The Mammoth Book of the Best New Erotica

by Maxim Jakubowski

  I took the café chair she used for portraits and positioned it in front of the mirror. I sat down on it and held my arms for Laura to come to me. She eased my knees apart with her hips and kissed her way down my neck, her breasts surrounding my erection. She licked my nipples, sucked on them, then began to drop lower, towards my cock. I stopped her, pulling her to her feet. “I want to be inside you,” I said.

  She looked at me for a moment, and I could sense what was going on inside her mind, her wondering, marvelling. I ran my fingers over her nipples, pinching them slightly, and desire overrode any lingering concerns she held. I pulled her towards me and she climbed onto the chair with me, slowly lowering herself onto me. I moaned as I slid into her, watching in the mirror as she rocked her hips backwards and forwards. I threw my head back, reveling in the sensation, and no longer cared about the mirror or watching us. I no longer needed it. I could feel my entire body from the inside, knew it exactly, perfectly. I wrapped my arms around her waist, and stood from the chair, slowly lowering us to the carpet. I kissed her fiercely, and then, supporting myself on my elbows since my wrist would give out, began rocking my hips, pushing deeper into her. She moaned with pleasure, her fingers grasping my shoulders tightly. I began to build speed, exploring deeper inside her with each thrust, reaching for those spots which would thrill her most. I was quickly hurtling towards orgasm, but held back, an almost painful sensation as each thrust brought me closer and closer. And finally, just when I could not restrain myself any longer, she arched her back and cried out as we pushed over the edge into orgasm at the same time. We laughed, kissed once, and collapsed in each other’s arms, spent.

  It’s somewhat ironic that now, after she’s pushed me from defining myself by words to showing me what I truly look like, I am writing about it. But in a way, it’s exactly what I should do. It shows how I have grown so far. My body of work was much more familiar to me than my own body. Now, having explored my body by sight, by touch, to the point where I truly know it, from the inside, the only thing remaining was to explore it once again, in words, to make the two bodies one.

  Mrs Fox

  Michael Crawley

  Eleven days after I broke up with Angie I ran into Jeff, sitting in a booth at Sombrero Jack’s. He was with a woman, so I tried to make it “Hi and Bye”, but he insisted I join them.

  “Paul, this is Mrs Fox – Cynthia Fox. Cynthia – Paul. We worked at Blackstock’s together, years ago.”

  I half-stood and reached across to squeeze limp fingers.

  “Call me ‘Cyn’.” Did her fingertips drag on my palm for a fraction of a second? I wasn’t sure.

  I knew straight away why Jeff wanted me there long enough to get a good look at her. He’d always been joking-jealous of me. I was bigger, and had all my hair. Some of the women in the old office had hung around my desk during coffee breaks, playing at flirting. It hadn’t meant anything, but they hadn’t done the same at his desk. He’d resented that.

  Now he was with this woman – an older woman who was quite lovely – and I was alone. He wanted to make the most of it. I could live with that.

  He said, “Cynthia and I live together.”

  I said, “You’re a lucky man,” and meant it. Her age showed in the laugh-lines around her big dark eyes, but her black hair was crisp and short and her body looked lithe, with hard, high breasts, half exposed by the shawl neckline of a sweater in clinging black jersey. She wasn’t wearing a bra. She didn’t need one.

  Jeff ordered a round and poked the gold card he’d left on the table from side to side, to make sure I saw it. I resolved that when the time came for me to pay my shot I’d use cash. It’d spoil it for him if I used my gold card.

  Jeff did the talking. It was impressive stuff – big deals with Chile and so on. He was selling prefabricated buildings or something. Maybe he was working hard. He had dark bags under bloodshot eyes. I half-listened and kept my eyes on “Cyn”, which was what he wanted me to do.

  When she excused herself to go the ladies’ room I watched her hips slink away into crowded darkness.

  “What do you think of her?” he asked.

  “Very nice. A sexy lady.” I couldn’t comment on her personality because she’d hardly said a word.

