The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 10

by Maxim Jakubowski

  He let go of one of the breasts and moved his freed hand down Valerie’s body until he reached her pussy with the light blond fluff. For the first time, he felt a woman’s genitals, felt the warmth and the freely flowing juices, felt the puffiness of the lips, the protruding clit. It was an incredible experience, especially since he didn’t have to worry at all about any of the things he had always fussed about.

  Valerie was a perfect statue, a perfect doll. She lay absolutely still, never made a sound or said a word, and just let him do whatever he wanted to do. Emboldened, he knelt beside her and spread her legs apart, then climbed on top of her and buried his by now throbbing and pulsatingly eager penis in the unbelievably wonderful, warm, soft, pliable cave.

  He half expected Valerie to react in some way, but she didn’t, to his great delight. She still didn’t move or do anything when he started to move in and out of her, took hold of her breasts with both hands, and pumped himself to a glorious, earth-shattering, way beyond wonderful, exhilarating and fantastic orgasm inside a real life, receptive, lubricated vagina.

  He stayed on top of her motionless body, gasping and moaning with pleasure and unconcealed delight until he was able to catch his breath, and then rolled off her again. She still hadn’t moved at all. He wondered what the experience had been like for her since she hadn’t given him any indication at all.

  “Did you have an orgasm, too?” he asked, wanting to make sure the whole encounter hadn’t just been for his benefit as it was with the statues and the doll.

  “Of course, I did,” Valerie replied matter-of-factly. “I always do.”

  “I’m glad,” Bernard said. “I was worried that maybe you didn’t.”

  “You don’t have to worry about me,” Valerie said. “I know how to look after myself. Was what I was doing all right for you?”

  “More than all right,” Bernard enthused. “It was absolutely perfect. You were absolutely perfect.”

  “Good,” Valerie said. “I was sure that’s what you wanted.”

  They lay quietly side by side for a while, enjoying the soothing afterglow of their union, lost in their own thoughts.

  “Do you think we could do this again?” Bernard finally broke the silence.

  “Of course, we will,” Valerie said without hesitation. “Next time, your turn!”

  On My Knees in Barcelona

  Kristina Lloyd

  This happened before the Olympics, a summer when the nights were so hot the city couldn’t sleep and everyone grew angry and crazy. Zero tolerance was just a rumor, so whores, thieves and smackheads skulked in narrow streets and everyone avoided the docks. I only went to Bar Anise in the hope they’d give me some ice. Had I known what kind of bar it was, I might have stayed away.

  It was nearly 2:00 a.m. and I was standing on my dinky balcony, feeling pretty zonked. The fuse had gone in my fan and the air in my apartment felt thick enough to slice. In the street below, a globe lamp hung like a moon on a bracket, adding a sheen of pearl to the facade of Bar Anise. I held a damp cloth to the back of my neck, arms resting on metal too hot to touch during the day. Earlier, the cloth had contained fast-melting ice and my mind returned to the cold rivulets trickling over my shoulders, collarbone and breasts. Like a tongue, I’d thought, the tongue of a lover making whoopee with my skin. How long had it been now? Oh, too many months to count.

  Six floors below, footsteps echoed in the dark street. I watched a guy in a white T-shirt stride along with a sense of purpose unsuited to the hour. When he suddenly looked up I was unnerved, feeling a rupture of that odd balance where my balcony is at once part of the street and part of my home. It was as if he’d barged in on my privacy.

  I turned away, embarrassed to have been caught watching, then glanced back to see him enter Bar Anise. A relic from another age, the bar’s exterior glowed with low-watt tones of honey and oak, its door closed, its windows pasted with faded posters, that globe lamp fuzzed with a halo of white light. As the guy pushed the door, I half expected the structure to wobble like a stage set.

  How come I’d never been in before? Generally speaking, I socialized in Barcelona’s hipper bars along Las Ramblas, in Plaça Reial or Barri Gòtic, and I only ventured into local bars to buy late-night beers or water. They were down-at-heel joints with Formica tabletops, fruit machines and a TV tuned permanently to the lotto draw. I fancied Bar Anise was different but I’d never set foot inside. Oh, sure, I was curious but the place seemed to exist in a world of its own. It may as well have had NO ENTRY on its door.

