The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 4

by Maxim Jakubowski

  I woke early on Saturday. The whole family went to the open market off County Road 12 where Mama and I met Aunt Fannie, who was already setting up her quilts to display to the tourists. I took the younger ones over to our cousins’ wagon, where the chore of babysitting would be distributed among relatives, then helped Mama unpack her appliquéd pillow shams and her pies and cookies. She was already there, in a stall selling decorated saddlebags, horse brasses, fancy show bridles, and two or three riding saddles. She was talking with an English man, but her hands were busy, braiding strands of leather that were attached to a hook on her display table. I turned back to Mama and Aunt Fannie, helping to arrange the quilts and shams. When I turned back to her stall, the man had gone, as was one of the saddles. She was looking my way. I ducked my head, quickly sitting next to Mama.

  It was nearly noon when Mama and Aunt Fannie sent me away, told me to make myself useful. I approached her stall with a picnic basket, told her I had made lunch. She smiled, and asked me to join her. I unpacked fried chicken, pickled eggs, homemade bread, and apple butter, and some Jell-O salad. We ate silently, but whenever I dared to look at her she was watching me, smiling that secret smile. After we finished, I packed up slowly, and watched her hands return to plaiting the leather, which she was gently pulling against the heavy brass hook, keeping her plaits under tension. I finally asked her what she was making and she told me: a lash for the end of a buggy whip. I flushed, and nearly dropped a plate. She chuckled softly and asked me to meet her at her stall in a few hours. She reminded me to bring the laundry. I picked up the picnic basket, and fled.

  Late afternoon, Mama pointed the woman out to Aunt Fannie, told her that I was to be helping her that evening. They spoke of the polio epidemic in the 1940s, how it killed her brothers and sisters, how she was lucky to have survived. Mama admired her courage, her determination not to make herself a burden to our community. Aunt Fannie sympathized for her childless state but marveled at her skills with leatherwork and with the horses. They told me I was being a good Christian to spend time with her. But they didn’t know that Christian duty was not my intent. They hadn’t seen her hands work that leather.

  She had sold another saddle; the horse brasses and fancy bridles fit neatly into the unsold saddlebags. I carried these, and she took the other saddle and my basket and limped to her buggy. I stepped up, sat next to her and we were off, down the county road. I kept my hands clasped in my lap, looking at her sideways. I’d never been in a buggy with a woman driving before. She was silent, calm, keeping the buggy on the gravel shoulder, finally turning off into a long dirt road. Twitching the reins, she turned the horse into a lane leading to a small house with a small barn at the back of a cornfield. She pulled the horse to a stop outside the barn, then stepped out of the buggy. Nodding to me to take the bags to the house, she began to unhitch the animal. I dropped the bags on the porch and turned in time to see her lead the horse to a water trough inside a makeshift corral. I met her at the gate after she poured some grain into a feed box. When she turned and looked at me, I felt my knees turn to jelly. Her eyes were light blue, almost grey, and they pierced me through. She smiled again, and touched my cheek. I closed my eyes. When I opened them, she was limping toward the barn. Hastily, I followed.

  The smell of leather and cut wood permeated the barn, and I stood in the doorway, inhaling the rich scent as my eyes grew used to the dim light. Aside from a stable near the front, the rest of the space was a workshop. Two long tables were covered with cut leather, half-formed into what would become more wares by the next week. Racks of tools I couldn’t name were hung on one wall, the other long wall holding oak and hickory poles that I knew would be used for buggy and wagon hitches. Mysterious stands and arched wooden shapes stood farther back in the dusty light and as I watched, she placed the unsold saddle on one of the forms. Beyond the forms was a smaller room, and I made out hides of leather on racks, some in bright, worldly colors. An odd bench with a piece of wood sticking through its center stood near one of the tables. Another small bench and a plain pine stool with castors seemed to be the only regular furniture. A sense of calm, decades old, permeated the room.

  I stepped to a long counter filled with leather straps and carefully braided buggy whips. I picked up one of the straps and pressed it to my face, inhaling the scent of leather and lanolin. As I rubbed it against my lips, she walked toward me, smiling that deep, secret smile. I handed her the strap. Please, I thought, or perhaps I said it aloud. Either way, she accepted my offer, settled herself on the workbench and invited me to join her. I gathered my skirt, pulling it high behind me, and bent across her lap.

