The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 3

by Maxim Jakubowski

  I hesitated. I couldn’t believe what had popped into my head. “I could pretend to be her in this sweater.”

  He looked at me slowly, his eyes dilated, and it was very obvious what was happening in his pants. I swallowed. I had that butterfly feeling I used to get in third grade when I played horses in the playground with my friends. Only this wasn’t grammar school.

  “What would you do first?” I asked.

  “Kiss her and fondle her sweater,” he said.

  “OK,” I said.

  He kissed me. It left me a little breathless. “Wait a sec,” I said.

  I slipped my bra off from beneath the sweater. He resumed the kiss, but he was putting way too much emphasis on my mouth. I backed up and sat on the old metal desk. He stood between my open legs. He pinched my nipple too hard. I smacked his hand away and pinched him back.

  “Ouch,” he said. “I think I liked that.”

  “You’re sick.”

  He cupped my breasts. “We have a problem. Yours are a lot bigger than hers,” he said.

  “Pretend they are small.”

  “I can’t,” he said, kneading them. “Yours are magnificent. I can’t deny what I’m feeling.”

  “You’re getting off track,” I said.

  “Have you ever been titty fucked?”

  I shook my head.

  “A girl can’t do that,” he said, smugly.

  Undoing my pants, he kissed my belly. “This isn’t in the vicinity of the sweater,” I said.

  “But it’s something I would do.”

  “You would eat her snatch?”

  He nodded. I helped him get my jeans off. “I saw her bare butt,” I said.

  “Where?”

  “In the bathroom,” I said. “I was standing outside the door when she went.”

  “You peeping Tom.”

  “It was an accident.” My jeans were on the floor. We both looked at my underwear. “What type of panties does she wear?” I finally asked.

  “How would I know?”

  “If you are into her as much as I am, and you are that close to her laundry, you would know.”

  He continued to concentrate on my panties. “Now that I think about it they are very similar to yours,” he said.

  He kissed me down there. It felt good. Suddenly, I panicked. By the look in his eyes, I knew what was coming next. A good round of pussy eating, but I was afraid he wouldn’t compare to Kit. Her tongue was like a contortionist at a big top circus.

  His manoeuvres were so different they took my breath away. It was French kissing my pussy, really kissing it, like he would my mouth. It wasn’t something to attack. It was something to savour. It was like slow, sweet dreamy jazz. My whole body felt it. Every muscle relaxed and moved with the flow. It felt so good I wanted to laugh out loud, but I bit it back.

  He stopped. I was left panting and throbbing.

  “I have to fuck you,” he said. “You. Not pretend her. I have to be inside you.”

  “You would screw her in a laundry room?”

  “Not her. You. She is mean and insipid. And I don’t think she would taste half as sweet as you.”

  Me, I thought. He wanted me. I nodded, peeled off the sweater and tossed it aside. He slid inside me. I wrapped my arms and legs around him. He took it slow with shallow strokes, just the tip inside. I revelled in the sensation and the scent of his skin on his shoulder. For a second, my thoughts returned to Melanie. He’s fucking her. No. He’s fucking me.

  He was fucking my crush right out of my head. I felt that worked-up feeling coming over me, where I wanted to say things, scream and groan. It was a fight to keep back all those dark, carried away things. Brimming over the edge. On the tip of my tongue. Spilling out of my head.

  “Fuck me like a . . .” I said and choked down the last word.

  “Like what?” he breathed.

  I shook my head.

  “Say it,” he demanded.

  “A duck. Fuck me like a duck,” I cried. I giggled, groaned and arched my back.

  “Oh, yeah,” he said. “I’m going to fuck you like a duck. Quack for me.”

  “What?”

  “Quack for me now.”

  Sick fuck that I was, I quacked. Over and over, I quacked as we both came, until my voice was hoarse.

  My legs were completely jelly when we pulled apart.

  “You’re awesome,” he said.

  “Yeah?”

  He nodded and handed me his T-shirt, worn in just right. I had no idea where the sweater was nor did I care.

  “I think the Melanie fan club has had its first and last meeting,” he said.

