The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 6

by Jakubowski Maxim

  “I don’t want him to be the last man who touched me,” she said to Tom.

  “What do you want?” he asked. His voice was soft and careful.

  What did she want? She wanted to be the same person she had been the night before. She wanted to be the slightly naive person she had been before he opened up a different world. She had been handed newness over and over and she was almost ready to be done with it.

  Almost ready.

  “You know what turned him on most?” she asked. “The thought of me fucking a room full of men while he watched. Three or four, maybe. Or more than that. The thought of turning me into a whore excited him.”

  Tom leaned back on the couch. He dropped his hand to his thigh. He was still trying to be a gentleman, trying to hide the erection that was obviously long and hard behind those denim jeans.

  “Why do men like that?” she asked abruptly, and Tom shrugged.

  “I have no idea. Some men don’t like it at all.”

  “Do you like it?”

  He closed his eyes and nodded.

  “How many friends do you have?”

  Tom opened his eyes but did not move. She watched the little vein at his temple as it pulsed with his heartbeat. He swallowed once. She thought about how sore her own throat was, about the things she had done with it.

  “Are you sure you want to do something like that, Callie? Absolutely sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “But up until this weekend, you had never had a one-night stand. You’ve never even cheated on anyone. When I say this I mean it with the utmost affection: Callie, you are sheltered. You are a good girl. Good girls need to stay like that, don’t you think?”

  She slowly shook her head. “If you are trying to talk me out of it, I will call someone else.”

  Tom did look at her then. His eyes were wide, but he believed her.

  “Why me?”

  “I trust you to keep me safe.”

  Tom shook his head and for a long while they both stared straight ahead, afraid to look at one another. She shifted and made a small noise, a muffled sigh that got his attention. She was hurting. It was evident in every movement she made.

  “What did he do to you?” Tom asked quietly. Callie took his hand and traced each fingertip. She found that she couldn’t answer, because no answer seemed to be enough. Instead she held onto his hand as she rose from the couch. Tom followed her down the hallway, to the bedroom where she had led Paul not so long before.

  The bruises on her shoulder were in the perfect shape of teeth marks. So were the ones on her hip and on her breasts. Her lips were swollen when Tom kissed them. Other parts of her were swollen too, and when he spread her thighs to touch her the sight of those bruises stopped him. The marks were from the inside of her knee all the way up. Her womanhood was swollen, so swollen that Tom was almost afraid to touch her. He sat back and looked at her for a while, and she let him do it without a single ounce of embarrassment.

  Tom slid his hands gently up her thighs. “Does it make me a bad person if seeing you like this turns me on, Callie?” He ran one finger across the lips of her pussy and gently eased it inside. She was impossibly tight. Surely there was no way she could take a man in there.

  “Does it turn you on?” she asked breathlessly.

  “I don’t like that you feel so bad. That your heart hurts. But looking at your body and knowing you were fucked like that makes me want to fuck you myself.”

  She watched as he slipped out of his clothes. His cock was hard and seeing that sent a little glimmer of anticipation through her. She reached for his hand when he would have touched her. She pulled him down beside her.

  “I meant what I said,” she told him. “I might be a good girl but this weekend is all shot to shit anyway, and I want to be something I’ve never been before. Come Monday I will be my same old self. Right now I want to try something while the trying is good.”

  Tom didn’t answer. He kissed his way down her body instead.

  Her lips were swollen and almost raw. He touched them with his tongue and she sighed. The sound was one of appreciation, not of pain. His touch was feather light but firm, and by the time he slipped his finger inside her she was bucking her hips up to him, begging him to do it. He gently kissed her clit and she thought suddenly that she had only slept with six men in her entire life. Tom was going to be lucky number seven and by the end of the night she might roll the dice all the way up to number eleven.

  “I want you inside me,” she whispered.