  Her arm rose and I moaned even as the leather struck my buttocks. She slapped it against me again, harder, and my fists bunched the fabric of her dark green dress. She was as wonderful as I dared hope. The leather strap beat steadily across my buttocks and thighs, my cotton undergarments no protection, nor did I want any. The strap was surely leaving welts, and my face was streaked with tears. The pain grew intense and my sobs more ragged, but she did not stop, and I did not struggle to avoid the leather’s sting. It was all that I could have dreamed.

  After a long while she stopped, her strong hands caressing my reddened and sore buttocks, tracing the marks she had made. I thanked her through my sobs of pain and ecstasy. She said nothing, waiting for me to calm myself. Then she bid me stand before her. I refused, kneeling instead to look up into her eyes. I offered her more. Her eyes shone with pleasure, and I was overjoyed.

  She reached out and touched my face, dampening her fingers with my tears. She stroked my cheeks, brushed her lightly calloused fingertips across my eyelids. Her hand traced my hairline, and she chuckled at the cut strands peeking out from beneath my prayer cap. Last week I had played with my hair in front of the small hand mirror in my room, finally trimming some of the locks, wondering if the extravagance of cutting my hair would please her. Slowly, she worked the fingers of both hands under my cap, and gently pulled it from my head. No one, not even my mother, had seen me without my head covered since I was ten and old enough to dress myself. No Churchwoman would ever be seen this naked. I trembled, closing my eyes as I felt her remove my hairpins, letting my pale blonde hair loosen and fall around my shoulders. My nipples were pressed hard against my dress as her fingers carefully untangled the strands, and I remembered her plaiting the horsehair. I raised myself on my knees and reached to the table. I retrieved a buggy whip, the lash newly repaired, and a fresh horsehair popper dancing on the end. Please, I asked again. Her eyes danced as she untangled her fingers from my hair, and stood.

  I stood up as well, and pulled my navy blue dress over my head. With a deep breath, I removed my cotton undershirt, then bent to take off my black shoes and dark blue stockings. I folded my clothes carefully on the bench and she set my prayer cap on top of them, the hairpins resting inside.

  I could not see her face as clearly in the light filtering in from the afternoon sun, but I heard her sigh, and hoped that was a good sign. She reached out and traced my breasts, tickling the nipples with those strong fingers. She caressed my shoulders, running her hands down my back to my buttocks and massaged them. A spark of pain reignited from the strapping and I sighed, turned to kiss her, but she stopped me with a finger to my lips.

  She pulled long leather reins from a hook in the wall and wrapped first one, then the other, around my wrists. My arms were pulled wide, and tied to two braces in the shed. She stood before me, her green dress slightly wrinkled, her grey hair carefully tucked into the white, pleated prayer cap. In her hand was the buggy whip. She kissed me on the lips, for a long time, her tongue tickling its way between my teeth, filling my mouth slowly until I hungrily sucked at it. She pulled away and I gasped, feeling myself grow damp. I wanted to touch myself; I wanted her to touch me. But when she flexed the whip through the air, and the horsehair popper cracked, my desire changed again. I closed my eyes.

  The whip touched lightly on my bare shoulders. I flinched, bu
t it was more a reaction of surprise, the sting over almost as quickly as it had begun. I sighed, and heard her echo the sigh behind me. The whip touched my shoulders again, leaving nothing for a split second until the sting began. I gasped, surprised at the delay of pain. And I heard the whip whisper through the air. The ends flicked my shoulders, and I cried out. The whisper, the moment of nothing followed by the flood of shock and hurt. The lash whistled before landing on my already reddened buttocks, making me yelp in surprise and pain. Again the whip sang, and again the pain stung me deeply. She made it dance across my shoulders and back, tickling and biting, sometimes cracking the popper to surprise me, mostly letting the whisper of leather through the air be its only announcement. Yes, I thought. And maybe she heard me.

