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

by Jakubowski, Maxim

  “I know. I paid you.”

  “No. I’m a real pro. I don’t mistake any of this for what it isn’t. All you BDSM fakes think you’re living on the edge, that your games make you unique, that you’re plugged into something, connected to something the rest of the boring, homogenized population doesn’t understand, but you’re just like everyone else. That’s why your game’s so sad. That’s why it’s so fake. I never pretend. It’s just fucking. It’s no different from eating or taking a shit. Dress it up all you want. It’s just fucking. And that’s why everything fades. Show me one married couple that says their sex has improved with time and I’ll show you two liars. And if they start talking about love, I’ll show you two people who’ve stopped wanting to fuck.”

  “You’re empty,” C says.

  “Look at me,” I say.

  “Yes. Look at you.”

  I put my hand around my balls and hold them. “Look. I’m full. They’re full. And as long as they’re full, I’m mighty. I’m connected. I’m interested in you. I could stick my cock in your cunt in a second. But as soon as they empty, I’ll be empty. And I’ll think of my ex. And I’ll think of every woman I thought I loved. And I’ll know it was all pretend. And I’ll be colder than I am right now.”

  “What if you weren’t?”

  “Cold?”

  “What if you came and you weren’t cold.”

  “I’m not a child anymore. I told you, I don’t pretend.”

  I get out of bed. I stand there and look down at her. She looks warm and open and I keep my eyes on her eyes until I don’t care.

  “Go on,” I say.

  She doesn’t say anything

  “Go on.”

  She breathes heavy, a long inhale and exhale that’s almost a sigh.

  “Go on,” I say. “You don’t need me. Go on.”

  She moves her hand from between her breasts to her stomach to between her legs and I watch. I watch her move her fingers from the top of her cunt to the bottom then up to the top again. I watch her press her fingers against her clit. I watch her move her fingers, slow at first, back and forth, then a little faster, pressing her fingers in, moving her fingers faster. I’m watching her, but she’s in bed alone. I’m watching her, but she’s touching herself. A sound comes from her mouth then another and her fingers are moving faster, faster. Her eyes close and she’s all alone. Her fingers. Her cunt. Her. And whatever she’s thinking, and I’ve always wanted it to be about me, a tattoo of me, remember me, but even if it is me, me in her head, it’s just pretend. What’s real is her, her body, alone on the bed.

  I put on my running shorts. I put on my running shoes. There’s a poem about pros, about pro-fuckers, who approach sex like running, who never mistake, and that’s the word, who never mistake fucking for love. The poem ends with the image of a runner.

  It isn’t just an image. Not for me. I’m a runner. I run with full balls.

  C has been in my apartment for three days, much of it alone. I’m leaving her alone again, but this time, when I return, she’ll be gone.

  I leave my apartment, go down the stairs, go out the door. It’s officially fall, but I don’t smell any leaves.

  I start to run.

  I run fast, faster.

  Fast running.

  Hard running.

  My balls full with sperm.

  I’m running and I want to cry, but I hold it, hold it, hold it and make my eyes empty and run.

  Golden Hand

  K. L. Gillespie

  Rush hour was well under way and Molly had already picked two pockets by the time she arrived at Victoria Station. She worked the main concourse for twenty minutes before jumping into a black cab and heading over to the city where the richest pickings were to be had. She always took taxis, unless she was following a mark, because the public transport system was full of criminals.

  Molly had been dipping professionally since she was fifteen and she had it down to a fine art. She’d honed her skills on the Paris Metro where she was known locally as “la main d’or” until she had her heart broken by a French Lothario and moved back to London.

  Meanwhile, on the other side of town, Nicholas was running for his train. There were no seats left so he leaned against the door and closed his eyes while the train cut through London.

