The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 1

by Maxim Jakubowski

  He’s on a roll, all right: onscreen Katherine sees not lines of code but a tiny movie looping repeatedly, a naked man in a blindfold lying on his back, a woman in a shiny black catsuit – it looks like it’s made of rubber – crouching over him. The suit encases her body completely, except for her crotch, which is naked, shaved bare, and she engulfs the man’s hard, upstanding cock over and over with the shockingly exposed pussy – at least, Katherine finds it shocking, but not in a bad way, more like a shock to the system, cold water in the face, waking her up to feelings she barely remembers.

  Clearly, Mike has not forgotten anything. His hand pumps his cock rhythmically, eyes riveted on the miniature tableau as the catsuited woman thrusts down and down and down. He times his hand strokes to the woman’s down thrusts, just as Katherine herself times her late-night strokes to Mike’s slow and even breaths.

  If you asked her why she isn’t upset, discovering him like this, she might tell you it’s like her own late-night forays, only so much hotter: she’s never seen Mike jack off in the daylight; she hasn’t seen his cock this hard in years; she’s erotically attuned to his deep breaths from all those nights lying next to him, vibrator or no vibrator; she’s fascinated by the tiny couple on the screen, smaller than Barbie and Ken; and the fact that Mike finds them so compelling makes her pussy wet. That her pussy is wet in the middle of the afternoon is such a welcome surprise that all she can do for a minute is touch herself through her fine cotton stockings, the black fabric clinging to her almost as tightly as the tiny woman’s shiny catsuit, Katherine’s mind spins, looking for a way to incorporate this unexpected scene into her surprise Valentine’s Day celebration. Silently she begins to unbutton her grey rayon suit.

  Mike’s erotic reverie has advanced him so close to orgasm that when he feels a hand stroke his thigh and replace his own hand on his cock, it could easily be a part of the virtual connection he’s having with the woman onscreen. For a second he doesn’t even look to see who is holding him. Then he’s recognizes Katherine’s hand, a touch he knows almost as well as his own, and sure enough, when he glances away from the screen, she is crouched beside him. She wears nothing but her black bra, which snugly cups her breasts, and her black tights.

  Smoothly she stands up, pulling him by the cock, and pushes the office chair across the room. “Lie down, Michael,” she whispers. “So you can see the screen.”

  The rug, fuzzy against the back of his neck, gives him just enough cushion. When Katherine stands over him the screen is obscured, but that doesn’t matter because she is taking the crotch of her tights in both hands and sharply ripping, tearing a hole like the one in the woman’s catsuit. Katherine’s pussy is pink, swelling, her arousal beginning to form visible moisture like dew on the callas’ broad leaves. Mike strokes her thighs, reaching for her.

  Katherine crouches down over him, and as her pussy makes contact with his rigid cock the woman onscreen is visible again. Katherine’s tight wet pussy sucks at him. He’s aware of the rug under his back, Katherine’s weight poised just above his pelvis, her thigh muscles pumping as she matches the catsuit woman’s thrusts, again, again, again. Mike’s hands rove her body as he climbs again toward the climax she had interrupted. Her hands rest on his chest for balance, for contact with him, and he feels their pressure through his nipples. On the screen, the blindfolded man is completely under the catsuited woman’s control.

  Mike thrusts up into Katherine, his eyes wide, flashing from her to the screen, from her to the screen. He slips one hand through her brown hair, pulling the clip that holds it back in its demure professional style. The thick silky hair falls through his fingers, into her face, curtaining eyes that are getting wilder and wilder. Her breasts fill his hands; he squeezes, remembering their ripeness. Now their pelvises grind together, his cock thrusts up into her as deeply as it will go, both of them climb toward climax: maybe not together, but close. She has slipped to her knees, straddling him, her weight on him now, and he lifts her like she’s riding a bucking pony when he thrusts into her. Onscreen the catsuit lady and her blinkered paramour have not changed; their fuck can never escalate. But Mike and Katherine are leaving them behind.

  Almost. Without warning Katherine moves her hands. She puts them over his eyes, a moist, fleshly blindfold.

