Later that night, Muriel couldn’t sleep. She felt too keyed-up. Finally she gave up any pretence of drifting off to slumber. She got out of bed and went in to the dark living room. Clad in her white cotton nightgown and white cotton panties, she sat on her open window sill in the cool night air and watched an occasional taxi zip across the nearly deserted street below. From where she sat, she could see the trattoria closing. It was nearing 3 a.m. The neon sign blinked off suddenly and then Muriel watched several of the employees exit the restaurant together. Most of them walked away from her building, but one walked in her direction. Muriel’s heart fluttered when she realised it was her favourite waiter.
“Hey,” she called out quietly, surprising even herself. “Hey, you – hi!”
The young man looked around curiously.
“Up here.”
“Hello,” he called back to her, seeming to recognise her immediately, even though it was dark. “What are you doing up? It’s so late.”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
He crossed the street and was now standing on the sidewalk three storeys below her window. “I was just thinking about you,” he said, reaching into his bag and retrieving a half-empty re-corked bottle of red wine. “I swiped this from your table,” he called up to her, showing her the bottle. “I didn’t want it to go to waste, but it’s too good to drink alone, no?”
Muriel’s heart raced. She couldn’t believe it was happening. Her mouth opened and words came out of their own volition. “Why don’t you come up? I’ll buzz you in,” she offered.
“OK,” he replied, seemingly unfazed by her ready acquiescence.
He must do this a lot, she thought, as she buzzed open the front door of her building and listened to his feet hurrying up the steps in the quiet stairwell. He sounded eager, perhaps taking the stairs two at a time. When he reached her floor, she stood in her open doorway waiting for him.
He eyed her thin cotton nightgown, her skinny legs and bare feet. He smiled, a little out of breath. “What’s your name?” he asked. “I’m Antonio – from Canarsie.”
“I’m Muriel,” she replied.
“Well, Muriel,” he said, lifting the bottle once again from his satchel, “do you have any glasses or do you drink from the bottle?”
Antonio and Muriel sat together on the couch in her dark living room, a faint light shining in from the kitchen doorway. They were only on their first glass of the leftover wine when Antonio set his glass down on the coffee table and reached for Muriel’s, setting hers aside, too. He slid closer to her on the couch.
“You know, you look really inviting in that little nightie,” he began quietly. “Do you ask a lot of guys up here in the middle of the night?”
“No,” Muriel replied nervously. “I haven’t even been on a date in I don’t know how long.”
“Well, that would explain it.”
“Explain what?”
“You have this air about you, you know? Like you’re really ready for it. Am I right?” he asked, his hand sliding up her thigh, under her nightgown, his fingertips brushing along the leg band of her panties.
Muriel caught her breath and didn’t reply.
“What’s the matter, Muriel?” Antonio taunted her, his warm hand slipping down between her loosely parted legs, then fleetingly across the crotch of her panties.
“Nothing,” she managed to answer.
“Are you sure?” he persisted, his other hand reaching for the back of her head now.
“I’m sure,” she said, her mouth finding his in the darkness and locking on.
He tasted like wine, cigarettes, coffee. He smelled of all the robust flavours of every Italian meal he’d been in the vicinity of at the trattoria. It was a heady mixture, an unfamiliar but not unpleasant scent for Muriel, because above all, he smelled like a man, and her entire body responded.
Antonio was all over her, his hands everywhere: under her nightie to fondle her nipples, then running through her hair as they continued to kiss, then down along her thighs, then grabbing her arse. Finally he tugged her panties down and discovered the smoothness of her shaved mound with his fingers.
“One of those naughty little girls, huh?” he whispered. “For some reason that doesn’t surprise me.”
In a mere moment, he had her panties completely off, her thighs spread and his face buried between her legs. It wasn’t the first time Muriel had felt a man’s mouth on her down there, but it was the first time she let herself enjoy it. It was exhilarating. Antonio’s tongue explored the swelling folds of her inner lips, then found her clitoris and lingered there while his fingers pushed into the sopping wetness of her hole.
