The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 3

by Maxim Jakubowski

  I don’t know what happened to my students. I didn’t much care. I bought Annie drinks, talked, asked her to dance, and finally slid inside her as she sat on my lap. It was a darkly glorious moment: with people wall-to-wall, dancers performing on each of the four stages, Annie pulled the crotch string of her panties to the side as I unzipped and then slowly, gracefully eased herself on top of me. She took all of me. To a casual observer, she must have looked as if she were performing a normal, slowly pulsing dance.

  III

  That night, I left the club with Annie. We didn’t go right to my place as I had planned. Hungry for steak, Annie suggested we stop somewhere and get a bite to eat. Because she lived on the west side, she named a small family restaurant miles away from the Strip on Sahara. At the time, I had no idea that Annie’s wildly passionate nature went beyond her sexual desires; I had no idea that mine did as well. At the time, I didn’t know myself.

  I still can’t remember the name of the place: a cozy Italian restaurant located in one of those new shopping centers with squat, stucco buildings that age in five years. Across the street was a soccer field, and several adult teams were practising under the lights. While I ordered something typically Italian – spaghetti, I think – Annie asked for a steak, done very rare.

  “Your steak will be very bloody, almost raw,” the waitress said. “Did you know that?”

  Sitting next to me in the booth, her hand between my legs, Annie smiled and responded, “That’s the way I like it. The bloodier the better.”

  As we waited in a semi-dark corner for our salad, Annie looked at me, asked, “Ready for a little fun?”

  “Always ready,” I said, heart pounding.

  Swiftly, she unzipped me, reached her small hand in through my fly, and grabbed me.

  I laughed at Annie’s boldness. The waiters stayed in the other room, so I figured we could do pretty much what we wanted. When I unbuttoned Annie’s blouse, she put her head between my legs and slid her warm, moist mouth over my cock.

  “That’s my girl,” I remember saying.

  Visions of angels dancing in my head, I leaned back, and as I did I glanced across the restaurant. When we had first come in and sat down, I really did not see anyone else in the restaurant. But now, my eyes adjusted, I glanced across the room and noticed, in a far booth, a couple about our age, maybe a bit older. They were both shooting glances our way between, I suspect, mouthfuls of lasagne or chicken Marinara or whatever they were eating. I remember remarking to myself that the woman, a beautiful, stacked blonde with blood-red lips and long red fingernails, looked good enough to eat.

  “Whatsamatter?” Annie mumbled, raising her head.

  “We’re being watched,” I said. I didn’t enjoy the sensation of being watched as I do now.

  “So?”

  “That couple over there keeps looking our way.”

  “They don’t know what we’re doing.”

  “Sure they do.”

  “Well, fuck them,” Annie said. She lowered her head.

  “Annie,” I said, pushing her head back gently, “let’s do it later. I can’t enjoy this with them watching.” I looked across the room at the blonde, who was no longer looking our way.

  Annie sat upright, arranged her hair and blouse and stared across the room.

  “People should just fucking learn to live and let live,” Annie commented. At that moment the waitress brought our salads.

  Dinner went well. Annie ignored the woman, and as we ate we talked about everything from Annie’s job to baseball in Korea. Annie even hinted that, recently, she had been marginally involved in a triple homicide for which three of her family members went to prison.

  “Would you ever kill someone, Jerry?” she asked, studying me between mouthfuls of raw steak.

  The thought made me queasy, and I chokingly responded, “Not on your life.”

  We finished with the house specialty for dessert and, after paying, rose to leave. Heading for the door, Annie glanced over her shoulder at the blonde, who was staring back at her.

  “Forget it, Annie,” I said, pushing the glass door open for her.

  We walked out of the restaurant, hand-in-hand, two lovebirds, and I figured then that the rest of the evening would consist of porn, sex, and maybe mild stimulants.

  When we got into the car, just as I was starting the ignition, Annie reached over, grabbed my arm and said, “Wait, Jerry.” She pointed.

  “What?” I said.

  “Look.”

  When I glanced up, I saw the other couple walking toward a green Mercedes in the parking lot on the east side of the restaurant. The man walked with short, mincing steps.