  I opened my eyes, and looked into hers, but the light and my exhilaration were playing tricks and I couldn’t focus. I wanted her to touch me, and I arched my body forward. Instead, she stepped a few feet away, then flicked her wrist. The whip caught my left nipple. I jerked back against the bonds, yelped. She flicked the whip against my right nipple, and I twisted in my restraints, trying to escape the stinging pain. The whip snaked across my bare thighs, leaving angry red marks. I twisted again as the lash whistled through the air, touching my breasts, my stomach, my thighs, making me dance. It was too difficult to think, and my face was hot, flushed, streaked with tears when she glided around me and once again brought the buggy whip down on my shoulders. I sobbed in agony, my voice breaking as I struggled to free my wrists from their leather bonds, hoping to shrink my body, to make it a smaller target. My legs were burning and I could hardly breathe, I was choking on my tears. The whip touched down on my body like an angry wasp, and I struggled like a beast until I was too exhausted to avoid its evil sting.

  And then she was upon me, her hands caressing and exploring me, nimble fingers untying my wrists and helping me stumble to a low bench. Blinded by my tears, I groped for her hands, sobbing anew when I felt their cool touch. I caught them then, and pressed my lips to the palm of each. I was sniffling, and she kissed my eyes and forehead while I held her hands, worshipping them with my kisses and my tears. When I had quieted down, she picked up my clothes and began to limp to the house, with me following behind.

  She had a washtub half filled with cool water in her kitchen, and I stood in it while she brushed me down with a rough cloth, rubbing the sweat from my body and massaging a comfrey and herb ointment into my buttocks and shoulders. While I dried myself near the stove, she stepped back out to put the horse in the barn. I lit a kerosene lamp while I watched her brush hay off her skirt before coming back inside. In the lamp’s soft light she pulled off her prayer cap and her green dress, and stepped into the tub. I watched her strong hands rub the cloth across her shriveled breasts, under her arms, between her legs. She threw a towel across her back and I saw the strong muscles flex as she pulled it back and forth vigorously, then, still naked, picked up the basket filled with fresh laundry, and limped into the small bedroom. I followed with the lamp, set it on a bedside table, and helped her pull the scented sheets across her bed and drew the heavily appliquéd quilts on top. I was smoothing the bed when she drew the nacht ruck from the basket, the fabric rustling in her hands. I stood frozen as she examined it. Her fingers plucked at the pink ribbons, fondled the row of buttons at the bodice, traced the careful stitching I had done in blue. She reverently moved to my side, and helped me pull the soft fabric over my head.

  She stared at me for a long time, her eyes seeming to shimmer with tears. She bade me turn this way and that for her and I enjoyed the feeling of the fabric swirling about my ankles. She touched the sleeves, smoothed the fabric over the bodice, retied some of the ribbons, arranged my hair to fall softly over my shoulders to brush the collar line. I glowed under her attention. Finally, she nodded her approval. Together, we turned down the bed and slid under the freshly laundered sheets, I covered in lavender silk and satin, she completely naked. She pulled me to her, her hands caressing the dress’s silk, fingering the buttons. I kissed her lips, her neck. She shivered, then gathered my head to her breast and pressed my mouth to her nipples. I sucked eagerly, my tongue tickling the tiny nipples, feeling her move against me. Though she kept one hand pressing me to her breast, I felt her other hand move between her legs, and I suckled harder, using my tongue and teeth as she groaned, her body bucking against me. I tentatively reached to cover her hand as her fingers slowed. She clasped my tit, then pushed my mouth gently away from her nipple, rolling onto her side to slide her hands across my nacht ruck. She gathered the fabric in her fingers, pulling the dress up above my knees, then sliding one of her hands under, trailing her strong fingers across my thigh. We both gasped when she touched me between my legs, the wetness there a surprise to me and a delight to her. My dress was pushed gently to my waist and she disappeared beneath the covers, where I felt her kissing my thighs higher and higher until her lips touched me where her hands had been. I cried out as she kissed and licked me, astonished at the strength of my response. I rocked against her, and felt a deep energy gather in my womb, expanding until it pushed me hard onto her mouth and I was crying out with pleasure, my hips thrusting against her. She rose from beneath the quilts and I threw my arms around her, kissing her, tasting myself on her lips. She pulled the nacht ruck back down, covering my legs again, and was stroking the fabric when I fell asleep in her arms.