  Molly was speeding along the Embankment in the back of a hackney cab. She didn’t look like a pickpocket. Her clothes reeked of money, they had to, they were a tool of the trade, allowing her to melt seamlessly into the crowds of commuters that she worked five days a week. They were also her “get-out-of-jail card” because on the rare occasion that she did get caught what overworked, stressed, ex-public schoolboy could resist her five-inch Louboutins and seamed stockings. None so far, that’s for sure.

  Nicholas spent his journey drifting in and out of a waking dream where he was tied to a bed by a beautiful woman, naked bar silk stockings and stilettos. It was only when the train pulled into the station and the doors jolted open that he woke up with a start. His dream was long gone but a throbbing erection in his pants was there to remind him as he was herded onto the platform by a wave of commuters.

  London Bridge was still heaving when Molly arrived, just the way she liked it, overcrowded and anonymous, perfect pickpocketing territory. She had a good feeling about today as she positioned herself under the announcement board, eyes peeled.

  Molly scanned the station and within seconds she had found her mark. Experience told her that he would be an easy lift – tall, mid-thirties, well dressed, just Molly”s type. She watched his every move with the eyes of a hunter.

  Nicholas checked his watch, time was getting on so he picked up his pace and headed into the Tube.

  Molly watched him disappear into the underground and instinct told her to follow him but she had to move fast so she trotted across the station in her heels and tailgated him down the escalator and into the surreal depths of the Northern Line. A sea of heads stretched out in front of her but she was focused and never lost sight of his dark brown hair bobbing above the crowd. She felt at home weaving through the subterranean network of tunnels that connected London. The Tube was her favourite hunting ground; it did half the work for you because people expected to be bustled, so her deft hand could easily go unnoticed as it slipped in and out of unsuspecting men’s pockets.

  Nicholas squeezed through the crowds on the platform and waited. Fleeting glimpses of his dream kept infiltrating his mind’s eye and his cock was stirring again.

  As Molly entered the platform a train pulled in and she squeezed into the carriage behind her mark. She fanned him without anyone noticing, locating his wallet in his front-left trouser pocket.

  The doors closed and as the carriage jerked off she tipped forward onto her toes and jutted her breasts into his back. She felt his feet adjust, strengthening his balance and he leaned back into her, increasing the pressure between her nipples and his shoulder blades. First contact had been made and in five seconds he would be used to the pressure of her body against his.

  Nicholas was oblivious to the young woman pressing up against him, he was used to being jostled every morning. Besides, he was too busy wishing he were somewhere else, somewhere private where he could give his erection the attention it demanded, to notice anything happening around him.

  As they entered the tunnel and darkness swamped the train Molly’s hand entered his left trouser pocket. Her touch was light and she was sure that he hadn’t felt a thing. She had expected her polished, carmine fingertips to find his wallet straight away and whip it out in a split second but she was momentarily thrown when they rested on his erect penis. She knew she had to be professional about this but his cock was throbbing hypnotically beneath her fingertips and there was no way that he could have failed to notice her hand cupping the tip of his erection, but he hadn’t even flinched.

  Nicholas froze. He knew he should have turned round and confronted them but the touch was so charged that he succumbed to the thrill.

/>   When Molly sensed his submission it set her pulse racing. She gently squeezed him and when his breathing deepened she realized she had complete control. With this free rein, Molly started to run her nails over his cock; the lining of his trousers was as thin as silk and she could feel every ridge and vein as she probed deeper into his pocket.

  Nicholas had always fantasized about an anonymous encounter like this and now his dreams were coming true.

  Molly had him in the palm of her hand and she basked in the power. It was electrifying and she could feel her cunt throbbing against the lace of her pants. She squeezed her thighs together putting gentle pressure on her vulva and worked her hand up and down the length of his cock. She allowed her blood-red nails to play over the marshmallow softness of his glans as it strained against his trousers and she dragged at the inside of his pocket with her £100 manicure, desperate to feel his naked flesh.

