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

by Jakubowski, Maxim

  Once she loses the security guard, she heads over to an all-night diner where her old friend Pedro, the line cook, works early mornings. She opens the kitchen door, and he hands her a plate of fried mashed potatoes and eggs with salsa. She grabs some milk from the refrigerator, pours herself a big glass, and sits as far away from the grill as she can in the hot, greasy kitchen. They don’t talk. She eats; he cooks. They’ve known each other for years. He’s one of the rare people who Mariah keeps in her life. He never makes a pass at her, is excited by her graffiti and never judges the way she lives her life.

  Once her belly’s full, she burps and Pedro lets out a throaty guffaw.

  “You’re not exactly refined, are you, babe?”

  She sticks out her tongue at him and wipes the milk off her upper lip.

  “Some dude in a suit asked about you last night, Mariah.”

  He sits down in the chair opposite her. There aren’t many orders this early in the morning, thankfully. He can rest his feet.

  Mariah wipes the salsa off her mouth and looks up at him in alarm. “What man?”

  “Don’t worry. He didn’t know your name, and I told him nada, just that sometimes you eat here. He wanted to talk about your graffiti. Gave me a card to give to you.”

  Mariah reads the card. “Alessandro Aleguera,” it reads, but there’s nothing other than an email and telephone number. Seems suspicious to her. She crumples it up.

  “Could be a trick, the beer company or cops or something.”

  “Relax, hon, if anybody wanted to have you arrested, you’d probably be in jail already. He seemed interested in your art, your training, that kind of shit.”

  Mariah drinks the rest of her milk in silence while Pedro cooks up a batch of grilled cheese sandwiches for some construction workers.

  As she walks back to the current squat passed on to her when a fellow street artist moved out, she thinks about the suited guy hounding her in the diner. Wonders if it’s time she moves again, maybe to another city this time. She’s got too many memories here though, of her grandmother and their life together. In the back of her mind, there’s this flicker of a memory, more like a memoryette, of a woman singing to her, rocking her in the cradle. Her mother. She’ll take gladioli to her grave again soon. Her grandmother said it was her mother’s favourite flower, the tall stalks with their bright bursts of colour. Her mother loved colour. Mariah inherited that love.

  Another night of restlessness drives Mariah back to the streets at dawn. She’s out earlier than the garbage collectors and the street cleaners. She loves having the city to herself, calling it her own. It’s just barely light enough to paint, but Mariah has good eyesight and is used to working in the wee small hours.

  On a chain supermarket wall, she’s started a new painting in the style of one of Georgia O’Keeffe’s erotic flowers. Inside the store they sell dying and neglected plants which haven’t seen sunshine or been tended by a loving hand in their lives. This orchid will have a brief life, but it will be full of sunshine. She’s concentrating hard on her work. For Mariah, painting is like caressing a body, stroking the blank canvas into an ecstasy of colour, bringing out its beauty by cherishing it. She’s so absorbed by what she’s doing she doesn’t notice the man standing across the street and smoking as the sun finally rises, as he watches the splendour of her work take shape before his eyes.

  Alessandro Aleguera is overjoyed. He’s finally found her, the graffiti artist responsible for all the bold and compelling outsider art he’s been seeing around the city since he moved there to curate the local art gallery a few months ago. She’s incredible. She’s not a typical graffiti artist, she’s trained, influenced by the great masters, driven by passion. She’s using acrylic paint in addition to the usual aerosol spray cans and markers.

  He wonders how she can wear such thick clothing in the heat? She must be so dedicated she doesn’t even notice. She leans down to pick up a rag and he manages to discern a fine, round bottom in the ragged cargo pants. His cock stirs.

  “Che sei bella da morire,” an old Italian pop song goes through his head, “You’re so beauitful, I might die.” He doesn’t want to make her skittish again. Since he left his card, he hasn’t heard a peep out of her or seen any more of her work. This is a breakthrough. She’s going to have to return to finish the piece. He’ll take his time, not rush her. It’s her art he’s interested in, or perhaps more than just her art.

