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

by Jakubowski, Maxim

  Heather surged and undulated between Clint’s hands, Clint’s mouth, Clint’s cock. She trembled and shivered and bit her lip, trying not to scream. She couldn’t stand it anymore. She needed to be fucked.

  If there was one thing she could count on her husband knowing, it was that. He knew when she needed to be fucked, sometimes when she didn’t even really totally know it herself. When he’d kissed her and held her just before they left the car, she’d felt ripples going through her – ripples Clint had felt, or detected, or something. While Heather had felt more than content to daydream about their warm hotel bed and how hungrily she was going to suck her man’s cock – in fifteen minutes, twenty, thirty, maybe an hour – Clint knew Heather would be happy if she didn’t have to wait.

  Bastard, she thought, clutching the coat and the cuffs and the railing. Smug fucking bastard.

  She wanted him in her.

  Swaying, Heather bent forward, leaning hard against the railing. Her body reacted instinctively, as if on some evolutionary level. She felt as if her craving had turned her into an animal. She knew how to mate without conscious thought. She presented her sex to her husband, wanting him more than she’d ever wanted anything. She felt the handcuffs scraping the metal railing and tugging at her wrists as she desperately clutched the ends of the coat in her fingers, afraid she would lose her grip in her pleasure and let the whole world see him take her.

  Bent over, Heather lifted her ass as high as she could. She was very much shorter than him, so that just barely put her sex within reach of her husband’s glorious cock – which only meant he’d fuck her at a downward angle, she knew. From her experience, that could only mean good things.

  Still, Clint was so much taller than her that he still had to stoop a little to get it in her. As he did, he paused to take a brief glance over his shoulder before he took his wife up against the railing.

  The coast must have been clear. With his right hand, now slippery with Heather’s cunt, Clint reached back between her legs and guided his cock to her entrance. He penetrated his wife with agonizing slowness; she wanted him in her, but he took his time. All told, it probably took half a minute . . . but to Heather, pinned against the rail and feeling helpless, it seemed an eternity. Clint was torturing her.

  He got what he wanted; Heather gave in. She finally shoved herself onto him, moaning into the icy wind as she did. She started fucking back onto him, and if anyone was watching, there would no longer be any doubt about what they were doing. Clint’s right hand had returned to her clit, his left to her tits, his lips to that spot on the back of her neck. He fucked her and stroked her and pinched her nipples, and sent cascading electric tingles through her body as his tongue swirled against her flesh between gentle bites – and hard ones, sometimes, as she got closer and closer.

  She’d been right; the angle was perfect.

  Heather tried to stifle her cry of pleasure, but it was hopeless. She let it all out.

  Heather howled into the wind, coming hard on her husband’s cock. She had to stop fucking herself back onto him, and just sort of spasmed there, helpless, suspended between his cock and the railing.

  He took up the slack and drove deep inside her as he felt her sex spasm around him.

  He let himself go deeper inside her.

  Heather felt the soft wet surge of her husband’s seed in warm, rolling spurts in her pussy, and if anything she came harder as she held as still as possible so as not to lose it.

  As Clint’s cock spent itself inside her, he leaned forward and kissed Heather’s “spot” with one last tender, wet slurp of his tongue and hard bite of his teeth. It sent a sharp rush of pleasure through her body, and Heather pulled hard at the handcuffs, feeling very out of control. She felt the wind at the back of her throat again, and realized she was moaning at the top of her lungs. She didn’t even care if people could see her.

  Heather trembled all over, and not from the cold. Without unlocking the handcuffs, Clint pulled up Heather’s jeans, zipped her pants and his own, buckled them both up and righted her bra cups. He pulled her sweater back down over her tits. His hand dipped into his pants and came out with his keys; they jangled against the railing as he unlocked her.

  He didn’t put his arms back in his sleeves; rather, he swept the coat off of his shoulders and wrapped it around his shivering wife. He walked her to the car with his arm around her shoulder. Her teeth were chattering, but the walk helped her focus and turned up the heat. It raised her body temperature just enough that she felt warm as Clint held open the door and helped her into the car.

