The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 3

by Maxim Jakubowski

  “You keep a journal,” I said. It seemed a safe bet.

  “Wow!” she said. I had passed the audition. I would be able to sort out her life.

  “Where’s Katrin?” she asked. “I really like her.”

  “She’s whipping an old tart called Ernest,” I told her. Although I didn’t mention that this was an entirely financial arrangement. Or that Ernest still wore fishnet stockings at the age of 72.

  “You have an open marriage?” asked Truly, surmising correctly.

  “For S/M play, yes. And we discuss everything. No secrets. Playing is fine. I don’t do intercourse. You have to keep something for your primary partner. But playing lasts much longer anyway. So it’s not so much of a sacrifice, anyway.”

  A wicked little smile slowly spread as she sees the logic of this.

  “She’s out?”

  “Yes. Till tonight.”

  “And she won’t mind, then?”

  “No,” I said. For this is what Katrin had said that very morning. Although she may not have actually meant it, of course.

  “I can be a slut, then?” she asked. She was easing into her minx persona. The bad girl who was about to use her body in ways that would have broken her mother’s heart. I blame Roman Catholicism myself. Although, as it produces a regular supply of especially wicked women, perhaps we shouldn’t complain too much.

  Her eyes widened. Her lips were moist. After a flirtatious shake of head sideways she gave me the full moon eyes back again. They were big and blue, although the whites were strewn with red wreckage. This was a reminder that she had a plentiful supply of her own demons. Perhaps she didn’t always like what we were about to do. But was driven to do it anyway.

  She stood up and kicked her red Converse sneakers off. Then eased her jeans and knickers down. She laughed as she threw her T-shirt in a corner and unhooked a bra that was never going to feature in a lingerie catalogue. But with firm, full breasts like hers she did not need to spend money to look stunning.

  Naked, she stepped into my space. The warm scent of her breath sent the blood racing around my body. Something bigger than the two of us was setting this in motion. The force that impels sperm to impregnate a fertile womb. Well, not on this occasion, Grandma. Mother Nature was just going to have to wait. But the Devil himself was coming out to play.

  “I’ve been bad,” she said, taking her voice back some decades. And jutting her lower lip out.

  “You’ve been wicked, my dear,” I told her. “You need firm handling. Someone to take care of you.”

  I don’t always feel comfortable mouthing these shop-worn lines. But it was what she needed to hear. Besides, I can credibly personify authority in short, sharp bursts. Particularly when there is a flawlessly pert bottom to be unveiled. With a rapidly moistening, slitted pouch peeking out from between her long, lean legs.

  “Do I need a spanking, sir?” she asked, her eyes twinkling, though her voice seemed anxious.

  “You certainly do,” I said. “It’s the only language you understand.”

  She laid herself over my lap and sighed gently as she made herself comfortable. Some think you should start a spanking with outstretched fingers, gauging the required force of the slaps by the sighs of gratitude or the squeals of pain. I prefer a multi-disciplinary approach myself, a little of everything. A cupped palm here, a little pull and prod there. Tweaking the springy bottom flesh between finger and thumb made us both sigh. With so much moisture coagulating in her pussy cleft it seemed a shame not to put a thumb inside her. Soft sighs of satisfaction mingled with my own less than graceful groaning. We both needed this. Badly. A few more taps with my fingers and it was time to cup my hand. And strike where the curves were at their roundest.

  Part of me was thinking it would be always be like this: the lover’s fallacy that strikes when the blood first drains from the head to more erogenous zones. Perhaps that’s why the rational part of the brain ceases to function. We never did get to repeat this peak moment often enough for me, but the memories still remain.

  Sometimes, when lost in lust, she would turn around and pull the cheeks of her bottom apart. Do me. Do me now. I found this sort of thing passed the time quite adequately. It was an absorbing hobby. One I never got tired of. Although Truly was infuriatingly unreliable when it came to arranging our diary. Understandably enough, she was looking for a life partner and not someone to do sex with occasionally. And then there was the new age tripe. “I am choosing to experience life on a higher plane,” she would tell me, when cancelling dates to which she had only just enthusiastically assented. Still, there’s nothing like spirituality, is there? “Choosing to experience life on a higher plane”, indeed!