  Tom moved up between her thighs. The hair of his chest tickled her hard nipples. They were chafed and covered in shades of red that wouldn’t go away for a very long time. He pressed the head of his cock against her. He started to ease in and whispered to her to relax. She was so tight that the fit was almost impossible but finally he slid home. He clenched his teeth to keep from coming too fast but she knew he would anyway. He felt like a monster inside her, thanks to the pounding she took and the swelling it had left.

  “Just do it,” she whispered, and with his first stroke she came. He was startled into his own orgasm. One long stroke and they both went off like rockets.

  Long hours later, Tom reached for the phone. The room was dark; night was approaching fast. She watched him dial one number after another. His back was strong but pale, nothing like Paul’s deeply tanned skin. She kissed it and he chuckled while he looked back at her. Her body ached but her heart felt better.

  He asked her, only once, if she was sure. She was.

  He had more than a few friends. They walked into the room with a blinking expression of surprise, reminding her of small animals climbing out of a hole and into the light of day. She felt that same way, as though she was seeing something for the first time. The first one tried to tell her his name with a shy smile but she shut him up with a kiss. He tasted like beer. She didn’t want to know who he was. It didn’t really matter anyway.

  Tom sat in the chair and watched. He watched while she went down on his friend. Paul had tasted like smoke but this guy tasted sweet, almost like kiwi. She didn’t know men could really taste that way. Another myth shattered, she thought as she took him down her throat. He wasn’t too big to gag her, and she liked that.

  So did he. He held her hair and began to fuck her mouth. She pulled away long enough to whimper that she didn’t want him to come that way. Not yet. She wanted to feel him inside her first. He insisted on taking his time. It wasn’t what she wanted but she admitted to herself that maybe it was what she needed. A man who would take time and be careful not to hurt her.

  He filled her completely. Callie ground against him. He whispered into her ear about how tight she was, and where did those bruises come from? She kissed him again to shut him up. She just wanted a fuck. Much more of this concern and she would break down and cry.

  Tom made a small sound from beside the bed. He sat there watching, slowly drinking from the vodka bottle Paul had left. She watched him swallow the alcohol. She stared at him while the other guy fucked her, while his strokes sped up and his hands got rougher. She arched and gasped when the moment came, when a stranger filled her with one last thrust and let the wetness go inside her.

  “More,” she demanded, and there was another man to fulfill the request.

  She got on her knees and sucked for all she was worth. His cock was long and thin, and she gagged on it when he pushed too far down her throat. He tried to pull back but she wouldn’t let him. Instead she pushed him deeper, deep enough that she didn’t gag anymore, and he slid in and out of her throat, making it burn. His moans were very loud in the little room.

  Another man was there behind her. He slid in slowly and commented that her ass would probably be looser than her pussy was. So she invited him to give it a try.

  The lube was cold. His cock was hot as fire. She moaned on the dick in her mouth while he drilled her back door. It hurt a little but it was the kind of hurt she needed, the kind of pain she wanted, the kind that made her moa
n and buck and come when she felt him slide all the way home. She was just as startled as the guy was. How did she come from that?

  “That’s one hot bitch,” he said to Tom, and Tom shot him a look filled with something quite like venom.

  She closed her eyes and bore down on him, enjoying the feeling of it, the heat of him sliding in and out. She was sore from the attempt Paul had made to enter her that way; she had called out the safe word, the first time in her life she had ever used one. She had been impressed with the speed with which he withdrew from her body. How ironic that was, now that he had withdrawn from her life just as easily.

  The man behind her got a little too rough. “Hey,” Tom said, and the guy slowed down. She went back to sucking the cock in front of her. After Paul, it was easy to deep throat him. He loved it. He was going to come very soon, and this made Callie very happy. She played with his balls and squeezed them hard, just to make him gasp.

  The man behind her came first. He made a sound like a strangled cat and Callie sucked harder to keep from laughing out loud. Sometimes men truly were animals. But he was gentle even when he came, pushing deep but not pushing hard. She liked him.