  “And so much for my write-up with my jewellery,” I added, lightly. Not that I really cared anymore.

  “I’ll fix that,” he said and paused, looking at me. “You look really good in my T-shirt.”

  Trying it on

  Jennifer Footman

  Smith and Logan, The Theatrical Outfitters of the Professional, are located in the older industrial part of Edinburgh. Their new building, once the hallowed space of the Niddrie Presbyterian Church, now has a bright red and black sign saying that it’s a theatrical costumier and that they have been in business since 1870.

  Mary and Barbara walked into the hazy gloom from the brilliant sunshine of the mid-morning. For a moment or two they stood, uncertain, in the white-tiled lobby. Cracked brown linoleum covered the floor.

  “Interesting,” Barbara said, a half smirk on her face.

  “Wait and see. Appearances can be deceptive. Alison had a fantastic Mary Queen of Scots outfit from them. Amazing. It was wicked. So sexy she could hardly get any peace.”

  “I can’t imagine Alison would want peace. I can’t imagine Alison wearing anything if she felt it would come between her and her piece.”

  “Ho. Ho. You’re so funny. You know your trouble, Miss Misery Guts?”

  She shook her head. “No, but I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

  “You need a good shag. A large juicy shag. A young man. A large well-hung young man.”

  “Thank you for those kind words, Miss Know-All. Perhaps you should buy me a giant vibrator? King size. Amazon size.”

  A young man came to the oak counter. He stood tall and his skin was tanned gold, bronze, silver. Fair as a Viking, his curls haloed his face. His body rippled under his thin cotton shirt. “Morning, ladies, can I help you?” His voice lilted with a strong Welsh accent.

  “Ceruti and Smith. We have an appointment for a fitting . . . for a party.”

  “Follow me.” They did as they were told and obediently trotted behind the young man’s tight bum into a narrow corridor.

  Mary whispered aside, “You wait and see. Brass and black leather. I’ve seen through you. Behind that soft, cuddly exterior is an animal. You need to maim. A tiger. Or a leopard.”

  “More like a tired lizard. You should have been a psychiatrist instead of being a dentist. Or a writer of horror stories. Fantasy, Madam.”

  For over a month Mary had known what she wanted for the costume party. She had to have the full, black leather look. Executioner. Cruel. What was the point of getting dressed up if the dress-up personality was more or less the same as oneself?

  They were in a hall where pulleys and racks hung from the ceiling. It seemed as if the ceiling was totally covered by robes and costumes lined up, in row upon row between the rafters like soldiers waiting for an order to charge. Men’s clothes on one side and women’s on the other. Under white dust-sheets draped over railings, Ancient Rome faced modern ballroom.

  They both stood with their heads tilted up, fascinated by the array of clothes. In the thick air, dust motes shone in the coloured light from the stained glass windows.

  “And what were you ladies thinking of?”

  Barbara glanced at Mary as if looking for some kind of approval before speaking. Mary made a face and said, “Well, I know what I want. Something in black leather. Executioner, perhaps. Tight. Hard yet silky. Fitting like a second skin.
”

  “Right. Just the thing for you. And what about the other young lady?” He faced Barbara.

  “I don’t know. Haven’t really thought about it. Not black leather I don’t think. For sure, not black leather. Never leather. Something soft, something white, perhaps an angel? Why did I say that? Angels on my mind. Yes, that’s it.” She pointed to an old print of an angel leaning on a windowsill. “The angel. And this being a church. That’s it.”

  “Angel it is, then. Beauty and the Beast. Right. No difficulty, none at all.” He rubbed his hands together. “We have a lovely line in angels. The best in the whole of Europe. Our angels go everywhere. You will be the most angelic angel they have ever seen. The most angelic.

  “Now, if you could come into the fitting room. I think we can fit you from stock. Both of you are . . . so slim and . . . well formed, so well formed. Lovely.”

  They were in a large fitting room lined by mirrors. A chaise in dark brown leather was the only furniture. Hooks were set into the walls above the mirrors and a thick tartan carpet covered the floor from wall to wall. It was like a crypt, Mary thought, or a womb perhaps, yes, more like a womb.

