Leo lines my arsehole with Johnson’s baby lotion, straight from the pink plastic container, and then tickles the insides with the tips of his fingers. First one finger then two and then three, four five. Opening me up wider and then wider and I want to take in as much as I can, to take into me that beautiful strong muscular hand that is all mine. He then takes his fist from my arse and lies down on top of me. Now that my arse is open he can jam his cock all the way in. Slide it in and out. My muscles contracting to hold onto his cock and he goes in and out and in and out. He’s on top of me and I push myself up onto all fours and he is holding his arms across my chest and kissing my neck and pulling at my nipples and he lets his hands wander across my smooth chest down to my cock and he plays with it until it’s hard again and I can’t tell anymore where the sensation is coming from nor what the sensation is and I want to forget myself. But I can’t, for there are no words in that place of nothingness, in that void of pure pleasure. I pound my arse against his waist and take him in as much as I can. And when I’m about to come I push harder, wanting to be taken away, to disappear into his perfect body, into his solidness, into what I will never be. And then I am full.
And so we eat. Sometimes we go out and I’ll wear my high heels and stroke the long straight hair that runs down my back, and make Leo want me. Want me, I say to him, tell me that you want me. Tell me that you’ll die if you don’t have me always. He does, because he does. And that’s how we met. I was the one who did the seducing. At a Purim party two years ago. I wore my chiffon evening gown with an open back and a slit down the side. I wasn’t shaving my legs then, so I had on my black stockings and the shoes I’d picked up that morning from Olga. I was perfection, standing at the drinks table smoking a joint and pouring myself another Harvey Wallbanger.
He came from across the room. I’d noticed him before, but had kept his image to myself. He was the only one who hadn’t dressed up. There were Queen Esthers and Hamans filling the place with screeching rattles. There was a pirate and her damsel in distress. An ugly duckling with the wings of a swan. Then Leo’s green eyes were close to mine and I could smell the sweet taste of alcohol on his breath. A drink, I asked. Whiskey, he said. Nice, I thought.
We talked a little. He said he didn’t really have a regular job at the moment. He painted houses, he said. Did a bit of this and that. We danced together. He had his hands on my skin. I could feel his rough palms moving up my back and folding over my shoulders. Let’s go now, he said.
I walk away from the window. Fixing my hard-on in my underpants. I could spit on the sidewalk if I wanted to. But no. I just keep walking. Floating almost. I have a picture in my mind and I’m taking it to Olga. I smile to myself at the memory of how Leo and I met. There have been several others like him. So I know it won’t last forever. But I know that when it passes, the memory of it will remain. The feeling, that is. And that in itself is enough.
Five Girls
Riain Grey
Carolyn
The first time I met Carolyn, she reached her hand up to my face, wiped away a single tear, and licked it off her slender finger. Now I’ve tasted you, she said. A year later we lay together in her bed, the sheets and blankets tangled between our legs, both of us sleepy and hot from drinking a stolen bottle of gin, and I felt melted and sweet like ice cream in the summer. She pushed herself on top of me and gasped when we kissed and said, I’m so wet, Riain, I’m so wet, do something, but I didn’t know what to say. When she slid my panties off in the dark, her fingers hot against my skin, I turned away and pretended to be asleep. She got a boyfriend after that and wrote me a tear-stained letter about not wanting to be friends anymore; at the time I thought she was bored with me but I guess he just did what I wouldn’t.