  “Fuck me, Mike!” she hisses. “Hard!”

  If you asked him now, Mike would groan that he has missed her, missed this, before bucking involuntarily into a come that she has taken from him, imperious and powerful in her ripped tights, that he could not hold back from her, that she demanded.

  He has barely stopped shaking when she slides up his body, threads from the torn stockings tickling his nose, her hot, swollen pussy at the tip of his tongue: the catsuit woman demanding service, Katherine demanding pleasure, letting him drink from her. He laps like a cat until she yelps, convulses against his tongue, collapses on him. For a few seconds he rests under her body like it’s a tent and he’s a kid hiding from everything.

  They walk into the kitchen naked and steamed from a long shower. It still isn’t quite 5:00 – on an ordinary day she wouldn’t even be home from work yet.

  She’d intended to make him dinner, but he insists on helping like he usually does, and begins rinsing the prawns while she runs water into a crystal vase, slices an inch off the stems of the roses, arranges them. They’re red for Valentine’s Day; the store hadn’t even bothered to order any other colour.

  “Put a little sugar in there,” says Mike. “They’re wilting.”

  By the time the filets are on the grill the roses are perking up.

  “Look,” Katherine says. “You were right about the sugar. Hey, what’s that beneath the vase?”

  He opens the card, reads the message, kisses her, and sets the blurry heart up against the vase. After dinner they put on jackets and take their wineglasses out to the garden.

  Les Jardins de Kensington

  Justine Dubois

  Her pale eyes flutter, as all thought deserts her. She holds his hand, a hand more rough and ready than the rest of him. He is otherwise all elegance; the eloquent drape of his body in a low slung chair, the tilt of his tall, handsome head, a look in his features chiselled by intelligence and self-deprecation. He is the eminence grise of her life and of his own.

  No one knows that she still sees him. Her friends never approved. And yet, they wonder what secret it is that makes her so very happy. He smiles down at her, his sweet curvaceous smile, joyous, rhythmic across his features. They stride, hand in hand, through the park. His eyes are opaque until they glance at her, whereupon they dance with blue animation. The circle around his pale iris is cornflower blue.

  They should be jaded with love. They have broken all its rules. And yet, passion remains, like a curious personal blessing between them, the most reliable, the most courageous thing they know.

  Kensington Gardens are deserted. A rough wind plays through the trees. The Orangery, where in summer they take elegant lunches, is like a space wiped clean, its distempered walls grey with shadowed light, a graceful husk and mausoleum, surrounded by the dot-dash of fat topiary. Leaves scud across the gravel.

  Her lover leads the way, his long stride longer than hers. There is a bleak glamour of winter about the place. It is about to rain. He is undeterred. He makes his way to the formal gardens just beyond the topiary dance sequences, gardens surrounded by tall hedgerows, where, in summer, fountains play modestly against banks of flowers, primary cacophany, such as Gertrude Jekyll refused to recommend. The round pond is beyond, just visible through the toothless bushes, the blind windows of Kensington Palace behind them.

  He checks his watch. It is 3.25 pm. They have just lunched together at The Royal China, where old Hong Kong meets old Queensway. They have drunk tea with blossoms floating in it.

  “What are you waiting for?” she enquires gently.

  “A client of mine. He said he would be here,” he replies distractedly, his tall neck scanning the fragmented hedgerows.
“I am selling him the Kandinsky.”

  They hear the light pace of a foot on gravel. A young man approaches. She has seen him before somewhere. At a private view maybe? Her lover smiles. The young man nods in acknowledgement. He looks serious. His dark eyes scan the familiar features of her lover briefly and then dwell more completely on her. He perceives her shyness, her modesty, her amiability.

  She smiles at him and then looks up at her lover trustingly. The young man perceives her love, but is not deflected. His eyes sweep her features. She is dark-haired, Italian maybe. She has the figure of a young girl. Everything is just enough, but at no point too much. Her waist is slender, her hips rounded, her breasts high and pert. Nothing about her is overblown. Best of all, in her face is both sadness and joy. It makes her more desirable. He understands his friend’s passion. They shake hands and her lover laughs. “Why did we meet here?” she asks. The two men smile. “Business. Let’s walk some more.”

