The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 10

by Maxim Jakubowski

  Perhaps, that’s the reason Gerald and Pamela Barker are my favourites, because of the danger that was attached to that incident. Perhaps a part of me craves that extra surge of adrenaline and there is a hope it might recur. It was so exciting I almost didn’t have to stay any longer than that, but it was not quite enough, and I remained till they and I were done. Admittedly, though, the moment had passed and that time, I had been almost more aroused by the near discovery of my indulgence than the consummation of their lust.

  As close a call as that was, however, I’m too clever to be caught and, by morning, the rain will have washed away any trace of my presence.

  I think it’s ironic that Pamela Doggett married someone whose last name is Barker.

  She’s lovely, really; almost perfect. I’ll give credit where credit is due. Shapely and just the right average height, though in high heels, she’s easily five foot seven, or eight; warm, honey blond hair that she still ties up in a pony tail. She was a cheerleader and still looks like one; a healthy glow radiating beneath her peaches and cream complexion. Her face is flawless according to popular standards. On someone like Pammy, as all, except I, call her, a dark mole isn’t considered a flaw; it’s a beauty mark. Not by me of course. I don’t think it’s lovely at all. I may be the only one who sees it for the imperfection it is.

  But perfect or flawed, single or married, Pamela Barker, née Doggett, is a bitch.

  Gerald Barker is home already, of course. He’s always on time, occasionally even early. And why not, when he has such a gorgeous, fuckable bitch waiting at home for him?

  Their side kitchen window, in the lee of the prevailing wind, is wet, but open just enough to let in whatever cool air the storm might provide. It also allows me to catch at least some of what they may have to say to each other. Additionally, this window, and the one above their sink is blocked from sight of the next house over and the one behind them, by a tall, thick thuja hedge, which makes it so much easier for them to indulge their carnal urges someplace other than in the bedroom. And that makes it more interesting for me. Bedrooms tend to become boring and, too often, people dim the lights in their bedrooms, or turn them off altogether. Even in the hot weather, some hide under the sheets, ruining the show. I don’t want just sound, which is often drowned out by the thunder and rain anyway. I wouldn’t go to the movies then sit there with my eyes closed, would I?

  But that is always part of the anticipation. What will they do and where will it happen? How much will they give me?

  Pamela and Gerry – I’ve called him Gerry, ever since I stamped his first library book – have obviously finished dinner. Gerry is nowhere in sight. Pamela is standing by the sink washing the dishes.

  It looks so idyllic. She’s June Cleaver without Wally and the Beaver. The runnels on the pane distort the image. It’s like watching a television screen when there’s an atmospheric disturbance and the image wavers.

  Generally, when the subject arises, I tell people I don’t watch television, and while that may not be completely true, I’m sure I don’t watch the shows in the way other people do. I don’t laugh at those so-called comedies, wherein the parents are making cute little quips to each other and the children are mischievous, but adorable, and by the time the closing credits roll, another crisis has been averted and everyone in the supposedly perfect family ends up laughing at their own foibles, which makes them appear to be even more perfect in their acceptance of life’s little trials. What fools they are, almost as foolish as the people who watch and believe those flickering images to be a blueprint for real life. The children grin like fresh-faced, sugar-cookie cherubs – little demons if the truth were known – and the bits of fatherly wisdom and motherly advice make me want to puke.

  When I watch those shows, I feel both incensed and vindicated. The hypocrisy of them is evident, if only to me. Others are so naive; stupid, in fact. I see the filth behind the façade.

  This is better than black and white television, though. And much better than the ghastly new colour sets. Those are hideous. This is what colour television should be like.

  The kitchen is all white and green and yellow, clean and cheerful. And Pamela blends right in. It’s as if she is part of a well-appointed set upon which the costume and set designers collaborated. And she knows it. Her very posture reveals how highly she thinks of herself, the snotty bitch.

  Her house dress is pale yellow, a fall of watery sunshine. It pinches her waist and flares over her hips. The strings of the starched mint green apron are tied in a neat, wide bow. The air is still hot and humid, but she’s wearing nylons and I can just see the pair of white sandals with wedge heels, not very high this evening. A bright green satin ribbon adorns her pony tail. She looks like a starlet in a dish soap commercial. She has adjusted the radio dial and I catch errant strains of some pop music station. Pamela sways her ass back and forth to the rock and roll.