  He comes back for the next few days, but she doesn’t show up. He wonders what’s happened to her. Why is this woman so damned elusive?

  Mariah scores a gig teaching teens to make art and even makes a bit of money. Is too tired at the end of the day to return to the orchid, her work-in-progress. She finds it rewarding to spend time with the kids at the local community centre, with a budget for paint and craft paper. She relates to their shyness and reticence to show their attempts, but she works right along beside them and establishes a great camaraderie. Once they are comfortable, the teens exhibit unbridled creativity. Her supervisor is so impressed with their paintings he suggests they have a show and contacts the local art gallery. The curator is receptive.

  The night of the opening, Mariah’s nervous. At the last minute, she’s included a painting of hers. She doesn’t know why. She leaves it unsigned. She doesn’t own fancy clothes to wear to the opening, but she’s kept just a few of her grandmother’s things. Inside her grandmother’s suitcase is a lacy yellow chiffon sleeveless dress with a flower on one of the shoulders and some shoes. She feels like Cinderella. The dress and shoes fit perfectly, as if they were made for her. It dawns on her that maybe the dress and shoes belonged to her mother or maybe her grandmother. They’re vintage, they’d say today. Evocative of the Roaring Twenties.

  She wonders if the dress is too elaborate, too fancy for the opening. But it feels like she’s wearing a costume. Like the dress of one of the daring women in Paris, off to meet Picasso or Dali at a ball. She’s in a decadent and dreamy state when she arrives at the gallery. The place is packed with parents, friends and family of the teens.

  She stands off to one side as she watches a suited dark-haired man appraising her painting. He lingers for a long time. Her supervisor whispers in his ear and he looks around. She realizes he’s looking for her, the artist. She takes a deep breath and walks towards him.

  He smiles and takes her hand. “I know you,” he says.

  Mariah is confused. Wonders if it’s some cheesy pick-up line.

  She blushes and turns to go, but he holds on to her hand. She feels a spark of desire as she looks into his eyes, which are gazing into hers with a burning intensity.

  “I’ve seen your work, all around the city, on store walls, billboards, in back alleys.”

  Mariah doesn’t know what to say. Has this guy been stalking her? Is he going to report her to the police?

  Her supervisor introduces the two and wisely leaves them alone. Mariah can’t believe this guy is the curator of the gallery. He seems too young and even though he’s wearing a suit, he has kind eyes, doesn’t seem like some boring business type at all.

  “Look, I have to stay until we close tonight, but can we meet for coffee so I can talk to you more about your art? It’s too good not to share with the world, Mariah.”

  Mariah trembles a bit. Remembers Josef and how he flattered her to get her to sleep with him.

  “Uh, thanks. Maybe some other time. I have to go now,” she says and rushes away.

  Alessandro doesn’t let her get far. He rushes out the door, thinking to hell with the opening.

  Mariah can’t run very fast in the high-heeled shoes she’s wearing. It doesn’t take too long for him to catch up.

  He doesn’t think, he just steps up to her and kisses her.

  She slaps him, hard. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, you asshole. Get your hands off me.”

  “God, I’m sorry, Mariah, I’m so sorry. I’m just so damn thrilled by you, have been for months. It’s your work, so erotic,
so unleashed . . . but you’re a difficult woman to get hold of. Why are you so goddamn . . . ? Hell, I’m babbling. Can we please just go grab some coffee and talk for five minutes?”

  Mariah starts to laugh. She has been skittish, it’s true. Sitting for a few minutes with this guy in a café isn’t going to kill her. Clearly he’s not going to have her arrested. He calls his associate on his cell, lets him know he’s had to leave the show early and asks him to put away the crackers and cheese, show the guests out and stack the wine crates in the fridge.

  “Now we have all the time in the world,” he says to Mariah, as he turns to her.

  A spark. She feels it. Has this urge to kiss him, but resists.

  They find a café that isn’t crowded.

  “Do you want a coffee?” he asks.

  She twirls her hair in her fingers and notices the way his eyes follow adoringly. She puts her hands on the table and smiles. “I don’t really like coffee.”

  They both laugh.

