The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 9

by Maxim Jakubowski

  Caught. I should say, trapped. Nothing was holding me under Jayce except my own passionate wanting, yet we were incredibly exposed and vulnerable in our little corner of Belle’s basement. At any moment, someone could come down the stairs, looking for us. The line cooks could run out of soup, or asparagus spears, or lemon juice, and come down looking for some . . . the danger was real. And really making me hot.

  As I writhed and squirmed, uncomfortable with and excited by the possibility of getting caught, Jayce was single-minded in his purpose. He was going to kiss me. He was going to suck my tongue. I always wondered what his tongue stud would taste like, and now I knew. It tasted like iron, like blood, like poetry and art, like all the things I saw when I watched him bartend. I felt it in my mouth first, and on my neck next. His hands unbuttoned my white shirt, just like in my fantasies, and prepared the way for me to feel Jayce’s tongue stud on my nipple. I looked down at my bared breast and felt the hot rush of blood surging through me. Already, my heart was hammering.

  Hammering out a sound, a sound like the tapping of furlined boots on a set of industrial steel steps.

  Which, I soon realized, was what I was actually hearing. Jayce was oblivious, consumed with the taste of my throat. Suddenly he shifted, his mouth finding my breast. His tongue traced a wide circle around my nipple before his mouth closed around it and sucked.

  I groaned. The sound was half pleasure, half warning. I wanted him to know that Ellen was standing there, watching and biting down on her lip with a look of concern crossed with disapproval.

  She said nothing.

  I tapped Jayce hard on the shoulder. He looked up into my eyes. Somehow my face conveyed the message. He straightened and turned to face her. I re-buttoned my shirt. My abandoned nipple ached with indignation.

  “I got bored and decided to refill the toothpick dispenser,” Ellen said. “Came down for a box of toothpicks . . .”

  Jayce looked panicked. “You’re not going to tell Belle, are you?” he asked the hostess.

  “No,” Ellen said flatly. She caught the bottom of her black sweater and pulled it over her head. “If I told on you, I’d be telling on myself.That is, if you’ll let me have a turn.”

  My chest suddenly swelling with confidence, I strode over to Ellen. I ran the back of my hand down the silk of her black camisole. I touched her arm; her skin was even smoother. She was the softest thing I’d ever touched. Her bright blue eyes looked into mine, briefly, but closed as I leaned in to kiss her.

  Ellen bubbled and melted like Belle’s hollandaise. Her little arms circled around me. She was a little shy, so I guided her hands down to my ass. I could hear Jayce making little squeaking sounds like an excited puppy.

  “Did you like that?” I asked Ellen.

  “Yeah,” she said, starstruck.

  “Better than when Robert tried to make your hand come?” We both laughed. Jayce laughed, too.

  “We should get back upstairs,” Ellen said. “They’re going to start wondering . . .”

  “Not yet,” Jayce said. He peeled Ellen’s hand off my ass. Gently, he led her over to where he was standing. She hesitated, so he kissed her tentatively, a brief touch of lips to lips. “You haven’t had your turn yet,” he said. His fingers traced one of her nipples through the camisole. She leaned against the ice machine and sighed.

  Jayce lifted one of her heavy breasts from her camisole, caressing it in slow circles.

  “You have beautiful breasts,” I said. I came closer, close enough to smell Ellen’s expensive perfume once again.This time, it was mixed with her sweat. She looked over at the steel steps, caught in the same trap that had caught Jayce and me.

  He lowered his head and suckled her. I nudged him out of the way, just a bit, so that I could taste her other nipple. Ellen bit her lip harder and seemed to struggled not to cry out.

  “I know the feeling,” I said between sucks. “You want to scream, don’t you? But you can’t let everyone hear you.What would you do if they found out?”

  Ellen giggled, a charmingly cheerful and free sound. I could imagine the forbidden images flooding Ellen’s brain. They were turning me on as much as they were her. I didn’t know where we would go from here, but I was definitely sticking around to find out.

  Ellen’s hand, which had been gripping the ice machine for dear life, made a run for her skirt.Through the thick charcoal-gray fabric, she found her erect clit. I reached out and stopped her hand.

