The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 12: Over 40 outstanding pieces of short erotic fiction (Mammoth Books)

by Jakubowski, Maxim

  When I returned to my bedroom, I found a note, just two words written in charcoal, on thick white paper that he’d slipped under the door. The note read, “Clean it”. So, before I put it back in the box, I licked the cock, from the bulbous head, down the shaft, to the base, which was sticky with cunt. I didn’t wash my mouth afterwards. I went to bed with the taste of pussy coating my tongue.

  Weeks went by, and those were the only two words that I had from him. If it had not been for the gifts, I might have felt that he was angry, or had abandoned me, and perhaps left the job. But the corsets, and the dildo, and the tissue paper and satin ribbons, and the wearing of his gifts every day made me feel as though he were with me all the time, giving me instructions. I began to spend more and more time at the estate, until in the end I stopped going home at all. I didn’t need to go home for more clothing because Sir provided me with it, if you could call it that. Groceries were delivered. I didn’t miss my studies or my friends, because when I was working for him, I felt as though the rest of the world was muffled, and I couldn’t see, or hear, or feel anything other than the aching of my arms, scrubbing, and the rubbing of whatever device he had set out for me to wear.

  My parents became concerned, and rang the house. I unplugged the phones. He became my world.

  One day, the flame-haired woman I had seen in the picture on his desk returned to the house for another sitting. That day was the first day in six weeks that he had left me no package. So, I cleaned the house naked, and barefoot. He had left the door to his studio ajar, and when I had finished with the bottom floor and reached the top of the stairs, I could see straight in. She was sitting astride the copper horse. She was about twice the size of me, and it suited her. Everything about her was full. She had an air of ripeness, of heaviness. Her breasts were each the size of a cantaloupe, and they hung down, her nipples almost reaching her belly. She had thick thighs, outstretched over the saddle. Her skin was nearly as pale as mine and her hair bright red. She had hair under her armpits as well. She was rubbing herself against the leather saddle, and moaning. I could smell her scent from the doorway, a rich, almost overpowering odour of sweat and cunt.

  He must have heard me at the door. “Come in,” he said. I stepped into the room. “No,” he said, without moving his head in my direction. “Crawl.”

  “Yes, Sir,” I replied, and I got down on my hands and knees, and crawled towards him. I noted that I had not been able to clean this room properly for some time, as I felt the dust and grit scratch my skin.

  “Lick her feet,” he said, as I got closer.

  She clenched her thighs around the saddle and moaned. I knelt, lifting my face towards her, and began to lick the top of her left foot. Her toenails were painted red, and her skin was soft, as if she’d recently had a pedicure. She tasted clean and sweet, and, to my surprise, I enjoyed it. The sensation of licking was not unlike the sensation of scrubbing, and I lost myself in the rhythm of it just as easily.

  “Suck her toes,” he said, and I did, as if each of them were a small penis. She pushed herself harder and harder against the saddle, bucking, and I sucked her toes harder and harder, until she came. When she came, she gushed, a fountain of liquid rushed down her thighs, some of the drips falling into my mouth.

  “Clean it,” he said.

  She sighed, arching backwards, and I ran my tongue up her leg, gulping mouthfuls of her liquid. It was still hot. I licked it from the saddle, my tongue rasping against the leather. As I reached higher up her thigh I stood and bowed my head between her legs, to suck the last of it from her bush. I had only ever seen my own vagina in a mirror, and had the occasional glimpse of female friends dressing in the swimming pool changing rooms. They had all been trimmed, or shaved. My own was natural, but it grew softly and sparsely, almost like down, so I didn’t feel the need to do anything with it. She had the hairiest pussy I had ever seen. After her orgasm, her lips were relaxed, like an open mouth. I pressed my face against her hair and ran my tongue around the inside of her folds, and she shuddered.

  “Good girl”, he said. “That’s enough. Get back on your knees.”

