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

by Donna George Storey

  “Where does he watch it? In his home theater?” Under the veil of my lashes I studied the screen. My labia jiggled lewdly as my finger strummed on. That’s what the rich guy would see as he sat on his leather couch in his silk dressing gown. A wine-colored gown, the same color as his swollen dick. He’d pull it out and stroke it as he watched.

  “A home theater, yes,” Brian said softly. “State of the art.”

  “Why are you doing this? Don’t you care if your wife shows her cunt to some horny billionaire?” The words came in gasps.

  “The joke’s on him. We’ll take his money and get a suite in the fanciest hotel in town and fuck all night.” Brian sounded winded, too, as if he’d just finished a run. Then I realized he was jerking off.

  “I’m not a whore.” I was half-sobbing, from shame and pleasure.

  “Of course you’re not, honey. You’re a nice, pretty married lady. That’s what he wants. Someone he’d glimpse at the gourmet grocery store or the espresso bar, buying a nonfat decaf cappuccino. I see guys staring at you. If only they knew the truth about my sweet-faced angel. If only they knew you want it so bad you shave your pussy and let men take pictures of it.”

  Sounds were coming out of my throat, sounds I’d never made before, high-pitched whines and animal moans.

  “You’re the hottest thing he’s ever seen, but no matter how much he pays he can never have the real you.”

  “Oh, god, I’m gonna come,” I whimpered.

  A hand closed around my wrist and wrenched it away.

  “He’ll pay an extra thousand if you come while we fuck.”

  “Did – Ashley do it?” I panted. I knew what the answer would be.

  “Jake said she had the best orgasm of her life.”

  Brian hurriedly fixed the camera to the tripod, adjusted the height, then lifted me to my feet and took my place on the chair.

  “Face the camera,” he said.

  My knees were as soft as melted caramel, but by gripping the arms of the chair I managed to position myself properly. On the screen Brian’s penis reared up, my smooth snatch hovering above.

  “Sit on it.”

  I lowered myself onto him with a sigh. Then I was up again, a woman who couldn’t make up her mind. Up or down? It was there in full color: Brian’s rod plunging in and out, his balls dangling beneath like a small pink pillow. “Now turn around and ride me.”

  In a daze I straddled him, my knees digging into the cushion. Just last week, we’d done it this way on the sofa. We pretended it was prom night and we were sneaking a midnight quickie while my parents snored in the bedroom upstairs.

  “Do you like to fuck with a shaved twat?”

  “Yes,” I confessed. “I like to rub my bare lips on you.” Which was exactly what I was doing, lingering on the down-stroke to grind my exposed clit against the rough hairs at the base of his cock.

  “You’re so wet. That rich guy can hear it. Your hungry lips gobbling up my cock.”

  Brian began to twist my nipples between his fingers.

  “It’s an extra five hundred if you show him your asshole.”

  I grunted assent and bucked harder. In that position, the rich guy could see it anyway.

  Then he whispered in my ear, “And another five hundred if you let me touch it.”

  I froze mid-thrust. “Please, Brian, don’t,” I whispered back. I didn’t want the rich guy to hear. We’d recently discovered that when Brian diddles my butt crack when we fuck, it feels like a second clit. I loved it, but I was embarrassed and wanted it to be our secret. Brian knew he could make me blush just talking about it.

  “Why not, baby? Because he’ll know you’re a bad girl who comes when I play with your pretty ass?”

  “Please,” I begged. My asshole, however, seemed to have other ideas, the brazen little show-off, pushing itself out, all plumped and ticklish.

  “Please what, Kira? I know you want it, but I won’t touch it until you say yes.”

  “Please,” I gasped. “Yes.”

  “That’s a good girl. Nice and polite.”

  Good girl, bad girl, I wasn’t sure what I was, but it didn’t matter. My torso rippled like a column of heat between his hands, one tweaking my nipple, the other going to town on my quivering bottom. Our bodies made rude noises, swampy, squishy sounds – or was it the rich guy whacking off? He probably used a special custom-made lotion to make his dick all slippery. He’d be close to the end now, pumping his fist faster and faster, his single nether eye weeping a tear of delight. He’d gotten everything he wanted. The cool lady in the gourmet grocery store was unzipped and undone, a bitch in heat, writhing shamelessly on her husband’s cock for his viewing pleasure.

