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

by Jakubowski, Maxim

  “I did all that and more as the sketches fluttered down until the floor was littered with them. I was embarrassed and ashamed – quelle honte. But I was also aroused and soiled, and I didn’t know what my poor heart was going to feel next. I was face down, holding my buttocks open, when I felt his huge hand on me again. He pulled me upright, sitting on the edge of the bed. I felt like I was coming out of a cloud. He was fiddling under his shirt, and suddenly produced his penis. I know now that it wasn’t prodigious, but it seemed so to me then.

  “‘Are you a virgin?’ I managed to nod. ‘Open your mouth . . . and use your tongue.’

  “I went home with a promise to return, an old 100-franc note and the taste of sperm in my mouth. Does my story discomfort you?”

  “No . . . not at all.” I was hotter than the flat, but I couldn’t say so.

  “You haven’t refilled your glass. Let me.”

  She had the grace of a cat as she unfolded from the armchair, grasped the bottle and leant over to refill my glass. Her scent, and the warm fragrance of tobacco, enveloped me.

  “I should have been disgusted. His cock smelt rank, unwashed, sweaty, and I had sucked it. His sperm was heavy and tasted bad, but that night in bed my tongue teased behind my teeth in case a sense of him had survived the potage and the pork. I slept badly, remembering the thickness of his cock between my lips, how it bruised them as he fucked my virgin mouth. His filthy smell remained in my nostrils and made me ashamed and wet.”

  She sank bank into her chair and fumbled for another cigarette.

  “Of course, I went back next day. I can’t explain why. He didn’t even have to tell me to strip. He just gestured to the bed, and there I was – naked and spread for him. I was young and limber and he had me take positions I never knew could exist, and I could feel the dampness in my loins as I opened my body to his uncaring eye. I was in a world of my own lust when he pulled me roughly off the bed onto my knees. My mouth was already opening before I even saw his penis. He ejaculated on my face, told me to sit still and sketched me as I knelt there, bespattered and oddly elated.

  “I played with the drying flakes of his sperm as I walked home, peeling them from my face and putting them in my mouth. There was an old lavoir at the edge of the village, and it was only there, within sight of my house, that I washed my face clean.

  “Every week day, I was a model student at school and a model whore for him. As we worked he told me all the dirty words for the body and what could be done with it. After a week or so he no longer needed to fuck my mouth: I would avidly kneel to suck his cock the moment his fumbling at his flies told me our session was over. He taught me how to touch myself as I writhed for him, and I learnt to come under his implacable gaze.

  “The weekends were too full of chores for me to get away, and I found myself longing for that riot of exhibition, and for the taste and torture of his smelly, unwashed flesh.

  “The third week, he made me take longer poses, and spent longer on his sketches. His favourite was me on my knees, shoulders on the bed, back arched, buttocks spread. It was a particularly shameful position for me, knowing that my vagina and anus were so intimately exposed for him. It was humiliating and jaggedly exciting. I was posed thus, one day, when I felt his hand between my shoulder blades holding me firmly down. He hardly ever touched me, and I bucked against his hand.

  “‘Keep still. I won’t hurt you.’ I obeyed, even when I felt his other hand, cold and greasy, move over my bum. His callused finger hurt me, despite the grease, when he prised me open. I whimpered and tensed. ‘Relax yourself, ma petite. It will hurt less, and you’ll still be a virgin.’”

  I found my breath was held tight as she was speaking. Perhaps she saw it. She took a sip of her tisane and the cup clanked against the saucer, allowing my breath to escape unnoticed.

  “That was a different walk home, I can tell you! The whole lower half of my body ached, and each step seemed a torment. My anus felt as if it would never close again, and the oily trickle from it only added to my shame and the hot blush of disgusted excitement. I couldn’t wash that part of me at the lavoir!

  “I told my mother I needed a bath before supper. While it ran, I inspected my bottom in the mirror, bending over at a ridiculous angle. My anus was a little red, that’s all. I couldn’t help touching it. My fingertip opened me easily enough. I can’t remember how I ended up on the floor, fingers wildly fucking each of my holes as I bit down on a towel to stem my screams.