  I returned to all fours and crawled towards him, until I was close enough to rest my head on his leg, if he would let me. He reached out a hand, and stroked my hair.

  The woman got up, gathered her clothes, and left without another word.

  When evening grew, I did not ask for the light to be switched on. I sat, curled against his thigh, as he sketched into the night, well after the shadows leapt into the room. The moon shone against his face, and as the dark gathered around us, he put down his charcoal and his sketchbook, and he held my head gently against his leg until we both fell asleep, each leaning against the other.

  In the morning, he handed me the sketchbook. The picture was not of the red-haired woman, but of me, and as I had expected, it was a remarkable likeness. He’d drawn me on the copper horse, with my back arched, my head back, my breasts pointing into the air. But he had not drawn me in the throes of sexual ecstasy. Instead, I looked as contented as a cat stretching, like a person who has finally found their way home.

  The Reading

  Michael Hemmingson

  1.

  It was a short flight from LA to San Francisco and I drank as many of those little bottles of vodka as I could to get smashed: a needed condition for what I was about to go through. Yeah, I was nervous; I was informed that 200 tickets to the reading had been sold, and they expected many walk-ups. Two hundred? There was a time when I didn’t even sell that many copies of a twenty-four-page chapbook of poems. My publisher had called before I left and said Ugly Girls Are the Most Loving Creatures from Hell was going to a seventh printing, 15,000 more copies this time, and we had sold 75,000 so far. “A miracle,” said my publisher, “verse never sells like this.”

  “Two hundred plus,” I mumbled as I slugged down my seventh vodka, one for each printing. Two hundred?! The most people who had ever come to my readings in Los Angeles were maybe thirty or twenty-five. Or twenty. The little cafés and bars, the independent bookstores.

  “I’ll have another in advance for the eighth printing,” I told the sexy young stewardess. Maybe she wasn’t that sexy or that young but I was at the point where every woman in the world looked like Venus to me.

  She smiled and fetched me another.

  “They say 200 pre-sold tickets,” I said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m doing a poetry reading to a big crowd of literary lovers, shovers and shakers and scalawags alike,” I said. “Hell, I’m fucking famous, did you know that?”

  She smiled and got me a ninth, and then a tenth, and then said she could not serve me anymore because we were about to land. I tipped her $10, the last money I had in my wallet. Those fuckers in San Fran better treat me well and pay what they promised.

  A tall skinny fellow with a long beard and ponytail was waiting for me as I stumbled off the flight. What was his name?

  “Mr Willis?” he said. “Danny Willis?”

  “That be I,” said I.

  “Chuck Bellows,” and he held out his hand.

  “Bellows, yes, we talked much on the phone. I didn’t envision you to be so tall. I saw in my mind a short fellow, a short Bellows, with thick glasses.”

  He laughed, and so did the woman standing next to him. Was this his daughter, girlfriend, wife, student? She seemed so young, wearing tight jeans and a halter top. Her blonde hair was cut very short, almost Jarhead style. Well, this was San Francisco.

  “This is Cindy,” Bellows said.

  “I’m a big fan of your work,” she said.

  I grabbed her, hugged her, kissed her. “I love all my fans, especially the pretty and sexy ones!”

  She giggled. “And the ugly and fat ones?”

  “All of them! Bring them on! Brigham Young! I dig Mormon chicks, too, baby, the more the merrier!”

  I was drunk all right, and feeling good about life . . . except for this reading.

  �
��We need to get going, your flight was late coming in,” said Bellows.

  I had no idea what time it was.

  “Can we stop off at a bar?” I asked.

  “No time.”

  “We’re in real time, my man,” I said. “A liquor store?”

  “Of course,”

  I wanted a quick one at the airport bar, Bellows paid for the vodka tonic. I slammed it down, in real time all right, and off we went. I didn’t care if we were late. Time was nothing to me. I was timeless and giddy.

