The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 6

by Jakubowski Maxim

  Her hands found the young woman’s curves, from the delicate slope of her shoulders to the curve of her waist, settling finally on the swell of the woman’s hips and ass, bringing the woman’s sex more firmly against her face as her tongue desperately worked, seeking nourishment. The woman moaned, her hips bucking; there was a cry, a gentle sob, and then a swift exhalation of breath as it came on her, the sudden knowledge: She was Elise, and this woman . . . this woman was familiar to her. Had they made love before? That was impossible, for Elise knew with absolute certainty that she, herself, was a virgin.

  The woman’s mouth did not stop after she reached her peak; if anything, it increased its voraciousness. Elise felt surrounded, deliriously overpowered by the press of the younger woman’s naked body atop hers, the swell of her breasts, the iron strength of her arms. It was as she realized that she was mounting toward something beautiful, something terrifying, that she felt the woman’s fingers inside her, stretching, pressing against her hymen. Elise realized that she should not be a virgin: neither she nor the girl should be, and all the laws of God and man had been broken by their becoming virgins again. As the girl’s fingers penetrated her, Elise came with a brief gasp of surprise. It was as if she couldn’t believe it was happening, as if she didn’t know what to call it: And she realized, all of a sudden, that she didn’t. Nor did she need to.

  She felt the woman’s mouth on her own, tasted her own sex. Sharp, strong, overwhelming. They kissed, embracing on the wet earth.

  “Elise! What’s going on down there? Damn it all, Elise, answer me or I’m coming down there!” She had the sense that the voice should be familiar to her, and that it was somehow very wrong that it wasn’t. But she also had the sense that she shouldn’t worry about it.

  Elise saw three women, also naked, surrounding them, holding out clean, ephemeral white robes.

  “Call her Adara,” said one of the women softly, and Elise understood it perfectly. “It means ‘virgin,’ and that’s what your lover has become. Don’t lose her a second time.” It took her a moment to realize the woman was speaking Arabic.

  “Elise, I’m going to count to three!”

  Elise watched, transfixed, as the three women descended beneath the waters of Al Adra, and she was left alone with her virgin lover.

  “I don’t understand why we couldn’t bring his body back,” Thornhill was saying. “There could be trouble with the authorities.”

  “That is not how it is done here,” said Majid, his eyes riveted on the girl, who slept, white-robed, in the dazed woman’s arms as the car rocked softly back and forth. “The waters of Al Adra will see to him.”

  Thornhill laughed.

  “That’s not much comfort, given that my wife came out of there with her clothes long gone and some underage tart in her arms that I now have to look after. Is this some kind of scam to pass off orphaned girls, Majid?”

  “You do not need to look after her, Dr Thornhill. I will look after the girl.”

  Slowly, sleepily, the girl’s eyes came open, and she looked into Majid’s face. She lifted her hand and placed it on his cheek, and slowly shook her head back and forth. Tears formed and rolled down Majid’s cheeks. The girl closed her eyes and went back to sleep, the woman’s arms curved casually around her.

  “I’m leaving,” said Elise, not sure why she was saying it or why it was necessary, only knowing that it was.

  “Great idea,” said Thornhill. “Let’s head back to Tangier. Things were less confusing there.”

  “No,” said the woman. “I’m leaving you.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Where would you go if you left me, Elise?”

  “Who says I need to go anywhere?”

  He was struck speechless for a moment. Then, “We’ll talk about this later,” said Thornhill.

  “I’m sure we will,” said Elise, and softly kissed the girl. She ran her hand though her lover’s hair, still wet with the waters of Al Adra. The girl opened her eyes and dreamily stared into Elise’s. Her full lips moved and Elise heard the words “I’ve forgotten.” Faintly, the girl smiled.

  Elise could not remember who Thornhill was or why it was important that she say she was leaving him – nor did she remember who this virgin had been. She had the sense that she had been, at one time, important, and that now they would be together in a way they could not have been before – but that was merely a suspicion, and a vague one. For certain, Elise knew only that for it to be the beginning, it must sometimes be the end.

