The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 7

by Maxim Jakubowski

  June sat and absently flashed through the newspapers, trying not to think about the bed. Betty.

  Lots of luck.

  One night – oh, boy – that night: it was their second week together so, naturally, Betty had hauled over most of her stuff. They had gone long into the night prowling through her records, books, tapes, clothes, sharing stories about them or June’s similars – when this thing of plastic and nylon webbing had come out of one box.

  “Haven’t you ever?” Betty had said, digging in another box for the main part of it.

  June hadn’t. Wendy had been a kind of old-world dyke. Plastic or meat it was still a cock and she wouldn’t have wanted any part of it. June had actually been interested for a long time but never had the opportunity – and after Wendy had left she had pretty much lost interest in much of anything.

  Betty found her cock – a pretty, stylized blue thing that looked more like a gizmo from a science fiction movie than a penis. Maybe that’s what made it easier for June. As Wendy protested in the back of June’s mind she kept telling the phantom: have you seen a cock like this?

  Buckle, snap, synch. Condom, lube . . . “Bend over, dear.”

  “Waitaminute,” June had said, feeling out of control, “who wears the pants around here?”

  “You do,” Betty had said, stroking her penis, “but I have the cock. Now bend over, or do I have to call you bitch?”

  “No, sir!” June snapped in sarcasm, but added in a much smaller voice: “Take it easy with that thing; I’m a virgin.”

  “Now this is going to be a novel experience,” Betty had said, all smiles with enthusiasm, “I’ve never deflowered a virgin before—”

  June had suddenly been aware of a different part of her: a part that wanted the cock and Betty behind it, sure, but wanted it because of Betty. She instantly knew what it was all about, the surprising desire to feel the plastic penis in her cunt. It wasn’t just hornyness. It was love. She wanted to be wanted by her

  It almost made her cry. It was something she thought she’d left when Wendy had left to find someone even more subservient. Having it back was almost too much for her to handle: the fear that it could go again.

  Slowly, June had stood up on the lumpy futon, unbuttoned her jeans, and then, teasingly, dropped her panties. She did it slowly because while it seemed that all she and Betty did was fuck, the magic of their bodies hadn’t rubbed off yet. She had loved to get naked in front of Betty, watching her eyes dance and hunger for her.

  It was a little chilly in the apartment, so June left her T-shirt on.

  “Make like a doggie, love,” Betty had said, “It’s easier that way.”

  Slowly, kind of scared, June had: she got down on the futon, first on her hands and knees and then – ’cause her arms started to ache – leaning down on a pillow.

  “So pretty,” Betty said from behind her.

  The kiss was kind of a shock. June had been so psyched to receive the brilliantly blue silicone dildo that the one thing she hadn’t expected was the butterfly kiss of Betty’s lips on her cunt lips.

  Slowly, worshipfully, Betty kissed her again and again: on the cheeks of her ass, on the little knot of her asshole, on her puffy outer lips, and then, with a little skillful positioning, on the little dent where her cunt lips started and where her clit lay hidden.

  “So very pretty,” Betty had said, massaging June’s cunt with a smooth, slightly cool hand – rubbing her mons and lips and thus her clit in its folds and valleys of very warm skin (and getting warmer). It was the kind of touch that June loved even more than a hard, driving jerking off; having her tits really worked on; nipple sucking and biting . . . it was a kind of gentle, worshipping touch that was almost unfamiliar. Wendy had done it, very early on in their relationship, then tossed it aside as she got bored.

  June had missed it.

  Betty had been so gentle, so tender with her touches and kisses that June almost didn’t realize that the cock was entering her. It was warm, not too big, and definitely not persistent. It had felt, in fact, like Betty had just sort of parked its condom-covered plastic head just outside her cunt and was just sort of letting it be there as Betty stroked and gingerly touched June’s back, thighs and ass.

  June had been so caught up in the gentleness of something she had always considered harsh and probably painful . . . fucking . . . she almost didn’t notice, didn’t pick up, that Betty was talking.

