The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 9

by Maxim Jakubowski

  He continued to contemplate her, while she felt more naked as each second passed. Eventually, he made a thoughtful noise.

  “Only one way to get this right.” He reached out, and touched the spot of her center, between hip and navel. “I’ll have to start at the center. And work my way out.”

  No one had done that before – no one except her, and the first artist. Each of the rest had started in on their own work, and she’d taken their art upon herself, to make it her own. But none of them had begun at the beginning, to trace the fullness of her journey, to understand the course she’d set for herself in its entirety.

  And so when he put his finger just, so, there, and began winding his way upon her, it felt strange, and wrong, and happy, and good, and she wanted to run, and she wanted to hide, and she wanted to exult in each looping twist he made, finding a line that had run its course and folded in on itself, pulling back from the edges of her where she wanted him most. She turned when he needed to reach more of her, she moved so that he could follow the paths around her legs, down them, and up again, she lifted her hair as his hand found the lines that ran up her back.

  Eventually, he found the emptiness at the pocket of her throat. His finger sat there, her pulse soaring beneath.

  “Please,” she asked. “Please, please, please.”

  “There’s no going back from this.”

  “I don’t want to go back.”

  He sighed, released her, and pushed a lamp over. “There’s no mirrors for you here. I’ll do what I like. We play by my rules.”

  “That’s fine. I trust you.” He’d already followed her labyrinth from end to end. On one hand, there was nothing else he could do to her now, he knew her, fully. And on the other, there was so much more yet to be done.

  “Good. Sit down. Close your eyes.”

  She did as she was told, sat down naked, in the warming light, and the buzzing began.

  This time the pain was exquisite. She stayed still, as he drew his chair up between her open legs, holding her chin with one hand, and his gun in the other. She turned as he pushed her to, one side, then the other, as patterns curled up her neck, upon her cheek, across her forehead, and down again. He was so close, and she could feel his concentration upon her, almost like a touch.

  Too soon, the sound stopped. The needles, stopped. And she was alone with herself and his work.

  Would it be enough? She opened her eyes for the first time in hours, and saw him there, staring at her. He nodded, to himself, surveying what he’d done. It echoed inside of her: this might really be the end.

  He surveyed her as an artist surveys a finished piece. From his eyes, she knew he did not see her, but only his work left upon her. It was thrilling and deflating, both, at once.

  “You’re a masterpiece,” he said, holding her chin in one hand.

  What to say? There were no words. He swayed her head from side to side, looking at her, looking through her, and she did not fight him.

  “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever helped create.”

  There was wetness on her face still, wounds weeping from the needles’ passage. She could feel it cooling. “Thank you—”

  “You’re welcome.” He started putting away his gear.

  The passage of time and nearness between them – it seemed like it needed more. Required more. She sat there, being naked, and feeling naked, waiting.

  He looked over at her, closing his case. “You’re done. Go home.”

  Bile rose, unbidden. This was the end, she could feel it, but – it wasn’t supposed to be like this. Instead of release or joy or satisfaction, she only felt panic.

  Was it really over? She put a hand to her tender face. She had only thought of getting to this moment, and had never pressed beyond. What now? Where, now?

  She put her clothes on as fast as she could, hiding herself and her labyrinth from him. She ran out to her car, and slid into the driver’s seat, and rested her still bleeding forehead against her steering wheel, and cried. Why? she thought, even as the tears rolled down. She cried for everything she had done, everything she hadn’t done, and for what she’d done to herself, carried so far down a path of her own making. What to do, now that she’d reached the end? What use was life, when there was nothing left to be lived?

  She sobbed, for a long time. Between the hours he had spent on her face, and her time crying, it was almost night when she finished, washed up, poured out, ended. She turned the engine over, and flicked on the overhead light.

  To finally see. What he’d done. What she’d done. What she’d let him do.