  At 2:00 a.m., however, it was the only bar open.

  I wiped the damp cloth over my face, reminding myself I was lucky to be single and sleeping alone. Along my street, shabby ironwork balconies were cluttered with blushing geraniums, cramped little washing lines, green roller blinds and even a bird in a cage three buildings to my right. In these Spanish homes, behind the old lace at the windows, the occupants probably slept two to a bed, sticky bodies wrestling with hot, tangled sheets. Yes, in this heat, I was lucky to be single. Some ice to see me through the night would be welcome though. Unfortunately, my ice compartment was empty so I had to ask myself: how badly did I want it?

  My sandals were noisy in the deserted street, ringing off walls and metal shutters. I hesitated before the door of Bar Anise, disconcerted by the sense of stillness beyond. A sign in Catalan proclaimed the bar open but was it really? And if so, was it open to the likes of me? In those months, I was working as a subeditor on a weekly expat newspaper called Gander. Prior to that, I’d spent three years teaching English in Seville until I’d tired of both the work and a boyfriend who’d kept the fingernails long on his right hand so he could simultaneously learn Spanish guitar and repulse me. Sometimes, I felt at home in that foreign land but when I stood on the threshold of Bar Anise, I felt I’d just arrived from Mars.

  I considered quitting, then recalled those tongues of molten ice trailing across my skin. Taking a deep breath, I entered. Cigarette smoke hung in the yellowing light and a ceiling fan turned sluggishly as if enervated by the heat. Half a dozen men sat alone at separate tables, smoking, reading or staring into space. No one paid me any notice and I was grateful. I took it to be one of those places where everyone is a stranger, even people who’ve been drinking side by side for years.

  When I approached the counter with my empty jug, a customer seated there cast me a look of lazy appraisal. He wore a white T-shirt and I took him to be the guy I’d seen from my balcony. Big nosed with dark hair feathering across his forehead, his wrinkles added interest to a strong, angular face. But irrespective of rugged charm, middle-aged men who believe they’re entitled to leer unsettle my confidence. I was self-conscious in asking for ice and when my request was met with a frown, I stumbled in repeating myself. The bartender wiped the counter with a cloth, apparently loath to serve me. Behind him, among shelves gleaming with bottles and glasses, a mirrored Coca-Cola clock said quarter past two. The clock’s red logo gave me that old jolt of jarring familiarity, making me feel I was on territory at once homely and strange.

  “I have money,” I said.

  With that, the bartender disappeared into an adjoining room, a curtain of plastic strips clattering lightly as he passed. I waited, wondering if the drinkers could see the ice tonguing my skin; if they could see me at night, water coursing over my flesh; if they could see how I tried to kill the heat of my longing, failing as the ice melted away and I climaxed once again.

  I felt they could and it troubled me. On the counter, a wedge of tortilla sat forlornly under a plastic dome. I could hear the bartender on the phone in the adjoining room. All this for some ice? When he returned with my jug blissfully full, I asked how much I owed him. Before he could reply, Big Nose interrupted, addressing the bartender in Catalan, a language I wasn’t yet familiar with. The bartender poured a large brandy, then set it in front of me.

  “Gratis,” he said.

  Unwilling to risk offence, I accepted the drink while trying to convince my
self it left me under no obligation. So bloody English of me. Why couldn’t I decline the brandy, pay for the ice conventionally and leave?

  “Graçias,” I said, turning to the customer, but I didn’t smile.

  He nodded, lips tilting in wry amusement. The brandy was rough, its heat scorching my throat and blazing inside my chest. The nape of my neck was wet with sweat, my hair damp. I was concerned about the ice melting in my jug and wished I could sip the ice water. The ceiling fan clicked faintly. Nobody spoke and I was relieved. It could simply be this guy was silently extending the hand of friendship. If so, I would silently shake it then shoot off home. The brandy was difficult to drink though, fire when I wanted ice.

  “Ay, qué calor,” said my new friend at length.

  “Sí, qué calor,” I replied.