  Nicholas wanted to see who was touching him but he was scared that if he turned round she would stop. He strained his eyes to the side as far as he could and caught a glimpse of her shoes and stockings reflected in the door. It was enough to send his libido hurtling into orbit and he lifted his briefcase up, providing her with a shield to work behind as she pushed his foreskin to and fro with energetic relish.

  Molly pulled him towards her and picked up the pace. She pushed herself into his back, forcing her pudendum into his gyrating arse as it buffeted backwards and forwards. She gritted her teeth and wave after wave of unrestrained pleasure started to swamp her body.

  Nicholas could feel her thrusting against him and the more she thrust the more disengaged he became with the world around him. His heart was pounding against his chest as he swayed his hips in time with her strokes. Rapid, rhythmic contractions swirled round the base of his penis, and his pelvis contracted. He had reached ejaculatory inevitability and there was no going back now.

  Molly too was unable to control herself any longer and she slipped her fingers into her pants and cupped her cunt tightly in her hand. She was already slick and needed only the slightest pressure, expertly applied, to tease out an orgasm. She came easily, without missing a stroke and as the train hurtled through the tunnel her mark hurtled towards his orgasm.

  Nicholas felt his whole body tense in anticipation and lost himself in the moment. The last thing he remembered before he was hurled into the vortex of his own climax was her body spasming against his and, as the train pulled into the station, he came, and came, and came.

  Molly felt his warm cum as it seeped through his pocket and she silently withdrew her hand. The train came to a standstill and Molly slipped out quietly as soon as the doors opened.

  Nicholas was spent. His heart was pounding and his mind was racing. He couldn’t make sense of anything that had happened but it had been exhilarating and he was addicted. He wanted more, to follow her, to thank her, to see her again perhaps, but she had already disappeared into the crowds and he knew it was over.

  Molly opened her bag on the escalator and took the wallet out. She stroked it before opening it up and checking his cards. Nicholas Sackworth, he had a name now. There was a photo too and for some reason she couldn’t put it down. She stared at it all the way up the escalator, desperately looking for clues to his life but it was just a passport photo and it told her nothing. Nevertheless she kept it and the eighty quid that she had found, but she threw the rest away in the nearest bin before hailing a taxi.

  Stella

  Saskia Walker

  Even when she was totally naked Stella was a lady. Even when she was getting herself splendidly fucked there was something quintessentially ladylike about her. I’m not sure if it was breeding, or money – although she did come from an aristocratic family – but it was an enduring quality, and given that Stella was naked rather a lot that was quite a skill to maintain. Stella was the most outstanding woman in our year at university, and it was because of Stella that I began to identify as a bisexual woman.

  I’d noticed her long before she spoke to me, of course, but we actually met on this one sunny day when I was walking up the library steps with a couple of others from my seminar group. Stella was holding court halfway up the steps. As we approached her that day she waved to one of my companions. “Pete, please say you’ll come to my party.”

  There was laughter in her eyes as she asked the question. As if anyone would say no to an invitation from Stella. I stared at her. I couldn’t help myself. A secret smile lingered around her mouth. She was wearing black ski pants and a soft pink sweater that barely clung to her. It hung off her shoulders. She was Nordic looking, and always seemed to wear clothes that looked as if they were painted on, or about to fall off. As I stood there watching her in awe I noticed that she wasn’t wearing a bra and her nipples stood out under the soft wool. I could imagine how good that felt, and secretly admired her for being so clever.

  She noticed me staring, and some sort of recognition flickered through her eyes.

  Pete was speaking. She replied to whatever he said and Pete grinned. “And bring your girlfriend, won’t you.”

  She was looking at me. My breath caught in my throat.

  Pete looked awkward.

  “We’re not,” I blurted. “I mean, we’re just friends, we’ve been in a seminar together.”

  My response seemed to bait her interest even more. She stepped closer. “That doesn’t matter. Come to my party, pretty please.”