  Spike

  Rachel Kramer Bussel

  The minute I see the shoes, I know I want them. Scratch that – I need them. They are practically talking to me, curving their lips into a gleaming, gooey grin that makes my feet itch to try them on. Their siren song lures me across the store until they are all I see. I pick them up, fondle them, tracing my fingertips along the smooth, supple leather, imagining them on my feet, my feet caressing Jack’s cheek, Jack’s tongue licking the edges. Their black surface is sleek, shiny and perfect, crafted to look like a gorgeous piece of art, the kind you might hang on your wall and draw stares for miles, but it’s the spike of the heel that really does it for me. They are sharp and pointed, like a knife; they could do real damage, both to the wearer and to anyone standing in her way. They are also tall; when I try them on, I feel like I’ve been gifted with those extra inches I’ve always considered my birthright. I stare down at my feet, not in the mirror, but live, right before my eyes, and know they are right. I march over to the counter, take one off and hold it up to be scanned, then slide it back on, feeling the power wash over me, slowly but quite surely.

  They hurt when I slip them on, I won’t deny it, but it seemed a fair trade-off: I’d suffer some pain, he’d suffer more. The he in question was my new lover Jack. We’d only been together once but he’d immediately dazzled me with his ability not only to submit, but to get me to want him to do more, to go further into our roleplaying until it is less playing and more simply being. Dominance is something I innately warm to, but only under the proper circumstances. I don’t walk into a room and instantly want to see every guy there down on his hands and knees. No, it doesn’t have mass appeal to me. But when the right guy comes along, watch out. Jack had started out with the typical macho bullshit with me, at some overly hip bar I wasn’t even sure why I’d wandered into. He’d teased me about my hair, acted like he’d never seen someone who looked like me, almost goth with my pale skin, jet-black hair, tattoos and piercing gaze. I don’t look like the kind of girl you mess with, and when I grabbed his wrist and pulled him into the hallway he started to get the picture. I pushed him up against the wall, my face inches from his. “You don’t talk to me like that; nobody does. I think you’ve just been waiting for a woman to put you in your place. Well, consider me that woman.” I meant every single word as he cowered before me, seeming to grow smaller as he saw just how serious I was.

  I wormed my fingers under his tight collar, letting my knuckles press against his neck, the backs of my fingers hinting at what they could do to his chest. I grabbed one of his hands and thrust it under my latex miniskirt, the kind I manage to pull off as saying “fuck YOU” rather than “fuck me.” I rubbed his fingers along the very sheer fabric of my expensive lace panties, then manoeuvred them under that veneer, sliding those callused stubs along my wetness. I pulled his fingers back, then shoved them into his mouth. “You better get used to the way my pussy tastes, because you’re going to have my flavor on your tongue for quite a while after tonight.” I shoved him against the wall and took a step back. “Say your goodbyes and meet me outside in five minutes. I’ll be in the red Porsche. If you’re not ready, you’ll be sorry.” And then I did the thing that always throws them off, lures them into thinking that underneath all that gruffness I’m really a nice girl. I winked at him, then smiled sweetly and planted a very soft, tender kiss on his big red lips, then pranced back into the bar. I knew that kiss, that sweet
soft mere taste of my lips on his, was enough to make him need to try it again, and try it, we had, spending the entire night teaching Jack a very important lesson about respecting women – specifically, respecting me.

  On our next date, armed with my new purchase, we don’t waste any time with social niceties. Both of us know exactly why we’re here, and that the best way for us to communicate isn’t with endless talking, but with his face buried into a pillow or crammed full of my cunt. That might sound cold, but with Jack, it’s amazing how much we each manage to say solely with body language. A sense of calm and strength comes over me the minute I hear him say, “Do whatever you want to me.” I feel those words travel from the ends of my hair to those razor-sharp spikes, emitting their own kind of pheromones that quickly swim through my bloodstream, sharpening my resolve. To say I feel maternal toward Jack wouldn’t be totally wrong, but it’s a combination of so many things. I want to teach him a lesson, but I want it to be my lesson, my way. I want him to walk out of our dates not only with a raw, stinging bottom, his back scraped raw, having left my mark, as it were, but I want him to know that I know what’s best for him, because clearly I do.

