The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 9

by Maxim Jakubowski

  Finally, after months, the call came.

  When Carrie put the dress on, she felt like a different person. She was a different person. She wasn’t Carrie the junior attorney at the law firm or Carrie the fitness freak or Carrie the buddy who was like one of the guys. In that shiny PVC dress she became Carrie the seductress. Carrie the bad girl. Carrie the slut.

  She prepared for her night out like a bride preparing for her wedding day. Shaved, moisturized, perfumed, adorned. She put the dress on, surprised for a moment at how formfitting it was. She wore it only occasionally, once every three or four months, and she was always surprised by how it hugged her body. Her other clothes fit comfortably, making her hardly aware she was wearing them. She never forgot she was wearing the dress. It made her stand up straighter, suck in her stomach, thrust out her breasts that were barely contained by the corset-style bodice – and that was just while she was standing in the privacy of her own bedroom admiring herself in the mirror. Out in public, the dress made her strut.

  By the time she got to the club, her whole body was throbbing with an intense energy of things to come. It wasn’t a club she went to often. It wasn’t in the best part of town and it appealed to a crowd that was a little more . . . out there . . . than who she usually hung with. She wasn’t in the mood for the khakis and cappuccino crowd tonight. She wasn’t interested in talking politics, 401(k) plans or who was getting married or who was expecting yet another baby. Tonight she wanted to be someone else. The slut in the dress.

  She was rewarded for her efforts the minute she walked into the noisy, crowded club. Not everyone stopped to look at the redhead in the black, skintight vinyl dress that laced down to her bellybutton, but enough people did look – men and women – to give her a little rush. It was the dress, she knew. It didn’t hurt that she had the body to fill it out, of course, but the dress commanded attention in a way Carrie never could. The four-inch patent leather heels didn’t hurt, either. They made her already long legs look like they went on for miles and not a man in the room could look at the shoes that matched the dress and not wonder what they would look like on the floor next to his bed.

  Fending off a couple of over eager guys, Carrie made her way to the bar. The bar spanned the length of one side of the club and it was standing room only. Miraculously, as soon as she approached, a space opened up for her. She thanked the two guys on either side of her and ordered a martini.

  “That’s on me,” said the guy to the left of her.

  “Thanks.” Carrie gave him a predatory smile, feeling infused with power. “But I’m not going to fuck you.”

  The guy on her right laughed. “Guess she told you.”

  Carrie took a long sip of the martini that appeared in front of her in record time, letting her tongue linger on the rim of the glass. Then she smiled. “I’m not going to fuck you, either.”

  It probably wasn’t the wisest thing to say to two guys in a seedy nightclub who both seemed a little inebriated, but the dress made her say and do things that weren’t very wise. Like a suit of armor or a protective shield, the dress gave her power and authority. Instead of turning nasty, both men smiled good-naturedly and shrugged.

  By the time she finished her second martini, courtesy of the guy on the right simply because he wanted to appear to be a gentleman, Carrie was ready to mingle. She excused herself to her self-appointed guardians with a wink and a, “Thanks for the drinks, boys,” and disappeared onto the crowded dance floor before either could follow and press the issue.

  The music was heavy, throbbing techno with some retro punk thrown in for good measure. It wasn’t dancing music, it was grinding music and the crowd writhed on the packed dance floor in pairs and threesomes in alcohol-and-lust fueled orgiastic bliss. Carrie didn’t dance alone for long. Soon she felt the press of a body behind her. A male body. She turned in the circle of his arms and gave him a feral smile.

  Her smile faded when she realized she was looking up into the face of Reynolds, one of the partners at the firm. She wracked her brain for his first name and came up blank. She didn’t know him personally, the firm she worked for was one of the largest in the state with two dozen partners and a hundred or more support staff, but they’d crossed paths a couple of times and he was attractive enough for her to notice him. Dark eyes, dark hair, older than her, but with a boyish appeal that made it hard to peg his age. Of course, she’d never seen him in a social setting wearing low-slung jeans and a T-shirt that clung to his sculpted torso.