  That’s what she loved about her husband, Heather thought, as she buried her face in his coat and took a deep draught of his scent. One of the many things. Always such a gentleman . . . even when he’d just handcuffed his wife over an observation deck railing and fucked her from behind.

  Always a gentleman; that was her husband.

  Clint started the car and pulled onto the onramp.

  As he merged, Heather’s thoughts returned to the warm hotel bed. She remembered what she’d been thinking of doing when Clint had kissed her and held her and sensed her need. She’d been thinking about getting into the warm hotel bed and sliding down under the covers and sucking her husband’s perfect cock with the kind of vacation-sex gusto that comes once a year, at best.

  She was still gonna do it, she decided. Maybe she’d even filch those handcuffs and see if she could cuff him to the bed when he wasn’t looking so he couldn’t try to sixty-nine her like he usually did when she sucked his cock. She’d make that smug bastard spread wide and take some pleasure, the way he’d just done to her.

  She’d rock his world, and he’d thank her for it. Isn’t that what vacations are for?

  La Belle Mort

  Zander Vyne

  “Young woman, you do realize if you could be with child you may plead your belly?” The judge had tired eyes.

  Eliza remained quiet, and the audience tittered.

  “Very well. Lady Elizabeth Jane Morton, you are sentenced to be taken hence to the prison in which you were last confined where, after three Sundays have passed, you will be hanged by the neck until dead. May the Lord God have mercy upon your soul.”

  Gypsy . . . succubus . . . witch – murmurs, as she was led away.

  Had they looked beyond the snow-white skin, wild black curls, and eerie calm, they would have seen the bones of her knuckles shining through her skin; she held her hands clenched painfully tight to keep from lashing out at all of them and going absolutely mad.

  A cell to myself at the end of a narrow, gloomy hall. Dank, always cold. Oozing drips stain the walls rust brown. Insanity – cackles, moans and screams. Fleas, mice and slithering sounds in the darkness. A cot and rough blanket. A long bench to sit upon. Small comforts from Charity Ladies, mercifully none familiar to me. They bring gifts, the smell of perfume, and pity.

  I accept them all. Today’s treasures – ink, quill pens and paper. Solace found.

  Eliza fought slumber; it crawled with dark dreams and beckoned with greedy fingers. Hours, long and black, were spent struggling to cling to awareness, her life dwindling away. Regrets stung. Time was short, and peace was as elusive as life. Insanity promised everlasting oblivion, and she was tempted to succumb as so many had around her. Writing gave her temporary respite. There was no one to write, so she wrote for herself; poems, thoughts, lists and letters she would never send.

  Dear Lord Dover,

  Do you sleep peacefully? Do your children fare well without their nursemaid in their nursery?

  Despite what you have done, my prayers are with their poor little souls.

  I wonder where you hid the necklace and if it calls to you in your dreams. Will it haunt you, as surely I will if there is a God and he grants wishes?

  My life is forfeit, and still I would rather this death than your wrinkled hands upon me.

  Lady Elizabeth Jane Morton

  She folded scribbled-upon paper into tiny birds and sailed them in
to the courtyard. Sometimes, they landed in the shadows of the gallows themselves, but usually the wind caught them and carried them away to join the plentiful refuse littering London’s streets.

  GOOD THINGS

  Father

  Mayfair House

  London

  Carriages

  Ball gowns

  The Waltz

  Flirting

  James

  The Dover children

  BAD THINGS

  This place

  A “new” dress – bodice too tight, tattered skirt. A string to tie my hair off my neck – blessed relief. Small things mean so much now.

  She documented everything, writing furiously, clinging to sanity.

  A hanging – crowd swelling, sudden and boisterous, fathers lifting children upon their shoulders, vendors selling meat-pies and posies. It was like a country fair, everyone smiling, fun in the air.

