The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 10

by Maxim Jakubowski

  “Who takes the money?” I asked.

  Big Nose held out a hand. Feigning confidence, I gave him the notes. Stretching, he passed them to Flamenco who bundled them into his jeans pocket as if he were the pimp. There was a brief exchange in Catalan and I understood only that it was about money and that Big Nose was called Jordi.

  “Graçias,” said Flamenco, relaxing his posture to suggest his work was done.

  Jordi stood and spun the chair to face me. Still standing, he said, “On your knees.”

  I glanced at Flamenco who was making no moves to leave. “It’s not a floor show,” I said.

  Jordi grabbed my face with a broad hand, forcing me to meet his gaze. He squeezed my cheeks. “On your fucking knees.”

  His nastiness sent shards of arousal to my groin. I felt bullied and debased, even more so because of our audience, and it was everything I wanted but would never have dared ask for. I fell to my knees, the scuffed hardwood floor briefly cooling my skin. Ahead of me, the fly of Jordi’s jeans undulated over his boner, the faded denim at his crotch reminding me how much of a stranger he was, the rhythms of a life unknown imprinted on fabric concealing the cock I was about to blow. With a clink of metal, he unbuckled and unzipped, rummaging to release his erection.

  My heart gave a kick of joy at the sight of his hard-on raging up from the wiry thicket of his pubes. I’d forgotten how obscenely aggressive hard cocks are and his was a brutish beauty, the color suffusing the head with such intensity I fancied it might seep through his skin to stain the air with a blood violet hue. He gripped himself, fingers thick around his girth, the sea blue vein on his underside peeping as he gently jerked.

  “It’s a good price, no?” he said.

  Doing my best to forget about Flamenco, I opened my mouth to take Jordi but he stilled me with a hand on my forehead. “It’s a good price,” he repeated sternly.

  His balls were tucked up tight and they lifted as he worked his shaft.

  “Sí, sí, claro,” I replied.

  He clasped my head and drew me sharply on to his cock. The sudden fullness of my mouth made me splutter and he held me there, forcing me to inhale his humidity and that smell I’d forgotten, the smell of men, a smell reminiscent of depths and of things discarded, of dark oceans, forest floors, dereliction, old tires and knives left out in the sun.

  “Así me gusta, nena,” he said approvingly as I withdrew to his tip.

  He held my head, adding a slight pressure as I began slurping back and forth, making it seem as if he were the one leading. Perhaps he was. That seemed at odds with me being the paying customer but I enjoyed him taking the upper hand, so perhaps the incongruity was superficial.

  “Qué bonita,” said Flamenco. How pretty.

  Those watching eyes inflamed a shame that fueled my lust. I swallowed Jordi as deep as I could, my appetite provoking him to greater force. He began fucking my face, driving into my instinctive resistance, making me whimper and cough as my saliva spilled and my eyes watered. I felt sluttish and used, at the mercy of these callous brutes, and it was bliss. My swollen cunt was so fat and rich it barely seemed to have room between my thighs.

  “Hey, Àngel,” said Jordi, addressing his friend. “Why don’t you give her a free fuck? You would like this, nena? Es gratis!”

  He withdrew from my mouth to let me speak.

  “Sí, sí, fóllame!” I croaked, gazing up at Jordi through a veil of tears. He sat heavily in the chair, lowering my head to his height. I dropped on to all fours, engulfing his length again while hoping the free fuck would be as hot and rough as the free brandy.

  I heard Àngel cross the room. Àngel. What a perfect, preternatural name for this other-worldly scenario. Taking position behind me, Àngel flipped up my skirt and yanked down my underwear. I groaned around Jordi’s cock and his answering groan echoed in my ears. I heard Àngel unzip and I shuffled my knees wider, groaning again when he teased me by slotting his cock to the length of my folds. He sawed to and fro, the upward strain of his erection pressing into my wetness and making me ache for penetration.

  Àngel spoke to Jordi in Catalan, tight hard words muttered under his breath. Jordi replied, throaty and urgent. With a sound like an expletive, Àngel slammed into me, hissing as he lodged himself high. He was meaty and solid and he clasped my hips, gripping hard as he began driving into my hole. Every thrust jolted my body, jerking me forward on to Jordi’s lap. I felt skewered all the way through, my mouth and cunt both stuffed to capacity. The two men worked together, fucking, pushing, grunting and groaning. Occasionally they exchanged words I didn’t understand and once or twice there was amusement and faint laughter.

