The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 7

by Maxim Jakubowski

  Oh, my. That tongue has truly been places. Like his eyes, it could be a thousand years old, a tongue that’s pleasured geisha girls, ladyboys and Babylonian whores. Fingers fill my cunt, a thumb rubs my arsehole and moments later I’m coming hard, gasping around Uncle’s cock, Uncle clutching my head, keeping me steady for fear I neglect his pleasure in favour of my own.

  “She’s a slippery little bitch, isn’t she, huh?”

  Uncle’s voice is loud enough to carry across the chamber. He’s talking to someone else; not to the Boy, and certainly not to me. I pull back and turn, wiping saliva from my mouth.

  Tom, of course. Hell’s teeth, I’d forgotten him. He’s standing within the white stone archway, looking somewhat dazed. Really, I’d completely forgotten him, forgotten the man I love. Well, I guess fresh meat can do that to a girl.

  Tom stares, mouth sagging dumbly. I worry for a moment, fearing my blue-eyed boy is going to be appalled, but I can see he’s interested, absorbing the scene. It’s that fascinated passivity again. “My God,” I can almost hear him say. “You’re so vulgar.”

  “Come, come,” cries Uncle, jumping down from the carpets. “Welcome, my brother!” He pumps Tom’s hand and claps him on the shoulder as if they’re the best of mates. “You want her to suck your dick too, huh?” Pleased with himself, Uncle laughs over-loudly.

  I think Tom’s had a hit of whatever I’ve had, the scent of dried hedgehog or something. He smiles. I know exactly what he’s going to say. He’s going to say, “I don’t mind” in that sing-song way he does when I say, “Shall we have coffee here or there? Rice for dinner or pasta?” It can get a bit annoying, to tell the truth. He looks at me; his smile’s ironic. “I don’t mind,” he says, and I realise he knew that I knew he was going to say that, and his tongue’s in his cheek because he knows all that knowing will amuse me. Long-term relationships can be so nice.

  The Boy, on his hands and knees, peeps out from under my sarong to edge a cautious pace forwards. Then he’s motionless, watching as Uncle leads Tom to a low bank of carpets, stacked at three levels like a shallow flight of steps. A hazy shaft of sunlight falls across them, revealing tiny squalls of dust as the men clamber and sprawl across this wool-woven stage. Uncle sits on the higher level, legs akimbo, and Tom lolls within his silk-clad thighs, head resting there as he yields to an off-centre shoulder massage. Uncle bows forwards, murmurs in Tom’s ear, and Tom smiles gently, stretching his spine in a discreet arch, his pleasure private and contained, as the man kneads with big oafish hands.

  I stand there, entranced, hardly able to believe what I’m seeing. The Boy edges closer, moving gingerly as if wary of disturbing them. Sitting back on his heels, he watches intently as Tom relaxes deeper in to the massage, occasionally grunting.

  When Tom and I fuck, a glazed expression sometimes settles on his face. His eyes close, his mouth drops open, and he looks completely gone, blanked out with bliss as I move on top. He’s got that slightly dead quality about him now, and when Uncle reaches forward to remove his T-shirt, Tom acquiesces, raising his arms, as docile and obliging as a sleepy child. He doesn’t even protest when the Boy pads forwards to nuzzle his pale chest. All he does is smile fondly and, like a basking chimp, he stretches his arms back, exposing their white undersides, tendons taut, his dark patches of armpit hair attracting the Boy who tentatively sniffs, a hand sweeping broad caresses over Tom’s flexing body. Tom is clearly loving it.

  Well, you sly old tart, I think.

  I can’t take my eyes off him. I wonder if they’ve drugged him. And then I’m clearly not thinking straight myself because soon I’m wondering whether it actually is Tom. Perhaps someone – or something – has got inside his body because I’ve never seen him like this before. Tom likes to size up situations, to tread carefully, to fret unnecessarily; and he’s never shown even the slightest interest in men. And now look at him, pushing the boundaries of his experience as if it were a walk in the park. I start to fear I may never get him back.