  Closing her eyes, and then opening them with a willfulness, she stared at herself in the rearview mirror, not expecting to recognize herself.

  But.

  It was still her.

  Blood turning to scabs formed marks on parts of her face, and other skin raised, shiny and bruised – but – it was still her. She reached up and felt the lines – she knew they were there, she’d been there when he’d placed them upon her.

  But.

  He’d used no ink.

  She inhaled, and exhaled, reached up and turned off the light. And then she walked back up to his door.

  “You’re still here?” he asked.

  “You – did this to me,” she said.

  “I did,” he agreed. “I did a good job, too.”

  She nodded, and there was silence. “You said it yourself, there’s no going back.”

  “And you said you didn’t want to go back,” he said, and shrugged.

  She looked around at the plain around them, and the star-filling night above. Her labyrinth was complete now. And it had brought her here.

  “And you said I should go home,” she said.

  “I did,” he agreed.

  What she was about to say was foolish, and stupid, and too much too soon. But if she could find herself at the end of her own labyrinth, if she could tolerate the heights of ecstasy and the depths of pain, then saying these words was nothing to her, delicious nothingness and excruciating somethingness at the same time.

  “I think I am home.”

  He smiled. And he moved away from the doorway, to let her inside.

  Measure A, B, Or Me?

  Alison Tyler

  “Look at this, Lisa,” James said, pointing to the voter registry spread out on his side of the kitchen table.

  “Nice,” I said, not glancing up from the newspaper.

  “No, look right here.” He tapped the middle of one of the pages.

  I gazed at him over the top of my glasses. I was busy reading “Dear Abby”. James knows better than to interrupt me during “Dear Abby”.

  “These two names,” James insisted. With a sigh, I put down the paper and glanced where he was pointing. “So? They have to list husbands and wives separately. Husbands don’t own wives anymore, you know.”

  “I understand that you have zero interest in politics,” James said in that calm voice of his, “but look at the parties.”

  Knowing James wasn’t going to stop, I set down my coffee, stood up, and headed around to his side of the table. James had volunteered to phone registered voters to discuss a ballot measure close to his heart. And for the first time since he’d begun to talk incessantly about Ballot Measure A, I found myself interested in the cause, or at least mildly so. Here was personal information for nearly a quarter of the people in our tiny town. The list did not only contain their names, numbers, and addresses, but also their chosen political parties. A couple we knew ever-so-vaguely were registered with different parties – the wife a Democrat, the husband a Republican.

  “How can that happen?” I asked curiously. “That was one of the first things I found out about you. Your religious preference, the size of your cock, and your political leanings. This is like something right out of a ‘Dear Abby’ column.”

  “I don’t understand it either,” James admitted, “but look at the Governor and his wife, and there are other famous couples who vote on differ
ent party lines, too.”

  “You mean like Marlee Matlin and George Carlin?”

  James groaned. “It’s Mary Matalin and James Carville.”

  “Yeah, but how can they get into the same bed at night? I’d never be able to fuck you if I thought you were Republican. That would be an instant deal-breaker.”

  “More so than the size of my cock?” James teased, and while I was considering my answer, he continued, “Hey, let’s have some fun.”

  Since James had embarked upon this mission to make sure Measure A passed, he’d been neglecting some of his more important husbandly duties. I’m not the type to care about whether the lawn is mowed or the car is washed. But I’d gone through three packs of C-batteries for my vibrator in two months. Still, I didn’t want to get my hopes up too high. “I thought you had people to call,” I said tentatively.

  “I’m talking about calling.”

  I sighed again. “Come on, James.” I’d been hoping for a bit of frisky mid-morning fun. Dialing up voters wasn’t my idea of kinky sex play. But I should have looked more clearly into my husband’s deep blue eyes before writing him off.