  Even on the first day she offered herself to me I was irritated by her recommendation of some new age twaddle called “Conversations with God”, which had, needless to say, sold several million copies.

  My own “Conversations with My Lord Lucifer” was unlikely to sell a similar amount, even if I ever got around to writing it. Thinking of this particular idiocy I smacked her squirming bottom three times in quick succession, hard enough to hurt the palm of my hand. I’ll give her “choosing to experience life on a higher plane”, I thought, starting to warm to my task. An indignant “hey” soon disabused me of the notion that this was acceptable behaviour.

  Well, sometimes you have to do what is good for the person over your lap rather than what they think is good for them. And the warm glow spreading from her chastised cheeks appeared to be bucking her up no end. But I slowed down anyway, as the customer is always right, once they have placed their trust in you. In any case, just watching her get lost in the moment was exciting enough to make my heart pound.

  “Yes! Yes! Yes! Oh, thank you! Thank you!” she said, giving sincere thanks for something for which she had waited too long. I was beginning to feel a little blessed myself. Fortunate to have found her. I stroked her slowly, front and back, until a note of desperation entered her voice.

  She flirted and squirmed, finding postures that would encourage me to penetrate her. Or slap that impudent little rump of hers just a little bit harder. I was in no hurry. Although Truly appeared to disagree, urging me on by performing some frankly indecent contortions.

  This may be one of the reasons Truly preferred father figures. Most young men would have come by now and be halfway out the door to boast about it in the nearest pub. Whereas, being forty-something, I don’t have the energy to scamper anywhere except here, where everything is set up just the way I like it.

  While Truly got deeper into her trance I patted the reddened flesh for a while, still hardly able to believe my luck. Then a scratch of a fingernail here and there reminded her that into each life a little rain must fall. And that a little vinegar mixed with oil makes a fine combination. The sour-sweet tang of her scent was heavier now and her posture inelegant to say the least – thrusting her rump up in the air and kneading the bed-sheet with her outstretched fingers. Well, we all have needs and I’ve often done what she was doing. Tarting around on all fours demanding to be serviced. Fill me up. Fuck me. But it’s best not to answer these prayers too quickly. Stroking up and down the divide of her bottom with my left hand while keeping the soft slaps coming with my right seemed to be doing her a lot of good.

  The soup was simmering nicely now. I thought boiling would spoil it. Truly seemed to disagree. She straddled my body, face down towards my feet, legs wrapped around my stomach, backing herself up towards my face as I continued to pat her with cupped hands. Harder smacks seem to be finally answering the question she posed some time ago. Her skin was rosy red, the heat spreading where it was needed most. The scent of her twin openings was a mingling of the sacred and the profane; heavenly, yet grounded on earth.

  “Go on! Do it!” She was getting impatient. Coming to the boil. I kissed and licked her as she urged me on. Now the surface of her hot red bottom was moist with saliva the slaps had more effect. A mewl of distress told me to tone it down. Which I was happy t
o do. It was just as nice stroking and kissing the warm velvet flesh for a while before a different sort of urgent moan and upward thrust of her hips was telling me to pile on the pressure again. As I resumed the gentle but firm pitter-patter of slaps and smacks, the sounds she was making were closer to those of a hungry beast. Once she unzipped me I was no longer so aloof, not so much in control as I perhaps should have been. But, as my old Zen master used to say to me, when you are hungry you should eat. And with a hot dish in front of me, and with the chef urging me on, it was time to tuck in.

  I buried my face in the cleft in her beautiful bottom while Truly took my hardness in her mouth. The sounds of guzzling and slurping competed with our grunts and groans. Once her teeth had caught my piercings once too often – which was once, actually – I yelped and withdrew. She took me in hand, rubbing me slowly up and down. Meanwhile it seemed appropriate to form the fingers of both hands into wedges to press gently inside each of her openings. Once I had done that her eyes screwed up and her mouth opened to its fullest extent. One thing that was bothering me was my wedding ring slipping off inside Truly’s warm, wet pussy. But it was too late for that now. And it would have been nice if that astral image of a disapproving Katrin could have disappeared but you can’t have everything.

