“Really? You sure?”
She talks fast and chatty. He bets himself she’d be energetic in bed, somebody who likes to try new things. His swelling dick twitches.
“Yeah, I’m positive. Enjoy it.”
The sound of her laugh bubbles straight into his balls.
“My hands are a little full.” Her eyes scrunch up. “The only thing I have to carry things with are my teeth.”
Did he hear her right? Carry things in her teeth? That would mean between her lips? Was his lengthening hard-on visible through his Levi’s? He clears his throat. When words finally come out, his voice is a touch lower than normal: “What you want me to do?”
“I guess you’re just going to have to put it in my mouth,” she replies, without batting an eye.
Time slows for him.
A bead of sweat starts making its way down his left temple when she parts her naked lips for him. He watches his hand shake as he lifts the cigar to her waiting mouth. He wants to groan when her soft tongue scoots back, to make room as he slowly slips its thick head into . . .
Her teeth clamp down – swift and sudden.
“Thanks,” she says, the cigar clamped tight between her teeth.
3:58
I scored a cigar today. A pretty good one, too. The guy who gave it to me was nice – a little strange, but nice.
I can’t wait to get out of here. Maybe I’ll get a chance to relieve a little of this sexual tension before you-know-who gets home from work. I mean, I’d definitely rather wait and screw him. But sometimes I just need to take care of myself. If I don’t, I get really bitchy.
So, I masturbate. Probably not as much as I’d like, but enough.
I’m damn good at it, too.
I’ve got a Butterfly, a Rabbit Pearl, a Diving Dolphin, this corkscrew thing you put up your ass, Ben-Wa balls, some cream that’s supposed to make your clit swell up like a grape, vibrating bullets . . . you name it, I’ve got it. Thank the good Lord for the Internet and credit cards. And tonight, I’ve even got a cigar.
Jeezus, just visualizing the Rabbit Pearl – translucent pink with a thick, soft head and that gyrating shaft. Hmmm. I totally love its fat sack of beads, the way it massages the opening of my cunt while its jelly ears slap at my clit. Imagining that soaks the hell out of my jeans.
Shit, I really need to start wearing underwear to work. It’s definitely time to take the bunny out of the box.
Only an hour to go and I can kiss the fax machine goodbye till Monday.
5:11
He’s finally in his truck, on his way home. His penis strains against his jeans. It took every ounce of concentration in him to keep his erection concealed for the last couple of hours of work.
Now that he’s alone, his dick is swollen, burning, harder than he can remember it in the past fifteen years. His whole body is hot. His balls sweat. His thighs sweat. He feels twisted up like the chains on a swing, straining, waiting for its cue to spin the kid riding it out of control.
He coaxes the truck into reverse. He wants to get home.
A mile. Three miles. Nine miles to go. His dick is starting to hurt now. It pushes against his zipper like the roots of a tree.
He keeps his left hand on the wheel. With his right he fumbles with the button on his jeans.
He remembers her smoky-citrus smell. He eases down his zipper. His penis lurches out like a bull out of a bucking-shoot. The wind from the open window hits it with a cool caress. The truck swerves over the centerline. Someone honks.
Both hands back on the wheel, he jerks the truck back into the right lane. He turns on the radio. Van Morrison is singing about making love in the green grass.
He glances down and watches two drops of pre-come glide down his shaft. Another one, caught like a raindrop in the thatch of his pubic hair.
Van Morrison is still singing, sha-lahing the chorus.
His eyes are feverish as they focus back on the road ahead. He can hear her laugh. He can see her grin, see her lips parting. Over and over again, he replays the moment when he slipped the cigar into her mouth. Her wet, pink, plump tongue . . . those naked lips. He slips the cigar in again . . . slow, and deep. This time, in his mind, her lips seal around it, her dark eyes close. He gently pulls it from her throat an inch at a time. Her eyelashes flutter. He hears her moan. He groans aloud in response.
His dick feels like it’s humming – standing straight up, the thin skin stretched tight, the blue vessels bulging.
