The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 6

by Jakubowski Maxim

  As he launched into his next set she realized she was looking at him with new eyes. She had the feeling, somewhere deep inside her, that this man could become her next lover. She knew it was her choice. And as she watched his powerful fingers roaming with delicate precision over the fretboard of his guitar, the one she’d heard he called “Doreen”, she could feel her body saying yes. Oh yes. Oh God, yes.

  “Are you okay?” She jerked up, comprehending with difficulty that he was speaking to her.

  “I think I dranktoomush,” she said, knowing she was slurring her words together. From a distance, filled with cotton balls and blurred images, she heard his full, but not unfriendly, laughter. The room was empty except for several people cleaning up.

  “Have you got a way home, girl,” he said.

  “I druvv. I wanna go home wichew,” she tried to enunciate. More laughter.

  “I don’t have a home here. But I’ve got a motel room with a bed big enough for two.”

  “Thashsoundswonderfl,” was her response.

  She never could remember getting from the club to a taxicab. She did have a dim memory of him telling the cabbie to stop and then opening the door. She’d leaned out and thrown up into the street. She could sort of recall his strong fingers holding her and his voice. His warm rough voice telling her it was all right. It was cool.

  The next thing she remembered was waking up. She was lying on her side. The wall of a room she’d never seen before in her life was staring her in the face. Someone, and at the moment she couldn’t recollect who, was making soft snoring sighs behind her. Oh shit. She surreptitiously felt herself. She was naked. Oh shit. Damn. Her head ached and she tried to recollect what might have happened. All she could find was blankness. Oh Jesus Lord. What had awakened her was a bladder that insisted on being emptied. She wished she could shrivel up and disappear. How did she get into this?

  She drew the sheet and blanket back and slid her legs out till her feet touched the floor. She pulled herself up, leaned over, her breasts squashed against her knees, and gazed at the floor. Her head was swirling; her stomach was very unhappy with her. Oh shit. The maid had missed a few spots when she vacuumed. Little bits of grit. I think I’m in Hell, she thought. Without warning a large hand was on her back, just above her ass. She jumped.

  “Are you okay?” A huge voice rumbled.

  “Hmmyeahi’mfine,” she said. She turned and found herself gazing into a face she’d seen so often on LP album covers. “Oh shit. Oh God in heaven.” The memories of the previous evening came stampeding back into her consciousness.

  “You’re okay. It’s cool, baby.” The warm, rough, and familiar voice said. “I didn’t take advantage of a poor white girl in distress.”

  “I’m naked. Where are my clothes?”

  “You puked on your dress, honey,” the voice from her dad’s record library said. “I didn’t think you’d want to sleep in it. And once I got your dress off I figured what the hell.”

  She looked into his eyes. He looked straight back at her. She felt calm.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “Girl, you’re more than welcome. Now take that piss. I know you need to.”

  She laughed as she sat on the toilet and let go. She laughed knowing he could hear her laugh and the flow of her urine. She laughed knowing he accepted all this human stuff and still wanted to fuck her. She laughed because something inside herself felt free.

  “Well, look at what the pussy dragged home,” she said, posing in front of the bathroom door. Her head throbbed and her tummy was mumbling cuss words.

  “Hmmmm. Pussy’s an excellent judge of what I like,” he said. “But let’s get some breakfast first. It’s only eleven o’clock in the morning and no one’s expecting me to be anywhere until eight in the evening or so.”

  She was amazed at how free she felt being naked around him. And it touched her deeply to realize that he’d, with great care, washed the vomit out of her dress and hung it over the curtain rod. Something she’d hadn’t noticed while she was peeing. Which wasn’t surprising, considering the state she’d been in.

  They interacted as if they were they’d been married for many years. She peeked in while he was shaving and enjoyed the sight of his bulky blackness in front of the mirror. He, fully dressed, and talking with one of his music business contacts on the phone, watched her slip into her lingerie and wrinkled dress.

