The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 7

by Maxim Jakubowski

  An arm curved around his. Lauren pressed her cheek to his shoulder. “We’re being covered by three of the country’s biggest landscaping magazines.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, but we’re just about ready for the unveiling.”

  “Huh?”

  “You’ll see.”

  She led him through the crowd until he stood in front of a wrought-iron gate partially covered with a cloth. She gestured to the crowd to quiet, then she announced:

  “Ladies and gentlemen, it is my pleasure to welcome you to The Oasis.” She tugged the cloth off the gate and revealed a plaque, and in full-color relief, a reproduction of the portrait of Anstis.

  “And it is dedicated to the memory of Anstis Sally . . . Arnold.”

  There was a smattering of applause, but the tenants as a group pressed near the gate to gaze at the plaque. Then, one by one, they turned to Arnold, and noted the tears falling freely over his cheeks.

  Ricker patted his shoulder and Mrs Califani and Mrs Ginty each held one of his hands.

  “We had no idea, dear. You’re the new owner.” Mrs Califani squeezed his arm.

  “Your wife, Mr Arnold,” Mrs Ginty said. “My, she was a pretty girl.” She stood on her toes to kiss his cheek.

  Then they all pressed around him, offering hugs and pats. And he couldn’t speak. All he could do was look back over his shoulder at Lauren, and mouth the words: “Thank you.”

  Grave Circumstance

  Cameo Sunset Brown

  There’s something uniquely trashy about having sex with a girl in a cemetery. Then again, there’s always been something uniquely trashy about Betsy, so it’s a propos. Don’t get me wrong, I love her – in a way that’s totally unimaginable to most ordinary guys. Betsy’s white trash, without a doubt. That makes me, I guess, a white-trash lover. And I take my job very seriously.

  “Most guys would think fucking me here is gross or creepy.” Betsy swoons, buck naked and spread-legged against a tombstone, “But you like it! You like fucking me here, don’t you, Oliver?” Then she lets her hand nestle in her thick damp curls, their silkiness dully reflecting the dim yellow glow of the security lanterns blazing nearby. I can’t tell whether she means fucking her in a cemetery or in her hot pussy, because my brain is on fire with thoughts of porking her good. Porking her real good.

  “And here, too,” she clarifies. She slides a finger between her thighs and giggles. Her sudden gasp at the shock of her own stimulation makes my prick so hard that I could cut diamonds with it. God, she’s a tease.

  We’ve made love just about everywhere – car trunks, chapels, under tables, on top of bleachers, on sandy beaches . . . even at funerals. That’s where Betsy got the cemetery idea: her Aunt Noreen’s funeral, of all places. But considering Aunt Noreen had five kids by four different guys, what did I expect? Count me out, I thought at first. Too Poe. Who needs to roll around in freshly dug dirt, pale ass humping in the moonlight while screech owls rate your performance every five minutes with a bone-shattering caterwauling that makes you want to shit your pants?

  And the goddamn flowers aren’t even yours, either, but some other poor schmuck’s who’s lying under you, decomposing and wondering what the hell all the noise is up there. So at first I said – unequivocally, mind you, and with my flaccid penis showing nothing but the most sincere moral support – I said No.

  But I’d do anything to be with my Betsy. Who can resist those tits, that soft curve of belly, the golden brown curls that dangle happily around her heart-shaped face, those pale blue eyes, and most of all, that mouth? I love Betsy’s mouth. Kissing it, fucking it. Just touching her lips gets me hard. Always the sexual tactician, she brazenly does that thing she does where her lips lightly caress my cock, leaving a trail of her fuck-me red lipstick on my member, and my resulting erection nearly knocks her off her feet.

  Of course, being an opportunist, I pushed her all the way down and, without even a thought as to whether her sweet cunt could take it, plunged right into her moist opening. Deep.

  She groaned and spread her legs wide, giving me access and pulling me in. Her hips bucked wildly, meeting my thrusts, and I rode her, her yells and yips and yahoos (told you she was white trash) cheering me on even as I worried my dick would disintegrate from the friction. Too soon, earth-shattering waves of release reverberated from my cock through my body, and I collapsed in a heap on top of her – spent, wet and happy.