  She’s a slut.

  I wonder, when she finally gets pregnant, if she’ll undergo that ersatz transformation, the one from slut to Madonna.

  That excites me. Not the possibility of her becoming that sainted illusion – that’s just a myth – but just saying the word “pregnant”, inside my head, instead of using the coy euphemisms, “in the family way”, or “expecting”.

  It’s exciting because it means sweet little Pammy, the butter-wouldn’t- melt-in-her-mouth girl next door, will prove to be just another knocked up whore, and everyone will know it. It will be visible proof that her wholesome, handsome husband, at some point, spread her creamy white cheerleader thighs, shoved his cock inside her, and fucked her, the same way he’d fuck any other cheap slut. Madonna, my ass.

  Pamela stacks another plate in the dish rack, but the sound of it is obscured by the rain pelting my hat. A few drops find their way inside the back of my collar. I don’t move to alter my position, lest any motion be detected, but I shiver involuntarily as the stream dribbles between my shoulder blades and down my spine to the furrow flanked by my buttocks. I clench the muscles embracing that delicious trickle.

  Come on, Gerry. Where the fuck are you? Your little bitch is waiting for you. Can’t you see her wiggling her rump, just begging for it?

  Speak of the devil, as my mother used to say, and he’s sure to appear. She never banked on me; I only had to think his name and there he is.

  Gerry Barker looks the part of a handsome devil. He is as dark as his little wife is fair. His curly black hair is neatly trimmed and sets off his bronzed skin. I know his parents. His father is tall, pale, and blue-eyed, the result of forebears who hailed from somewhere in England, but his mother’s people originated in the Mediterranean area. Obviously, her genes had the biggest impact on his colouring, but he inherited his father’s height. He grins, white, even teeth flashing.

  He is no fallen angel. Ordinary mortals produced a god.

  I remember, in the library, watching the high school girls swarming around him like giggling gnats. Oh, they were hot for him. I could see it in their hungry, glittering eyes and on their blushing cheeks, virgins who wanted nothing more than to have him draw their first blood.

  And now, here he is standing in the doorway of Pamela’s spic and span kitchen, the kitchen that’s all clean and scrubbed and shiny, just like her. Except there’s always dirt somewhere, isn’t there? Just because you can’t see it, doesn’t mean it isn’t there.

  The garbage sits out of sight under the sink, but it still smells. The floor tiles appear to be spotless, but look closer and you’ll always find grit and grime in the crack along the toe kick. Even little Miss Sparkling Clean Pammy can’t vacuum well enough to get all the dirt. And, what muck’s in the trap of that drain, Pamela, that dark hole under the fresh scent of Joy?

  Gerry knows.

  He’s watching Pamela, who is as unaware of his presence as they both are of mine. So much for sensing the love of your life even ten feet away. She never was too bright. I don’t know what he saw in her, beyond the luscious body and perky San
dra Dee looks.

  Even through the watery distortion I can see his eyes gleam. I can feel what he’s thinking. It’s stronger than the electrical charges of the lightning flashes. Oh, yes, this storm is bringing out the very best in Gerry. I chose well tonight.

  He’s still wearing his work slacks, but the belt is unbuckled and the ends are hanging on either side of his zipped fly. The sleeves of his white shirt are rolled part way up his muscular forearms, and the front is unbuttoned, revealing the dark hair on his tanned chest.

  In a few short strides he is behind Pamela, grabbing her around the waist. She jumps and screams then laughs and wiggles against him. I can hear her exclamation over the drumming of the rain and my heart.

  “You crazy nut, you scared me half to death.”

  I can’t hear him, but I can see that he mutters something close to her ear as he pulls her tighter against him. Her mmmmmm is theatrically loud, as if she’s doing it for an audience. There is no way she can know I’m standing here, yet she does it in the same way that a clique of school girls laughs louder, amongst themselves, when they want to make it clear to the outcast that she’s missing out on all the fun. I saw her do that, she and her gaggle of silly-goose friends, trying to impress Gerry and his pals, all the while taking sidelong glances at the outsider, who never had a prayer of being one of them.

