The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 11

by Maxim Jakubowski

“I didn’t think that you’d understand, or be interested.” He looked young, sheepish. “I thought you’d be disgusted.”

  My guilt evaporated in the heat of sudden anger. “You should have told me. That’s why you’re away so much, isn’t it?”

  “No, no, my trips are real business, but I often . . . extend them. Add a bit of recreation on one end or the other.”

  “And the antidote? How do you afford it?”

  “The government is not as incorruptible as they would like us to believe. I have connections. Access.”

  “You bastard!”

  “Lena, please . . .”

  I sat up in our bed, pushing away the hand that tried to stroke my hair.

  “What about me? What about the rest of us? What about Bolt? And that poor woman who was with me? What about her? What will happen to her?”

  “That’s not my responsibility.”

  “The hell it’s not! You pretend to be Mr Morality-and-Social-Conscience, all cosy with the Council, but do you care what you’re doing? What you’re supporting? All you want is to get your rocks off.”

  “That’s what you wanted.”

  “Yes, but I have no power to change anything. You’ve got connections, or so you say. Maybe it’s time for a change. The Plague is long gone. Maybe it’s time the Council let us make our own decisions again, about who we fuck, and how.”

  “Maybe you’re right. But the Council won’t willingly give up the policy of lust-suppression. It makes us all so easy to control.”

  He caressed my cheek, then allowed his hand to drop to my breast. Dimly, I felt something stir in my crotch. “Seriously, hon, there’s nothing that I can do.”

  “You can get hold of the antidote, right? For free?”

  “Well, for favours. But yes, I can get it. Several of my project sites are at the drug factories.”

  “Let’s start giving it away.”

  “Giving away the antidote? To whom?”

  “Anyone who wants it.” I thought about Merle. She’d take some.

  She’d pass it on.

  “The Council . . . the Inspectors . . .”

  “They can’t arrest us all. They need us.” I leaned forward and kissed him, trying to summon a hint of the passion I’d experienced earlier. Something flickered through me, a pale shadow of the lust I knew I was capable of. It was a tiny spark, but real. I thrust my tongue deep into his mouth, concentrating on that spark. Trying to fan it into flame.

  Jeff returned my enthusiasm. The rich scent of his sweat tickled my nostrils, overwhelming his aftershave. I broke the kiss, searching his face. “Did you take it again? The antidote?”

  “I managed to persuade the Inspectors not to inject me with the suppressors.”

  “Do you have any?” I wanted to feel it again – the rush of desire overwhelming every other emotion.

  “Yes, but you should rest.”

  “Give it to me.”

  “Lena . . . it’s dangerous.”

  “You said you like to watch. I’ll put on a show for you like you’ve never seen.” Jeff looked tempted. A lump was clearly visible in his crotch. I allowed my hand to rest on his bulk for a moment. He was like stone.

  “Let me do this for you, baby.” I was already on my feet, twirling my nipples with one hand, lightly brushing my cunt hair with the other. Even without the antidote, I felt the echoes. Maybe it wasn’t chemical at all. Maybe it was all conditioning. “Let me perform for you. An audience of one.”

  His obvious eagerness made my cunt wet and my nipples hard. I began to stroke myself, marvelling at the sensations awakened by my own touch. His breathing quickened as I spread my folds. Now he could see my glistening lips and the dark cavity they flanked. If he looked closely, he might notice my flesh quivering.

  “Want to watch me fuck myself?” I bent over, showing him my ass, slipping one finger into each hole. Both my cunt and my anus were sore and stretched and still wet. Memory of my double penetration blazed in my mind. I struggled to stay standing. I needed to follow through with this. For myself. For him. For all the rest of us poor souls.

  “Yeah . . .” Jeff could hardly get the words out. I looked at him between my spread thighs. His cock sprouted from his lap, pale and obscene. “Show me, baby. Show me how nasty you can be.”

  A thrill surged through me. I frigged myself, pushing back the orgasm, wanting to make it last. Wanting to please my audience, my husband and yet a stranger. Afterward, maybe I could convince him that we had to do something. I, at least, wasn’t willing to give up what I’d found.