  “Such a beautiful woman. Such a gorgeous woman. Oh, God, I look at you and I get all wet. Yeah, my pussy, too, but me, inside, too. I get all warm and squishy when I look at you and touch you and . . . God . . . I get all gold inside, all sunlight and hot and tingly—”

  The cock had slowly started to ease inside June, to make its way very slowly and very sedately into her cunt. In some way it reminded June of taking a dump – backwards: the sense of being filled, or being stretched by something warm and slightly resident. It wasn’t an unfavourable feeling but it was . . . different: fucking and sex before had always just been quick and flickering things like tongues and fingers – not big solid things like plastic cocks.

  It was unique, but something, June knew, there on her lumpy old futon, that she could grow to like. A lot.

  She was filled, she was empty, she was filled, she was empty – the transition from just being occupied by Betty’s cock to being fucked by Betty’s cock was so smooth that, at first, June really didn’t know what was going on. The sensation was warm and rhythmic, like her whole ass and cunt were breathing with the dildo – like she was expanding and contracting with each thrust. Heavy, warm surges ran through her and she had found herself panting into the pillow she was resting on. Her legs started to ache.

  She must have said something, because Betty had taken a few careful moments to adjust her – putting a pillow under her tummy and moving her legs so she was more flat-out – before easing her cock back into June’s cunt.

  It was like floating in a boat, June had decided as Betty fucked her. Gentle, warm waves on a lightly moving sea. She liked it. She wasn’t going to come – no way – but it was like a kind of internal massage.

  “Try rubbing your cunt,” Betty had said in a voice laced with a kind of aerobics pant.

  Thoroughly committed, June had done exactly that. She snaked her right hand down to her clit and found it delightfully hard and wonderfully wet from the juice and lube that had dripped down from her slurping cunt. Since she loved it usually when she jerked off, her left also went to her left nipple where she found it, also, incredibly hard. As Betty fucked her she started to really get down and nasty with her clit as she rubbed and pulled at her nipple.

  Oh, boy – she remembered thinking as the first of five deep and rumbling comes surged through her. She also remembered the leg cramps and the embarrassing huge wet mark on the pillow where she had been drooling in excitement.

  Slowly, cautiously, because of her raging leg cramps, she had turned over and hugged Betty. A delightful surprise awaited her as she did so: in her arms, Betty had her own hand down between the harness and the plastic cock, and was furiously working her own clit.

  Holding her, feeling her fiery heat, Betty came.

  That was then. June got up from the futon and her old newspapers and tried to think without thinking of Betty. Even though the tiny black girl had been pretty thorough about taking everything of hers it was still painfully hard not to try and think of her. Every room brought back flashes of wonderful times: tea and talk, tears and hugs, and comes – lots and lots of comes.

  Even the fucking bathroom, June thought with a sudden flash of anger, remembering that one morning: cold tiles under her back as Betty lowered herself onto her face. It was an odd scene, one she, again, would never have thought of. She also remembered that they hadn’t talked. It had just sort of happened the same way that first time in the kitchen had happened. June had been taking a piss. Betty had just stepped out of the shower. Betty walked over to her and asked June to towel her off. June had,
then kissed her lips and then the younger girl’s nipples. There was such joy in Betty – like it all was just a game of come and come again. She didn’t seem to worry like Wendy had, about right and wrong things to do and enjoy. Betty had just drifted from one fun thing to another.

  The fun, for instance, in hauling June down to the cold tiles and carefully lowering her sweet little cunt down onto June’s face. It was kind of scary – to have someone, no matter how tiny, hovering over your eyes and nose and mouth and tongue. But then it started to kick in for June, and she felt an explosion of pure, crazed hornyness: Betty was using her, shoving herself down onto June’s tongue and eagerness.

  In the hall, looking into the now dark bathroom, June didn’t even have to close her eyes to experience the taste of Betty’s cunt – the heady perfume of her excitement. She remembered waking up many mornings to that smell on her lips and fingers, permeating even the time she spent away from her.

  She remembered the bathroom, the gentle weight of Betty on her face. She recalled the giggles and the sighs that eased and surged out of the little dark-haired black girl as June licked and nibbled and sucked at her cunt and clit.

