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

by Jakubowski, Maxim

  I stare up to what almost seems to be an artificial glow of the moon looming over us, perfectly round like Chanel’s perky backside.

  Respiring, I roll over to my left side and playfully spank her ass cheek. Chanel collapses onto the sand belly-first with a hot-winded “Whoof” characteristic of the position in which we just made feral love.

  “Did I do good?” she asks, chin in the sand and facing away from me to the ocean beyond her nose. The waves shimmying against the shoreline, Chanel’s bronze French twist – somewhat tousled now, of course – all but in my face.

  I fall again onto my back and gaze up to the low, glaucous moon. My penis – sticky with her body’s inner workings – shrinks back into itself for the frigidity of the wet night air.

  I zip up. “Did I do well,” I correct Chanel.

  “Oh. Right,” she says without a hint of derision.

  There’s a pregnant silence then but for the repetitive stretches of the bustling ocean. I hear the sand shift beneath her and I roll onto my left side once more, my fingers interlocked atop my head.

  Chanel turns to me: naked, resplendent, delectable. I could easily fuck her again, and at twenty-three – the perfect age for a girl, being both sophisticated and easily subdued – she could probably keep up with me if I suggested it. Her large, almond-shaped bluest eyes glimmer inquisitively in the creamy moonlight.

  Her long dark-brown eyelashes flutter, and she dislodges a grain of sand from her left eye (or right? I can’t quite remember). She’s staring at me. Gazing, really.

  “What?” I grin.

  She does not answer. Only gawks.

  “What?” I laugh this time.

  “Before . . . You said . . .”

  Oh, Christ. Here it comes.

  “. . . You said you loved me.”

  “I know,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

  “Why’d you say it, then?” she asks, really wanting to know. As though it were her first time – Oh, at last! – that someone had deigned to confer the proclamation upon she of all people.

  Chanel scratches her button-bunny nose tinged with a faint spray of reddish brown freckles.

  “Look,” I say. “You feel really good when I’m inside you, and . . .”

  But before I can sigh and resign myself to the mess unfolding, she says something uncannily unpredictable. Particularly uncanny for a twenty-three-year-old who confuses “good” with “well.”

  “Is it because you . . .” she stammers, “. . . you see something in me that is . . . more than myself ?”

  What?!

  “What?!” I exclaim.

  She furrows her brow. “Is it . . . the objet petit a you see in me when we’re . . . making love?”

  I huff – somehow through my nose – and smirk. “What have you been reading lately?”

  Chanel shrugs, shaking her goofy head. “Nothing. I dunno. Tumblr’s ’n’ stuff. The usual. Whatever, you know?”

  “And, what, you’re reading Lacan’s posthumous blog or something?”

  “Who’s that?” she asks.

  “Exactly,” I conclude.

  “Gosh,” Chanel rejoins in that puritanical way of hers that both delights and exasperates me now. “I suddenly feel like I know what I’m talking about here. You love not me but rather instead that part of me that is more than me. The incomplete gap between the me you perceive as a symbol of me and the me that exists beyond your, my, or anyone else’s subjective parallax view of me.”

  I’m shocked. And so is she, apparently. Only, she’s grinning . . . and I’m not.

  “Wow,” she says.

  “Here,” I say as epilogue to Chanel’s short dissertation. “Open.”

  Leaning on my left elbow into her, I snatch at her chubby-cheeked dimpled chipmunk face, squeezing until she does as commanded, and unzip my pants. I pull out my erect cock – peremptorily jerking it with punishing celerity – and pull her face toward the reddening beast so that I can jam the girth of its flesh into her fucking childlike maw.

  I keep her olive-shaped head against my groin and hold it there, staring up at the green-glowing moon. There is no blow job here. No back and forth movement on her or my part. I have a load to release into this irritating smart-mouth, and she’s gonna take it.

  It happens . . . and I grunt, a beast myself now discharging into her throat.

  Perspiring relief washes over me, as I look down to Chanel’s wide-open bunny blue eyes. Ejecting gobs of goop into her warm, fleshy-moist mouth.

  She gags with me still inside her face, and I quickly clamp her nose shut – No, no: you take it all, little girl.