  He didn’t have a car. No one drove in San Francisco. We took a Yellow Cab. He said there was a liquor store across the street from the venue where I was to read.

  Both Bellows and Cindy had copies of Ugly Girls they wanted me to sign. I signed them while in the back seat of the cab, Bellows on my left, Cindy on my right. I put my hand on her leg and she let it stay there, smiling at me. Bellows put a hand on my leg and smiled and I started to wonder how this fellow Bellows swung. This was San Fran after all.

  At the store, Bellows paid for a pint of vodka and a six-pack of Michelob. I had to piss something bad. Bellows said the men’s room was not working at the venue so I took a piss in the back alley.

  I went in. Back stage. I could hear a lot of voices out there.

  “We’re late by fifteen minutes but they are a patient crowd,” Bellows said.

  “What kind of crowd is this?” I asked.

  “All kinds. Students, poetry fans, actors, professors, collectors, queer and straight, black and brown, white and yellow, you have some hefty fans out there, Willis. We sold 600 tickets total. That’s the legal limit we can let in. We had to turn some people away and they were not happy.”

  I needed more vodka. “Six hundred?” I said.

  “Pretty neat, pretty neat,” Cindy said, handing me a beer.

  “For me?” I said.

  “That beer is for you,” she said.

  “No I mean the 600 lost souls out there, here for me?”

  “You’re famous, man,” said Bellows.

  So I wasn’t lying to the stewardess after all.

  2.

  I was certain I couldn’t do it, that I would choke up and run like a teen geek about to lose his cherry to a street whore with track marks. But once I got on stage and sat down with my pint, my beer, and my notebook of manuscripts, I eased right into the groove as I always did with an audience of three in a coffee shop. With the lights in my face, I couldn’t even see all those people, those staring faces, but I sure could hear them. They laughed in all the right places when I read, and laughed in strange places where the words were never meant to be funny. Maybe they were laughing at me. They liked my comments between poems. “You’re all fakes with your applause,” I accused them, “and I should kick all your asses. I can do it too. I have enough vodka in me. See,” and I finished the pint, “I can beat the fucking shit out of all you phony poseurs but what the hell, you paid to come see me babble, so I will read you some more of my shit,” and they loved it, they cheered and urged me on and chanted my name: “Willis! Willis! Willis!”

  I heard a woman yell: “I WANT TO SUCK YOUR COCK, WILLIS! I WANT TO EAT YOUR SPERM!”

  “Well, c’mon up, baby, and do it,” I replied. “Right here on stage, in front of all these fine people.”

  I heard a commotion, saw a woman in a short dress head to the stage. She tripped on her feet and fell face down. Some people helped her up and walked her out of the auditorium.

  “She’s drunker than I am,” I said into the microphone. “And hell, under all these lights and after all this booze, I’m not sure I would be able to cum in her mouth for her.”

  Applause.

  There was a big commotion outside. A group of skateboard punks who were turned away at the door, the max number of tickets sold, wanted in and were making a fuss.

  “Let them in!” I yelled. “For the fuck sake of literacy among the young, let them in!”

  I didn’t see it, but apparently the cops came by and hauled the skateboarders away for public disturbance. If I could do it over again, I would’ve gotten up and opened the door and welcomed those little fuckers with open arms – and taken their cash for entry, of course. This was not just art: it was commerce, and my next meal and drink.

  3.

  It was weird, but I liked it. I signed books after. Moved 310 copies. The publisher would be pleased. Three women had me sign their tits and one guy wanted me to sign his cock, but when he whipped it out, Bellows and Cindy grabbed him and led him away.

  “I have no problem signing another man’s dick!” I told them.

  4.

  Everyone wanted to buy me drinks, dinner; they wanted to be my best friend and I never had so many friends at one time. San Francisco wasn’t all that bad, and Bellows handed me a wad of twenties and fifties and said it was a grand, my take of the door as promised, two bucks for every ticket sold. I had expected $400. This was better. I had spent my last dough on airplane vodka and was broke, now I would be leaving with a grand. It was comforting to know my poetry could take care of me so well. I definitely needed to write more of the stuff, maybe that novel my publisher hoped I would compose.

