The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 1

by Maxim Jakubowski

  “Yes, sir.” She didn’t want to fight with him any more, just needed to go to her room and touch her clit.

  “And you agree that this thrashing has made you wet?”

  “It hasn’t. I . . .” She fought to find the words which would save her dignity. “You promised no sexual contact, so you’re not allowed to check,” she added, biting her lip.

  “And I’ll stand by my word,” the doctor said steadily, “But if you’re not telling the truth you’ll have to be chastened further on the bare.”

  “I’m truthful,” Lisa lied, feeling another fervent rush of delight to her Mount of Venus.

  “Then stand up with your legs apart and show me that you’re dry as a desert,” the doctor said.

  “And if I don’t, you’ll . . .?” She daren’t even think about his reaction.

  “I’ll continue spanking you till you do. That’s only fair.” He stroked her bare bum. “You have to obey my house rules, Miss Steen. After all, I’m obeying yours by not touching you sexually.”

  “Right, let’s get this over with,” Lisa said. She put her palms flat on the couch and slowly hoisted herself back on to her knees. She refused to look at him. Spent a moment reorientating herself before swinging her feet around and onto the ground. Her pubis felt heavy with stimulus, yet surely her desire wasn’t visible to the casual eye?

  “Wider, sweetheart,” Michael said with a smile. Lisa moved her thighs further apart, further, further. Felt the wetness start to slick from her body and looked down to see the long gelatinous threads. “The proof of the pudding is in the eating,” the doctor continued. His words made her think of his tongue trailing wild sparks across her clit and through the lush folds of her labia. He’d lick gently down each petal then back up again until . . . “Come on, angel, over my lap for a final twenty,” the surgeon said softly. “Accept a sound thrashing for telling a lie.”

  Lisa toed the ground: “And after that my punishment will really be over?”

  “Providing you don’t commit further acts of negligence, then yes.”

  Going over his knee again took almost all the courage she possessed. He knew she was sexually on fire, damn it. He might try to touch her clit – and if he did she’d be lost. Suddenly Lisa wanted him to caress that peaking bud, to give it the release it so obviously needed. She’d come so quickly.

  “Was I right or was I right?” Michael Landers murmured, starting to stroke her sore cheeks as she lay over his knee. Lisa quivered at the indignity. Suddenly she hated him all over again.

  “Right about what?” she countered coolly.

  “I was correct in assuming that though your arse hates being reddened your pussy gets off on it,” her employer said.

  “That’s what you think. I was fantasizing about Reece before . . . before you laid a finger on me,” Lisa lied.

  “Before I laid a palm on your bare arse, you mean?”

  He seemed determined to humiliate her. The twenty-eight-year-old writhed with sexual shame. Her clitoral hood rubbed against his thigh and sensation almost overwhelmed her. Jesus, she was so near . . . “Twenty spanks on an already sore rump for not being honest,” Michael Landers said as if pronouncing a legal sentence. His right arm came down across her shadowy buttock crease.

  The slap seemed to ricochet through her helpless globes to her equally immobile clitoris. Lisa moaned with increasing lust. She pushed down hard against his thighs again and felt her body start to move towards the ultimate pleasure. Bucked forwards against his trouser leg as he dished out each echoing whack. Then she flattened her body out for a second, only to push forwards strongly again.

  “. . . five, six, seven,” Michael said out loud as he added each hard bum-spank. “That’s it, sweetheart, you just rub against my leg like a little animal, like a dog frigging a lamp post when it’s in heat.” Lisa winced at his words but their taunting level took her strangely closer to Eden. He spanked, she writhed, she pushed against his suited leg and groaned.

  Somewhere between spank fifteen and sixteen she felt the beloved signal go off in her groin, signalling climax. Shoved the entire lower half of her body against him, jerking her hips forwards with tiny hard movements to keep the stimulus sending the pleasure through. Never before had she felt such a strong, focused orgasm. Never before with her own fingers or with her ex-husband or with Reece. “Uh,” she kept muttering, her clenched teeth unable to hold back the grunts of increasing rapture, “Uh, Uh, Uuuuuh, Uuuuuuh, Uuuuuuuuuh!”