  “That’s my job,” I said. I did the job properly, too, reaching up her skirt until the whole thing was lifted over her hips. Jayce stopped suckling long enough to watch me tug at Ellen’s panties, getting them down just far enough to have access to her clit. I massaged her pink little shaft as she huffed and puffed. I never did get her to scream, but I knew I’d done a good job when her knees weakened and she sank to the floor. Jayce’s mouth was on her, tasting her heartbeat.

  I looked at the glistening moisture on my fingers with satisfaction.

  Jayce looked at me.With swift, certain motion, he unzipped his black pants and pulled his cock out.

  “Bad, bad bartender,” I said, teasingly. “You don’t have a condom, do you?”

  Jayce shook his head.

  “Well, it’ll have to be a hand job then.” My fingers still glistening with wet from Ellen’s pussy, I began to stroke Jayce up and down. In no time at all, he was on the edge. That was when Ellen jumped back in. She looked surprisingly composed for a woman who was just kneeling on the floor in a seldom-cleaned basement. Her sweater was still draped over a box of crackers, but her other clothes were back in place.You had to admire that in a woman.

  Ellen wrapped her hand, lubricated with her spit, around Jayce’s shaft, and we pumped together. I worked the head while she worked the base. Jayce’s eyes shot open, wide with excitement. His breath was heavy sobs and gasps. He was close now . . .

  I didn’t expect Ellen to kneel and edge my fingers aside with her mouth. Her tongue lapped my hand, and I got out of her way. Jayce lost it utterly. Ellen, it turned out, was a swallower.

  “Oh, Ellen,” I said, “that was brave. Crazy. Kind. But reckless.”

  She didn’t talk with her mouth full, but when Jayce pulled away, she mumbled something like, “Thirteen years of Catholic girls’ school.”

  “It’s okay,” Jayce assured her. “Just got tested after my last piercing. I’m clean.” He zipped up, winking at Ellen. “Now let’s do Nikki.”

  I started to protest, to explain that technically, I’d already had my turn. In the end, I decided against it. Ellen was on me in a flash, her mouth hot on my ear as she fiddled with the buttons on my shirt. My tits realized that they were in for a sucking, and stood ready at attention. Ellen moved off to my left to make room for Jayce, and I sunk back against the ice machine. They suckled me, just like the guys in my hottest fantasies.

  I didn’t hear the next set of footsteps on the steel steps.

  “What in the hell is going on here?” Belle thundered, flicking on a brighter light. She dropped the case of butter she’d been carrying. The white tubs tumbled out and rolled across the floor.

  I scrambled to put away my own – again – frustrated tits.

  Belle’s face was red with rage. “My hostess, my bartender, and my best server,” she said. “Hell, Nikki, I expected this out of you. I could have guessed it would involve the boy. But you, Ellen?”

  Ellen was on the verge of tears. “Are you going to fire us?” she asked, her voice trembling.

  Belle exhaled. “If I did that, then who’d clean up the filth from you guys?” she said, bending down to pick up an escaped tub of butter. She hurried returned the butter to its box, then shoved it in the cooler. Slamming the cooler shut, she said, “Now get to work!”

  Jayce leaned in close to me. I thought he was going to kiss me again, but instead he whispered in my ear. “I told you,” he said. “We could get away with murder around here.”

  I smiled. Ellen pulled her sweater over her head,
biting her lip.

  “I don’t want to get away with murder,” I said. “I just want to make sparks.”

  The look in Jayce’s eyes promised me that more, much more, was to come. I couldn’t wait. But for now, I needed to get Ellen alone one more time. I had the sudden, irresistible urge to lick the last taste of Jayce’s cock off her lips.

  The Beloved of the Gigolem

  Ian Watson and Roberto Quaglia

  A gigolo and a golem combined . . . is a gigolem. He-She can be male or female, or both sexes at once (and perhaps also other sexes as yet unknown). Indeed, a gigolem can change sex several times a minute, supposing that a sex partner is unsure of himself or herself sexually; which can be confusing or alternatively interesting. However, what János sought for in Prague was a quality personal gigolem who would remain female for a reasonably long time, to pleasure him and vice versa. Of course he had fucked gigolems at public baths in Budapest lots of times, yet that was always rather impersonal, even if the gigolem did conform to his tastes. Actually, for his money, the best gigolems in Budapest were those geishagigolems much used by Japanese tourists. However, he was a János, not a Yukio, and he craved for his own dedicated Euro-gigolem.

