The Mammoth Book of Erotica presents The Best of Donna George Storey

by Donna George Storey

  I noticed, however, that he started paying attention again when the queen was imprisoned on trumped-up charges of adultery. When it got to the execution scene, he put down the magazine. And so we both watched, transfixed, as the queen glided in, made her poignant farewell speech, knelt down before the block. The lady-in-waiting tied a narrow, snow-white blindfold over the kneeling woman’s eyes. In that one moment, before the sword, the actress looked more beautiful than ever, at least those parts of her set off by the blindfold above and the low-cut dress below: her pouting crimson lips, her fragile neck and the swelling of her breasts that rose and fell with each breath. I remembered something else from long ago, my brother and cousins in the back of the station wagon on a hot summer day, talking about that same television show. The only part of interest to them was when the queen “got her head chopped off”. At the time, I didn’t understand the edge of excitement in their voices.

  But now I did.

  We turn to each other with identical crooked, tight-lipped smiles.

  “So that was your favorite show?”

  “Mmm,” I reply. “I’d forgotten about that part.”

  We sit in silence.

  Then I say, “What do you think goes through someone’s mind at a time like that?”

  He thinks, brow furrowed, then shakes his head.

  More silence.

  “So what do you want to do now?” I ask.

  He shakes his head again. “I don’t know. I’m in a weird mood.”

  I’m well aware that interesting things happen when he is in a weird mood.

  I give him a sidelong glance. “Do you want to blindfold me?” I can’t remember the last time we made love without it.

  He looks at me curiously. “That would be too weird.”

  “But I want you to. I guess I’m in a weird mood, too.” I poke him. “How about it?”

  “No,” he replies sharply.

  “How about ‘yes’?” I say, taking up the challenge. I’ll overcome his reluctance, make him want to do it. Before we had always glided into the game together, willingly, but I discover that this new element of conflict excites me.

  He seems uneasy. “What’s with you tonight?”

  “What’s with me? Who started this blindfold business anyway?”

  “You didn’t take much convincing, if I remember correctly.”

  This goes on until I ask, “What are you afraid of?” That’s when I know I’ve won, even before he stalks off to the bedroom and returns with the blindfold balled up in his fist.

  “Should I get undressed?” I ask with a coy smile. I am still expecting him to smile back, still waiting for that flicker of desire in his eyes. It’s always the last thing I see before the blindfold goes on.

  But he just stares at me coldly. I’ve never seen him quite like this before.

  I sit up. “Well, what should I do?”

  “Just get down on your fucking knees.”

  He doesn’t seem to be pretending. And I’m not pretending when I jump, when my jaw falls open in surprise. I really am afraid of him. Afraid to meet his eyes. Afraid to breathe.

  I stand up and look around the living room for a place to kneel. The coffee table takes up most of the well-worn oval rug, but there is plenty of scarred hardwood floor.

  “Can I get a pillow or something?” I attempt another smile.

  “Shut up and kneel,” he says

  So I kneel and he puts on the blindfold.

  The floor is hard and cold. I hear the tip-tap of his shoes as he leaves the room. I am alone. At first my mind is racing as I wonder what he could be doing. But then, as I wait in the stillness, with the blindfold on, I begin to feel safe. This darkness is familiar, with its memory and promise of pleasure, of yielding myself to him. The very air seems to press against me, heavy and faintly moist, the boundaries of my body softening with each breath.

  Suddenly I hear footsteps behind me, a faint metallic clink. My shoulders tense, the air grows thin. Something very cool and smooth settles on the right side of my neck. In the next instant I realize it is his hand. In a glove. A leather glove. It rests there for a moment, the fingers gripping my throat. The leather grows warm, sucking up the heat of my skin. Then it begins to move, stroking my neck, brushing my cheek. I sigh.

  “Do you like this?” His voice sounds far away.

  I hesitate, afraid to get the answer wrong. “Yes.”

  “Then enjoy it while you can. Because after tonight I’ll never touch you again.”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “I mean, this is the last time.”