  She realized his expression hadn’t changed – he was still looking at her like he wanted to devour her – and it dawned on her that he had no reason to recognize her, especially in the dress. She was as professional and proper at work as any attorney and, out of that familiar setting and in a dress meant for a vamp, she probably didn’t look like the Carrie he might remember on a good day.

  “Love the dress,” he said, his hand gliding over the slippery PVC from her waist to her hip. “You’re stunning.”

  She smiled again, regaining her composure. The patent leather heels made her almost his height, so she leaned forward until her lips were nearly touching his ear. “Thanks.”

  “Want to dance?”

  She put her arm around his neck and pressed her body against him, rubbing her crotch against his hip in a smooth, sinuous rhythm. “Sure.”

  He pulled her close and rubbed his erection against her. “Want to go home with me?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

  He laughed. “Well then, will you at least dance with me until my dick deflates a little?”

  She pressed against him, her breasts threatening to burst out of the top of the dress. “What are the odds of that while I’m here?”

  “Good point.”

  She smiled. “C’mon,” she said, taking him by the hand.

  “Where?”

  She just arched an eyebrow at him.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She led him outside into the cool night air that made her nipples pucker and raised goose bumps on her bare arms and legs. The parking lot was quiet except for a couple of giggling women hanging drunkenly on each other. Carrie’s heart hammered in her chest as she led Reynolds around the side of the club, dark but for the red light cast by an emergency exit sign. She took a deep breath. Knowing there was a chance they could get caught was part of the thrill.

  “What are you up to?”

  She responded by pressing him up against the wall of the club and kissing him. Hard. She reached down and stroked his cock through his jeans, pleased that it was stiff and thick. He moaned into her when she squeezed him.

  Reynolds pulled away. “Are you sure you don’t want to go to my place?”

  She unzipped his jeans. “I can’t wait.”

  She knelt in front of him, the dress riding up so that she could feel the night air on her ass. She unfastened his jeans and pulled his cock free. It was beautiful and thick. She whimpered in anticipation.

  “Please, baby.”

  She didn’t move, not even when he wrapped her long hair in his fist and tried to guide her to his cock. She resisted, knowing he was hers.

  “Please,” he pleaded again.

  She indulged him because she couldn’t stand not having him in her mouth a minute longer, not because he begged. Precome glistened on the tip of his cock like a freshwater pearl and she swirled her tongue around the engorged head, pulling it into her mouth.

  He gasped at the contact and thrust his hips forward.

  With excruciating slowness that teased them both, she licked his cock from tip to base, cradling his heavy balls with one hand while guiding his cock between her lips with the other. She sucked the head into her mouth and cradled it in the hollow of her tongue, holding it there until he impatiently moved his hips. His hands were slack in her hair, as if he’d forgotten – or didn’t realize – he could have some measure of control. Carrie didn’t want him to have control. She wanted the power to give him pleasure, but onl
y when she was ready.

  Despite their risky location, she took her time sucking him. She lowered her mouth over his cock, relaxing her throat until she had taken as much of him as she could handle without gagging. Then she slid back slowly, revealing his slick, shiny cock. Over and over she deep-throated him until they were both panting and she knew he was close to orgasm by the way his cock practically leaked precome in a steady stream.

  He protested softly when she released his cock long enough to untie the laces that held the bodice of her dress together. “I want you to fuck my tits,” she said.

  His switched his focus from her mouth to her breasts as she pulled them free from the dress. Her skin was ethereally pale against the black PVC, her nipples hard and dark. She cupped her breasts in her hands, presenting them to him like a gift.

  He didn’t speak. He took his cock in his hand and laid it in the valley she created by pressing her breasts together. His cock was warm and wet from her mouth. She closed her eyes, enjoying the feel of him against her bare skin.

  His hands covered hers and he rolled her nipples between his fingers. She moaned, squeezing her breasts around his cock.

  “You feel so good,” he gasped.

  She braced her hands on his thighs as he cupped her breasts around his cock. Looking up into his eyes, she said, “Fuck me.”

