The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 7

by Maxim Jakubowski

  She put her mouth to my ear. “We would both like to fuck you,” she breathed, making my head swim and my pussy throb.

  Her boyfriend leaned forward to slowly rub the insides of my thighs with his agile fingers. I sat stock still and let him manipulate me, frozen with confusion. Under the cover of the newspaper he pulled at the fly of my jeans, popping the buttons one by one. I felt the cool air rush against my pussy, exposed by the slit in my panties. God, I wanted his fingers inside me. I thought desperately of the other passengers – the carriage was full. Drunk with desire, I turned to the girl. She leant in to press her tits against me.

  She was still perusing the open newspaper on my lap as though reading a story, while rubbing her nipples against the bare flesh of my arm. If we’d been alone I would have reached out to touch her, but I was terrified of drawing attention to our little threesome.

  The passengers chattered. The wheels clicked over the rails. Under the cover of the paper, her lover was working his way inside my knickers. I felt his finger strum me, felt ripples of warm pleasure through my body. To onlookers we were just two girls reading a paper and a man looking out the window. Below the surface, though, a thrilling game of hide and seek was going on.

  He kept playing with me, his long fingers pushing further inside, building up an irresistible rhythm that moved in time with the train. I thought, briefly, of Sam, and what his face would look like if he could see me now. And with a vicious rush of pleasure, I turned to the girl, looking straight into her laughing brown eyes. I let her see the flush on my cheeks, the wild, urgent look in my eyes that meant I wanted to kiss her. I licked my lips, watching her mouth as she leaned in again to whisper, “How do you like train travel?” The huskiness of her voice betrayed her arousal. I was caught between her dark amusement and her boyfriend’s fingers.

  I felt my orgasm rushing towards me with an intensity so blinding that I was scared I would scream when I came. Silently I begged for the pressure of his hand to bring me off, all my consciousness concentrated in that white-hot spot of arousal so it was only his smooth fingertip rubbing lightly over the bud of my clit that connected me to the world. Such a slight, circling pressure from his outstretched hand; the glint in the girl’s eyes, the feel of her warm flesh against my arm, the underwear cutting into me and the rustle of the newspaper as I spread my legs wider, dying to peak.

  And then it came – an orgasm that shook me so hard I thought I might pass out, cheeks burning, heart thudding, breath spasming in a gasp I couldn’t hold back. Waves of pleasure moved through me, overtaking all my fears. The noise of the train receded and I surfed on blissful oblivion.

  . . . and then the awareness of where I was flooded back into consciousness, my awkward perch on the edge of the seat suddenly feeling strange, my flushed face feeling like a flag of guilt. I was gripped with panic that the other passengers had heard me, that I was naked and exposed with a stranger’s hand between my legs, and an even greater panic that I had committed a treacherous betrayal of Sam.

  But then I turned to the girl.

  Her eyes locked on mine. She smiled as though we’d shared something dark and delicious, a secret encounter that could happen only between destinations. As though the fact her lover had just brought me off was simply a divertissement, an act of friendliness between fellow travelers.

  Winking, she settled back into her seat, satisfied. Her boyfriend withdrew his hand and carefully buttoned me up again, his movements as tender as if I were a precious gift he was wrapping.

  I wondered: would Sam notice that I’d already been opened?

  Boys and Girls Come Out to Play

  Barry Baldwin

  One day, sensational news hit the village. A Canadian girl had come to stay. The gang met that night in emergency session under the yellow sodium street lamp by the school playground to discuss this intelligence.

  “I don’t believe it,” somebody said. “Why would a Canadian come here?”

  This was my question as well, but I had no standing in the gang as an authority on anything, let alone Canadian girls, so I had waited for another member to ask it.

  “Perhaps she’s learning English.”

  “Don’t be daft, they speak English in Canada.”

  “Not proper English, they don’t.”

  “I heard she’s here to be a nanny for Mrs Grover at The Grange.”

