and ghost-writer. His hothouse lily and captive slave, I might have added, but I wasn’t going to share my bitterness with a stranger.

  “Your father wouldn’t understand my crimes. You would.

  With those words she touched the hidden bruise in me. She set her fingertip on my core of rage, and pressed and pressed, until that ache turned into a roaring pain.

  “What do you mean?” I said.

  “I don’t commit the kind of crimes that built this house.”

  She let her eyes wander along the yards of books that lined my father’s library. She was right. Every brick, every exotic carpet fibre, every gleaming inch of marble in our mansion had been bought with the profits of someone’s crime. The murderers came to my father, longing to be heard. He recorded their confessions; I transcribed them faithfully and shaped them into the manuscripts that had made my father famous.

  “What crimes have you committed?”

  “You’ll find out if you interview me.”

  “Are you a murderer?”

  She sucked her forefinger in mock contemplation. Then she trailed the glistening fingertip down the neckline of her jacket as she stared at me with her sloe eyes. Something squirmed in the depths of that gaze, something fearful, struggling to achieve form.

  “Maybe,” she said. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  “Really, my father –”

  “No! You!”

  She grabbed my wrist. “Please. I just escaped from prison. As soon as they catch me, I’ll be sent back. Then no one will hear my story.”

  “How did you escape?”

  “The guards couldn’t watch me 24 hours a day.”

  “I don’t know why you came here. I can’t help you.”

  Her lips shivered. “Don’t be angry. I need you.”

  She held out her hand. I looked at that slim white wing for a few moments. Then I took it. Living in my father’s house, with him so distant in his locked chamber, I had forgotten the pleasure of touching another person’s skin. When the intruder’s cool hand clasped my fingers, a trap door banged open in my chest, and my heart plunged into a bottom
less well of desire.

  “Will you meet me tonight?” she asked.

  “I can’t. My father doesn’t like to be left alone.”

  Her grip tightened. “Please?”

  Please . . .

  Please!

  I said yes.

  She smiled. On the inside of a matchbook she wrote down the name of a club in the city. Neutral ground – no fathers allowed. Then she leaned over and kissed me.

  I expected a light peck, but she clutched my shoulders and pressed her mouth so hard against mine that my skull ached. Our tongues danced. Hers held a secret: a stud of glass that bit into my flesh and drew blood. Sugar and rusted tin, the taste of cruel candy. Her nipples were nails boring into my chest. When I cried out, she pulled away, clamping her hand over my mouth.

  “Don’t disappoint me. I can be very, very dangerous.”

  She whispered her threat into my right ear, the one without the transmitter. Her velvet adder’s tongue caressed my earlobe with each syllable.

  My father used to call me – as a term of endearment, believe it or not – his “blood virgin”. No matter how many killers’ confessions I transcribed, he refused to admit that I could be intimate with blood. He believed that some membrane lay across the psyche that kept the innocent from understanding violent crimes. Breaking that membrane didn’t necessarily require killing another person; my father had never broken a law in his life, but he was the high priest of murder. Maybe the rupture came with a flash of insight, a glimpse into the locked chamber. As long as I played deaf, dumb and blind, my moral hymen stayed intact. It wasn’t until I entered my father’s chamber that the wall of my cell burst, and I saw what murder was: a miracle of transubstantiation, performed in reverse.