  The man in front of her was close. Too close. She pulled away and stroked his cock, made him come all over her face. Tom groaned aloud at the sight of it. She licked the last drops and fell on the bed with a sigh, rested for a brief moment.

  There was one more man to go.

  He looked at her with dark eyes. He was Latino, with a stocky build and a shy smile. He had a certain look about him, one that said he was used to giving women what they wanted. He was used to feeling a woman writhe in ecstasy.

  “Lucky number eleven,” she said, and reached for him.

  She took her time with him. She sucked his cock like it was her favorite kind of ice cream cone, and she didn’t stop until he started to shudder against her. He liked to pull her hair. He liked to guide her mouth. He was very thick but not very long, and that was just fine. She wanted to feel him inside her. She wanted to feel that delicious stretching.

  But if she could take her time, so could he.

  Even though surrounded by a room full of men who wanted another go, he was slow and easy. He ignored the rumblings of the others. His sole purpose was playing with her clit, making her wet, teasing her nipples and lightly touching everywhere else his hands could reach. He even played with her feet. Before long she was clenching the headboard and wrapping her legs around his shoulders. He chuckled against her clit. She almost went off right then, but he didn’t let her.

  Instead, he played her with two fingers. Then three. Then four, and when she arched off the bed and asked him to give her more, he laughed at her with a delight that made her blush all over.

  “You have such a nice submissive streak,” he murmured. His voice was low and soothing. She pushed against his hand and he gently replaced it with his cock.

  She cried out as he impaled her. He was just this side of vicious. Tom sat up in the chair, carefully watching her face. Of course she was hurting but that was just fine, because ohmygod, did this man know how to hit all those places! He thrust into her with short, careful strokes and suddenly she felt that feeling again, that thing that happened deep inside her body in the secret places even she hadn’t know existed until Paul had shown her and she knew it was going to happen again. It was going to happen.

  “I can’t . . .” she whimpered, and then it wasn’t a question of whether she could. She did. She came and when she did she soaked his cock, soaked the sheet, soaked them both and made him gasp in approval.

  “Good girl,” he growled as she came down from the orgasm, dazed and spent. “I’ll be gentle now. So gentle . . . just lie still for me.”

  She did as he asked. It felt delightful to lie under him and not move, to simply enjoy the sensation from the place of satisfaction. He watched her face while he moved. After long moments he let out a low growl, so much like that of an animal that she shivered from head to toe. When he flooded her, it seemed to last an eternity. She felt the warmth of him slip out from between them.

  And that was the glorious end of Round One.

  She took every one of them again. Tom watched, stroking his cock sometimes, but mostly just taking in everything with his eyes. She wanted each of them inside her and that’s what she got, though they weren’t all as careful as they should have been. She would pay for that later but she got what she wanted, which was one load after another left as deep in her as they could make it shoot. She tried every position Paul had tried and then even more than that. She rode one of them, his cock rocking inside her like a rasp, testing her limits of endurance and pain. She was proud of herself when she made him come. She had handled more than she thought she could and she hadn’t once complained.

  Maybe she was a good girl, after all.

  One by one they left. They said goodbye with kisses and awkward hugs, gentle caresses and careful whispers. Tom had good friends, men with more than a little conscience about them. She was grateful for it. Strangely, she didn’t feel used after taking all of them on. She felt thoroughly enjoyed. Thoroughly vindicated.

  Tom was left, sitting there near the bed. So was the Latino, who looked down at her with those dark eyes as he lay in her bed.

  “Who are you?” she asked. He trailed one fingertip down her belly, traced a mark that went up her side.

  “Emilio,” he murmured.

  “I like you, Emilio.”

  He smiled and kissed her. Tom slipped into bed on the other side of her. As soon as Emilio was done exploring her mouth, Tom’s tongue was delving into her.