  “I see,” I said. “So what?”

  Annie laughed. “Wanna have a little fun?”

  “With them?” I asked.

  “Sure,” she said. “Why not?” Normally a staid, retiring type, Annie’s question aroused something in me. I realized that I would enjoy a little excitement.

  “Why not?” I agreed. Having some fun at the other couple’s expense would bring back memories, I told myself, recalling how in junior high and high school my friends and I routinely tormented neighbours and school mates.

  I started the engine and waited. Just before the Mercedes reached the exit, I hit the gas. My car shot forward, blocking the way. As I put my car in neutral and pulled on the emergency brake, Annie threw open her door, walked around my car, and positioned herself outside the Mercedes passenger door, shouting and gesturing obscenities at the young blonde. I got out and stood behind Annie.

  Almost coolly, the woman got out, closed the door, and faced Annie while her boyfriend remained inside. This gave me a chance to see this woman more closely, and my heart almost stopped. She wore a blouse tied just above the navel and in a manner calculated to reveal her breasts, and skintight blue pants that left nothing to the imagination. She was gorgeous beyond words, and, as she faced Annie, licked her lips and gave me a seductive look.

  “Think I’m a cunt?” Annie hissed, standing sideways, a posture a friend of mine used to assume just before he hit someone in the face.

  The woman was not intimidated. “Of course you’re a cunt. You’re a disgraceful little tramp, is what you are.” Apparently a tough type, she was probably from New Jersey or Brooklyn.

  Annie stepped forward and shoved the woman backwards against her car. I’d seen women fight only on film.

  It was a beautiful night, I’ll confess that much in retrospect, and at the time I wondered what the woman’s boyfriend, still sitting in the car, was thinking. There was a cooling breeze, and we were far enough beyond the strip that I could see thousands of stars overhead. The moon was brilliant.

  There was a long, almost predictable pause before the action began when the two women called each other things like “bitch”, “whore”, and “cunt.” My legs trembled in anticipation. After Annie said something in Korean and started to walk away, the blonde stepped forward and grabbed Annie’s hair in both of her hands. Annie turned and, in windmill fashion, swung back with closed fists, striking her adversary several times in the face.

  Then Annie stumbled and, with little effort, the blonde bore her to the ground. I watched as Annie, one of her arms held and on her back, was slapped repeatedly. Annie shrieked and fought like a wildcat and did rip open the left side of the woman’s blouse. An enormous, well-shaped breast hanging out of her blouse, the blonde went into a rage and hit Annie in the face again and again and, while I wanted to step in, I decided it would be safer and just watch. Besides, as far as I was concerned, Annie was to be no more than a one-night stand.

  For a moment, the women stopped, the stars seeming to spin slowly overhead. I could hear Annie gasping and lightly sobbing as she looked up at her adversary. Then as Annie struggled weakly, the blonde tore off Annie’s blouse, exposing small but beautiful breasts. Annie’s nipple rings glowed in the moonlight.

  With surprising ease, the woman pulled Annie’s shorts off, revealing that Annie w
ore nothing underneath. Pulling Annie’s legs apart, spreading my angel’s pussy, the blonde looked at me. “This is the fresh meat you’re after, right?” she asked. I could see that the woman had a small cut over her right eye. She patted Annie’s pubic area gently as I kept my eyes on the beautiful pink slit between Annie’s legs. Then, making sure that I was watching, the blonde slowly inserted one finger into Annie, who offered no resistance and moaned like an animal. It was almost more than I could bear.

  As the couple drove away, I retrieved Annie’s clothes and then walked her back to my car. As she sat in the front seat, brushing her hair out of her face, I wondered how she would handle the humiliation she had just suffered. “Well,” she said, sniffing, “I got my ass kicked that time.”

  “Yeah, you did,” I said.

  The fight didn’t seem to faze her much, and she used a Kleenex to dab the blood from her mouth, nose, and chest. I figured that she’d been in fights before.

