After a while she said, “It’s Patel, isn’t it?” Her voice was high-pitched, her accent very English. She had auburn hair and freckles on her face and neck. I wondered how far down they went.
I looked up, as if I’d been distracted. “What? Oh, sorry, Mrs Arkle. Yes, I am Patel.” The fact that she knew my name was a definite plus.
“Samit?”
I nodded. “How . . . how do you know that?” I hadn’t been in her husband’s class since the second year.
She smiled. “I like to keep up with the school’s promising pupils. You’re going to try for Cambridge, aren’t you?”
“Yes, natural sciences.”
She walked up to me. “Really? And what’s your favourite subject?”
This was going better than I had dared to hope. “Biology,” I lied. In fact, chemistry was much more to my taste in class, though you could say that practical biology kept me going in my spare time.
“How interesting,” she said, her breath playing on my cheek. “And what experiments have you carried out recently?”
She was hooked, there was no doubt about it. I looked past the tree and took in the crowd cheering as some poor souls dragged themselves round the track.
“Human reproduction,” I said, gazing into her green eyes.
“Indeed,” she said, her voice low. “Give me five minutes, then come to the house.”
I nodded and raised my book to deflect attention, not that I could make out any of the words. I didn’t trust my watch and counted the seconds one by one. Then I walked down the line of trees and stepped quickly away. My blood coursed through me like lava and my heart was fluttering.
The front door was unlocked. I went in and immediately saw a lacy, pale yellow bra on the staircase. Further up was her blouse, then her skirt. No other underwear, but I could live with the idea of removing it.
There was a shoe on the landing and another outside one of the doors. I went towards it, my stomach clenching in anticipation.
Lucy Arkle was lying on the double bed, her arms above her head and her legs wide. She was wearing split-crotch panties the same colour as her discarded bra. Her pubic hair was a deeper shade of red than I’d expected. It acted like a magnet for my eyes and cock, which was fighting to break free. The freckles were all over her breasts.
“Come here, darling boy,” she said, beckoning me forward. When I got there, she touched my distended trousers with delicate fingers, then unzipped me. I got myself naked in seconds.
“Human reproduction, eh?” Lucy said, a touch of alarm in her voice.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got protection.” I reached for my jacket.
“Not yet. I want to see everything first.” She gave me a broad smile. “Boys your age recover very quickly.”
So I wasn’t the first. That took the wind from my spinnaker for a couple of seconds, then she began to move her fingers, soft as a butterfly’s wings, up and down my rod. I got on to the bed, then lowered myself on to her belly.
“Mmmm,” she groaned, as I rubbed her nipples. They were also a dark red hue and lengthened considerably.
“Mmmm,” I said in return, grinding my arse against her pubic hair. “Stand . . . by . . .” Then I fountained high into the air above her, the jissom landing in splats across her face, neck, breasts and stomach.
“So much,” she moaned. “I hope . . . there’ll . . . be more.”
I passed the time till my balls refilled giving her a good tonguing. She bucked like a drowning fish, rubbing her tits with my spunk till she came in a crescendo of screams that I was sure would be heard by the neighbours.
Soon afterwards, my tool was ready for action again. We went at it from the front, behind – she had a wonderful arse – side by side, spoons, you name it. I was all right because I needed some time. The problem was Lucy. She was squealing and barking again, panting and covered in sweat. The police would be round soon looking for a murderer. I decided to bring things to their conclusion.
I got her on her back, slipped myself in and pulled her legs over my shoulders. That way my finger could reach her backside. She struggled when I put it in, but quickly submitted. We got into a good rhythm and I could feel myself approaching climax.
“Oh my God,” she said, pushing me back. “Condom!”
It was too late, I wasn’t going to break off now. But I could understand her reluctance to end up with a mixed-race child. So I withdrew, spat on my finger and rubbed it around her arse, then pushed down on her and introduced my cock into her tight brown hole.
“No . . .” she said, hands on my chest again, “no . . . no . . .” Then a grin spread over her lips. “Yes . . . yes . . . YEEEEEEES!”
I emptied myself into her, the strokes more frequent because of the unaccustomed tightness. My climax seemed like it would never stop.
But, of course, it did. I got away without being arrested or spotted by a nosy neighbour. After Lucy Arkle, the remaining girls didn’t do much for me, not that I denied them.
I finished school soon afterwards. But those girls and women, I’ve never forgotten them.
And, now, neither will you.
Exquisite Corpse
Aimee Nichols
His Feet
He finds his own feet a bit of a turn-on.
He doesn’t do anything special to them, not really. He’s seen other guys who paint their nails, rid themselves of all foot and toe hair. He thinks that looks nice enough, just as it does when women do it, but looking at the foot fetish websites has made him realize that he’s not interested in anyone else’s feet.
He’s not interested in other men. He’s not interested in other male body parts.
He’s never said anything outright to any of his lovers. One seemed to know, and would lean backwards and stroke his feet as she rode him. Never for very long though, as the position was sadly impractical from a comfort standpoint.
But he’s started doing yoga, and he’s pretty pleased with how well he’s progressing with the Baddha Konasana. It’s only a matter of time.