  Sweet music—

  Betty’s hands, always busy, always hunting for June’s tits, ass or cunt, had fluttered on the tight skin of June’s thighs, forced then apart with the crazed energy of the very, very excited, and then had started to work on June’s pussy. Betty had been surprisingly deft, considering the feverish licking June had been giving her, and soon June was staring down into the white light of a brilliant come.

  Together, they went there. June came from Betty’s fingers.

  Above her, Betty came.

  June found herself in the hall. Down the stairs was the front door. Probably the one place where they hadn’t played, where Betty hadn’t come. She’d gone, though.

  What she said, what Betty said, was pretty well gone. All June could remember was a bad week – bad work, bad parents, bad city – and a fight about . . . something. Maybe she had talked about Wendy. She hoped not.

  Betty had gone.

  Now, five days later: the little apartment was cold and empty. It was dark and quiet. June, and June alone, slept on the lumpy futon, made coffee in the morning and read her newspapers. No calls came in, and she didn’t feel like making any.

  Except one. Now, in the quiet dark.

  June’s fingers felt numb. It was hard to admit that she wanted Betty, wanted her back. It was hard to say she wanted anything. It was a scary place – as dark as the apartment was: What if she said no?

  But would it be any worse?

  Audrey answered on the second ring, her surprisingly deep voice: “Speak your peace.”

  “Is Betty there, Audrey?”

  “Just a minute, you heartbreaker—”

  “Yes?”

  “Come. Please come. I want you.”

  Betty came.

  Undercover

  Nikki Magennis

  I was half-drunk with lack of sleep, standing in the hot white buzz of Central Station while hordes of commuters bumped past me with their sharp suits and shoulder pads and brief cases. I stood there blinking and yawning. What the hell was I doing up at this hour?

  The answer, of course, was Sam.

  I growled at the thought of his stubbornness, at the selfish way he’d announced he was leaving to make his fortune. Hotfooting it to London like a carefree bird. Not for a second had he stopped to think of how it would screw up our relationship – four hundred miles between us was a serious blow. The salvation of our bickering, up-and-down love affair was the Olympic sex we indulged in most mornings, afternoons and evenings. We could hammer away for hours, and he took me places I’d never thought possible, body twisted into breathtaking positions, him so deep inside me it felt like blasphemy. After he left, my sex life became a sudden blank. I was left gasping with shock, reeling from the terrible aching loss of his body.

  I missed the bastard.

  Despite my rage at his pig-headed arrogance, I couldn’t resist his sneaky allure. One twitch of his eyebrows and I was hot to trot. I spent my nights dreaming of his hot and swollen cock, of his roving hands. Our late night phone calls left me wound up like a clockwork toy.

  I’d woken at the crack of dawn because I couldn’t stand another day in the desert of celibacy. Almost against my will I found myself in the station, ready to travel all the way across the country for a good fuck.

  The train finally boarded at six a.m. and I settled in for the long journey. The only upside to the hours sitting on a bristly nylon seat was the anticipation of seeing Sam. My body was so sensitized that even the feel of my clothes against my skin made my heart do a drum roll. I had butterflies about turning up unannounced on his doorstep, but half of them were excitement at the thought of holding him again, feeling his body against mine. How I’d melt when he touched me.

  I’d dressed with that in mind: my kinkiest underwear, the extreme-cleavage bra, and the split-crotch panties. They cut into me, cantilevered my tits and exposed my ass when I bent over; when I wore that get-up I felt like a concubine primed to fuck.

  The outfit was horny as hell, but definitely impractical for traveling. The clever little slit up the front of the panties left my softest skin exposed, and the rough denim of my jeans rubbed against me. I wriggled in my seat. I had another four hours before I’d arrive in Euston, and more hours after that before I’d get to take them off.

  Outside, the countryside rolled past in a green blur. I looked round the carriage. Most of the other passengers were businessmen. The man across the aisle, a fat, gristly guy in shiny shoes, was clattering away on his laptop, taking big gulps from a tiny plastic coffee cup. Our eyes met. His were pink-rimmed and baggy, hard little eyes like a bully’s. I caught the leer as he looked me over, that licking-the-lips sleaze that makes me squirm. Nothing for it but to turn my back on him and try to lose myself in sleep.