  They walk on comfortably together, she walking easily between the two men. They chatter nonchalantly. They discuss painting, Der Blaue Reiter. She glances at the young man. His looks, like hers, are darker than those of her lover. He too is Latin, or maybe Scottish, with some of its Latin ancestry. They reach the exit to the gardens. His features are almost too lean, too spartan, for someone so young, and yet their lines speak of beauty. There is something crisp about the curtailment of his nose, something proud about the shape of his head, with its tall shock of hair en brosse. He is less tall than her lover, closer in height to herself. He too has a beautiful smile, flashing, immediate, and his body is a wand, not of elegance, but of secret, sinuous strength and compactness, a feline economy of suppressed movement and emotion. His eyes dance in approval as they range over her.

  Beyond the park gates, they cross the road, at the point where all the busy tedium of Kensington High Street begins. To their right is the Royal Garden Hotel tower, opposite is the old fashioned pedantry of the Kensington Hotel. “How do you know this place?” she asks, as they pass through its greenery-yallery conservatory coffee shop to the foyer, bypassing the side street entrance. “I don’t. Key number 44,” demands her lover.

  “You have never been here before?”

  “Only this morning to arrange this meeting.” She looks up at him surprised, but still trusting. They mount the old, tired Axminster carpet, with its connotations of respectability, to a suite of rooms, which overlook the park and the walk from which they have just come. Kensington Palace and the round pond are framed in the distance.

  The colours of the suite are dark and dismal and expensive; dark polished wood next to brick red counterpane, next to beige carpet, next to sage green curtains, and chiffon lampshades.

  “What a hideous room,” she says.

  “Warm nevertheless,” replies her lover appreciatively. A knock on the door and a trainee hotel manageress arrives with a tea tray of miniature cakes and sandwiches and pots of Darjeeling tea and slices of lemon. The men’s eyes follow her as she moves around the room adjusting the curtains, the phone by the bed, the counterpane. Her lover tries to tip her generously. She declines, looking at him strangely. She calls him “Sir”. She hesitates and then leaves to check the other rooms. They hear the click of a door.

  The three of them exchange glances. “Why are we here?” She puts down her bag. For one faint moment, the look in her lover’s eye is imperious, greedy. “I want to watch you make love to someone else.” She blushes. The young man feels her embarrassment like a stab of pain. Instinctively, he puts out his hand to reassure her. Her lover throws himself into an armchair, draping himself in elegance and comfort. She turns towards him in panic. From behind her, quiet-voiced, the young man asks, “Do you agree to this?” His eyes scan hers carefully. She witnesses his concern.

  “I don’t know,” she answers shyly. “Why would you want to?” she begins to ask. He takes her hand.

  “Let’s try, let’s take it slowly,” he says. “If you change your mind . . .” His sentence trails unfinished. But she feels reassured. He removes her coat and gently lays it on the bed. She steps from her shoes. She glances back at her lover sprawled in the armchair. His eyes are bright blue. He smiles back at her, a mixture of reassurance and daring.

  The young man casts him a look of contempt. He removes her skirt and throws it at a distant chair. She glances back at her lover. His head is turned away, as if distracted by some distant sound. She raises her hands dutifully above her head, like those of a baby girl having her jumper removed. The young man watches her intently. He traces a tear on her cheek. Beneath her clothes she is dressed demurely, not like a seductress at all. She wears a long satin slip, embroidered and embellished with panels of cream lace. She looks curiously old-fashioned.

  The young man’s breath catches in his throat. Instinctively, he reaches for her. Her lover coughs. They glance at him. He is smiling. The young man holds her narrow shoulders tenderly in his fine splayed hands, hands more elegant than those of her lover. He kisses her brow and the side of her neck beneath her ear, kisses her startled eyelids closed, and then, lastly, her mouth, a gentle, hesitant flutter of a kiss, a soft measurement of warmth and pillowed softness. He allows a moment of adjustment to the new perfume between them.

