The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 2

by Maxim Jakubowski

  My first threesome was orchestrated by Dorothy and a guy she was fucking named Matt, who happened to be my ex-boyfriend’s roommate. What I remember most about the experience was Matt’s effort to make sure everyone felt included by mentioning both our names as he came: “Oh, Dorothy . . . oh, Lisa.” As I fell asleep that night, I couldn’t help feeling as if I’d just had my first bisexual experience, even though I’d already identified as bisexual for a year and had sex with both men and women individually. Nonetheless, if I had sex with a man at 7 p.m., and a woman at 8, who’s to say I didn’t go through a heterosexual phase at 7 and find my true lesbian identity an hour later? After my first ménage à trois, I felt as if I’d jumped through the final hoop of true bisexual identity.

  We finally cornered Dorothy into coming out as bisexual. It was a bit like gang warfare, and it happened during a surprise party that I organized for her 19th birthday.

  Several months earlier Dorothy had confided her core childhood masturbation fantasy in the wee hours of the morning, when our inhibitions were down. Since the age of seven, she had fantasized about crawling through a paddy wagon of authority figures, consisting of her grammar school teachers, camp counsellors and babysitters. Eventually, she came to the last link in the chain – the school principal, who would spank her hardest of all. That was the part of the fantasy that made her come.

  I admired Dorothy’s sexual precocity. But I also realized that she was telling her childhood fantasy from the perspective of her present 18-year-old self. She was thus embellishing this particular fantasy with a knowledge of sexuality that she eouldn’t possibly have had as a seven-year-old. I concluded that the paddy wagon was a present fantasy, which Dorothy was unconsciously projecting onto her childhood – probably because she felt less guilty telling it in the past tense.

  In any case, spanking was Dorothy’s biggest turn-on. She wanted to be punished. Unfortunately, she had a hard time asking her sex partners to whack her on the butt. After all, we were only 18, and most of us hadn’t evolved much in the way of sexual communication skills. Organizing group sex, then fleeing the scene, was a circuitous and ultimately unsatisfying route to getting what she wanted. I decided to make it easier for her by giving her a surprise paddy wagon for her birthday.

  I got stuck on the question of which authority figures to invite. We were in college at the time, but professors were out of the question. Graduate students, on the other hand, were predatory beasts, lying in wait to seduce young undergrads, hoping to gain some semblance of respect, which the university denied them.

  So I invited Megan, my neurotic girlfriend, who just last week had been studying for her PhD exams while Dorothy, Matt, and I fucked in my bedroom several blocks away. Megan would have been happier if I had forewarned her of the threesome, or even asked her permission. But at the time I was unpractised in the ways of polyamory, which is a nice way of saying I was cheating. I also invited Megan’s best friend, Michael, who was Dorothy’s former teaching assistant. Megan and Michael had slept together, I knew, but Michael was primarily attracted to men. His boyfriend, Daniel, was an undergraduate and a mutual friend of Dorothy’s and mine. (Dorothy had engineered a threesome with Daniel and Michael the summer before.) So I invited Daniel too. I also invited Chelsea, my quiet bisexual roommate, and her loud boyfriend Jeff, a graduate student in the French Department, who wanted to be bisexual for political reasons. Martin was Jeff’s best friend and a local drunk. He was capable of brilliant conversation and occasionally fucked my girlfriend, but was otherwise generally useless. Jeff and Martin were 30 and 32 years old, which seemed ancient to me at 18, so I thought they’d make good authority figures for the paddy wagon. Finally I invited my ex-boyfriend Tom, who could be a stick in the mud. Dorothy didn’t really like him, but since I was inviting Matt, and Tom was Matt’s roommate, I had to invite Tom too.

  I told all the guests about the paddy wagon, although I didn’t tell them it was Dorothy’s masturbation fantasy. I just told them she’d like it a lot. I was secretly hoping the event would turn into an orgy – although I didn’t tell everyone that, either. To decrease the likelihood that people would stomp off in disgust, I tried to invite bisexuals, or at least people who were willing to have sex with both men and women.