She followed his lead effortlessly, her eager body assuming whatever position Antonio favoured with only the slightest word of encouragement from him; positions she’d shied away from in the past because she’d feared the lewd postures too immodest, perhaps even degrading. But now, as Antonio mounted her from behind, her knees pulled up under herself while she gripped the arm of the couch and felt the plunging fulness of his erection filling her, she found herself suddenly grateful for the happy, inexplicable accident of Muriel the Magnificent and her lurid web page.
Remembering some of the images that had filled her head earlier, Muriel found herself taking the initiative now. She straddled Antonio, impaled herself upon his substantial shaft. She explored the length of him with her mouth, sucked his erection ardently. Then squatted over his face and let his tongue go at her again.
Finally she invited him into her bed, where it was easier for him to pound into her relentlessly from behind, his thumb sliding into her anus while his thick cock tormented her Muriel couldn’t remember ever having felt so filled up, so completely appreciated, so thoroughly aroused. She took the force of his pounding as if she were born to be the receptacle of his fucking, his endless fucking, she never wanted to stop fucking . . .
Muriel and Antonio lay entwined on Muriel’s bed, the Sunday morning dawn inching imperceptibly closer outside her bedroom window.
“You’re too skinny, you know,” Antonio teased her quietly. “We’re going to have to fatten you up. Put some meat on your bones.”
It sounded to Muriel as if he had intentions of sticking around, that he didn’t consider them a one-night stand. She wondered how she felt about that.
“You should come by the restaurant more often. I can slip you some food on the house,” he assured her, seeming to think she was thin because she couldn’t afford to eat. “What do you do, anyway, Muriel? Where do you work?”
“I’m a lawyer,” she replied.
“A lawyer? Then forget about it – you’re taking me to dinner.”
Antonio drifted to sleep while holding Muriel in his arms.
* * *
As soon as the sun poked through her curtains, Muriel’s eyes opened. Antonio was sound asleep. She was relieved that he hadn’t left her. Still it concerned her that she was plunging herself headlong into such unfamiliar territory. Muriel had never done anything so rash in her life. And it had all started with that web page. Her whole life had changed simply because she’d gotten on-line.
Then her curiosity got the best of her. It was uncanny how Muriel the Magnificent’s experiences were only one step ahead of her own. She studied Antonio while he slept, then decided to slip out of bed and consult her computer: what erotic pleasures did Sunday have in store? Would they include him? Was the other Muriel still cavorting wantonly with the other Antonio?
The computer booted up and Muriel got on-line. The web page loaded slowly, an indication that the jpegs had probably changed. Muriel’s pulse quickened; what was she likely to see?
“Muriel the Magnificent” flashed again, as usual. The first image loaded. It was Muriel with the other Antonio, they were getting down to business. They were both facing the camera. Muriel was astride Antonio with her legs spread, making it plain that Antonio’s cock was deeply imbedded up her shaved hole. But just outside of the picture stood another man, his erec
t penis was clearly discernible in Muriel’s right hand.
“Oh, my God,” she murmured breathlessly, as picture after picture revealed the other Muriel getting lewdly penetrated in every orifice by two good-looking men at once.
“Caught you!” Antonio blurted, startling Muriel, making her jump.
She whirled around in her chair to find him standing naked behind her. She blushed. “I didn’t know you were up.”
“Hey, it’s OK,” he laughed. “Don’t be embarrassed. Everybody likes to look at dirty pictures. This is a nice computer,” he went on. “It looks brand new. So you’re on-line?”
“Yes,” Muriel answered sheepishly.
“Me, too. I spend a lot of time on-line. It’s the wave of the future, right? Soon enough everyone will be on-line.”
Muriel looked away from Antonio and stared at her monitor distractedly. “Yes,” she agreed quietly. “Soon enough, everyone will be on-line.”
