The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 1

by Maxim Jakubowski

  “Do it!” says the eager one.

  “Wait!” she says. She rubs lube down the shaft of her purple prong.

  We’re not using Marvin today, the black dick-shaped one with realistic veins. Little Sasha is anything but petite, a phallic model in regal purple. Sasha thrusts her (him?) skywards. It sways lewdly as she swings her lovely hips to and fro. Women do like playing with those things. So much so, that you might even think there was something in Freud’s penis envy theory.

  At last it looks as if she is ready but she makes me beg once more, smiling as she does so. It’s cute watching Sasha’s tongue lolling out of her mouth as she aims her prong. And soon I really know what it is like to be a woman, as some vigorous but clumsy thrusts go everywhere except the orifice in question.

  After some very unladylike swearing we have lift-off. It’s in. And it’s a big one. Good. Golly. Miss. Molly. Ooh-ee. But I’m not the only one chewing the duvet. Sasha is grunting like a drunken hog. It’s a power thing, maybe. Or maybe the reverse thrust is scrunching her bits the way she wants them scrunched. Something is afoot and it’s more than holding hands at the movies, more than a middle-class dinner party, more than reheating last night’s soap operas.

  Keri Pentauk calls the prostate the “he-spot”, the male G-spot. It certainly likes being touched. And as the bliss-waves spread outwards even I don’t feel so grumpy any more. Sasha’s good at this. She’s thorough. Industrious. I like the cut of her jib. Academics who never do this stuff see chicks with dicks as a metaphor for women taking control of their lives. Because they only look at pictures of it. But what it feels like is a thoroughly good stuffing. Meat, roast potatoes and all the trimmings. And, what’s even better, you can have passive anal sex without having to do it with horrid men with moustaches. You don’t have to listen to Barbara Streisand or House music, neither do you have to screech hysterically at the Eurovision Song Contest. You don’t have to listen to singer Tom Robinson either. Although I’m not alone there. There’s a lot of people not listening to him.

  I digress. After a considerable period of filthy horrid swinishness there is an exchange of Tantric multi-orgasms. Holding my own sperm in shoots the energy around my body and leaves me gasping, swearing and praying for mercy. It’s almost too good. Don’t believe me? Well this sort of thing isn’t going to be written up in the Guardian. Or on Eastenders. Or in lifestyle mags. But I don’t like to preach. Getting drunk and watching the footie is of course an equally valid option, as is twittering on and on about mythical ideal husbands.

  Some time later, after the big hugs, we give each other a sheepish smile.

  “I only do it because you like it,” I say.

  “That’s all right, babe,” she says, patting me sympathetically. “It’s so considerate of you to keep on trying to please me like this.”

  Not too much later we cuddle up for the drift sleepwards, all spooned up. My blood feels like warm champagne. She has her arms around me, purring and humming happily. I am turned away, looking for Kate’s face in the darkness. Still restless. Still searching.

  Do What You Love

  Susannah Indigo

  Sitting up here on the kitchen counter with my blue plaid skirt up over my hips and my legs spread open, I watch him slice carrots for the soup. He likes me to sit here and tell him stories about my day in school. Especially about boys. When he walked in he lifted me up onto the counter without a word, pulled my panties off, spread my legs and propped my knees up. He watches my bare pussy and cooks while I talk. This may be the kinkiest Daddy I have ever had.

  “Eddie Burke pulled my skirt up again after math class, Daddy,” I begin. I know he loves this, and it’s a true story, just a very old one. “And then he said I was a slut because he looked at my panties and they were blue and not white. I hate him.”

  Daddy comes over and kisses me, stroking his fingers across my clit. This is part of what makes him so kinky, those damn fingers. I’ve never seen his cock in the daylight, but he drives me wild with his fingers.

  “Those little boys who tease you in school don’t even know what a clit is, do they, baby?” he says. His fingers are everywhere. It’s his fingers and the spankings that get to me. This Daddy can spank me like nobody else can. I think it’s because he makes me wait so long – always talking about what he’s going to do, talking about how my ass looks when I’m over his knee, about how deep his finger is going to go up my ass if I don’t hold still for him.

