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

by Jakubowski, Maxim

  Another appendage tickles my anus. I clamp down against the invasion. The sensations are too exquisite to resist. The fleshy stalk prods my sphincter, circling, tickling, coaxing me open. I struggle in Nangloy’s iron grip. The probe slides into my rectum and I come, thrashing against the fleshy bonds pinning me under the water.

  Globs of semen float on the surface. Nangloy still holds me fast, her beautiful face pale and impassive. There’s a stirring under the water, more stroking and probing. I start to get hard again.

  A fat purple tentacle rises from below, hovering like a blind snake. It flutters across my nipples, then grazes my lips.

  When I scream, it slips inside my mouth. I choke as it slithers halfway down my throat.

  Finally, terror overwhelms my stupid lust.

  I bite down and the tentacle retreats to explore my ear. “Help! Help me!” My weak, thin cries are almost drowned by the sound of waves. Another more slender, column emerges from the murk. It winds round my neck, then enters my nostrils.

  “God, somebody! Help me!’” I rage against the implacable grip of Nangloy’s appendages. I don’t succeed in freeing myself, but I manage to eject most of the water from the tub. Now I can see my lower body, buried in a writhing nest of purple and green tentacles. They all flow from Nangloy’s hips, like some obscene hula skirt. Some are as thick as my arm. Others are thin as spaghetti. And in the center, where the strands radiate out, where her cunt should have been, sits a raw, gaping mouth, making ghastly sucking noises as it contracts and expands. I remember the slick, muscular orifice I’d explored earlier, and shudder.

  There’s a rustle from above. The old man scrambles down the ladder like a crooked-limbed monkey. His grin drives a new spike of panic into my chest.

  “Now look – you damn farang, you get water all over floor. Nangloy needs water. Got to fill her tub again.”

  He opens a port in one wall and tosses out a bucket.

  “Get me out of here, damn you!” I realize that anger won’t help my cause and change my tone. “Please – please – get her off me. I’ll give you money. Lots of money. Ten thousand. Twenty.”

  Nangloy’s keeper pours seawater into the tub. “No want money. Need to feed Nangloy.” He returns to refill his bucket from the ocean below the floor. “My son found her in his net, long long time ago. He couldn’t stay away though. Nangloy, she pretty special. Most beautiful girl in the world.”

  He dumps in two more buckets, ignoring my entreaties, then climbs back up the ladder. The water level rises. I can’t see Nangloy’s lower parts anymore. But I can feel them.

  I’m mostly immobilized now. Tentacles wreathe my thighs and circle my shoulders, slowly pulling me under. Strands of Nangloy’s flesh are embedded in my ears, my throat, my nostrils. That same acid burn follows wherever she touches me.

  She still watches, as I finally relax and accept the inevitable. Her eyes are bottomless, ancient and wise. She doesn’t need her hands to hold me anymore. Instead she palms her breasts and circles her nipples with her thumbs, as though offering them to me. Below, she captures my still hard cock and squeezes tight. A massive probe breaches my loosened anus and burrows up into my intestines.

  The slick walls of her cunt-mouth engulf my cock. I can no longer distinguish pleasure from pain. As she sucks me deeper into her cavernous body, as my flesh starts to dissolve, one last climax shakes me. In that searing explosion of pure sensation, I think that, finally, I understand.

  The Pick-Up Artist

  Alison Tyler

  Valentine’s Day at a singles bar. Life doesn’t get much lonelier than that. Flirty paper hearts were stuck to the mirror on the back of the bar. Shiny Cupids dangled on fishing wire overhead. Keith eyed the girls in their frippery and finery – so much scarlet, fuchsia, and pink. The bartender was pouring carnation-colored Cosmos and cardinal-hued Sea Breezes – anything with a bit of cranberry juice or grenadine. Keith asked for vodka – clear, not pink – and scanned the room.

  Oh, look. There. The brunette with her hair piled high on her head.