  The smell of coffee woke me the next morning. I could see her in the kitchen, dressed in a black dress, a spotless white apron, her grey hair pulled up and tucked into a starched black cap. I joined her in the kitchen, still wearing my nacht ruck, and set the table. She pointed to a chair. When I sat down, she pulled out a beautiful silver-backed brush and drew it through my hair. Carefully she pulled the brush through, its soft bristles caressing my scalp, then pulling away as they glided down to my shoulders. I counted one hundred gentle strokes, my hair shining from the attention. It fell softly against my shoulders; she caressed my face, smiling as her fingers tangling through the cut locks around my face. She asked me to stand for her again and pulled some of my hair forward so it fell softly against my shoulders and breasts, the blonde strands glowing against the lavender material. She retied some of the ribbons at my throat and sleeves and smoothed the silk down once more. Sighing, she told me I was beautiful. I told her I loved her and her eyes filled suddenly with tears and she turned away to rescue the eggs she was scrambling for breakfast. We ate breakfast in silence. I glanced at her while we ate; she was serene, her eyes as soft as a dove. She motioned for me to wash up while she went out to the corral and brought her horse around to the carriage. When I had finished the simple task, I returned to the bedroom and carefully made the bed, pulling the sheets tight and brushing out any wrinkles in the quilts. With a sigh, I pulled the silk gown over my head, and picked my clothes up from the rocking chair. I watched her out of the window while I pulled my stockings on and pulled the clean black dress over my head, fastening the apron on with straight pins. She was buckling the harness onto the horse, and I watched her competent hands tighten and fasten the buckles. I turned to the bureau to peer at my hair as I pulled it into a tight bun, using the hairpins in my weekday prayer cap to fasten it into place. I pulled my Sunday black cap over the bun, tying its ribbons in a bow under my chin. I folded my dark blue dress carefully and put it in the basket that I had used to bring her fresh laundry. I began to fold my nacht ruck as well, but stopped. I looked again out of the window; she was petting the horse and offering it something to eat. I watched the horse nuzzle her palm, heard it nicker. I turned away from the window and back to the bed. I carefully laid my nacht ruck out on the quilt, spreading it on the side of the bed where I had slept. Then I gathered up the basket, and went out to join her.

  Eve Scales the Wall

  Maria Dahvana Headley

  I like titty bars. I like to go to them for anthropological reasons. That’s what I’ll tell you.

  I’ll tell you about the clear plastic p
latform shoes containing maybe goldfish, but I can’t quite see and if it is a goldfish it could be fake, and I’ll tell you about Her scaling a pole, whipping upside down, her lip-gloss catching the light and blinding me, her body suddenly a mermaid figurehead clinging to the prow of a ship, arched and painted. I’ll tell you about the waves of men, or rather the waves of men’s hands not quite getting there, and their breath warming the air, and the chairs emptied of asses as the men crane to get a better view of her marvelous mortician-quality rigor mortits. I’ll talk until you’re blue in the balls, and I’ll tell you a million reasons I might like titty bars, though none of them would be the whole truth.

  Here you are at the girly bar on the corner of Cinnamon and Wythe. Its claims to fame are the things that used to happen here involving guns and molls and blood and guts, but now they just consist of watered down drinks and women wearing two or three sequins and a hell of a bikini wax. I’m here too. I’m at a velvet banquette having a tête-à-tête with a man I don’t necessarily want to be lovers with. I’m here because he’s bought me dinner and dared me, and though by now this dare is dull, it’s better than sitcoms.

  I’m here to tip the stripper, slipping myself over the edge of her platform, his dollars in my hands. A surprisingly simple investment, singles, wads of paper adding up to not much, but feeling like salvation. I’m here to tip her so that as he tipples he can watch my nipples tilting from the top of my t-shirt, and then he can watch her do stripper things such as kiss me full on the mouth, or take the dollars from my cleavage to hers in an arcane yet titillating transfer operation, or bend over all the way backwards in an X-rated limbo and bite the bucks from my beaver. The latter only in certain clubs that allow that kind of thing. For the record, most clubs allow most things as long as you’re a pretty girl and not too bull-dyke-like.