  Chanel’s eyes shut tightly and she’s resisting my pressing her nose to my crotch. My fingers keep her nostrils shut; a little choking’ll do her good.

  She finally pulls away – I allow it – and I fall backward, drenched by droplets of greasy sweat.

  Chanel breathes fast, slurping up the excess semen streams sliming down her lips to the right side of her chin, and wipes her nose with the back of her caramel-colored, velutinous arm.

  Both of us still on the ground, Chanel smiles and lunges at me, lapping up my face with her tiny tongue. “Mmm,” she says. “You taste like butterscotch.”

  “I do?” I say, incredulous.

  She tilts her head to the side, questioningly, as though hitting upon another mysterious epiphany. “No. Actually . . . you taste like . . . like you. But the you that is more than you.”

  Oh, fuck.

  “I gotta write all this down,” Chanel says, bolting up, and pitter-pattering across the sand on her bare feet toward her clothes a few yards away. She quickly pulls on her frilly pink underwear, tight black jeans, and red woolen sweater.

  “Come on!” she calls out to me. “I just gotta write!”

  * * *

  Me, I can’t write at all lately.

  I’ve been trying to finish like a fiend this piece I’ve been doing for The Coast – funnily enough, about Lacan and the objet petit a. But nothing has been coming.

  Certainly not since my beachfront tryst with Chanel.

  To cope with the strain of my first-ever bout of writer’s block, I’ve instead been watching that new cable show Some Young Broads. The plots and dialogue are the worst kind of puerile flummery, and when I first tried to watch it, all I could think of was, Yup: this is definitely the work of “some young broad.”

  But something about the main young broad – the show creator, of course – sickeningly gets me every time. Trini Dobowitz, with her stocky tree-trunk stems characteristically enveloped in white schoolgirl leggings, and those billowy polka-dot dresses of hers affectively widening her already generous waistline.

  That haggard, droopy face. Her bobbed brown hair that’d look so damn good if Trini Dobowitz weren’t so damn ugly.

  There I’d be, naked on my Good Will orange-peel couch in the near-darkness of my compact studio apartment. Mercilessly jacking off to the corpulent image of Trini on the intermittently glowing television before me. The corduroy ridges of the couch slicing into my bare behind. Keeping my T-shirt on (as always) even while masturbating to the boob tube.

  Jacking it to that dumb dame with a flare for thirties fashion and twenty-first century technology, with pathetically small flabby pancake tits she so loves exhibiting to the public, to the camera, to me . . . and the millions out there glued to their sets and basking in the static-electric warmth of TV’s glass teat.

  Me, pulling and tugging at my circumcised six inches bobbed at the tip (like Trini’s bobbed hair that in this scene is festooned with an O’Keeffeian purple rose).

  She’s lying on her bed. Her deadened brown eyes peering up into those of the infantile series’ interchangeable svelte, five-o-clock shadowed Semitic boyfriend always named “Dave” or “Jonathan.” He lumbering over her bare, neotenous chest. The boys on this show always on the verge of tears; the gal always the man of the show . . .

  . . . And I’m maniacally shucking my shaft in the flickering glare of
the TV screen. Harder and faster, practically peeling off the cob’s irritated skin.

  No moisturizer for me – I crave the friction and grit my teeth. I bite down on my bottom lip, close my eyes, hear only the sound of Dave–Jonathan and Trini on the screen making sloppy, silent white-people love.

  I think the fellow is really crying now and I hear Trini cackling on screen between moaning and slapping Dave–Jonathan’s behind. He cries out and she laughs more with that mannish guffaw of hers.

  But my eyes are shut, and all is a consuming void less the twisting and turning of my erect penis puffing larger, thicker in my right hand. I can feel it, the thickness swelling and the snake’s skin pushing upward.

  I should loosen my grip and let the thing breathe, but instead tighten my grasp – along with my eyes that are clenched to the point of “seeing” before me a reddish kind of white light that comes to me always before sleep.

  I gulp the excess saliva in my mouth that I’ve forgotten to swallow and listen as the creaky bed on the TV screen squeaks up and down with the continued banging of the broad and her boy.

