The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 10

by Maxim Jakubowski

  But then she was dead, and crying in my bedroom.

  I could guess the cause. Bolo was a dyke who always knew where she was going and how exactly to get there. She was an iron-plated mean mother who knew what the score was – despite her profound depressions and mood swings. Jasmine was flowers and pot and the Beatles. She could get lost walking from the bathroom into the bedroom.

  It wasn’t all that hard, once I made the decision to do it. One phone call, to Rosie. Then into the bathroom.

  I hadn’t done my Death Trance since she had manifested herself those two weeks ago. It was just too much of a temptation for her and the shock of her walking in had been way too much when she was flesh and blood. Since she was a ghost – well, I don’t really want to see if I’m cardiac prone.

  Had trouble sleeping a few years back. I was lucky enough to have health insurance at the time, so was able to see a doc who could actually give me pills. I had only taken one – the fuckers were so strong that I stopped taking them and simply started staying up late.

  I took five and lay down in the warm water.

  We are nothing but matter. We are nothing but the flesh that hangs on our bones, the blood that gushes through our meat. Bach took shits, Aristotle got piss hard-ons, Mother Theresa the runs, Ghandi really liked enemas, Lincoln got wind. We are animals that have learned to walk upright, that have trained themselves to use the next best thing to fishing with termites with a stick: the nuclear bomb.

  I didn’t have to think long. About the time I was drawing analogies between Sartre and seals that know how to play “Lady of Spain” on car horns, I was interrupted by a tiny sound, the sound of cheap Mexican toe rings chiming their tinny, cheap tones: the tinkling of tiny silver bells. Then the sound of Jasmine pissing into the toilet.

  But this time it didn’t sound mischievous, it sounded sad.

  The pills had started to take effect, I braced my feet against the tub so I wouldn’t drown and whispered, as loud as I could (which was just loud enough for the dead to hear), “Follow me.”

  I don’t know what she saw, but I started to hallucinate pretty badly. Either the pills, or I had really started to fade, myself – I don’t know. I was in the kitchen, full and real and solid, looking out of my window. The sun was bright, so bright that I had to close my eyes against the brightness – but for some reason it reached right through my eyelids and right into my brain. I realized then that it couldn’t be the sun – for at least the obvious reason that sun never came in that window, anyway.

  No tunnel, no saints (or sinners, either), just that bright light. I felt myself start to come apart, like the flesh I had always talked about, thought about in my trances, was starting to unravel and decompose around me, leaving just a lightweight fragment of Roger Corn left. It wasn’t a pull or an enticement, it was just a direction that I was walking myself to.

  Jasmine. Somewhere I thought that, and reached back into my apartment for her, but I couldn’t seem to find her. I looked in the bathroom (I looked so silly laying there in the tub, mouth hanging open), the living room, all the closets, the kitchen … everywhere. No Jasmine. Not even her ghost.

  Then that sound. Her sound. Cheap bells on her toes and a smile on her face. I found her masturbating in the bedroom, chubby legs wide and open, finger dancing on her clit. Typical. I smiled and took her hand and pulled her towards me, into me –

  – and then pushed her away, into the brightness.

  The cops and firemen busted down my bathroom door about that time. I don’t remember much after save the sound of their tools smashing my interior door to cheap splinters. I probably don’t want to remember being naked in front of all those macho public servants, having a tube run down my throat and having all that guck and pills poured out. Rosie had come through, with perfect timing.

  No repercussions, no real ones at any rate: what’s another botched suicide, after all? At least I had accomplished something with this one: a spectral repercussion.

  She’s gone. You’d expect that. Gone wherever magical little Deadheads go when they OD. She’s with Janice now, with Morrison and Lennon – in a place where the seventies never happened and where everyone gets along.

  And, yeah, I hear those damned happy bells now and again.