  “Lisa,” he said in that patently annoying tone of voice, “I know you have zero interest in politics—”

  “I’m a registered Democrat,” I reminded him. “I wear my Stewart/Colbert ’08 shirt every time I go to the gym. I have a Somewhere in Texas a Village is Missing its Idiot bumper sticker on my Prius and a Don’t Blame Me, I Voted for Kerry button on my denim jacket. What more do you want?”

  “Yeah.” He nodded. “But you’re not exactly involved. You’d rather watch Friends reruns than stand outside the Palace Market and register voters.”

  I shrugged.

  “But you could be involved. What if you call the man and I call the woman. You’ll be your charming little self and try to win him over to the cause, and I’ll do the same with her. It’ll be like a contest . . .”

  “That’s not really fair. You don’t have to win her over. She’s already a Democrat. Besides, I don’t have any idea what to say.”

  James glared at me, his nearly endless supply of patience finally waning. “Haven’t you been listening to me make the last 145 calls?”

  I nodded, lying. I tended to tune out as soon as I heard him say the words, “This is James Miller, and I’d like to talk to you about Measure A.”

  “You just coo the same info to the man.”

  I looked at him for a moment. “What do I win if I get him onto our side?”

  “You name it.”

  I motioned for him to dial. I could think of several propositions I was extremely interested in winning him over to – and not one on the current ballot. There was the up-against-the-wall position, in which I was fully in favor. And the bent-over-the-arm-of-the-sofa position, which I could fully support.

  I could tell that James didn’t think I’d go through with the bet. When he handed the phone to me for my turn, I pressed redial, asked to speak to Leonard Carson, then tried my best to explain the terms of the measure to the husband. Unfortunately, the jerk hung up the phone on me as soon as he realized where I was headed with my political speech.

  “Well, that was successful,” James said. “You didn’t even try.”

  “You never know,” I countered, “I’ll bet they’re talking about the issue right now.”

  “You think?” he asked.

  “Yeah.” I sat down on his lap. “She’s saying, ‘It’s a good cause, Lenny.’ ”

  “His name is Leonard.”

  “Sure, but she probably has a pet name for him. ‘It’s money for the schools.’ ”

  James interrupted me again, “And he’s saying, ‘We sent our kids to private schools over the hill. What the fuck do we care about those rats in the public system . . .’ ”

  “Why is he swearing?” I asked.

  “Because he’s an asshole.”

  “Just because he has a different viewpoint from you?”

  “You’re the one who said you’d never fuck a Republican,” James pointed out. I ignored him.

  “He’s saying, ‘Convince me.’ And she’s going on her knees on their expensive Spanish-tiled floor . . .”

  “She’s not going to give him a blow job over Measure A,” James insisted.

  “How do you know?”

  “Would you?”

  “Maybe she’s more political than I am. You know I have zero interest . . .”

  “So she’s giving him one hell of a blow job. How’s that convincing him to vote the way she wants?”

  “Maybe you’re right. She needs her mouth free to win him over.” I hesitated, trying my best to envision the scenario. “Okay, they’re in the kitchen, and she bends over the table, like this, and lifts her nightgown.”

  I demonstrated for James, sliding my short satin nightie to my waist. James eyed me for a moment, then got behind me. He ran his large hands over my panty-clad ass before pulling my knickers along my thighs. I shivered at his touch. It had been so long since he’d last stroked me like that. When he slipped his drawstring pjs down and pressed his body against me, I could feel how hard his cock was.

  Cautiously, James slid a hand under my body and touched my pussy. “You’re wet,” he said. “Does talking about politics turn you on?”

  “You know it,” I told him, stifling a giggle. Even after he slid inside of me, he wouldn’t stop taunting me, “So in your little fantasy, the wife says, ‘Vote for Measure A, and I’ll let you fuck me’?”

  “That sounds silly when you say it.”

