The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 7

by Maxim Jakubowski

  “Hey,” I hissed, smacking her with my bouquet. “Get your ass up. We gotta get out of here.”

  Molly got up. We still had to struggle like hell to get my damn dress on, though. But finally, with me holding tight to the doorknob and Molly pulling with all her might, we got the dumb thing clasped. But my problems were far from solved. My tits were barely stuffed into the dress. My cleavage looked like it was going to rise up and strangle me. And my hair, which had been professionally done just an hour earlier, was poking all over the place. My face was flushed. I was as sweaty as if I’d just gotten home from the gym. A heel had snapped off one of my shoes.

  Molly didn’t look any better except her dress actually fit.

  “I look like a fucking prostitute,” I said, staring at the mirror.

  “Just hold your bouquet in front of your tits. We gotta go.”

  So the two of us, sweaty, flushed, hair all over the place, opened the door. My husband-to-be looked like he was going to faint.

  I smelled like sex. You know that scent. It lingers, that smell of a good fuck.

  Molly reeked, too. Everyone must’ve sniffed it. How could they not?

  My poor hubby-to-be kept giving me this look. It’s hard to describe, but I’d say it was three parts sheer terror, one part ready-to-burst-into-tears and one part “Wow!” The best man couldn’t take his eyes off my tits. Well, that’s not true. Sometimes he’d take a break to glance at Molly’s ass.

  Mom and Dad? I couldn’t even look at them.

  And the judge? Well, I’ve already told you about his hard-on. It was one hell of a boner.

  I mean, I could see the outline of his cock through his robes. That’s pretty impressive. So don’t think I’m a total slut when I tell you that I just couldn’t stop myself from inching close enough during the ceremony to gently brush against that magnificent tool.

  Greg has a nice dick. But nice is all it is. This judge’s? Don’t let any woman tell you size doesn’t matter. Those robes were holding back a monster dick. Eight, nine inches? Maybe even the magical ten.

  I tried to stop thinking about it or staring at it. Really, I did. But it was hopeless. It was like trying to ignore an elephant in your living room. So – and this is shameful stuff – I started to slowly rub that cock with my knee. I wanted to see if I could make it bigger. I could. And I did. I noticed then that I was licking my lips. And my cunt was getting wet all over again. I tried to ease some of the heat down there, but it was no good.

  The judge was yakking away, all that wedding-ceremony babble that judges have to say to hitch two people. He must’ve said those same words thousands of times. But I could tell he was nervous. He kept stumbling over the phrases. I caught him saying the wrong word more than once.

  I did a horrible thing, then. I made life even tougher for that poor judge. I jutted my chest forward, just enough to heave my tits directly in his line of vision. He could have counted the freckles if he’d been so inclined.

  What was I doing? Good question. Watching the judge stutter, watching him try to tear his eyeballs away from my tits, watching the sweat bead on his forehead made me hotter than I’d been since . . . oh, five minutes earlier with Molly.

  I’m not some heartless bitch. I did look over at my husband. Greg’s a good man: hard-working, smart, kind. And, like I said, he doesn’t have the worst dick in the world. But, and I can’t emphasize this enough, that judge’s dick was huge!

  Next I did something really slutty. I dropped my bouquet so I’d have to pick it up. And I made sure to move slowly, giving the judge an even better look at my tits. He stopped talking and gasped.

  There’s something thrilling about being so bad. I was turned on something fierce. I wanted to grab the front of mom’s wedding dress and tear it from my body. I wanted to jump the judge and feel his rock-hard dick pressing against my ass cheeks. I wanted to split those cheeks and force that cock inside me.

  And as I grabbed my dropped flowers, a wicked thought hit me: “What if I accidentally bump the judge’s dick on the way up?” So that’s what I did. First, I grazed my head against his crotch, slow, along the length of his shaft. Then I tipped my head back so my eyes could feast on that amazing piece of meat. It was such a nice sight I took my sweet time moving the rest of my face up the judge’s robes. Did anyone notice? I didn’t give a damn. I could smell the judge’s dick through his robes, for fuck’s sake, could feel its heat against my skin. Nothing was going to keep my face from that monster.

  I pictured his dick – long, thick, purple head, covered with crisscrossing blue veins. I imagined that salty pre-come that would dribble from its head. I imagined the erotic shock it would give my tongue.