  God, she was pretty. In that soft cashmere twinset sort of way. He gazed at her, sitting there at the end of the bar, one of her black patent-leather high heels dangling loosely as she rocked her foot up and down. He wasn’t the only one watching. He could feel the palpable interest of several other men in the dimly lit room. This is why he moved first, trying not to startle her when he came up at her side. She caught his eye in the mirror behind the bar. He could see from the look on her face that she wasn’t the type to startle easily.

  “What are you drinking?” he asked, thinking, Thank God it’s not pink.

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “Curiosity.”

  “You know what they say about curiosity.”

  “Sure, but I’m not a cat.”

  She tilted her head, seemed to take him in fully. “No, you’re not.”

  He picked up her drink, took a sip. Then he slid his own to her.

  “Kettle One,” they said together, and then they both laughed. It was a good start.

  “No Valentine?” he asked.

  She made a face. He hoped she wouldn’t begin that rant about how Valentine’s Day was created by the blowhards at Hallmark. He steeled himself, just in case, but she simply said, “Not this year.”

  That was good. She wasn’t whiny. She wasn’t kicked-to-the-curb depressed. Who’d kick her to the curb, anyway? She also wasn’t desperate. All qualities he could appreciate. They sipped together and didn’t say much, a few words here and there. But he could feel her heat, feel that she was moving her body slightly closer to his whenever she could. He put money on the bar and turned toward the door. He heard her shoes on the hardwood floor, and her hand on his arm stopped him. She couldn’t see the smile on his face.

  No pat line. No, “Your place or mine?” No, “Where to, big guy?” She held him in place with her hand on his arm, and then stood at his side, like they were already a couple.

  Valentine’s Day will do that to you.

  She followed him to his apartment. There was one light on in the office, a golden glow through the papery curtains. Keith waited for her to park, and then went to the side of the car and opened the door for her. When had he last picked up a girl at a bar? That one was easy enough to answer.

  He watched her step onto the pavement. His eyes did that tour of her body again – top to toe – and he smiled. He knew how to choose the right kind of girls.

  She took his hand when they reached the front door, gave his hand a squeeze. For reassurance? Maybe. But reassurance for him or for her? He didn’t bother asking. He slid in the key, opened the lock, and pushed the door open. He had heard that once you lived in a place for a certain period of time, you no longer could appreciate the smells. Could she? Did she notice anything?

  She didn’t seem to. He led her into the kitchen and poured each of them a fresh drink. Kettle One he had on hand. He was aware they weren’t talking much. Not even that nervous chit-chat of getting to know each other. He was glad that the place was so clean – almost monastic. He appreciated good lines, strong angles, no knick-knacks, no clutter. She sipped. He sipped. She laughed. “So this is Valentine’s Day when you’re single.”

  “New to you?”

  She touched the spot on her ring finger, and he saw the white band in the skin.

  “How long?”

  “Long enough,” she said. He touched the spot she’d touched. He saw her shiver, and he bent and kissed the dip of her neck. She leaned her head back and sighed. That was all they needed. One kiss against the kitchen counter, and both were primed. He took her drink, set both vodkas on the counter, and lifted her in his arms.

  He carried her down the hall, past the sleek modern art on the walls. No photographs. He’d always collected the work of local artists, loved living amidst their colors. In the bedroom, he hesitated. Put her on the bed right away, or let her walk to the mattress herself. He didn’t generally hesitate. She grinned at
him and said, “Are you thinking face up or face down?” and he placed her on the mattress. He didn’t bother closing the door.

  She undressed at the same time he did. Speedily. He had on black jeans and a black shirt. She was in a skirt and sweater. They were both nude in a heartbeat, and then he was on her, kissing exactly where he had in the kitchen – but the sensation was different now that they were naked.

  “I didn’t want to be alone,” she said when he began to work down her body. “I couldn’t be alone.”

  He didn’t think she needed a response. Not more than his mouth on the insides of her thighs, his fingertips on her cunt. He licked her skin but not her pussy. With his thumbs, he spread her lips apart and ran circles around her clit. She was the opposite of alone right now, wasn’t she?

  “Valentine’s Day never meant much to me before,” she said, and he thought for an instant that he’d been wrong. She was going to launch on the commercialization and all that shit. But she didn’t. “When you’re part of a pair, you take it or leave it. When you’re all by yourself, every red heart is like a smack in the fucking face.”