  I’m blowing out hot air through my clamped lips, intermittently squeezing my cock while violently stroking the bastard, and my nose forcefully expels my air like I’m a frantic bull, before . . .

  . . . I open my eyes to see Dave–Jonathan leaning down to gently kiss the flappy flapjack tits of his porcine paramour, licking circles round the pointy, bright-red, sweaty nipples poking out from her brown areolae. She looking hopelessly into his whiny epicene eyes . . .

  . . . And . . . Fuck her! I let loose the font of sticky-white spray, still ripping at the steamy skin of my erection handful.

  I stand up and rush over to the TV, letting the last gasp of semen spittle pelt the screen. Right at Trini’s fucking face. Right as the purple rose falls from out of her antique hair, onto the remarkably well-kept carpet of her unrealistically large New York apartment.

  I stand, trembling. Spent.

  My penis strained and stingy. My fingers and wrist stiff with arthritic exhaustion. There’s one more squeeze of juice in me and I shoot it out at her dumbfounded face, frustrated now at the unsatisfying technique of her lover du jour who resembles all the others in her TV life.

  I let go of my penis, already shriveling back from the seeming fluorescence of the TV. Standing, balling my hands into fists.

  No!

  Ejaculating to that corpulent cunt? Christ! Fuck her. Fuck her! Me, feverishly jerking off to her mounds of gluttonous glob – purely out of spite, mind you! – and she gets picture deals and book deals and TV shows and her own fucking cereal . . . All of this: the shows and the success – just like Chanel, I realize – coming from my essence. These broads taking my essence and flourishing . . .

  And that is what’s been going on! It all flashes before me at once!

  There was even that one girl who became a poet. What was her name?

  Let’s call her . . . Amy. Soft, simple, subtle, supple. Amy. Yes, “Amy”: the perfect name for this girl with messily cropped plucky pixie highlighter pink hair (did it glitter? can’t recall) and bright alabaster-skinned face that never shined as though the whole of her physiognomy was nothing more than a matte photograph.

  Pearly, smiley teeth and, just . . . You get it: adorable. A gentle swan of a girl working at the coffee shop across the street from me. Silvery barrettes in her pink-pixie hair and those emerald-green eyes bursting out of her alabaster face in vividly vivacious 3D.

  She’d have on a too-tight, pedomorphic rainbow-striped eighties retro polo that would really flaunt those size-B boobs of hers, poking out of the horizontal Skittle lines of her shirt. Her short sleeves would reveal the treasured tattoo on her right arm of a puckish fairy-child (not unlike Amy herself) enmeshed in a baroque network of faded-grey ivy.

  Oh, and those black-and-white striped referee shorts she’d wear over her ultra-firm, nearly non-existent butt, all of which was then covered from waist to knees by her green cotton coffeeshop apron that domesticated this fallen angel in a way that made it ever-the-more inviting when she would come to you from the coffee maker to the register before saying, “Any room for cream?”

  That night, I’m opening the door to my apartment with Amy on the other side of me. Her back to the door now nearly ajar. Me mashing up against her face to face, mouth to mouth, tongue to tongue. Forehead to forehead.

  Pushing her the rest of the way through the opening door with one hand; my face and body against hers. Closing the door with a reverse mule kick and shuffling her across the stained grey carpet toward the orange-peel Good Will corduroy couch.

  Amy unwraps her bright-red home-made knit-yarn scarf in the infinitesimal space between our two bodies even now smashed against one other.

  We do not stop with the mindless kissing, and Amy falls against the back of the couch, allowing me to collapse atop her.

  The scarf now off and thrown to the floor.

  With the same catlike dexterity – and without failing to continue consuming my mouth with hers – she unbuttons her black pleather jacket and tosses it too to the floor beyond us while I unzip my jeans and hold the side of her head with my other hand.

  We’re making out like we’re sixth-graders in the back of the baseball field – full and vital, lustful and unfettered, sloppy and slippery, slobbering and great.

  She says between panting and kisses – with her eyes closed and frenzied octopus hands all over my face and body now – “So how’s the cheese book coming along?”