  For long moments after the last frissons had died away, she lay semi-naked over Michael’s lap. She wished that he’d stroke her hair or kiss her neck or tell her she was wonderful. She looked up at him when he did none of those expected things. He was smiling enigmatically down at her, his fingers still circling her slender waist . . .

  Threesome

  Daniel James Cabrillo

  1 Two Obsessions

  1

  You walk across the golf course in your short denim sundress, carrying your sandals in your hand. The kids run ahead, I lag far behind, taking pictures of you and them and the palm trees swaying in the warm, late-afternoon breeze, the surf banging against the rocky shore in the background, everything tinted gold by the sun low in the sky.

  A man on a golf cart drives towards you. Because you’re looking at the kids, he studies you more frankly than he could if you were aware of him. He likes the way you move, the tilt of your head, your barefooted stride on the moist green grass. He likes your voice when he hears you call the kids. He likes your body. Your sundress is his co-conspirator and teaser, revealing, concealing, hinting: the bib stretches across your breasts, hugs them together, exposes their round white tops and your bare shoulders; the denim stretches across your flat stomach and squeezes your buttocks, defining each as you walk; the hem sits high on your thighs, shows the good shape of your athletic legs; he’d like to see what happens where your thighs meet.

  He’d like to fuck you.

  As he guides his cart close to you, you turn and see him and smile. He smiles back. To you the smile is pleasant and polite, the greeting of strangers in a good mood at a Hawaiian resort, nothing more. To him it is much more; it is contact, and contact changes thought into feeling. Looking at you had been a critical function, an evaluation. When you made contact the centre of his appreciation dropped from his brain to his scrotum.

  He wants to fuck you.

  He passes, looks back over his shoulder for a last glance, turns around to look where he’s driving – and sees me. Our eyes meet: he knows immediately that he is caught.

  I know what he’s thinking, what he’s feeling.

  He wants to fuck my wife; I know it; he knows I know it.

  I nod at him, he nods back, guests at a resort. I let him off the hook.

  But in the split second after eye-contact and before the smiles I believe I perceive – what? Embarrassment? Yes, of course. You get caught coveting somebody’s wife, you’re going to be embarrassed. Yet I think I see more. What? Devastation? Desperation? No, those are too strong. Disappointment? Definitely. Embarrassment and disappointment.

  He moves on.

  The sun sets. We go to dinner. Halfway through our meal the man comes into the restaurant with his wife and kid and another couple. His impulse to look at you is irresistible – he even chooses his seat to have a clear line of vision – but my presence disorients: he can’t look at you without checking to see if I’m watching him watch you. I inhibit his freedom to openly covet, and it upsets him. At one point I catch him looking not our way but down into his plate, mouth set, almost angry.

  It begins to come clear to me. There’s more to this than casual lust for a sexy woman.

  The two women at his table get up to go to the buffet. The other man glances at our table, does a little double-take when he sees me, says something concise and cryptic to his friend. I’d bet anything that what he said was something like: Oops.

  So the man was that interested in you. Interested enough to tell his fri
end, or interested enough so that his friend noticed he was interested. They’d talked about it, about you . . . that single mom over there, the little number with the hot little body. I flash back to an incident – not even an incident, a passing perception – that occurred last night.

  You and the kids had picked me up at the airport in the evening. Back at the hotel, the kids went to their hale, we to ours and we made love. Afterwards I went into the dark sitting room to get my bag, which I hadn’t unpacked. I glanced outside for a look at the tropical night under the waxing, nearly full moon and saw a figure standing in the dark, looking towards our hale. I’d thought nothing of it: for all I knew he could have been meditating, or sneaking a smoke.

