The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 10

by Maxim Jakubowski

  She’s aware of the bumps and veined ridges on the shaft of his cock, the way the wide, rounded glans presses against her throat, and the thrilling hardness, the feel of something potent and aggressive pushing at her just above the point where she can swallow him.

  On a sudden urge, she pushes her face forwards and feels her throat close in stubborn resistance. She insists, pushing harder, feeling him touch the part of her that makes her want to gag, and she has to back off.

  She pulls her head off him, gasping for breath, feeling his cock emerging from her mouth trailing long strings of mucus from the back of her throat, and her sense of shame at her own lasciviousness brings her to a new state of arousal. The boat rocks gently upon the dark water as she repositions herself then slides her head forwards to take his cock again, the head slithering over her tongue and down her throat.

  She’s determined this time. Something fierce and female possesses her, and she’s determined to do this. There’s no time for shyness or circumspection; no time to think and worry. Some hunger compels her to take him inside as deep as she possibly can. She wants to swallow him like he’s never been swallowed

  The blood pounds in her ears as Dominique fights down her gag reflex. The head of his cock is right at the top of her throat and she feels her soft palate close on it in a series of muscular spasms, but still she doesn’t stop. She pushes her face farther forwards until the head of his prick is in her gullet.

  Tears stream from her eyes as she fights the urge to reject him. She wants him there, deep within, all the way down to her stomach – even farther. Sheldon’s groan of harsh pleasure and astonishment echoes off the invisible walls and Dominique has a vision of the fish swimming in the darkness below, blind things in the caves, seeking the dark water.

  She becomes aware of Sheldon yelling, pushing at her head, trying to get her off his cock. She coughs as his withdrawing prick sets off her reflex again and chases after him, suddenly missing that throbbing thickness in her throat, but he seems desperate, pushing her away and crying out, “No! Dominique, no!”

  He pulls his cock from her lips and she sees it almost glowing in the lamp-lit darkness.

  She licks her lips, feels the emptiness in her mouth and the hollowness in her body. She looks up to see Sheldon breathing hard, looking down at her with a look of astonishment on his face, and Dominique gets up on her knees, digs her nails into the bunched muscles of his thighs, and impales herself again on his hard shaft.

  It’s like diving into deep water.

  Again the gag reflex, again the frantic spasm of the ring of muscle in her throat, and again a savage hunger she can’t explain forces her head down on him, taking him deep, so deep he’s almost a part of her body. The broad, thick head of his cock opens her secret and intimate flesh and holds it open. She feels the tickle of his lubricant burning into her throat, and here she waits.

  She waits with the patience of the blind fish in the deep pools, with the patience of the dark cave and the dripping water. She waits as her throat closes on him again and again in a series of peristaltic contractions, milking him, massaging his glans, her very body trying to pull him deeper. She waits with the patience of the female serving her man, and Sheldon groans and throws his head back.

  There’s no chance of his controlling himself this time. She can tell from his helpless growls and breathless gasps, the spastic shudders of his tightly clenched abdominals. There’s no strength in his hand as he touches her, just the feeble palsy of a man at his limit, in the extreme of sensation.

  Dominique holds herself there while her ears roar and her throat milks him in a reflex action she can’t even control, her lower lip against his balls, her nose digging into his lower stomach. She holds herself there even as she feels his tool jerk in her mouth and he cries out, his head falling back in helpless abandon as his hips thrust against her.

  He tries to warn her but he’s not in control of himself, and Dominique knows instinctively just what she’s doing.

  She holds him in her throat and feels him erupt.

  Hot, thick gouts of semen hit her in a place where she has few nerves, and yet she can feel the powerful contractions of his cock and the jets of come splattering against the back of her gullet. She can taste it as the aroma wafts up from the sticky pools of his passionate discharge.

  He’s ejaculating straight into her throat, pouring his seed directly into her body, and she’s totally open to him and entirely accepting. She waits till the first two blasts are finished before she pulls her head off his throbbing spear, the thick glans giving her a weird thrill as it passes the portal of her oesophagus.

