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

by Jakubowski, Maxim

  There it was. Just like that. Turned a hair to the left. His torment died. His kink was born.

  In the first few texts and emails they exchanged she asked him questions. So many questions. He loved answering them but he could barely keep up. The questions kept coming, more and more. There were some simple ones: where, when, how often. Questions about habits with his wife, did he like this, was he turned on by that. But then came more difficult, compelling questions. Like, why? Why did he like what he did? Where did it come from? And finally, what books did he like, what TV shows did he watch, who did he vote for in the 2008 election. Her desire to learn about him was voracious, like she was eating him alive. He felt like that. Or like in answering her he was ripping himself open and laying his insides out for her to casually peruse and then choose something to examine.

  He dutifully responded to it all.

  And then she named him. His name was not Paul. But she named him SubPaul. He could not help but wonder if it was because it sounded like “sub par”.

  After lunch one day she called him in his office.

  “I’m going to send you an email,” she said, the sultry tones of her voice coming through the phone like ribbons of silk weaving around his body. “When you get it, don’t open it. You are not allowed to open it until you are ready to go home.”

  The email came through. He looked at it sitting there in his Inbox, subject line “For Your Drive”, its bold type indicating it was unread, the darkness of the lettering making it appear so much more intense than the other pathetic emails beneath it and eventually over the top of it.

  He glanced at the clock: 1.35. He had almost four hours until it would be appropriate, usual for him to leave. Maybe he could squeeze it to three and a half. The hours stretched out like a long road in front of him. It was torture wondering what the message said, being semi-hard over words he hadn’t even read yet. How was he going to sit for all that time without reading it? What did it say?

  From: MistressD

  To: SubPaul

  Subject: For Your Drive

  Hi! This email is for your drive home. If you have opened it before then, stop, close this up. Open it back up when you are about to drive home. Put it away. Now.

  OK. Are you alone now? Good boy. Have you been thinking about me? Of course you have. You’re always thinking about me, aren’t you? I’ve taken up residence in that naughty little brain of yours.

  I have to address the fact that your wife doesn’t go down on you. Have you wondered why I haven’t commented on that in our emails? Did you think I hadn’t noticed or maybe it wasn’t important to me? Oh no. No, no, no. I took very keen notice of that. I have thought about that. A LOT. Because here’s something you should know about me. I LOVE to suck cock. I fucking love it. The power. I really get off on the power of it. I know that if I had my lips and tongue anywhere near your cock right now I would have complete control over you. Total.

  So, Mr I-haven’t-had-a-blow-job-in-twenty-years, when I get my hands on you again I’m going to strip you down, sit you on a chair, cuff your hands behind your back and start licking. That spot. You know that spot? Oh yes, the one just under your head, that sensitive spot that you told me you couldn’t touch because it gets you there too quickly? Aw, poor baby. Too fucking bad. I like that spot. I would flick and tongue and kiss and suck that spot until you were a pleading, begging, weeping, sopping fucking mess. Don’t you dare cum in my face. I mean, Mistress loves cum, but I don’t want it yet. You fucking hold it back, slut.

  Now. Put your phone away. Start your car. And think about this email the whole way home. Try subtly to get wifey to fuck you tonight. Report back to me in the morning.

  Kisses!

  Oh. God.

  Oh God. OhGodohGodohGodohGod.

  Like a zombie he turned the keys in the ignition. He started the engine. His cock was so hard he could feel the vibrations of the motor right through his body. Her words ran through his brain. He could see himself, in her office, strapped to her chair, helpless with her tongue on his trigger and her ordering him not to explode. Don’t you dare cum in my face. Oh God. You fucking hold it back, slut. Oh fuck.

  His cock gave one hard pulse. And then the combination of his pants pressing down on his stiff flesh, the vibrations from the car engine and, mostly, her words whirling around in his head sent pressure through his body it was helpless to combat. He swallowed hard, let out a strangled cry and released in one large spurt.

