The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 7

by Maxim Jakubowski

  But he had dreamt of her these past few months – frequently and vividly. He walked slowly, but deliberately toward the monument. A bronze statue of the Major stood at the front. It was smaller than he had imagined. Walter Jansen Peckering looked like a sour, wizened, old man. Arnold couldn’t help but grin. He inspected the statue for the artist’s signature, but he found none. Too bad, if he were still alive he would have sent him a note complimenting him; he’d captured the essence of the man.

  Behind the statue set into the wall were bronze initials.

  Arnold turned and faced the statue. “You egotistical bastard. Couldn’t you afford more of a tribute to your own children than a set of initials?”

  His eyes scanned the sets of letters from left to right. JFP had a small weathered flag set into a hole in the granite. That must be her brother Jay, the one who was killed in Korea. LKP had to be her brother Laurence, the one who “disappeared” somewhere in the Chilean Andes. She always suspected he just ran away from the old man. KMP also had a flag set next to it. That was Knowlton. His demise was a mystery, but it was believed it had something to do with his work with the CIA during the Missile Crisis.

  Finally his eyes settled on ASP. He smiled at what her initials spelled. A bit of Cleopatra, he thought, if Cleopatra had wheat-blonde hair and pale blue eyes. Then his smile faded and a tight knot of sorrow twisted in his chest. He looked toward a distant fountain and was transported to that early summer day when she first gave herself to him.

  She was driving him to Groton where her father was being honored for donating a pile of money he’d never miss. Whatever they were going to name for him, he would insist it be the Major Walter Peckering . . . Hall? Auditorium? Dormitory? Privy? Whatever. “Major”, for a man who’d never been in the service. It was an honorary title he acquired by virtue of his membership in the Ancient and Honorable Artillery Company.

  They got lost, probably around Ashby or Ashburnham, driving aimlessly from one country road onto another until she had thrown up her hands and said, “Enough! I’m hot.”

  He had been enjoying the ride in her convertible, watching her, her hair all blonde streamers in the wind. But she pulled off the road and gleefully pointed toward a pond within a grassy meadow. She hopped out and ran down the bank stopping just long enough to reach behind her and unbutton the green and yellow print sundress. She let it fall off her shoulders; she then dispatched the bra and pushed her panties down her pale legs.

  He stood astonished, his eyes darting to all sides looking for anyone who might be nearby. But there was not another soul in that rural eden.

  “C’mon, what’re you waiting for?” She beckoned him with her arm, her small breasts lifting and jiggling with the motion, then she turned and her pale behind like a beacon enticed him to strip and follow her.

  She plunged into the water and he, less gracefully, tumbled after her.

  They swam, splashed and played in the warm waters as he grabbed her limbs and she tried to escape. Touching her naked flesh had given him an aching hard-on. And he blushed furiously when she clasped her arms around him and pulled him close to kiss him; her thighs captured his rampant cock between them.

  “Oh, dear,” she laughed. “I think I caught a fish . . . a very long, very firm fish.”

  He could barely speak. “For the love of . . .”

  “Hmm, feels like a swordfish. I wonder what it would be like to be skewered by such a creature.”

  “Skewered?”

  She took his hand and led him to the bank. They emerged from the pond like the first lovers on earth. She lay on the grass, her body glistening in the sunlight. She lifted her hands and curled her fingers, beckoning him to lie on top of her. Her legs spread as he trailed kisses over her breasts and shoulders. She reached beneath him and grasped his cock, guiding it toward the gate of her cunt.

  “I can’t wait,” she pleaded. “Please.”

  He slid into her wet depths, pushing slowly until he could push no more and his balls jostled against her anus. Together they found a rhythm as he thrust and she met each thrust, then she crossed her legs behind his thighs and pulled him more deeply into her.

  He didn’t want it to end; he would gladly die inside her. In that moment he knew she was all he wanted or would ever want.

  “I love you,” he cried, then grunted.

  “No-no, shhh . . . don’t love me . . . just fuck me.”