  “They make a great chai here; shall I get us a pot?”

  She nods. He takes off his jacket and lays it on the chair. She studies him while he’s at the cash. Tall, well built, strong shoulders and muscular legs. She remembers the feel of his hand in hers, his fingers were lightly calloused, not smooth like some desk jockey. She runs her fingers over the lapels of his jacket, which gives off a subtle scent of wood smoke with a hint of musk. Mariah wonders what it might be like to leave his bed, the scent of that musk and wood smoke still on her body. She imagines caressing his naked back. She licks her lips.

  “Hi,” Alessandro says as he returns to the table, the tea spilling as he puts the pot down. “Oh, damn, sorry,” he says, his voice breaking.

  Mariah realizes she’s flustered him. She blushes and they both laugh. It’s awkward but a good kind of awkward. They talk for ages. It turns out he usually spends his summers at a kids’ camp as a counsellor and has taken over the gallery for a change of scene. He used to paint, but gave it up, took a business management course, got bored, has been kind of lost ever since but is enjoying this stint at the gallery.

  “Especially now,” he says.

  She winks at him. Before they know it, the hours have passed and the café manager asks them to leave.

  “We’re probably the only art nerds in town who manage to shut down a café and not a bar,” he says, causing her to laugh again.

  Mariah’s enjoying herself so much, she doesn’t want the night to end. She surprises herself by inviting him back to her place to see more of her work.

  “I hope you’re spry,” she says, and shimmies up the fire escape to her current room in an abandoned old house. He follows right behind her.

  “Haven’t done that for years,” he says, but he’s not out of breath.

  “The place is chaotic, I’m afraid . . . it’s just temporary . . . I’m moving out soon.”

  Mariah holds her breath while Alessandro gets his bearings. He doesn’t seem to notice all the junk piled up on the floor or the hotplate in the corner. He makes a beeline for the unrolled canvas stretched out on the mattress with its bright blue triangles, star-shaped silvers, flecks of gold.

  “I’ve been working on some abstracts since I started working with the teenagers,” Mariah says.

  “It’s gorgeous. There’s a melancholy tone to it. I love it, Mariah.”

  His eyes hold hers for a moment. She wants to lose herself in them.

  Alessandro smiles at her. “Do you have more?”

  Mariah gulps. Realizes she was standing there completely still, gazing into his eyes. “Sorry,” she says and blushes.

  Her hands tremble as she opens her duffel bag. She’s never shown this work to anyone. She pulls out a series of small paintings.

  “These are just roughed-in pieces, ideas for graffiti. I can’t make anything big because I don’t stay in one place long enough . . .” Her voice trails off as he sits on the mattress and looks at the art.

  “These are really fine, Mariah. You’ve got a keen eye for detail.”

  He asks her a question about the work, and she sits down on the bed near him to answer. Their legs touch.

  She examines his face. Thinks he’s a work of art himself, those long eyelashes, the dimple in his chin, the warm brown eyes. She turns towards him and they kiss, a long, lingering kiss.

  He gets up and gently takes the art off the mattress and asks her where to put it. She walks over to the duffel bag and he passes the paintings to her. Their hands touch. The art falls to the floor as they embrace. His body feels hot against hers. She kisses his lips, his chin, his Adam’s apple. He removes his jacket and lets it fall. She undoes the buttons of his shirt and kisses his chest. His fingers trail along her shoulder, he lifts up a curl and twirls it.

  “I’ve wanted to do that since I saw you playing with your hair in the café,” he says. He kisses the side of her neck. “You have beautiful skin, it glows.”

  He kisses her naked shoulders, slides his hands over her shoulder blades and down her back, pressing her against him. She feels his erection through their clothes and moans.

  She reaches for his belt buckle. He takes her hand away, presses it against his lips, kisses each finger and down her arm, then down the other arm. He turns her around and unhooks the clasp at the top of her dress, caresses the nape of her neck, and slides the zipper all the way down. He kneels and kisses the base of her spine.

  Mariah feels warm and languid. This man is in no hurry. He takes her hand and she steps out of the dress. The floor is covered in yellow lace. They step around it. She removes her bra and panties.