She’s standing in her lacy, red panties and nothing else. He shoves the cigar back between her wet lips and then pulls it out again – faster, and faster. He watches her nipples pucker – meaty stems on perky little apples.
The surprise of his own rough palm seizing his high-strung erection jolts him back to reality. He sees his street. Shifting down. Clutch in – fourth. Clutch in – third. Clutch in – second . . .
5:11
I have a love-hate relationship with my car. I love it because it’s cherry-red, and I hate it because it’s really a piece of shit disguised under a loud engine – with an oil leak and a suspension that’s shot to shit.
I’m finally on my way home. Ninety percent of me hopes that the house is empty when I get there so I can have some privacy to, well, you know. The other ten percent is hoping that he’s there, naked and waiting to end his prissy nookie-strike. I’m not even sure if I’m horny anymore. Okay, okay, I am. I’m just not finger-up-my-cunt horny anymore. Obsessing about sex and my fucking fucked-up relationship all day has got to me. Maybe there really is something wrong with me. Maybe I am oversexed.
I wasn’t always like this. I could hold out for months. Sex was a bargaining chip. Giving up the goodies was a lot about power and control, not animal need. Now I seem to be on the other side of the coin. Karma’s a bitch.
I think that might be what’s bothering me about this whole no-sex-till-marriage bullshit. I’ve somehow relinquished my God-given right to my nookie-keys. I’m the one always having to figure out how to get lucky, and it sucks ass. I’m the woman, for Christ’s sake! You need to have sex with me or your balls will explode or shrivel and fall off, right? Right?
I think about it for a few more miles, and it really starts to piss me off. What pisses me off even more is that even though I’m getting really fucking irritated with the whole fiancé deal, my fresh-shaved pussy is still slick and sopping.
So here I am home, and I’m not a happy camper. In fact, I’m so mad – so frustrated – that I’m about to fucking cry. Thank God the bastard’s not home yet.
Fine.
I’ll have a Rabbit Moment and take a hot shower. And then I’ll do that cigar real good, too. And maybe I’ll head out to dinner before he gets back. And smoke the fucking cigar. What the hell.
5:42
His wife’s car is in the garage. His heart sinks. He’s made it home before her for over a decade. Clockwork. Ritual. Of all days for things to not happen like they always do.
He lets the truck idle in the driveway for a moment, willing his cock to relax. It doesn’t give a damn. The more he thinks about it, the harder it gets. He can’t go in the house with this erection. It screams to be touched. He knows his wife would do more than just deny him verbally – she’d tell him with her cold eyes and her body that he’s revolting.
He needs to jack off. He needs to surrender his body to the girl who’s been eating at him all day. He decides that the bathroom in the garage is the safest place. In a moment he’ll be tugging on his swollen dick. The thought sends a shock of excitement through his groin. His balls tighten against his body.
With his left hand clamped around his scrotum, he kills the engine and frantically rummages through the glove box. He wants something besides his rough hand to coax the come from his dick. He wants something soft and wet around his cock – something like the way the girl’s mouth must have felt around that cigar. He finds an old chamois that’s in decent shape. Yes, it’ll work. When he was in high school he had a gray sock
that provided just enough friction. A chamois will be even better, he thinks, velvety and natural.
Wet, he must find wet. He finds a little packet of Best Foods mayo. The foil is warm from being in his truck for hours. He can’t think of a good reason not to use it, besides the fact that it’s food. Her mouth was wet, her saliva thick and warm.
He sucks in his gut and gingerly manipulates his erection back into his jeans. It stands straight up, pressed against his belly. The tip of its glistening purple head peeks out of his waistband. Chamois and Best Foods in his pocket, he makes his way past his wife’s car, past his toolboxes. The denim rubbing against him reminds him of dry-humping. He envisions pumping his naked cock between the thighs of the girl’s dark blue, low-cut jeans.
He closes the bathroom door and flicks on the light. The space is filled with spider webs and the yellowing toilet runs. He doesn’t see any of it. He’s completely lost in his fantasy – touch, sight, and smell devoted entirely to the need to fill her throat with his cock. His pants are around his knees. She’s kneeling in front of him, wearing nothing but that red G-string. Her grin is wicked around the fat cigar. He pulls it from her lips, and she whimpers in protest. She wants it back, wants it heavy on her tongue.