  Fuck? Then it was an ugly word, but the way she said it, with a sigh and a whimper, it sounded as if it had slipped from the lips of an angel.

  Then his thrusts became more desperate and he felt the roiling in his balls. She cried out and raked her nails down his back, and he launched his fluids into her, one spasm after another until he had emptied himself.

  He rolled off her and she cuddled against him. Together they dozed in the warm sun. When they woke they were surrounded by indifferent cows.

  They were in no hurry to get dressed. Groton was a write-off and the day was not one to waste. He had her lie on her tummy while he licked her thighs and nibbled her behind, and trailed kisses up her spine.

  She mewed under his attentions. “Ohhh, yes, Mr B. Andrew Arnold . . . my ravisher . . . you’ve turned me into quite the content harlot.”

  “Hmm, not a strumpet?”

  “Strumpet! Oh, I love that word, I love being your strumpet, Mr Arnold. I’m naked and at your mercy and I’m feeling so, so wicked.”

  He laid his hand across her ass – a gentle slap.

  “Oww, and did I mention what a brute you are? Now that I’ve surrendered my maidenhead, cruel sir, the least you could do is tell me your first name.”

  “It’s B.”

  “It is not . . . tell me. If you do I’ll tell you anything you want to know, all my darkest secrets.”

  “Okay, it’s Benedict.”

  “Oh, my gosh . . . Benedict Arnold?”

  “It would seem my parents hadn’t thought that one through.”

  She laughed, then wiggled her behind for more attention.

  “Now, tell me the truth . . . why did you tell me not to say I love you?” he asked.

  She shrugged and tugged a blade of grass. “I don’t know . . . I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “You don’t love me?”

  “Yes . . . I do . . . but . . .”

  “But what? I want you; I want to make a life with you.”

  “Marriage? Babies?”

  “If that’s what you want . . . just tell me you’ll spend your life with me.”

  She rolled over to face him and he couldn’t help but take one of her nipples in his mouth. She moaned as he released the bud and looked into her eyes.

  “My father . . .”

  “What about your father?”

  She shrugged again. “He’s lost all his sons. I’m all he has left. He wants the firm to continue after he’s gone . . . it’s to be his legacy.”

  “Legacy to whom?”

  “I can’t let him down. We have to wait, darling. Just a few years, once everything is settled and my father knows he can – he can die and know it will go on.”

  “I’ve never wanted anyone before. I want you so much.”

  “A few years . . . I promise.”

  He hadn’t thought to bring flowers. With difficulty he knelt, kissed the tips of his fingers, then touched them to her initials.

  He stood and turned toward the gate. He boarded the trackless trolley that took him to Harvard Square, and then the subway back into the city.

  The walk from the station was hot and beads of sweat dripped from his brow. He could feel his clothes become clingy and damp. But his thoughts again turned to her, and her final days.

  She had agreed to move in with him by then, but she still would not marry him. It didn’t matter to him as long as they shared their lives. He worked for a smaller law firm but the work was steady and the rewards more than adequate. She had taken the helm of her father’s brokerage firm as he had wished her to do.

&n
bsp; The illness came upon her quickly and it was unrelenting. The Major was cursed to live to see all his children die, but it was a curse that cut Arnold more deeply.

  He was inconsolable, but pulled himself together to attend the wake. The funeral parlor was packed with political and financial power, and it was in front of that audience that the Major confronted him.

  “You have no standing here!”

  Arnold was so taken aback he could not speak at first.

  “I know what you want. You want to steal what’s mine – what I built. You fouled my only daughter with that aim, and I will not let you – damned lawyer! Vulture!”

  After the Major’s tirade, one could have heard a feather hit the carpet.

  Finally, Arnold found his voice. “You miserable son of a bitch. I came here to mourn your daughter, but you, you selfish bastard, all you can do is whine about losing another heir. Damn you. I hope you live a long time – long enough to see it crumble.”

  He turned and strode away. The Major croaked the last word: “Ruthless!”