  Hot weather. I sipped my brandy. I could feel him watching and his passive interest bugged me. After a couple more minutes, wanting to escape his gaze, I asked for the lavabos and was directed down a flight of rickety stairs. I descended toward a basement with scruffy, dark crimson walls, toilets at the far end and a swinging door with a small, dirty window lined with wire mesh. Halfway down the stairs, movement below caught my eye. I paused, looking over my shoulder at the corridor behind me. Beyond an open door was a guy on a chair and a woman on her knees, her head bobbing in his lap. I clutched the banister, immobilized by fear and a sudden, pornographic lust.

  My cunt swelled and swelled, blood throbbing there. Oh, Christ, what a picture. The guy’s mouth was slack, his head tipped back, as the woman, her chestnut curls fanning over his thighs, dipped up and down, up and down. Had they heard me? Hell, I hoped not. I needed to watch. Until that moment, I hadn’t known how much I wanted cock; hadn’t known how much I’d missed it since dumping the guitarist; hadn’t known that stab of raging desire. Because while I could fuck myself with cock-shaped objects (cool as a cucumber), nothing could ever come close to the overwhelming sensations of a deep, dark, blinding mouthful. I stared, hardly daring to breathe.

  The guy was young and lean, a tumble of ink black curls giving him an air of flamenco passion. Transfixed, I watched him grow fiercer, pulling the woman on to him, his fingers snarled in her hair as his pelvis rocked either to meet or defeat her. In her kneeling position, the woman kicked at the floor, squealing in muffled protest, her hands flapping. My yearning for cock was knocked for six by a second wave, a shocking urge to be claimed and used in a myriad of filthy ways.

  My cunt flared to a cushiony mass of need, so sensitive I fancied I could feel the warp and weft of cotton in my underwear. I wanted to be where she was, at the mercy of a wild stranger who regarded me as nothing but an object for his pleasure, insignificant and disposable. I wanted to be all body and no mind, a thing made of cunt, mouth and ass, wide open and ready to receive.

  Face aflame, I turned, intending to hurry back to the bar. I would put it from my thoughts, pretend nothing had happened, pretend I hadn’t seen either the couple or the grubby depths of my desire. Was this because I hadn’t had sex for so long? Was I craving the basest sort of action as compensation for those months of lack? Feeling shaky, I clasped the banister, mouth dry as a bone.

  My stomach somersaulted. To my horror, at the head of the stairs stood the big-nosed guy from the bar. He grinned, descending in slow, swaggering steps. Panicking, I glanced down to the room. The guy in the chair was looking right at me, smirking as he slammed the woman’s head between his thighs. My knees turned wobbly while blood pumped in my ears, roaring like seashells and high fever.

  Big Nose was at my side, his forehead gleaming with a film of sweat. He tipped his eyebrows at me. “Cuatro miles pesetas,” he said.

  Outrage spiked my fear. Four thousand pesetas! He thought I was a whore, thought I would blow him for a nasty brandy and a handful of notes!

  “Déjame paso!” I snapped, attempting to sidestep him. He mirrored me, blocking my path. I grew more afraid then, trapped between these two randy cucarachas, and yet my groin was pulsing as hard as my heart.

  “Cuatro miles,” he repeated, nodding toward the basement room. Then in Spanish he added, “Take it, go on. It is a good price. You know you want it.”

  And I understood at once that I was to pay; that I was the punter not the whore. I didn’t know whether to be more or less insulted. I stared at him, incredulous. He actually thought I was so desperate for cock I would pay to suck off a stranger in a sleazy, backstreet bar!

  “Move,” I said, no longer bothering to speak his language. Despite being on a lower step, I tried shouldering him out of the way but with swift skill, he jostled me backward. I cried out to realize I was now sandwiched between him and the wall, his chest pressing against my breasts, my arms trapped in his hands. For several seconds we stood there, our breaths shallow and tense.

  “No me molestes,” I said, a Berlitz phrase I’d never had to use before.

  The guy laughed and with good reason. My demand sounded so pitifully insincere I may as well have said, “Molest me.” He crooked a finger, resting it in the hollow of my throat, and I turned aside, looking past him to the room below. The woman was watching us. She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth and laughed, white teeth flashing. I was relieved to see she wasn’t in trouble but, more than that, I was relieved to see I wasn’t the only woman keen on skirting so close to danger.