  But then I notice his smile fading and he moistens his lips, a small moment of nervous desire. It’s exquisite, so tender and Tom-like, and I feel I know who he is again. I see his Adam’s apple bob in his throat and, in his neck, a hint of tension, as he tests the air for a kiss. The Boy bends over him, their lips meet, and lust flares in my groin. I watch a knot of muscle shifting in the Boy’s jaw, movement in Tom’s neck, and I’m all eyes as, without breaking the kiss, the Boy reaches down to unzip Tom’s fly. Tom’s erection springs out, weighty and lascivious.

  I don’t know what I want to do most: watch or join in.

  Then Uncle grins at me, rummaging around in his silky blue crotch. He exposes his cock and moves it against Tom’s face, tipping it back and forth like a wind-screen wiper. “Come here,” Uncle says to me. “Bring us titties.”

  He’s dead right: I want to join in. So I cross to them, whipping off my top half as I do so. Greedy and urgent, I scramble up onto the carpets and Uncle welcomes me by holding out a brawny arm. He opens his mouth and I fill it immediately with soft pink breast, pressing a hand to his crisp chest hair, my body pushing against the bulk of his belly. His tongue lashes my nipple and he delves under my sarong, searching eagerly for my hole. With a force that makes me gasp, he plugs my wetness with thick, crude fingers. Grinning up at me, he holds my nipple between his teeth and gently pulls on it, stretching my flesh. I hold his gaze, daring him to keep right on going.

  For the first time, I notice how stunning his eyes are. They’re a hard amber brown, sparkling like topaz. But this is no time to be romanticising, because the guy’s moving us into position, my sarong and belt are off, and I’m utterly naked, poised above that prodigious cock, buttocks split in his big rough hands, cunt wide open. With heavy luxury, I sink down on him, groaning all the way until I’m stretched and stuffed to capacity.

  Truly, it’s a beautiful moment, made more beautiful by the fact that beside me is Tom, being sucked off by the Boy. They’re both naked too, Tom with his knees apart, the Boy’s shorn head bobbing in his crotch, his pert little butt stuck up in the air. Sprawled against the carpets, Tom has an arm flung wide, eyes closed, mouth open. I’ve never seen him looking quite so dead. I wonder if his expression’s the same when I go down on him. My guess is not. All the same, I try and commit that face to memory, thinking maybe I can reproduce it some time in charcoal and pencil.

  Tom must sense me looking because as I start to slide on Uncle’s cock, he reaches out with a blind hand to stroke my arse. In that tiny affectionate gesture, I feel such a connection with him, such warmth. And I feel free to fuck like there’s no tomorrow, knowing Tom and I are united, mutual support in mutual depravity; for richer, for poorer; for better, for worse.

  Uncle clasps my hips, bouncing me up and down, and I’m as light as a doll in his hands. This man can do what he wants with me, I think. And I don’t mind if he does. It’s a while since I’ve been overpowered. The two of us mash and grind, silk hissing beneath me, sweat forming on my back where sunlight heats my skin.

  “Hey, brother,” calls Uncle, addressing Tom, “does she like it in her ass? Huh? A big prick in her tiny little asshole?”

  Tom’s too zonked to reply immediately. He just sprawls there, half-dead, before his head rolls sideways, eyes still closed. When he finally speaks, it sounds as if it’s costing him an enormous effort. “Probably,” he croaks.

  The Boy pulls away from him. Tom groans in despair.

  “Dirty little slut,” says the Boy excitedly. His cock is ramrod stiff, its ruddy tip gleaming, and against his scrawny frame it looks grotesquely large. He springs off the carpets, takes a small copper can from near an Aladdin’s lamp, and pours thick clear liquid into the palm of his hand. “Uncle,” he says, “you in her pussy, me in her ass. Bam, bam, bam. We fuck her hard, yes?”

  Uncle laughs lightly.

  “No,” I whisper. Then louder: “Yes. God, yes.”

  The Boy leaps back onto the carpets, lubricating his cock wit
h lamp oil. Tom groans again. I reach out, feeling sorry for him, and Uncle, gent that he is, shuffles us closer. I lean over to kiss Tom and he responds eagerly, our tongues lashing awkwardly as Uncle pounds into me. Sweat dribbles down my back into the crack of my buttocks and I feel the Boy’s greasy fingers press against my arsehole. He wriggles a finger past my entrance and I’m groaning into Tom’s mouth as the Boy opens me out, forcing the ring of my muscles wider, making me slick and ready.