  Now my right hand was inside her pussy it was easy enough to wiggle my first two fingers down onto the spongy tissue which some chap claimed to be the G-spot – naming it after himself, as if Grafenberg was ever going to be a sound you would want to associate with pleasure zones.

  And then there was no more time for talk. The storm enveloped us. We came. Then came to our senses, both starting to feel guilty in different ways.

  Should young ladies really behave like that? And what about married men? Who were old enough to know better?

  My phone alerted me to a voice message withdrawing permission for what had just happened. Although my wife had been keen enough – or apparently apathetic enough – to agree to it that very morning.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Truly.

  “Katrin,” I said. “She’s gone off the idea.”

  I didn’t have to explain. Truly was used to the anger of wives and significant others. Was it even part of the thrill for her? Kicking Mummy out of Daddy’s bed?

  I breathed in her Body Shop soap and hints of her innermost secrets still on my fingertips as she dressed, looking for ways to remember her. Just before she left she put both hands on her still glowing bottom and pushed her lower lip out. She stood with her feet turned inwards, regressing back to some time she must have felt cared for, secure.

  “You’re very . . . thorough,” she said.

  “Any time,” I said, making detailed plans for a number of futures that never happened. At least I still have her cheeky smile. Even though I had thought it was the start of something. The start of everything perhaps. Instead of a few years of near-misses and misunderstandings and trying to ignore primal urges while dealing with tearful goodbyes and endless arguing about relationships. We did have our wild moments together. Now and then. But less times than you could count on the fingers of one hand.

  She’s driving someone else mad now. There isn’t a cure in sight, just yet. She rang to say she was pregnant the other day. But she couldn’t quite get her head round the concept of marrying the father just because society expected her to. So she had assented to a marriage then decided not to go ahead. After all the arrangements had been made.

  When I stopped laughing at that I wondered if her parents sometimes regretted that she was now too old to spank. Or whether her new bloke took care of her in that way. Someone should, anyway. It’s the only language she really understands . . .

  Sweet, Sweet Annie

  Rich Logsdon

  I

  Christmas Eve, and here is Annie, my sweet angel of the night. A small, thin and beautiful Asian girl, she is dancing topless in animal splendour to incessant, pounding music. Dim stage lights cast a glow over her, and my eyes feast upon this delicious woman. She’s changed, I think: though her eyes are still dark slits, her hair has a reddish brown tint and is tied in pig tails; and while the rose tattoo (which I bought her) remains below the belly button and small golden rings pierce her nipples, she has put on needed weight and enlarged her breasts.

  But I’ve changed, too, and I’m sure she senses that. As she dances, eyes darting at me, her nipples are erect. I can smell her sweetness. Her back against the pole, she slides down to the stage, spreads her legs, and massages herself through her light blue, semi-transparent panties. She never takes her eyes off me.

  “That’s my Annie,” I say.

  In the smoked-filled club, I grin, stick my tongue out, and wiggle it obscenely, hardly an appropriate gesture for a professor known for scholarship on Nabokov and Pynchon. She laughs, pulls away from the pole and, on hands and knees, crawls over to me.

  “How ya doin’, Jerry?” she purrs, leaning forward and licking my forehead. Wrapping her arm around me, her hand cradling the back of my head, she puts her face inches from mine.

  “Merry Christmas,” she says in a seductive whisper. “Long time, no see.”

  “Same here,” I respond. I can’t imagine another place I’d rather be than with Annie. It’s like standing at the gates of paradise. She smells like a rose garden, and I want to stick my tongue between her legs and taste her juices. Through sweat and smoke, she leans forward and kisses me lightly on the lips.

  “Missed you,” she says, slowly pulling back. “You still taste good?”

  “We’ll find out if you want,” I say.