  His expression was primal. Squeezing her breasts around his cock, he fucked her the way she wanted. She rocked back on her heels as he thrust against her harder and harder, fucking her tits as if he were inside her pussy. Her saliva had dried on his cock and the only thing lubricating her breasts was his precome, but it was enough. From his sharp intake of breath, she knew he was going to come.

  “Come on my tits.”

  He moaned, his cock spurting thick, milky semen – once, twice, three times – across her pale breasts and down the front of her vinyl dress. She kept her breasts pressed together, watching as warm rivulets of come gathered there. Finally, when he seemed to be finished, she leaned forward and kissed the tip of his cock, tasting him.

  He released his iron grip on her hair and helped her up. “That was incredible,” he said as he tucked his cock back in his pants and straightened his clothes.

  Carrie did the same with her sticky breasts, not bothering to lace the bodice of her dress. “Yes, it was.”

  “I feel bad I didn’t do anything for you.”

  She smiled. She’d wanted to rub her very wet pussy while he fucked her, but she’d been so mesmerized by watching him, she hadn’t been able to do anything else. Her pussy still felt engorged but, somehow, watching him come had taken the edge off a little bit. “You’d be surprised what that did for me.”

  “Oh really?” He started to pull her close, then stopped short. “Oh, man, I am all over your dress.”

  She looked down and saw that he was right. His come glistened in streaks on the already shiny vinyl, leaving no doubt as to what she’d been doing. She laughed. “It’s all right, it wipes right off.”

  “Sounds like the voice of experience.” Rather than disapproving, he sounded aroused by the idea. “You’re a very bad girl.”

  There was no reason to tell him she wasn’t as bad a bad girl he thought her to be. No reason to ruin his fantasy – or her own. “I don’t suck and tell,” she said with a wink.

  A burst of laughter startled them both and Carrie decided she’d pushed her luck far enough for one night. She let Reynolds escort her to her car.

  “Thanks, really.”

  “Thank you,” she said, and meant it sincerely. There was no doubt in her mind that she’d spend many long morning commutes thinking about her escapade with Reynolds. But first, she’d spend a long, leisurely bath masturbating until her pussy was raw while she thought about his thick cock coming between her breasts.

  “So, do you think I can see you again or was this a one time thing?”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Derrick Reynolds,” he said.

  Right. Derrick. She didn’t know why she hadn’t remembered. “Well, Derrick, I have no doubt I’ll see you again, but I don’t know if this is a one time thing or not.”

  She left him then, with a furrow between his brow and a limp cock between his legs. The dress had made her do it, and she had no doubt she’d do it again. Maybe even with Derrick Reynolds.

  The Bet

  Thom Gautier

  I shouldn’t have made the bet, but I did and a bet’s a bet.

  The gamble started when my girlfriend Bonnie and I were getting ready to go have dinner at a pricey bistro by the water. My treat. As she dressed, I watched her, I admired her, I listened to her humming Cake’s song “Short Skirt/Long Jacket” and I listened to her whistle that high-pitched country-bumpkin theme song from The Andy Griffith Show. I watched her fix her loop earrings. I watched her pin up her brown hair and I watched her shadow her green eyes. And I helped her fasten her garter belt, clasping it shut and straightening without any help from me. She slipped on the black stockings I’d bought her from a lingerie shop in Paris. I’d used my broken French and pronounced their word for “sheer” as precisely as I could, “extra-fin”.

  “That black fabric looks painted on your legs,” I said.

  “You mean navy blue fabric,” she said, slipping her feet into her strappy black heels.

  “Black,” I said.

  “Navy blue,” she said, and then she gave me the finger, “they’re navy blue.”

  We argued about the color all the way to the restaurant. All we could agree about was that her legs looked great in them and that were sheer and looked painted on. At one point during the drive, she extended her legs and put her feet up on the dashboard. “Navvvy blue,” she said. Two black guys who had pulled up to our right at the red light smiled at her as she posed like that with her legs up, and after they sped off she said, “We could have rolled down the window and asked them to decide the color, though they’re biased, kind of.”

  This stupid spat was getting me more than a little horny, even long after we settled into our booth and ordered dinner.