Wasabi Punani
Christine Pountney
When I was just sixteen years old, I went to San Francisco on a school trip. To the boys in my class I was sexless. I was too tall, too gangly. My breasts were too firm, too high, and my hips were too much like their own. For all their bravado and sexual boasting, they were unsophisticated and lacked imagination. They required the cumbersome trappings of obvious sexual characteristics to arouse their desire and preferred the Greek girls, with their hairy forearms suggesting advanced pubic growth, and the physical handicap of fully developed, oversized breasts.
Sexless as I may have seemed to my peers, I had already attracted the attention of various older men, and I knew with the instinct of a vixen when the scent was up and a man was snared. I liked the attention I received from older men, and I assumed the coy and sullen persona that my teenage years allowed. But above all, I assumed a passive yet provocative sexual role. I wore my school kilt as short as I could get away with, without actually getting expelled, and let my tie hang as loose and indolent as my morals.
It was a glaringly bright day, and we were taking a walking tour of San Francisco’s vast and labyrinthine China Town. I was dawdling at a stall with an exotic array of sea creatures, fish eyes and large phallic molluscs. Entranced by the purple tentacles of a squid, I stood there fingering its tiny little suction cups. When I finally looked up, I realised that my class had moved on and that I was alone.
I didn’t mind; in fact, I felt exhilarated and relinquished myself to the muscular movement of the sidewalk throng. I let the crowd nudge me forward, brush past me, stroke me anonymously and urge me down a side street; the smell of jasmine and rice filling my nostrils; the shrill cry of hawkers and the cawing of seagulls overhead colluding to heighten my sense of disorientation. I looked up past the sharp edges of the buildings at the liquid blue sky and let the sun fizzle on my retina.
Temporarily blinded, my eyes watering, I collided with a woman running down the street. She knocked me sideways into a bunch of garbage cans at the edge of an alleyway. I scrambled to my feet and, groping my way along the walls, I retreated from the din of the market. When my vision cleared, I saw that I was at a dead end and that in front of me was a door, slightly ajar. A blue light seemed to beckon me inside. I entered a hallway and the door closed quietly behind me.
At the end of the corridor was a curtain of blue glass beads, from behind which quavered the stretched elastic tones of oriental music. I brushed the beads aside and stepped into a smoky, windowless room. It was in fact a sushi restaurant and was filled with Japanese businessmen in immaculate dark suits, with white starched shirts and silver ties that shimmered as if they were made of fish scales. They were seated in clusters, huddled around a wide kaiten that snaked its way slowly around the room. There was very little conversation, just the clicking of chopsticks like cockroaches scuttling across chrome.
Slowly the men turned to look at me standing there, my hair tousled, my lips slightly parted, my breath quickening at finding myself suddenly the centre of attention. The air was cooler than outside and I could feel goose bumps rising on the sensitive skin behind my knees and spreading up the length of my thighs, sending little shock waves of pleasure across my hips and buttocks.
When all the men had stopped eating and were looking at me, I heard a harsh whisper like a command and a beautiful young man came over, gave me a quick bow and then, placing his hand gingerly on the small of my back, ushered me forward. There was more whispering and suddenly the room exploded like a stock market as the men began to argue between themselves. It was as if they were heckling over a slave. I looked at the man who was standing beside me and he seemed defiant. He was stomping his feet and yelling something in Japanese. Eventually the chef, an old man wearing a white kapogi, came out from behind a counter and raised his hands. The businessmen obediently surrendered to his seniority and the room fell silent again.
The old man bowed to me, then said, in clipped English for my benefit, “She too young. No touch. Only look.”
There was some dissent among the men, which the old man quelled with another command barked in the staccato rhythm of his dialect. The young man with the delicate features then turned to me and holding up his hands in a gesture suggesting he wouldn’t lay a hand on me, deftly removed my school tie and then my shirt without once touching my skin. There was a murmur of approval among the men. He handed my tie and shirt to another man who folded them neatly and placed them to one side.
