The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 1

by Maxim Jakubowski

  “You old enough for that drink, sonny?” she laughed, in a low voice, rich with alcohol.

  “Old enough and then some.” I tapped her empty glass. “Buy you a drink?”

  She gave me another look, replied “Sure,” quickly showing her tongue between her lips.

  “Same thing?” and she nodded. I signalled the bartender, and she picked up the refilled glass with a very feminine gesture, showing off her carefully tapered fingers and lacquered nails. Two very expensive rings glittered in the light.

  “To little boys.” She smiled, and clinked my glass.

  I tossed my bourbon back, swirled some water in my mouth, and savoured the burn.

  “How’s the drink?” I inquired.

  “Nice,” and she pushed the glass over to me. “Taste it.”

  You might think it imprudent to drink from a stranger’s glass, but then my tongue’s been up junkie twat and my cock’s been in places brown, black, and blue, so I wasn’t about to get sanitary now. I took her glass and sipped from the lipstick side, licking the imprint when I finished. She smiled.

  “Ooooh, aren’t we provocative?” and the way she said it told me I was in the pussy zone.

  “Drink OK?” I asked. She studied the glass from different angles. “Yes, it’s not bad, but it’s missing something.” Suddenly her hand was on my crotch. I moved closer, to hide what she was doing. She tugged at my zipper and skilfully snaked her cool bony hand into my underwear and around my cock. I leaned into the bar and let out a low gasp as she slowly began to jerk me.

  “Yes,” she repeated, in her low voice, “this drink needs something, something salty,” and she squeezed harder on my cock, “Something only a sonny boy can provide – something with a head,” and she began to seriously pump me. I tried hard not to gyrate my ass. I wondered if anyone around us knew what was going on, but I didn’t care. I swallowed hard. I started to come. My companion quickly brought her glass to my squirting cock, the milky white swirling in the deep ruby of her drink. She gently pulled on my cock as she sipped her drink.

  “Now that’s a Cosmopolitan,” and she plunged her tongue into the glass and coated it with the milky red drink. She pulled me by my cock until I was right next to her. It turned me on. Her eyes glittered as she let some of the drink dribble down the side of her mouth. And then she kissed me, one of those sloppy alcoholic kisses. She rolled her tongue into my mouth, and I could taste her saliva, my jism, and the bartender’s idea of a Cosmopolitan all at once. It was gross. I was in heaven.

  She pulled away, took a swig of the drink, and kissed me again, letting the liquid roll into my mouth. I let it roll back. We swirled it until we had no more left. There was a pause. We were both breathing deeply. Her hand was still on my cock.

  “So,” she whispered, “sonny boy wants his mama.”

  “Lady–” I began, but she slid her hand off my dick and brought it up to my face. Her fingers glistened, and she pushed them into my mouth.

  “Be a good boy and lick them clean.”

  I licked. She slowly pulled away and dried the hand with a cocktail napkin. She laughed.

  “Don’t you think you better zip your dick up?” And she shook her head. “Mama’s got to tell her sonny boy everything, doesn’t she?”

  She’s really into this Oedipal shtick but I figured, as I tucked my organ as inconspicuously as I could into my fly, what the hell. I could go along with a gag, if it got me this perfect burnt blonde poon.

  I looked up and could swear the bartender cocked an eyebrow at me. I took a deep breath. “By the way, it’s not ‘sonny boy’,” and I told her my name.

  She smirked. “Your name’s sonny boy, all right. I knew the moment I saw you that you were my sonny boy.” She rapped my ass with her knuckles, spiking me with her rings. It hurt. I jumped. “Besides, it’s not polite to contradict your elders. Where’s your manners?”

  I opened my mouth, but she cut me off.

  “If you want to play with the big girls, you have to have manners,” and she slid drunkenly off her stool, falling against my chest. I caught her, and she looked up at me, her face flushed with liquor. She parted her lips, and I kissed her again, seizing her well-kept body and squeezing it to mine. I was in a frenzy to have her. Her eyes were laughing as we pulled apart.

  “I’ve got to pee – escort me,” and she drunkenly offered me her elbow. I walked her to the women’s room, but as I turned to leave she laughed and said, “A gentleman helps a lady pee,” and pulled me into the bathroom with her. It smelled of urine, vomit, and menses. She locked the door and grabbed my shirt.

  “Let’s see what we got,” and she pushed me against the wall and jerked the shirt open. The buttons echoed against the tiled floor.