  “Well, I do all right,” he said, in response to the question she’d posed at the the breakfast table. “I make a living. I’m no B. B. King but I do all right.” Then, with clear seriousness, he said, “I love what I do.” He held up his fingers and moved them as if playing a guitar. “And I love to fuck. It works out. I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

  Later, back in the motel room, after the food and a nap had cleared away most of her hangover, she felt those fingers playing her as if she were some fine instrument. As if she were Doreen. He traveled effortlessly up the octaves until she was crying out for him to stop. And then it was his cock. She was gazing up into his eyes, eyes it seemed she’d always known, feeling him move inside her. She opened her legs as wide as they’d go. He held himself above her, careful not to overwhelm her with his weight, and slowly slid back and forth. His motions were easy and deliberate and it was obvious to her that he was feeling a great deal of pleasure. She put her hand on his thick arm and marveled at her whiteness against his blackness. He smiled down at her.

  “Does it feel good, Baby?” He asked.

  “Oh, God, yes, J. B.” They both looked down to watch his black length sliding between the lips of her sparsely haired pussy. “You’re the first black man I’ve ever been with.”

  “I’m a man like any other, not all that much difference.”

  “We’re different colors,” she said. “I like seeing the contrast.”

  “Oh, yeah, there’s that. I like it too. I like your body,” he said, supporting himself on one hand and reaching out to touch her left breast with the other.

  “I’m too fat,” she said, her soul shrinking.

  “I like your body, as I said,” he stated with a bit of an edge. “You’ve got a beautiful body and some of the sweetest skin I’ve ever touched.”

  She wasn’t convinced but felt herself relax, though not completely. And then he was moving in her powerfully, the earlier finesse transformed into an exuberant all out physical engagement. His big hands clasped her ass cheeks. His cock plunged into her. He moaned into her neck, reporting his progress towards orgasm. It excited her. She felt herself pulled along. She felt pleased to be able to give him this. And then they were there. She could feel him coming inside her. And moments later she was crying out to him that her own climax was crashing through her.

  He held her, making gentle comforting sounds. Almost as if she were a fearful child. He held her for a long time. Longer than any other man she’d been with. When he pulled away she could see a big smile on his face.

  “Oh, that was good, baby. Thank you.”

  “Thank you, J. B.,” she said. She touched herself and felt the thick slickness of his semen. Then she reached out and grasped his cock which showed only slight signs of hardness. “Are we going to be able to do this again?”

  He laughed. “Yeah, baby,” he said. “Give me a little time. I’m not as young as I used to be.”

  A little over an hour later, after she’d treated him to the loving attention of her mouth and tongue, he was hard once more.

  “My back door’s open too, J. B.,” she said.

  He looked at her with his large heavy lidded eyes. “You know what that song’s a talkin’ about?”

  She rolled over on her tummy and wiggled her butt.

  He threw his head back and laughed his deep smoky laugh. “Yes, I guess you do.” He sat up and opened the drawer next to the bed and pulled out a small bottle of lube.

  “Goodness, you came prepared,” she said.

  “I have a certain reputation to maintain,” he growled, and then
laughed.

  “I want you to do me in my behind but I’ve never done it before,” she said anxiously.

  He looked at her. “You want me to be your first?”

  She nodded.

  He spread her cheeks and stared as if he wanted to see inside her. Then she felt his big tongue tickling her anus. “You’ve got to relax, girl,” he said after a few minutes. “This is not going to feel good unless you relax.” Several minutes later he poured lube on her and began opening her up with his finger. She felt how gentle and careful he was and her sphincter muscles began to loosen. “Oh yeah, baby, that’s it,” he said.

  “What would your daddy think a you havin’ a black man’s cock in your ass?” He asked, slowly entering her.

  “He’s got all your records,” was her reply. “He was the one who told me ‘Keep Your Back Door Open’ was about anal sex.”

  J. B. roared. The bed shook with the force of his laughter. Tears ran down his face. “Oh Jesus. Oh Jesus. Well, he sure raised a sweet girl child.”

  “Is this the kind of thing a sweet girl child would do? A sweet fat girl child, at that?” she asked, moving her butt against him, a little surprised by the bitterness in her voice.