  Her mind screamed, “Don’t! Look away!” But she was compelled to watch. They led the prisoner out. His head was down, but Eliza saw the glistening tears on his death-pale flesh. Placed under the gallows, his feet centered atop the wooden trapdoor, he wept openly. His legs were pinioned, to prevent his soon-to-be flailing feet from finding purchase on the bricklined walls of the famous Long Drop below. The noose was fitted; a large knot of rope adjusted to rest, just so, beneath his left ear.

  The hangman – cloaked in black – the very specter of death. The prisoner wailed – a high-pitched whine – when the hood was placed over his head. Did he open his eyes then, when the cloth covered his face? Did his lashes catch on the fabric, and did he take it in his mouth, dry and musky as he gulped air, grunting and snorting? Did each prisoner have a new hood, or did that frantic man, about to die, smell the deaths that had come before his, lingering in the cloth? Ghastly snapping sound ringing out of the pit. Imagined? Surely so; the crowd had cheered when the man fell out of sight. Life passes too slowly, too quickly. What prayer will save me from this fate?

  Eliza was sleeping the first time he came, at dusk.

  “Do not be afraid.”

  She was – trapped in here, weak from lack of real food and sunshine; she was helpless.

  The man sat on the narrow bench. He was rather fine looking, his face somewhat stern and his clothing somber.

  A cleric, Eliza decided, calming.

  “Has that much time passed? It must have, for them to send you.”

  “I want to help you.”

  She held back a bitter reply; no one could help her. “I do not believe in God.”

  “I am the only one you need believe in.” He spread his hands wide as if to dare her to argue that he was anything less than flesh and blood.

  Eliza remained silent, and he reached into his pocket, pulling out a square of paper. He read, “Life passes too slowly, too quickly. What prayer will save me from this fate?”

  “That is mine!” Eliza bolted from the cot.

  Too slow. He tucked the note into the folds of his coat. “Yes, I know.” He handed her another scrap of paper, his fingertips brushing her wrist as it changed hands.

  Her cheeks flooded with color, and she escaped his gaze, reading the words on the page.

  Proud beauty, angel amidst foul circumstance.

  I hear you calling,

  and know you weep.

  Let me guide you in your dark journey,

  and give you peace in this dread.

  In your ruin, find faith in me.

  What manner of cleric was this? “I told you, I do not have faith.”

  “And I told you, have faith in me.”

  “I do not understand.”

  He lifted his hand, tracing the path a tear made down her cheek.

  Eliza held very still, quivering under his fingertips.

  “You do not have to understand, Lizalamb.”

  She blinked. He’d called her Lizalamb, just like her father had a lifetime ago.

  How odd.

  “I’m afraid.”

  “Of course you are, but you can conquer your fears and all will be well. This I promise. Have faith.”

  He freed the string she had used to tie her hair back, and reached into his pocket once more.

  Red ribbons, bows that give girlish pleasure. His voice gruff as he gifted them. What a strange, fascinating man.

  Eliza nibbled her bottom lip, the treasures clutched in her hand, red ends trailing from her fist. “Will they let me keep them?”

  “Yes, Liza. No one will bother you anymore.”

  “Thank you.”

  A pail of warm water, beside it – wrapped with care – a whole bar of jasmine-scented soap.

  Eliza plaited the scarlet ribbons into her hair. She waited, writing.

  A stranger, in my darkest hour,

  offering peace for my faith,

  scarlet ribbons to tie my hair.

  My fate is unchangeable, measured in rope and wood,

  the dozen yards to my doom.

  Rise above, fall below.

  The silent clock keeps ticking.

  Yet, something about him – sanctuary;

  already, I am anxious for his return,

  to feel as I did in those brief moments,

  when his hands held mine.

  Hopeful.

  Finally, he came.

  It was night. She was sleeping.

  “Close your eyes.” He placed his hand over them.

  Eliza struggled, pushing him away.

  He let her go, holding up his lantern.

  More handsome than remembered. A trick of light or a young girl’s heart finding something of desire’s fancy in these last days? Lust, peace, comfort. His voice – an anchor in the night.