Morgan
Morgan was a year younger than me and tiny and beautiful like a hummingbird, with a voice that always sounded like she was just waking up. She came to spend the night in my dorm room and was sleeping on the floor. She crawled up into bed with me and touched my face, and said, Is this okay? I touched her back and then we were kissing and sighing and we both kept saying things like, I never knew it could be like this, is this what it’s like to make love with a girl? We peeled each other’s shirts off and giggled because it felt so good and she said, You’re so warm and soft. Her skin glistened and made me think of apricots and summer. She made me lie on my stomach, and traced words on my back with her tiny mouth, my name and hers and other things she liked to say. I liked licking her neck the best, my tongue darting across her downy skin, my hand against the small of her back. We held hands in public and brought each other flowers and made out at parties and rolled around together on my bed or hers, bodies intertwined. That summer I met a professor and asked Morgan if I could go on one date, just to see. She told me I could, but afterwards she said that she had tried so hard not to care that now she didn’t. It had worked too well, she said, and now there was nothing that I could do.
Tara
Tara wore her curly brown hair in braids and pigtails and had a furry laugh that drove me crazy. I spent an entire summer with her and my boyfriend Zach, wandering the streets and reading each other’s poetry and ransacking the common areas for cigarette money. We got a bottle of red wine from somewhere and all went back to my room. Tara kissed me, her eyes closed, her mouth hot and tart and hungry, and then I watched as she turned to Zach and reached for his mouth. I watched them kiss, and felt something open deep inside me when he touched her jaw, tilting her head in order to nibble at her better. They kissed open mouthed so that I could see their tongues licking at each other. They leaned into each other, arms around each other’s necks, kneeling on the bed, so I crawled under the circle of their arms and curled up against Zach’s chest. While they made out, I undid Tara’s braids and tangled my hands in her hair. She laughed deep into Zach’s throat and looked down at me. She pushed us backwards until we were both pinned against the bed. She said, Now two are three, and we stayed a threesome for the rest of the summer.
Annie
Annie breezed into the bookstore I worked at, in a hurry to find something, with flowers in her hair and in the basket of her bicycle. Her eyes flashed and sang when she smiled at me. I helped her find her book and got tingly when she touched my hand in thanks. Three days later she came back, this time with flowers for me, and an invitation to dinner. She was so beautiful that I was afraid to touch her. At dinner we drank red cocktails that tasted like Popsicles and fed each other bites of risotto, and when we walked back towards my apartment she slid her hand along my back like I was hers. In the foyer of my building, she pushed me up against the wall and breathed into my ear. I want to fuck you, she whispered, I want to see you come, and I felt dizzy, I wanted her so much. We twisted and twined against the wall, her hands in my hair and on my face, my head spinning. I wedged my thigh between her legs, holding her hips, and she moaned into my mouth. In my bed she leaned over me, her breath sweet, and caught her breath when she pushed up my skirt. She fucked me with two fingers and then three, resting on one elbow as she watched me contort under her, nuzzling at my neck. When I came for the third time she said, Want to do it to me? but I was already floating away, and she laughed into my ear and let me curl into her as I fell asleep.
Emma
I met Emma at a party I went to with this guy she didn’t like. She went around to everybody she knew and said, I’ll give you this bright shiny quarter if you’ll make him stop touching her! I’d go over to her house and we’d sit up all night with her roommates, watching TV with the sound off and drinking kamikazes. Then Emma met Noah, tall and rough edged and gorgeous, with green eyes and a crooked smile. One day she said, Come home with me. Noah was waiting outside. Emma smoked cigarettes one after another and watched Noah, her eyes bright. They took me inside and stretched me out on the bed, my wrists held tight in Emma’s lap, Noah pulling off my jeans. Let’s shave her, he said, looking past me towards Emma, who nodded. I knew that she was nervous, her hands clutching at mine.
She pulled me halfway up into her lap as he shaved me, her hands in my hair. The razor was cold against my skin, but Emma wrapped herself around me, her chin buried in my shoulder, her cheek against my ear. When I was shaved clean he looked up at her again and then pushed a finger into my pussy. I gasped and she said, You’ll let me do anything to you, won’t you, and I nodded, feeling a sudden chill as he slid another finger into me. Emma pulled my hair, hard, and whispered, You’re my little doll, my little girl to fuck, even if I let him do it, and then she made me repeat it to her, my voice low and faltering. To him she said, Fuck her, if you want, and with a sideways grin he calmly thrust into me. I made an unholy sound and pushed myself against him, trying to get his cock in deeper. Emma tightened her grip on my hair and said, That’s me fucking you, and then she didn’t say anything more, just bit her lip, her eyes closed and her expression too beautiful, her hands clenching and unclenching in my hair.