  “It’s beyond silly,” James insisted. He continued to drive inside of me, working a little faster now. “They’re not having a conversation like this at all. If anything, they’re having some huge four-star fight because she’s voting one way and he’s insisting on voting the other. In fact, I’ll bet he’s saying, ‘If you vote for Measure A, I’m going to have to give you a spanking.’ ”

  That caught me off-guard, and for a moment I actually considered switching over to the dark side. But I still didn’t want to give in. “Well, what if she says, ‘You can do that thing you want to do’?”

  “What thing?”

  “You know what thing,” I said coyly. “The thing you always want to, and the thing I hardly ever say yes to.”

  James was silent, but I knew he understood what I meant. “You’ll let me do that if I vote for Measure A?”

  “She’s thinking about it.”

  “She?” he asked softly. “Or you?”

  “I’m already voting for Measure A.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Yes,” I said. “She’s thinking about it, and I’m thinking about it—”

  That was all James needed to hear. There was a tub of margarine still out on the table, and he leaned over and scooped out a fingerful. In seconds, he had lubed me up between my rear cheeks, his firm hands spreading me wide open. I shut my eyes and gripped even tighter onto the edge of the table, breathless.

  James went slow at first, sliding his cock forward inch by inch, pressing hard, but not forcing. “Relax,” he said.

  “How can I relax when you won’t vote for Measure A?”

  “It’s that important to you?”

  James slipped in a little more, and I groaned. The sensation of being filled was almost overwhelming. Still, I managed somehow to reply. “Yes,” I muttered. “Yes, it is.”

  Now, he was fucking me even harder, gripping onto my slim hips and really driving his cock inside of me. My pussy was pressed firmly to the edge of the table, and through the filmy barrier of my nightgown, my clit received the most perfect pressure. I gasped as the rhythm of his thrusts increased in tempo, finding pleasure each time he slammed forward. I could come like this if he kept up the speed.

  “You know,” he said, “Measure A needs two Yeses to counter every one No.”

  “Yes,” I panted. “Yes, yes . . .”

  “That’s three yeses,” James said. “You can’t vote three times,�
�� but his voice had dropped to a whisper.

  “Oh, God,” I whimpered, unsure of what we were talking about or who I was. Was I Catherine trying to convince her bastard of a husband to vote yes on the school measure and help the children? Or was I Lisa, whose husband was already an activist, such an activist that he’d forgotten to take care of me for the past two months.

  I squeezed my eyes shut even tighter as James slid one hand under my body and began to tap his fingertips against my clit. He knew exactly how to work me, thrusting forward with his cock, then giving me a little tap before slowly withdrawing. When he pinched my clit hard, I found myself teetering on the brink, hardly able to breathe until the climax finally flared through me. James let those powerful shudders transfer from my body to his, and then he groaned and began to work me even more seriously, before coming ferociously into my ass and sealing his body to mine.

  It took me a moment to recover. The morning sunlight played over our sparkly blue Formica breakfast table. The tub of yellow margarine seemed to be mocking me.

  James pulled out and tucked himself back into his pajamas. “I’ve still got twenty more calls to make,” he said.

  So he knew what was on his morning agenda, but I couldn’t figure out what to do next. “Dear Abby” held no interest. Nor did finishing the rest of the paper. I wondered what Catherine and Leonard were doing right now. Was she bent over their kitchen table as I’d described?

  Quickly, I slid my panties back up, then climbed onto my husband’s lap once more. I pointed to the next Republican on the list. “If I can get her to vote for A, you let me do that to you—” I told James.

  He cocked an eyebrow at me, then pushed over the phone.

  Just Another Girl on the Train

  Catherine Lundoff

  People on the train always looked alike at first glance, she thought as she watched her fellow passengers from the corners of her eyes. It was a bad idea to look at them directly. She’d learned that her first year here riding the subway to her job downtown. There was that time the crazy man followed her several blocks from the station, shouting after her. Then there was that other incident involving the missionaries and those copies of The Watchtower that kept showing up in her mailbox. No, best to watch covertly over her book, let her eyes slide past as though reading the station signs when she looked up.