  “You what??” She giggled uncontrollably. “You actually came in your pants??”

  He stood before her in her office the next day, reporting, as she requested, head down, again cheeks aflame.

  “Oh my God, how old are you? You’re acting like a horny teenager!” She walked around her desk over to him. She was more casual today, in a light grey sweater dress that clung to her curves in all the right places. Her fiery hair was down and loose, cascading in waves around her face as she smiled and tsked her disapproval at him. “I knew I had my work cut out for me with you.” She lifted his chin with her finger. “But even I didn’t think you were this bad.” His heart pounded. She gently placed her hand on the side of his face and stared in his eyes like she was searching for something, like she was considering a choice or trying to solve a puzzle. Then she blinked.

  “You need some extra work,” she said. “Some, um, let’s call it therapy. Desensitization. Yes, that’s it!”

  He began to say something, to protest somehow, even though he wasn’t really sure what she meant. But she wouldn’t let him speak. “SubPaul, this is for your own good,” she chastised. “I mean, how is your wife ever going to have any pleasure if you keep coming like a horny little boy after two minutes! Or if you don’t even make it into her cunt.” Oh God. The wave of humiliation was back. He felt it in his gut, deep down, hot, big in his gut and radiating out, making the edges of his body tingle. “Coming in your pants,” she sighed. “I mean, really!” She put a hand on her hip and stood back, still staring at him.

  “Close the door,” she commanded. He obeyed.

  “So here’s what we’re going to do,” she said. “You obviously get very excited about the idea of my mouth on your cock.” She licked her lips. His heart skipped a beat.

  She knelt in front of him and began unbuckling his pants. His hands flew to protect himself but her head flew back and her eyes pierced him, even from her position below.

  “Don’t. Fucking. Move.”

  He swallowed hard and obeyed, forcing his hands to hang at his sides.

  When she pulled his pants and his shorts down, his cock sprang out, stiff already from just her words and her position in front of him. God. His heart continued pounding its thunderous rhythm in his head. He stared up at the ceiling, searching for a way to calm down.

  “Now don’t look up there, look at me,” she said, “and keep looking.” He nodded and complied. Her eyes were no longer teasing and giggly. Now they were stern. Serious. “Listen to what I’m telling you.” He watched her mouth move. She’d painted her lips a bright red, perhaps to contrast her grey dress. She put that red mouth right next to his swollen member. “You need to stop thinking about me putting my mouth on your little dick.” She kept staring in his eyes. He could feel her hot breath on him. It was crazy, so humiliating, but he could feel every puff of hot air as her words escaped her lips, each one sending waves of sensation through his cock, making it pulse and throb. “I know you never get head. Aw, that makes it difficult, doesn’t it?” Suddenly her eyes changed. Soft now, sympathetic. “It’s OK, sweetie. Mistress knows.” His insides turned to liquid. His knees mush. “But for your own good, you need to stop, OK?” She looked at his cock. He started trembling but he didn’t dare move. She made her mouth into an O and put it a sliver, a hair, away from the tip, and looked up at him again. “Unh unh,” she sang. She pulled away slightly so her lips wouldn’t touch him as she said, “Stop thinking about me sucking you.”

  Then she put out her tongue, put it on the bas
e of his trembling cock, and licked one long soft but firm, wet lick from the base all the way up to the tip, dragging that gorgeous tongue across every horny, sensitive fibre of his being. When she got to the tip, he exploded.

  She let him. She put her hands on his bucking hips and held her tongue there as his cock convulsed and gushed, pulsing out its creamy disgrace. She caught it all on her tongue and then she stood.

  She put a hand on either side of his face, tilted his head back slightly and put her lips to his as if in a kiss. He obediently opened his lips to her as she deposited his still-warm come in his own mouth. She licked, pursed her lips and stepped back.

  “Certainly you don’t expect me to clean up after you.” She smiled. “Swallow your own fucking come.”