  The irony was that the old man’s epithet became his reputation. He was sought after as a relentless legal competitor; the man who almost finagled the Peckering financial empire out from under the Major himself. It was bullshit, of course. But the legend brought him clients and wealth.

  He never got to see her in her casket, and he thought that was a good thing. He didn’t want to remember her like that. When he did think of her, it was always of that day, by that pond, surrounded by those dumb cows.

  He was withering in the humidity as he approached the building. He craved an ice tea, or perhaps a gin and tonic. A white pick-up peeled up to the curb beside him. He glanced at the advertising on the door: Urban Edens – Specialty Contractors.

  A young woman hopped out from the driver side, stepped around the truck and into his path without giving him any notice. His breath caught as she walked toward the front door. It was her legs that grabbed his attention first, long and lean and tanned. They rose from a pair of tan work boots to the frayed edge of denim cut-off shorts that revealed the half-moons of her ass cheeks, winking at him with each cant of her hips. She wore a white hard hat but two wispy fringes of hair trailing down her neck revealed her as a brunette. A white, sleeveless tee was partly tucked into her shorts and partly hanging over one hip.

  He thought to call to her, but she disappeared through the oak and glass door into the foyer. He made his own way to the door and stepped inside. She afforded him a glance and just a hint of smile, and then turned her attention to the rows of buttons and names of tenants. Her finger hovered over one and pressed.

  His eyes fell to her breasts, which jostled freely beneath her tee. Their pale crescents peeked through the armhole.

  “He’s not home,” he said.

  She turned, and her lips curved into a perfect “O” before she said, “Excuse me?”

  “Arnold – he’s not home.”

  “Oh? Well do you know . . .?”

  “I’m Arnold.”

  “Oh . . . well, good to meet you.” She held out a hand.

  He took it and said, “You’re with P. L. Darby?”

  “I am P. L. Darby. You can call me Lauren.”

  Her head cocked slightly. “Is there a problem, Mr Arnold? I can give you references.”

  “No, none at all. You’re just . . . so young. But very highly recommended.”

  “I’m 27, Mr. Arnold. I learned the job from my Dad, who did it nearly forty years. I’ve been in business for five years.”

  “No need to sell me on your abilities or the quality of your work, Miss . . .”

  “Lauren.”

  “Yes, Lauren. Anyway, come with me and I’ll show you what I have in mind.”

  He held the door to the lobby and gestured to her to enter. Ricker was still holding court with several of the other tenants. Arnold wondered if he had been yammering all the time he was gone. They hushed as he escorted the girl to the elevator.

  She was a few steps ahead of him when he heard a woman’s raspy whisper: “Look at that girl – why her behind is practically falling out of those shorts.”

  “Never mind her behind, her boobs are showing,” another said.

  “Must be a call girl,” Ricker hissed. “And a man his age – guess he thinks he can buy anything.”

  Arnold winced and hoped the girl hadn’t heard. But when she reached the elevator she turned and a wry smile curled her lips.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “They’re a bunch of old farts without anything else to do.”

  Lauren shrugged. “Doesn’t bother me, if it doesn’t bother you. I like to be comfortable when I work. Do you think I look like a call girl?”

  Arnold cleared his throat and looked down and to the side. He felt the heat rise in his cheeks and amazed himself that she made him blush.

  He poked at the button to call the elevator. He turned when he felt a feathery tap on his shoulder.

  “Mr Arnold?”

  “Mrs Ginty. What can I do for you, dear?”

  “Mr Ricker . . . well he’s been saying the new owners will want to put us out, raise our rents. He said they won’t let me keep my cat – use it as an excuse to evict me. You’re a lawyer, could they do that? I can’t lose my cat, he keeps the loneliness away, you know, since my Danny died. They won’t let me have him in the public housing . . . I just don’t know what . . .”

  “There, there, Mrs Ginty.” He took her hands and patted them. “No one is going to force you to give up your cat, or hike your rent.”

  “But . . . how do you know? Mr Ricker . . .”