  “Who cares why she’s here?” This was our leader, Frank Blunt, who predictably took over the debate and bulldozed it towards his favourite topic. “I bet you I’m up her in a week. Those Yank bints are sex-mad.”

  The first speaker tried to object that Canadians and Americans weren’t the same thing, but he didn’t stand a chance. Frank Blunt’s status as sexual know-it-all was long established. That’s not to say we necessarily believed all his claims about doing girls, which in turn is not to say that we didn’t want to. Some of the other members also made their own more modest boasts. These usually involved “titting” a girl at the pictures or behind the cricket pavilion. There were two levels of success: a touch of breast outside or inside her clothes. One or two hopefuls tried to persuade us they had progressed to the point of getting their hand right inside and down to the knicker elastic frontier but, led by Frank Blunt who was determined to preserve his supremacy in the minge stakes, we always shouted them down.

  “You know what,” Frank Blunt went on, “those bints will let you do them without a Durex on.”

  “What if they have a baby?” asked the lad who’d tried to distinguish Canadians from Americans.

  “They know how not to,” Frank Blunt replied, without explanation. Since no one contradicted this, he moved into more advanced territory. “And what’s more, they’ll let you put your thing in their mouth.”

  A couple of the knicker elastic brigade nodded in silent support of this allegation. One added they knew for a fact that Helen Rowe, the village bike, did this as well. I privately thought the idea both disgusting and frightening. Fancy anyone putting their mouth where you pissed out of. And what if they bit through it like a stick of liquorice?

  “I’m telling you straight,” insisted Frank Blunt, as though he had read my mind. “And what’s more, they’ll even let you stick it up their backside.”

  For once, he had gone too far. It was obvious from people’s faces that nobody was willing to credit such an idea. I myself, with the confidence that only ignorance can give, felt sure it would be physically impossible, even if you wanted to do it. Moreover, there was nothing about this activity in Hank Janson’s Baby Don’t Dare Squeal which was currently circulating under our desk lids at school. One member even called, “Get out of it,” though he did not identify himself when challenged by Frank Blunt to do so. “Well, anyway,” summed up a boy who generally contributed even less to gang debates than I did, “I expect she’s got one in the middle and two at the front like the rest of them.” On this thoughtful note, the meeting broke up.

  I left resolved never to so much as speak to this Canadian, always assuming she existed. But she did, and I did, once. The very next day, in fact. I had gone into the village shop for a bag of Tidman’s gob-stoppers and there at the counter was this strange girl trying to buy all sorts of things old Ma Pocock had never heard of. Finally, to save face, she stonewalled one request with, “I could have it in the back, I’ll go and see,” and the two of us were left alone.

  Already impressed by the way she’d got Ma Pocock running around in a way none of us ever had, I swallowed my surprise when she spoke to me first and did not even lower my eyes, my standard practice when dealing with girls. It was obvious from the greeting “Hi” that she must be the Canadian. I knew enough to know they used this short form of our “Hey Up”. What I couldn’t fathom was how she came to be on the small side with dark hair and no lipstick and as far as I could tell no tits, when everybody knew all lasses from over there had blonde hair and dollops of make-up and whacking big ones in front. Still, she did have bright white teeth which no girl I kn
ew in the village did, so there couldn’t be any mistake. The only other people I’d met with gnashers like that were blokes old enough to have been given a full extraction and new set for their twenty-first birthday, as used to be the custom.

  For some reason, she made me feel like I was speaking to a grown-up, so instead of “Hey Up” I answered with “Hello”.

  “I’m Gina,” she continued, her teeth flashing so much that I would have taken my sunglasses out of my pocket and put them on, that is if I’d actually had them on me and always supposing I had the wit to do so. I didn’t say anything back. Who cared what she was called? And we didn’t give out our names as easily as that. I was saved by the return of Ma Pocock who had unsurprisingly failed to find what she hadn’t looked for. “Must have run out,” she said aggressively, feeling the need to restore her shopkeeper’s authority. Gina shrugged her not very big shoulders, paid from the largest handbag I’d ever seen for the few things Ma Pocock had managed to come up with, and left.