  Her body was more alive than it had ever been. The bruises were deliciously sore, but now she didn’t know who had made them that way: Paul, or the men who had come after him? Here she was, lying between lucky numbers seven and eleven. The sun was rising. And so were other things.

  She took them both. Tom below her, Emilio above her, she held carefully still while they impaled her on their hard cocks. Tom cried out into her mouth. Emilio’s hand trembled on her back. They moved in counterpoint, finding a gentle rocking rhythm that set her to moaning with every plunge. It was good, so good, better than anything she had ever known, and when she came it was with a power that made both men gasp and topple over the edge with her. They filled her, cocks pumping and hearts pounding, until she couldn’t take another drop of what they had to give.

  She collapsed on Tom’s chest. As Emilio stroked her hair, she began to cry.

  Who she had become in the light of day didn’t feel as foreign as she thought it would. She stood in the shower and didn’t cry, because this time the tears were all gone. Tom was lying in her bed, sound asleep. Emilio was sitting on the edge of the tub, talking to her softly while the soap and water and semen swirled down the drain under her feet. She found that the more he talked, the more she liked his voice. It was comforting to her.

  “Why did you do this?” he asked her, and she told him the whole story. Before she was finished he was under the water with her, soaping her body, touching her everywhere.

  For the first time in her life, she made love standing up in the shower.

  Later that morning she left Emilio watching television. Tom was still asleep. She promised Emilio she would be back. “There’s just something I have to do,” she said as she kissed his forehead.

  She took Emilio’s car. She drove down the lake highway, drove to the blue water. It was raining, a downpour of Biblical proportions. She stopped at the little gas station that had been there forever and did only enough business to stay alive. It was the same place Paul had bought that last pack of cigarettes.

  “Marlboros,” she said, and dropped a ten dollar bill on the counter. She was gone before the cashier could count out the change. She threw the box into the car and stood there in the rain, let it drench her, let the downpour wash around Paul’s memory, let it make the thoughts small and hard and manageable.

  Water dripped into her eyes. It dripped on
to Emilio’s seats. She knew he would understand. She lit up a Marlboro and took a long drag that made her cough viciously. She did it again and this time she didn’t cough so much, and she didn’t see stars. The third time the smoke went down into her lungs easily and made her heart race.

  She was uncertain of where she was going. She would be back soon, before Tom and Emilio could begin to worry. She flipped the cigarette out the window and lit up another. By the time the pack was gone, Paul would be gone, too.

  Out on the lake road, rain kicked up over the tires, spun out behind the car in a rainbow arc. Callie took a deep drag of the cigarette. Her body hurt from head to toe but it was a good ache, the pain of a job well done, of time well spent. The engine roared. The tires hissed through the water. The smoke filled her lungs, one after another, until she shook out the last of the pack.

  She suddenly wanted to get back to Tom, to Emilio, to the new possibilities unveiled when old ghosts were wiped clear. She lit up that last cigarette.

  When the car slipped into the straightaway over the clear blue water, she floored it.

  Edward Hopper Doesn’t Live Here Anymore

  Maxim Jakubowski

  I’m sitting on a high stall in a bar called Phillies with my back to the nocturnal street. Across from me to my left, a man and a woman silently stare straight ahead at the white capped, blonde clerk busy cleaning dishes. The fedora wearing man negligently nurses a cigarette while the woman, red haired, in her late thirties I guess, peers at her well manicured nails. There is no juke box, there is no noise except for the occasional gurgling of the twin coffee percolators on the nearby counter; it’s a perfect three in the morning silence, made for night hawks and lonely hearts. She is thin, even gaunt, the silky fabric of her red dress draped across her shoulders, opening up across a V of indifferent, pale flesh. She sports scarlet lipstick, just like you imagined vamps did in black and white forties noir movies. They haven’t spoken to each other since I walked into the joint. But their body movement betrays the fact they are a couple. Only deep familiarity expresses itself, communicates in such a display of common silence.