  Now I wonder if the man who wants to fuck you had been the figure in the night shadows, looking for you, perhaps hoping you’d step out for a breath of air or an evening walk.

  Now I know why my appearance has upset him.

  He had big plans.

  You never see these things. You should: you’d like them.

  He’s been looking at you since you or he first arrived earlier in the week. He saw a woman alone with three kids at a Hawaiian resort, assumed – not unreasonably these days – that you were a single mother. You weren’t cruising for men – this isn’t a place for that – but that only made you more attractive. And after all these days alone with our kids, you were probably getting horny . . .

  Probably he started thinking about ways to meet you, get to know you, get away from his wife, seduce you. As the days went by, what started as admiration evolved, became desire, then fantasy.

  I’d like to fuck her became I want to fuck her.

  I want to fuck her became I need to fuck her.

  I need to fuck her became I am going to fuck her.

  Then I showed up.

  Poor guy. He has only one place to go from here:

  I must fuck her.

  Obsession.

  2

  You used to want to be invisible. You were quiet and meek and you dressed not to be noticed. You cultivated non-descript. You also were a great piece of ass. In bed you were extremely descript: distinctive, creative, aggressive, daring, full of fire. It took me a while to learn that your sexual self was closer to your real self than your shy public self.

  In other words, the real you was the distinctive, fiery you I loved to fuck. As I gradually began to understand this, I gradually fell in love with you.

  Through the years you’ve let the sexuality come forwards. You’re not meek, you’re not invisible, you dress great, you know you’re sexy. You know it, but do you feel it? I’m not sure you do. I tell you often enough, but I’m your husband.

  The fact is that I’m as obsessed by you as the man in the golf cart, but it doesn’t count. Somebody who loves you can’t convince you that you’re as sensual as he thinks you are. What does he know? He loves you.

  I want you to feel it, though.

  You deserve to feel it.

  I want you to believe it.

  3

  At night, after the kids go to sleep, we go down to the beach, find a nice, secluded spot so we can take some pictures. I bring the Hasselblad, so you know I mean business. I put the Polaroid back on the camera to take proofs first.

  I ask you to take your sundress off and I chronicle every button unbuttoned, the naked revelation of all your parts: one breast, the other, the sweet, rounded belly, your buttocks, the hairy mound in the centre of your body. One picture in particular moves me. You unbutton all the buttons down to the last, at crotch-level. One breast is fully exposed, half the other, and your belly. You hitch the dress to lift it up and off; I snap the picture just as the dress is high enough to expose the underside of your buttocks and the bottom of your pubic thatch. There’s a nice expression on your face, not seductive but provocative: you’re looking forward to getting the dress off. You’re looking forward to what we’ll do when it’s off.

  I, too, am looking forward to what we’ll do when the dress is off.

  Horny and hurried, I take fewer pictures than I’d planned. You redress; I gather up my camera gear and proofs, and we walk back to our hale to take your dress off yet again.

  On the way we pass the ground-level hale of the man and his wife and kid, and I drop the proofs. I glimpse the man inside, watching as we bend down to pick them up. I miss one of the proofs. It’s the dress-hitching picture I just described. It stays on the ground as we continue on.

  I know he will find it.

  4

  I give you the news: he wants to fuck you.

  We’re enjoying a beach near the hotel; the man and his wife and kid and friends are just arriving.

  Who? you ask. I point him out.

  I have a feeling he was very choosy about which beach to come to this morning, I say. I bet they drove from one beach to the next, and he found fault with each until they came here. What he found here was you.

  You laugh.

  I’m not kidding, I say; I saw it on the golf course and in the restaurant. I know the look.

  You study him and his entourage.

  His wife is cute, you say.

  What’s that got to do with it? I ask. My wife is cute; that doesn’t mean I would like to fuck his.

  You lean up, shade your eyes, study him. Now that I’ve pointed out his interest, you can’t help but notice how often he looks your way.

  He’s not my type, you say.