Dostoyevsky
Tom Piccirilli
I’m polite. When she asks me to hold the elevator, I thrust my arm out and block open the door. The fact that she’s naked doesn’t have a lot to do with it until after she’s already gotten on. The zucchini and ping pong paddles are another matter altogether.
“Could you hit thirty-seven please?” she asks.
It’s already lit. It’s my floor. The same old question begins circling around my skull – am I heading for some good harmless fun here or diving straight into hell? In the six months since I’d left home I was running about 50–50.
I do what you’re supposed to do in an elevator. I look straight ahead, but I’ve got damn good peripheral vision. We take it floor after floor and I’m trying to think of anything I can to keep my erection down. The new script of Zypho: Critter from Beyond the Edge of Space, how much I miss my mother’s pasta fasulli, where the hell hotel security might be, and the fact that the Yankees are down 3–2 in the series. Why I’m working so hard doesn’t make much sense, but you’ve got to hold on to your self-control for at least ten or twenty seconds. It’s only right.
The naked woman holding two zucchinis and the red and green paddles turns to me and says, “Boy, you’ve got good control of your curiosity!”
“Listen,” I tell her. “I’m a New York writer working in Hollywood. I’m trying to learn how to take everything I see for granted.”
It doesn’t appease her. “Well, don’t miss out on a few new experiences along the way. Aren’t writers supposed to be observant and adventurous?”
They are. I am. I’ve already noted how gorgeous she is, and my back teeth are grinding together so hard I can almost feel my fillings buckle. Christ, this town was built to drive me crazy. I tilt my jaw at her and let my gaze glide over her skin, and I’m barely able to hold back the animal groan from breaking inside my chest.
She has meat and curves in all the right places, and the motion of the elevator has given her body a consistent jiggle that’s causing my pulse to break seventy, eighty, ninety.
Twenty-four years old or thereabouts, with a splash of red highlights in her brown hair that coils and loops to frame her face. One curl takes purchase at the edge of her mouth. It’s a movie moment. I’m supposed to reach over, pull it free, ease my lips to hers. I’m Gary Cooper caught in Café Flesh 3.
She has a nice solid plumpness and genuine weight to her, and she’s got enough conviction not to be made self-conscious by the starved will-o’-the-wisp image that L. A. promotes. Her tits are large with just enough sag that they wobble as the car progresses. The large areolae are pink, her desert rose nipples huge and pointed and somehow taunting.
We all have our thing. Mine is big tits with taunting desert rose nipples. The sweat writhes through my scalp and she smiles up at me beatifically. Her white teeth aren’t capped, and her dark eyes are suddenly twinkling. Or maybe I’m just hyperventilating.
It’s quite possibly the slowest elevator on the face of the earth. I’m polite but impatient, even when I’m enjoying the view.
“What kind of movies?” she asks.
The honest answer is low budget horror flicks starring ageing porno actresses trying to build up the “straight dramatic” roles on their resumes. I had started off with a script for Dostoyevsky’s Notes from the Underground and somehow ended up on the far side of the sun with Zypho, the brain juice-drinking alien. If I thought about it for too long I wound up getting a migraine, so I tended to let it ride. “Independent erotic thrillers.”
“Oh.”
She says it like she sees through my smoke-screen but she gives a grin to show there’s nothing to be ashamed of. We take our conceits where we can grab them. The smirk is dubious and full of fuck-me mystery.