My Thigh
The threads of my fishnets form slightly different patterns this far up on my thigh. Not like the girls on the packaging where it stays pretty much the same all the way up. Past my knee, the holes in my fishnets transform into hundreds of tiny mouths, gasping, caught wide in a moment of some undefined emotion. Heading to the apex where they become fraught diamonds, the place where flesh threatens to spill through.
My right leg has won this particular battle, its victory two small, strategic snappings of thread. Flesh pouts out from it, a sensitive little mound all softness and nerve endings. I stroke it and tremble; it is like finding a new clit, so close to my old one that surely I’m being greedy.
All night I keep my hand under the table, skirt rucked up, and play with my new treasure. No one at the table of National Party MPs even notices.
Her Genitals
She has always found the things not quite said to be the most interesting. Her friends laugh at jokes about budgie-smugglers, sneer at guys with their singlets and shorts too tight in summer. The idea of the male body as a thing of beauty, to be displayed and looked over, fills them with revulsion.
She feels a little bit differently. In high school photography class, her appreciation of Max Dupain’s work was a little more furtive than everyone else’s. Discovering beefcake photography was like finding the holy grail. She ogles the tight swimming trunks, the skimpy little swimmers, the designer underwear. She traces over the pronounced bulges with her thumbnail, biting her lip, imagining the heat and silkiness that would be present in real life. Her favourite combination is white and wet, where the skin shows through, just a little, and contours are all the more sharp.
She likes the same look on herself. She puts on high-waisted white cotton knickers, the kind her friends would call granny knickers, and watches in the mirror as she pulls them up, up until they bunch and fold and cleave, her lips pouting through them. She rests her vibrator against the cotto
n gusset and focuses on the warming of fabric and flesh.
His Torso
If she could burrow her way into his chest and live there, she would. She doesn’t tell him this because she senses it would be a little weird to reveal her desire to be a parasite in his body.
His chest and stomach are muscle, enveloped in fat, coated thickly with hair. She understands what a bear is now; that special combination of softness and the power to tear flesh apart at the slightest whim. A fierce, wild being popularly rewritten as a cuddly companion.
She wishes she could name every hair on his chest. She runs her fingers through the forest on his stomach, up to his nipples, and squeezes.
His Hands
His hands are just as big as they need to be.
People have given him shit for them all his life. His father was a proper burly blokey bloke who took up all the space and air in every room he walked into, with big rough dirty-nailed hands with which he made his living. He never quite got over his bemusement and offence at having such a girly man for a son, smallness and soft skin and clean nails all adding up to the crime of limp-wristedness.
Many of his friends have been no better. His hands scream pampered desk job in a world that sees rugged outdoorsyness as a virtue. The world is divided about his hands, divided into camps of those who know what he can do with them and those who do not.
Now his hand is inside her, fist bunched tight. She has enveloped him, and he barely dares breathe, let alone move, as she writhes against the bed, there on the end of his arm. Her arousal flows around his hand, into the folds of his clenched fist, drips down to his wrist outside. She clenches and convulses around him, making sounds that in all his life he’s never heard before, and finally he understands.
His hands are just as big as they need to be.
My Head
My brain has basically been a custom porno theatre since I was twelve years old. A few things happened that year: I got the Talk, and I saw my first nudie magazine. Compared to some of what I hear kids watch on the Internet these days, seeing a smiling, pretty young woman spreading her pussy lips with her fingers seems damned tame by comparison.
Moralists like to rant about gateways. Gateway drugs, gateways and stepping stones into various realms of vice. That magazine, pilfered from a friend’s older brother, was my gateway into sexual fantasy, and into porn.
They say your brain is your biggest sexual organ and my biggest sexual organ can encompass everyone and everything. In my mind I’ve fucked pretty much all of the guys working in porn today, a decent proportion of the women, as well as boyfriends of girlfriends, girlfriends of boyfriends, attractive people I see on the street and around everywhere, and particularly of note the guy who works the night shift at my local 7-Eleven; we’ve had some damned kinky cerebral good times.
I don’t see a raging pervert when I look in the mirror; I see a pretty ordinary twenty-something woman, albeit one with a knowing little smirk that never quite seems to get wiped away. Only the most trusted of lovers get to see inside to what’s really there, and only if I think they can handle it.
In the outside world I am meekpolitenicegood, all these characteristics ascribed to girls like me, I play them like a virtuoso. In my head I taste and fuck the world.
Alice Before her Period
Emma Becker
Translated by Adriana Hunter
There is something worse than not making love to Alice, and that’s doing it when she’s in a bad mood. It doesn’t matter what she’s annoyed about; it might be something two days back or first thing that morning, it might not be about anything at all, just rooted in the unfathomable mysteries of Alice’s dear heart, but she’s completely consumed by it. And although taking her when she’s blazing with hate like this can be a turn-on, it’s a challenge not to be taken lightly, and one that encourages analysis as well as empathy. Not that you don’t enjoy it yourself but you’d have to be extraordinarily stupid to believe the contortions and gesticulations she instinctively comes up with to avoid being asked too many questions. There are impressive storms lurking behind that stubborn forehead, thunderclaps to make you shudder, and it doesn’t take much for them to break out; the tiniest lapse and her glaring indignation comes to roost in the crease of an eyebrow, but what was the lapse, when and why?