  “Mmm, you’re not bad for a little boy,” and she ran her hands greedily over my chest. The contrast of her dark tanned hands against my never-been-in-the-sunlight skin excited me. Her fingers brushed my chest, and I closed my eyes. I felt her tongue on my neck, and she licked down to my nipples. She sucked them into her mouth, teasing them with her tongue, biting them gently, licking them some more, then biting them with an ever increasing insistence. When I could bear it no longer, I grabbed her face and kissed her, seizing her body close to mine. Her hands tugged at my belt.

  “Take off the rest,” she whispered.

  I did, and she licked her lips as she watched. I tried to hang my clothes on a hook by the door, but she pulled them out of my hand and threw them on the ground.

  “Fuck your clothes.”

  She stood back and shimmied her pants off, revealing red satin panties. There was a sweet odour that made me think she perfumed her pussy. She slowly slid her panties down her legs, and I saw her crotch was shaved. It made me hungry to see it, glistening like a pink mouth. She smiled and took her shirt off, walking over to the toilet to piss. When she finished urinating, she leaned back and pushed her pussy up.

  “Lick Mommy, c’mon baby, come over here and lick Mommy clean.”

  I walked over, got on my knees, and without hesitation put my tongue on her urine-drenched pussy. I licked the wet skin, cleaning every crevice. Then I slowly pushed into her hole and tongue-fucked her slowly.

  “Yes,” she growled. “Oh, yes.”

  She gyrated against me, breathing in short gasps. Then she pushed me on to the floor, which caused a moment’s panic as my skin hit the cold, filthy, unpleasant tiles. The moment passed when she slid off the toilet and on to my cock, her wet juicy cunt thrilling every nerve. She put her hands on my chest and leaned forwards undulating her hips slowly.

  “Yes, yes, yes,” she repeated, while I just breathed deeply, thrusting into her as best I could from my position. Suddenly, someone knocked on the bathroom door.

  “Tell them it’s occupied,” she said in a low voice.

  “Wh-What?” I gasped.

  “Tell them it’s occupied,” she repeated.

  “Me? But this is the women’s bathroom.”

  She laughed and squeezed my dick with her pussy.

  “Nothing gets by Mommy’s little boy, does it?”

  Another knock. She looked at me.

  “It’s occupied,” I yelled out.

  The knocking stopped.

  “What if she complains to the bartender?”

  She ignored me and began to fuck me harder, squeezing her muscles rhythmically. Her face began to flush as a much harder knock interrupted us.

  “All right,” a harsh male voice shouted, “you’ve had your fun. Now get out of there.”

  She was bucking wildly.

  More knocks.

  “Don’t make me open this door.”

  This seemed to drive her crazy, and I thought she was going to bounce right off my dick. I was near coming, myself. She curled her fingers into my chest hair and let out a long low guttural moan. Her bouncing slowly stopped. I let myself go, coming with a quick spurt. She fell on top of me, kissing me sloppily.

  “I’m losing patience,” the voice on the othe
r side yelled.

  She looked up and yelled, “Can’t a girl piss in peace around here?”

  “Oh, uhhh,” the voice sounded confused. “Sorry, ma’am, I thought a man might be in there.”

  “Do I sound like a fucking man?”

  “No, no, you don’t. Please excuse me. And take your time.”

  “Thanks, I will.”

  “Think he believes it’s only you?” I whispered.

  “Who cares?” and we kissed some more, until she finally lifted herself up. I watched her gather up her clothes.

  “I could fuck you all night.”

  “That’s because you’re a loyal little boy, but you better get dressed.”

  We were ready to leave.

  “You first,” she said, and unlocked the door and pushed me out, where a small line of women glared.

  “Sorry, girls,” she said, laughing behind me, “but I needed help wiping myself.”

  We staggered out of the bar as the bartender eyeballed us all the way to the door.

  Blondes. Burnt-out blondes.

  Like a thirsty man needs water, like the condemned man needs a reprieve, I need dyed blonde pussy.

  You see them on the streets, on the train, or in cabs.

  And I crave them.

  I crave them all.

  Chameleon

  Francisco Ibañez-Carrasco

  [Wide angle: a motel bathed in the neon light of a huge number 6. As we pan into one of the windows, through the slight partition in between the curtains we hear the faint sound of Jimmy Scott’s voice.]