He cradles his package in his hand. His erection dangles right above her mouth. He offers himself to her – to fill her, to pacify her hunger. Her lips part. He enters her mouth gingerly. His fist is loose, just enough to feel as he slips the chamois over his cock. He shudders, then tightens his grip and plunges straight down to his balls through the warm, mayonnaise-slicked tunnel.
Her mouth is exquisite. He grips her by the back of the head – hips and hand still for a moment. He could fire his cock into her face right now – he’s ready. One more thrust and it could be over, but he wants to savor it. He wants it to last.
She sucks him deep, tongue caressing his manhood, rewarding him for waiting for her all day. She scoots closer to swallow him deeper. His hips rock. His eyes roll back. In and out, in and out. He’s lost.
Now she’s on all fours in front of him. The cigar is back between her lips. Her little round ass is lifted high, her back arched, her round titties hanging – apples to be picked.
Take me, she’s saying with her feverish eyes looking back at him, take me, take me.
He drops to his knees. The cement floor is filthy and cold. He braces himself with one hand and runs his hands over her ass. His fingers pull the silky red cord of her panties to the side. He sees that she’s wet, that her pussy is swollen and steaming for him. He nestles his dick at the hairy little opening of her cunt and then he pushes up through her ridges and folds – and fucks her. Quick and furious. Fucks her hard – cock slamming, balls slapping, the sounds of suction and friction filling his ears. He grunts. Her ass dances in little circles.
He’s going to explode. She wants him to fill her. She wants his seed to run out of her cunt and spill down her thighs. He cries out loud – a desperate sound. He pumps into the chamois, into her pussy, load after load of semen that make the end of his ride wetter and wilder.
Sweat blankets every inch of his body. Come is everywhere.
He kisses her lips, her nipples, her cunt. She wiggles up against him and they collapse to the ground. He holds her and she sighs. They’ll rest now for a little while. As the last spasm of pleasure flows through him, he rests his forehead onto the cool, gritty concrete.
Silence.
1:26
Three beers. And four different guys bought me drinks. That last guy wasn’t so bad, either – I coulda done him. Oh, well, I’m engaged.
Christ, I left the headlights on. I hope the fucking car will start.
Shit.
Shit. And I left my phone home, too.
Well, fuck it. It’s almost closing time, somebody’ll come along with a phone. I’m just gonna sit here and smoke that cigar. If it’s not too damp.
Steel Trap Pussy
Colleen Chen
“Do a hundred Kegels a day,” Tina advised. “A woman should have a pussy like a steel trap.”
“A steel trap!” Marnie giggled, struck by the imagery of a tiny, stainless-steel vagina that clacked open and shut. Her exclamation shrilled into a lull in the café buzz, and her face grew warm from the heat of several stares. Lowering her voice, she added, “I don’t believe it’s possible. I’ve tried Kegels before, too, and they just make me feel weird.”
The two made an attractive pair – one dark and feline, the other petite, with chicken-fluff hair and large brown puppy-dog eyes. The dark and feline one was drumming red nails on the tabletop.
“Weird – what do you mean, weird?”
“Like – well, it just starts feeling funny.”
Tina drew her torso erect, towering over her smaller, fairer friend. Her eyes smoldered, dusky-deep, self-righteous. Marnie thought Tina must look a little like that while she was working her other job as a dominatrix. Tina had that sex-guru aura, and so Marnie had asked her advice. “Your pubococcygeus muscle is weak. Kegels are your answer – daily, vigilant attention to strengthening your pubic floor!”
Marnie resisted the idea of any sort of daily exercise, but Tina did have a point, she thought. She’d do just about anything to rev up her sex life – she could just tell Kurt was going to dump her if things didn’t improve.
“How do you expect me to do this shoving my dick into a cave!” he’d shouted ungraciously, last time they’d had sex and he’d gone limp after fifteen minutes. She’d not appreciated that comment, nor his oblique and drunken remarks about how much he preferred girls with “short tunnels”, or why couldn’t he fuck her in the ass just this once?