  I watched and listened, from deep in the stacks, while Mr Janus gave them a proper tongue-lashing and told them, right in front of the boys, to leave this moment.

  Mr Janus is a stuffy, old fart, albeit a perverted one, who hasn’t had the decency to retire or die, so that I may become head librarian, but in that moment, I silently applauded him, even though I found the outsider – a mousy, otherwise non-descript girl, who spent hours regularly poring over medical texts – quite repulsive. She deserved to be ridiculed for being such a weak, submissive little worm, but Pamela and her friends deserved, to a much greater degree, the humiliation of being thrown out of the library with the boys as witnesses to the deed.

  She put on a front of laughing at Mr Janus, too, but left as he directed. Her laugh hasn’t changed.

  Whether Gerry finds it attractive, or not, I don’t know, and I don’t really care. He finds her desirable and that’s why I’m here.

  Is the storm passing, though? The rumbling grows distant and the rain lets up enough that I can hear them talking. Please, no! If it stops, I’ll have to leave before they’re done, before he’s done. It isn’t any good unless the rain is washing over me.

  “Hey, Pammy, want your ass warmed?”

  She squeals a sophomoric imitation of the Big Bopper succumbing to the charms of his Chantilly lay. “Oh, baby, you knooooow what I like.”

  The dishwater will be left to cool.

  Gerry swings Pamela away from the sink and bends her forwards over the mint green Formica top of the kitchen table, rucking up her dress. Even though she doesn’t say another word, I know she asks for this. I know it, not just because I’ve seen them do this before, but because she’s not wearing underpants, just a white garter belt to hold up her nylons. She wanted this to happen. Her chubby ass cheeks are practically quivering.

  The bitch always looks so prim and wholesome, squeaky clean, but Gerry knows what she is, and so do I. I sometimes wonder if he knew before they were married. If he did, that was probably the reason he married her, in the first place. If he didn’t, then he got the bonus of his life with a filthy little slut like her.

  He pushes her shoulders down. She’s resting on elbows and forearms, which are pressed in close to her. Gerry wedges the hem of her dress between her arms and her torso, then tucks her slip under the waistband of the raised dress so it won’t slide down.

  “Stay right where you are, little girl. Daddy has some business with you.”

  Pamela whimpers, again as if she’s on a stage, or in front of a camera. Phony cunt.

  She’s not facing my way and I’m just as glad of that. I’m not afraid she’ll see me. The kitchen is brightly lit and all either of them would see, should they attempt to peer out the window into the murk, especially in their now distracted state, is their own reflections. No, I simply don’t want to look at her face while Gerry’s working her over. I don’t want to see her eyes squeezed shut, her gaping maw groaning out animal sounds. I don’t want to see Pamela’s lovely, though slightly imperfect, visage contorted in lust ignited by Gerry’s attentions.

  I do want to look at Gerry’s face, though. Even through the distortion of the droplets on the glass, his face is handsome. He bares his teeth, again, in a ravenous smile. The rain has intensified again and thunder rolls around this suburban enclave as a predator might circle its helpless victim.

  He speaks to Pamela, but the rumbling drowns out most of what he says. I catch only, “… just what you deserve,” as he pulls his belt out of the loops.

  Oh, yesss. Yes, Gerry, she deserves whatever you’re going to give her. Go on. Do it. Do it!

  He grabs his belt by the buckle and pulls on it, sliding it out of the loops. My heart, already thumping wildly, feels as if it is going to rupture, when he doubles the strap and gives himself a couple of test slaps across his palm. I stifle a groan at the sight and sound of the leather striking his hand.

  Pamela moans and begs. “Please, oh, please, don’t hurt me.” I’d almost believe her, but for the silly giggle that threatens to spoil the mood. Not one of us buys the act for a second.

  But what’s Gerry’s plan tonight? There’s something extra in his eyes tonight. Something I’ve never seen before. They’ve only done this twice before, for my benefit, and he seemed in a hurry to get it done; heat up her ass fast then fuck her. Something’s different tonight.