  She turned on her heel and left.

  It was not completely true to say he couldn’t work. He couldn’t – he sat at his desk, in his office, gazing unseeingly at his blank computer screen, a million miles away, for hours. So he couldn’t. Until he could.

  Until he had an idea. And his ideas, like his cock, were not controllable, would pop up at inconvenient times and demand attention. Like one night, in the wee hours, when he suddenly woke and sat straight up in bed, gasping. He could see the building, the plans, see all of the lines, curves, intersections everything before him. His brain seemed to be working on autopilot, calculating the structure, envisioning how the light would come through. He glanced at the clock – 3.32 – and at his sleeping wife and briefly considered trying to go back to sleep. He almost heard his idea, like a person, like Her, laughing at him. Just try and ignore me, it seemed to say. The voice, Her voice, propelled him out of bed.

  He walked into his darkened home office, looked at his drawing board. At home he still went old school with pencil and paper. The prospect of transcribing everything from his brain to the waiting blank paper simultaneously exhausted and exhilarated him. He envisioned himself reaching for his brain, through his ear, pulling it out and pitching it at that board, splat! Then watching as all his ideas gelled into drawings, all his best stuff emerging, like wheat from chaff.

  He worked feverishly until morning.

  Standing on the stairs to the library entrance, he stopped, looked up at the doors and took in a deep breath. He took out his phone and reread her email. The one with the subject line: Consequences. That email was the reason he was there.

  He didn’t want to be there. A part of him, something in his head was screaming at him to please turn around, get back in his car and go home to his wife. But it was not a request. She was very clear. There were consequences for his failure at their first therapy session, as she referred to it. He had to learn.

  So he was at the library. Her orders were: go into the library, go to the non-fiction section, go to the librarian at the information desk and ask her for help. Because apparently he needed it.

  He had to ask for books on premature ejaculation.

  He took one last breath. And walked in.

  That’s how their relationship went. Therapy. Consequences. More therapy.

  Usually the therapy took place in her office. He would come in, usually in the morning, and report to her on his night, if he had masturbated, if his wife had consented to sex, if he was able to last long enough to let her have an orgasm. He would confess everything to her, head down, mumbling a bit, her naughty puppy.

  She would giggle and laugh at his inadequacies, provoking that now familiar heat in his stomach, making it rumble like she was reaching in and messing with it, like the way she might tousle a naughty boy’s hair.

  Then the therapy would commence. The second time was the worst. And so also the best.

  He presented her with the library books, demonstrating that he had completed her humiliating task. She lavished him with compliments, praised him, told him she was happy that at least he was able to do this, making up for his lack of performance in therapy.

  Then she put the books aside. “I have my own methods,” she said. “Come, SubPaul,” She was sitting at her desk. As he walked around the desk to her she reached in a drawer and pulled out a pair of latex gloves and a bottle of lubricant.

  “You don’t have a latex allergy, do you?” she asked, smiling. He couldn’t speak. Just shook his head, no.

  The familiar crystal giggle. “Oh, that’s good. Because you don’t think your cock is actually worthy of my hands, do you? Maybe once you can last longer than a minute or two, then you might get my hands. But until then you only get the gloves.” She looked up at him from her chair and sighed. “Pull your pants down, silly boy! Do I have to do everything for you?”

  He quickly unbuckled and took his pants down to his knees. Watching her take the bottle of lube and pour some onto her black-gloved hand stiffened his already hardening cock.

  “Now remember my instructions from last time. They haven’t changed. You must watch me. You must not move. You can do that, right?” He nodded. “Good boy!” She rubbed the substantial amount of lubricant between both gloves, put her hands together as if in prayer, and then slowly slid his hardness between her two slick gloved palms.

  God! He swallowed hard and closed his eyes. “Eyes open, darling!” she chimed. “Forgetting the rules already? I’ll let it go this time. Don’t do it again.”