  Mariah is naked except for the black high heels.

  “You’re a vision. Just like in those self-portraits you’ve made, which drove me crazy, you know. Portraits of sexy little Mariah scattered all over the city in the nude but impossible to find. I should punish you.”

  Mariah grimaces, but he winks. Takes a nipple between his fingers and caresses it gently, languidly until it is a hard, puckered peak of desire. He bends down to kiss it while rolling the other nipple between his thumb and index finger.

  He touches her as if she’s made of marble. Light feather kisses that tease her gently into arousal. When she can’t stand the wait any longer, she asks him to remove his pants.

  He gives her a wink. “Sit down on the bed, cara mia.”

  Mariah sits as Alessandro does a sexy striptease before her eyes. He unbuttons his belt, undoes the button on his pants, stands there with his hand at the zipper.

  “Don’t make me beg,” Mariah says. He smiles at her and lowers the zipper millimetre by infinitesimal millimetre. A long shiver of desire runs through her body. She wants this man. She moves closer to the edge of the bed. She needs to taste him.

  Alessandro lets his pants fall to the floor. Beneath his briefs there’s a significant bulge. Mariah wants it. She wants to feel that cock inside her.

  He pulls the briefs off one hip and then the other, turns to show her his sexy ass. It’s tight. She’d love to lick it. The briefs fall to the floor. He walks towards her. She can no longer resist and presses her face against his erect cock, licks the underside of his balls, along the shaft, around the rim, then takes the cock into her mouth.

  Alessandro groans as she sucks. He places his hand on her cheeks, strokes the spot where his cock bulges. Mariah feels desire in every part of her body from her cunt to her breasts to the base of her spine.

  “I want you,” he whispers.

  She pulls out a condom from beneath the mattress and slides it down onto his hard cock. He lies on the bed and she climbs on top of him, slowly lowering herself down, hovering above his cock.

  “Now it’s your turn to wait,” she says.

  “You’re an evil woman,” Alessandro says, and they both smile then groan as he pulls her close and enters her.

  They kiss and keep kissing as they writhe against one another, trying to get more of his cock inside her, trying to go as deep as possible. They hold hands
while they fuck. She watches his eyes darken, his pupils widening.

  There’s more to this than a fuck and they both know it, can feel it in the beating of their hearts, which is in sync, the way they keep holding hands after they orgasm, their legs curled around one another. The way their breath slows down and they fall asleep in each other’s arms.

  Mariah wakes up at dawn, Alessandro still in her bed, lightly snoring. He’s so beautiful, like an angel. She doesn’t want to wake up, but she needs to paint. She puts on some clothes and, quiet as she can, climbs down the fire escape.

  He finds her later by her orchid and hands her a cup of chai. She doesn’t run away.

  You Belong to Me

  C. Sanchez-Garcia

  When he can breathe again he looks up into the torrent of freezing rain pouring in through the open skylight. The converted mortuary table suspended high above in the leaping lightning of the sky sways dangerously in the gale, threatening to tip over on one end. One of the high cabled kites has caught fire and is falling like a meteor.

  It was this last bolt that had struck close enough to shake the stone walls, rattle and crack the thick glass jars of chemicals and preserved homunculi, and raise erect the coarse hairs of his immense arms. The thunder crash was close enough to blot out his cold objectivity and fill him with an animal urge to cower and hide.

  He takes up a dry wooden rod and cautiously bats down the circuit breaker lever on the wall. The lights die and glow like altar candles. Leaning all his great weight against the heavy chain hanging from the suspended block and tackle, he curses for it to move but it refuses. Grunting, hunched, he gives the chain a violent shake that sends waves of rage to the sky. Now wrapping the chain around his huge shoulders, bowing his head, he throws himself hard against it until it surrenders to his will. The table spins halfway around in the high wind as the pulley catches and the assembly begins to descend.

  It occurs to him, as he labors at the chain, that he is not prepared for what to do if he succeeds. He’d been practiced only in steeling himself against disappointment but not how to endure hope.