  Her eyes remain closed. Against the dark screen of her mind, she thinks of her lover. His mouth explores her neck, forcing her head backwards, arching her frame to his hold over her. She begins to enjoy the idea of being watched, of pleasing him. Will her lover be aroused? He lowers the straps of her slip and bra and kisses the tenderness of her girlish breasts. The folds of her slip collect softly around the narrowness of her waist. She is beautiful, exquisite in her simplicity. Her eyes open briefly. The young man meets her gaze. Her eyes are suddenly focused on him, tender with appreciation. The look between them is long and considered.

  She hears the sound of a door opening. And then his lips again seek her mouth and tenderness is replaced by passion. He draws her towards the bed. He pulls her towards him, at one moment stretching his lean body against her, gathering at her softness, and then, at another, arching himself above her, in order to control and pleasure and enjoy her. They are like dancers.

  She now responds to every nuance of his touch. Her eyes remain closed. All is feeling between them. A light touch of pressure on the side of her waist and her body moves, opening to his. His hand beneath her waist inspires the greedy raising of her hips to him. Is her lover proud, watching her? He enters her, and it is as though she had always been his. She opens her eyes briefly, in astonishment, sees her own feelings reflected in his. Was this what her lover had intended, that she should fall in love? She closes her eyes, her mind. Her body racks with sweet pleasure.

  The young man’s arms cradle her, watching, waiting for her. She does not remember his name. And then his limbs too race against hers. She feels the fullness of his love. He calls out in a soft muffled sound of surrender to the moment. His body folds into hers in tenderness. All is familiarity and trust. They open their eyes briefly to look at one another. Nothing but smiles and serenity between them. They shut them again, and then, simultaneously, they remember. They sit up in unison and turn towards the chair, but it is deserted. Her lover is framed in the doorway, his head turned from them. He wears his jacket and tie. His trousers fold like loose chains about his ankles. The young woman manageress kneels before him, as in a devotional painting.

  Ignored, they watch every passionate move.

  Sodomy and Sorcery

  Mark Ramsden

  For a while sex with strap-ons became such a thrill that I wrote two versions of this scene for my next novel without noticing, I’m too mean to throw anything away so here is narrator Matt describing some passive anal sex. Along with transvestitism and various visualisations and invocations this was once part of a forbidden form of Viking sorcery known as Seithr or “seething” (that was their excuse, anyway). It was of course forbidden because warriors weren’t supposed to do such things. It wasn’t “
manly”. A thousand or so years later it’s still thought “manly” to bash each other up at the footie or get drunk but some real men like to be fucked. Matt does, anyway . . . Sasha is a short American Dominatrix and Matt is her business manager (don’t say pimp). Time Out thinks they are a transgressive version of The Avengers. But that nice Emma Peel would never do this . . . Would she?

  Sasha places carrots, celery, menthol chewing gum and water within easy reach. The E is coming on. We can push my limits. And I do feel like a good servicing. Fore and aft. Truly, madly and deeply. And, for once, I don’t even have to ask. Or beg. Or plead. Or wheedle. Sasha straps Little Sasha on, looking very determined. There’s actually nothing that minuscule about this prime specimen of dick-shaped silicone. (Silicone conducts body heat. So much better than horrid plastic and rubber.)

  “Come on!” I tell her. Although I did promise myself I wouldn’t beg.

  “Wait!” she tells me. “And it’s easier on your back anyway.”

  For once I do her bidding. Anything to encourage her to get a move on.

  “Look at you!” she says, rubbing it in before she sticks it in. “You’re gagging for it!”

  “Yeah, yeah. Well, maybe I got tired of servicing Madame. Keeping up with her unreasonable demands. It’s time someone looked after me for a change.”

  She smiles enigmatically. Can I really have had the last word? Is this a dream? I hook my heels above her shoulders. She rummages inside me with a cold dollop of Vaseline that liquefies and warms and spreads itself just where it’s needed.

  “Shush, now! You little slut!”

  The tone is affectionate, warm as buttered toast, sweet as her breath on my face. She rubs a finger inside her pussy and rubs it just beneath my nose, then smiles as some greedy little pig or other keeps moaning and groaning.