  “Mr Ricker likes all the attention you folks give him, and the only way he can get you to pay attention to him is to tell you all sorts of gloom and doom stories. He, frankly, doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Now, you listen to me, you have nothing to worry about.”

  The elderly woman seemed to take comfort in his assurances. “But, Mr Arnold, how do you know?”

  “My dear, I’m a cunning old lawyer.” He patted her hand again and then turned just as the elevator opened. He took Lauren’s arm and guided her inside.

  When the door closed and the car began to rise, Lauren said, “You sure are smooth, Mr Arnold. You haven’t told those people that you bought the building?”

  “I did it through a trust. I want to remain anonymous.”

  “Was it true, what you told that lady?”

  He looked at her and frowned, one eyebrow cocked high. “By today all the tenants will receive letters from the trust. They’ll be told there will be no rent increases during their tenancy. In some cases, such as Mrs Ginty, their rent will be cut substantially. And she will certainly be allowed to keep her cat.”

  “How about that old crab there . . . Mr. Ricker?”

  “He too . . . especially him.”

  “Why? I have the feeling you don’t like him much.”

  “Just to shut him up.” He turned to her and grinned, a perfect devilish grin.

  Lauren laughed out loud.

  The car stopped and the doors opened. He led her down the hall to his apartment. Again he held the door for her.

  She noted the sparse furnishings, a large sound system but no television. He led her to a table covered with blueprints and plans.

  “Here . . . you see? This building was supposed to be a premier residence, but the Depression hit before the developers could realize their plan. They had planned for an elegant garden courtyard, with a fountain, shade trees.”

  “It looks more like a cocktail patio. I could recreate it, or rather, construct what they had in mind. Or . . .”

  “Or what?”

  “Create something unique.”

  “Such as?”

  “My company is called Urban Edens, Mr Arnold.”

  “Eden, eh? I’ll be satisfied with a cool place to enjoy a summer day.”

  She drew her finger across the top of one of the blueprints. “What does this mean?”

  “It’s
what I intend to name the building.”

  “You want to give the building a name?”

  “All buildings had names at one time. Back when a building was an individual creation, and not a prefabricated box you set into the ground. This building was supposed to be called the Briarwood, but I have another in mind for it.”

  “Anstis? I’ve never heard that name before. It’s – unusual. Almost as unusual as Phoebe, but way sexier.”

  “It’s a very old name. You don’t see it much anymore . . . except in cemeteries.”

  Then he looked at her and a crooked smile creased his face. “P. L. Darby – Phoebe Lauren?”

  This time he made her blush. “Oh, you are smooth. I can’t believe I gave away my deepest darkest secret. Well, if I agree to take this job, you’ll have to tell me what the B in B. Andrew Arnold stands for.”

  “Will you take the job?”

  “It won’t be cheap. I’m selling something special.”

  “The price is no object.”

  “Then I’ll take it. What’s your first name, Mr Arnold?”

  “Benedict.”

  “Benedict Arnold? Wasn’t he a traitor?”

  “He crippled himself for a cause, and got nothing but contempt for his sacrifice.”

  “So, I guess that means I can trust you?”

  “You have my word. And in a day you’ll have my name on a contract.”

  They shook hands. He showed her downstairs to the front door and they shook hands again. He smiled as the pale rounds of her ass winked at him again as she turned to leave.

  At precisely 7:30 a.m. the buzzer rang in his apartment. He put the percolator on the stove and shuffled in slippered feet to the intercom.

  “Yes? Hello?”

  “It’s Lauren. I need to see that courtyard of yours.”

  “I’ll buzz you in. Wait for me in the lobby.”

  He dressed quickly and hurried toward the door, stopping to return to the stove and kill the flame beneath the percolator.

  As the elevator doors parted he saw her. She’d modified her outfit somewhat: khaki shorts that didn’t reveal more than her thighs just above her knees. The work boots were the same, but the tank top had been replaced by a pale blue denim shirt that tied just below her breasts, leaving her midriff bare. Her belly button? He wondered if he dropped a pebble into it how long it would be before he heard it hit bottom. The thought caused him to grin.