  Curiously, the night turned out well. By the time we got to my apartment, Annie had apparently put the fight behind her. As we undressed, face and body bruised and cut, Annie attacked me savagely, first grabbing me in her mouth and then allowing me to fuck her in any way I wanted. I learned that every hole in her body was an avenue to bliss. We never slept that night, and one week later Annie moved in with me.

  For six months, we lived together and feasted off each other. I tasted every inch of her, and she tasted every bit of me. Pudding and pie became our favourite desserts because they’re easy to lick. It was a period of unrivalled sexual frenzy and delight, and often, when Annie had three straight days off, we never left the apartment. After the Christmas Eve accident three years ago, Annie moved out without an explanation, and I was left horribly alone.

  IV

  And now, here she is, and here I am. Sitting at the table, awaiting Annie, I think over the past three years when I became addicted to a savage, even occasionally violent kind of sex. As one might suspect, I finally did meet up with the parking lot blonde, who could fight but failed nonetheless to rise to Annie’s standards. The blonde disappeared just six months before this night.

  Top still off, Annie approaches, smilling hugely, and I have put all hesitation aside. I can’t wait to resume our frenzied, anything-goes sex.

  After her shift ends shortly after midnight, I drive Annie through the desert and into the mountains. When she asks where we are going, I tell her to a special place. It’s a very cold Christmas Eve, the temperatures in the low thirties, and I’ve heard that it’s been snowing in the higher regions just outside of town.

  Just above the lodge, I turn to the right and slowly drive the slick road up to a small cabin; as the moon temporarily breaks through storm clouds, we can see that the ground is white with snow.

  “This is my cabin,” I say, and in this I tell the truth. It’s a cabin I bought last year with the inheritance from my parents’ estate.

  “Oooh, how pretty,” Annie says. She’s moved by the Christmas Eve winter wonderland.

  “Do you want to come in and see?” I ask, moving into the gravel driveway and turning off the engine.

  “Do you want me to come in?” she asks, coyly.

  “I have a surprise for you.”

  Annie doesn’t hesitate. She loves surprises.

  After we enter through the front door, I flick the switch and the room softly explodes in soft, almost ethereal light. The living room looks like something right out of a magazine: wreaths over the window, a soft brown couch with the stairs behind it, three lamps, a coffee table made of cypress, and two soft leather recliners. Norman Rockwells hang on the wall.

  “God, it’s beautiful, Jerry,” she gasps, removing her black leather coat. Underneath, she’s wearing a Green Bay Packers T-shirt.

  “You want it?” I say, walking over to the stereo and putting in a Christmas CD.

  “Of course,” she purrs.

  My heart soars as I walk to Annie and, putting my arm around her shoulders, say, “I want you to see one more thing.”

  I guide her through the pantry to the storage room in back. The room is cold, and when I flick on the dim overhead light she sees the padlocked freezer across the room.

  “There’s something here I want you to see,” I say, guiding her across the room.

  Tense, Annie is frightened, but I keep one arm firmly around her waist as I slip the key in the padlock. As I lift the top of the freezer, I pull her closer and tell her to look in. She shrieks and resists, and I can feel her whole body trembling. Suspecting some diabolical trick, Annie collapses and, with both arms, I pick her up, hold her over the freezer, and force her to look inside.

  It takes her a moment to realize that I am not going to shove her inside and close the lid. Her body becomes merely rigid as, stunned, she sees that the long rectangular block of ice contains the body of a nude woman: the blue-green eyes are wide open, the face has a slight blue tinge, her nostrils are flared (odd for a freezing), and her blood-red lips part in eternal bewilderment; the woman has large tanned breasts whose shape has been preserved. Even now, six months after her disappearance, the blonde’s features are quite recognizable.

  Numbed, Annie shakes her head as if to clear it of thought and stares at the corpse as I put my arms around her, kiss her on the neck, and whisper, “Merry Christmas, my sweetest angel.”

  As “Silent Night” fills the air, Annie breathes deeply, laughs very nervously, relaxes even more, and says, “Jerry, you are one sick son of a bitch, you know that? I think you’ve changed a bit.”

  I have to admit, albeit silently, that Annie is right: I’ve changed.