  “I could barely sleep. The thought of doing such a dirty thing with a man, having his penis in my bowels, feeling him ejaculate there – I couldn’t stop masturbating at the thoughts that crowded and clashed in my head, and I couldn’t stop coming.

  “He didn’t bugger me that often. My mouth and face gladly took his offerings, but I often found myself half hoping he would pull me onto all fours and inflict that exquisite torment on my arse.

  “And then he died.”

  She studied my face a moment as she took another sip of her tisane.

  “It was the Easter holidays and I couldn’t get away that much. My body throbbed for his filthy embrace. Easter Monday I managed to slip away for a while. I walked down the road thinking of what he would do to me. I was wet with anticipation. At the gate was a large black van, a couple of men leaning against the back of it smoking. I slowed down, suddenly afraid. An older man came out of the house. One of the van men offered him a smoke. They all seemed unconcerned, enjoying the spring sunshine, enjoying their Gitanes.

  “I couldn’t hear much of what the older man said. ‘. . . a pigsty . . . no, alone . . . heart attack probably’. They were grinding their cigarettes out and opening the van. I slipped through a gate into the field and took the long way home. I cried all the way.”

  She drank her tisane in silence for a while, sunk in her memory. I felt I had to show I had been listening, that I cared – and not just about the solid erection which had been paining me throughout her story.

  “I’m sorry, that must have been awful for you. What did you do then?”

  She gave me a look that chilled me.

  “What do you think I did? Go into mourning for my dead lover? Tch! I threw myself into my studies, talked to teachers about universities, tried to keep my thoughts away from what we had done in that studio and my hands out of my privates. I passed my Bac. My family were pleased with me. And then . . .

  “One of the last days of school, a lovely summer evening, I walked past the closed-up house without looking, as usual. I heard a creak behind me and a voice calling, ‘Mademoiselle.’ My heart was pounding as I turned. There was a very well-dressed middle-aged man standing in the open doorway, gesturing for me to come closer. He looked very dapper, very out of place in the countryside. ‘I knew I would recognize you,’ he said as he held the door open for me. ‘Please come in. I have something for you.’

  “The studio looked no different. A bit more dust on the dust I’d breathed every day. I stood in the middle of the room as the man made space for his briefcase on one of the cluttered tables. He was very . . . businesslike. ‘My name is Marcel Gijon and I was poor Henri’s agent and am now his executor.’ Did I know his name was Henri? Had he ever said his name to me, or I to him? I couldn’t remember. ‘Henri rang me several times before he died, raving about the young model he had found locally – a model who was so free and open with her body that it had given his painting a new lease of life. Artists often say things like that – they do like to exaggerate! So I had no great hopes when I came down here to make an inventory.

  “‘Imagine my surprise when I saw his work – saw your work!’ ‘Why do you think it was me, Monsieur? It could have been any of the local girls.’ He grinned at me and turned to pull a sheaf of drawings from a folder, handing them to me one by one. Oh, it was me all right. Me, naked, in all manner of obscene poses: my breasts, my vagina, my anus all drawn with marvellous energy. The last drawing was of my face. It was a very good likeness, right down to the thick gouts of
sperm that adorned me.

  “I shivered as I looked at that picture. I felt shame that this man had seen how defiled I had been, how sluttish. And yet I was also proud of how I looked, and newly aroused by the memories of those evenings. Henri had never shown me anything of the drawings he had made of me. Looking at them for the first time I understood that there had also been something special going on amidst the dirt and squalor and lust. We had created something.

  “‘They are very beautiful, these sketches, and very arousing. Don’t you agree, Mademoiselle?’ ‘Yes, they are.’ ‘And you must see some of the paintings he made from them. He must have finished this one just before he died.’

  “Marcel crossed to the easel where a large canvas was shrouded with a dust sheet. I followed as he pulled it away and there I was, on my knees and elbows, my back arched, the really beautifully caught sheen of sweat on my widespread buttocks and the dizzyingly erotic trickle of semen from my slightly dilated anus. ‘So wonderful. Henri was truly a gifted artist. And he’s left all of these gems to you.’