  Simon Says

  Alice Gray

  Everything is set, my choice. The meeting place, the dining (if we get that far), the final destination. I’m grateful for the condensation on the whiskey glass cupped in my hands. It hides the fact that my palms are sweating worse than the ice.

  I’m also grateful for the easy, warm glow the alcohol has given me. That’s why I showed up forty minutes early. Who wouldn’t need a little shot of courage? It’s two on one, their turf. I want to see them before they see me.

  The last few drops of Red Label still burn my throat when I spot them coming in, ten minutes early. They look like an ordinary couple, out for an intimate drink after they’ve been apart for an entire day, separated by ordinary obligations. But I know better.

  I know why they are really here. It’s exciting, this secret knowledge.

  A smile I can’t contain spreads across my cheeks. A quick wave gets their attention and earns me two smiles in return.

  “Ronnie!” She squeals my name and slides around the long curve of the booth to throw her arms around me.

  Her scent sets off tiny detonations across my skin. “Ava!”

  We press awkward, unsatisfying kisses against each other’s cheeks before disentangling.

  He slides up next to me on the other side, trapping me between them. His lips are warm and in control when he kisses my cheek.

  “Simon.” I encourage his contact, placing a firm hand to his cheek. After all, he’s part of the deal. The stiff bristle of his short beard crackles under my palm and tingles against my face for an instant before I let go.

  The skinny bitch of a waitress who’s ignored me since I arrived shows up with surprising speed.

  “Can I get y’all somethin’ ta drink?” She snaps her gum and makes big eyes at Simon.

  He laces his fingers together and leans across the table on his forearms. “Jameson neat, all around.”

  A quick glance at Ava tells me she finds Simon’s effect on the waitress as funny as I do. The waitress doesn’t seem to notice; she only has eyes for Simon. With an exaggerated turn, she bounces off toward the cocktail station.

  “Ronnie.” Simon turns his attention my way and takes my hand in both of his. “How was your flight?”

  “The flight was as good as you could expect for someone who hates to fly.”

  Ava squeezes closer to me and lays her head on my shoulder. “I hate flying, too. Simon says it’s because I’m a control freak.”

  Panic flashes through me in warm rush. Things are moving too fast.

  “Here you go.” The waitress deals out three cheap cardboard coasters with a matching trifecta of drinks. “Twenty-four dollars.”

  Simon slides a sinuous arm around his back to reach for his wallet. The plastic card snaps against the laminated tabletop. “Start a tab.”

  The waitress’s resin nails click when she peels his card up. “Of course.” She gives him a mischievous smile before twirling away.

  Pent-up excitement flows like an ocean current under us.

  Simon holds up his glass. “A toast. To new friends.”

  Ava and I hurry to raise our drinks. The clink of glass on glass is lost in the buzz of conversation around us. Some of the liquid spills over my hand, warm and cool at the same time. There is nothing cool about the whiskey as it runs down my throat.

  Simon slams his glass to the tabletop and swipes his thumb across his lips. “Damn, that’s good.”

  His eyes are quicksilver in the dim light. I always pictured him with eyes as black as coal. It’s unsettling. Another reminder that I don’t really know these people I’ve traveled so far to see. A second round of drinks and the conversation flows like liquid gold, engaging, stimulating. Hands begin to
wander under the table. My fingers on hers, hers on mine. She traces light circles against my palm, sending shivers rippling up my arm.

  The night’s entertainment takes the stage. Their appearance draws the focus of the audience forward. Anticipation spreads through the crowd. The drummer begins a low, steady beat. Guitars, languid and rhythmic, pour out the hypnotic notes of roots reggae.

  Ava squeezes my hand. She shifts until her lips are an inch from my ear. “Dance with me, Ronnie.”

  I finish my drink and follow her. There is no handholding as Ava and I thread our way forward. The dance floor is filling with other couples looking for hot fun on a cold autumn night. All I can see is the way her skirt rides the curves of her backside with each step. The whiskey has done its job, leaving a volatile trail of desire.

