The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 6

by Jakubowski Maxim

  Time to begin Halloween!

  When Miriam left her apartment a full moon as lucid as a chunk of candy shone in the sky. Darkness had blanketed the horizon and was absorbing the last of the sky’s twilight lavender. She drove toward Westwood, along Santa Monica Boulevard. At Century City, stopping for a light, she watched a boisterous trio, mummy, pirate and Bedouin caper across the street, obviously on their way to revelry, and their merry mood charged her with anticipation. She arrived at Vale’s as the last of the light was vanishing. Vale lived in an old-fashioned building of sky blue stucco. On the second floor her windows were open, an undertone of eerie Halloween music filtering out – Miriam recognized it as the Warhol party sequence music from Midnight Cowboy.

  Vale met her at the door, a tall slim woman with swarthy Mediterranean beauty, costumed as a toy soldier: she wore blue pants, a red tunic festooned with gold epaulets, her cheeks highlighted with balls of pink greasepaint, a silver shako tilted at an angle in her waves of black hair. They exchanged greetings, a quick mimicry of the obligatory show biz hug, and Miriam followed Vale inside where the rooms were lit with candles set in carved grimacing pumpkins. A dozen or so guests circulated.

  “See if you can recognize anybody,” Vale said, and with a touch launched her toward the party. A haute couture ghost in an opulent violet satin sheet caught her eye, staring at her intensely through the two eyeholes in the sheet. Was it someone she knew? Miriam turned away and found herself confronting someone inside a papier-maché tree reminiscent of those that threw their apples at Dorothy on the road to Oz. Reaching up with a gnarly hand, the tree plucked a plastic apple from one of its leafy branches, and offered it to Miriam, who took it with a smile.

  “Enjoy this, Eve, it’s forbidden fruit,” the tree said in a male voice.

  Carrying the apple held against a thigh, Miriam headed toward a table across the room where someone in a white rabbit suit was pouring a glass of azure punch. She poured herself a glass of punch and sampled it, giving her head a little shake as the strong alcoholic impact of it jolted her. With her apple and glass of punch, she wandered into another room. Someone in a policewoman’s uniform and a real .38 holstered on her hip passed her. Miriam, who had grown up with guns and done a lot of shooting, including killing dozens of birds and even a bear before deciding that hunting didn’t really interest her, wondered if the woman knew how to use the gun. Looking around the room, she noted a fortyish woman incarnated as a Forties teenager in baggy, rolled-up jeans, white blouse, saddle shoes and white socks, Dick Tracy in a butter-yellow suit, and someone in a penguin costume smoking a Kool, but she didn’t see anyone she knew. Of course, it was still early.

  She decided to find Vale and get the lowdown on some of the guests, and was on her way when suddenly in the hallway a dark figure loomed ahead, drawing her gaze. Abruptly she was staring at a virtual duplicate of herself – a shadow of her shadow. The woman, exactly her size, also wore black stockings, a black leotard and domino mask, and her face and hands were blackened with greasepaint. She was indistinguishable from Miriam except for her fingernails, which were bright red, and the black satin pumps she wore instead of boots. The blue light of her eyes was so intense and familiar that Miriam took a step backward, alarmed.

  “God,” she whispered.

  “Oh,” the woman exclaimed, and she took a step forward so precisely that it was like an inverse replication of Miriam’s movement. She stared at Miriam as Miriam stared at her. In that moment a unique sense of peculiarity came over Miriam and she suddenly felt the kind of giddy sensation that might accompany a glance over a railing from the top of a tall building. Moreover, the moment seemed to disassociate itself from time so that she had an impression of reflecting the woman’s gaze for an interminable period while the sounds of the party receded into a sort of incontiguous sub-reality. Then a vivid premonition of sensuality came over her, a surge of strange desire as she stared at the woman.

  “Beautiful,” whispered the woman, and Miriam saw the black semaphore of her tongue as she spoke.

  Then the woman abruptly turned and walked away.