  5.

  I demanded we go to Vesuvio’s, across the street from City Lights, because that’s where Jack K. and Allen G. used to hang and I wanted to be all literary and shit. First, Bellows showed me copies of Ugly Girls in the City Lights window. “I’ll have to thank that Ferlingehtti some day,” I said, “even though I can’t stand the crap he calls poetry.”

  In the famous bar, Cindy sat next to me and I touched her leg and she let me. The hand went closer and closer to her crotch. She stopped me before I could cop a feel of her camel toe.

  “Let’s get out of here and have some private fun,” I muttered to her.

  “You should know something, Danny Willis,” she said,

  “You’re married to Bellows?”

  “I’m gay.”

  “A lesbian?”

  “A bonafide dyke.”

  “Wow. The short hair, of course . . .”

  “This is San Francisco,” she said,

  “But you’ve been to bed with men.”

  “Sure. That’s why I went for the other side. Men just don’t know what they’re doing, when it comes to love.”

  “The hell with love.”

  “Don’t worry, there are plenty of ladies here who will be glad to take you to bed tonight,” Cindy said, patting my leg.

  “Is Bellows a fag?” I asked.

  “No. He likes to fuck his grad students, like all these men do.”

  I don’t know about ladies, but our group consisted of a dozen young girls and middle-aged women who all bought me drinks and vied for my attention.

  At some point, I vomited but I am not sure where.

  6.

  I woke up in a strange bed with a naked woman I did not know or remember, and had no idea how I got there and whether or not we fucked. Judging by the dried juices in my pubic hair, I assumed something interesting happened.

  I got out of the bed and found the bathroom. It was a nice and clean bathroom. I threw up in the sink and took a runny hangover shit and painful piss. My urethra seemed to be clogged with pussy juice, or my own cum, or both. Maybe the naked woman was the one who offered to blow me on stage.

  She was awake and smoking a cigarette when I returned. I put my pants on and she remained naked. She had drooping middle-aged tits with dark brown nipples, and a thick bush between her legs. Damn, she was one sexy momma.

  “You OK, Dan? Danny? What do you prefer?”

  “What did you call me last night?”

  “Daddy.” She laughed.

  “Don’t call me that,” I said. “Danny is fine. I’m fine. Got a hangover but it’s to be expected. I’m sorry, but I don’t remember your name.’”

  “Never told you it.”

  “Ah.”

  “Wanda,” she said,

  “Good morning, Wanda. Was last night memorable?
”

  “You don’t remember.” She laughed again.

  “I’m sure it will come to me later on in the day.”

  “It was pretty good,” she said, nodding, “you have a nice thick cock, just the way I like them. I don’t enjoy the length if a man is that way, but I do get off being stretched.”

  “Where are we?”

  “Professor Bellows’ guest room.”

  “Professor? You one of his students?”

  “Colleague. I am also a prof.”

  “Do say. What do you prof ?”

  “Postmodern American literature.”

  “That’s a myth.”

  “Your book is on my syllabus for two classes.”

  “How kind.”

  “Would love for you to come to my classes and talk to my students.”

  “I’m on the spot, eh?”

  “No need to answer yet, just think about it. Say, how about a morning fuck?”

  “How kind of you,” I said.

  “I try to be a nice, accommodating woman.”

  7.

  Wanda Merritt, Ph.D., was thirty-eight, twice divorced, no kids, and a tenured professor at the same university Bellows worked at. She had published some critical theory books with university presses, the titles of which give me a headache trying to remember, something about the virtual ghost in the electronic double of postmodern blah blah. She was a great fuck, though, and could deepthroat my cock, which made her a winner in my opinion.