  He grabs her from the back and brutally glides into her. I moan. His hands keep a firm grasp on her hips and leave imprints, and then they creep up to her firm breasts, so white. The hardened nibs of my nipples kissing the cold tiles, my back curves in ecstasy, like a bow it readies to shoot an arrow, I moan. He thrusts in and out with the mechanical precision of a well-oiled machine, tongue and groove, he pulls and digs into my flesh. Then his hands slide again across the deep valley of her smooth and heaving stomach to land in her mound of pubic hair. I moan, and start to grow, I can’t help it. He shrieks and recedes, pulls out of her in an instant, leaving me empty, his huge cock oozing angst, still throbbing. I turn around and his face in the twilight is a disgruntled mask of horror. He takes two steps back, lets out another shriek. You’re a . . .! But . . . how? You, fucking sonnovabitch! His big hands are coming towards me; his cock now is limp, shipwrecked. Instead of scurrying, I wrestle and push him hard against the wall, laughing aloud, my fists land on his contorted grimace and swiftly I kick him out of the motel room, naked, beautiful, wealthy brat, college jock, broad shoulders, cropped blond hair, a mercenary of lust, not inebriated any more, so awake, so startled. Out! Out into the cold northwest starry night, in the middle of nowhere. While he, panic-stricken, kicks the door, then calls lukewarmly pleeease, then yells in rage. Poor fool, a Fred Flint-stone, thinking fast but ineffectively about what to do, what to do and his poor butt getting colder. Inside, I look for his wallet, his gold watch, his BMW keys, his licence, and his credit cards. I’ll ditch them later; it has to look like a robbery. Not that he would tell anyone. Who would? Tell what? Too embarrassing. I get dressed in his grey sweat pants, wrestling team T-shirt and runners, a bit too tight to envelop my flab, and slump out the back window.

  [Cut to: Corporate building, a three-storey high erection soothed by a balmy breeze. Minimalist décor reception desk and stick chairs flank the entrance where a well poised receptionist with a thin wireless headphone greets us good morning in a clarinet voice. Jimmy Scott pauses in his tedious task to ponder. His two glassy eyes vacant like TV sets beaming dead air.]

  Day after day in the mailroom I look at the agile young man of slender architecture walk on by in the company of other gorgeous young men or silvery hawk-like CEOs or women in little Gucci or Prada numbers. He is slick, Armani, Hugo Boss, not charming, arrogant, he barely looks at me with those strange grey eyes, black eyelashes, maybe Eurasian, he is twenty-five. When I deliver the mail, the faxes, small UPS packages, his hands do not receive, his index points, put it there, his nail impeccably manicured. When he is not around I have taken to checking his appointment book, later I fiddle with his Palm Pilot, it’s never too hard to come up with a pass code – calculate his age, nine inches cut, and the number of fingers in his hands, add and subtract, and I got it – predictable, no one would think the moron-looking, middle-aged plump mail room guy could work that one out (or any piece of technology for that matter). I say never trust an ugly face. I find out he is on his way up the corporate ladder, his dates with several women look more like business meetings, at least as they are officiously logged, older women; he’s climbing, moving and shaking, only enough shaking, he reminds himself of the perfumes they like, memoes himself about the conversations that are successful, selected lines, the restaurants they like, the number of orgasms they fake, and small budgetary annotations, thrifty fellow he is, strategic to the max. I find out and memorize numbers, domicile, directions, and identifications. At times as I repeat the numbers like prayers I begin to sweat and I smell foully, “mendacity” someone once wrote in a play, mendacity. I have to pause; I turn the little gadget off and sneak out of the well-appointed office and hurry back to my fluorescent lair in the basement.

  I pull my hair with desperation, it hurts, I pull harder until it has loosened about ten inches, I collapse in a decrepit sofa, cheap room and board, my hair is thinning, it hangs lovely, straight, later I will shampoo it with a temporary sensuous reddish tint that he will recognize because I know it is the hue he prefers, small amounts of money he will never notice have gone missing from one of the many company chequing accounts he manages. Later I will use hot wax, which exquisitely excoriates my skin leaving it smooth and sensitive to the slightest touch. I read In Style and Vogue and Cosmopolitan and about the lives of serial killers. I answer personality tests, examine culinary tips, aromatherapy, pheromones, aphrodisiacs, all the romantic stuff and I go about my tasks methodically. It’s the long weekend. With my thick hands I grab my chest and pull on my skin until it caves under the pressure, to form a turgid bosom, and polish it into two alert round nubs that will barely insinuate themselves under a thin and light velvet moss green blouse casually thrown over a demure deep wine medium-length skirt à la Julia Roberts. I massage my neck, my hands, my buttocks, my legs and my feet for hours, refining them, until they have adopted the desired silhouette, the enticing curvaceous lines.