  An instant later he was dead serious. “Girl, this is as sweet as it gets. Don’t put yourself down. You’re a beautiful woman, a loving woman. Don’t be afraid to shake your ass at the world and make it pay attention. Nobody be thinking you’re somethin’ till you think you’re somethin’ yourself.”

  Several moments later he said, “I’m old enough to be your granddaddy so I know a thing or two.” They both laughed at the incongruity of an older man saying this to a young woman he was fucking in the ass.

  “OK, granddad,” she said. “I’ll remember that.”

  “You better,” he said, giving her a couple of good hard strokes. “Will this help your memory?”

  “Oh yeah. Oh yeah.” She cried. A kind of orgasm she’d never experienced before flowed through her. Volcanic heat centered around her rectum, flowing like lava through her bowels. “Oh shit. Oh shit.”

  “You’re gonna make me come, baby, you keep yellin’ like that,” he called in his powerful voice.

  “Oh yeah, come in my ass J. B. Fill me with your hot come,” she moaned. She felt him clench her ass cheeks in his two strong hands and then bury himself.

  “Here it comes, baby. Oh Jesus. Oh Jesus.”

  And then, deep within her body, she felt his pulsing. Dim sparks of warmth. But what she felt most were his arms clenching themselves around her, moments later, tight against her breasts, holding her as they both rode the waves of pleasure. And his big belly against her back. He held her, as he had before; it made her realize that when she found her life partner she wanted him to do this.

  They rode together to the club where she picked up her car, drove home to take a shower and change her dress, and then drove back to the club. This time she drank soda. When he finished his last set she took him back to the motel and they made love again.

  They said goodbye over breakfast and hugged before she climbed into her car.

  “Now remember, nobody be thinking you’re somethin’ till you think you’re somethin’ yourself,” were his final words. She repeated them to herself often.

  She began to follow his touring through his site on the Internet and the next time he was in town she took her dad and her new boyfriend, Earl, to see him. He recognized her immediately and between sets came over to sit with them. Earl and her dad were astounded. She told them that the last time J. B. had played here she’d spent a little time with him. Neither man cared to inquire further. She could see that her dad was awestruck to be in the presence of a man he’d admired for so many years and, consequently, a little in awe of his daughter who could hobnob with his idol with such ease. Before they left J. B. caught her coming out of the women’s restroom.

  “You look happy,” he said.

  “I am,” she smiled.

  “Well, you deserve to be. Keep workin’ it.” He kissed her chastely on the cheek. And then, much less chastely, squeezed her ass.

  She walked out into the club to find Earl and her dad. A warm giggle bubbled inside her.

  Dream of Shadow, Shadow of Love

  Larry Tritten

  In a world full of vogue-conscious beauties, Miriam was unique. Her sense of style was the product of a combination of raw instinct and a somewhat quirky taste for the offbeat and startling. This applied to her ideas of fashion as well as her behaviour and of course made her controversial, no less than provocative, the sort of woman whose image ranged along a spectrum from brat to enchantress depending on whose point of view.

  Miriam had grown up in the mountains of North Idaho, a dreamer through high school whose dreams soon enough drew her to Hollywood where she made her living in ways both versatile and capricious, including temp work as a word processor, occasional modeling, a bit of X-rated movie performing (more for the outré experience than for money), and quite a bit of this and that (which included being a writer for a lurid tabloid newspaper, tending bar, and verbally roasting party guests as a party-perker-upper). Like legions of people in Hollywood, she was writing a screenplay (based on her adventures), but unlike most of them hers was a double threat: literate and fascinating.

  At home in the fantasyland of Hollywood, Miriam’s favorite day of the year was Halloween. It was the one night in the year, she thought, when extraterrestrials might land and mingle with the people and none would be the wiser. It was also that adventurous night when she made every effort to end up with a lover whose identity and appearance were a mystery obscured by his costume.