  The night of the surprise party, I invited Dorothy and Matt to come over at around 8, just to hang out and celebrate her birthday, perhaps with another threesome. The guests arrived an hour early. They were supposed to stay in the living room, so Dorothy wouldn’t see them when she first walked in. When the doorbell rang, they quickly got into paddy wagon formation – standing in line with their legs spread so that Dorothy could crawl through. I opened the door for Dorothy and Matt. We chatted in the kitchen for a few minutes. Then I quickly led them into the living room, so that the guests wouldn’t get leg cramps from holding their paddy wagon positions too long.

  “Surprise!” they yelled, as I opened the door.

  Dorothy’s jaw dropped. “O, my God, what are you all doing?”

  “You have to crawl through our legs!” shouted Jeff, who was at the front of the line.

  It took a few seconds for Dorothy to get it. Then she blushed deep red and ran out of the room.

  “Hey, wait!” Matt and I grabbed her arms and dragged her back in, virtually kicking and screaming.

  “Come on! Crawl through!” the guests demanded. “We can’t stand here all day, you know.” They were starting to fidget.

  “No,” Dorothy insisted. “Not unless everyone else does.”

  “You first. It’s your birthday.”

  Dorothy blushed deeper, but finally got on her hands and knees in front of the line. She hesitated. Matt and I stood right behind her in case she tried to bolt.

  She looked back at us. “I can’t believe you’re making me do this,” she said.

  Dorothy started to crawl. As soon as she was halfway through Jeff’s legs, he administered a loud whack on the butt, then drummed on her ass with both hands.

  “Ouch!” she wailed. “Ow, ow, ow.” I’d positioned Jeff at the front of the line, because I knew he would spank hard and bold – demonstrating to everyone else how it was supposed to be done. Chelsea came after Jeff. Her spanking was tentative, but Megan’s was hard and stingy – she was a mean hardass, when it came right down to it.

  Michael was next in line. To everyone’s surprise and delight, he grabbed the elastic waistband of Dorothy’s sweat-pants and pulled them down, exposing her bare butt.

  “Oooooh,” we cooed.

  “Hold on. That’s not fair,” Dorothy protested. But Michael and Matt were already caressing her naked ass.

  “You don’t want us to stop now, do you?” Michael asked, as he spanked her ass with one hand, stroking it with the other.

  Dorothy didn’t say anything. But she was sighing and wiggling her butt, clearly enjoying it. I could see Matt’s cock swelling under the zipper of his jeans. He knelt down beside her, and they kissed. Dorothy was still on all fours between Michael’s legs. Michael was still spanking her, and there were three people left in the paddy wagon line: Michael’s boyfriend, Daniel; my ex-boyfriend Tom; and Martin, the drunk.

  Then mayhem broke loose. Daniel spanked Michael, Megan spanked me, as about five hands stroked and spanked Dorothy’s butt. Michael slipped his fingers between Dorothy’s wet pussy lips. Dorothy was squirming. Matt unzipped his pants.

  “Hold on,” Dorothy interrupted, standing up. “I’m not fucking all of you!” Michael, Matt and I exchanged glances.

  “Oh, yes, you are!” we said in unison.

  Matt and I grabbed her and held her still on all fours.

  Dorothy screamed, but there was no one to save her. My next-door neighbour was deaf, and the people upstairs were insane. They were building a bomb shelter on the second floor. Screams were nothing out of the ordinary.

  Michael took off his pants. Daniel stood behind him, grinding his crotch against Michael’s butt. “Why don’t you fuck her while I fuck you?”<
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  “Hold on there. Ladies first.” Megan sat down beside Michael, wearing a strap-on, which she must have grabbed from my bedroom when she saw where all this was going. Meanwhile, Dorothy had stopped screaming. Matt put several fingers inside her, as I caressed her butt.

  “You OK?” I asked.

  “I guess so. For the moment.” Still on her hands and knees, she wiggled her ass in the air.

  “She’s really wet,” said Matt. I stroked her clit. She was dripping. I moved my fingers back and forth, then in circles. She moaned and squirmed.

  Megan was wearing a huge red dildo. She covered it in lube and pressed the tip against Dorothy’s cunt. When it was all the way in, Megan waited as Dorothy adjusted to the huge dildo.

  Meanwhile Michael and Daniel had positioned themselves in front of Dorothy. Daniel stroked his cock right in front of Dorothy’s face. When he was really hard, he put a condom and lube on his cock. Michael got down on all fours, and Dan entered him from behind. Dorothy, Megan, and I all got excited, because we love watching gay porn; it was an even bigger turn-on live.