  “This is your gift, Annie.” Holding Annie, my cock pressed hard against her small ass, I tell the brief story of my relationship with Joan: how I met her at a supermarket maybe a year after her fight with Annie outside the restaurant, began dating her, actually lived with her in order to gain her trust, and then asked her to join me up here where, lured by the thrill of ropes and bondage, she actually allowed me to strangle her to death.

  There is a long pregnant pause, and the player switches to the next CD.

  “Did you fuck this bitch on the night you killed her?” Annie finally asks, almost offended by the prospect that I might do such a thing. The tone of the question tells me that, outward appearance notwithstanding, Annie really has not changed; she’s still the delightfully possessive slut that I used to live with. It’s a question she would have asked years ago, and I am ready for it.

  “No goddamned way,” I say. “I’m not that crazy. But I figured I had to do something to get you back after you left – I went fucking nuts when you weren’t there – and I figured that this would work.”

  For a long time, Annie says nothing, and I know that she is considering asking me to take her back. If she asks, I will oblige. Annie is my angel, and I shall never harm her.

  Finally, she turns, puts her arms around my neck and, before I have time to say anything, kisses me on the mouth. I remember then how much I enjoy how Annie tastes.

  “It works,” she says, slowly drawing back. A few years back, as I’m sure she recalls, she wanted this blonde bitch dead. “I won’t leave again.”

  In my bedroom, “O Little Town of Bethlehem” playing softly in the background, we slowly undress each other, taking precious time on the parts that have become significant. Delicately, I part her legs and slip my tongue inside her. When Annie takes my manhood in her tiny hand, I can feel her touch and then lick the scar. The sensation is euphoric.

  “Bite me, Annie,” I request, looking back at her, and she begins giggling. “But not too hard.” This is as close to true love as I have ever been.

  As Annie gently takes me in her teeth and gives me an easy tug, I lie back on the bed, listening to the Christmas music; I put a hand between her legs and insert a finger into her asshole. I remember that Annie has a fondness for anal sex.

  It doesn’t get any better than this, I tell myself, hard as a rock. Annie and I will surely
be inseparable from this night forward.

  London Derrière

  Dawn O’Hara

  Never perform with your back to the audience, Orlando taught his rare music students (he took on such a commitment only when financially desperate). Shaking your booty works if you’ve got Jon Bon Jovi’s ass, he instructed, worthy of leather encasement and admirable even from the back row of an arena. But if you are a mere mortal crooning in a local pub, best to face the fans.

  How, then, did Orlando come to find himself bent over a barstool on the stage floor – nothing more than a bar corner cleared of tables – with Isabella’s dick up his forty-one-year-old virgin ass? His back to the audience, indeed.

  Orlando now sang a different tune than the melodic ones he’d played for the small audience of late-nighters. His voice lost its smooth patina. His words contained no witty double entendres, looping rhymes, or seductive repetitions. He abandoned his lyrical search for meaning in a complicated world of misunderstood words. His fingers no longer picked at intricate chord progressions on the six-string or the electric keyboard. They clawed at the air. He growled and shouted, his words incomprehensible, pushing back against Isabella’s thrusting thighs. But before he descended into passionate, guttural urges, his words were clear.

  Orlando feared the peculiar combination of words he shouted. He was terrified that, once uttered, Isabella would have what she wanted and would leave him. Again. Only this tiem she would desert him for speaking the irretrievable, and not for silence.

  Hold something back, Orlando taught. Leave them wanting, so the fans return, or, better yet, purchase the compact disc you’ve peddled for years, stacks of them stashed in your attic. The whole song can’t be a repeating chorus, he instructed. You’ve got to build up to the consummate word at the end of the line. A literary crescendo to a word so perfect that the audience thinks they could have guessed it, but a word so unexpected they never do. They echo it once they’ve heard the song, and then forget the wonder and surprise of it. Like this word he just enunciated as clearly as the Rain in Spain before deteriorating into whimpering gibberish. A word that all-too-often atrophied, stalled, and lost its meaning through overuse. A powerful word that dulled and tired. Coveting words, understanding their potency and deception, he had refused to utter it all these years.