  He nibbled at her inner thighs, and then he rolled her over. While she arched, he reached for a condom. Second drawer on the right. He had it on before she could muster a whimper.

  Getting in from behind for the first time was always delicious. He slid his cock in deep from the start. He hoped he’d guessed right about this girl. She’d looked as if she would . . .

  “Oh, God . . .”

  Yeah. He had. She was noisy. That was good. As he slid into her, she bucked and moaned. Her dark hair, so artfully arranged at the bar, was coming loose from the complicated style. Tendrils this way and that. He would have gripped onto a handful if he’d known her better. As it was, he held her hips and moved her to his speed.

  “Oh, Jesus,” the girl groaned. “That feels so fucking good.”

  He wanted to make her feel even better. He slid one hand around her waist so he could rest his fingertips on her clit. She shivered all over when he stroked her very lightly. She was sensitive. He liked that.

  He didn’t pay much attention to his own pleasure. This round was for her. He drove in as deep as he could, and then slowly pulled out. He got her teetering on the edge of pleasure until she had stopped moving completely – trusting him solely to bring her where she so desperately needed to go. As long as she kept making those noises, he was happy. He moved inside her, tickled her clit, caressed her skin, and then he began to do all those things faster. And faster. Her voice grew louder. Her moans extended. She came in a burst of rapid contractions, but his cock didn’t respond. He had enough training to stay hard.

  That didn’t mean he couldn’t put on an act. As she was sliding into sublime, he echoed her moans, “Christ,” fucking her as if he’d come, play-acting that shy turn when he pulled out and removed the condom – unsoiled by his spend.

  She looked pleased. She looked cat-who-ate-the-canary satisfied. Rolling over, basking. She looked . . . confused. He was dressing, handing her over her clothes. His attitude had changed dramatically. No rhyme. No reason. She fumbled, pulling her sweater on backwards, slipping the cashmere around to face front. Skirt giving her trouble, when it had behaved perfectly on the reverse. Finding her knickers and grabbing them in her fist. Shoes on. What had changed? her eyes seemed to ask him, but he was business now. No more pleasure.

  He saw when she decided not to worry. They’d fucked. Fucked away loneliness on Valentine’s Day. He didn’t give her a kiss. He didn’t ask for her number. He listened to her let herself out, then walked down the hall and locked the door behind her. He washed both vodka glasses – looked around the kitchen. Nothing of her remained.

  Then he headed down the hall to the office.

  “Honey,” he said as later he entered the room that was right across from the bedroom. He breathed in deep. The room smelled of mandarins and honeysuckle. He always wondered why they never knew. A woman lived here. It was clear to him.

  There she was – the girl of his dreams – tied and gagged on the futon. Her dark brown eyes were huge. He came toward her, bent on his knees, felt her pussy. So wet. So fucking wet. He didn’t bother taking her into their bedroom. He pulled her off the sofa and spread her out on the soft rug, her bound wrists over her head. He undid the leather thongs that held her ankles together. He needed access and fast.

  Her pussy was so sweet. He pressed his face against her and licked until she came. Once. Hard. She’d earned that, hadn’t she? He wanted to hear her tell him what she’d felt like. But that wasn’t the game. Not yet. She had to be gagged for this part, had to feel his naked cock in her knowing that he’d been inside another woman only moments before.

  Now he could finally get his. He moved up her body and thrust inside of her. His cock, so well trained, seemed to know that bliss was imminent. He fucked her while she moaned against the gag, fucked her while tears streaked her face. He was hers. Always. Forever. Hers. He showed that to her in the way he manhandled her, in the way he touched her. In the way that he only came when he was with her.

  Like now, as he pulled out and climaxed on her belly, using his palm to spread the spend into her skin.

  He didn’t know why she needed this. She couldn’t understand it herself.

  But she was the girl of his dreams. And her dreams were to hear him fuck another woman – a lay he’d pick up for only a single night – and to do so while she waited in the other room, listening. Bound so she couldn’t possibly get free. Gagged so that she couldn’t cry out.