  “Navvvy blue,” she jeered, her green eyes lighting up as she poked at her salad. She plucked a pinch of stocking by her right thigh as we waited for our meals and she said with a dramatic French accent, “Extra fin, bleu.”

  Bonnie hardly ate dinner. As I dug into my scallops, she interrupted me and offered her pinky finger, “Let’s make a bet, buster,” she said. “A bet whether these are navy blue stockings, or black. Bet me.” Instinctively I put out my pinky to seal the bet and then realized we had no way to judge objectively whether the stockings were blue or black.

  After I’d paid our bill, on her way back from the bathroom, Bonnie stopped to talk to the waiter. He was a friendly enough waiter, dark-haired, thirtyish with a cleft chin and dark eyes. During dinner, Bonnie had been calling him “unibrow” because of his “interesting” bushy eyebrows and she’d said he had “obscenely large hands”.

  From the waiter’s podium, she wiggled her index finger for me to come over to them and, as I left change for his tip, I did as her finger said, like a puppy dog, and came over to them. When I got to the waiter’s podium, she extended her right leg in the bright light near the door. As one of the waitresses complimented her on her dress, Bonnie made a shush-gesture, tugged at the waiter’s vest and asked him, “Mr. Waiterman, what color are these here stockings? Black? Or navy blue?” The waiter looked at me with a sort of condescending disinterest, and then stared at Bonnie’s extended right leg. Without looking up from her leg he said, “Your stockings are navy blue.”

  Bonnie squealed with delight. The two of them high fived each other.

  By the time we left the bistro, the parking lot was nearly empty. My front right tire was flat. I considered changing the flat but was uneasy about the slope of the car lot. Our waiter, who was almost unrecognizable in a brown leather jacket and baseball cap, whistled over to us. He offered us a ride. I noticed his Jeep was blue. “His car is blue.
He was biased,” I said. “It wasn’t a fair bet.”

  As the waiter came over and stared at the flat and sympathized, I stalled for a good long while. I said that I could change the flat. But the waiter said he knew a garage near by that could change it safely in the morning. His hurry-up-and-decide whistling was insistent and, anyway, I was half-drunk from the dinner wine. Bonnie shrugged and said, “It’s my boyfriend’s call. Either we stand out here all night and freeze or we take a lift from you and go home.”

  I thanked the waiter and conceded to his offer.

  Bonnie out called “Shotgun!” and I settled into the back seat as she played with the radio, tuning stations in and out, blasting the music at times and at other times playfully keeping the Spanish station on.

  But we didn’t go home.

  Before long, we arrived at a row of waterfront condos and Bonnie lowered the music, turned to me, and explained that we’d been invited by “our kind, bet-deciding waiter here” to have a terrace drink.

  “Then after a drink we’ll get you two into a taxi cab,” the waiter said, shooting me a paternalistic gaze. “The car service is up my street.”

  For reasons I’ll never fathom, I agreed to the drink, perhaps thinking a terrace drink in the seaside air would be a good and even sobering nightcap to an uneasy night. Really, though, my cock was secretly dancing to the navy blue and black point and counterpoint from earlier in the evening, and I wanted to either sit down and cool off, or get laid. Yet I realized, as soon as we entered his apartment and Bonnie and he high fived in that familiar glib way, that I wasn’t getting laid.

  Bonnie helped herself to his iPod skipping and scrolling to Cake’s funky hit song “Short Skirt/Long Jacket” and she played air bass guitar and let her skirt sway, playfully throwing off her heels as if she’d just arrived in the familiar confines of some favorite uncle’s house. When I asked him his name he introduced himself as “Navy,” and Bonnie stood up and high fived him for that. I thought it was a smug, wise ass evasion but I let it pass. We sat on the terrace staring out at the dingy, sipping cold chardonnay and talking aimlessly about wagers, waitresses, scallops, Jeeps, bets, dares, France, stockings, restaurants. As I gave my sports jacket for Bonnie to wear, she stared at the waiter and said, “This fella here lost the color bet,” she said to the waiter. “Didn’t he?”