  The young man reappeared and asked if it was all right for him to take measurements as their fitting lady was off sick. Or would they rather take each other’s measurements? They both shook their heads and mumbled something along the lines that no, it was fine if he took the measurements. Barbara slipped off her skirt and blouse and stood in bra and pants. The fine black briefs accentuated the line and rise of her pubis. Mary examined her in the mirrors and yes, she did look . . . edible. The cheeks of her bum rose as if held in by elastic and her breasts were just covered by the tip of the heavy black lace bra. Mary sat in evident admiration, a half smile on her face. She shrugged. “Not bad, not bad at all.”

  Barbara pirouetted as if to show herself off even more. The young man laughed and took her breast measurement, then her waist and then her hips. After each measurement he jotted numbers into a little notebook. He had an aroma of spice and all things nice, a rich smell. Barbara rolled her eyes at Mary over his head while he was down measuring the length of her legs, his fingers in her crotch. Mary winked. He seemed to make quite a meal of measuring.

  “Lovely, it is. We have just the right thing for you. Pale, pale pink it is, quite like a baby’s christening dress. Angelic. Pure. Butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth in it. No one would be purer than our angel. No one.”

  “Nice.

  “Now for the other lady.”

  Mary stripped down to her bra and panties. A large bruise glistened on her hips – Alex had bitten her there last night. She noticed the young man glance at it and half shut his eyes and get on with the measurement.

  “We have the thing. A man’s it is, but I think it will be lovely on you. You have those fine hips, almost like a boy’s. Yes, I know it will do just fine.”

  He rolled up his measure and tucked it into his shirt pocket. He studied his notebook for a few seconds and then put it away.

  “Ladies, make yourselves comfortable. Someone will bring in coffee and our stock girl will find your costumes. Relax and make yourselves at home, it’ll be about ten minutes.”

  A pimply boy of about 16 came in with a jug of coffee. For all he seemed to care they could have been wearing shrouds.

  Mary slid along the chaise and sat beside Barbara so they could both look at themselves in the mirror. She curled one finger round Barbara’s lacy panties and touched her clit. “Aren’t we a pair of pretty ladies, don’t you think?”

  Barbara smiled and lightly stroked her own breast. “Something about a man running a tape round you. It’s sort of . . . you know? Kind of . . .”

  “Yes, I know. Sexy. Lovely. Makes me all tingly. All over sensuous.”

  They sipped coffee and looked at each other.

  Mary said, “So what now?”

  Barbara shrugged. “We wait.”

  “We could do something while we wait.”

  “Like?”

  “Use your imagination, girl.”

  They weren’t given a chance to find something to amuse themselves. They had just finished coffee when the young man came in with two bags over his arm. He hung them up on the hooks and opened them. One bag held a creation in pale pink froth, the other a cloak of fine white velvet.

  “Try the angel on and I’ll be right back. In a jiff. Just have to check on something. Not quite happy with the pants. See what’s happening.”

  Mary helped Barbara into the dress and pulled up the zip. Her fingers smelt of Barbara’s musk. Lovely, rich and warm.

  Goodness, Barbara was transformed into an angel. Mary sat licking her lips. “You look gorgeous. It’s amazing. The pink of the dress makes your skin even finer, fine and tight. Good God, look what it does to your breasts. It . . . it makes them bloom. Yes, like a pair of bulbs. And your legs . . .”

  “You’re getting all too poetic about this.”

  “Well, you do look lovely. Perfect.”

  The skirt wafted long and transparent, hanging loose from a velvet tie under her breast. “I think this will do.”

  “Do indeed. Too damned right. It’s gorgeous. Just gorgeous. Now, wasn’t it worth coming, Miss Misery?”

  There was a knock at the door. “Come in,” Mary said.

  “It’s just me.” He entered and stood admiring Barbara. “Lovely, she looks. So she does.” As if remembering the reason for him coming into the room he said, “The leather will be a little time. Perhaps Miss Ceruti would want to leave and you wait? We need to do a bit of a patch-up. Some of the stitching has come undone. About a half-hour. Sorry about that but I wasn’t happy about the pants. They had done a bad job before cleaning them and it wasn’t right. Needs to be re-stitched. Our seamstress is working on it right now.” He left.