  “Keep her still,” urges the Boy, and Uncle obliges, his cock lodged high.

  “Lean over,” orders the Boy and I obey. His knob nudges my arsehole and pushes into my resistance. I think I’m going to be too small for him, my other hole too full, and that it’s all going to hurt like hell. I make a feeble cry of protest.

  “Don’t pretend,” snaps the Boy. He grasps my hips then there’s a flash of pain and, with a sudden slippery rush, he’s fully inside me, and I’m swamped by dark, fierce pleasure. Uncle calls out triumphantly. I feel I’m on the brink of collapse, the intensity of having both holes packed so solidly taking me to a place I didn’t know existed. I gasp into Tom’s mouth, quite beyond kisses now, as the two men start to drive into me. Bam, bam, bam, as the Boy said. I have to pull away from Tom. I need air. I need to groan and wail.

  Beneath me, Uncle’s face is flushed with exertion. He spots me looking at him and he grins, meeting my eye with a deliberate gaze. There’s the weirdest kind of friction going on inside me, the two men jostling my body as they fuck. And then I know I’ve lost it. I know pleasure has reduced me to lunacy because I see something wild in Uncle’s eyes. His pupils contract and, for a moment, they are like the Boy’s: bright with black, slit pupils.

  It’s the light, I tell myself, the light, the light. And I can’t bear to look. I flop forward onto Tom, seeking a kiss, wanting the reassurance of his mouth, his nose, his face. I’m close to coming and so is Tom because the Boy, gorgeous greedy creature, is sucking him off again. As the two cocks shove fast and hard inside me, I nudge my clit and then gasp into Tom’s mouth, our lips so hot, so wet and loose: “I’m coming, I’m coming.” That sets him off and he groans and pants, his body twitching as he peaks. My orgasm rolls on and on, and Tom is still gasping into my mouth, still coming. It feels sublime, orgasm-without-end. Our lips slide and smear, and nothing else can touch us. It’s as if we’re melting into each other at every breath. And I am him and he is me, and we are all ecstasy, all delirium, all gone.

  Sex, I think, will never be the same again.

  We didn’t buy a carpet for the hallway that holiday. But sometimes it’s like that. You go out hoping to buy one thing and come home with something totally different. I’ve stopped drawing Tom in the middle of the night as well. I don’t feel the need any more. I don’t have that yearning to capture him. Because I have my Tom, I have him entirely, from now until the end of time. And if I ever start to doubt it, I just need to picture his face, glazed with rapture at the point of climax. He doesn’t know what he looks like. I don’t know what I look like either. People don’t, generally speaking, do they?

  All I know is that he’ll never look at another woman like that; he’ll never be able to. Because when he comes, something shifts in his eyes. He rides the wave, annihilated with bliss, the two of us breathing so hard and so deep. And when he looks at me, his beautiful blue eyes have black, slit pupils. And I am him and he is me. And I know we are possessed.

  Betty Came

  M. Christian

  She remembered the first time that Betty came. Sitting in her tiny kitchen, beams of warm sunlight painting it with brilliant yellow stripes, it was so easy to think of Betty as being there, next to her. It had been one of Audrey’s all-night parties. Another of the ex-boy’s “No other reason” Friday night dancing and drinking bashes. June had gotten pretty toasted early on – washing down the stubborn truth that she and Wendy had broken up the month before – and was quite satisfied to sit in a corner of the hideously cluttered apartment and get lost in the Pussy Tourrette album blasting from Audrey’s frankensteined sound system.

  Didn’t know the tiny black girl’s name, didn’t even see who she’d come with. One second June was belting back her fifth Red Rock and the next the room exploded with a billion flashbulbs when she had walked in.

  But Wendy was still a dull ache and the one thing you don’t think about when you have that “no one loves me any more” pang is that someone, suddenly, would.

  Somehow, intros were made and June found herself fighting that fifth Red Rock to be on her best behavior. Chat. Joke. Smile. Flirt. Smile some more. Bat those eyelashes. Flirt. Chat.

  While the sexy heat of the sparkling little girl was something that made all of June’s clouds blow away, the beers (and a bitchy week at work) had started to take their toll on her. Even against the searchlight brilliance of the girl’s smile, incredible cheekbones, and humming eyes, June’s own face started to feel haggard, drawn, and – yawn!

