The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 9

by Maxim Jakubowski

  It took him only moments to cross the room, but it felt like forever. When he spoke, it was as if his deep voice broke the silence, yet noise surrounded us. “For you,” he said, holding out the box. It was velvet, approximately five inches by three inches. No markings. Just pure black velvet contrasting his deeply tanned hand. Strong fingers. No ring. Small scar across the knuckle on his thumb.

  “What . . . what is it?”

  “Just take it.You won’t be sorry.”

  I hesitated, then reached for the box, felt his warm skin against mine. Lingered to savor the moment. He touched his free hand to my cheek – it felt like fire branded my skin – then he left the coffeehouse without saying another word and his friends followed. I tracked them through the window until they passed out of sight.

  “Hurry up. Open it,” Lacy said.

  “What do you think’s inside?”

  “How the hell should I know? Just open it.”

  “What if it’s a bomb or something?”

  “You got to be kidding me, right? Besides, it’s too small. If you don’t open it, Samantha, I will.”

  Gently, I flipped up the small metal latch on the side then eased off the lid to find red silk lining the inside of the box. A shiny piece of paper sat on top of the silk. It resembled a theater ticket and said: “For you – our special customer – one extraordinary night only – this Saturday – eight p.m. – Be prepared for the experience of a lifetime. Free admission to the Mystery Theater with this ticket. Good only for the bearer. No exceptions. Go to the clearing in the middle of Grouse Woods and be on time. No late entry permitted. Park at the Conestoga Spring.”

  “Let me see that,” Lacy said as she grabbed the ticket from my hand. “I don’t believe it.You’re so lucky.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He gave you a ticket to the Mystery Theater.”

  “I never heard of it.”

  “You got to be kidding me, right?”

  I shook my head.

  Lacy leaned forward and whispered. “It’s this secret traveling theater that goes all over the country. No one knows where it’s going or what exactly it’s about, but it’s supposed to be the most incredible experience you’ll ever have in your life.”

  I took the ticket back from Lacy. “If it’s so secret, how do you know about it? And if no one knows what it’s about, then how do you know it’s so incredible?”

  “I read about it on the Internet, but they swear you to secrecy when you leave the theater.”

  “You mean to tell me no one’s ever broken their promise? I find that hard to believe.”

  Lacy took a sip of coffee. “Believe what you want, but I’m telling you that everyone who has gone says it’s absolutely fantastic . . . if you don’t want to go, I’d be happy to take the ticket off your hands.”

  I considered the idea for a moment and then remembered the man’s touch. Even if I could just get a glimpse of him again, it would be worth it. “No . . . I’ll go.What do I have to lose?”

  “You’re so lucky,” Lacy said, smiling. “You do realize that, don’t you?”

  I shook my head.

  The hike into the woods took a good fifteen minutes from where I was parked with three other cars.The evening air smelled of pine and that clean water smell I love. Electric lanterns lined a path into the woods. Near silence greeted me, broken only by scattered twigs and leaves crunching underfoot.

  For an instant, I considered climbing back into my car and heading home, but a nagging feeling ate at my gut and told me to risk it. I figured I had nothing to lose. Hell, here I’d been complaining I wanted adventure, and when it stared me in the face, I hesitated. No, that wasn’t the way I wanted to live my life, and I’d be damned if my fear would get the best of me. I took a step forward, followed by another, until I found myself in the middle of a clearing facing a towering black tent. No sign. No people. No lights. Nothing.

  I heard music from inside, soothing but with an upbeat undertone to it – the melody inviting, yet erotic in some way I couldn’t quite figure out. I pushed aside the tent flap and stepped inside. A soft female voice spoke in my ear. “May I see your ticket please?”

  I turned and looked at her but was unable to see anything in the pitch black. I handed her my ticket. She flicked on a pen-light; the minute amount of light revealed nothing more than the tight-fitting one-piece black outfit the woman wore.

