The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 4

by Maxim Jakubowski

  “What do you mean?” he asked blankly. “Melinda, this is a serious illness. We need to keep an eye on you. What if you have a relapse?”

  “I’ve got someone,” I answered, buttoning my shirt. He didn’t ask me what I meant.

  A few nights later I knelt before Nick again, my heart pounding in my throat. He tried to pull me up, but I stopped him. I looked up at him but couldn’t express it.

  “What is it?” he whispered.

  I couldn’t seem to do it. He put his hands on my shoulders and squeezed.

  “Tell me,” he said, a commanding tone in his voice.

  Something gave inside.

  “I – there’s something I like.”

  “Yes?” he prompted.

  “I like it when you – well. When you sort of take control.”

  His grip tightened on my shoulders. “You mean like now?”

  “Yes,” I whispered.

  “You mean like before, when I fingered you?”

  Fingered. God. I was wet already. I nodded, not trusting my voice.

  “Why do you like it?”

  “Because – I don’t know.”

  “Because it makes you hot? Wet?”

  “Yeah,” I muttered.

  “Hmm,” he said. “That’s interesting.”

  “Um,” I squeaked.

  “What else?” he asked, grabbing my hands and twisting them behind my back. “You like that?”

  “Yes,” I managed, trying to hold in a gasp.

  “How about this?” he continued, shoving me down to the floor. “Want me to play rough?”

  He held me down, my hands pinned above my head. He put his hand across my mouth, gently. I moaned into it. He laughed and pushed one of his fingers into my mouth. I moaned again and started to suck it, as sweetly as I could. I looked up at him and tried to tell him everything with my eyes. He was so, so beautiful. I wanted to fall, drown, sink under with my Nick. He looked at me as if considering something. I pleaded silently for more, twisting under his hands.

  “Shh,” he suggested, pulling his hand away and resting one finger on my lips. “Don’t move. Don’t think. Just be here. With me.”

  Nick touched my cheek, slid my hair behind my ear. “I don’t want to play around,” he said, his voice clear and quiet. “If we do this, we do it for real.”

  I nodded.

  “You understand? No games.”

  “I know,” I whispered. My breath shallow and fast.

  “Good,” he said, his voice short and crisp. He pulled away from me, letting go of my wrists. I caught my breath when I saw how he was looking at me.

  “Get up on your hands and knees,” he ordered calmly.

  I climbed up onto my knees, struggling awkwardly for balance.

  “No. Hands. And. Knees.”

  This was a Nick I had never seen before. Still slow to anger, but with a cold, blue flame. I positioned myself as best I could, feeling clumsy. I bit my lip and stared at the floor.

  I felt Nick move behind me, looking me over. “Good,” he said, a satisfied tone in his voice, and I shut my eyes tight against sudden tears.

  His hands were smooth against my back. He pushed my skirt up over my ass, his fingers catching in the material. He brushed the skirt smooth and rubbed his hand over my cunt. I felt hot indentations where his fingers pressed down. In one sudden motion, he hooked his fingers into the waistband of my panties and pulled them down around my knees. Cold air flooded my cunt and made me stiffen.

  “I can smell you,” he remarked conversationally, and pushed two fingers up into me. A pathetic noise escaped my mouth. Holding his hand there, he wrapped his other hand in my hair, grasping my neck with steady, sure fingers. I was tingling and tense, shivering a little. His hand stroked my neck, holding my head perfectly still.

  “Is this what you meant?” he asked softly.

  Yes, yes, yes, I thought. I wanted so desperately to look at him. I could feel my heart beating steadily, hot pulses in my chest.

  “Yes,” I said quietly.

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, Sir,” I said.

  “Good girl,” he answered approvingly, moving his fingers in and out of my cunt, slipping into a rhythm, his other hand still on my neck. I could feel myself edging toward oblivion with every breath. “You’re so perfect,” he said suddenly, and I could hear the surprise and admiration in his tone. “So well-behaved. So beautiful. I think this suits you.”

  “It does, Sir,” I managed.

  “I think I could get used to this.” He leaned over me and shoved two fingers into my mouth, hard. He let me suck them for a moment and then moved away, casually wiping his hand on his jeans. “I’ll be right back. Don’t move.”

  Nick walked away and I closed my eyes, feeling a rush of blood buzzing in my ears. When I felt him near me again I held my breath, trying to tell what he was doing from the movement in the air. There was a pause, and then the unmistakable sound of a lighter clicking into flame. I heard a tiny whoosh and then heard Nick exhaling, smelled the smoke drifting toward me. I felt something nudging at my lips and took a grateful drag of his cigarette.

  He inhaled again. “Look at me,” he said, the words circling around his cigarette lazily. I opened my eyes to find him kneeling above me, eyes narrowed and dark. The cigarette hung suspended in the corner of his mouth.

  “When you look at me, I can see all the way in you,” he said, smoke trickling from the corners of his mouth. “I can see all your secrets.”

  I looked up at him, my heart pounding like it might burst.

  “I can see that you’re a girl who wants to be held down and fucked on the floor of a dirty bookstore. I can see that you want me to own you.”

  Nick unzipped his pants, the movement of his hands making me sigh with pleasure.