  As she disappeared into the kitchen, Miriam moved to follow her as if by reflex. As she entered the kitchen, she saw the woman simultaneously exiting through the back door, and she hurried after her.

  A flight of steps led down to small lawn and garden that Miriam knew well from occasional afternoons of nude sunbathing. She paused and put her glass and apple on the porch’s handrail, then followed the woman down the steps, her heart beating quickly.

  At the bottom the woman waited, smiling up at Miriam as she descended.

  Now Miriam felt a sense of excitement starting to absorb her, starting a tactile simmering along her arms and legs. She felt a stirring of warmth in the depth of her sex. One hand seemed literally drawn to her crotch and her fingers lingered there, finding the fabric of the leotard flushed with dampness.

  “Ohhh,” she murmured with burgeoning arousal.

  “Ohhh,” echoed her facsimile. The shadow came toward her, her face moving toward Miriam’s until . . . their lips met and the woman was taking the pad of Miriam’s upper lip softly between her lips and sipping on it, then slipping her tongue fully into Miriam’s opening mouth, curling it coaxingly around Miriam’s tongue to conjure it irresistibly into her own mouth. There was a moment of total blankness in Miriam’s mind then, followed by a sense of complete commitment as she began to participate in a thirsty sialorrheic exchange of kissing and tonguing in which the two disgorged delicious gobbets of spittle into each other’s mouth until it began trickling down their chins.

  “Darling,” the woman whispered, and with the tip of her tongue painted halos of saliva around Miriam’s heavily breathing mouth, licking the greasepaint off her cheeks and turning her head to feed in the aperture of an ear. Miriam moved her head swimmingly under the sorcery of the tongue, becoming balmy with desire and yielding fully to the hands now touching her, fingers fanning out over her breasts, slinking down to seek the throbbing presence of her sex.

  On the lawn, on her back, Miriam opened her eyes to see her shadow standing over her, taking off her shoes and leotard. She turned half onto her side and quickly removed her own leotard, slipping off her boots. They were both naked except for stockings held up by black garters. Miriam’s legs were drawn up, her feet firmly on the ground, arms spread. The facsimile put her hands on the inside of Miriam’s thighs and parted them until her knees were tilted at angles and her cunt, labia uncloaked, was displayed like a lustrous bloom in the moonlight. Miriam drew her double down into her arms for more kisses, their mouths blending and tongues flowing in concert. She murmured with exhilaration as she felt a finger winnow into the vestibule of her cunt, then forge deeper into the slippery channel, a thumb pressing into the resilient clutch of her asshole.

  They began to kiss and embrace each other like possessed houris, writhing about on the lawn. Miriam knew only motion and the exquisite flowing of a powerful sensual continuity that gradually became a mounting flood of orgasmic sensation as both bodies merged and fused, sex to mouth, mouth to sex, both of them finessing little effusions of sweet creamy come from the other’s cunt.

  And, finally, her cunt exhausted and lips and tongue strained, Miriam opened her eyes and saw what she had somehow known all along. Her lover, drawing back to smile at her, removed her mask and wig to reveal that she was indisputably Miriam herself.

  Miriam stared at herself in the soft moonlight. They were identical. Every contour of her body was repeated in the woman’s figure – the same slender arms and legs, the exact full roundness of her breasts with thickly peaked nipples in broad tea-colored aureoles, the pubic thicket so lush with densely massed curls that it extended in twin hedges along both sides of her cunt to the brink of the perineal gorge, and the choppy tangles of wavy honey-colored hair that tumbled down to the curves of her chin.

  Miriam closed her eyes again and lay back, feeling the beating of her heart, and waiting for . . .
something.

  “My love,” she heard herself whisper into her ear, and she felt her fingers on her body, touching her throat, her breasts, fingers rippling the taut nipples, trailing over her stomach and into the mulled flux of her sex, stroking her arms, legs, the lightly sweated fragrance of her hair as the wig was discarded. And as she caressed herself, she heard herself whispering, “Yes, love . . . you, I came through the mirror for you.” It was the sound of her own voice (which a lover had once described as volcanic ash and gold dust), and now she heard the familiar sound of her own laugh, then, “My love, I’m really you. Remember the scientist you dated? The biochemist. Remember?”