  He caresses her bottom with the leather, teases her cunt with the looped end, and kneads one cheek with his free hand, then pinches her. She squeals and he laughs. Still holding the straps against her cunt lips, he smacks her bottom, as one would a horse, then his hand darts up to her pony tail and he grabs it, yanking her head up and back. Now I can see her face from the side and she’s grimacing. This is new and I can barely contain myself.

  Yes, Gerry. Make her wince. Do it!

  “You my little pony?”

  “Yes, yes,” she whines and scrunches up her face as he pulls harder.

  “Show me.”

  Tugging against his grip she shakes her head up and down, just as a horse would.

  “Come on, little pony, you can do better than that.” He slaps her ass again and I unsnap the fasteners of my raincoat.

  Pamela shakes her head again then stamps her foot.

  “I can’t hear you.”

  They won’t be paying attention to anything but what they’re doing, and I pull my coat open. I back away just enough to let the rain wet my exposed skin and the first drops striking my nipples harden them.

  Pamela stamps her foot again then neighs in a remarkably horse-like fashion. I almost laugh out loud; a bitch that whinnies instead of barking.

  Still grasping her hair, but grinning, Gerry moves to the side and raises the belt.

  “Does my little pony need a good whipping? Does she?”

  I’m already breathing hard through my open mouth and my hand darts to my own cunt. The hair is wet from the rain, but it was already slick and slippery from the fluids leaking out of me. I rub my clitoris while Pamela, the pony bitch, nods her head and stamps her foot.

  Gerry strikes her ass with the belt, lightly at first, and she doesn’t move very much. I’m wiggling more than she is.

  Come on, Gerry. Harder. Whip her harder. Hurt her. The bitch deserves it.

  And it’s as if he’s gleaned the message telepathically, because he increases the intensity. Her ass is reddening and Pamela starts shifting from one foot to the other, trying to avoid the strap, an impossibility of which she must be aware.

  Don’t let her get away. Make her take it. Whip her harder. Come on. Harder. The filthy slut-cunt-pony-bitch has it coming.

  Pamela�
�s prancing now, stamping her prim white sandals. Her flesh is quivering and bright red. Even from here, I can see the raised welts. I’m quivering, too, inside and out. I can barely control my hand, the muscles are so tense, cramping.

  She starts sobbing. The horse whinny is replaced by desperate whining pleas.

  “Oh, stop, stop, stop. Please, Gerry. Stop the whipping. Gimme me the other.”

  Come on, Gerry. Now, now. Hit her hard! Fuck her!

  He gives her two more vicious whacks, lays the belt on her back and lets go of her pony tail. He moves so fast, unzipping his pants and letting them fall. His white underpants are bright against his olive skin, but he yanks them down freeing his cock. My God, it’s huge, bigger than I’ve ever seen it. And hard, so hard. The veins are bulging, and the head is purple and shiny, wet for sure.

  The rain is drenching me and the lightning flashes, and, a moment later, the crack of thunder splits the night.

  Fuck her, Gerry. Fuck the bitch. Take her down. Take her down.

  I’m working myself faster and faster, harder. I’m on the edge. I feel myself getting closer.

  Gerry’s cock is bobbing against Pamela’s ass. He grabs the belt with both hands and loops it in front of her face, forces her mouth open. She pretends to struggle against it, but grips it between her teeth. He holds the belt behind her head with one hand, pulling hard, and grabs his huge brown cock with the other, rubs the head of it against her dripping, swollen cunt then rams it into her.

  She bellows, and he just pushes hard into her, one, two, three strokes and he’s in her up to his balls.

  He’s going to take her down and make her beg. The bitch is going to come. Not so prim and proper now. Not cool any more, the hot, filthy cunt.

  Now, now, now! Fuck her, Gerry.

  He’s pounding into her and the table shifts. She reaches out to the sides and grips the edges, groaning and gasping against the leather bit, gurgling unintelligibly. “Ga-ga-ga-ga-ga!” Her spasms are uncontrollable. The pony bitch is broken, humbled.