The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 2

by Maxim Jakubowski

  Melinda felt herself growing wet from the phantom sensations inspired by the unexpected reappearance of the clips and she squeezed her thighs together to calm the chaos taking place between them. Her face burned with embarrassment as she wondered who in the office might have been privy to the lascivious events of several nights ago. A folded square of paper had been tucked halfway beneath the bed of cotton and she plucked it out. To her frustration, it provided no clue as to the identity of her bondage-minded gift giver. All it offered by way of explanation was the word Tonight, along with a Maida Vale address. The note had been penned in a meticulous hand, the execution of the letters so tightly controlled and precise that Melinda could feel the intricate weave of silken cording which for one night had placed her in bondage. It would be all she could do to fight the impulse to relieve herself with her fingers right there at her desk.

  With a similar sense of destiny to that which she’d experienced on her way to Mill Hill the rainy evening of the company Christmas party, Melinda took a taxi to the address on the note, the distinctive chig-chig-chig of the diesel engine adding an erotic sense of déjà vu to the occasion. The driver deposited her at the wrought-iron gate of a charming ivy-covered mews house, where from behind lace curtains a gentle light illuminated the mullioned windows. Melinda thought she saw a tall shadow move past the one nearest the door, although she could not tell whether the shadow belonged to a man or a woman.

  Ever so slowly Melinda made her way up the cobbled walk, taking a perverse pleasure in prolonging the moment before she would at last come face-to-face with the person or persons who had summoned her. For it had, indeed, been a summons she’d received. The handsomely painted front door opened before she would even be given a chance to ring the bell.

  “Hello, Melinda.”

  Melinda gasped aloud as the wetness that had been plaguing her ever since unwrapping her Christmas gift that morning soaked the gusset of her blue silk panties. She had specifically chosen to wear them this evening because they were the same shade of blue as the silk kerchief the couple from Mill Hill had used to bind her mouth with.

  For standing before Melinda was the impervious young man who for the past year had occupied her thoughts and been the inspiration for her orgasms, the man she assumed never noticed her, who looked right through her as if she were invisible. But he was not doing so now. Instead the lips she had so often observed sucking the smoke through the filter tip of his cigarette formed a sardonic smile.

  Caleb stepped forwards, a safety razor held ready in his right hand. “You can’t imagine how long I’ve been waiting for this,” he replied softly.

  “And she’s definitely worth the wait, darling,” came a familiar female voice. Melinda felt a sudden shift in the air as the feline presence of the young woman who had seduced her bound figure came into focus, followed by her smoky-eyed male conspirator.

  “I understand you have already met my good friends Stephanie and Naveen?” Caleb looked deliberately into Melinda’s astonished eyes, as if the question needed no answer.

  Naveen’s café au lait fingertips reached forward to stroke Melinda’s cheek. “Wasn’t it thoughtful of Caleb to have invited us to the company Christmas party?”

  Caleb’s smile widened. “Oh, but the party is only just beginning.”

  The Lindy Shark

  Alison Tyler

  With a blare from the slide trombone, Lilly Faye and her Fire-Spittin’ Fellas lit into the first number of the evening. Clara rushed to find her place, her polka-dotted dress swirling about her. Within moments she was grabbed around the waist, pulled into a tight embrace, twirled fiercely and without finesse, and then passed to the next man in line. This one had thick, meaty fingers that held her too tightly, creasing the fabric of her carefully ironed dress. She was relieved to be released to the next partner. Her ruffled red panties briefly showed as the third man spun her, dipped her, and passed her on again.

  Aside from the briefest of observations, she hardly had time to notice what her partners looked like. Her appraisals were cut short with every turn, only to start fresh with the next. Even when a man did please her, there was no way to act on the attraction. The leader would call out to switch, and she’d be passed onto the next dancer. Still, she couldn’t help but feel a wash of anticipation at the dim prospect that she would be matched with someone who not only suited her moves but also passed her stringent critique system. Although it hadn’t happened lately, that didn’t mean it couldn’t. Maybe he would be here again. Perhaps he would notice her this time.