  But I had one little surprise left for him.

  “What if you spank it? Is that another thousand?”

  “Two thousand.” I could tell Brian was close, too.

  “I want him to see it. Spank my naughty asshole,” I yelled, so the rich guy could hear.

  The first slap sent a jolt straight through me that quickly dissolved into pleasure, foamy fingers of a wave creeping into the hollows of my body.

  “Again.”

  Smack.

  Each blow hammered me deeper onto Brian’s cock. I pushed my ass out to take the next one, to show that rich guy I could do it. He was so turned on, I could feel his eyes burning into my back through the screen. But it wasn’t just him. There were others watching – my parents, my tenth-grade science teacher, the postal clerk who sneaks glances at my tits, a Supreme Court Justice or two – dozens of them, their faces twisted into masks of shock and fascination. And beneath, in the shadows, hands were stroking hard-ons or shoved into panties, damp and fragrant with arousal. They liked it, all of them, and I was watching them as they watched me in an endless circle of revelation and desire.

  “I’m . . . gonna . . . come.”

  “Come for him. Now!” Brian bellowed. The last slaps fell like firecrackers snapping, and I jerked my hips to their rhythm as my climax tore through my belly. With the chair springs squeaking like crazy and Brian grunting, fuck your shaved pussy, fuck it, that rich guy got himself quite a show.

  I’d say it was worth every penny.

  Afterward, I pulled Brian down to the carpet with me. Our profiles filled the screen. He’d seen me and I’d seen him and we fit so well together and I loved him more than anything. I told him that. Or maybe I just kissed him, a deep soul kiss that lasted a long, long time.

  The rich guy got that part for free.

  Just Words

  Donna George Storey

  I told him words wouldn’t do it.

  Not X-rated e-mails.

  Or sizzling phone sex.

  Or “You know how much I love you, babe.”

  And certainly not “I’m sorry I have to give up three weeks of great sex with you to go to Europe to kiss client ass for my fat boss who will pocket all the profit and maybe if I’m lucky give me a measly bonus at the end of the fiscal year” – although a little honesty about what’s really going on here with his new job would be a step in the right direction.

  What I needed was flesh. Heat. The music of his moans in my ear. His sturdy hands stroking my breasts. His finger teasing my asshole. His cock buried so deep inside my red, grasping mouth of a cunt, I didn’t feel hungry anymore.

  He couldn’t take me there with just words.

  To his credit, he did deliver the goods the evening before he left for London. It was just like the early days, when we spent whole weekends tangled together in the sheets, staggering out of bed only to get another bottle of wine or pay the pizza delivery guy. He made me come five times, twice riding his cock, twice on his tongue and once as he pinched my nipples and spanked my ass while I “secretly” rubbed my pussy against the mattress. I treated him to a postprandial crème de menthe blow job, along with my usual repertory of tricks to tease his tender parts. I liked the way he groaned and called out my name, but I really hoped our fuckfest would make him say other wor
ds.

  Such as: “Fuck them, I’m staying with you.”

  Instead, he stumbled off to the airport, with a bleary-eyed wink and a promise he’d e-mail every morning and night, and we’d have a nice long phone call – on the company’s dollar – every Saturday afternoon.

  Still floating in the afterglow, I convinced myself that it was enough, that we could make it through three weeks apart with just words.

  Until I got his first e-mail.

  He wrote that he was really looking forward to our “date” on Saturday, but in the meantime he wanted me to refrain from any self-pleasuring activity – he actually used that lady-librarian expression – for the rest of the week. To make it all the hotter when he finally brought me off over the phone.

  Yeah, right.

  I gave a nasty little laugh, pulled my nightgown up to my waist, and jilled off right in front of the computer. Now and then I’d take a break and type a few more sentences of my reply.