  The day rolls on sluggishly and I am anointed by the purring of Billie Holiday, a day of frugal eating, only grapes and drops of water give my skin the complexion and the paleness I know he finds desirable, the anorexic heroine chic look he falls for, Uma Thurman, Winona Ryder, Gwyneth Paltrow, Jewel, girls he adores, petals. Finally, I am ready for the conclusive touch. The suffering is excruciating as I press hard, with all my might, on my cock with one hand, with the other on my Adam’s apple, inwards into my skin, past the bones, until they amalgamate into my body, a process only soothed by my acidic tears. I am now complete and my voice is that of Kathleen Turner and Lauren Bacall, my eyes are not red any more, my luscious eyelashes, exquisite cheeks, my tears have evaporated into a subtle perfume of roses, old-fashioned yet not overwhelming in the least, a scent that will surely cast a subtle and elusive veil upon the senses of anyone who draws near.

  [Close in on a renovated heritage house in a narrow street, quiet, under a roof of magnolia trees sweetly rocked by a slight breeze. A clicking of high heels approaches gently from the end of the street, a cab speeds away, a cat purrs on a nearby branch, two shapely legs walk up to the house, the living room light is on.]

  It’s late spring, evenings can be cool, deceiving, evenings can be dark but I soon take shelter in his front porch, quickly knock at his door, no one else in sight; slightly agitated, he opens, wearing evening pleated dark pants, dry-cleaned and pressed to perfection, no shirt on, a compact triangle of ribbed muscles gets lost down his leather belt t
hat hangs undone. He is to meet with some middle-rank manager woman, I know, my timing is perfect, my eyes widen with a glimpse of fear, I utter a nondescript little sound, I deliver a heavenly mirage. I’m sorry, I say, he says, May I help you? I’m sorry, I barely pronounce. I begin to turn around to go back down the flight of stairs and exit from his life for evermore. He can see my petite waist, my slender calves, and the thin nap of my neck, damsel-in-distress, illuminated by the sepia light of the Chinese lanterns hanging in his porch. I slowly pause and turn to face him again, I didn’t mean to bother you, I whisper like a rustle of leaves, I wonder if you could call the police for me, 911 that is, my well-rehearsed lines, Blanche Dubois’ revenge. I will not be taken for granted. Is everything all right? He says and I know I am an intriguing creature under the pallid double moon of his eyes. Confidently, I explain to him who I am, where I work, about my co-worker, who lives down the street and invited me for drinks but wanted more, he said he thought that neighbour was gay, with undisguised smugness. I say that so did I, but he had tried anyhow, to force himself on me, my voice breaking like a small wave, I can’t go on, choked, my car didn’t start, I show him the BMW keys. In the meantime, he has run to the bedroom to put his pressed white shirt on and has poured a glass of ice water for me, I sit like I was taught, pressed against the soft brown suede sofa – I mean as if I had been trained in a finishing school – the wholesomeness of my legs barely showing.

  A spring interlude, some Debussy, sensible meals, Jenni Craig, Martha Stewart, Oprah blessed be the many goddesses of good living, clean-cut love-making, missionary style, initially, hardly a sigh, a tremolo, the beginning of a lot of learning, unquestioned, unwrapping him layer by layer, imperceptible abrasions in the skin, with restrained drama, without extravagance because I wasn’t just anyone, I was an adorable woman fascinated by his potency, his formidable chest, barren of all primeval hair, only glistening essential oils, his insistence in ingesting hormones for the body tone, the elimination of fatty tissue, lies, lies, tell me sweet little lies. The fact is that he was left spent every night, but greedy as males are he would come around for more, with eclipsed eyes, and found me like one finds a little orphan Columbine in a nest, vulnerable to any contact. I always came to him, told him how my ex-boyfriend had gone mad, stalking me, I showed him his notes asking me for the car he had given me back, in careful typing “I will not tell anyone about us”. I cried, see how he denies my existence and what happened between the two of us, those cherished times, no, don’t pick me up home, I’m sure he is around, stalking me, I’ll see you this evening. He would hang up the phone with a smirk expression at first; happy to bail me out, to help so he can help himself to me that very same night. A minute later Jimmy sees the agile young man of slender Eurasian architecture shift the buttressing stud in his pants from the corner of his eyes as he meekly delivers crisp stationery.