  I had no idea whether Betsy got off or not, so to be on the safe side, with the last of my energy I slid my dick out and slipped my fingers in.

  Betsy’s an index-and-middle-finger-type girl, so I, being skilled in the arts of Betsy-fucking, started stroking her immediately – in and out, in and out. I kept the pressure going through the middle finger, just like she likes it, with my index there just to fill her up a little more. Harder and harder. Stroke, stroke, stroke. Then I did a little up and down, and she grabbed my hand and pumped against it. Betsy loves those fingerblasts.

  Next on the agenda would have been my tongue on her hard clit to send her over the edge, but her time had come, and so had she. Glorious Betsy-goo doused my fingers in its richness, and I took the opportunity to kiss my way up from snatch to navel to tits to neck to those glorious red lips that started it all. The satisfaction in her grin did not escape my attention – she’d tricked me again in that slutty way of hers – and so I couldn’t escape playing a little graveyard Hide the Wienie.

  So we did, indeed, fuck in the cemetery. And it became a habit – a useful habit, as it turns out.

  Tonight she wants me to take her from behind while she bends over poor old Mrs Wannamaker’s granite marker. I used to feel sorry for the old lady and Mr Wannamaker, being as their tombstones suggested they had been simple folk in life, unassuming and definitely not sexually active. Their bearing witness to our sexual displays seemed almost blasphemous until I noticed Betsy’s legs were spread wide over Mr Wannamaker’s side of the plot. Do you know what people would pay for a money shot like that? Necrotic voyeur bastard.

  Anyway, here we are, Betsy in that pink number she always wears and me with my jeans down around my ankles, dick at attention, heart pounding. She pulls up her dress, bunching it around her hips so I can get a look at the goods by the eerie glow of the lanterns.

  I’ve been through this before, but my cock still throbs at the rank smell of Betsy’s excitement. One of my hands slips around her pale belly, massaging its way toward her soft mound. I rub Mr Dong – yeah, I named my own dick – against her wet slit (which is surprisingly hot) spreading her lips just a little with my girth. She kisses me over her shoulder, breathless. She whimpers as I pull Mr Dong away to help her position her hands just so on Mrs Wannamaker’s marker. Then I slide one hand down between her thighs, letting my thumb gently slip inside. Betsy presses down, trying to ride it, and I can tell she wants to be fucked. Bad.

  I spread her legs enough to achieve the perfect balance, one that will keep her on her feet as she accepts me from behind while providing her with maximum penetration. We don’t want any toppling over on the Wannamakers, do we? Their tombstone is the perfect height. I wonder how they like the Mr-Dong-Does-Betsy-Wetsy-in-the-Graveyard Show down there tonight?

  And Betsy is wet. She wiggles her round ass, impatient for my AWOL cock. Mr Dong stands rock-hard and ready, so I grab her hip and guide Mr Dong to her heat. I’ve lubed him up with her goo – God, there’s a lot tonight – and placed the tip at my very own doorway to Heaven, right here in the graveyard. She tenses for the sweet invasion.

  I push my length all the way in. She’s tight. She’s always tight, and I fight to keep control as sensation overwhelms me. But I finally plunge Mr Dong into her as deep as I can.

  Betsy likes it deep. She throws her head back and moans.

  Then I do her even better. I start in and out, real slow, enjoying it she begs for more. I give her more. Hell, I give her all I have. I love this girl, my white trash Betsy-Wetsy doll, my graveyard chick. Noth
ing can keep us apart.

  I drive harder and faster now, and she’s lovin’ it. She likes to yell, and here in the cemetery no one seems to care. So I make her yell into the dense night, my strokes coming faster and my finger doing her clit. She’s about to explode, and so am I. Jeez – right now would be a really bad time for a security guard to show up.

  I want to feel Betsy’s delicious tits, to suck her nipples, but that will have to wait for next time. Tonight’s all about below the waist. I’m coming like a freight train, yelling myself, but all I hear is her panted encouragement and the roar of blood in my ears.