  “You can control your reaction to fear if you control your mind. You need not face the unknown at all if you have a place within yourself of peace and serenity, and a means to find it. Change what you think, and you change what you feel.” He opened the little door in the lantern and blew out the flame within. “Close your eyes.”

  This time she obeyed.

  Days, hours and precious little life left. What is the harm in doing as he asks?

  His fingers skimmed her hair. She whimpered but did not move away.

  “Think of a place, familiar, happy and safe. Go there in your mind. Picture it, smell it, feel it.”

  Mayfair House – Father, servants, old wood and lemon oil, laughter, parties and endless possibilities. Death, ruin, empty, sold, gone.

  “I have no safe places.”

  She had struggled, in this place, to find tranquility as memories crashed in on her, and she wanted more than anything to think of something else. Anything else.

  “Then make believe. Tell me where you would be, if you could be anywhere you desired.”

  His smell – crisply clean, manly under soap. A sudden image – him, standing in a lake, surrounded by a meadow dotted with tansies, forget-me-nots and lemon balm. The sky above is endless, blue. His hair is loose, dark. He is naked.

  “Ahhh,” she sighed.

  “Tell me.”

  “No!”

  “Why not?”

  “Because!”

  “This I definitely wish to hear. Tell me.” His voice held a new, teasing note that sent prickles down her arms.

  “Well,” she said, clearing her throat. “I saw a meadow of wild-flowers and a lake, bluer than the sky.”

  “And?”

  “You were there.”

  “Me? What was I doing?”

  “You were in the lake.”

  “Drowning?”

  He was not old, but he was not young either. A cleric, surely he had heard lustful thoughts before.

  “No, bathing I think.”

  “Naked?”

  “Of course! Clothing would be silly indeed if one were bathing.”

  “What were you doing, besides watching me?”

  “That was all I was doing!”

  “No picnic, no flower gathering or cloud watching?”


  “Oh, yes! We supped on steak and kidney pies, Devonshire cheeses, and exotic fruit sent in from India.” She laughed.

  “What eclectic tastes you have! Did I kiss you?”

  “Oh, my . . . yes. We kissed and kissed,” she said, her voice dreamy and girlish to her ears.

  “And, were you joyful then, Lizalove?”

  “Yes. Yes, I was,” she answered, faintly surprised.

  The next time he came, he carried a rope. “Is this one of the things you fear?”

  “Yes.” Her gaze darted to the coil of twine.

  He placed it on her lap, the ends snaking to the ground. Her fingers shrunk away.

  “Tell me what you fear.”

  “The way it will feel. The weight of it, the roughness of it, the finality of it.”

  “Do you trust me?”

  What is it about him? I am girlish and hopeful, excited to greet the day because he might fill it. Be he cleric or devil, man or beast, in these last days he gives things believed lost forever. I am drowning, willingly.

  “Yes.”

  He took the rope from her, his fingers lingering over hers. Her flesh tingled, from his hand to her belly, and between her legs.

  He made a loop of the rope and hung it around her neck.

  She did not move.

  He bunched up her skirt with one hand and held the rope with the other. She met his gaze and spread her legs wider. She wanted his touch, no matter what that made her, or him.

  His hand slid up the rope until his knuckles brushed the skin under her chin. His other hand curled around her inner thigh, fingers walking a silken path. He pinched her and petted her, and she did not move.

  “In fear can be found pleasure, just as in darkness can be found light.”

  Eliza felt the truth of his words as the rope around her neck tightened, the hemp scratchy. Like whiskers, they licked her. She no longer cared about the rope because of what his other fingers did. Her head lolled back against the wall.

  “Do you feel it?” His breath kissed her cheek.

  Eliza jutted her hips to his hand. “Yesss.” She watched him lick his lips as he slid his fingers into the hot clutch of her body.

  “Yes, Lizalove. You feel it.” His eyes were obsidian darkness.

  Torture – spread wide for him, still, not flinging myself upon him. He gave what was needed yet held back. I know there is more. Twin sighs as fingers pushed inward, curling within. He did not ask about the lack of barrier.