  However, when I’d got my gob-stoppers and come out of the shop, she was waiting there.

  “Hi, again.”

  This deserved no reply.

  “Do you live here?”

  “What, in this shop?”

  “No, I can see you don’t do that. I meant, in this village.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “I don’t know. They told me England was a funny place, but I never figured it would be like this.”

  I felt I should spring to the defence of my country against this foreigner throwing her weight around, but the only thing that came to mind was a limp “Like what?”

  Gina, though, was in no mood for an England versus Canada argument. “Can you tell me where the church is?”

  I was dumbfounded. No one I knew, of any age or sex, ever went to church except at the proper time: Christmas or weddings or funerals. And if Frank Blunt was right, what would a Canadian bint who let you put your thing in her mouth or up her arse want with a church?

  “No.” I couldn’t think of a smart answer, so salvaged as much pride as I could with this rude lie.

  “Okay, if that’s the way you want it,” was Gina’s curious reply. Showing absolutely no sign of being upset, she swung herself on to a brand new girl’s bike, provided by Mrs Grover at The Grange I supposed, thinking of the rusty hand-me-down which was what I had, and pedalled off.

  I saw Gina quite a lot after this, either wheeling a big pram containing the Grover twins or heaving a lawn mower around their garden or just biking in the village on her own. She always shouted “Hi, there” and every time her stupid teeth looked even whiter. Of course, I never answered.

  Interest in her soon died away, being replaced by more important things like football. After one or two further sessions under the street lamp, she ceased to feature in gang discussion. Naturally, Frank Blunt got in a claim to have had her behind the pavilion, adding the standard details about minge size and greasiness but nothing about mouths or backsides. Nobody disputed him, either believing because they wanted to, since if he had got it, “it” remained a possibility for them as well, or because if they showed too open a disbelief, they would find his fist in their face or boot up the goolies.

  I kept my trap shut as well. Partly because I too liked minge stories, partly because he was bigger than me, and partly because I had seen him duck down behind a wall to avoid Gina when he spotted her coming down the street towards him.

  It wasn’t long after the arrival of this Canadian, not that she had anything to do with it, that I lost two of my virginities, within hours of each other. In neither case could I claim any credit for taking the initiative. I didn’t score, I was scored against. And although for obvious reasons I was never exactly the same afterwards, neither loss did anything to change my life.

  One Saturday afternoon, I and some other lads biked over to the next village to support our football team in a semi-final. City were away, it was decent weather, and there was nothing better to do.

  The boys I went with seemed all right. I didn’t know them that well, most were a bit older, and none were in our gang. My real comrades weren’t there. They had either been taken by their fathers to follow City on the away game or were doing something else with their families. Frank Blunt said he had a date at the pictures with some “pushover” or other.

  We stood on the squiggly whitewashed touchline for the first half, cheering our team and exchanging insults and the odd push-and-shove with lads from the other village. All routine stuff, nothing serious. At half-time, there was no score. We hung around our players for the break, partly to make sure they knew we were there, which might help get us into the team in a few years, partly to grab our share of the lemonade and orange slices that were being passed round.

  About ten minutes into the second half, the other team broke away and three of their forwards came steaming down the pitch towards our end. Apart from the goalie, who was jumping up and down on his line calling to the defenders to get back to where they effing well should be, only our centre-half was anywhere near. He was a big bugger called Ray Oxby, though to us he was commonly known as Mighty Joe Young, a tribute to his size and hairiness inspired by the gorilla of that name in a King Kong kind of film we had all recently seen at the village hall.

  You know that bit from the Bible on the Lyle’s Golden Syrup tin? “Out of the strong came forth sweetness.” Well, it didn’t apply to Mighty Joe Young. He was a nasty piece of work. But you couldn’t say he didn’t get stuck in. He put on a good turn of speed and went in feet first against their pack of forwards. There was a loud cracking noise, followed by a great bellow from Mighty Joe Young: “Christ, I’ve broken my bloody leg!”