  “This way, please.” She turned off the pen-light, took hold of my hand, and led me through the tent. I could not imagine how she found her way without anything to guide her. I heard breathing and the rustling of clothes as we passed someone on my left. “Here you are,” the woman said as she turned my shoulders and helped me into a plush recliner. “We’ll be starting shortly. Just relax and enjoy the music.”

  It was five minutes, maybe ten or twenty. It was difficult to tell with nothing to guide me but unending music. The notes increased in tempo and volume until they vibrated and danced off the walls of the tent, encasing me in a cocoon of joy. Drums joined the fervor as did a guitar, then a soft voice eased in under the music singing a melody that drew the notes to an ever-increasing quiet and steady beat until they were no more, leaving only the woman’s voice to gently fill the air. It felt as if she were singing to me and no other, the darkness my only companion.

  Upon the last note, a cool breeze swept my skin, raising goose bumps across my arms, the sensation again magnified. Then, the chair began to warm, ever so slightly, and I felt something soft caress my skin – feathers maybe or cotton. My breath caught in my throat as the object moved across my cheeks and down my arms, stopping at my fingers before making its way back up to my face. I struggled between my desire to experience the sensation and my need to see who provided it, although I knew I wouldn’t be able to see a thing. Another cool breeze followed, then nothing.

  All I could do was anticipate what would come next – my senses were on fire.

  Again, it felt like a long time until something happened, but the wait only increased my pleasure. Five soft pink spotlights now bathed five gorgeous men, each dressed in nothing but identical shorts, cut high and tight. Bare, muscular chests glistening in the light, smiles plastering their faces, hands planted on hips. I could see the shadows of lounge chairs near each man and assumed a sixth man stood near me. I wondered what he looked like. How he felt. How he smelled. How he tasted. I turned my head to look, but the lights extinguished before I had a chance.

  Something soft pushed against my lips and juice ran down my chin. I opened my mouth to take it in, the strawberry so sweet and exhilarating, as if I were tasting one for the first time. His breath warmed my skin and then his tongue licked the juice clean in one full, drawn-out stroke. I ached. Every bit of me. And I craved more and more of these wonderful sensations. I didn’t know it could feel so good . . . that I could feel so good.

  Fingers found the buttons on my shirt, opened them, and gently spread the fabric to my sides. Again, I felt warm breath on my skin, then hands swept across my nipples, not stopping to satisfy the aching buds on the way down to my thighs and to my ankles and back up again. But this time, fingers pushed aside my bra strap and freed my breasts. A short beat, then ice on my nipples. I moaned. The cold was delicious against my heat. I reached out for him in the dark, barely able to stay still, but he pushed my arms against the chair and held them there for a moment. I dared not move again, not wanting to give him reason to stop.

  A soft, high-pitched bell clanged once, twice, followed by a warm shower from above. The water drizzled against my skin, each drop like needles yet so invigorating. After about a minute, the bell clanged again and the water stopped, leaving my saturated clothes plastered against my skin. The pink spotlights turned back on, this time casting a wider swath of light that illuminated each chair in addition to the men standing next to them, the men’s bodies now glistening from the water, their shorts clinging to their skin. I turned my head again, but the man ducked behind my chair and pushed my
face forward. “Watch them and enjoy,” he said into my ear, his voice creamy and smooth.

  I recognized his voice from the coffee shop – the man who gave me the ticket – and my stomach felt like it rushed into my throat but then quickly settled. “But . . . what?”

  “Life is not to question why, but to enjoy.” With those words, he pushed me upright, removed my shirt, and unhooked my bra, all the time caressing the back of my neck with his lips. I knew the other women in the room watched me. I felt their eyes, their stares, didn’t care – only focused on the men in shorts attending to them and on the man attending to me.

  His mouth found my waiting nipple and sucked, then he bit it gently with his teeth as his hand teased my other nipple. His tongue trailed down my stomach, paused at my waist, then made its way back to my breast. I watched another man do the same thing to a woman directly across from me, turned my attention to the side and saw the same thing again. It only served to increase my excitement. I wanted him to take me right then and there. I didn’t care who watched. All I could focus on was the burning ache and wetness between my legs.