  Everything goes white as orgasm grips me. Sensations override my system. I hump wildly to keep it going, wanting the pure bliss of our coupling to never end. I’m vaguely aware that Betsy’s riding me for all she’s worth, her hands reaching back, trying to grab at my ass, trying to balance herself so as not to plunge headfirst onto the headstone. She’s panting, begging, singing my praises. Ever her hero, I keep thrusting and fingering her nub, even as my own release fades. My valor is rewarded. Betsy tenses and comes, screaming into the thick air as she rides my cock furiously, then slows to an easy rhythm.

  Gradually, we both still. I pull her up to face me, and her dress falls down to where it should be. Now my Betsy looks just like any other girl, though she’s not.

  She presses against me, and I sweep her into my arms. Wisely, I kick off my pants with great effort, and once free, I carry Betsy to a plot just three away from the Wannamakers. I lay her down on the soft earth and cuddle up beside her, pantsless and happy. We lie there quietly for a long time before she stretches and pokes me.

  “Hey, time to go, Ollie,” she says. I love it when she calls me that. I love her name, too. I reach up and touch the stone above our heads, tracing the letters with my fingers . . . E-L-I-Z-A-B-E-T-H.

  Her hand stops me before I get to the last name. This is always the hardest part, the saying good-bye. But she grabs my hand and kisses the palm, sending ripples through me just as she has always done, even after the accident.

  Then she blows me a kiss and I pretend to catch it and tuck it in my shirt pocket. I grin, and she leans down to plant a kiss on Mr Dong. The seduction never ends with this girl.

  Suddenly, she pulls her head out of my crotch and sits up with a cry, grabbing her nose.

  She looks mortified as a worm pops out of her nostril and lands on the soft earth in front of her. It’s a wiggly little thing. I pretend to pick it up and eat it. A small gesture of comfort for my baby, but necessary when you consider ol’ Wannamaker over there just waiting for his chance at some young puss. I don’t let Betsy ever forget how much I love her. Just in case.

  We watch the worm slip into the soft ground.

  Betsy will soon follow. Both of us burst into laughter. She kisses me once more, on the lips this time, and lies back, legs together, urges satisfied. Then, as grey morning dawns across a pink-streaked sky, my Betsy sinks away into the soft earth, heading back to her resting place, smiling and waving until she’s out of sight.

  I sigh and sit up. I trace the letters of her last name – which is my last name, too: W-I-L-L-O-U-G-H-B-Y. Oh, I know people are shocked that we’re hitched. They probably wonder how two such people can keep hot sex going. Not possible, they say? Well, buckaroo, anything is possible when you love someone enough. We’re living proof of that, no pun intended. Sort of.

  I ponder Poe, him and his Annabel Lee and their “sepulcher down by the sea.” He was a pussy. A whiner, too, but mainly a pussy.

  I’m a doer, and as I sit here on my wife’s grave, freshly fucked, picking leaves off Mr Dong, I reaffirm that, yes, indeed, Poe was just a whiny pussy. Because when it comes to loving my white trash Betsy-Wetsy, nothing – and I mean nothing – can keep us apart.

  In the Middle of Nowhere

  Gwen Masters

  I took another sip of my beer and watched the stars. I was lying on the porch at our summer cabin in the middle of nowhere, out where earthly lights didn’t compete with the heavenly ones. I was sure the stars were always up there, but I had never seen so many. I watched as one of them lost its anchor and fell in a gentle arc, crossing the horizon before blinking out.

  “Cheers,” I said aloud, and lifted my beer in salute.

  This was exactly where I needed to be. Relaxation was long overdue, and besides that, I needed some serious time to think since my life had turned itself upside-down and inside-out.

  Keith and I had been together for long enough to read each other’s moods. We understood one another in the ways that only a couple who has been completely open and honest can. That’s why he didn’t hesitate to tell me about his fantasies.

  “I have always wanted to see my woman with another man,” Keith announced one night as he lay in bed beside me. He was still trying to catch his breath.