  His hand slips away.

  “I don’t understand. You’re leaving me?”

  “Don’t worry, when it’s all over, you won’t care.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  His voice is low, mocking as he turns my own words against me, “What are you afraid of?”

  I swallow hard.

  It is fear, this tightness in my chest, the tingling where my neck curves into my shoulder, the very place a blade would strike.

  But he wouldn’t really go that far, would he?

  Maybe he just enjoys watching me like this, the way my breasts quiver with each gasp and my lips part in an “o” as if I’m about to come. It would be more like him to tease me with the saber, to ease the cool metal up between my thighs so I’m forced to ride it, avoiding the edges with exquisite care. He might even hold it to my neck as he pushes his cock into me and whispers The last time, the last time, the words alone awakening tendrils of pleasure deep inside my cunt. And the ending would be sweet: No slow, gray withering, but a flash of silver behind my eyelids, a crimson flush rolling across my skin, a princess suspended in the prime of her beauty.

  “This is part of the game, right?”

  At first he doesn’t reply. I hear the floorboards creak, another clink of metal. Footsteps circle around to my left and stop somewhere in front of me. Then he snorts, a soft hiss of air. “Don’t you see I’m tired of playing your sick games?”

  My games?

  For a moment I am aware of nothing but a coldness spreading up through my chest, down my arms, settling in my fingers as a dull, distant ache.

  But suddenly I do see it, hovering against the blindfold: the image of myself as he really sees me now, as he must have seen me all along. A body – exposed and vulnerable – but not beautiful, not beloved.

  “Why are you doing this to me?” I cry out, half-choking on the words as I collapse to the floor, chest sagging onto my knees. I don’t want to cry, not in front of him, not now, so I press my palms over my eyes, but the tears come anyway, stinging as they rise, spilling over into the silk.

  Hands grasp my shoulders. I twist away instinctively but they hold me fast, and I begin to feel, through the cloth of my shirt, the warmth of skin, a gentleness in his fingers. Then he pulls me up, murmuring something I can’t hear through my own sobs. I struggle to my feet and bury my face in his shoulder. He strokes my back, swaying.

  As I cling to him, I say less in accusation than wonder, “You were torturing me.”

  “Isn’t it what you wanted?” he whispers.

  “No. I don’t think so. I don’t know,” I say. In truth, I don’t think I’d ever really been aware of what I was asking him to do.

  “Believe me, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I never want to hurt you.” His arms tighten around me, squeezing me with a force just short of actual pain.

  It is the blindfold that suddenly seems unbearably tight.

  “Take it off now. Please?” I could pull it off myself – it has always been a voluntary bondage – but I want him to do it. I want him to break the spell.

  His hands fumble at the knot. Then he pulls the scarf free.

  I look up and see that his eyes are wet, too, like wounds. I lean toward him. He closes his eyes, and so do I, an unthinking act that all lovers do. In that simple darkness we find each other’s lips. I want at this moment nothing more than the exquisite, ordinary c
omfort of his lips against mine.

  It is enough.

  Picture Perfect

  Donna George Storey

  I didn’t mean to shave it all off. At first I was trying for a whimsical heart shape, but I couldn’t seem to get the curves even. Then I sculpted a fur patch like those models in men’s magazines, but it looked too much like Hitler’s mustache. In the end I went all the way – the Greek statue look. It’s harder than you think to get yourself all smooth down there. I stood with one leg propped up on the side of the tub, studying my cunt like exam notes. I’d never looked at myself so carefully down there before. What surprised me was the color – the deep, almost shocking pink of the inner lips. The skin looked so sensitive and dewy, I was scared to get close with that nasty razor, so I left a little fringe. There was no room for mistakes.

  I called Brian at work to tell him about my art project.

  “Hey, Kira.” I knew someone was in his office by his offhand tone, but I went ahead and told him anyway.

  “I just shaved my pussy.”

  There was a pause.