  He travelled from Budapest by Magyar Álom Vasutak, Hungarian Dream Railways. Formerly this had been Magyar Állam Vasutak, the State Railways, but passengers had petitioned for a more imaginative name – ah, the romance of travel. His friend Silvia was the driver of the MAV locomotive and she let him sit in the cab with her, to keep her company. Silvia was devoted to chocolate, which produces endorphins in the brain, so János had brought several bars of chocolate with him to feed to Silvia en route.The route was fairly simple because the railway lines led inexorably via Vienna to Prague, an inevitability which could become boring. Consequently endorphins helped – although at the same time Silvia possessed no driving licence for anything as trivial as a car; she was only interested in driving vehicles weighing more than thirty tonnes.

  “Are you sure you’ll be happy living with the same gigolem all the time?” she had asked when János first told her his plan. “I’m happy with mine, but women tend to be faithful – and you’re a man.”

  “I know I am.Well, it’s either a gigolem or very old women.” He hesitated. “Or else a colostomy.”

  “How could a colostomy help?”

  “It would serve as a substitute vagina in a fixed location.”

  Silvia beamed. “Oh I see, you mean a colostomy for her, not for you.”

  “If the woman agreed.” János shrugged. “Whoever she might be!”

  “How many women have you asked, if they’ll have a colostomy?”

  “A few.They didn’t want the inconvenience.”

  The fundamental problem, which confronted many men, was that vaginas had begun to migrate around women’s bodies, sealing up suddenly only to emerge elsewhere within a few minutes. The cause of this was mutated Ebola virus, which instead of eating flesh rearranged flesh painlessly. Allegedly the mutated virus had escaped from a military laboratory, perhaps in America, perhaps in North Korea, perhaps elsewhere. The result was that a vagina could shift without warning from the crotch to the armpit or to behind the knee or to almost anywhere. Foreplay could become six-play or ten-play or twenty-play as a man tried to keep up with a shifting situation, and often he lost his erection.

  The only women unaffected were those well past menopause. Probably the virus responded to hormones. Consequently beautiful young or even middle-aged prostitutes had all disappeared, replaced by grannies over seventy, with whom satisfaction could still be guaranteed. This fixated some men erotically upon old women, which was laudably anti-ageist – and this even led to a rumour that the migrating vagina phenomenon had been engineered by a secret collective of women scientists, to promote sexual gratification in their old age.

  Men pursued various techniques for discovering the whereabouts of the mobile vagina quickly. Asking the woman if she had seen her vagina recently wasn’t always much help. Very often females did not look for their own vaginas. “I don’t want to know about it; I just want it to work properly,” was a common attitude.

  Consequently some men used a torch, and others a divining rod, and others a stethoscope or a small seismic detector – a vibrator might have remained in a vagina from a previous use, or the migration of the vagina might itself cause subtle vibrations. A small percentage of men used a sniffer dog, although this only worked if the dog had previously smelled that particular vagina.This was all very unsatisfactory.

  “A Romanian girl I know did consider the colostomy idea,” admitted János, “but she thought I might pimp the colostomy to make money. I’ll be much better off with a gigolem.”

  Hence his journey to Prague, where the banks of the river Vltava contained the very best quality mud and clay for making golems. That’s how Rabbi Löw had succeeded in making the first ever golem, back in the early seventeenth century, to guard the ghetto against the malice of Christians. The rabbi was fortunate in the raw material he found locally, even though he was already a skilled kabbalist.

  And part of that skill was in knowing how to write a Shem to put in the golem’s mouth to animate it. Originally the Shem was a piece of parchment inscribed with a secret name of God, and could go on the forehead or in the mouth. Nowadays the Shem was software.