All eyes were upon me and I felt an overpowering sexual fire light up inside my body. My groin began to ache as the blood rushed to my vulva. The old man clapped his hands and the nice young man sat down and another man came forward. He was shorter than the last one and plump. He was breathing rapidly and little beads of sweat stood out on his upper lip. He looked at me and I thought he was going to grab me. I wanted him to! Instead, he gave me a short, sharp bow, walked around behind me and unzipped my kilt. He didn’t let it fall to the floor, but drew it down slowly and carefully. I could feel his breath on my legs as he held it in place while I lifted my feet and stepped out. He took my skirt back to his table and also folded it neatly. He never once touched me.
Another man came forward and, kneeling in front of me so close I could feel the static coming off the hairs on his head, he removed my shoes and socks. He too bowed quickly then sat down. I stood there exposed, with only the air to caress my naked skin. I squared my shoulders and stood there in my white cotton panties and white lace bra, a hundred eyes burning on my adolescent body, driving me crazy with desire. I wanted to be touched. I felt craven, as if there was a growing hollow in my body and I wanted it filled, but the men were quiet, admiring their captive; and like a deer caught in the headlights of a car, I couldn’t move.
It was the old man who came forward again, this time with a large knife. The blade glistened and flashed blue in the light from the paper lanterns. He stood in front of me and, with several deft flicks of his knife, he denuded me. My underwear and bra fell to the floor in little pieces like cherry blossom. It took all the strength I had not to reach out and place the old man’s hands on my breasts, but I didn’t dare displease him. He clapped his hands again and barked an order and a large man came over and got down on all fours. He pointed to the conveyor belt. He wanted me to use the man’s back as a step and get onto the kaiten, along with the sushi.
There was sushi all around me, tekkamaki rolls on ebony saras, and wooden getas with two or three pieces of sashimi; lying side by side like praying Muslims. I pushed the dishes aside but couldn’t avoid squishing a few pieces underneath my body. When I had reclined on the conveyor belt and was slowly gliding like Cleopatra on her burnished throne around the room, the old man shouted, “He who overcome desire grow strong! Now eat!” and all the businessmen obediently resumed the clicking of chopsticks. With dizzying efficiency, they selected dish after dish from the moving conveyor belt and began lifting succulent bits of grey mullet dipped in soya sauce into their hungry mouths. The men seemed intent on ignoring me an
d the air was charged with disciplined restraint, with a desperate stifling of desire.
I rolled over onto my stomach and tried to catch their gaze. I rolled onto my back. I lay on my side and smothered my breasts with the palms of my hands. Some of the men looked askance, some fidgeted, one began to choke on his miso soup. I saw the beautiful young man shoot a glance at the chef as if to challenge him, but most of them simply refused to look at me and stared at their plates. I was approaching the counter where the old man was preparing his perfectly wrought edible works of art and, as I passed him, I picked up a handful of sushi rolls wrapped in seaweed and placed them on my belly. I lay back and felt around me and picked up a cool slice of red snapper. I placed it on my nipple. I didn’t dare move. I lay there, slowly drifting around the room and waited until, finally, with the speed of a frog’s tongue, a pair of chopsticks darted out and the slippery fish was plucked, with a little pinch, from my nipple.
I gasped with pleasure and placed another piece of fish where the last one had been. It was immediately removed. I began frantically covering my body with more sashimi. I placed them on my breasts, my belly and my pubic mound. I rolled over and got on all fours and placed a piece of sushi snug between my buttocks. I felt the little flick of a pair of chopsticks before it was plucked out.
I rolled onto my back and lifted my legs until my knees were level with my chest and placed a piece of tamango in the silk cup of my vagina. I pulled my knees apart and it sank deeper into my cunt and I felt a faint suction when it was removed. I tucked a piece of temaki firmly between the swollen folds of my labia and suddenly all hell broke loose. Men started jumping up, knocking their chairs over. The beautiful young man scrambled onto the conveyor belt to my delight while the old man tried desperately to impose some order and control by yelling over and over again, “She too young. No touch! No touch!”
The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 1 Page 42