  They had me. They well and truly had me. And when Àngel reached for my clit, I knew I was lost. My climax raced closer and I bleated with nearness. Àngel hissed in Catalan. Jordi growled.

  “Sigue, sigue,” he said. He grabbed fistfuls of my hair, his cock swelling to its absolute limit in my mouth. I was a rag doll between the two men, so close to coming my limbs seemed to have lost their bones. With a hoarse cry, Jordi came, flooding my mouth with his bitter silk, and the sound of his release tipped me over the edge. I came hard, disoriented and dizzy as pleasure clutched and stars exploded in my mind.

  Moments later, my body began to drop with exhaustion but there was no letup from Àngel. He kept fucking me like there was no tomorrow and my pulpy walls, swollen with sensitivity, clung to his thrusts. I held Jordi in my mouth, gasping on his dwindling erection until Àngel’s hammering became so frenzied I fancied he wanted to destroy me. He peaked with a long, low groan, wedging himself deep, and I moaned around Jordi’s cock, wishing I could melt clean away.

  The three of us held still until Jordi stroked my hair, a tender gesture that took me by surprise. Àngel caressed my buttocks. For a minute or two, we rested in silence and, in those moments, I felt we shared a tacit understanding and mutual respect. We had all got what we wanted and were grateful.

  But I didn’t want to stay. I had nothing to say to them, nor them to me. Conversation would have made us awkward and I wanted to leave it there, pure and perfect, a moment out of time devoted entirely to pleasure. Àngel slipped away and I tidied myself up. Jordi asked how I was. I told him I was fine just as Àngel returned with my jug, full to the brim with ice. There was no one in the bar when I left and all the lights were off. Jordi unlocked the door so I could leave.

  “Graçias,” I said.

  “De nada,” he replied with a smile. “Y graçias.”

  Back in my apartment, I tipped half the ice into a freezer bag, stashed it in my ice compartment, and took the remaining ice to bed. I thought I would do my usual routine of rubbing cubes over my skin to cool me into sleep but I must have crashed out at once. In the morning, my jug contained only water and my mind was a fog of lust and filth. Where had I been? What had I done? Did that actually happen?

  I slipped on a T-shirt, rolled up my shutter and stepped out on to my balcony. It was early morning but already the heat pulsed like the midday sun. I rubbed my eyes. Below, the street was coming to life, the baker’s window lined with breads and pastries, people heading to work, a woman on a Vespa turning left. I could see a couple of bars were open but not Bar Anise. It looked as if it hadn’t been open for years, its facade concealed by chipboard, graffiti and tatty fly posters. Of course. Hadn’t it always been derelict, just another dump waiting to be spruced up before the Olympics?

  Drowsily, I padded to the kitchen. Had it been a dream then, just a crazy dream brought on by the heat? I withdrew the bag of ice from my fridge and went back to bed. I had another hour before work. I broke the ice into the jug, scooped up a handful and cupped it to my skin. Just a dream, I told myself, and I lay back on the pillows, wondering if the heat would transport me to Bar Anise on nights to come.

  I smeared the ice over my skin, savoring the trickle of water melting on to my stomach. I murmured softly, imagining the touch was the lick of a lover. Just a dream. Words floated to me as if
from a great distance. Stop resisting yourself. And I slid an ice cube up my neck then sucked it into my mouth, closing my eyes as I twirled my tongue around the cube, ice when I wanted fire.

  Chemistry

  Velvet Moore

  The smell of science makes me horny.

  I narrowly resisted shoving my hands down my pants and rubbing myself to oblivion during my niece’s science fair. My stomach dips with pleasure every time someone lights a match. Each July I’m aroused by the vapors of the noise-making, novelty fireworks called “snappers”. Little do tricksters know that when they crack one on the pavement at my feet, I shiver out of excitement, not fear.