  “You didn’t forget your Shem?” Silvia had asked, as the MAV train was leaving Vienna. She knew a lot about such things. Apart from having her own gigolem, she was keen on interactive computer role-playing games where it was necessary to collect jewels of enlightenment, crystals of power, and such. Particularly she thought about Shems because putting little squares of chocolate into her own mouth animated her.

  Although János knew that he hadn’t forgotten the Shem, all the same he took out his wallet to check that the mini-disc was still in the same place.

  “So how much did it cost you,” asked Silvia, “to download from that sexual magic site?”

  “A hundred Euros. Quite a lot of warnings: forbidden to those under 16, and so forth. It’s well worth paying a hundred Euros to also have the instructions for removal from the gigolem – if need be.”

  “Hmm. Easy to put it in, but hard to take it out?”

  “As the lover said to his Beloved whose vagina suddenly started to migrate?”

  “Nonsense, a penis just pops out!”

  “I was joking. The Shem mini-disc clings to the palate, the roof of the golem’s mouth. Well, I suppose you know that. A golem might bite your fingers off to keep the Shem in its mouth.”

  “Or simply keep its mouth shut?”

  A while later, the MAV train arrived in Prague Station. After bidding a fond farewell to Silvia, János emerged from the station and within a couple of minutes he was at the top of Wenceslas Square, which isn’t square-shaped at all, but is a long wide avenue running downhill to the old city. He’d been advised to put a note wrapped round a pebble on Rabbi Löw’s tomb in the old Jewish cemetery, a traditional ritual for anyone who wished to make their own golem.The avenue misnamed a square pointed straight as an arrow towards the former Jewish ghetto.

  Quite a few pregnant gigolems were waddling up and down Wenceslas Square, some pushing prams loaded with previous babies. Ever since vaginas began to migrate, pregnancy – and particularly childbirth – had become problematic. To sustain the birthrate of the human race, eggs were extracted from a would-be mother’s ovaries, which didn’t migrate. A would-be father would masturbate into a test-tube, and the fertilized product would go into a walking-womb gigolem for nine months. Despite control by Shem, sometimes the walking-womb would fluctuate sexually, so that a male gigolem might be carrying a foetus. Generally the resulting child seemed normal, and human.

  Soon János was amongst the extreme confusion of gravestones piled in all directions against and on top of one another. Fortunately a dozen Japanese were taking holopictures of the rabbi’s tomb, making it easy to identify. János’s handwritten note read, �
�Dear Rabbi Löw, bless my gigolem, may she give me satisfaction.”

  János left the cemetery and soon spied a sign in English and German on a dilapidated old building announcing a room to rent. Probably it was fortunate that the building was in bad repair, otherwise someone might already have taken the room. János thought probably he would need a room for at least a week, to make sure the Gigolem was a good one before taking her home to Budapest.

  The landlady, Mrs Smetana, was old and thin.The room, up in the attic, was dark but big, the furniture huge and ancient: a vast wooden bed ideal for sharing with a gigolem and a mighty wardrobe ideal for keeping the gigolem locked in, if need be.

  János and Mrs Smetana negotiated in English.

  “Is problem I keep gigolem here?”

  “You gigolem pimp? This not bad house.”

  “Gigolem girlfriend is for me only.”

  “Okay. Hundred Crowns extra.”

  János blessed the rabbi for this bit of luck, then he headed for the long stretch of riverbank owned by the Prague Golem Company.

  Over the years exploitation of the clay-like river mud, or mud-like clay, had resulted in the exposure of many hectares of yellowy brown or brownish yellow substance adjacent to the river. The terrain looked like the battlefield of the Somme in 1918 due to the partially flooded trenches left by excavating for golem-material and the multitudes of little craters where individuals had made their own golems or gigolems by shovelling material into moulds hired from the PGC.

  János needed to buy an excavation permit for the area most suitable to make gigolems, but further spending was discretionary.

  “Is dirty work – you want hire rubber galoshes and boiler suit?”

  Yes.

  “Want rubber gloves? Some say best intimate result from naked hands.”

  Naked hands would be fine.

  “Need Shem? We sell several Lust Shems.As well as Cordon Bleu Chef Shem, Chauffeur Shem—”

  “I bring my own Shem.”