“Okay,” I tell her, “I give. Fill me in. Or should I just string it together and figure that you’re a professional table tennis player who got hungry . . . but the kitchen was closed” – it’s nearly three in the morning – “and you could only find a couple of spare zucchini left over on the lunch special buffet table . . . and . . . ah, you fell into the pool? Had to leave your clothes at the dry cleaners?”
“Pretty good story. Covered a lot of ground.”
It’s not Dostoyevsky but it’ll do. “So then?”
“I’m working my way through graduate school as a model and performer for Dee Ess Magazine. They’re holding their first convention here this weekend.”
“Dee Ess?”
“D/S Magazine. Dominant-submissive lifestyle publications.”
“Oh.” It’s the performer bit that’s got me.
“There’s about two hundred folks who showed.”
“You’re gonna need more vegetables to feed them all.”
I worked my way through college selling magazine subscriptions. I have the overwhelming sense that she’s making more money than I did.
“You’re witty. But you’re scared of me, aren’t you?”
“No,” I say, “I think you’ve been surrounded by too many subs lately.”
“Why are you in the hotel? Did you come for the show? Are you here to watch people like me?”
My agent Monty Stobbs had gotten me this hotel room because I only had four days left to finish the script. Normally that wouldn’t have been much of a problem, but at around midnight tonight the cops had raided the house next door to mine in East Hollywood and two wild shots had come through my bedroom window. Monty wanted me to weave my near-death experience into the movie. He thought that the brush with my own mortality would somehow work wonders on a sequel. Zypho: the Post-modern Neo-expressionistic Morality Play. It would lend more credence to the brain juice sucking scenes.
“My house is being renovated,” I say.
When we hit the thirty-sixth floor she leans on the EMERGENCY STOP button and the elevator slams to a halt. I’m tossed sideways into her and suddenly my hard-on is jabbing her in the thigh and I’ve got a zucchini shoved into my armpit.
The perfect outline of muscles in her legs and belly are haunting, and the aggressive angle of her throat aims at me, as if she’s arching it towards my teeth to chew. The west coast breeds a whole new kind of hang-up, but guilt about touching your pee-pee sure isn’t one of them.
I say the first thing that clatters up into my head, which is never a good idea. “I don’t like zucchini.”
“I didn’t intend to make you eat it.”
“Well, okay then.”
“Here.” She hands me the red ping pong paddle. “Hit me. Spank me.”
We all have our thing.
My repressions start slicing through me again, as I stand there thinking of Sunday afternoons in the basement playing doubles with my parents and sister. I give a tentative swat and the meat on her ass hardly moves.
“Harder!”
I squeeze my eyes shut and let loose with another smack. She squeals and I try not to picture my little sister in pig-tails scoring a point off my old man.
“This isn’t working.”
“Shit!”
Now comes the tinge of re
gret in her eyes, some of the disappointment leaking through. It relates a great deal. That expression speaks of sex and love, shame and audacity, brazenness, money, and courage. All of it is real, and I move in.
I sling the paddle into the corner behind my luggage, tear the other one out of her hand and give her one more swat on the ass. She yelps and stares at me with a new delight. You take control by force of will, not by volleying. I grab the goddamn zucchini and toss them aside too as I shrug out of my jacket and shirt.
“No no, I need that!”
“You don’t need a fuckin’ zucchini!”
I ease forward again, directing her to undo my fly. I don’t know whether she’s a submissive or a dominatrix, whether I’m playing into her kink or going against type, and I don’t much give a shit. I want her.
She knows it too and that’s when the game begins. She backs off, smiling, pressing her tits together like she’s trying to wrangle a dollar from me. I step closer wondering when the fire department will come swinging down through the roof.
The power struggle flows back and forth between us.
She twists around and bends way over, as if I’m not worth looking at anymore. She rests her arms atop the little metal railing, showing off her ass, giving me the dance floor wriggle. It happens like this on occasion, I know, when you fall into a B-movie setting, trying to assert yourself upon a willing partner you’ve only met three hundred and sixty feet ago at ground level.
The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 6 Page 12