  Hey, lover boy. I think it’s time for a little confession. When you’re gone I keep myself plenty satisfied with the help of two tireless lovers. At night they take turns: One strokes my nipples into hard little points, while the other goes down to do the slip-slide in my wet pussy. Every morning, I wake up with a tight ache between my legs – don’t kid yourself, girls don’t rise at dawn, it’s just hidden away inside. So me and my fuck buddies do it then, too, and I’m feeling so sexy from my morning quickie I put on a short skirt and boots, or the jeans that push right up in my crotch to go to work at the bookstore. You’d never let me out of the apartment dressed that way, but you aren’t here to stop me, are you? I get so itchy I can’t help but shake my butt when I guide the grey-haired married men over to the finance section. And I always make sure the cute young guys need a book from the lowest shelf, so I can bend over and give them an eyeful of ass or cleavage, depending on the angle. Yesterday, I snuck off to the alcove by the poetry journals, where I let lover number one climb under my skirt, while number two yanked my sweater over my tits and tweaked and pinched them until I came so hard my head practically blew off. Moments after I straightened my clothes, a really hot guy – one of those ponytailed literary types – walked in and gave me a long, knowing look. I’m sure he knew what I’d been doing. He could probably smell me, too. The idea got me so turned on I had another encounter in the ladies’ room. But maybe next time I’ll just fuck the guy against the bookshelf. The truth is, I’m having such a wild time I don’t miss you at all. Why would I give up all this fun for an hour of yakety-yak phone sex with you?

  Think again, buddy.

  I clicked the Send icon, spread my legs wider around the chair, and climaxed right then and there on my dancing finger. Loudly.

  Sure, maybe I was taunting him, but it served him right. Besides, a lot of what I wrote was true. I did get turned on when I was working at the bookstore. I wouldn’t admit it to him, but it wasn’t so much the customers as the words that excited me, especially when they were packaged between the covers of a new book. I loved to stroke its crisp pages, then spread it open wide and bend to breathe in the perfume of fresh paper and ink. I rarely started reading it at the beginning – I wanted to take a book by surprise, slip right inside its soft middle. The good ones always got under my skin to lift me, transport me, to another time, another place, another body. A steamy sex scene would always send me straight to the staff ladies’ room for relief.

  And when he was away, I usually did soothe myself to sleep with some action between my legs, then woke up horny and took the necessary steps to quench that fire, too. But busy as they were, my hands never quite stilled the longing deep in my belly the way he could do with his fingers, tongue, and cock.

  And so, I had to admit, the last part of the e-mail was a bald-faced lie. I did miss him. Bad.

  When I saw his reply in my in-box the next morning, I felt a twinge of worry that I’d gone too far with the insatiable-slut revenge fantasy. But he didn’t seem mad. In fact he apologized and agreed he had no right to put limits on my private activities, especially since he couldn’t help jacking off after he read the part about me playing with myself in the poetry annex. While he stroked his cock, he imagined he’d been the one to catch me with my hand up my skirt and pictured all the ways he’d “punish” me for it.

  But, he suggested again with all due respect, for my own enjoyment I might consider abstaining on Friday night and Saturday morning. He’d come up with some new ideas for our date, and he was pretty sure I’d agree they were worth waiting for. He promised to send instructions on how to prepare myself by Saturday morning.

  I had to laugh again. While he’d certainly picked up on my intention to make him jealous with the public masturbation scene, he was apparently slow to grasp my broader message of female autonomy.

  Still, I had to admit the word instructions made me tingle a little down there. I even took a little vacation from tickling the clam as the weekend drew near.

  Of course, I got up extra early to check my e-mail Saturday morning. As promised, my instructions were waiting:

  I’ll call you at noon on Saturday, your time. Exactly ten minutes beforehand, I want you to do the following :

  1. Take off all your clothes and put on the Hello Kitty thong I brought from Japan last month. If you’re cold, you may cover yourself with your bathrobe, but nothing else.