  It takes him only moments to fully undress and lie down along the length of the couch. His cock is already hard, trying to worm its way between my legs as he wriggles against me. My pussy is wet, but a new kind of wet; not that urging, throbbing hole-needing-to-be-filled-immediately kind of wet, but a wetness that percolates, waiting until the moment is ripe. This kind of wetness could wait, could withstand the slow build, could hold out for something better. When I had time to think about it, I considered it a more mature, superior wetness, befitting a woman of my stature.

  When he splays himself across my lap, the position feels as if he were meant to fit in the palm of my hand, his little bubble butt poised in the air, just waiting for me. Every babyish quality he possesses surges forth to the surface, his voice going higher, his body seeming to shrink just so, his eyes looking back at me with raw need and hope and urgency, as if I am the only one in the whole wide world who can meet his most visceral desires, and in that second, it’s true. I feel like the queen of his world as I run a hand over his face, sticking a finger in his mouth, tracing my nails along his neck, while my other hand tickles the bottom of his foot, then lightly trails up his leg, needing to touch every inch of my newfound domain. I kick out my leg, admiring the way the shoe conforms to my foot, squeezing it just so, the tip darting out in a delicious point. Then I raise my right hand, bringing it down across both his sweet ass cheeks in a way befitting a woman wearing that shoe, befitting a woman with a man splayed across her lap like a baby.

  “Unh,” he moans, or something like that, a guttural groan that has him kicking and squirming in delight. I raise my hand again, landing it on the other cheek, then bring it up higher, wanting a louder, harder smack. I hold his cheek steady with my other hand, flattening that perfect curve, then bring it down again, while he nuzzles his face into the pillow. I keep going, enjoying the sting as it travels up my hand, then, when his sniveling gets too much for me, I shove two fingers in his mouth to shut him up. He bites down on them, while I keep increasing my pace, admiring how quickly his ass turns a perfect shade of red, how in only a few short minutes he takes on all those childish qualities I’d only glimpsed before. His ass remains what it had been, two perfectly symmetrical rounded cheeks, and yet it also transforms into something else, something softer, subtler, sexier, hard and firm yet open, yielding. I marvel not only at his stamina, but also his giving, granting me this opportunity to take over, fully and completely, no questions asked, a rarity in our highly regulated world. I stamp my feet on the ground, simply because I can, because right now, I can throw my own temper tantrum, and indeed get what I want, what we both want.

  I make him get on his knees, wrists behind him. As I fasten the pink rope, bought especially for him – because, despite the firm breasts, red lipstick and spiked heels, I am clearly the man tonight – around him, he moans again. I love when he reaches that point of no return, where anything I do, any decadently dark suggestion, is okay. At his finest, I could bind and gag him, naked, and string him to a telephone pole, and his cock would be sticking straight up, begging for more. Wrists secured, I place him on his hands and knees in front of me, returning to my throne. That final twist of the knot has made my pussy twinge, has made me start to feel that more familiar ache that can only be filled in one of a few ways. I raise my skirt enough for his head to fit underneath it, and he dives right in, his tongue immediately going to work. He presses that fast-moving organ deep between my folds, then brings it back up to mash it against my clit, swirling in circles and then pressing deep, using his teeth. From his muffled grunts, I know he’s enjoying it, and I look down at the skirt-covered head between my legs, patting it before I lean back and close my eyes.

  For once, I let myself truly relax, practically feeling my body unravel, starting with my head. I let my mind go blank, releasing every ounce of tension and worry, then doing the same from my shoulders on down. Once my precious feet are loose, hanging in the air as my heels sway, I can suddenly enjoy his tongue all the more. “Harder,” I grunt, because the truth is, I prefer fingers or dildos or cocks to tongues, but today, I want his tongue, want him to savor exactly what he’s doing to me. I lift the skirt, pulling it up around my waist until his mop of hair appears. I beam down at him proudly, knowing I have trained him well; he will only look up at me once I touch his head and grant him permission.