  Smell is the sense tied most closely to human memory. So when I sense any use of potassium chlorate, a white, crystalline compound well-stocked in science laboratories and often used for combustion, I remember how it felt to have the fire of orgasm sizzle its way through my body and melt a liquid path down my legs. The chemical’s odor singes my nostrils and flashes me back to the feel of a chilly, marble countertop pressed against my back, to the press of fingers digging into my supple thighs, to the slick pressure of rounded glass slipping in and out.

  And it’s what I remember most about him.

  Most scientists that I’ve met fit the typical stereotypes. Most would rather analyse your genes than pry off your jeans. Yet I suspected that Michael Harrison was capable of much more than shedding me of my pants. With wavy black hair, broad shoulders and Clark Kent glasses, I believed that stripped of his unassuming attire, he would have something surprising and heroically powerful bulging underneath.

  I understood this the first time I shook his hand and caught the scent of chemicals trapped in his clothes and seared into his skin, a smell faint and tangy and far too interesting to be cologne. Like the smell of your body after a lengthy swim in a freshly chlorinated pool. I imagined that if I should run my tongue along his perky nipples, my tongue would sizzle as though touched to the tip of a battery.

  We needed a scientist to impress the hospital donors with a tour of the lab. I planned to find an excuse to use him.

  I spent the following week visiting the lab to get a sense of his work. His area of interest was biochemistry and I was certainly interested in his chemistry. I came to notice how his hands flexed tightly, fighting against the latex gloves each time he cupped a beaker full of liquid. I watched as he gradually pushed the tip of the lengthy pipette into the stickiness of the gel and ejected its contents. I’d secretly graze my hand across my chest as he pinched and lifted the bell jar by its perky, nipple-like top and used the glassware to create a vacuum.

  He stood beside me as an orator while his lab staff performed an experiment in front of eager donors. “Molten potassium chlorate is a strong oxidizing agent that reacts violently with sugar,” he explained.

  A lab student added a plump, red Gummi Bear to the white liquid bubbling in a test tube over an open flame. In an instant, the candy ignited, sparking and steaming with the power of an electrical fire and screaming like a train whistle. The sudden pop of energy startled me and I jumped in reaction as though I had been smacked sharply across the ass with a ruler.

  Instantly, his hand splayed across my lower back to calm me, a touch that managed to still my nerves and wet my panties. Quicker than the smoke from the candied combustion, he cleared himself from me and attended diligently to the prospective donors. He ought to have looked like a pauper among princes, he in a rumpled white lab coat and tattered tennis shoes, specked among designer suits and patent leather pumps. Yet they clung to his every word, enraptured by the mystifying language of science. As he led the group further into the lab I heard him begin to boast about the facility’s latest microarray technology. Good boy, I thought. He had obeyed my coaching and was hitting all of the major speaking points.

  After the event, I congratulated him and mentioned that if he felt the need, we could debrief. He told me that he would be working late and that if I stopped by, we would review things.

  I agreed.

  That evening, I found him bowed over a polarizing light microscope, his pert little ass hidden by the draping of his white lab coat. He stopped upon noticing my arrival.

  “I’m just examining some potassium chlorate,” he said. “Want to take a look?”

  I shifted toward the microscope resting on the waist-high table and bent to peer in the lens. Magnetized, the crystalline powder was transformed into jagged cubes of translucent hues, like miniature icecaps in Technicolor. Although lacking scientific training, I could appreciate beauty enough to admire the hidden complexity of a seemingly simple form.

  “It’s beautiful,” I said.

  “Yes, it is,” he said, then smoothed the fingers of one hand down my lower back and around the curve of my rear.

  I didn’t move, and he continued, “I’ve been meaning to tell you how much I appreciate the short skirts.” His fingers continued their downward path and crept between the slit of my skirt. Two fingertips moved forward to slowly stroke the crease of my panties, which rested against my inner thigh. I felt the material soak with a sudden urgency. Unnerved by the speed of the situation, I stood straight and stepped aside. His hands trailed out of their reach.

  “You think I didn’t notice that you’ve been dressing for me?” he asked, as he moved closer, trapping me between his body and the chest-high countertop of the lab bench, now pressed against my spine. “Safety is important in a lab; that’s why it’s necessary to wear long pants and flat shoes. I’m glad you choose to live a little dangerously.”