  “You don’t know the half of it.”

  I was supposed to ask for details. I didn’t. I’m no prude, but some things should be kept private.

  Cyn seemed jittery when she came back. Her arm stretched halfway across the table to fiddle with the little glass ball that held the candle, to adjust the condiments, to take a napkin from the holder and shred it. She had nice hands – longish fingernails – very pointed – painted deep pink. Her fingers were slender. Tiny blue veins showed inside her wrists. Higher on her pale arms I noticed some bruising and broken skin, as if a bracelet had caught in something and yanked off, or like a rope-burn maybe.

  It was none of my business.

  Her collar seemed to gape more now, or perhaps it was just her leaning towards me. There was a purplish mark above her collarbone and another mark, the size of a thumbprint, on the slope of her right breast.

  It was still none of my business.

  It wasn’t any of my business when Jeff’s hand dropped out of sight and she winced, still looking straight into my eyes.

  They stood to leave, with Jeff leering, “Bed time, Cynthia.”

  She took my hand in a proper shake, not that “fingertip” thing. Something pressed into my palm.

  I gave them five minutes before I looked. It was a note, written on that tan paper they use for towels in washrooms, and a key. The note read, “I must see you. I need your help. Midnight.” There was an address and a lipstick kiss. The paper was damp. Tears, or moist palms?

  They were supposed to live together, but maybe Jeff had lied about that, or perhaps he was flying to Peru to do another of his multi-million dollar deals.

  I thought for a while, but it had been eleven days since Angie, and I’ve always been a sucker for a “damsel in distress”, even when I’m not horny.

  I knocked on her apartment door, but too lightly for anyone inside to hear unless they were listening for it. I still could have turned around, but I didn’t.

  I used the key.

  The hallway was dark. I said, “Cynthia? Mrs Fox? Cyn?”

  There was a line of light under a door at the end. Something swished and cracked. A soft voice yelped. I strode on the balls of my feet and cracked the door. The bedroom was lit by candles. Cyn was on the bed, on her face, spreadeagled and naked. Her wrists and ankles were tied to the four corners of a scrolled brass frame. Jeff was stripped to his waist, his belt doubled in his hand, raised high. It came down hard, across her bottom.

  When I see abuse something cold takes over. I did things to his wrist and his face and then he was whimpering on the floor. I prodded his thigh with the toe of my shoe and told him, “You have five minutes to get your things and go.”

  It took him three, with me watching him. Cyn needed me but I wasn’t going to turn my back on him.

  As soon as the front door closed I bent to the cords around Cyn’s ankle.

  “Please? There’s some salve in the bathroom?”

  It seemed obscene to leave her tied like that, but she knew what she needed first better than I did.

  “It’s awkward for me,” she said. “Would you mind very much if you did it for me?”

  I was as gentle as I could be. Thank goodness I’d got there on time, for there were only four weals, one high across the backs of her slender thighs, one crossing her bottom at an angle, and two, close together and parallel, blooming into darkness across her cheeks where they were fullest. There were other welts, faded to just pink lines under the translucent pallor of her skin. I smoothed ointment over those as well, though it was too late for it to do much good.

  “Could you rub it in?” she asked. “It’ll sting, but it does more good if it’s worked in.”

  So I smeared the stuff all over and massage
d.

  She said, “Harder, please. Harder than that. Don’t be afraid to hurt me.”

  I felt muscles twitch and writhe under my hands. It should have been very sexy, rubbing the naked bottom of a beautiful woman, but my concern for her pain blocked any erotic response on my part.

  I wiped my hands and untied her. She rolled over and sat up but she didn’t grab the bedclothes to cover herself so I found a satin robe hanging behind the door and draped it over her.

  “Don’t leave me,” she said. “He might come back.” Her fingers found my hand and drew it between her breasts. “I need to have you around, for tonight.”

  “I’ll sleep on your couch.”

  “If that’s what you want.”

  It wasn’t. Now she was untied and partly covered, my body was reacting to her body, but if I’d made a move on her I’d have been exploiting the situation, and how do you embrace a woman whose rear is so tender?