  The come hangs in thick strands from her lips as she holds his slime-covered prick poised at her mouth. The next jet misses and the silvery semen arcs up and lands into the black water.

  She can’t resist it now and she smothers the head of his cock with her lips, her hand pumping the silky-hard shaft like a demonic machine, demanding his come. She receives the next bolt on the roof of her mouth, and then the rest of his load spills on to her tongue as she swallows greedily.

  Sheldon’s head rolls back, his fingers tangled in her hair, as he gasps out the last of his savage pleasure.

  She drinks him up, with a desperation for his masculine essence that goes beyond the mere sexual. In her life she has denied herself this, has treated the male discharge as something dirty and shameful, but here in the place, surrounded by this feminine darkness, she feeds feverishly at his spurting cock, famished for the taste of his seed, indeed.

  Sheldon levers her off his cock forcefully, pushing her until she falls back in the bottom of the boat, her pants still open, her face smeared with semen and saliva, a glazed look of desire on her face. His come was like a drug to her, and she’s completely intoxicated, but at the same time his sudden shove brings her back to herself and she looks around in confusion.

  “I’ve never felt anything like that,” he tells her. “I was in your belly, Dominique! What happened to you? Where did you learn that?”

  She wipes her lip and examines her fingers, looking for any stray drops that might have gotten away. She shudders at her own unexpected depravity. She doesn’t know where she learned it or even how she knew she could do it, but inside her is a wild and wilful pride, the pride of a woman in her own sexuality.

  After last night’s passive performance, she’s paid him back in kind and shown him that she’s not as helpless and unskilled as he might have thought. And, more importantly, she’s taught herself the same thing.

  She sits back in the boat and feels the cavern around her like a cloak, tastes his semen in her mouth and still feels him reaching into the darkest part of her body.

  The Cavern, she thinks, is a very female place, and she feels a kinship now with the mysterious darkness.

  She belongs here.

  She is the cavern, ready to engulf her lover again, forever.

  Honeymoon with Shannon

  Thom Gautier

  She took my poetry workshop. This was about six years ago. Her name was Shannon. She was only a few years younger than I was but she was several years older than the other students. She was from Ireland but every bit a New Yorker: fluent, talkative, stylish, smart. She was no William Butler Yeats. She could critique poems but she couldn’t write a lick of decent verse herself. “It was just an elective, boy,” she told me, as she toyed with her cell phone during one of our office conferences. She was a double major in her final semester. Dean’s List, thanks to her math skills. “Business law with a minor in real-estate.” In the end, I gave her a gentleman’s B as a final grade. Later she told me I was a “right shite” for that. “An A minus at least, boy.”

  She didn’t take to calling me “boy” till the term ended; I didn’t protest the nickname. Or if I did, I didn’t put up a fight.

  She had sky blue eyes and a sailor’s mouth. One time, when she cursed, I told her she sounded like Tony Soprano trapped inside Lindsay Lohan’s body. She vetoed the descripti
on. “I don’t have a fat man’s voice.” She was right. Her red hair was long and curly, like some druid fairy out of folklore; she favored Cole Haan leather jackets and Diesel jeans, like a fashionista out of Tribeca. In fact she lived in Tribeca. “Not a bad address for a struggling student,” I told her. She stuck her tongue out at me.

  Sometimes in my office as we edited one of her Godawful poems our knuckles brushed. Mostly we kept a safe distance. I’d lean back in my chair unbuttoning her blouse with my eyes, imagining planting a kiss near her neckline, my hands cupping and massaging her breasts, suckling her nipples. She would ask me what I was thinking and I answered with cryptic poetic remarks. ‘I’m thinking of rain and the color pink.’ She would hug her bag so hard that her blouse’s neckline would reveal her bra strap. “Rain and the color pink, nice, poet-boy.” She rested her head on her bag and gazed at me with one blue eye peeping through a curtain of red hair. “Don’t stare, teacher, that’s rude. Tell me what you’re thinking, right now. Give me one of your nice Zen lines.”

  “I’m thinking red waterfalls and hot mornings,” I said.