  Megan pumped the big red dildo in and out of Dorothy’s cunt.

  “Harder!” Dorothy demanded. The live gay porn had apparently transformed her from a quasi-resistant gangbang victim into an insatiable slut. As Megan thrust harder, Daniel did too, and for the next fifteen minutes, the loudest sounds in the room were those of pelvises slapping against butts. Matt and I stood by, administering random whacks to Dorothy’s ass. Chelsea, Jeff, Martin, and Tom had retreated to the sidelines and were providing a running pseudo-intellectual commentary, which I could barely hear over everyone’s groans.

  Just as I noticed Matt had a condom on his cock, he threw me down on my back. I’d gotten so absorbed in spanking Dorothy that I hadn’t even realized how wet I was. Dorothy looked up as Matt entered me, and I recognized that furtive gleam in her eyes. I dragged myself closer to her, as Matt lay on top of me thrusting. Dorothy leaned over and licked my nipples. At that point, my ex-boyfriend Tom stomped off, slamming the door loudly. I didn’t know how he and Matt were going to live together after this, but at that moment, I didn’t care, and I don’t think anyone else did either. Meanwhile, Chelsea, Jeff, and Martin the drunk retreated to my bedroom to have comparatively boring sex with each other.

  After an hour of hardcore fucking and multiple orgasms, we collapsed, exhausted. As we were lying around in a sweaty, pulsating heap, Michael asked, “So Dorothy, does this mean you’re finally a card-carrying bisexual?”

  “I guess I’m not in Kansas any more,” she sighed. A big satiated grin spread across her face.

  Among the Beks

  A. J. Horlick

  Many people find it quite shocking that my husband bought me. Oh, it is not as if Jzhat’lan women are not admired by the Beks. Our delicacy excites them, certainly. Like fine glass statuary, we are easily broken. The Jzhat’lan brothels on Post 3 are always full of Beki traders and mercenaries, and it is an uncommon Beki man who would not welcome a woman like me to his bed.

  But as a wife? That is a different thing. I can never bear my husband’s child. I will never give him heirs.

  My husband, my master, is soft-spoken, slow to anger. On those occasions when the gossips cease talking behind his back and confront him to his face, he merely smiles mildly. “My sister’s children can have my trading company when I am gone. I will, at least, have died a happy man.” Can you say that? hangs unspoken in the air.

  I have other disadvantages as a wife, of course. Here on Mrw-Bek, I must sleep most of the day. Even slathered in lotions and shaded by heavy clothing, my fragile, pale skin would blister quickly under the twin suns. I am almost blind in the bright glare of midday. While my husband goes about his business, I doze amongst the piles of pillows in our bedroom, the draperies pulled tight, dreaming of the greyish-blue mists of Jzhat’lan. During the first long dusk, I bathe and scent myself for him. At first sunset I am out in the market, doing what few errands I don’t entrust to the staff. By second sunset I am home, kneeling on the cool tile, the windows open, the evening breezes blowing my curled and braided hair back from my face, my pupils wide and black. I have never not been waiting to serve him when he returned home.

  He says he has nothing to complain of.

  In the deep of night when he is sleeping, I slip from our cushions to read, to write, to valet his clothes, to walk the vast high-walled gardens, or view the disks of new trade goods he is considering. But on occasion the restlessness comes on me. With his permission I swathe myself in layers of tissue-thin silver cloth and slip through the silent night-time streets to a tavern in the merchant’s district. Behind my veils, I can do what Jzhat’lan women are born to do. I sing the drzaliin.

  I am always back naked on the cushions ready to lick him awake at the glimmering of first sunrise. And those of his friends who have heard the drzaliin no longer question his wisdom.

  I have spoken of the Jzhat’lan brothels on Post 3, but do not be misled. My husband did not find me in some brothel. No, my father was his senior trading partner on Jzhat’lan, brokering carpets and pharmaceutical botanicals, optical lasers, and the finest beadwork. My husband caught glimpses of me in my father’s house – pouring tea for my sisters, studying under the bower of vines in the side yard, passing shyly in the hall. Then one day he heard me laugh. He says it was that which bewitched him. He wanted to be the one to make me laugh. And whimper. And scream.