  The only time I ever feel his cock is in the middle of the night, long after he’s brushed my teeth and read me a bedtime story and dressed me in the soft pink ruffled nightgown he bought for me. Then, when I’m sound asleep, I’ll wake up on my belly with his weight on top of me and the nightgown raised to my waist and his lips against my ear, whispering, “It’s OK, baby, Daddy’s here, it’s OK, Daddy will make you feel better, just lift your bottom up in the air for Daddy, yes, baby,” and his hard cock forces its way all at once up into my pussy and Daddy whispers and rocks his hips hard into me and I cry a little bit because I’m not ready and it hurts and that makes him fuck me harder and harder until I’m more than ready and Daddy comes hard and fast up inside of me and he falls back asleep with his full weight pressing me down into the bed, whispering, “You’re such a good little girl, you’re so good to your Daddy. You make your Daddy come so hard.”

  It really does hurt, in an intensely erotic kind of way. But he’s not the Daddy that worries me.

  A book got me started in this, one of the dozens of motivational ones I read back when I worked for a corporation and thought I needed it. “Do What You Love, The Money Will Follow” was the name of it and I liked that one because it told me what I wanted to hear: that you could make money having fun. I already knew what my kind of fun was – painting, feeling sexy, and getting well fucked.

  Money and energy underlie all our dreams, no matter what those dreams are. They said I was a good painter back in college but then real life and two babies – their father is long-gone – took over my energy and priorities. I started my own graphic design business on a surge of energy, but it exhausted me trying to make ends meet.

  Not long after I read that book, I found myself at a charity masquerade ball at the Black Palace Hotel. I wasn’t planning on going, but my friend Cheryl dragged me there at the last minute. All I could find to wear was my high school cheerleader outfit.

  * * *

  “Katie,” Cheryl whispered to me over by the bar where I was spending most of my time. “See that man over there, the one with the silver hair and the black cape?” I did. “He’s so toasted! You won’t believe this. He pointed to you and said, ‘I’d give anything to fuck that little cheerleader.” ’

  I turned and smiled at him. I smoothed my little green-and-white pleated skirt, which has the same effect on men that it had on boys in my senior year of high school.

  “Tell him I have my price.”

  “What?”

  “Ask him what it’s worth.” I could blame it on the wine if I had to, but I was really tired of being so straight and working so hard.

  Cheryl had been drinking enough that she marched over to him without hesitation. She came back in a few minutes, laughing. “He says a thousand bucks, cash.”

  “You’re kidding.” I looked down at my tennis shoes and bobby socks. “Tell him he’s on – to bring me the cash and a room key and he’s in for a fantasy night.”

  Cheryl likes to be adventurous through other people – she works for the biggest bank in town and doesn’t get around too much. “I’ll check the room number, just in case I never see you again,” she said.

  When my pink-nightgown Daddy leaves in the morning he tucks the sheet up around my chin, kisses me chastely on the cheek, leaves the thousand dollars on my dresser and closes the door softly. That’s all he wants – to tease me mercilessly all evening in my schoolgirl clothes and then fuck me hard and fast in the middle of the night. There are worse ways to earn a living.

  I kept
the name of my graphics business, Ariel Design, and still use the corporate identity just as though I was spending untold hours at my Mac producing work for clients to pick apart. I think of this as my Little Girl Slut business, delivering dreams to men with plenty of money and fantasies. I’m even thinking of writing one of those motivational books of my own – “The 7 Habits of Highly Effective Sluts.” I pay taxes on all of this, of course. I’m not an unethical person. I just happen to be illegal in this state.

  That first night dressed as a cheerleader was wild. He treated me like a bimbo and I loved it. I was so tired of being smart all day long. He told me to keep my long dark brown hair in the ponytail, stripped my letter-sweater off of me, and made me lay across the bed while he lifted my pleated skirt. “This,” he said, “is for every girl who ever snubbed me in high school.” He started to spank me with his bare hand. I had no idea how much I would like being spanked. He made me perform a cheer for him naked. The fucking afterwards was ordinary after the intensity of the spanking, but he did pay me the thousand dollars, cash.