  She smiled and kept her head resting on her bag.

  As the end of the semester neared, she peppered me with personal questions, waiting for any answer by playing with one of the lace chokers she wore or grabbing the stiletto of her heel.

  “I’m divorced,” I said, defensively, as if giving testimony before a judge.

  “Seeing someone special, then, poet-genius?”

  I spiked that question back at her.

  She sighed and explained how it was rude to answer a question with a question. “You could say that I am seeing someone,” she said, gazing down at her feet.

  “Well why don’t you say it?”

  “Boy, I am not going to say that.” She leaned back in her seat, tucked a long strand of hair behind her right ear and looked squarely at me – through me, really – and tugged at the dangling straps of her backpack, clutching the bag’s long belts in her pretty white fist. I thought, lucky strap.

  She said, “I’m engaged.” My heart sank on hearing it. “Don’t say anything funny or poetic about it, boy. I have two months of freedom and that’s that.”

  We were already late for class. I tried to play it cool. I’m sure I said something asinine like, “Hey, marriage is a fine thing.” She hoisted her backpack on to her shoulder and gave me the finger. I told her that was disrespectful of the teacher and it would not go unpunished. We walked to class together so closely that one of my older female colleagues who passed us in the hall winked at me. As we got to the class I opened the door for her. “Now, respect your teacher,” I said and she play-punched me hard in my shoulder as we entered, the other students gaping in bewilderment at our unprofessionalism.

  Once the term ended, Shannon and I went out for a beer. At the pub, we talked in circles for a long while, our knees and feet touching the whole time. I told half-truths about my life. Like that my divorce had been “amicable”. I was tactful about her private life; but my tact paid off. I found out that her hubby-to-be was twelve years her senior.

  And loaded with cash. Her man’s daddy had died at his desk at the age of fifty and left him boatloads of insurance pay-off and savings which he then loaded into a successful New York nightclub. Then another club. Which they’d just sold. They were both moving south to open a chain of five nightclubs. The demands of the nightclub business would make a honeymoon for them impossible. They were marrying in Florida. In Orlando.

  “Disney World,” she said, “to be precise.” She repeated that and purposely emphasized the irony of the location, but told me not to make a joke.

  I said, “The Magic Kingdom, eh?” When I made mouse ears she gave me the finger. On impulse, I grabbed her middle finger, pulling it so she would move closer, and as her finger slipped out of my grip our faces closed in and we kissed. We kissed and we groped each other so blatantly that the bartender told us to cool it, “Or get lost.”

  So we got lost.

  We spent a half-hour locked in kisses outside on the sidewalk, pressing our hips together, muttering tender obscenities in each others’ ears, groping under each other’s shirt, taking turns running our index fingers along each other’s lower lip, unbuttoning buttons and letting the cold night air ripple over our skin, nibbling each other’s neck in full view of a parked patrol car. When we finally let go of each other we waved at the two cops; the officers seemed to blush like schoolboys.

  I wished her good night and rode my train home with my face on fire, my cock surging as I recalled my hands on her warm skin, the supple after-tingle of her lips on mine. And most of all that blue-eyed gaze of hers: sharp, hungry, determined.

  For two weeks, she phoned me nonstop trying to arrange a rendezvous. I reminded myself that student crushes are just that, and that I would be driving down a dead end – she was going to marry Mr ATM. I hated myself for how much my heart leaped at hearing her voice. My pussyfooting around her requests didn’t work. Soon I got tired of resisting. “Why don’t you come up here,” I suggested.

  I met her on the train platform. She was wearing a tight fitting denim jacket over a slate gray halter dress and matching gray sling back heels. We strolled with our arms snaked around each other’s back as if we might fall down if we didn’t hold tight to prop each other up. She tried to distract us from our own sexual tension by enumerating the property values of the storefronts and buildings we passed.

  After dinner, I brought her home to my apartment to “meet my goldfish”.

  The goldfish was indifferent; I wasn’t. When I helped her out of her denim jacket, the sight of her bare arms, lightly freckled and perfumed with talc, made me feel so intensely alive I felt I’d walked into someone else’s life.