  To the sounds of “Jump, Jive, and Wail”, Clara found herself with five different men in a row who failed to please her. Handsome, but a poor dancer. Fine looking, but much too short. Sweaty. A groper. Bad, bad hair. Then, finally, as the leader called out for only the experienced lindy-hoppers to take the floor, she saw him. She watched him move through the crowd with that insolent look on his face. He had heavy-lidded eyes, a tall, sleek body. Like a shark on the prowl, he cut cleanly through the waves of dancers.

  “Fine threads,” a woman next to Clara said, staring at the man. “Racket jacket, pulleys, and a dicer,” she added.

  A little too “in the lingo”, thought Clara as she refocused on her dream man – but the woman was right. His vintage zoot suit looked as if it had been tailor-made for him, the braces flashed when his coat opened, and the fedora added to his high-class appearance. He had an unreadable expression on his face, a steady gaze that almost seemed to look through her. Then he lifted his chin in her direction, letting her know that he had seen her and approved.

  Of course he approved, thought Clara. Her sunset-coloured hair, dark red streaked with gold and bronze, was done in pin curls that had taken hours to achieve. She’d applied make-up in the fashion of the era – bright matte lips and plenty of mascara. Her vintage dress was navy with white polka dots, and it cinched tightly around her tiny waist. A pair of stacked heels sturdy enough to dance in, but high enough to make her moves look even more complicated than they were, completed her outfit. She waited for him to come to her side. The girls nearby twittered in hopes that he was coming for one of them.

  “I’d let him into my nodbox,” one murmured.

  Clara agreed. She’d definitely let this man crease her sheets. She felt like telling the giggling women to give up – the man didn’t have eyes for any of them. He was on his way to Clara.

  A rush of nervous excitement pulsed between her legs and flooded outwards. Rarely did she feel this self-conscious – normally her moves expressed a quality that came from within, a radiance on the dance floor that couldn’t be taught. This man possessed it too – that’s what attracted her. Dancing could be a form of foreplay; she’d always known that. But at most of these swing sessions, there simply wasn’t anyone she wanted to take to bed. Sure, she was picky when it came to men – both as dance partners and bed partners. That wasn’t a crime, was it? If you chose the right person, for either activity, the results were much more satisfying.

  The man reached her side just as a new song began. He didn’t say a word, simply put one hand on her waist and steered her onto the floor.

  She took her time checking him out. Up close, he was even more attractive. Those dark liquid eyes, like a silent film star’s, were infinitely expressive. A deep inky blue, they shone beneath the crystal chandelier. His hands were large and firm, and they manoeuvred her with expertise, without roaming where they didn’t belong. That was a surprise. Men often took the opportunity to fondle a partner, something Clara generally found distasteful. Now she wouldn’t have minded if his hands wandered down a bit, if he tried a little stroking as they glided together on the dance floor.

  Clara usually didn’t have to think while she danced – her feet easily followed her partner’s lead. But this man was making her work, executing several difficult steps from the very beginning, forcing her to concentrate. She forgot about what she hoped he might do to her and focused on keeping up with him.

  Other dan
cers spread out to give them room, as if they sensed something big about to happen. And it did. As the first song blended into a second, and then a third, the duo found their zone. When her partner flipped her into the air, Clara let out a happy little squeal, something totally out of character for her. For the first time, the man smiled. It was as if a marble sculpture had cracked. For the rest of the dance, the moves came naturally. Clara no longer had to second-guess him, to think about where he was going. Instinctively, she followed.

  When the music stopped so that Lilly Faye and her Fellas could take a breather, Clara kept following him – down the hallway from the main ballroom and into a small, unisex bathroom. This wasn’t something she would normally do, but if he could dance like that, she thought, just imagine how he might make love. He locked the door behind them.

  They could hear music drifting in from the ballroom – someone had put on a CD by Big Bad Voodoo Daddy, and it was loud. People headed out to the bar, and voices lifted as spirits flowed. Alcohol mixed with dancing could make people rowdy. Clara was relieved not to be out there with the throng making small talk.