  “I turned to look at Marcel. He could read my disbelief. ‘Oh yes, he updated his will not long ago. And I am a loyal executor of that will and I am here to see that you get what is now yours.’ He gave me a moment to take this in. ‘But, Mademoiselle, I am also his loyal agent and if I may I would like to make you a proposition.’ And I heard the sound of the zip on his trousers being unfastened. He asked a question with his eyes to which he already knew the answer. Demurely, I knelt before him and accepted his penis in my mouth. He talked as I sucked. I was happy with his proposition, and his cum tasted sweet after my long drought.

  “So I didn’t go to university. I came here to Paris with Marcel, as principal model and muse to the group of artists of which Henri had once been a part. You won’t find the work of the group in galleries: we make erotic art to private commission. There are other models, of course, but I have always been their favourite since the day I arrived fresh-faced from the countryside. I work with them individually, but sometimes they get together for some particular project, and that can be quite tiring. A woman has only so many orifices.”

  I must have blushed as the meaning of this sank in. She laughed throatily.

  “I enjoy my work, Monsieur. I’ve enjoyed it ever since that day Henri hauled me off the dusty road and had me strip in his studio. It took me a while to accept my enjoyment, that is all. Come here.”

  She stood and moved to one of the covered piles that I had noticed when we had arrived. I understood now what they were.

  “I’ve kept most of Henri’s work, for . . . sentimental reasons. I am well paid by the group, but if I need a little extra, Marcel sells one for me. They fetch good prices. And I have had some outrageous offers for this one.”

  She pulled the sacking back, and there was the painting she had described: a beautiful young girl exhibiting her anal defloration. It was truly breathtaking, and my tumescent penis leapt anew at it. But what does an aroused man understand about anything? I bent to look closer at the painting.

  “And the other model . . . Dora? Did she ever work with you, or was she . . . ?”

  “I think you should leave now, Monsieur.”

  “I’m sorry, I . . .”

  “Please leave now. It is late and I have work to do later.”

  I gathered my warm clothes in the sudden chill of the apartment. She was silent until I stepped out onto the landing.

  “Her name is Dina, not Dora, and I told you that she was and is a good woman. The first time we met she saw straight through me. I blushed as if she could see me on my knees sucking men’s cocks. But then she smiled at me, and that unjudgemental smile bit deep. We were both models, yes, but everything I have posed for is hidden and out of sight as if it were shameful, and she adorns the Tuileries like a modern goddess.

  “Was what you have seen and heard shameful, Monsieur?”

  I had no idea what to say. Her lips gave a little twitch. It might have been half a smile.

  “Goodnight, Monsieur.”

  As the door closed the timer on the landing light went out and I realized that there was a faint glimmer from the window above. Outside, dawn was breaking. In the hours I had listened to the story, Paris had woken up and got on with life – snow notwithstanding. As I walked along the river towards my room, buses and lorries were churning up the streets. People were everywhere, walking carefully amidst the slush.

  Paris was the same again, just whiter and dirtier.

  My Ass is Your Ass is My Ass

  Kristina Lloyd

  So, there he is with his cock in my ass, and I’m biting the pillow, making all sorts of groans. At least, that’s how it looks on the outside. Not that anyone’s watching. We’re in my bedroom and very alone together, the way you are when someone’s fucking your ass. Very alone together.

  So that’s the outside view: kinda porny and inadequate. On the inside, I’m floating in a space nebula, and star clusters of silver are pulsing bright and dark. I’m about to go supernova, when Tony asks a breathless question. “You’ve got to save one thing for me,” he says. “Your ass or your throat.”

  He could be speaking a foreign language. Slow colorbursts spread across my mind like intergalactic ink stains: electric blue and peacock green with halos of neon pink and gold. My ass is so stretched and full of his big, beautiful dick.

  “What is it, huh?” he says. “I’m giving you a choice here. You gotta make up your mind. Anal or deep-throating?”

  I wail and whimper. The question’s too difficult. It’s like he asked me to explain string theory.