  And then I pictured that massive cock banging into my cunt. In my mind the judge was a wild lover, fierce. He’d slam into me over and over, not giving a damn whether he was being gentle or tender or kind, not giving a shit about my feelings. No, the judge of my fantasies was a sex machine, a robot with a horse cock. It would feel like my insides were going to split.

  It was fucking awesome.

  And hey, how bad was it, anyway? Bad enough to cancel a wedding? A wedding I’d spent the last six fucking months planning? To cancel a very expensive reception at the finest downtown hotel? I mean, what was it really? I just barely – the quickest, slightest flick of the tongue, really – gave his cock the tiniest lick. And, hell, I did it through all those robes. It’s not like I opened his fly.

  It’s not my fault that the judge’s stamina wasn’t as big as his dick. And it’s not my fault that the motherfucker yells like a girl when he comes, either. But that’s what happened. I gave him the littlest lick. He shuddered all over, grunted a bit, and then – the moron – he screamed.

  The best man dropped the rings. My Mom ran out of the room. My Dad swore, though he kind of tried to do it under his breath. Molly called me a slut, and didn’t try to do it under her breath. And Greg? I thought he was going to die. He didn’t, of course. He broke into tears, the pussy.

  So, yeah, everyone knew what I was doing. And, yeah again, no one was all that pleased. (Well, maybe the judge.)

  The upshot? I’m single again. Greg hasn’t spoken to me. Neither has Molly, my Dad, or my Mom. The best man? He’s called quite a few times, but I have Caller ID. It wasn’t exactly the wedding of my dreams.

  Worst of all, the judge won’t return my calls. All that dick and no balls.

  One good thing did come from it: I threw my mom’s wedding dress in the trash. Next time I’ll buy my own fucking dress.

  Abstinence Makes the Heart Grow

  J. D. Munro

  “Pelvic rest,” Dr Frank prescribes. Dr Frank is anything but frank. Despite a career based on the consequences of coitus, the obstetrician rarely mentions the carnal act that lands Lucy in stirrups. As if he can hide what his probing fingers are up to, he rearranges the drape between Lucy’s spread knees every time she swats the paper sheet down. he unscrews his medieval instrument and snaps off his lubed latex glove. Rushing off to palpate his next patient, he leaves his assistant to translate the euphemistic instructions to Lucy.

  “Pelvic rest,” the nurse murmurs, handing Lucy a box of tissues. “No lifting, no intercourse, no exercise.” She sandwiches the allusion to naked, intertwined limbs between two acts suitable for teatime small talk, sneaking in the indelicacy like unsuccessfully disguised vegetables in her children’s dinner.

  “No sex?” Lucy clamps the tissue between her legs. “You’re kidding.”

  “Most women would be grateful,” the nurse clucks. “Especially in your condition.”

  Dr Frank advises physical restraint because he can do little else other than monitor the baby’s progress. Despite a barrage of tests, he can’t diagnose the reason for Lucy’s previous miscarriages. So he errs on the side of caution, recommending that she not rock the baby’s boat. Although most expecting women can boff with abandon in between barfing and bathroom visits, refraining is advisable with Lucy’s unfortunate histo
ry of early pregnancy losses. She agrees without legal counsel to everything he demands of her. As if she was in any position to argue, spread like a poked bug on the exam table.

  Raised in the post-feminist era, Lucy had believed that her body was her own to operate as she saw fit. But Dr Frank orders the protection of Lucy’s vaginal domain like her father issuing curfew twenty years ago, hitting her with the sledgehammer realization that emancipation was a deception. Once this miniature guppy takes up residence inside her, her pussy plays second fiddle. She no longer conducts desire’s melody. Ian’s staccato, long-tailed musicians can swarm her orchestra pit no more. One of the little buggers hit the right note and did the trick, and now her musical score shows only silence: a pelvic Rest mark stretching on for months.

  Lucy resolves to make whatever sacrifices the butterfly heartbeat inside her requires. After all, her mommy friends complain that new parents surrender a great deal, including frequent and spontaneous sex, and none of them seem to mind. Now that Lucy’s about to enter the holy ranks of motherhood, she determines to go cold turkey on profane language and lusty acts. But, once denied her, shtupping is all Lucy thinks about.

  Lucy doesn’t expect turning off the fucking faucet to be difficult, especially given her protective concern over the fluttering life inside her. Taken off guard by the unexpected medical instructions, she doesn’t comprehend its ramifications until she goes home with her new living luggage and forces herself to ignore the waves of desire washing over her. If only she’d seen abstinence coming down the pike, she and Ian would have crash studied the Kama Sutra the night before instead of having a lukewarm quickie.