  Miriam remembered David, a lover of months ago; it had been one of those brief and failed affairs, just a fragment of the past now. “David,” Miriam’s own voice whispered, “needed only one cell, just one of your cells, love, to recreate you, to clone you, to make me so he could let you go and have you as well . . .”

  The words were like veils of moiré through which Miriam glimpsed, waveringly, a spellbinding vista.

  “But I love you, Miriam . . .”

  Drifting into somnolence with the flow of whispered words, and delicate caresses, Miriam receded into the depths of her mind and body, enclosed by shadows.

  Some time later she opened her eyes and sat up to discover herself alone under a full moon, wearing only her stockings and mask. She stood up and remained motionless for a long while as the odd dream replayed itself in her mind like a film running backward – the ineffable pleasure of the lovemaking, the descent to the backyard, the first sight of her other self at the party. A sound of party activity came from the apartment – music and a mingling of voices and laughter.

  Miriam dressed. She was eager to be back inside, to disperse the strange memories with conversation and drink.

  Then, as she glanced about for her boots she felt a sudden chill, sensing even before she discovered it that the boots had been replaced with a pair of shiny black satin pumps.

  She put the shoes on, knowing they would fit perfectly, as they did. Looking at them, she flexed her toes comfortably, admiring the mirrored gloss of the black satin.

  “Miriam, what the hell are you doing down there,” she heard Vale’s voice from the porch. “I thought I saw you leave out front . . .”

  “I –” Miriam began. “I – I’m coming . . .” She waved to Vale, then started up the steps, wondering, wildly wondering how long it would be before her phone rang at home, how long she would have to wait before she called herself to whisper the words she knew she would hear herself say . . .

  Zoo Prowlers

  Marcelle Perks

  “Ringing for you.” The PA’s voice unflinchingly polite, submissively efficient; she didn’t know enough not to patch the call through. Rrrr rrrr – feel like a child with a big sleepy cat purring in my ear lulling me to sleep. Face up, look right and nod to Jan in sign language, yes, I want a coffee. Rrr rrr – the fear of anticipation – imagine there’s been an accident and having to break terrible news. The boss sniffing around shoots me a knowing look, but with the phone in my hand I have the right to ignore his “Why the fuck aren’t you getting more sales in” expression. Turn head, look at the boring stuff I’m supposed to know about on the wall – feel depressed – then a flicker of banal interest as I note sweets are being passed around. Get my share later. Rrr rrr, a click and a voice answers, this call is now live, an image comes into my head of a studio floor manager counting 3–2–1 down with his fingers: You’re on air! The client speaks, I relax my grip, tune in and get ready to project down hard at the subject. There’s a pause, cued by his voice I start talking.

  It’s been a week now and I’m not looking at the script in front of me. Instinctively I’m responding to audio cues every time and never think or know what I’m going to say. This is not the required way to deliver house style spiel, but I’m new so they’re letting me get on with it. If I fail they’ll sack me anyway, “get rid of me” like an unwanted kitten.

  “Hello, Edward Atkins speaking.” The voice sounds bored, untrusting. A small burst of panic, I’m expected to say something and secure his interest. You let them speak first so you can get clued up, the way dogs sniff each other’s discarded piss to diagnose history, health and status. Accent is educated but jaded, he doesn’t really want to take this call.

  I already know what he does – a lawyer who specialises in setting up offshore companies, but that’s just the front. His reticence tells another story. Doesn’t fit in with the set who’ve been through public school and Oxford, that he’s still waiting for the big picture to come down and fit him in.