  It’s a small club, intimate, but there are few enough people tonight that we have our own universe within the mass of hot bodies. A universe with a perfect view, just for him, so he can watch as we spiral toward each other, toward ignition.

  Music fills the room, leaving no escape. The rhythm has invaded her, washing her in an ethereal splendor. So beautiful, her hips swaying in languid figure eights, lips parted, eyes burning into mine.

  I know they are a package deal. In order to have Ava, I must share her with Simon. He’s attractive enough but she is the reason I came so far.

  I reach for the swell of her hips. Her warmth seeps through the thin material of her skirt into my hands. We move together, alone in the sea of bodies. Her hips, my hands, our only contact points, still separated by a searing gap of space. She covers my hands with hers, pressing them harder against her hips, taking control. Each sway brings her closer to me until our bodies touch at last.

  She feels so good. Her breasts against mine, our bellies touching, her body so like my own. And, there is nothing left in the universe but the live wire that is her.

  “Veronica.” The sound of my name is lost in the music but I don’t need to hear her tone to understand her.

  I twine my fingers with hers, squeezing, using the leverage to guide her mouth to mine. She parts her lips in anticipation. So soft. She tastes of smoky vanilla.

  Trailing small kisses, I nip and suckle her slender throat. With bold hands, she cups my breasts through my clothing, capturing my nipples between her thumb and forefinger. The pressure borders on painful and draws a moan from deep within me. Time and place lose all meaning.

  I seek her warm, inviting mouth wanting to devour the sounds of her arousal. The skin between her thighs is smooth, her panties silken and taut under my fingers. Her moan vibrates down my throat and rumbles in my chest. She rocks, pleasing herself against my hand.

  An insistent tapping on my shoulder breaks the spell. It’s a man in a sharp suit wearing an unhappy, somber expression. Ava and I scramble apart, guilty like children caught with hands in a cookie jar.

  “Excuse me, ladies. I’m going to have to ask you to take your party elsewhere. Sorry. Club policy.”

  One glance at Ava and we’re both giggling.

  “That’s an unfortunate policy,” Ava says. “You’d probably make more money tonight if we were allowed to stay.” She casts a glance around the club, pointing out the fact that there are plenty of people watching us instead of the band.

  I’m still giggling when Ava takes my hand and pulls me away.

  Simon sits where we left him, a satisfied smile on his face. Before we can take our seats, he slides out of the booth. “I already settled our bill. Shall we?”

  No dinner tonight. There are other things on the menu.

  We make the trip to my hotel with no contact between us. Conversation is limited to what is necessary to reach our destination. Instead of serving as a damper, this limited contact, this self-restraint heightens the anticipation.

  In the elevator, I wonder what the gentleman who has the good fortune of sharing this ride with us is thinking. The tension is so high that I’m almost surprised when the elevator doors don’t blow off their tracks and spill us all to the plush carpeting in the hallway.

  I pause in front of my door, plastic key card in my hand poised before the small red eye of the electronic lock. I decided a long time ago to give myself to them. This is it. The point of no return. Theoretically, I’ve had the option of backing out at any time. I know once we go inside my room, there is no turning back.

  With a quick push, the smooth plastic glides home releasing the lock with a quiet snick and the red eye goes green. A small electric spark arcs between my fingers and the cool metal door handle.

  I step into the room, holding the door open for them. First him, followed by her. When she passes by, I reach out and take her hand, keeping her close. The door swings shut and I can’t wait any longer.

  With an urgent kiss, I pin her against the door. I need to feel her again the way we were on the dance floor. Her mouth. Her nipples. The soft skin of her belly. I can’t get enough. The smell of her hair. The soft sighs of her breath against my skin.

  Her hand slides between my thighs. She slips her fingers under the edge of my panties and pushes into me.