  Aroused, I hesitate: though I’ve finally found her after months of searching, I’m now not really sure that I want to start up again with this woman. Annie can be a mixed blessing. An unusually sensitive person who will allow me to fuck her any time and any place, she has the ability to pull me from the black hole in my soul. But there’s another side. Once, several years ago on Christmas Eve, when we were playing in the front room just after dinner and just before church, she grabbed my dangling manhood in her teeth. (Please understand, of course, that we had been drinking.) When I didn’t respond the way she hoped, she bit, at first gently, then harder and harder. I tried to push her away when, with an angry snarl, she gave a hard yank, a dog tearing a piece of meat. Pain shot through me like a hundred lightning bolts. Immediately seeing that she had wounded me, Annie panicked, wept apologetically, grabbed my manhood and tried to stop the wound with her tiny hands. “Get a towel from the kitchen!” I shouted, visions of John Wayne Bobbit bouncing in my brain. As she ran to the kitchen, I looked between my legs and saw blood dripping down my legs and onto the carpet. “Hurry, you little cunt!” I screamed. Instead of calling a physician, Annie drove me, bundled in a light green dishtowel, to the ER where some young smart ass right out of medical school stitched me up.

  This is what I remember as I now watch this gorgeous little beast dance. Once again, it is Christmas Eve, and in my bones I ache for Annie.

  “Hey, Merry Christmas, you little dickbiting bitch,” I tease her, placing my hand on the back of her head and pulling her lips onto mine. As I kiss her, I run my free hand over her nipples, and she reaches down, places a hand between my legs, and grabs my hardness through my pants. When Annie finally draws her hand away, I tell her that I’ll be sitting at one of the tables under the big stage across the room.

  “Come and join me when you’re done,” I say. She nods and smiles. For old times’ sake, I want once again to spend the night with her and enter her savage garden of delights.

  II

  I met Annie years before in another joint. At the time, five years out of high school, she had taken several classes at the college and had a two-year-old daughter, whom she left with her mother. She didn’t know who the father was. “One of hundreds,” she told me. She danced at Cat’s Place, a purple and pink one-story topless nightclub located in the industrial area of Vegas and just behind Stupak’s Tower, the tallest building on the Strip.


  The place had the best dancers in town. Many were university or community college students trying to make a little extra cash. I had been invited to the club by two of my students. In their papers and out-of-class, they had alluded to this specific club, and at the end of spring semester had asked me to come, all promising at least one free dance. Expressing my preference for another club located downtown, I had politely refused. But finally, late in August of the same year, my girlfriend having flown to Seattle to attend her sister’s wedding, the fires of desperation exploded within me and I agreed.

  I sat at a table in the back of the club with Angela and Marci; I forget their stage names. Angela wore a thin black net top revealing large tanned breasts while Marci was dressed in a small white blouse, open at the top, and a plaid schoolgirl dress. No sooner had they excused themselves to go to the back room when a small Oriental girl pulled herself away from the bar, walked over to me and asked if she could sit. “Be my guest,” I said, gesturing her to sit in the chair next to me. She gently sat on my lap, her left arm around my neck, gazed longingly into my eyes, and smiled coyly. It wasn’t the mechanical smile you might expect from a dancer whose chief means of livelihood is stripping in front of gawking men and making them hard; this one was warm and teasing, the kind you get from someone who likes you and wants to know you better. Her eyes were dark brown, almost black in the dim light, and her raven hair was swept back out of her face and flowed down to the small of her back.

  “What’s your name?” she cooed. While she had a tinny, singsong accent, there was laughter in her voice. Before I could answer, she kissed me lightly on the cheek.

  “The professor. Call me that for now,” I responded.

  “Don’t play games with Annie,” she said, reaching between my legs and feeling me through my slacks. I was already partly hard. “I know who you are,” she added.

  Slightly over five feet, she had an engaging manner. When I pulled her blouse open, admired her nipple rings, and then kissed one of her nipples, she commented, “I like that.” When I slipped one of my hands into her panties and found her already wet, she purred.