  The thought of two men was always a fantasy of mine, too. My body instantly responded again, even though I had just been satisfied over and over.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “I want to see a woman of mine take all the pleasure she can possibly stand,” he said. “I guess it helps that I don’t have a jealous streak. As long as you’re doing it in front of me, it’s not cheating, and I don’t mind whatever you might want to do. I like being able to let you fulfill all your fantasies, and not have to worry about you going elsewhere to do that.”

  That was not what I expected to hear. I sat up and looked at him in the near-darkness. I knew Keith was always very laid-back when we were around his friends or mine, even the male friends who liked to flirt from time to time. But I always chalked that up to him simply trusting me, not to his very nature.

  “You don’t get jealous?” I asked. “At all?”

  “Never have, no.”

  “Even if your woman was with someone else, it doesn’t bother you?”

  “It would bother me if you did it with someone else and I wasn’t included. I think that would be cheating. But if you can do it right in front of me, that’s not cheating, right?”

  “I guess so.”

  “So I would like to see you do it.”

  “But what if I like him more than I like you?”

  Keith shrugged in the darkness. “That’s the chance I have to take.”

  “So you mean you would be willing to take a chance that I might leave you?”

  “If you’re going to leave, you’re going to leave. There’s nothing I can do to stop you.”

  “But you don’t have to bring it on by allowing me to be with other men, right?”

  Keith sighed. “You don’t understand that kind of lifestyle,” he said quietly.

  “What? An open relationship?”

  “No. It’s not exactly open. It’s more like swinging. Doing it together.”

  “What if you choose to have another woman involved?”

  “Would that bother you?”

  “You’re damn right it would!” I was on the verge of furious at the thought. Keith looked at me in the darkness. I could make out the outline of his jaw but I couldn’t see his eyes. I flicked on the bedside lamp and he immediately threw an arm across his face.

  “Shit!”

  “Do you want another woman?”

  “No! I never said anything about that. You were the one who brought it up.”

  “So you would be okay with me being with another man.”

  “Yes,” he said with strained patience.

  “But you wouldn’t be jealous.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Keith threw his hand down and glared at me. “Because I’m not the jealous type. I already told you that. What is this, selective hearing?”

  I glared right back at him.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “Well, what?”

  “Do you want to do something like that?”

  I flopped back down on the bed. Now Keith was the one who sat up to study me. “I don’t know,” I said softly. “It’s a good fantasy. But what
I need in real life is much more important.”

  “What do you need?”

  “I need a man who will give a damn if I’m with someone else. I want a man who will barely restrain himself from kicking the ass of the guy at the bar who dares to hit on me while I’m with him. I want a man who will deliver that ass-kicking if the guy dares to hit on me twice. I want a man who will proudly tell everybody I’m his girl and that is that, period, end of story. I want to feel protected.”

  “You want a man to be jealous?”

  “Not jealous,” I said, thinking hard. “Possessive, maybe.”

  “So now you’re an object. A possession. Great.”

  I rolled away from him and faced the wall. “You don’t understand.”

  “Honey,” Keith said, touching my shoulder. “It’s not that I’m not proud of you. I’m happy to call you mine. I think we make a great team. I love you with all my heart. I just don’t see the jealousy bit. I’ve never been the jealous type. If you want to be with another man, fine. Do it right in front of me, so we can both enjoy it. Just don’t do it behind my back. That’s all I ask.”

  “I would never,” I said vehemently, and Keith cut me off.

  “I know. I trust you.”

  “I don’t think I can do it in front of you, either.”

  “We can try,” he suggested.

  “How?”

  “I have a friend,” he said. “His name is Jake.”

  The moment I laid eyes on Jake, I knew I was in big trouble.

  Jake was tall and lean, with an athlete’s body and beautiful green eyes. His hair was far too long, almost shaggy, but looked soft as a baby’s locks. He had a great tan and a smile that showed perfect teeth. His laugh was infectious and he moved with a grace that belied his rough-and-tumble attitude.

  Perhaps if Keith had never mentioned Jake’s name, I never would have looked at him as a potential lover. But he had, and for many nights the idea of this man had been in my head. Now that I was seeing him in the flesh, my body was already responding in certain ways that were inappropriate – or appropriate, depending on how I looked at the situation.