  My voice assumes the softness and hesitancy of a very young girl. I’m new to this job and need his help and advice. You grope beyond the words to find out what is meaningful to them. It sounds and seems like small talk. What’s the weather like, how long have you been working there, what was the last film you enjoyed. Stock tactics of all good sales people. But the language is just tokenism, the gateway to getting in. It’s working and this contact is blocking out the distractions of the office around me. Another flash and he’s hooked. There’s an insecure little boy in him still yearning to break out and I am there, a complete stranger honing in through his communication and defence systems, speaking to that part of him that lies hidden and longing to be tapped. He doesn’t really understand what’s going on but it feels good. He’s doing his job and I’m doing my job, but we’re not really interested in that now, outside of this we’re people talking to each for the first time. I don’t know what the word is for what I am doing.

  Between the lines, I sense that, like a man with a hard-on in the desert, he’s isolated by his needs. He’s married, he’s bored. It’s been a long time and now his sex drive is raging, pushing him ruthlessly towards oblivion. Where his money is no good to him. Nothing counts, except the sexual recognition he craves, the thirst for acceptance. Yes, of course he wants to meet me. When would be convenient? Next week? Shall we make it a late one? New bar just round the corner from his gaff. Dress code – black.

  We do it. I’m wearing the Liz Claiborne cocktail dress that reins in my ample bosom. It makes for a sheer, pert fit, corporate-exotic. There’s an extra dominance to my heel, a little nodule that you can attach spurs to, if you choose. My eyes search into his relentlessly. His are pale blue, wondering. Actually, his surprised, delighted face is a picture. My attaché case is sheer rubber. Hints enough if you know what you are looking for.

  We exchange business cards first, like we have to. With the customary wine swishing down our throats, our body language is telling; his frame exaggeratedly pushed forward to disguise a no doubt hardening cock, his body browned, still lean and eager. His body looks well-lived in, kind. I can imagine him travelling to far-off lands, perusing the finest dishes, imagining he has the world at his feet. And all the while his emptiness he tramps under his feet. Our conversation is exquisitely polite.

  His face is open, friendly, mine is contrary. I sit formally upright, legs together just so. The shoes’ heels touching. My makeup unexpectedly full, black hair left long. Stern or sexy, depending on your point of view. Haughty good manners, to smile would be indecent. I play the archetypal dom, an urban Aubrey Beardsley Dame Sans Merci waiting to come alive. Does he see it? I push my chair out just a little to give him a better look at my pushed-up breasts. Yet my eyes expressively forbid this. He has to learn manners, a sense of proprietry. Still it’s all very happening, our eyes are glowing, our mouths opening and closing in rhythm. We share people, places. The ritual of seduction has begun. He’s ready to tell me, ask, beg now. Because he wants to.

  He’s older than me, for now he wants to retain his seniority.

  “I can’t help noticing how attractive you are. That bag is so unusual . . . Do you like rubber wear too?”

  His voice tries to remain firm, but his eyes are knowing.

  I ignore his euphemisms, “Tell me, Eddie, what kind of animal do you like best
at the zoo? The gazelle perhaps, so easily frightened into flight, or perhaps the sleek malevolence of the panther? Eh?”

  He sees me. Although he’s dreamed so long about this moment, now that it’s here, he’s confused.

  “Are you?”

  He stops, reddens, it’s too much. I have to act at once.

  “Open my case, will you?”

  “This one?” Now he’s shaking. Almost afraid. There’s a tightly coiled leather harness, exquisitely fashioned, coiled up inside, but before he can see if it is real the end of a well-used riding crop pokes out of the case. Just one glimpse and his hands instantly cram my bag of tricks shut.

  “What should I do?” he says in a half whisper. Poor baby, it’s his first time.

  We don’t run off like you might think, hormones raging. We know better. Wait there, cautiously sipping our drinks. He tells me repetitively what a pleasure it is to meet me. Silently, I check out his face more intently, do I fancy him enough? What do I want from this one? Even I feel the edges of this meeting blurring. It’s not to late to stop, give him the run-down on startups.com, another meeting chalked up to the corporate machine. An iron tension hangs over us. Should I make a move? Push him, like I’m sure he wants to, with my voice, mouth or tongue? Everything remains open.