  The tent went dark again. I shivered, but not because I was cold. I felt hands on my hips pushing my pants to my ankles and over my feet. A finger pushed under my panties, teased me for a second, then disappeared. Ice again on my breasts. Warm mouth on mine. Fingers in my hair. I reached out to him. Felt the rock hard muscles of his chest. Ran my hands down to his waist, across his shorts, over the bulge, lingering for a long moment.

  He pushed aside my hand. I heard his zipper. Only wanted to reach for him. Hold him. Take him inside me. But I knew the rules.

  Again, the lights. This time a little dimmer, mixed with purple. Soft music and a cool breeze blowing directly on my skin. He moved into view. Naked. Sculpted like one of those famous statues I’d seen in museum pictures somewhere. “Please,” I said.

  He smiled and drew a vibrator out from behind his back, turned it on. The buzzing alone almost made me orgasm. I glanced across the way, saw another man holding a vibrator against a woman, joy plastered across her face. My man pressed the vibrator against my clit, sending ecstatic bolts of electricity through my body. I arched my back and spread my legs, desperately wanting it inside me, wanting him inside me. He knew it too. He smiled a wicked grin and stopped just because he could, right when I was on the brink of orgasm.

  He reached behind him, and I felt cold water hitting my skin again followed by that cool breeze and then his mouth on my neck. His oh-so-warm mouth. He straddled me with his thick muscular legs and leaned toward my chest and kissed me. Hard. Hands clamping my head. Fingers nearly digging into my scalp.

  Lights out.

  He left me. Alone in the chair. Craving his touch. Needing him like I’ve never needed anyone before. I touched my breasts and ran my hands down my stomach, but it wasn’t the same. Where was he? “Please,” I said again. “I want you.”

  Music now – so quiet I could barely hear it.

  He climbed back on top of me and I reached for him, wanting to guide him inside me. Again the damn rules. He pushed my hand away. Bit gently on my nipple, then spread my legs and took me at the same instant the lights turned back on.

  I stared at his face, our hips moving together, slowly at first then faster and faster until I thought I would die from the pleasure. Someone screamed, someone else moaned, and I came fast and hard. Not once, but twice.The orgasm was so great, it ran down to my toes and up into my hands. I felt him come, and I smiled.

  The tent was plunged into blackness again. He kissed me on the lips, then kissed my breasts and said, “Such exquisite pleasure.” With that, he disappeared. I fished for him with my hands, and couldn’t find anything but the chair on which I sat.

  “Here are some dry clothes,” a woman said and pressed a sweatshirt and sweatpants into my hands. I think it was the same woman who had led me to my chair. She turned on her pen-light so I could see to get dressed, then led me from the chair back through the tent. I tried to glimpse the other women, see the men who had been wearing the shorts, find the man who had pleasured me so, but I couldn’t see anything beyond the small beam of light.

  At the exit, the woman pressed a piece of paper into my hand and said, “Thanks for coming. I hope you enjoyed the Mystery Theater.”

  I didn’t know what to say, so I just nodded and headed back to my car with the paper clenched in my fist. Halfway home, I pulled to the shoulder and cut the engine, not believing what had happened. I grabbed the paper from the passenger seat where I had tossed it and then unfolded it to reveal a rose. Underneath the rose, the paper said: “Keep what happened here tonight a secret. If you speak of it with anyone, you will spoil the magic for other women like yourself. It is the not-knowing and the surprise in life that makes everything so incredibly exciting.”

  The Gift of the Magic Lump of Coal

  A parody.

  EllaRegina

  Apologies to O. Henry

  One-hundred-and-eighty-seven times.That was an exact tally. And sixty of those times had occurred out of bed – whilst standing, sitting on a chair, or tethered together like marionettes in a slow walk amid their tiny rooms. Many a happy hour had been spent. Della kept count of their lovemaking in a small dog-eared leather-bound journal, kept within a tiny desk drawer next to the shabby couch, in the furnished flat rented at $8 a week; their love had been proven one-hundred-and-eighty-seven times in the forty-five days they’d been married. There was not much in terms of material goods but they had each other and that seemed enough for now. And the next day would be Christmas.