  “Come on,” he urges. “I know you fuck other guys. No need to be shy. I know you’re a slut but you’re my slut, see?” His fingers grip below my hips. “So you got to put up a ‘reserved’ sign on one part of your body. ‘Only for Tony.’ What’s it to be? Ass or throat?”

  I want to work through the question employing all my faculties of reason. I want to write a list of pros and cons and give due consideration to the implications of this decision, both for myself, for my relationship with Tony and with the others. But I can’t. So I reach into deep space and pluck a word from a distant constellation, a single syllable burning bright and white.

  “Ass. My ass.”

  Tony groans and holds himself deep. “Good girl,” he murmurs. Whenever he says that, I go loose with lust. “What am I doing right now?” he asks.

  My words are tangled up with stars. “Fucking me.”

  “Where’s my cock?”

  “In my ass.”

  “Whose ass?” He slides away and in again, slow and controlled. “Whose ass is it really?”

  I’m spiraling toward a whirlpool of blackness and I fight the pull, knowing gravity wants to steal my words.

  “It’s your ass,” I say. “My ass is your ass.”

  “That’s right,” he breathes.

  “Is my ass,” I gasp. When I come, I fall through nights of liquid velvet, lights prickling as ageless galaxies die across the dark skies of my mind.

  That was five months ago. I’ve been with half a dozen other guys since then and I’ve kept my word. Well, more or less. The trouble is, Tony and I never discussed how this would work. We didn’t establish rules or boundaries. If I keep my ass for Tony, does that mean no one else can touch, lick or penetrate me there? Or simply that no one else can fuck me?

  I’m too scared to ask in case Tony wants to – ’scuse the pun – ring-fence my ring. And then we might have to call the whole thing off because that’s too great a sacrifice for me. I like having my ass played with. But Tony’s ownership of my ass turns me on so, instead of fine-tuning the small print of our deal and risking disagreement, I’ve been making it up as I go along.

  “Did he fuck your ass?” Tony asks on the phone whenever I tell him about a recent encounter.

  “’Course not,” I say. “Only you get to fuck me there.”

  He never asks for more detail so I never go into any. But there’s a lot
to tell.

  I meet most of these other guys online, on dating websites and chat forums. Occasionally, I pick someone up at a party or nightclub; and a couple of times (OK, four), I’ve gone home with a guy who’s been drinking in the pub where I work. That’s how I first met Tony.

  “A large bourbon and one for yourself,” he said.

  “We’re not supposed to drink on duty,” I replied, primly flirtatious.

  He looked at his watch. “When are you off duty?”

  I get a lot of guys hitting on me at work, not because I’m outstandingly beautiful but because they’re too drunk to distinguish between the goods for sale and the person selling them. Frankly, it bugs. And they never seem to appreciate I’m not their type. I’m an art-school dropout who still dreams of traveling the world and having a studio to paint in. I buy my clothes from thrift stores and stay up late listening to old jazz on vinyl. I don’t know what to do with my life but I’ve always felt there are colors beneath my skin. Scratch me and I’ll bleed you a rainbow.

  The guys who chat me up in the pub want someone conventional in stockings and heels. I can see it in their eyes. They only make a pass at me because I’m there. But I could tell immediately that Tony was different, and damn, he was a looker. Rangy and inked, he had this air of louche confidence that existed on the right side of sleazy, but only just. He wore his hair in a soft rockabilly quiff, jet-black curls licking at his collar, neat sideburns by his ears. His jeans were narrow, his shoes pointed and his smile filthy. When he talked, a silver front tooth flashed like a warning light. My mother would have hated him.

  “Midnight, and the name’s Coral,” I said, sliding his drink onto the counter.

  “After the reef?” he asked.

  “No, the bookie’s.”

  We were great together that night. For several crazy hours, we lost ourselves in a loop of sex, talk, laughter and sex, both of us eaten up with curiosity for the other. We smoked a lot of weed and at five in the morning, we lay across the bed, stoned, fucked and comfortably smug, listening to Chet Baker and lazily comparing tattoos, trying to ignore the gold dawn light filtering into the room. A lyric from Chet curled like smoke around my mind: “flirting with this disaster”.