  Jeff yelled, spraying his come across my butt. I let go and let my climax take me, not as intense as the fury that had possessed me on the stage at Club Lust, but still enough to turn me into a twitching pile of limbs on the carpet. A good start.

  Jeff sank down next to me, cradling me in his arms, murmuring incoherent endearments. I smiled to myself in satisfaction.

  The Council had done a better job at matching us than they’d ever guess.

  Skinheads

  Jacqueline Applebee

  I was only a little girl when I started following the fascists home. I didn’t know what that word meant back then; I just knew that’s what people called the gang of skinhead white boys who walked through Belmont Park, scattering all in their path. I guess it was the power they seemed to radiate that snared me: the lean but muscular legs and arms, the arrogant, sneering faces. I loved the way they used to stare at people, intimidating anyone who came close. North London in the 1970s was not the healthiest place to be a black child. At that age I never appreciated the danger I put myself in every day after school. I didn’t know that the white boys I was attracted to hated people like me. In fact they hated just about anyone who wasn’t like them. I only knew that my first stirring of desire for the opposite sex sparked at the exact same time when most boys at school wore the worst fashions ever seen. I was surrounded by swathes of beige nylon trousers, polyester shirts and stripy school ties. The skinheads dressed differently. They wore tight white shirts, tighter washed-out denim jeans held up by black braces. But the thing that got me scurrying around behind them, when sense told me to stop, was the footwear. Pairs of brightly polished Doctor Martens would stomp ahead of me, disappearing out of sight to where my little brown legs could not follow. Ever since then, I’ve hankered after boots with at least fifteen holes.

  I heard things. I saw the bruises, the smudges of red over fists. People told me to stay away from them; teachers grew concerned that I would try to exact some kind of childish revenge for the way the white boys treated the black ones. I was a tiny girl. What could I do? Besides, the way the skinheads treated the black boys was no different from how the black boys treated most black girls.

  As an adult I still found myself craving skinheads. I’m no longer a little girl – even barefoot, I’m as tall as most guys I know. I soon discovered gay men who wore outfits identical to those that the fascists sported back in North London. I saw people reclaim the look, the tight lines, the shaven heads and the tattoos. But to me, it was always about the white boys strutting around as if they owned the whole bloody world.

  My desire led me to Camden, to a warehouse where I had arranged to meet a friend of a friend, called Stuart. I was also to meet his boy, which was the real reason I was hanging around with the tramps and tourists on a hot Saturday afternoon.

  Stuart, a tall solid man, met me by the stairs as I sheltered in what little shade I could find. He wore a black leather kilt, and boots the colour of blood. He looked me up and down before he held out his hand. I gave him the agreed money – a clutch of notes in an envelope that he counted quickly in the shadow of the stairs.

  He turned to me, speaking in a low voice. “I’ll not have my boy marked in any way.”

  I sighed. “Is this little talk necessary?”

  “I know what you women are like with all that cutting business.”

  “I’ve got no interest in that.”

  Stuart looked at me a
moment longer before he inclined his head. I followed him. I could see up his kilt as he walked ahead of me, but it was his boots that held my attention.

  Stuart’s boy stood in a corner of a large dusty room. He looked nervous. Like Stuart, he was tall with a shaven head, in his early twenties I assumed. But unlike Stuart, this boy wore bleached denim trousers that stretched tight over his thighs. Stress lines in the fabric crossed this way and that.

  “He’ll do just fine.” I put my large bag down.

  “I’ll be over here if you need me.” Stuart pointed to a single chair against the wall near the door.

  “You’re staying?” That wasn’t part of the agreement. I blew out an annoyed puff of air. I wasn’t going to start arguing about it now. “He got a name?”

  “I’m Darren.” Stuart’s boy looked less nervous now, more pissed off at being addressed like that by a black woman.

  I smiled, took a step closer to the young man. He swallowed, looked away for a moment. I ran a hand over his thin belt; I would have preferred him to wear braces, but it would have to do. I hooked my fingers around the leather, pulled him to me. Darren grunted, but said nothing. I held his hand, pressed it to my jeans, to where the harness I wore beneath sat snug against my skin. I knew he could feel the buckles and rings when he smirked at me.