  It was almost as if she had forgotten all about Pete and was totally focused on me. I nodded. I was so thrilled that I couldn’t manage to respond verbally, but I was smiling. Looking back on it, I wondered if she spotted something in me right then. She walked away, but glanced back over her shoulder, right at me. That was enough. I was hooked.

  In the days leading up to the party I couldn’t stop thinking about her. Was it just her star-like quality, or was there another reason why she made my pulse tick faster? I couldn’t deny that it turned me on. Even thinking about her made my hands clench and between my legs an eager pulse tripped higher and higher, like a time bomb close to detonation. I wanted to drink in that unique quality she had in her sexuality: ultra feminine, confident, powerful, and yet somehow fragile and beautiful all at once, the quintessential blonde bombshell. It was like watching some Hollywood goddess from the fifties walking through a movie set.

  I liked having sex with men, so this strange fascination with Stella made me think about my sexuality and question it, especially because I was so excited by her personal invitation. It was more than just admiring her. I was definitely sexually aroused. Did that mean I was bisexual? It was something I’d never considered before. I’d never had to because I’d never felt like this before. She definitely turned me on, I couldn’t deny that. Stella made me want to touch myself while I was thinking about her. I wanted to savor her, like a fine wine. I wanted to watch and absorb her, enjoy every moment and every sensual response I felt. That’s why her invitation triggered a massive sense of expectation and arousal in me. Not only would I see her again, and soon. I would get to observe the lioness stalking in her own territory.

  The house Stella lived in was large and well furnished – no student dive. I sipped wine and passed the time until I saw her moving through the rooms chatting with her guests. She was wearing a slip of a dress the color of ruby red port. It shifted over her breasts when she moved and looked as if one touch would have it dropping to the floor. That sent a shiver of arousal through me, because I automatically pictured myself nudging that strap free from her shoulder, initiating the undressing of Stella.

  “I’m so glad you could come,” she said as she approached me, eyeing me with that half-smile as if she knew why I was there better than I did.

  Heat flared in my face. “Thank you for inviting me.”

  “Come on, I’ll get you another drink.” She urged me into the kitchen, one hand possessively against my back between my shoulder blades, as if we’d known each other forever. Was she coming on to me? We chatted a while,
mostly about which courses we were taking the following term. The usual stuff you did when you first meet a student you don’t know very well. Then someone called her away and I went back to my own crowd, but I felt somehow enriched, as if I had a secret.

  The next time I saw her it was past midnight and I was looking for the bathroom. “Here,” she beckoned, her eyes filled with humor, “you can use my bathroom.”

  She led me into a bedroom littered with discarded garments, which made me chuckle. Always getting naked? I wondered. A bedside lamp covered with a red shade gave the otherwise gloomy room a sensual glow. The bed was stacked with cushions and throws and looked as if it had been unmade forever.

  Stella nodded over at one of two doors on the far wall. “Help yourself,” she said.

  Then she was gone. The door closed behind her. I was left alone in her lair. I breathed in her scent. My gaze was drawn back to the bed. The sheets would smell of her, the pillows too. After I’d used the bathroom, I got curious about the other door. Surely it wouldn’t do any harm to have a peep in there before I left?

  There was a light switch on the wall, but I didn’t want to take the risk of turning it on. As I got accustomed to the gloom I could see it was a wardrobe of the walk-in variety, and it was packed with shelves and racks of clothes. I wandered in and ran my hand over them. Stella’s clothes, the things she wore against her skin. I trailed my fingers over various items on coat hangers, thinking about them being against her skin and imagining how that felt.

  Before I had a chance to think about it any more I heard laughter and the sound of a door opening. Dismayed, I glanced back into the bedroom. It was Stella, and she had a man with her. A sense of panic quickly rose inside me. She must have forgotten I was in there or assumed I had already gone. Mercifully, she kept the guy at the door until she’d scoped the room. Then she grabbed him by the hand and pulled him in after her, shut the door behind him, and turned the key in the lock. Next thing I knew, she was backing him toward my hiding place.