  Slowly, oh so slowly, excruciatingly slowly she pumped him two more times. Already he could feel his balls tense up, his seed beginning to simmer.

  “Now, see how good I am to you? I am giving you a chance by going really slowly. I know you couldn’t last a second if I went with any kind of normal speed.” While she spoke she switched tactics, put one smooth gloved palm on his tightened ball sac and pumped in a twisting motion with her other hand. He obediently watched and listened to her, watched his helpless cockhead pulse with purple intensity and weep pre-come. “If you get close, you have to tell me, OK? You have to ask permission for a break. No coming without permission! That would make for some harsh consequences.”

  Oh God! He was going to have to stop her already. He didn’t want to say it. He couldn’t bear for her to know that it was already too much. But the threat of the consequences. Oh God. Oh fuck.

  “Mistress, stop!” he panted. Struggled.

  “Now that wasn’t very polite!” she said, continuing to stroke.

  “Oh God! I’m sorry, Mistress! Please stop! Please!” She continued. “Please, Mistress, may I have a break!”

  She stopped.

  He nearly fell over he was trembling so badly, straining so hard to stop himself.

  “Now that’s better,” she said. “You must always remember to be polite to me. I’m trying to help you! But look at your hips. They’re bucking like you’re a dog or something. And what’s this?” Even while she spoke without touching him he was still desperately trying to hold his come in. But as her words came out, so too did one small drop from his dick. Not clear pre-come. But white, the colour of shame.

  “Oh ho! You let a little bit out!” And to his astonishment she was smiling. “Do you know what that means? You let a little bit out. You started coming a little bit. But you held it back! Good for you! I’m proud of you. Now we’re making some progress.” He blushed, insanely grateful for this compliment. But then her smile changed. Morphed. Then it wasn’t a friendly smile. It was a little bit evil. A little bit knowing. A smile that made him tremble even more.

  “But now, your little cock is going to be really horny and sensitive,” she said. And when she touched it again, he found out just how right she was. And he nearly cried.

  As she slowly stroked he almost wept from the sensitivity, the intensity, the conflict of the near painfully glorious feeling and trying to control his body, make it stop doing what it wanted so badly to do.

  “Aw, poor baby!” she said as she continued her slow stroking. “I told you. I warned you it was going to be sensitive. That’s your own body’s self-imposed punishment for letting that little drop out. That’s wonderful, isn’t it?”

  He really did c
ry then. Sobbed out, “Please, Mistress, may I have another break,” as his hips bucked uncontrollably and his cock pulsed with need and struggle.

  She stopped. “Aw, of course, sweetie. Stop crying now,” she whispered gently. She looked up at him and her eyes shone brightly. “Here,” she said. “Let me kiss it better.” Then she took his cock with one gloved hand, cupped his balls with the other, put his whole cockhead in her glorious mouth and gave it one big, wet, passionate French kiss.

  And of course. He exploded.

  He knew it couldn’t last forever. Somehow he just knew. And in the end three weeks was what it amounted to.

  One day he sat down to his laptop, opened his email and there was one from her. The subject line was “The end cums quickly.” He actually chuckled. But he knew it was done.

  It had been a dark time for him. And very, intensely, insanely titillating.

  But it had been more.

  Because for those three weeks he had never felt more alive, never more vibrant, never more connected to the world, to the air, to the trees, to other people. He felt like he caught a glimmer of how the universe fit together, that just for a moment he could see what some people called God.

  And it was because of her.

  Thinking now, he changed his mind. It wasn’t dark then. It was dark before. Then she came along, reached in, shuffled some things around, turned the light on and left.

  New York Snow

  Elissa Wald

  The two men in black leather chaps appeared in the club while I was onstage. The Dollhouse was so dead at that point – it was about three in the morning – that they were like apparitions in the pink neon. We were in the midst of the kind of lull everyone dreaded: about twelve dancers working the last shift and maybe three customers left in the club, all of them bleary-eyed and long gone for broke.