But, she loved him. He was her soulmate, after all. A Tarot card reader at a psychic fair had told her that she’d soon meet the man who’d be with her forever, and within a week she’d found Kurt on the dance floor of Club O. Instant chemistry: they’d gone home together that night. Even after the initial oxytocin rush had died down, they’d discovered all sorts of things they had in common – they shared a passion for health food, for nature shows and movies about underdogs, for lazy post-coital discussions about philosophy, free will versus fate. Both preferred fate. It seemed like fate when a month later, Kurt moved in to Mamie’s little apartment in the middle of town.
The sex had been amazing from the start. They’d only begun to have problems, in bed and out, in the last few weeks – Kurt had lost his job doing temp work and started getting moody and drinking more. He’d just left to visit his family in Indianapolis, and Marnie was determined to improve herself while he was gone, so he’d snap right out of those moods when he saw her again.
Soulmates had problems too, she thought. She pictured his devil-sexy angel face when he wasn’t in one of his moods, and her heart warmed; she listened attentively as Tina expounded upon the benefits of doing Kegels. Not only would she get tighter, but she’d have more intense orgasms. Maybe even multiple ones. Increased sex drive. Added pleasure and excitement for both lovers. Spiritual evolution. On top of it all, Kegels also helped prevent incontinence!
Marnie was sold. She resolved to begin her Kegels right away. She felt too self-conscious to do so at the flower shop where she worked, but once she reached the privacy of her apartment she sprawled out onto her couch, her diminuitive body nearly disappearing among its soft purple cushions, and, very gently – almost as if she was afraid of breaking something – she squeezed her pubic floor muscles together and upwards, in the most tentative of Kegels. A hundred was too many that first day. Her muscles felt cramped, and that “funny feeling” – almost like she needed to pee, but not quite – was so intense she almost gave up. But she pictured Kurt, gave a determined sigh, and finished.
The next day it was easier, and the next even more so. She found she could do more and more, and soon it no longer felt funny – it felt good. She squeezed in the shower, while she ate breakfast, while she sat in the subway. She squeezed while she walked, while she worked, while she waxed the ca
r! She got in her hundred a day and then did a hundred more. She made up a song to sing to herself while she did her Kegels, her version of “Old MacDonald”:
Old MacDonald had a farm
Ee-i-e-i-o
On that farm he had a pussy
Ee-i-e-i-o
With a Kegel here
And a Kegel there
Here a Kegel
There a Kegel
Everywhere a – uungh! – Kegel
Old MacDonald had a farm
Ee-i-e-i-o
Mamie did Kegels all the way driving to the airport to pick Kurt up. It had been two weeks since they’d last had sex, and boy was he in for a surprise!
“What’re you grinning like that for?” he asked her in the car, a frown marring the tanned smoothness of his face.
“You’ll see,” she grinned, pulling off the freeway exit and heading towards her apartment.
And she continued grinning as they entered the living room and initiated a welcome-home fuck on the soft purple couch, a fuck that continued through the night and on till morning. Kurt’s appreciation for the newly viselike grip of her pussy exceeded her wildest expectations.
“Wow . . . wow!” was all he said, in between rounds, but that was enough.
So began a glorious couple of weeks of sex as enthusiastic as when they’d first met five months ago. Nights and mornings, Marnie was in sex heaven. During the day, she bought Tina lunch on their breaks from arranging flowers and dealing with customers, and she was regaled with tales of orgies and fetish parties that had her blushing bashful red and then going envious green in turns. But when Tina smiled a little Mona Lisa smile and queried her about possible participation, Marnie crossed slender legs, did a Kegel, and announced, “I’m a serial monogamist.”
She was determined to be a good one, though, and so she continued her daily Kegels. She exulted in the increasing control she had with her pubic floor muscles. Determined to hone this control yet further, she began to stick objects into her vagina – the skinny end of a hairbrush, a carrot, or a highlighter pen – seeing how easily she could hold it. Here a Kegel, there a Kegel. Everywhere a uungh! Kegel.
The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 6 Page 37