  I led her into my bedroom and I put on Miles Davis’ Sketches of Spain. She closed her eyes and told me what a sharp interior design eye I have. “For a starving poet, at least.”

  I knelt down in front of the bed and drew back the slit of her long gray skirt, staring up at her as I raised the fabric over her knees.

  She closed her eyes. She asked me for some poetic lines.

  “Slate gray like the sea. Scented,” I said, “like wave-spray.”

  She smiled and threw her head back, her long red hair dangling behind her back, her draped hair almost touching the sheets on my bed. I studied her tightly crossed legs. Then I wedged her legs apart, gently, willfully. I quoted the Talking Heads to her. “Dreams walking in broad daylight.”

  I peeled off her black thong. It was wet, musky-scented. I dangled it from my finger, waiting for her to open her eyes. “Black blindfold removed,” I said, dangling the thong with one hand. With my other hand, I slipped a finger along the fleshy nub of her sex. “Black blindfold removed. Now the blind can see.”

  “You’re a right proper tease,” she said. “And a right proper genius, in your syrupy way.”

  I blew her a kiss. She kept her legs apart and closed her eyes again. Like a make believe tattoo artist, I spelled out my initials on her knees, signed my name with my finger around the back of her calves.

  She muttered, “Yesyesyes,” so sincerely – so musically – that I rewarded her by breathing softly along the inside of her left thigh, puffing warm breaths right on a beauty mark. I grazed my forefinger through her red pubic hair and teased the nub of her sex with the tip of my tongue.

  She closed her strong legs around my head and took hold of my free hand on the bed. As I plunged my tongue in further, my nose was tickled by her hairs and by the damp sweetness of her sex as I licked and lapped, my tongue carefully following the pulse of her pussy’s pink lips. The harmonious play between my tongue and her sex made me swell in my pants. The leaping jazz bop, the crisp crescendos of Miles Davis’ trumpet seemed to be guiding my tongue as I pleasured her.

  I let go of her hand and tucked my hands under her thighs and held her ass, squeezing gently as I kissed her clit, then lifting her slightly off the mattress and dragging my pi
nky finger round back, running my pinky over the brim of her snug hole as my tongue flicked up and down on her clit, down and up and then in. In. And round. Round in ever-tighter ever-more tender tongue-circlings, pausing now and then to let out hot breaths on her. “I see an impatient flower fluttering,” I said and I licked her nub deliberately, flicking my tongue at her clit, tickling it with the tip of my tongue back and forth until she’d swollen, supple and pink, like a pistil risen for a honeybee. The sudden pressure of her thighs closed against my head like a vise and forced my mouth against her sex; I was burrowed in her as I licked and kissed and kissed and flicked.

  Soon I felt her legs quaking. I licked harder and faster. I felt her loving kicks of joy against my back urging me on; I let my pinky slide inside her snug spot as my tongue stroked her swollen clit so rapidly and so thoroughly my jaw started to ache, and then I heard muffled gasping, then louder shouts lilted by a brogue, “Oh Jesusfuck!” as she roared – and came – wet, violent, salty, her sex shivering warm spasms against my tongue, her voice ringing out so loudly in the room I could no longer hear Miles’ trumpet.

  I cooked her dinner the next week; she came up on the train.

  She brought vanilla and strawberry cupcakes from a boutique bakery in the city and after dinner we played strip poker and undressed. When we got bored with the card game, we smeared and squashed the cupcakes on to each other’s chin making fake beards that we licked off.

  “Cupcake tits,” I said, smearing strawberry icing on the soft underside of her breasts, slathering icing on to her nipples. “Cupcake tits topped by sugar kisses.” Then we smeared the melted icing on to our chests, our mouths shaping puckered lips as we lapped every last bit of sugary melt off each other’s nipples, even smearing icing up and down our backs, dripping into the clefts of our asses as our sweetened mouths moved lower on each other’s body, lapping up love. As her wet mouth closed over my cock, my tongue found her clit wet and swollen. “Sugar pleasures,” I said, loudly, and I’m sure, more than once.