  “Pelvic rest. Doctor’s orders,” Lucy informs Ian that night as he reaches for her boob. Her chest’s transformation from pubescent to sex goddess proportions not only amazes and arouses them, but also awes them as the only wondrous visible sign of her three-month pregnancy. She backs away from his for the first time since they fought over Lucy’s impetuous desire for a Chihuahua months ago.

  “What’s that mean?”

  “No sex.”

  “Like, no coming, or, you know, like, no, um, the whole nine yards?” Like the doctor, Ian stumbles over precise terminology.

  Lucy hadn’t considered the various interpretations of the doctor’s restriction. Ian thinks “pelvic rest” means no sexual intercourse, specifically, Ian keeping his perpetrating penis out of Lucy’s vulnerable vagina. “Think of all the activity. It can’t be good.” He thrusts his hips to illustrate his point. He doesn’t think “no sex” excludes sixty-nines. But Lucy believes that orgasm must be the dangerous part of the sex equation, because of the powerful contractions of the uterus.

  “Well, okay, no sex, of any kind, period,” Ian shrugs. “Whatever you think is best.” Ian gives up pawing her body too easily for Lucy’s liking. Shouldn’t he look more wounded, like any romance hero would when his damsel rejects his passionate kiss because of nefarious secrets?

  “What do you mean, it’s ‘okay’?” Lucy cries. “It’s not okay. You can give it up, just like that?”

  “No, yes, I mean – Christ, look, what do you want me to say?” Ian rolls his eyes, a genetic behavioral predisposition Lucy hopes the baby will not inherit, although she prays the baby will be blessed with Ian’s swift metabolism. “It has to be okay, right?” Ian folds her into a hug. “We’ll get through this. We’re having a baby.” He squeezes her, hard. He squeezes the concern right out of her, deflating her irritation, and she knows everything will be all right despite the tiny pink judge between her thighs pounding her pearly-gavel and shouting, “Overruled!” Lucy’s body is no longer a democracy of desire. The baby reigns as supreme dictator.

  Lucy is too mortified to call the doctor’s office for a more explicit definition of “pelvic rest”, as if she might give away the secret that she and Ian had copulated for more than the utilitarian purpose of replicating their gene pool. Lucy refrains from any suspect activity. She wants this baby above all else, and surely can handle carnal deprivation for a few months.

  The pregnancy books taunt her, painting gleeful images of pregnant women who experience their first orgasms, most powerful orgasms, or first multiple orgasms once they’re knocked up. With the “engorgement of genitals” (now there’s a sexy term, Lucy thinks) caused by increased blood flow to the pelvic area, sexual response can be heightened. Lucy doesn’t inform Ian that the tight fit may also increase the man’s pleasure – better that he not know what he’s missing. Lucy herself has never come twice. She rips the page out of the book and burns it.

  She successfully ignores her bloated labia, but her swollen breasts torment her. She’s gone from a buoyant B to a dense C cup. Rolling over in bed is sensual torture, as her mammary glands bump into her arms, the pillow, and Ian’s side (how can he sleep so deeply with all this deprivation going on?). With one whispered touch they instantaneously communicate their demands via live wires to her clitoris. She cups her full and hefty breasts in wonder – they now overflow her small palms. Her hands pluck constantly at her underwires to give her enormous areolas room to breathe. Her knockers feel as noticeable as semi-truck headlights. And they’re tender. One lick from her husband’s expert tongue and she’d traverse interstellar erotic realms, transported by haywire hormonal wiring. It makes no sense to her. Once pregnancy is achieved, shouldn’t nature tranquilize the clitoris? There’s no evolutionary purpose in her yoni’s incessant yammering. She surmises that maybe the body craves ample sex in early pregnancy in order to store pleasure before starvation, like Joseph and the grain, predicting sexual drought once the baby arrives.

  Ian sometimes forgets the ban and cups her breasts. Their ardor increases at warp speed when they touch, their skin sizzles, but passion is now as forbidden as the early days of their romance when there was no safe place to do the nasty, not in the twin bed she’d grown up in or in his barracks’ bunk. She pushes him away. Her breasts are a loaded camel marching across the desert tundra of her deprived body.