  She woke me with coffee, naked under that satin robe. “Do you have to go somewhere?”

  “My office, sorry.”

  “Could you do my bottom again before you go?”

  She lay flat on her tummy and tucked the robe up to her waist. The marks had faded to a pattern of bruises. In the daylight I could see that her skin wasn’t broken, thank goodness. The salve must have been cool and soothing on her burning flesh, because when she squirmed under my hands it wasn’t from wincing, but from pleasure. She purred once, when my fingers accidentally trailed into the crease between her buttocks.

  “You’ll come back?” she asked.

  “After work. About six.”

  “Not for lunch?”

  “I can’t. Sorry.”

  When I got back she had a place set for one and a T-bone with a baked potato and mushrooms waiting. There was red wine and two full glasses. She was still naked under her robe, but dewy, as if fresh from a bath. Eartha Kitt was on the stereo, husking something about needing someone to bind her.

  “Aren’t you eating?” I asked.

  “I ate earlier. I’ll just watch you.”

  I ate and she looked at me. “You saved me, you know.”

  “It was nothing.”

  “You know what the Chinese say about when you save someone?”

  “What?”

  “You’re responsible for them. You own them, but you have to take care of them.”

  I said, “We aren’t Chinese,” but her words stirred me. The idea of “owning” her appealed to something in my libido.

  “You are my knight in shining armour,” she said.

  I shrugged.

  “I owe you.”

  “No – not really.”

  “I owe you this, at least.”

  She came round and wriggled onto my lap. I just had time to swallow before her head tilted up and the prickle of her nails on the back of my neck urged my mouth down to hers.

  It was a nice kiss, but not a “normal” one, if any kiss can be normal. She held her face away from mine by half an inch and slavered her wine-wet tongue across my lips, from corner to corner. I went to bend lower, but she held my head in place. Her tongue lapped backwards and forwards, as if my steak had left grease on my lips and that was what she was after. With me still held in position, her tongue centred and slithered between my lips. It withdrew, and slithered in once more, making slow sensuous love to my mouth.

  As her tongue soft-raped my lips, she writhed on my lap, pressing down hard. It was as if her mouth was under perfect control but her bottom was passionate. I was concerned about her soreness but my cock wasn’t. It was enjoying every urgent squirm.

  She turned away at last, and took a mouthful of wine. Her lips covered mine. Wine flowed from her mouth to mine, sweet and warm with her saliva.

  “Give me some wine,” she said. “Squirt it into my mouth.”

  Her mouth opened like a hungry chick, giving me no choice but to jet wine in a long stream, straight onto her tongue. The more wine she swallowed, the more frantically her bottom twisted on my lap.

  “Aren’t you sore?” I asked.

  She jumped up. With her back to me, looking back over her shoulder, she shot a hip and pulled the skirts of her robe to one side. “See? Almost better? All it needs is . . .”

  “Is?”

  “A ‘kiss-better’.”

  What could I do? I planted a peck on one cheek, but she flexed it at me, so I licked from the crease where her thigh met her bottom to the small of her back.

  “Oh yes! Being a bit tender makes me so much more sensitive. More, please?”

  I’d known a number of women, and no two are alike, but this was the strangest seduction I’d ever experienced. I’d licked a few women’s bums before, but never before I’d even touched their breasts, or made love to them in a more conventional fashion. The weirdness of it – the out-of-order of it – made it incredibly exciting.

  I nibbled at the base of her spine.

  She bent forward, hands on knees. “That’s nice. Touch me, please?”

  Where? Wherever I liked, I guessed. After you’ve kissed a woman’s bottom, what caress is forbidden?

  I reached around her and pulled her sash loose. My left hand smoothed up over her ribcage, enjoying the ridged smoothness, to cup her pendant breast. My right hand did spider-fingers up the inside of her thigh, touched springy hairs, fumbled, and found moist heat. I rotated three fingers on her, pressing gently. My teeth nipped at the pad of muscle just above her bottom’s cleft. My left hand spread into a fan and strummed across the tip of a springy nipple.