  “Oh, is that so? Listen, honey, I’m in the middle of a meeting right now. I’ll call you back when I can. Okay?” Only a wife would have picked up the faint tremor in his voice.

  Unfortunately, Brian was a model employee – not the type who would stand up in front of the boss and announce, “Sorry, I have to go. My wife just shaved her pussy.” It would probably be hours before he could get home. That left a whole afternoon alone, just me and my bald snatch.

  I went over to the full-length mirror. My heart was pounding. I hadn’t felt this naughty since I was a teenager doing “homework” up in my bedroom with my panties around one ankle and a pillow pushed between my legs, ear cocked for the sound of my mother’s footsteps in the hall. Which was silly because I was alone in my own house and all I was doing was looking at myself, my new self: the white triangle of smooth skin, the fold of tender pink flesh now visible between the lips. There was an indentation at the top of the slit, as if someone had pressed a finger into it. I had an overwhelming urge to play with myself. Just an appetizer before I jumped Brian’s bones tonight. I touched a tentative finger to my clit. I was already wet.

  The phone rang.

  “I’m taking the afternoon off,” Brian told me. His voice was husky. “I’ll be home in twenty minutes. Don’t you dare touch that shaved pussy of yours until I get there.”

  When I hung up, I had to laugh. My husband knew me well. Very well.

  There were no hi-honey kisses or how-was-your-day; the moment Brian got through the door, he pushed me back on the sofa and yanked open my robe. He made a little sound in his throat, half gasp, half moan.

  “Wow, you really did a job on it.”

  I smiled. “Didn’t you believe me?”

  He gaped, eyes glowing. Pussy power – suddenly the words took on fresh meaning. Gently he nudged my thighs apart. I shivered. He bent down. I thought – and hoped – he was going to kiss me there.

  “You didn’t get all the hair off.”

  “Hey, it’s a tricky job.”

  He frowned. “Don’t move.”

  He left me lying on the sofa with my legs spread like a virgin sacrifice. My pussy was getting chilly, but my breath was coming fast and I had that naughty teenage feeling again, arousal so sharp it was almost pain.

  Brian returned with a towel, a canister of shaving cream and a razor. He’d changed into his bathrobe, which did nothing to hide his bobbing erection. He came back again with a basin of water, which he set carefully on the coffee table. The last trip brought the video camera and tripod.

  I felt a contraction low in my belly.

  “Spread your legs wider.”

  I caught my breath, but obeyed.

  He patted a dab of shaving cream between my legs. The coolness made me squirm.

  “Lie still.”

  He was acting awfully bossy, but I didn’t want any slipups. I held my thighs to keep them from shaking.

  “Relax, Kira,” Brian said, more kindly. Guys are always saying that when they’re about to mess around with your private parts. Still Brian did have plenty of experience with shaving, so I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. The room was quiet, except for the scraping sound of the razor and the occasional swish of water. At last he rinsed me with a washcloth, smiling as I wriggled under his vigorous assault.

  He leaned close to examine his work.

  “Picture perfect,” he declared.

  Five minutes later, I was sitting naked in our armchair, watching my own twat, larger than life on our new plasma TV screen. My legs were modestly pressed together, but Brian had me lounge back so you could see the slit, shorn of its covering. He knelt, pointing the camera straight at me.

  “Did you get turned on when you were shaving?” His tone was soothing now, like a friendly interviewer on a weekly news magazine.

  “Yes,” I admitted in a small voice.

  “Did you masturbate?”

  “No.” A few flicks didn’t count, right?

  “You wanted to, though.”

  I swallowed.

  Brian clicked his tongue. “Why don’t you do it now? Don’t you want to know if it feels different when it’s shaved?”

  My cheeks burned, but I ignored the question and turned to the screen. “It sure looks different.”

  “Yeah. It really does look like lips. The skin gets pinker here and pouts.” He reached over and pinched the edges.

  I bit back a moan.

  “We could put lipstick on it. Deep red like a forties movie star.”