  Through the haze of excitement, I hear a faint jingling from Simon’s direction and think he has had enough of sitting quietly to the side. I imagine that he is undoing his belt buckle and pants so that he can begin to stroke himself. I am so wrong. He rises from his chair and comes to where I have her pinned against the door.

  With the front of his body, he traps me between them. The hard length of his cock sits high on my back.

  “Hold still.” He whispers his command in my ear.

  I try to obey but she’s fucking me with her fingers and kissing me, making it impossible to keep from moving.

  Some unspoken signal passes between them. She breaks away from my mouth and uses her free hand to gather my hair off my shoulders. He slides a sleek leather collar around my neck. The buckle jingles again as his practiced fingers make quick work of the fastening.

  “Bound by collar rules, Veronica.” His words are low and hot in my ear.

  She hasn’t let up on me. I’m so close to coming that I know my legs won’t hold me up if they release me from their embrace.

  “Rule number one. You have to ask permission to come. If you come without permission—”

  “Please, please, oh please …” Already they have me begging, fighting with everything I have not to break the rules before I even know what the rules are.

  He backs off me a little and reaches around to cover her hand with his. “Naughty girl. Don’t interrupt me when I’m speaking to you.” He makes Ava stop. “You don’t have permission to come, yet.”

  My orgasm threatens to steal over me when he draws her fingers out of me. My head is too heavy. I rest my forehead on her shoulder and draw long, ragged breaths.

  “Rule number one is only for coming quietly. Rule number two. You need special permission to come loudly.”

  I nod to let him know I understand.

  “Rule number three is to obey me when I say ‘Simon says’. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. You will be punished for any rule that is broken.”

  Cold air rushes across my back when he takes a step back. It helps to clear my head.

  “Simon says, undress, Ronnie. Everything but your panties and your shoes.”

  I step away from Ava. She still has her back against the door, arms at her sides with her palms pushing flat against the door behind her. Her breasts rise and fall with her own excited breath.

  I try to be quick because I don’t know if there is a time limit but my fingers are shaking. I have to slow down. When the buttons are all undone, I slip my arms out of the blouse and let it flutter to the floor. My bra is next. The black lace falls away, exposing my breasts to the cold air. My nipples sting as they contract. Skirt. I tug the small zipper down, hook my fingers into the waistband, and slide it over my hips until it puddles around my feet. Stepping out of it, I kick it aside. I’m left in nothing
but my silky black thong, my heels and my new collar.

  “Good girl.” His words hold encouragement. He moves closer, holding something out to me. Her collar. “Put it on her.”

  I grasp it in both hands and reach toward her neck. Her eyes are on fire as she lifts her hair up, baring her throat. There are small red marks on her pale skin, marks I left there earlier with my teeth. I circle her neck with the thick leather, fumbling a little before securing the buckle.

  He moves impossibly fast, one long arm around my waist, pulling me back, back, back until he is seated in the soft wing chair with me draped over his thighs, like a –

  “Naughty girl,” he says.

  I cry out from the sting of his hand. A spanking, my first of the night.

  Smack!

  “I didn’t say ‘Simon says’.”

  Smack! Smack!

  My skin heats up where his hand is certainly leaving a trail of bright red marks against my pale flesh. Each blow fades from pain to hot tingling pleasure. The spanking over, he helps me up.

  “Now, Simon says undress her, same as you.” He takes his seat, watching to make sure I carry out his orders.

  At last, my chance to see her undressed, to feel her smooth skin against mine, touch her unencumbered by the confines of her clothing. I kiss her once and take her hand. I want to undress her in full view of him, away from the door. She follows as I lead her within arm’s reach of the spanking chair where he sits.

  Holding her face, I press my mouth to hers. Her hands settle over my hips. Dipping a quick tongue into her mouth, I trail the kiss along her jaw. One kiss above her collar under her chin. One kiss below in the hollow of her throat. A kiss for each metal stud buried in the leather. She shivers under my touch, her fingers digging into my hips. The sound she makes has me burning inside, barely in control.