  I blushed and averted my gaze downward as he called me out.

  “Do you know much about potassium chlorate?” he asked.

  I squinted as I retook his gaze and shook my head no, undoubtedly revealing my confusion, if not disappointment, by the sudden topic shift.

  “It’s a fairly common compound, yet incredibly powerful. What’s so amazing about it is that it looks unassuming, but when combined with something sweet, it releases a surprising amount of energy.” With that, he closed the remaining distance between our bodies and, reaching with one hand, slowly grazed the pad of his thumb across my smooth lower lip. The touch tingled lips above and below my waist.

  I watched as he lifted his hand to his mouth and tasted his thumb where my mouth had just been. “I found something sweet … I think we should experiment.”

  His hot mouth crushed against mine and I swiftly slid my tongue between his slick lips to pry them open. When his tongue pressed back with equal force, my breath caught and my folds swelled. Eager for pressure, I shoved my hips forward and ground my pelvis against the strong plane of his body. He grabbed my hands, now tangled in his hair, loosened my grip and lowered them to rest against the lab bench ledge. Like a fallen angel, I stood with arms spread wide awaiting his command. His nimble fingers made quick work of my shirt’s buttons and my bra and he encircled my right breast with his slick mouth.

  As he feasted to the right, he pinched my left nipple, pausing only to roll it between his fingers like a fine cigar. The groans that escaped his muffled mouth made me raw with want. Then he suddenly pulled back. I reached out to draw him back in but he again pressed my hands down. I was eager to see the lengthy muscle that had so eagerly been pushed against my aching middle, but he lowered to his knees without disrobing. He gripped the fronts of my thighs beneath my skirt and spread my legs further. He pushed the skirt up around my waist, tucking the bottom into the waistband to keep it put. Down slipped my soaked panties as he pried them down my legs and tossed them aside. A hand cupped possessively at my swollen sex, his palm spreading my lips, pressing against my throbbing clit, fingers toying along the crease of my rear.

  He met my eyes and showed a sly smile.

  Removing his hand from my body, he reached into the deep pocket of his white lab coat, and then pulled out a glass test tube. I gripped the lab bench a little tighter. The slender cylinder slipped easily on to his middle finger. His sly expression disappeared and a lo
ok of intense concentration took its place as he leaned forward and leisurely ran the weighty tip of his tongue from the bottom of my soaked sex to the tip of my throbbing clit, making sure to increase pressure during his ascent.

  I felt his tongue flick vigorously over my clit while he slipped into me with his glass shrouded finger. The tube glided easily along my slick folds and its rounded tip bumped against all the right places. The combination of his tongue and the tool shot jagged, electric currents destined for between my legs, causing me to twitch, my legs to wobble, my heart to race, my breath to become shallow, moans to escape, my head to roll back, my hands to tighten their grip, and my mind cloud with the sharp thrill of sexual release. Fingers of his free hand gripped my ass when the height of my orgasm hit, causing me to groan out an “oh god” that echoed throughout the lab and I pushed his mouth away to abate the overwhelming intensity. He slipped out of me, lifted from his knees and stood silently, watching as my body calmed. Once my breath had slowed I raised my head, attempting to fight the post-peak weariness. Wanting to please him and willing for more, I grabbed the waistband of his pants, unbuttoned and unzipped them and pushed them down and off his sturdy legs. Next, I headed for the buttons of his collared shirt and painstakingly attempted to undo them all.

  Sensing my lingering fatigue, he assisted and then finally removed his boxers, letting his solid shaft stand free. He stood there mostly naked, draped in his lab coat, like a Central Park flasher with a PhD.

  Reaching out, I coiled his cock in my hand and he groaned when I began tugging my tightened grip. With equal force he clenched the wrist of my offending hand and pulled me off. Taking advantage of my surprise and of his hold, he spun me around and pressed me forward against the lab bench so that its edge that once pushed along my spine now settled against my abs. Like a yogi in a bow of submission, I stretched my arms forward to steady myself, carelessly pushing aside bottles, scales and other miscellaneous laboratory equipment. I was poised for sexual satisfaction, not for scientific measurement.