  The man lifted her up; she kicked out her heels automatically, as if he was still dancing with her. He wasn’t. He set her down on the edge of the blue-and-white tiled sink and cradled her chin in one hand. His full mouth, almost indecently full for a man, came closer. Kissed her. Shivers ran through her body; she closed her eyes and floated on his kiss, not noticing when his fingers moved to the front of her dress and undid the tiny pearl buttons, buttons it had taken her ten minutes to fasten. She remembered standing in her bedroom, looking at her reflection, wondering if this man would be present tonight, if he would like what she was wearing.

  Beneath the vintage dress she wore a modern, underwire lace bra and matching panties in crimson silk. The man stroked her breasts through the bra before unfastening the clasp and letting the racy lingerie fall to the floor. When she opened her eyes, she saw their reflection in the mirror across the room. They appeared dream-like, a perfect match. The way it was meant to be.

  The man took off his hat and set it on the counter. Then he tilted his head and watched her as she slid out of her dress to stand before him in her ruffled panties, garters, hose and shoes. Though he didn’t speak, he seemed to want her to leave the stockings on. Quickly he turned her so that they faced the mirror above the sink. He lowered her underpants and waited for her to step out of them. She watched in the mirror as he undid his slacks and opened them. She caught a flash of polka dot boxer shorts that matched her dress – another indication of how perfect they were together.

  He leaned against her, the length of his cock pressed to the skin of her heart-shaped ass. The silk of his boxers brushed the backs of her thighs, and she sighed. He gripped her waist, letting her feel just how ready he was. His cock was big and hard, and it moved forward, seeking its destination. Without a word, he slipped it between her thighs, probing her wetness. She’d gotten excited during their dancing; her slick pussy lips easily parted and he slipped inside. Just the head. Just a taste.

  The band started up in the other room, and, to the lindy beat, he began to fuck her. Clara felt as if they were still dancing. Making love to him was as natural as having him flip her in the air and twirl her around. She opened to his throbbing sex, and to the insistent beat of the music.

  The bathroom’s art deco style created a fantasy-like atmosphere, with its blue-toned mirror and tiled walls that echoed her sighs. Though he remained silent, the man seemed pleased by the way she moved, rocking her body back and forth, urging him to deeper penetration. He locked eyes with her in the mirror and, for the second time that evening, smiled. It began at the corners of his mouth and moved up to sparkle in his eyes. An intense connection flowed hot between them; she had been right to wait for him. She felt a sense of destiny as he slid his hands up her bare arms, stroking her skin, sending tremors through her body.

  She liked the silence, their lack of words. Some boys talked through the whole thing, ruining it. Lovemaking, Clara felt, shouldn’t be full of chitchat. She craved mystery, magic – and with him she had it. She felt the same way dancing. Some men talked when they danced, but if you danced well together, you could have an entire conversation without once opening your mouth.

  This man seemed to know that. He understood. Not saying a word as he filled her with his cock, he held her gaze, trailing his fingers across her breasts, pinching her nipples between his thumb and forefinger, making her moan and arch her body.

  Oh, yes, this was the way to do it, to the sounds of music, in dim twinkling light. She strove to reach climax in synchronicity with him. She squeezed him tightly with her inner muscles, watching his face for a reaction.

  His eyes closed, long lashes dark against pale skin, strong jaw set as he held her tight. Yes, it was going to happen. Now. She closed her eyes, as pulses of pleasure flooded through her, gripping on to the edge of the sink to hold herself steady.

  After he came he didn’t withdraw, but remained inside her, growing hard again almost instantaneously. She sighed with pleasure as he extended the ride, this time taking her harder, faster. She felt as if she might literally dissolve with pleasure. Her senses were heightened, and when he brought one hand between her legs, plucking her clit with knowledgeable fingers, she came, biting her bottom lip hard to keep from screaming. She felt weightless, as she had when he’d tossed her into the air. When she looked in the mirror, she seemed transformed, a flush in her cheeks, a glow in her eyes.