  I half-woke with the noise of the train still humming around me, warm sun on my face. The carriage was now the temperature of a hot oven; I felt parched with thirst and cramped from sleeping in the hard, upright seat. When I tried to stretch out, I found my legs trapped. I struggled to open my eyes. Across from me was a young couple. They must have got on at Newcastle while I was asleep. The man, tall and blonde, was stretched out lazily in his seat, his long legs on either side of mine. I’d obviously just kicked him, but he gave me a wide smile.

  “Sorry,” I muttered, still fuzzy with sleep.

  “S’okay,” he replied, in a deep American drawl. “We’re kinda crammed in here, aren’t we?” His mouth curled in another lopsided grin, and I saw a flash of square white teeth.

  The girl watched the countryside pass by with a bored look on her face. Also tall and long-limbed, she had the dark complexion that seemed southern European. She curled like a cat across her boyfriend, long brown hair spilling over her shoulders and a thin cotton summer dress barely covering her figure. From the corner of my eye I could see the top of her tanned breasts, full and heavy against the gauzy flowered fabric of the dress. Her nipples were darker shadows through the patterned cloth. The tight pressure of my jeans was cutting into me, and I shifted in my seat, my leg grazing the American’s. I wished I’d worn something loose fitting and cool. The underwear was agitating me.

  “You goin’ to London?” the man asked, his voice lazy and low.

  I nodded, aware that my heart was starting to thump in my chest. As if reading my thoughts, he let his gaze meander down my body, though he was looking at my tits rather than my beating heart. I felt my nipples stiffen as though they had been stroked. Under the table, I felt his leg press my knee. I shot a look at the girl, but she seemed oblivious to her lover’s little game. His knee was now rubbing insistently against my thigh.

  Around us, businessmen read newspapers and talked on mobiles, occupied with the real world. I felt my cheeks getting hot. The American leaned forward as if to look closely at something he’d seen out the window.
I felt a hand on my leg. He brushed the inside of my thigh with the back of his hand, casually, as though we were lovers who had known each other for ages. He rested his chin on his other hand.

  “All tickets please.” The conductor was barging up the aisle, checking each table for new faces. The boy pulled back, searching his pockets.

  I exhaled, the tension broken, half-relieved and half-disappointed. I had a brief vision of the girlfriend throwing a Continental tantrum in the middle of the train and a catfight in the aisles, the two of us rolling around pulling each other’s hair. But the man had turned me on. Perpetually horny from Sam’s absence, it didn’t take much to get me going.

  To distract myself, I opened the newspaper and scanned the headlines. On the periphery of my vision, I could see the two sweethearts opposite me nuzzling each other. I tried to ignore their display of affection, feeling even more frustrated and uncomfortable. Under the noise of the train, I could make out the man whispering in his girlfriend’s ear. She giggled.

  “Can I sit next to you?”

  I looked up. The girl was standing, looking right at me with wide brown eyes.

  “I don’t like going backwards.” There was the hint of a French accent in her voice.

  “Yes. Yes, of course,” I said, feeling as though I should apologise to her for sitting on this side of the train, and guilty because her lover had just made a sly pass at me under the table.

  She smiled as she slid into the seat next to me. I shifted the newspaper to make room. She wriggled into the seat and leaned into me, looking over the stories, her arm against mine. I could feel her breath on my neck and instantly was surrounded by the heavy fragrance of her perfume. She had the generous confidence of Europeans, and their unconscious intimate way of sitting too close.

  “You like this picture?” she asked, pointing to a shot of Madonna onstage at a concert. “Sexy woman, no?” The girl drew her hand back, running her fingers along my arm. Slowly, so it was clearly not an accident.

  The atmosphere suddenly crackled with heat, my heart booming in my ears and the train sounds beating in time with it. I looked across at the man. He was leaning back, watching the two of us, grinning that grin of his. I felt like a deer caught between two predators. Trapped in my seat, I felt the touch of her hand linger on my skin and spread over my body. My breasts ached. I could feel my heart beating all the way to the tips of my nipples. In my tight jeans, between my hot thighs, I felt myself melting.