  Under my watchful gave, he works even harder, and best of all, I know for him it’s not just work. He enjoys the taste of my twat, truly wants to get me off, and not just because once he does I will very likely allow him to slide his fat cock inside me. He has his own reasons for tasting me, for diving in with boundless enthusiasm, for making his tongue everything I want it to be. He can tell that I’m getting close, and brings his hand, which has been clasped around my hip, up to my cunt, sliding three fingers into my pussy while continuing to torment my clit. I dig my carefully grown, manicured, just-sharp-enough nails into the back of his neck, pressing urgently against the spot I know will make him squirm, then wrap my legs around his back, letting the spikes of my shoes graze his backside, slide down toward his pert little ass. His fingers slam into me when I do, work overtime, curve and press frantically while his teeth nip at my clit. By unspoken agreement, I buck back against him, thrust upward even as my nails drill his face into my hole, both of us working toward a mutual goal. When I simply can’t stand it anymore, I lean my head back, throw my legs wide in the air, and he slides a fourth finger into me, the one that is always a tight squeeze with any guy, a little risky, the signal that we’ve arrived. I scream as my cunt clamps down on him, grit my teeth as my climax races through my body, a comet that burns brightly before its sparks start to fade, leaving us both slightly shaken.

  Finally, he looks up at me, the lower half of his face smeared with my juices, his eyes wide and wanting. I slide off one shoe and hold it out to him, and he opens that precious mouth once again, taking the heel between his lips as reverently as one might slide a guy’s hard cock between their lipsticked mouth. I hold the shoe, don’t fuck him back with it, but let him savor the heel that now seems made just for him. I let my bare foot wander to his dick, slide it up and down, fondle his length with the tender, sweaty ball of my foot.

  I keep on going, wishing I could tease him all night with the power of my feet alone, no longer needing the threat of the spikes to control him. I’d love to flaunt my power by making him go home with his cock still hard, but I can’t do it – not for his sake, but for mine. I want his come, and as I slide both feet now over and around his cock, toying with the head, playing with his balls, my breath comes fast, harsher, in sync with his. He knows this is his reward, but I’m not sure if he knows it’s mine as well. I give him my fingers to suckle as he gets closer, and when he’s about to come, his sharp teeth come out, grinding into my fingers, but I don’t min
d. It’s worth a little pain to feel his hot come shoot out over my pedicured toes. He gets another treat when I raise my feet to his lips and let him lick his own come off of them, every last drop. Before he can clean up, he has to massage my feet, then soothe them with lotion before easing them back into the shoes, with which I make my exit. I look down at the heels as they click along the pavement, my clothes only slightly rumpled from our encounter. Definitely worth every penny, I think to myself, and give the guy staring admiringly at my shoes a dazzling smile. When I get home, instead of snugly storing them in a box in the closet, I prop them right on top of my dresser, a permanent reminder of just how far I’ll dare to go – but only with the right guy, and the right shoes, of course.

  Soul Search

  Jean Roberta

  “Mistress Jenkins, is this where you feed your imp?” I don’t dare express my confusion. “Your pet demon,” the voice explains.

  I am naked and shivering in a room that is much too large to be heated by only the fire in the stone fireplace. My long brown hair, flowing over my shoulders, is my only covering. Deacon Jones is pinching my red nipple between two bony fingers as he studies my face for signs of guilt. His ice-blue eyes peer out from under heavy eyebrows as black as his cloak. Shivers chase each other from my nipples through my quivering belly to my cunt, and up and down my spine.

  “No, sir,” I answer. “I have no imp, but I hope to suckle a child there some day.” I swear he looks as if he would like to spread me out on the long oak table and make me a mother at once.

  “You are too gentle with her, Deacon,” scolds Goodwife Green, “too set in the ways of a gentleman.” She is a buxom blonde farmwife who volunteered to help examine me. “You will never discover her secrets by treating her better than she deserves. Her witch’s tit must be hidden where only another woman would seek it out.” Her plump breasts bounce as she breathes deeply beneath her tightly-laced bodice. She studies my slim body with satisfaction. “This one is too conscious of her charms, Brethren. We must show her that her tricks will get her nowhere in the presence of the righteous.”