  2. Place your hairbrush and hand mirror in the middle of the bed.

  3. Lie down beside them and wait, hands at your side, until the phone rings. Then you may answer it.

  That was it. A bossy to-do list. No loving endearments. No “can’t wait to hear your sexy voice.” None of the things a truly caring lover should say to his long-suffering and very horny girlfriend.

  So why was my heart going pitter-patter in my chest?

  Of course, I told myself, no man gave me “instructions.” I’d play along because I had nothing better to do – for the moment. At the appointed time, I stripped and put on the thong, a black silk triangle on a string with a silly, beribboned kitty face on the front. I’d gotten a giggle out of it when he gave it to me after his last trip, but I hadn’t worn it yet. It was a wise choice for overseas foreplay – definitely snug in all the right places.

  But the mirror and the brush stumped me. Was he planning some kind of weird naked makeover session? I suddenly remembered some amateur porn pictures I’d seen on the Internet of a woman stroking her pubic hair with her hair-brush. She had this dreamy expression as if it were the most fascinating activity on earth, although at the time I suspected she was faking it for the photographer boyfriend.

  Curious, I picked up the brush – screw the “wait with hands at your side” order – pushed down the thong, and ran it gently through my bush. No, I didn’t blast off into orgasmic orbit at the first touch, but the sensation was interesting. Soft but rough at the same time, like the strokes of a cat’s tongue.

  The phone rang.

  I jumped and tossed away the brush, as if he could somehow see me breaking the rules. It probably didn’t help that I gulped, guiltily, in the middle of my “hello”.

  “Hey there, hot stuff, did you do everything on the list?” His voice was deeper than I remembered. And cocky. Too cocky.

  “And what if I didn’t?”

  He laughed, warm and slow. “Then I guess I’ll have to make you do as you’re told.”

  “Sweetie, in case you didn’t notice, you’re thousands of miles away. How will you make me do anything? Not with words.”

  He paused. “We’ll see about that.”

  In spite of myself, my cunt muscles fluttered, as if a secret butterfly was tickling me inside with its soft wings. But I didn’t have to admit that to him.

  “So, Part-time Lover, what am I supposed to do with the grooming implements?” I asked in my brattiest tone.

  He laughed again, but this time he seemed embarrassed, as if he’d been the one caught with his hands down his pants.

  “Well, I got inspired after I re
ad that first e-mail. But I don’t want to give away the surprise yet.”

  “Isn’t it just like you to keep me waiting a long time for the good stuff?”

  “Enough about me and my shortcomings, okay? I’d rather talk about you. Are you wearing the thong?”

  “Uh-huh,” I said, but with a healthy dash of defiance.

  “Is it pulled up high so it presses between your pussy lips?”

  That shouldn’t have taken me by surprise, but it did, as a little zing of lust darted between my legs. “Somewhat.”

  “Pull it up a little higher. So that you can’t think of anything else but that pressure against your clit.”

  I was about to refuse, on principle, but my hands seemed to reach down of their own accord and tug the sides another inch farther over my hips. An involuntary sigh of pleasure escaped my lips.

  “See, that feels nice, doesn’t it? Can you feel it rubbing against your sensitive pink asshole, too?”

  His voice was so sweet it slipped into my ear like hot fudge sauce gliding over ice cream. Already my face was hot, partly because those dirty words were making me blush, partly because they were really turning me on.

  “You didn’t answer me,” he scolded.

  “Yeah.”

  “Yeah, what?”

  “Yeah, it’s rubbing up against my asshole,” I murmured.

  “Good. Now, I want you to open your robe and hold the mirror in front of your gorgeous breasts.”

  As I reached for the mirror, I noticed my hand was trembling. What would he tell me to do next? And would I continue to obey this easily, like a pliant little sex slave with no will of her own?

  “Tell me, is your chest flushed and red, like it gets when you’re all turned on?”

  My “yes” slipped out before I could manage a lie.

  “And your nipples? Are they hard yet?”

  “Not really. The room’s pretty warm.”

  “We’ll have to do something about that. I want you to try a new trick. I want you to rub the mirror against your nipple very gently.”

  An unusual idea, but I figured it was worth a try.