  I spent weeks afterward sliding between feeling cheap and getting so hot I had to masturbate several times a day. I loved it, but I could never tell anyone except Cheryl about it.

  I called the cheerleader-fuck man up at his office a month later and told him how much I enjoyed our evening. He told me if I really liked it he knew where I could get lots more.

  My first real “trick” – such a cheap word – called me beforehand and explained what he wanted. I was nervous – I had Cheryl run a credit check on him, as though that would help. Now she does that for all my new Daddies. Running unauthorized credit checks was a walk on the wild side for her, so of course I started to kickback some of my tips her way.

  “Katie,” my first real Daddy said, “I want you to call me nothing but Daddy when I’m with you.” That’s what they all want. Daddy fantasies run deep and they’re not so uncommon. My name is carefully passed around to certain men. “And I want you to wear a little girl dress – deep green taffeta. Petticoats, white cotton panties, little white socks, patent leather shoes. Your hair pulled back in two white barrettes. No make up, no nail polish. The suite’s reserved – see you on Friday at seven.”

  It was hard to find just the right little-girl frilly dress for a size ten woman, but I did, and as I dressed before the full-length mirror and slipped on the patent leather shoes and wiped the lipstick from my lips, I got a little scared – I actually felt like a little girl. I wanted to sit on the floor of that luxurious hotel suite and wait for my Daddy to come home and take care of me.

  Which is exactly what I did. When he arrived, this man I now call my petticoat Daddy, he stood in front of me in his expensive suit and shining loafers and told me to stay where I was on the floor and to be a good girl and kiss his feet. Just those words made me wet. I bent over and kissed each foot slowly.

  He took off his jacket and walked across the room near the full-length mirror on the wall. “Crawl to me, baby. Crawl to Daddy.”

  I stayed on my hands and knees and crawled to him, unable to take my eyes from his. He stood me up in front of the mirror, lifted my stiff petticoats and began to examine me. It took a long time. He pulled off my white cotton panties and told me he expected my pussy-hair to be completely gone by the next time we met. He approved of the white plastic barrettes in my hair and said the size of my breasts was just perfect for little-girl clothes.

  He explained that I could never wear a bra because little-girl nipples were meant to be seen at all times.

  “Yes, Daddy,” I said obediently.

  He pushed me back down on my knees. “Unzip my pants, little girl. Daddy wants his cock down your throat.”

  I opened my mouth and he wrapped his fists in my hair and fucked my mouth like it had never been fucked before. I could see the image in the mirror – a little girl serving her Daddy. He stopped before he came and threw me down on my belly, lifted my petticoats, spread my legs and knelt over me.

  “Daddy wants your ass, little girl.”

  My first Daddy fucked me until I couldn’t move that night. My mouth, my ass, my pussy, my breasts. I never got off of the floor or even took the green taffeta dress off. It was covered with come when he left.

  “Say ‘thank you, Daddy’,” he commanded before leaving. “And get that dress cleaned before next time.”

  I was torn between being glad he was leaving and begging him to stay to give me more. But I knew he’d left the thousand dollars on the table and that he was done with me for the moment.

  “Thank you, Daddy,” I whispered as I kissed his feet again before he walked out the door.

  I looked at myself in the mirror after he left. I was a mess, but I loved what I saw. I was in business.

  I had lunch with Cheryl at our usual table at the health club one day and noticed she was reading “What Color is Your Parachute?”

  “I’m pretty sure my parachute’s black,” I told her.

  Cheryl laughed and put the book down. “How can you do it, Katie?” she asked.

  “By specializing.”

  “No, I’m serious.”

  “How can I do which part?” It’s a good question to ask of anyone who doubts the value of selling your body. “Which part bothers you? That it’s illegal? That I’m making serious money?”

  “I don’t know,” she admitted. “Maybe the little girl part. What if you make these guys want real little girls? You could make them perverts.”

  I laughed. “No, I’m pretty sure they come to me as full-blown perverts. You know what they say about the correct conjugation of the word ‘kinky’ – I am erotic, you are kinky, they are perverts. We’re all adults, and we’re certainly all consenting.”