  “Are you one of them chicks with dicks?”

  He barely said the words before I smacked him hard across the mouth. “Excuse me?” I asked politely.

  “Shit!” Darren touched his lip, which was already starting to swell.

  I raised my hand once more. Darren flinched, looked to the corner where Stuart was. I felt a stir behind me, saw a shadow move on the dusty floor, but it retreated after a moment. I’d learnt this little dance from years of watching older boys intimidate younger ones. I’d memorized the way that force could be used – not in excess, so as to attract unwanted attention, but just enough to get your point across.

  “Take them off.” I stroked down his torso for a brief moment before I stepped away. I watched as Darren peeled off his tight top.

  All the times I risked life and limb by creeping into the boys’ changing rooms at school finally paid off. I was no longer a little girl peeking around corners to see glimpses of flesh. Today, I was getting the whole damn show.

  Darren had a smattering of hair over his tiny nipples. Blond wisps collected in a line down the centre of his stomach, down to the tops of his pants where it got darker. He reached for the laces on his boots.

  “Keep those on.”

  “I can’t get my pants off if I keep them on,” he complained.

  “Do yer best, Darren,” Stuart called out. I could have done without his input. I wanted the boy to concentrate on me, not his old man.

  I unzipped my jeans, and then bent to my bag where my black dildo lay among a variety of toys and tools. It only took a moment to fasten it to the harness I wore.

  Darren took several steps away when he caught sight of my silicon erection. “You’re never going to put that thing in me!”

  I heard Stuart sigh, along with the scrape of his chair on the hard floor. He stood beside me, peering down at my dick. “I’ve seen bigger,” he smirked. I gave him a look, and put my hands on my hips. Stuart raised his hands, stepped away.

  I returned to Darren, who was now pouting. I slid his belt out of its loops. He wriggled, looking uncomfortable, embarrassed. I wasn’t about to make things any easier for him.

  When I shook my head, he visibly drew himself up to his full height, puffed out his chest. It took all my concentration not to laugh at the spectacle.

  “Bitch, please,” I said with a smirk.

  “She called me a bitch!” Darren squeaked in complaint, looking in Stuart’s direction.

  “Must I put up with this?” I asked out loud. “Do I have to request a refund?”

  Darren stilled. His hands returned to his pants, which he pushed down with effort until they lay bunched around his knees. Even with the drama-queen attitude, he was still my living, breathing, wet dream.

  “I think I’ll take you up against the wall.”

  Darren shuffled to the nearest wall, his clumsy movements disturbing the dust into little blooms. I followed him, fingering the dildo I wore. I rolled a condom over my silicon length. I could feel the lines of sensation travel up my body from my clit to my breasts; electricity that was so intense and sharp, it was physically painful. However, I tended to enjoy pain – whether giving or receiving, I always lapped it up.

  When I reached the boy, I was buzzing, burning up with anticipation and need. I braced my hands on either side of his head, rubbed myself over his back, over his bare arse that had a little tattoo on it: a St Andrew’s flag. I lost myself in simply feeling his hot body beneath me. My dildo prodded his thighs, the curve of his arse cheeks.

  “I’m ready,” Darren said.

  “I’m sure you think you are.” I stretched around to his front, felt the hot burn of his erection on my palm.

  “Go on then, do it,” he hissed. “Just do it.”

  My little bottle of lube sat in my back pocket. I applied a liberal amount to my fingers, and then pushed one between his cheeks. I circled around, enjoying the sight of him writhing against the wall. I stepped back slightly, and then with my free hand, I slapped his arse, making him jump with surprise. I spanked him some more, steady beats that turned his white boy skin a rosy red. When I returned my hand to his cock, it felt harder, hotter.

  “Now you’re ready.”

  Darren whimpered. The sound of surrender made my nipples tingle. I wanted to hear him make more noises like that.

  The first slide of my cock into his body was a sucking squelch. I breathed out along Darren’s neck, exhaling the stored-up passion and want that had stirred inside me all those years ago. I pushed further, implanting myself inside the boy. My feet were unsteady. My hips moved of their own accord. My head span. He didn’t have to do a thing to surrender his power. It leapt off his skin, dribbled with the sweat that ran down his back. I licked around his throat, pressing teeth to the flesh that was stretched tight. I wrapped my arms around him, possessively circled his body with mine.