  I stand up, my pants in a heap around my shoes, my bare shins against the couch, the arrowhead knob of my erection protruding through the dark brown plaid of my boxers, right toward Amy’s head resting against the back of the couch.

  Slowly, I pull her rainbow polo up and over her head. Amy’s raising her pale, silky-smooth doll arms (there’s the tattoo) in subservience to my touch, which I feel rings a quiver down her now . . .

  . . . and – bending toward her body – I slowly, slowly suckle her ripe, pointy, salmon-colored nipple that caps her pastel-pink areola a thumb’s length round in circumference.

  Amy’s whole body sinks back into the couch – arms still sprouting above her head, allowing me to do as I please – and I hear the crinkle-creasing of the corduroy as the only sound in the humid apartment.

  I nurse on her tit so small and proud. I am satisfied that Amy feels no need for a bra.

  I’m on my knees now, buttressed by hers.

  Amy’s black-and-white striped ref shorts lead to her opaque black leggings that scratch a bit when I gently caress one, but look too damn good on this little swain to complain.

  I’m licking her nipple, lapping up crystalline sweat droplets with my oversized, puppy-dog, raspberry-skinned tongue. Playfully, quietly squeezing the breast itself with my right hand.

  My left hand continues to caress Amy’s scratchy legging filled with her leg before me.

  I stop for a breath to answer, “Oh. You know, cheese is cheese.”

  But what Amy did not know – while I retracted my hand from her leg in order to guide my arrow-point penis from out of the plaid boxers through the slit in front, gripping its head and stroking; she taking the cue to bring her arms down and pull down her leggings to the floor, followed by those referee shorts of hers – was that the “cheese book” would never be finished.

  I had stopped working on it and in fact had to return the advance from the publisher (not an easy task in this tough economy of ours, I can tell you!).

  It was my second bout of writer’s block. A block of big, fat, stinky Limburger cheese.

  Not knowing this (or probably not much caring, anyway), Amy slowly raised her white ceramic leg past the side of my head with the skillful grace of the ballerina she once most likely was as a fragile young thing.

  I reached out to her foot just above my head and folded it down, popping a green-nailed big toe into my mouth, bobbing it as one would a tasty sucker; my right hand now playing again
with her left tit whose nipple was unbelievably firm against the cautious swirls of my thumb.

  Thinking to myself all the while, if only you knew . . .

  All those faggoty years of fantasizing about being a poet! The modern-day laureate! No one does that anymore . . . but for a few sad, suicidal goth girls and rich, effete androgynes living in Park Slope. I would bring back the Bukowski, the Miller, the Kinski.

  Hence, no more cheese book.

  These things came to mind to the new soundtrack: the faint flesh-petting of Amy’s soft meringue of shaved pussy. Masturbating with her leg still vertically held against me.

  Bending her foot further toward my face and gleefully feasting on her big toe, I selfishly decide to shove the entire size-6 into my grateful gob.

  Taking the moment to climb spryly into her lap – folding her leg back into her; foot still in my mouth (further proof of those years of ballet flexibility) – and mounting her. My thickening, hot-blooded meat finding purchase in her gaping creaminess of crack.

  I’m pushing myself forward, against her body, against the back of the corduroy couch. Pressing myself up inside her malleable innards with a soft groan from her closed-eye fairy face framed by sweat-lined strands of lithe pixie-pink hair.

  No, in lieu of confessing my longing to be a poet, I held her small head with both hands, thumbing her baby elf ear. I leaned in to nuzzle her cheek to cheek, hearing the sound of the couch keening (almost as though it were that creaky bed of Trini’s;Get it out of your mind!).

  Breathing out of my nose and rocking myself back and forth – gently but true – against and inside Amy’s small body. I could feel my back straining. My spine tingled as I did burrow myself deeper inside her, pulling her impossibly close to me, jowl to jowl, and eyes closed.

  Amy’s chapped pink lips popped open, exposing the silver ball piercing her kitten tongue and then (no, I did not tell her) . . . it came. A long, prolonged stream of hot viscosity bursting forth from out of my body and into hers. The arrowhead shaft of my penis purging itself, flushing her insides with me; she digging her short-nailed fingers into my back and shoulders, pulling me even – yes – closer.