  He had, as well. It was too big a job for our trainer with his bucket of water and magic sponge. While the other team clustered around the stricken Mighty Joe Young, our lot stood or sat in little groups or nipped back to the touchline for more lemonade. One or two made a big show of getting cigarettes from their wives or girl friends and lighting up. The referee came off and bullied one of the locals into biking to the nearest phone to call for an ambulance from the city hospital.

  We were obviously in for a long wait. To pass the time, and to avoid going on the pitch to express any sympathy for Mighty Joe Young, I joined with the others, first in a scratch football game against the lads from the rival village, then when we got tired of that, in some aimless wrestling and chasing around.

  For no particular reason, I ended up through the hedge and into the next field with a boy from our side called Roy Seager. He wasn’t as tall as me, which was saying something, but he was stocky and keen, and in the general scuffling had proved as good as anyone else. We eyed each other, not saying anything. All of a sudden, this Roy Seager bent down, picked up a stone, threw it at me, and galloped off across the field. More surprised by the running than the throwing, I hesitated for a minute before setting out in pursuit. The stone had sailed harmlessly by me. I bore no grudge for this attack; I would have done the same, had I spotted a stone first.

  By the time I caught up with him, Roy Seager had reached a patch of long grass and cow parsley in front of a ditch. He was sitting in it, looking puffed out. I stood over him and was trying to decide just where to kick him when he reached up, pulled me down, and thumped me in the solar plexus. I lay there winded. When I got my breath back, I became aware of him unbuttoning my trousers and sticking his hand into my fly and dragging out my thing.

  “Hey, stop it,” I objected automatically, more out of surprise than anything. “What are you up to?”

  Roy Seager didn’t answer. By now, he was sitting flat on my chest with his back to me. I couldn’t move. Once he had my thing pulled through the tangle of underpants and flies, he started to jerk it. I shouted at him to stop, it was hurting, especially when he began to peel the foreskin back from the tip. He took no notice and carried on, himself making no noise of any kind. Then, without being aware of any change of action on his part or reaction on mine, I reali
sed that it wasn’t hurting any more, in fact it was feeling all right in a way I couldn’t have described, though this pleasure was mixed with a new sensation of alarm as I understood that my thing had doubled in size. So as not to give anything away, I continued to tell him to stop it. He did, but only after a final tweak that made me feel like I was bursting open.

  Roy Seager released me and got off. I sat up and anxiously examined my thing. It was red from all the jerking, and there was a trail of bubbly white running down from the tip. I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of either complaint or thanks, and there didn’t seem anything else to say, so without a word we walked back to see if the match had started again. It turned out that the ambulance still hadn’t come. After another twenty minutes or so, the referee blew his Acme Thunderer whistle three times and announced with great self-importance that the game would have to be abandoned. Everybody started to drift away, the players more quickly than the spectators. Mighty Joe Young lay where he had fallen, alone now except for the referee and the trainer who was still flapping around uselessly with his bucket and sponge.

  I hung about until everyone else had set off. I wanted to bike home by myself. Despite my surprise at what had taken place in the long grass and the way it had been done, I knew what it was all about. Although backwards in sexual experience, especially compared to those lads who had sisters, I was, thanks to Frank Blunt and the gang elite, well aware of the basics, above all about tossing off. It was simply something that I hadn’t got around to trying for myself. While I couldn’t help noticing that I had grown hair “down there”, regular checks with the tape measure from my granny’s sewing basket had convinced me, even using millimetres instead of inches, that I wasn’t yet ready to blast off. Now, although the tossee not the tosser, I had joined the facts of life, at least in a small way. As I biked back, a little stiffly, I was thinking that, with the details suitably changed, I would have my first starring role in the gang’s next session on this subject.