  It’s not our way to sell women, but my father took the funds readily enough. He said he wouldn’t disrespect the customs of an honoured business associate. I think he almost believed that. To this day, when I pray at my little altar on the Days of Purification, I thank my ancestors that my father was not burdened with too many scruples.

  The marriage ceremonies were done on Jzhat’lan while the contracts and documents had already been filed on Mrw-Bek. I was already my husband’s property when he took me through the portal to his home world. He had kindly timed it so we would arrive just before full darkness and as we stepped out of the arrival building into the street, I had to gasp at the strangeness. The buildings all low and wide and made of lustrous white stone, the air thick and just beginning to lose the day’s heat. And the people, oh, all the people, Beks, all of them at least a head taller than I, smooth sleek hair where I was hairless, chattering in Beki dialects that sounded to me like low growls.

  I could feel the covert glances on me as well, some admiring, some merely curious, sizing up the rich brocades of my Jzhat’lan marriage robes, the elaborate twists and corkscrews and braids in my waist-length hair, the painted good-luck markings on my face. I clutched my new husband’s hand almost involuntarily, and he squeezed back in reassurance and wrapped one of my braids firmly around his other fist. He whispered to me in the trade language, his voice as seductive to me as mine had been to him. “I should have thought to bring a leash for you. But this will do for now.”

  I shuddered slightly. And felt, for the first time, a very different, new emotion.

  He had procured Jzhat’lan fruits and cheeses for me and sparkling pale green wines. And on my bridal night he fed them to me from his own hand, held the goblet to my lips himself as we reclined upon the pillows. All the while he spoke to me in that same honeyed voice, vowels thick as syrup, telling me what he would expect of me. “You will call me ‘my master’,” he said, using the Beki word. It meant nothing to me. I nodded and licked a droplet of wine from my lower lip.

  “My master,” I tried to repeat and the word caught in my throat.

  He smiled. Or bared his teeth.

  I have asked him on occasion, in the years between then and now, whether he knew. Whether, even before he had asked my father for me, he had seen something in my face, heard something in my voice, that made him sure I was unlike most Jzhat’lan women. “I wish I could say yes,” he had answered, rubbing his soft-furred face across the taut flesh of my belly, pricking that flesh with his incisors, raising little red welts. “It w
ould seem more noble were I to say I recognized that I could give you what you needed, what a Jzhat’lan male would likely not.” Tiny bites on the inside of my thigh. Then soft laughter. “And it would be a lie. You were beautiful. You had a Jzhat’lan woman’s voice. I knew you would moan exquisitely both when I beat you and when I pleasured you. That was enough.” A sharper bite, enough to draw blood, and the sound he wanted to hear escaping from my lips. “I wanted to own you.”

  He owned me from the time the papers were signed, but on my bridal night he took possession just little by little. After I had nibbled the fruits from his hand, after the wine cups were empty, he gave me my wedding gifts. My tutors had tried, half-heartedly, to teach me some Beki customs once my father – and I – had consented to the marriage. As my new master placed the pile of boxes wrapped in delicate metallic tissue in front of me, I remembered Lady Vutlael stammering, playing with her hair, looking out past the courtyard gates as she murmured something about “traditional marriage present . . . jewellery, and, um, other things.” As I began tearing open the tissue at my husband’s behest, my face grew gradually more flushed and other parts of me warmed, and I realized with amusement why the Lady had been so uncomfortable and so vague.

  The first box contained a beautiful rope of many fine platinum chains twisted into one heavy cable. Just long enough to lock around my throat. My husband purred as he clicked the clasp closed and fingered the ring attached to the lock.

  “Where the leash attaches.”

  Jewellery, indeed.

  The second and third packages contained whips. Each was made of a long strap of fine leather split into two pointy tongues and attached to an intricately carved wooden handle. One, however, was heavy and slightly stiff and studded with just the tiniest knobs of metal; the other made of the softest hide imaginable. “Another custom,” he said. “One to punish you, one to give you pleasure.” My tutors had neglected to mention any Beki sexual practices. I cannot even begin to imagine what expression was on my face, but my husband continued in the same calm, seductive voice.