  This was her fantasy.

  “Happy Valentine’s Day, baby,” he said, as he set her free.

  Come Inside

  Mathew Klickstein

  I cannot help asking, whether we do not, in that very heat of extreme gratification when the generative fluid is ejected, feel that somewhat of our soul has gone from us?

  Tertullian

  As Balzac said, “There goes another novel!”

  Woody Allen

  Chanel’s pint-sized butt pokes up into the misty, brisk black night beach air. Each champagne-colored, pearl-shaped cheek bubbles outward under a delightful patina of gritty, flaxen sand.

  Chanel is at attention like a good doggy. Hands and knees. Me on my knees behind her. She jutting away from my groin pointing toward her ass.

  Minutes earlier, Chanel had been lying naked on her back. This explains the butterfly-shaped coating of sand ornamenting her perfect, tanned buttocks.

  So perfect, in fact, I bow downward to bite her left cheek where she’s spotted with a black, strawberry-shaped birthmark. Something about this makes her ever the more adorable and I bite again, harder.

  Chanel winces, but does not turn around to stop my nibbling her fleshy morsel.

  She knows better than that.

  The waves of the black frothing ocean ooze up the beachhead twenty feet from where we’re enjoying our nocturnal assignation. Over this calming sound of the sea, I do hear Chanel’s winsome, “Careful . . .”

  She’s still not turning around as I nosh on her drum-skinned, burnished buttock with growing fervor. “Quiet!” I demand between breathless bites.

  I want only to tear through her skin with my teeth as one would the silky tenderness of a boiled chicken breast. But I’m lustfully hardened by twee Chanel’s beatifically repressed whimper and – cocksure – I can wait no longer to arise, driving my swelling erection peeking out of my unzipped, sandy denim jeans into that warm-moist aperture betwixt her two champagne pearls.

  The moon’s celestial luminance coruscates the sand on Chanel’s opalescent ass, as she deeply sucks in the cool mist that encysts us on this vacant plot of beach belonging only to us.

  I shuffle my knees imposingly closer to her body, thrusting myself deeper into her crevice, clutching her flank with my right hand and slipping my left arm underneath and across her tight washboard stomach.

  I lower myself against her fey body, allowing my scratchy red flannel shirt
to gently scrape across her maple-colored back.

  She’s quiet like a good girl. Gasps once or twice as I pump myself back and forth, slow and steady, so deep inside her. The warmth of her inner body comforts and excites my nascent penis pressing onward within.

  The rest of my clothed body is cold, clammy, and sweaty as it slides up and down her naked and fit soccer-player frame.

  The roiling waves continue to bat against the shore with a faint susurrations. A seagull squawks in the unseen distance of night. And the sand beneath our entangled bodies churns as my penis plunges the depths of her, me tightening my arm’s grip on her belly.

  My hand stealthily smears up her flank to her fist-sized hard ball of a breast.

  I squeeze tight – too tight, or perhaps just tight enough – and Chanel moans, craning her head backwards. My cold-sweat face is now diving into her redolent, bronze French twist of a downy soft hairdo.

  “I love you,” I whisper not so much to her but to the pelagic air . . . and she knows this heralds what will come next.

  “Wait . . .” she tries. But it’s of no use.

  Strengthening my grip even now on her flat-hard stomach and crushing her tennis-ball tit with all my might, I clamp my dressed body to her denuded one and . . .

  . . . groan a prolonged release, relieving myself of the impossible tension at once, pressing through her, squirting the hot spurts of gooey garlands within her. Quick fragments of the semen fusillade paint the inside of her with my effervescent essence.

  Chanel seizes wildly – but only momentarily – with me still sealed to her like a stamp to an envelope.

  Tremulously, Chanel blurts out, “Oh . . . my goodness . . .” Her puritanical reserve makes me giggle, and I slip out of her, rolling off her back and onto the ice-chilled granola sand crunching beneath me.

  I extend both arms outward like Christ or the wings of the chimerical seagull out there squawking. The painfully refreshing sea air I’m quickly sucking into the back of my throat is salty and sweet.