  That’s true: he’s good-looking in an Izod shirt way, tall, slim, with a tennis player’s body. But, your type or not, he’s attractive, and you’re flattered.

  I leave you and go snorkelling, knowing that my absence will make him bolder. He’ll look at you more, and now you’ll be more aware of it. He may even try to make contact. From the reefs I see him playing frisbee with his kid. You’re lying prone, the top of your swimsuit untied and your breasts mashed against the beachtowel. I call every play: his moving closer to you; his one or two near misses; his jackpot – the runaway frisbee skips across the sand and comes to a stop a foot away from you. He crosses to it, kneels to retrieve it, apologizes. I can see you telling him it’s no problem; he remains kneeling, chats a little with you. As you roll over and sit up, you almost expose your breasts, but cover them with the swimsuit top in the nick of time.

  Perfect!

  Our kids close in, wanting you to settle a dispute, ending the man’s stolen moment with you. That’s okay, too.

  When I return I lie beside you, read my book, occasionally and conspicuously whisper in your ear, telling you what the man would like to do to you now . . . and now . . . and now. You giggle a lot.

  For his benefit, of course.

  A lot of this is for his benefit. Maybe all.

  5

  It’s warmer tonight and the moon is one night short of full. You and I return to the secluded beach where I took pictures last night – this time without the camera. We lie down in the soft sand, smooch a little, take some clothing off, feel around each other to make sure everything we love is still intact. Before long you get to your knees and recreate one of our beach interludes of thirteen years ago.

  Back then, you were the best cocksucker I’d ever known or dreamed existed. Now you’re ten times better. Impossible, but true.

  After a while, I want a turn, so I scamper away, get my face between your legs, and feast. We’re very romantic tonight, I notice – passionate but slow, gentle, delicate. Is it the moon? The warm breezes? The tropical setting? Or is it the knowledge that our lovemaking, which is so much a part of us and comes so easily to us, is something denied to yet desperately desired by someone else?

  All of the above.

  I eat until you begin your climb; you reach for my arms, draw me up, take hold of my cock and guide it to the niche. We fuck a slow, clingy fuck, but your climb has started and won’t stop. I try to change pace, to slow down, but you won’t let me, you don’t want this one to last, you want to come and you want me to come while you’re still coming, and so you cl
asp me to you, and the clingy walls of your inner cunt grab at my shaft like a thousand little suction cups, and, as you wish, I come. With my first shot your orgasm begins and keeps coming like currents in a choppy sea.

  We hold each other, calm down, cool down, relax. It is very warm and very quiet.

  I am aware of another presence. I open my eyes and look up toward a cluster of rocks and foliage not far away. He stands very still. Can he tell that I am looking at him? He probably can’t, but even if he could he would not flee.

  What he has seen is what he has been dreaming about. You make love the way he knew you would, with your whole body, with all your will, with your entire consciousness.

  He would do anything, give anything, to be with you as I have just been.

  We close our eyes and cling together. I hear him walking away.

  6

  Christmas Eve Day. I spoke to him. His obsession made him vulnerable, and I exploited his vulnerability. Relentlessly.

  I believe that at one point it crossed his mind that I was a homosexual, using you as my beard. And the remarkable thing about that was, if I had been a homosexual, I’m sure that this straight, handsome, intelligent man – this Flyover – would have done whatever I asked – even a homosexual act – if it meant getting to you.

  Someday I’ll tell you how I made it happen. Some aspects were amusing. But now it doesn’t matter how I made it happen.

  I made it happen because I want it to happen for you. I want you to feel in yourself what you project to others. I want you to know what power you have, to feel that power, to appreciate it and love having it, and love yourself as I love you.

  7

  Christmas night. A bath. I help you bathe, spreading suds all over, rinsing you with my hands and warm water. I help you from the tub, pat-dry you with a towel, lead you to the sitting room, lay you down onto a comforter on the floor, give you a slow, gentle massage.