One afternoon Emmanuel collapses on top of her panting, having teetered on the brink of death-by-orgasm only seconds before. Because yes, it has to be said, even in a filthy mood she’s still a prime receptacle, her thighs heartbreakingly soft, her muddle of blonde hair and those incisors laid bare in a half-open mouth. And counter-intuitively, counter to her wishes (I mean, why submit to a fake communion of souls when all you have to offer are furious imprecations?), she has quite a repertoire of hip gyrations that don’t really belong to someone harbouring a glowering temper. Maybe she pushes just a teensy bit less, to sow the seeds of doubt, to make you aware there’s a problem. However wily she may be, though, Alice doesn’t realize that it’s precisely this deliberate lethargy, this obvious grudgingness that actually makes you come. The feeling you’re taking her slightly against her will is so unusual that you find you’re obsessing about the escalating pleasure written on her face, and the fury this provokes in her – exactly like a rapist. She’ll hold back genuine proof of delight as long as she possibly can, trotting out only the crudest signs, the sort that make you want to slap her and crucify her with your cock, and suddenly the only reliable part of her body are her ears which just can’t help flushing red, unlike her shameless liar of pussy.
Legend would have it that during lovemaking a woman’s parts have a life of their own, but you should see Alice’s when she’s made up her mind to take you for a ride – it’s enough to make you really hate women and their diabolical cleverness! They very soon realize their cries aren’t enough to fool you, and the bitches (and Alice is the most fascinating example of the genre) start faking the involuntary and utterly poetic contractions their insides make in the heat of battle. They imitate that indecipherable sort of Morse code, one sustained squeeze, two shorter ones, putting together the lie as if assembling a bouquet; and when the time comes not to reach orgasm, these paler-by-the-minute and pinker-by-the-minute, incomparable and insufferable actresses dig their nails into your arm and tighten their pussies in a single wonderful gulp that intensifies and, rather poignantly, locks tight at the end. Who can you trust then, if even the part of the body that’s meant to surrender first is in on the conspiracy?
What a performance Alice puts on! What a feat of engineering, lubricated to perfection, complicated by the fact that she hates having a hump when she’s got the hump. How inhuman, when you come to think of it! Lying on a bed of deliciously tangled hair, she affects the agonizing swoon of a Bernini statue, the tendons in her thighs apparently strained to breaking point, her little stomach heaving helplessly in and out, her cheeks filling angrily with breath so she looks like a cute caricature of the Greek god of the wind. Alice gasps, she has the cheek to sigh “Yes, yes!”, tenses all her muscles and cavorts wildly on the mast that’s impaling her. You’d think she was on the brink of overdosing and having a heart attack at the same time. This is when Emmanuel realizes that, simulated though it may be, the masquerade had him all the way, the concept that she might not be experiencing pleasure is grotesque, she’s so exultant! Her half-open mouth produces throaty sort of gurglings that just can’t be faked, every inch of her undulating body exudes an intoxicating musky sweat and you can feel a jittery engine thrumming beneath her skin, the drum roll of her heels spurring you in the buttocks, her tunnel of wonders widening then clamping its gums like a newborn, every last bit of Alice holding its breath before the final spasm when she completely loses herself . . . and at the height of all this turbulence, just as Emmanuel comes, staring at her with bulging eyes, she opens hers, her blue liar’s eyes, her whore’s eyes, disgustingly calm and knowing, parked implacably between her eyelashes, and – amidst all that euphoria – they speak for h
er, saying she didn’t come, no, she didn’t come and you can go to hell. It’s like a bucket of cold water as he shoots his load, but there’s nothing for it now except to accept that she may be a manipulative bitch and a stupid cow rolled into one but she’s still just as fantastically fuckable; she can’t fake that or help herself, she can’t stop her little breasts bouncing or her cleft from making a slight squeal with each intrusion – whatever you do, Alice, however clever you may be, when it comes down to it you’re still just a nice hot hole with pretty bits and bobs moving about around it.
That’s how to redress the balance a bit: as he leans into her forehead and comes, Emmanuel thinks and you can go to hell too. She really does ask to be insulted, this geisha who even imitates those exhausted, post-orgasmic gasps, apparently identifying the moment when he’s expelled the last drop and given the last sigh and when his anger at being conned is tussling half-heartedly with his pleasure, his undiminished pleasure.
Once the curtain has fallen, though, the audience would be wasting their breath asking for an encore. Alice furiously pulls away from the weight bearing down on her, and lies there on her back, wide-eyed. And in those eyes are all the mysteries of the world with their non-Euclidian angles and their ungodly contours, impenetrable whichever way you approach them. She risks a sideways glance with a flicker of distant contempt for having been believed – because she herself believes in her strategies, she puts enough faith in them to feel they stand up on their own. Filthy little bitch.
The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 12: Over 40 outstanding pieces of short erotic fiction (Mammoth Books) Page 18