  “Please,” he whispered into the wall. He arched up against me. I understood of course. I had power of my own. I brought down my hand against his arse once more. He shuddered beneath me, bucking slightly as I slapped him again and again.

  A movement to my left made me look up, gasping, into the eyes of Stuart. His kilt was held up by a large pin. He grabbed his cock in his fist, stroking it hard and fast. He nodded at me. Knowledge and power combined into a potent aphrodisiac as I mirrored his movements with my own. I circled my hand around the boy’s cock, pulling and stroking in the same way that Stuart touched himself. Darren leant back against me, his weight threatening to push me over. I pressed him back against the wall fully, continued to jerk him off as I thrust inside.

  “Shit!”

  I don’t know which of the men swore out loud, but warm come erupted over my hand a moment after. Stuart squeezed his eyes shut, and then he came too, spraying his boy with thick streaks of white.

  I breathed deep. My clitoris sang with pleasure, even though I hadn’t come yet. That was something I’d do later when I was alone at home. My orgasm was a powerful moment that I wasn’t about to let these guys see.

  I slid out of Darren’s arse carefully. He winced and squeaked with every movement until I was free of him. He sagged against the dusty wall, sticky and sweaty. He didn’t look so tough now, although his boots were still impressive. I pulled the spent condom from my dildo, threw it down on the dirty floor. I felt my own power surge within at what I’d done. Somewhere inside me, a little girl jumped for joy.

  “Will you be wanting to make this a regular arrangement?” Stuart’s voice was raspy, breathless.

  “Make him wear braces next time. I don’t want to see the belt again.” I sounded hoarse too.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Stuart said with a smile. “
That’s not a problem at all.”

  I straightened myself out, picked up my bag, and left without another word. But as I descended the metal stairs, and strode out into the bustle of Camden on a busy afternoon, I felt like I owned the whole bloody world.

  New York Electric

  Cara Bruce

  I got my very first real job before I even graduated college. I was excited, thrilled even. I was supposed to start right after school ended and I couldn’t wait. This was the way it was supposed to be: you went to school and got a job. I believed that my life was about to finally begin. I had new grown-up clothes which made me feel fabulously chic, even though looking back now they were cheap and plain, like playing dress up, and not even very well. That first job was in white-bred Connecticut, proofreading science journals. It was horrible, tedious work. I had to sit in a room, stark white and empty except for a single table which held an imposing stack of reference books, each of them thicker than the last. By the end of the day my head would be swimming with words, thousands and thousands of words, like tiny black ants, marching to a militant beat across my brain. It was boring, and I dreaded it more and more each day. After the first day my eyes were tired and after the first week I was depressed. I could hardly stand it. I felt trapped; walking into that blank white room was akin to suffocating. It didn’t take long until I knew without a shadow of a doubt that this wasn’t for me.

  Each new day sucked another piece of life from me. I couldn’t understand why people fought for jobs like this, how they could give forty hours of their lives each week to doing tasks that would only make someone else money. How they could give their lives to doing something they didn’t care about, to go through life not creating something, not feeling passionate about something, not loving every moment of every day. I watched them hurry to the bars as soon as five o’clock hit. I questioned a society where alcohol was the biggest thing people had to look forward to; a society where boredom and unhappiness were so accepted, even fought for and sought after.

  I suffered through it for almost a full month. I longed to be back in school and missed the freedom of being encouraged to follow creative and artistic pursuits. I already knew that parts of me would die if I continued along this route. And then one glorious day, my friend Dee called. She had been my film partner in college. We had made three movies together, two narratives and a documentary. She called to tell me that she had got a job as a production assistant on a movie set and she was sure that if I came to New York to join her I could get one too. It sounded like a great idea, and even though I wouldn’t be paid I had some money saved and Dee and I would share a room and all of our costs. But the best part was that it was outside. It might not have been the most intellectual work, at least not on paper, but I had already discovered intellectual work that looked good on paper could be incredibly boring. And more than anything, that monotonous month had shown me that I hated to be bored.