  Cheryl sighed. “You can never do anything simple. Couldn’t you just fuck them straight and skip the abnormal psych stuff?”

  Of course not. The secret is that it turns me on as much as it does them. “I don’t think my petticoat Daddy knows how to fuck straight, Cheryl. I can barely sit down after he leaves.”

  “Katie. I’m worried about you.”

  I told her not to worry. At least not about the sex I was having. But I carefully explained how she could make some extra money and help me if she wanted to – taking messages, clearing introductions. I promised not to call her my pimp on my business records – officially, she would be freelancing for me as a fact-checker.

  Everything seems possible in this life. I can paint, I have time to bake cookies for my kids’ classes. I can dream, I have time to hear myself think. I follow the natural rhythms of my body and stay up at night in my studio painting and sleep while my kids are at school. It takes time and space and focus to create dreams. But it’s working – my paintings have started to sell, and I’m talking to the owner of a gallery about the possibility of my own show there in the spring. Henry Miller said it best – “Paint and die happy.” All I have to do to get the time I need is to live out my sexual fantasies.

  “You know I screen some by e-mail nowadays, Katie. Wait ’til you hear this one.”

  I always smile at the vision of Cheryl in her business suit and floppy bow tie sitting in front of her computer at her desk on the third floor of the bank, pimping for me.

  “It’s a woman. I told her no, women weren’t your thing, but she says she’s a Daddy too.”

  “Really? A female Daddy?” My imagination had stretched so far since I redesigned my business that everything seemed possible.

  “Yeah. And a kinky one too. Look what she sent for you.”

  Cheryl slid me the folder with the information. On top of the papers was a faxed photo of a well-known childhood doll. Except this doll was blindfolded, half-naked, and had her wrists and ankles tied together with bright pink ribbons.

  “Oh, my.” The doll was making me wet.

  Cheryl looked at me in surprise and maybe a little bit of satisfaction. She seemed awfully interested in this woman.

  “Well, you know,” I finally said, wonder
ing when my mind slid so far down between my legs, “maybe I can do it if she’s a Daddy.”

  My doll Daddy rattled my brain from the first minute she arrived. She was tall, with black cropped hair, ruby red lipstick and a wicked grin that said she was ready to play.

  She brought me a doll. I was already wearing a little girl pink leotard outfit, per her instructions, and now here I sat with my plastic twin. “Play with the doll for me,” she commanded.

  I knew right away that this Daddy and I had the same kind of girlhood. While some girls were making cute little prom dresses for their dolls, some of us were stripping her down, checking her out, making her the slut she was meant to be. Let’s face it, that doll is built to get fucked.

  She tied me up with pink satin ribbons just like the doll. She stood over me and fucked with my mind and then let me go to work on her body.

  “Suck Daddy’s breasts,” she ordered, leaning down close to my mouth. “Yes, sweetheart, yes, suck Daddy’s nipples harder.”

  I learned something incredible that first night with my doll Daddy. It didn’t matter that I had no experience with women. My kink has nothing to do with gender.

  “Lick Daddy’s pussy, baby,” she said, and she was straddling me and riding my mouth and I was tasting her juices and she was hard and I was soft and she was completely in control of me and taking me down where all good Daddies take me. I was her little doll and I was serving her and she made me bring her to orgasm over and over until she finally wrapped the pink ribbons loosely around both of our bodies and we fell asleep breast to breast, her knee pressed up hard against my own untouched pussy.

  The doll sits on my office shelf as a reminder. Cheryl begged me for every single detail afterwards. I gave her the high points the best I could remember. I swear she’s going to ask me to videotape it all before I know it.

  The only problem in my big business plan is my charm-bracelet Daddy. He came into my life six months ago. My charm-bracelet Daddy took me to the amusement park on our first night together. He held me tight on the rollercoaster, ordered food for me and when we left he bought me a balloon and tied the string around my wrist. We went back to the hotel and spent the night together. There was no sex, and I just slept wrapped in his arms. It was intensely erotic. This Daddy not only rattles my brain, he rattles my heart. Nobody’s been allowed to do that in so many years I’d forgotten how it could be.