  I turned to face Big Nose with renewed bravery but he trailed his bent finger up my neck. My skin tingled to his touch, tiny shivers of pleasure rippling through my body’s heat. I tried defying him, tried steeling myself against his advances, but I caught the sadistic brightness in his bitter chocolate eyes and I melted a little more. I pressed my head back to the wall.

  “No me molestes,” I repeated, my voice soft and tremulous.

  He laughed quietly, his breath tickling my face. I wanted him to touch me in horrible ways, to stick his hand between my thighs or paw my breasts. But he didn’t. He just reiterated his price. When I didn’t reply, he ground his crotch against me, rubbing his hard-on above the swell of my pubis. The pressure of him there distilled to my cunt, making my lips part and pout.

  “Qué barato!” he said. A good price.

  The basement was hot as hell. Sweat prickled on my back, cotton clinging damply. He knew he was turning me on and every rock of his body was sweet torture, twisting me with what I didn’t want to want.

  In Spanish, I said, “I just came for ice. I need to go home now. Release me, please.”

  “You will not sleep,” he replied. “It’s too hot.”

  “I have ice.”

  “You don’t want ice,” he said. “You want cock.”

  I felt the color rise in my face. He placed his hands either side of my head, caging me loosely in his arms, his biceps forming swarthy little hillocks on the edges of my vision. A waft of sweat, earthy and masculine, surged into my senses and I wanted to bury my nose in his armpits and inhale him.

  “There’s cock here,” he continued. “Take it, guapa. We are not expensive. Take what you want then go home.”

  His eyes were such a deep brown I could barely distinguish pupil from iris.

  “I don’t have much money on me,” I said.

  He chuckled and I flushed deeper to realize I’d betrayed myself.

  “Then go get some money,” he said. “There’s a cash machine—”

  “No,” I murmured.

  “Yes, stop resisting yourself. Do you agree it is a fair price?”

  “I don’t know,” I whispered, and I genuinely didn’t. It seemed an amount I’d pay without too many qualms. But fair, good? There was no market value for this; it flew in the face of the usual sexism dictating the flow of supply and demand: women give, men get. Without a scarcity of clean men with hard cocks, why would I pay? And what in the world would prompt a cock-drought? Guys were always up for it. But here and now in the early hours in Bar Anise, they’d changed the world, creating both a need and a scarcity. Demand outstripped supply. A fair price?
The thud in my pussy insisted it was a bargain.

  I swallowed. “I have money in my piso,” I said, deeply ashamed. “I live across the street.”

  He stepped back. “Vete!” he said, gesturing up the stairs.

  I wasted no time, striding through the bar, head held high. At that point, I was unsure if I would return. I thought I might come to my senses but the night was sultry and weighted with the city, its heat wrapping me in strange enchantments where Bar Anise’s subterranean secrets seduced me away from the prosaic. The man’s voice echoed in my mind: Stop resisting yourself.

  Gone was the Barcelona I knew where the metro whisked me to work, sunshine poured on mosaic lizards, plane trees shimmered and cathedral spires and scaffolding stabbed a flat blue sky. Instead, lust conspired with magic and menace to lead me as if in a dream to collect money from my apartment and scurry back to the bar.

  Stop resisting yourself.

  I downed the brandy still awaiting me on the counter and crept downstairs, my sordid hunger flaring at the wine-dark walls and scents of sweat and semen lingering in the shadows. All I’m doing, I told myself, is buying sex much as men have done for centuries. Nonetheless, I felt myself less an empowered consumer and more a desperate, greedy slut, a woman shameless enough to slake her desire in this masculine habitat of beer, cigarettes and sullen, perceptible misogyny. But I liked that these guys probably didn’t much care for me except as an object to fuck. The feeling was mutual.

  No one was about in the basement so, nervously, I entered the room I’d seen earlier, an underused storeroom with drums of olive oil lined against a wall, boxes under a large wooden table and four towers of orange chairs stacked in a corner. Big Nose was sitting spread-legged on a reversed chair, arms folded on its back. Behind him on the table sat his flamenco-looking friend, one leg swinging back and forth. My heart was going nineteen to the dozen.