  Cyn said, “I could get off on what you’re doing, Paul. You won’t be shocked, will you? When I blow, I blow very wet.”

  I wasn’t sure which of my caresses was getting to her, so I continued with all three. My left hand flickered faster. Two fingers of my right folded up into slick softness while a third found the head of her clit, and rubbed over it. My tongue traced an inch lower, to her tailbone – her coccyx.

  She said, “Harder.”

  She hadn’t been specific, so I plucked at her nipple, pinching its tip, substituted my thumb for the fingers that were inside her pussy so that I could use them to manipulate her clit, and rubbed the flat of my tongue in tight circles.

  In a totally calm voice, she said, “I’m going to blow now. Don’t worry. I can do it again, and again, for a long time.”

  She juddered on my palm, and hot-flooded into it. She’d been right. She did “blow wet”. She soaked me to the wrist. Her spending smelled like fresh-baked bread.

  “Now like this.” Her two hands took my one and slapped it up against the soft saturated lips of her sex. “Do it hard,” she said. “I’ll keep blowing.”

  It made splashy sounds. I bit into her left buttock, forgetting how sore it had to be, and kept slapping up at her until she groaned and toppled forward onto her hands and knees.

  She rolled onto her back, looked at me from under hooded lids, and said, “I blew three times. Now it’s your turn.”

  “I can wait a while.”

  “No – I’m on the boil. Keep me boiling. I’m hot for you, Paul. Hot, hot, hot.”

  I stood and tossed my jacket aside.

  “No time for that,” she said. “Get it out and get it in me. Is it big? Is it a nice big one?”

  How do you answer that? I didn’t try. I didn’t have to. She was up on her feet, the dishes pushed aside, and bent over the table, legs spread. That was something I knew how to respond to. Her squishy-wet pussy was poking back at me between her thighs. Its lips were spread, stuck by their own juice. I unzipped, pulled myself out, and entered her.

  I didn’t have to do much more. She went crazy from her hips down, rotating, bucking, flicking her bum from side to side, jerking back at me as if it was a battle. I just held on, pressing against her hard enough not to be twisted out.

  I’m not usually quick, but I was then. My cock was like a water pistol with a blocked muzzle. Her gyrations pumped the trigger until the blockage had to burst, and then
I gushed and gushed until my come was squirting back at me between her sex’s lips and my shaft.

  I took a step back, plopping out. “I’m sorry . . .”

  “It’s always quick the first time, isn’t it? With someone new? Have some more wine. I’ll be right back.”

  I made myself decent and sprawled in her recliner armchair. When she came back the tightly curled hairs of her pubes were glistening but the rest of her was dry. I assumed she’d used a douche or something.

  She asked me, “How do you feel about oral sex?”

  “I’m for it. Did you want me to . . . While I recover my strength?”

  “No. Sit up.”

  She undressed me. All I had to do was lift up at the right times. It was sexy, being taken care of by a naked woman. My cock thickened along my thigh, but it didn’t lift. It was too soon after a really spectacular orgasm.

  She kneeled, took me in a cool palm, and addressed the head of my cock. “We’ll soon have you up again,” she told it.

  “Give it a few more minutes,” I said.

  Cyn glared at me. “When I say you’ll have an erection,” she spat, “you’ll have an erection. I’ll be gentle this time.”

  It sounded like a threat.

  Cyn squatted, naked, between my bare feet. The light was behind her. Her delta was black shadow. I had a silhouette to look at – a long shallow curve under one thigh, an outline like the cleft blunt end of an egg, bulging down, and then the swoop of another long curve. The cleft wasn’t regular. One side had a slightly out-turned lip. There was a spiked fuzziness on the other side of the egg-shape, as if water had matted her pubic hair.

  I’d been inside that fleshy egg. My cock had split it, and beyond, deep beyond, past the hot mushiness into the throttling slick channel.