  She remembered saying something like: “Sorry. Luckily I live right around the corner.”

  “I’ll walk you,” the dream had said, smiling a sunrise at her.

  Her place was a mess, of course. Isn’t it always? Some kind of universal law: bring trick (or love of your life) home and the first thing they see when they walk in the door is a pair of stained panties tossed on the floor.

  “Wouldn’t want you to be too clean,” the lovely charcoal sketch had said, leaning in close enough so that June could slip an arm around her.

  A cup of coffee had sounded good. June prattled some kind of empty dialogue, pretty much to herself, as she had ground the beans and tried to find the sugar. She was pretty sure she had said something about what she did for a living (messenger), what she liked to do (theater), what she liked (pecan pie and sleeping in), and what she wanted (someone special). Now, sitting in the same kitchen, June wasn’t sure if she’d mentioned Wendy. She hoped she hadn’t.

  Sometime during the beans and the milk and the water and all the talk, talk, talk (that mostly June did), she found herself next to her again, found herself with one arm stroking her T-shirt-covered back, feeling the strong planes of her shoulders, and the thick warmth of her dark skin. She remembered, strongly, perfectly, the girl looking up at her and smiling a glowing smile. June had kissed her.

  It seemed to last forever, that first kiss (well, don’t most first kisses? Another universal law). June felt herself catch fire from head to toe. To the background sounds of the percolating Senior Coffee, she had let her hands fall to the girl’s shoulders, arms, and then her perfectly shaped titties.

  The T-shirt came off quickly and she had stood up. Holding her close, June stroked and kneaded her arms, sides and even her tiny little pot belly. They had sighed and moaned and groaned together as they both touched (her hands on June’s own big biceps and almost non-existent tits) and kissed. Somewhere, June lost her flannel shirt and the black girl had lost her jeans and shoes.

  She had circled her big, hard nipples with hot kisses as she squeezed June’s cunt through her own jeans like a trick fondling a John. June couldn’t keep the hissing moan in, so she had let it out into the girl’s mouth – feeling it echo through her as her own hand cupped a shaved and slippery cunt.

  With Wendy it had been walking on eggs. Her first real lover, June had treated Wendy like she was priceless, fragile – even though Wendy was five years older than June’s 26. June had barricaded them in June’s tiny place against her being alone again and tried to do whatever it would take to keep Wendy there. If Wendy liked something, June did it. If Wendy didn’t like it . . . it never happened again

  After a point, June followed Wendy everywhere. Never led. Tried not to want, desire, anything.

  But then, there, in the kitchen that night something different was happening – it was June and her. No top, no bottom, no give, no take. Just kissing and tits and cunts and heat.

  The girl had sat down in one of June’s battered old wooden chairs and spread her legs
as if to let some of the heat escape. June had sat down herself, surprised into almost squealing by how cold the linoleum floor was on her bare ass (lost her own pants and shoes somewhere). Since she was down there already (yeah, right) she kissed the girl’s thighs; that delicious, all-but-invisible belly; and then rummaged in her hot, hot slit with her nose: playful rooting and tickling like a frisky puppy.

  She had sighed and spread her legs wider.

  June gently brought one hand up and pulled her cunt lips apart, spying with almost childish delight a pink clit the size of a marble in a sculpture of black and pink lips, almost smoking in the cool air of the kitchen. Of course she had licked. Of course she sucked and kissed and stroked it with her tongue.

  June had forgotten her name almost the instant it had been told her. She called her Betty because she looked kind of like a black Betty Page.

  In the same, now empty, kitchen: Betty came.

  Now empty. June got up and wandered back into the rest of her apartment. Not the same, but the same kind – pair of slightly yellowed panties on the hardwood floor next to her stack of Bay Times newspapers. The same old, barely working Mac Classic her father had bought her. Same old futon on the floor. Same Pier One rattan blinds. Same sketch Fish had done of her at the Folsom Street Fair. Same tiny stack of playbills with her name on it.

  It kind of scared June when people reminded her that they were only together for two months. It seemed longer. Lots longer. Betty was the kind of girlfriend she thought she always needed. Looking at the futon, with its discolorations, stains and lumps, it was too easy to feel her again. Standing, as she always seemed to, so that she was just touching June’s hip or arm.