  There were always several Halloween parties to choose from, but on this Halloween Miriam decided to give priority to one being given by her friend Vale, a designer of sunglasses, at her apartment in Westwood. The invitation bore a lipstick print of Vale’s voluptuous mouth, two coral pink parentheses, across the features of a new wave witch with a Neapolitan Mohawk. By Halloween morning Miriam still hadn’t decided on a costume. Some people planned theirs weeks in advance, but she was essentially spontaneous and tended to improvise something at the last moment. Even after spending much of the morning at a café on the Strip sipping coffee and watching the Mercedeses and Silver Ghosts glide past in the sunlight, she still had no idea what she would wear. It was only when she found herself late in the afternoon back in her apartment that she started to think concertedly about it. In the kitchen, over a shot of tequila, she tapped her fingers on the table, deliberating.

  Going to her closet, she started to rummage through clothing, touching silk and satin and denim and lace, pondering the possibilities. It wasn’t until she glanced at her shadow on the closet door that the idea came to her . . . she would be a shadow. Yes. Perfect! She would wear a black leotard, black nylon stockings, and a black wig to hide her golden hair. She would paint her fingernails black and wear black velvet boots and use stage makeup to darken her face and hands. Only her eyes, blue as cut sapphires, would contrast with the blackness . . . but she would also wear a black domino mask to subdue their intensity. Excellent.

  An hour later, dark as mystery from head to foot, she stood before the mirror in her bedroom. She lifted her hands caressingly up over the undercurving of her breasts beneath the jet black fabric of the leotard, lightly stroking the sketchy presence of her nipples, then slid them slowly down to the planes of her thighs, bending slightly so she could glide her fingers lower to the curvaceous backs of her calves and down all the way to touch the sooty velvet tops of her boots with her gleaming black fingernails. Looking at herself in the mirror, she stuck out her tongue and its pinkness was startling by contrast. A thought came to her mind, and grinning, she went into the kitchen and took a licorice whip from a bowl and ate it, chewing it leisurely to juicy bits, then returned to the mirror. Her tongue, as she extended it, gleamed with dark light. And now, primed by her touching, her body began to yearn with sensuality. She touched two fingers to the juncture b
etween her thighs where the folds of her cunt could be felt palpably against the fabric of the leotard. As she did so the musculature of her cunt pulsed and she savored an incipient sensation of wet heat there, a little shudder tremoring her body.

  Patience, Miriam told herself . . . and then whispered, “Oh, fuck it . . .” Within seconds she was standing ankle deep in a puddle of black leotard and with the fore and middle fingers of both hands was prying open the slit of her cunt. There was a tiny and all but subliminal peeling sound as the adhesive labia were separated and at once the tips of all four fingers were touched with wetness. With a small murmur, Miriam looked down to see a sheen of pearly glitter in the vestibule, a fat droplet clinging in tenuous suspension at the very base of her cunt in the manner of one of the last droplets of milk to spill from a carton.

  Trick or treat, she thought, biting her lower lip in a straining smile. Yes, yes . . .

  Miriam moved a forefinger to her clit and began to serenade her nervous system with gentle strokes. The droplet of come fell onto a thigh and she licked her lips in reflex, then slid three fingers up inside herself, very gently, her other forefinger moving to her clit. The viscid musculature enveloped her fingers, her mind filmed over, her cunt becoming radiant, buttocks beginning to oscillate, finger dabbling her clit as a flow of whelming sensation began. Her mind became an art gallery of nonobjective paintings, sparks skipping across shimmering blue water, fountains of light erupting, colored stars imploding, storms of confetti and twisting collops of iridescent light glowing, pulsing. She brought her fingers out of her cunt, saw them ornamented with turbid swirls of come, and almost swooned, then impulsively marked her cheeks with the alabastrine stuff, like warpaint, white paths on the black. She closed her eyes and her mind reeled with images of black cats and bats careening, and she was coming, coming, rising into the coming, the other three fingers restored to the interior of her cunt to circle round and round the soggy lining. The orgasm carried her in waves, mounting, cresting, coming, coming, heat of cunt, nerves sparkling, her mind spinning until she was forced, finally, to her knees, still coming, moaning, fading, turning slowly, then sprawling on the floor, the redolent fetor of her marvelous cunt enlivening her nostrils as the residual thrills in her brain and body eased, faded, fading . . . Miriam licked her delicious fingers in the aftermath, grinning lewdly.