  “No, that’s too weird,” I said and immediately regretted it. Why was I being such a prude? After all, I’d started this with my little experiment in the tub. Suddenly bold, I glided my middle finger up and down along the groove. “This is an easier way to make it redder.”

  Brian grinned. “Yes, indeed. Let’s get the full view.” The camera zoomed in expectantly.

  I hesitated. I’d played with myself in front of Brian before, but now a stranger was in the room with us, a stranger with a round, staring eye. “Go ahead, honey. I know you’re turned on. Your chest is all flushed.” I inched my thighs open, glancing at the TV. To my embarrassment I was already quite ruddy down there and shiny-slick with pussy juice. The fleshy folds and hole filled up the screen. My finger, laboring at my clit, looked strangely small.

  “Does it feel different?” Brian was back to being the cordial journalist.

  “A little.”

  “Tell me.”

  “The mound is really smooth, like satin.”

  “Is it more sensitive?”

  “Yes, I think so. The outer lips are tingling. Or maybe I’m just noticing it more.” I looked up at him. “What’s with all the questions? You sound like you’re interviewing my pussy for a dirty documentary.”

  Brian laughed. “What if I was?”

  “Now wait a minute.” I sat up and snapped my legs together.

  He turned the camera to my face. A frowning twin gazed back at me from the TV.

  Brian, on the other hand, was still smiling. “What if there was a guy in the city, a dot-com billionaire, who collects videos of married ladies pleasuring themselves?”

  My pulse jumped. “You’re joking, right?”

  “For his eyes only, discretion guaranteed. He pays well for it.”

  “Oh, yeah? How much?”

  “Three grand for a genuine orgasm. That won’t be a problem for you. We might get even more because you’re all shaved down there. Just think, Kira, we could go on a nice vacation for a few very pleasant minutes of work.” I moaned and covered my face with my hands.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll edit this part out. He specifically requested no faces. Just sweet pussy.”

  Would my own husband really sell some rich voyeur a movie of me masturbating? I never thought he had it in him. And I never thought I’d find the idea so fiercely arousing. Funny all the things you discover when you shave your pussy.
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br />   Brian put the camera on standby. His eyes twinkled. “Jake and Ashley did it.”

  “No way.”

  “Lie back. I’ll tell you about it.”

  There I was with my pussy on the screen again, a sprawled-leg Aphrodite, her naughty parts tinted dark rose.

  “Ashley let Jake talk her into this?”

  “Better than that. She went with him to drop it off. The guy tacks on a bonus if the lady and her husband join him for a drink.”

  I pictured Brian’s best friend’s wife, with her spiky blonde hair and lip ring, swishing up the stairs of a mansion in a black party dress and heels. That wasn’t so hard to believe. “What was the rich guy like? I bet he was a creep.”

  “Jake said he was the perfect gentleman. Fortyish. Friendly. He served them a glass of champagne and hors d’oeuvres made by his personal chef. They chatted a bit, then left with an envelope of cash. Easiest money they ever made.”

  “I don’t think I could meet him.” So why did I see myself walking up those same mansion steps, Brian at my side, video in hand? I wasn’t as wild as Ashley. I’d have on something prim: a lace blouse, a velvet choker with a cameo, a long skirt. I’d wear my hair up and keep my eyes down, blushing under his billion-dollar gaze. The perfect lady. That rich guy would get a boner the size of Florida just looking at me.

  “Jake said the guy only did one thing that crossed the line. When they were leaving he took Ashley’s right hand and kissed it like he was a baron or something.”

  “What’s wrong with kissing her hand?” I had a weakness for old-fashioned manners.

  “Well, it’s the hand she uses to masturbate, of course. Like you’re doing right now.”

  Without my realizing it, my hand had wandered back down between my legs. I jerked it away.

  Brian laughed. Holding the camera steady, he reached up and guided my fingers back to my pussy. “Don’t be bashful, honey. He wants to watch you do it. So do I.”

  And the truth was, I wanted them to see, the two pairs of eyes floating before me, Brian’s the greenish-gray of a northern sea, the rich guy’s golden and glittering.