  “I’ll wait’ ” Mary said. “You go on. I know you have an appointment. No need for us both to hang about here, is there?”

  “I have to get to the bank before it closes and do some bills.”

  Barbara removed the angel costume and dressed in her street clothes. “You sure you don’t mind me going?”

  “No, of course not. Get on with it.”

  “I’ll just take this back to the front. I suppose . . . they want it in the office.” She lifted her costume and left the room.

  Mary was quite happy to be left alone for a half-hour or so. She settled with a book. She was trying to get through The Brothers Karamazov and carried a paperback in her bag all the time. It was a challenge and what else was there to do in waiting rooms or on train trips? She should have read it. Its important. Its necessary for all good women to have read it. If only it wasn’t so long and so . . . so boring. No, she would never admit to anyone she found it boring. Never.

  The brass door handle turned and she looked up. Good, that didn’t take long. No, it wasn’t the man with a costume for her. A man stood at the door. About six foot, thin and rangy. He had bushy hair and hot black eyes and was wearing a riding habit. Tight jodhpurs and black boots up to his knees. A fitted beige riding jacket. He carried a whip. The jodhpurs were like a second skin but for the crotch area where a surplus of materials accentuated the bulge. His skin was that shot silk purple black which just begs to be stroked.

  “You’re in the wrong room,” she said sharply.

  “I don’t think so. In fact I’m sure I’m in the very right room.”

  “What do you want?” The room boiled as if someone had turned on a sauna. Even in her bra and pants she felt as if she was melting. She wished she was dressed but was not prepared to let this man see that she was uncomfortable in her underwear.

  “Wondered . . . who was in here. What you were like. I hear you’re getting a similar outfit. We’re both going to be in black leather.” Leather and flesh and skin. His lips were full and glistening and soft. “I have to wait for something and it seemed a good idea to wait with someone.”

  “Oh, yes?”

  “Well . . . Isn’t
it?”

  “I don’t know. It depends who that someone is.” Just a little she resented this intrusion. Having made up her mind to read the stupid book she thought she should be left in peace to read it. Well . . . the book wasn’t stupid. Not stupid. She was stupid not appreciating it and being quite relieved that she was stopped from reading. She decided that the relief outweighed the resentment. She studied him. His thighs were all rock. Solid. His legs went on forever and forever. The room filled with the smell of his body.

  “Your angel was sweet. Sexy.”

  “How do you know? And how do you know about my black leather?”

  “I know everything.”

  The heat in that outfit had to kill him. So hot. So very hot. He had to be suffocating. Sweat stuck her thighs together.

  “Well . . . do you want me to wait with you?”

  She shrugged. “It’s up to you.” No, she can’t read this now. She turned over a page and placed the book in her bag. She smiled. What the hell.

  He shut the door and slid a bolt. He knelt before her and kissed her knees, stroking the inside of her thighs. He followed the knee kisses with tiny feathery kisses right up, up, up to her panties. He spread her knees and folded her panties to one side. The narrow crotch of her French panties was soaking wet. He slid a finger along the wet silk and sniffed it. “Lovely. Lovely. And soaking wet. You seem to have been a busy lady.”

  He gazed at her sex. She had never had a fully kitted-out horsy stranger before. In fact, she had never had a stranger before or even a man in riding gear. Time to let go and be free. He had the kind of thin face where she couldn’t tell if he was smiling or not. He spread her lips and slid a finger up until he touched her clit and then down and then up and down. He circled it and licked his fingers so that he had them glistening and silver.

  He looked into her eyes. His eyes glittered dark and crinkled. It was unreal to be sitting there; she semi-naked and he dressed from head to toe. He danced slow and delicately round her sex as if wishing to find out about every inch of it. He rolled her panties down and off. He circled and stroked and rolled and investigated. Now his tongue was right on the spot and he expertly rolled, licked, circled and sucked, so much a master she was nearly climbing the walls.