  Nothing about Lucy’s body signals her to knock off the screwing. Her amorousness increases rather than slackens. She hasn’t had a single morning of nausea. To the contrary, she feels bountiful and ripe for the plucking. Her body wants the sexual congress to stay in session, before she grows as big as a house and Ian’s cock can’t reach her front door. She can hardly bear to give Ian a goodbye peck, she stands so close to the unforgivable gulf of temptation. She hovers on the precipice of sneaking in a quickie, but it’s not like cheating on a diet, when one cookie can’t hurt. If it weren’t for the doctor’s order, she wouldn’t be able to keep her hands off herself.

  Mundane events provoke her ardor. The almost undetectable vibration of water rushing through the garden hose sends her into a paroxysm of desire. Kneading bread dough reminds her of squeezing Ian’s ass. “Rear end,” Lucy mentally corrects herself. And forget the electric toothbrush – she switches to a manual Harry Potter brush so that she won’t try anything under his watchful gaze. The blender, hair dryer, and battery-powered razor are all banned for the current they transmit to her clitoris.

  To give an extra nourishing boost to the fœtus, she navigates progesterone suppositories up her twat twice a day, careful not to brush surrounding erogenous zones. Dr Frank’s pharmaceutical prescription further aggravates her rabid lust, as if he and God are in on a cruel plot to test her forbearance, like giving Job a raging hard-on in addition to his other trials. At first Ian dispensed the pink pussy pills, on the excuse that his long fingers could push them closer to the baby, but Lucy put a stop to his lingering ministrations. Her vagina went into eager spasms at his probing hands, like a piranha sensing the proximity of fresh meat. She administers the bullet-shaped, waxy pills quickly while visualizing explicitly unerotic images such as St Bernards drooling or her cat’s hairballs. But the instant she lies on the bed, her hands prying between her naked thighs, obscene images plague her: naked rock stars kidnapped and bound so that she can ride their pylon cocks; rolling wit
h dark and tortured poets in the crashing surf; frontal and rear views of Antonio Banderas riding horseback nude while calling her name in his irresistible accent; and Ian on a long afternoon in bed with Belgian chocolate and an ice cold bottle of Veuve Clicquot champagne – Ian who knows exactly how to use his fingers or tongue or body to bring her to climax even on difficult days when she thinks she can’t, when she’s too overwhelmed with mundane distractions. He knows how to divert her attention to matters at hand, how to summon her mind to the core of herself that nestles between her legs – ohh! Lucy jumps out of bed, clinical hands smelling of her sex clamped in her armpit, and she furiously scours the toilet in order to redirect her unmatronly thoughts. She will not fuck this up. Mess it up, Lucy corrects herself.

  Between her own fingers, the speculum, the doctor’s gloved hands, test swabs, and the ultrasound wand, about the only thing that never sees the inside of Lucy’s vagina is Ian’s cock, the object that got them into this predicament in the first place. Lucy craves the intimacy of joined bodies, the return of the love act that unifies them each night after the long days in which their opposite personalities and habits drive them apart. He suggests that a blow job might not be against doctor’s orders. The union would be a physical bonding of some sort, at least. But Lucy can’t step down that dangerous road. She could not restrain herself from culminating the desire such an act would arouse. She would slip down the carnal crevasse as surely as a climber scaling Everest in bowling shoes. She calls Ian a typical male for his request. She can’t stand herself.

  “Sophia Loren went to bed,” her mother tells her, “and she finally had a baby.” If luscious, fertile-looking sex symbols like Loren and Marilyn Monroe had trouble maintaining a pregnancy, unremarkable Lucy doesn’t think she stands a chance. Christ, their boobs were child-bearing billboards. Talk about Mother Nature practicing false advertising. Not being stacked, Lucy stacks the odds in her favor and goes to bed. Permanently. Although inactivity will hopefully improve the baby’s chances, total bed rest also allows her to cave in to her growing depression. She worries that she’s not fit for motherhood. What kind of sexual monster is she? What is wrong with her that makes her so goddamned painfully horny all the time? Maybe she is an undiagnosed nymphomaniac? Waves of peace and joy over impending motherhood battle breakers of resentful lust inside her, her Christmas-mind duking it out with her WWF groin. Maybe if she ceases to interact with the world, she can lure her mind out of the gutter. Even the bus driver in his brown polyester uniform looks hot to her. But going horizontal only gives her more time to fixate on not fucking.