  Mr James Dillingham Young was only twenty-two and already burdened with a family, but only in the financial sense – his income having been cut from $30 weekly to $20; his nineteen-year-old bride, Della, gave him things a millionaire’s money could not buy. It did not matter that he needed a new overcoat and went without gloves. It did not matter that their letter-box could not hold a missive nor that their electric button doorbell would not ring. Neither did they care that they lacked the means for proper wedding bands or even Christmas presents.

  Whenever Mr James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above the entryway vestibule he was called “Jim” and fervently hugged by Mrs James Dillingham Young, his sweet Della. She would unleash her golden cascade of hair, falling beyond the knees, itself almost a garment, and greet him wearing nothing but her black lace-up boots and pink corset – the flaxen thicket of muff hair that Jim so adored peeking out from the embroidered brocade – slightly shivering unless standing close to the fire, but with the knowledge that another kind of warmth was soon to come.

  Tomorrow would be Christmas Day. A threadbare upholstered chair stood by the rear window and Jim rested on its feather-poked cushion, his trouser buttons undone. He looked out on a dull gray cat walking a gray fence in a gray backyard, empty of people. Had there been someone they could not bear witness to any activity in the second-floor Dillingham home taking place below the neck. Fortunately, the flat directly across the airshaft was occupied by a blind couple; they never so much as lit a gas lamp for illumination. Della impaled herself atop Jim, his cock shooting up hard against her insides as she sat on his lap. He lifted the mass of her hair with a practiced hand.

  “What do you want Santa to bring you for Christmas, little girl?” he queried, his sword-moving accompanying every other word.

  “Nothing, Santa,” answered Della, moaning low. “This is more than plenty.”

  “How about if Santa gives you a special present – a baby for next Christmas?”

  At the word baby Della felt Jim’s flesh within her arch rigidly to the left, in an uncontrollable pulse, like a bat being swung.

  “No, James,” said Della, soberly slipping out of the role for a moment to note their fiscal circumstances. “We cannot afford a baby.You know that. Finish how you always do, please, and give it to me quick. It’s Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me.”

  “Ah,” replied Santa, “so there will be n
o baby as there can be no milk to feed him. I understand. But Santa always has plenty of milk for beloved mothers.”

  On cue with that phrase Della left Jim’s lap and briskly switched to a kneeling position at his feet, taking his milk-filled prick inside her mouth, lips and tongue holding it tightly as she moved to and fro. She looked up at him – her brilliantly sparkling emerald eyes in an unwavering gaze, rosy nipples peering over the laced corset, her surrounding hair a shiny gilded rippling curtain – as he thickly spouted, a drop or two splashing on the worn red carpet, though Della was careful, as ever, to keep his issue behind her lips the best she could. He spent so copiously it was always a challenge.

  “Santa isn’t finished with you, Little Miss. Go put on your skirt and come back here.”

  Della complied, revisiting his post in a petticoat and wool swirl, mounting herself as directed across Santa’s muscular knees. Jim unpeeled the seemingly infinite layers of fabric until he reached Della’s plump ivory buttocks and took his old leather strap – the one he used in place of a fob chain on the gold watch he inherited from his father, who inherited it from his father – and brought the cowhide down with a resounding slap, causing Della to whelp and blush, thinking perhaps Mme. Sofronie below could hear them. Jim alternated between the strap and his strong bare hand, stroking her muff hair soothingly between blows.

  Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings.

  Sometimes Jim paused and insinuated a finger into the eye of Della’s rear, causing her to topple and groan with pleasure on his thighs; he had to hold her steady while he dipped the finger in and out. When he felt she was ready, Jim deposited some saliva into the palm of his hand and spread a portion over the little hole, widening it until it could contain a bigger part of himself.Then, skirt still topsy-turvy and aflutter, Della sat upright and eased her private entrance onto Jim’s stiffness, slowly and gently – her leg muscles hard at work controlling the speed of her descent – until Jim was firmly encased in the spot that was his alone; it surely had been made for him and no one else.