  She expected him to be transformed as well. After something so spectacular, shouldn’t he be? But when he got dressed he hardly looked rumpled at all, his shirt still cleanly pressed, the fine crease on his pants in place. She felt suddenly exposed, with her bra and panties on the floor, her dress a puddle of polka dots. It would take a bit of work for her to sort herself out. He seemed to understand this, and gave her a final kiss and a wink, and then nodded with his head for her to put on her clothes.

  He would meet her outside, she guessed, as she watched him leave, and then hurried to lock the door behind him, her heart pounding like the drum section of Lilly Faye’s band. Her fingers trembled as she rebuttoned her dress, taking longer than it had earlier in the evening. She kept mis-buttoning and starting again, desperate to finish so that she could get back out on the floor and dance with him again.

  Back in the ballroom, she was certain he would hurry to her side, would lift her up in the air again so that her dress would twirl the way it was meant to. Her crimson ruffled panties would show, and the scent of sex would waft around her like perfume. From now on, they would be partnered, showing off for the rest of the crowd. They would go back to her place that night, and in the morning she would take him to her favourite vintage store on Third Avenue. Would try on clothes for him. Would let him dress her. There were so many things they could do together.

  But when she exited the rest room and saw him standing by the wall, he didn’t seem to notice her. His eyes roamed over the crowd. She was about to wave her hand, to call out that she was right here, ready to dance. Then she noticed that the two women who’d stood next to her earlier were now at the bar across the way, and the man was heading in their direction. One of the girls let out a high, flirtatious laugh. The man adjusted his braces in a practised, casual manner and tilted his hat forwards rakishly.

  The room blurred before Clara. She saw the truth. Like a shark, he was moving again through the water of the dancers. After another kill.

  Rayban

  M. Nason

  Rayban wouldn’t take off her shades even when she fucked. That was her pronouncement, not mine. She said it each time I tried to remove her sunglasses, first when I undressed her, then later as she leaned over me and all I saw was my own reflection spread naked across her face. She had a solid body, more sturdy than thin, broad-shouldered, olive-skinned, with wide breasts and thighs. She dragged me down like she was pulling prey into her den, and all the while my own image stared back at me, fi
lling her eyes.

  “Let me look at you,” I said.

  “Oh, just fuck me,” she hissed. “There’s no time to look at me.”

  On first laying eyes on her I had not foreseen such things. We met in a coffee shop prone to tourists, a few blocks from the river. I had suggested it, in my 17th e-mail. Her response had been, Why not? Online, she was direct and glib, careless about punctuation, somewhat rambling in her sentences though I could never shake the feeling she laboured over each message. That was my dark suspicion of her, something I hadn’t shared by the time we’d scattered our clothes across my living room floor. She was backing towards the bedroom, nothing on but unbuttoned jeans, tiger-striped panties and Raybans. I grinned at her, but her expression didn’t change. She backed into my bedroom without showing the slightest curiosity about what she might find there, just glanced once over her shoulder so she could steer herself towards the bed. By the time she pressed her legs against the mattress she had pushed off her jeans. She lay on her back, reaching for me in the same movement. I fell towards her, praying I would never be heard from again.

  “Why ‘Rayban’?” I had asked her early on. I liked the name. It struck me as creative, and certainly more creative than mine – NJMAN571.

  “Because Raybans are cool,” she answered. “Silly.”

  “Do you mean Raybans or just shades in general?”

  “I mean Raybans,” she typed. “Anyone can wear sunglasses. Girls wear sunglasses.”

  “Oh, so you’re not a girl,” I said. “Then what are you?”

  “Isn’t that what you’re trying to find out?”

  I knew so little about her. That struck me as she pulled me into a kiss, there on the bed, such a close kiss my eyelashes fluttered against the silver of my own reflection. Her hair was brown and shoulder-length, straight and full. I pressed against her with such force I felt her heat flooding through my skin. I had this impulse I didn’t understand, to stop and breathe, pull away, but my desire was as absolute as gravity. “We’re a long way from coffee,” I whispered, but she didn’t smile. She just rolled me onto my back.