  “Now you know your secrets, too.”

  He pulled out his cock and guided it into my mouth, cradling my head with both hands. I relaxed into his hands as I sucked him.

  “You’re mine, now,” he said absently, his fingers tangled in my hair, and I felt myself starting to cry. “Shh,” he said again, and reached one hand between my legs. He stroked me carefully, teasing with two slow fingers, slipping in and out.

  “Let go,” he said urgently. “Let it go, Melinda.” His fingers moved faster and I whimpered, trying to pull him deeper into my mouth and arching beneath his hand. “Let it go,” he repeated, and I felt it happen, felt myself slide away into hot, dizzy streams, blood rushing through me, my heart hammering until I felt myself burst, hot and wet. Nick pumped his cock in and out of my mouth, his hand clutching at the back of my neck. Somehow I knew everything was different now. I reached up for him and sucked harder as he slid in and out of my mouth.

  “Keep looking,” he whispered.

  Cashmeres Must Die

  A.F. Waddell

  Stuart Metzler sat in his 1959 Pontiac Chieftain on his Maple St driveway. Mmmm . . . that new car smell. One day they’ll bottle and sell it, he thought. He pulled a small memo pad and pen from a suit pocket and made a note. “New car smell – replicate and market!” He took in the car’s interior. “Dashboard needs more knobs! Bigger!” he jotted. As a Strategy Formulation consultant he had diverse information and ideas but felt occasionally envious as he watched clients succeed in their projects. He experienced random, uncontrollable urges to lie, and enjoyed gauging reaction. Stuart anticipated the day’s work, and wondered what his secretary Vicky would be wearing.

  Donna Metzler stood in her bedroom staring into a lingerie drawer. In a jumble were the panties: the 100 per cent white cotton high waist, the pastel nylon, the killer girdles, the Days-Of-The-Week undies. She consulted a calendar: Tuesday! She sometimes wore Sunday’s undies during the week. Cotton felt best, softly clinging in her curves and nooks and crannies. Nylon felt strange, and smelled stranger when dirty. Girdles could be a bitch, but on occasion they helped achieve the ever popular iron belly effect. Brassieres with evil-eyed tips looked up at her: sil
k, cotton, nylon; underwire, torpedo, push up. “The breasts! The breasts must be controlled! Control the breasts! Mmmm ha ha ha ha HA!” She imagined a mad designer at Playtex.

  Donna finished dressing in a pink-and-white checked cotton blouse with a Peter Pan collar, black Capezio pants, and flats. She grabbed her keys, purse, and sunglasses, and was out the door. She commandeered her Chevy Bel Air and drove the Springfield streets. The homes and lawns seemed quiet and perfect. A little too quiet. A little too perfect. She imagined chaos and pain behind closed doors: little pastel houses, like gawdy wedding cakes, poison under layers of frou frou and frosting. The whites were dingy. The soufflés were flat. The decanters were tapped. The one-eyed god droned, selling soap, lies, and subliminalism . . . Snap out of it! Donna told herself.

  She pulled into the Texaco station on North Main. Donna smiled as Tony appeared at her driver side door. He grinned broadly. Was it her imagination, or did his eyes and teeth project sparkles of light? His uniform was always suspiciously spotless. His chronic perkiness was a turn-on. Men in service were a turn-on.

  “Check your fluids, Mrs Metzler?”

  “Please, Tony.”

  In his office Stuart pulled a magazine from his desk drawer. Secretaries boasted photographs of smiling women answering telephones, typing, serving coffee, bending over to pick up dropped pencils and more. A young woman sat behind an open-front desk in a grassy field. Her hair draped her face and heavy-lidded eyes as she chewed a No. 2 pencil and dreamily stared. She wore a sweater and skirt, but no stockings. Her legs were parted. She wore white cotton underpants, the whitest imaginable white, which contrasted with her freckled tanned thighs. Debbie is a secretary who dreams of an acting career. In her spare time she volunteers at her local Senior Center, and as a Big Sister.

  Vicky Miller sat outside Stuart’s office at her desk in a small reception area. She wore a twin sweater set, form-fitting skirt, nylon stockings, and heels. Her desk neatly displayed a front strike Remington typewriter, telephone, and intercom. She opened a desk drawer: it boasted nail files, polish, small cosmetic bag, perfume, hairbrush, extra pair of nylons, almost everything a young woman might need to look and feel her best.

  Stuart buzzed. “Miss Miller, please come into my office.”

  “Be right there, Mr Metzler.” Vicky grabbed a steno pad and pencil, and entered the sacred chamber of dark, rich woods, shades of forest-green, wall trophies, and Men In Suits.

  “Miss Miller, may I ask, what is that sweater you’re wearing?”

  “Why, it’s cashmere. It’s very soft. Feel?”

  “But of course. Cashmere . . .” He hesitantly reached and slowly ran his hand over Vicky’s left sweater sleeve. “It’s amazingly soft.”

  “It’s heavenly. But I’ve often wondered. What does a cashmere look like? They don’t have to kill them, do they?”

  “Vicky, I’m sorry. Cashmeres must die.”

  Her eyes slightly widened and her moist lower lip trembled. Stuart patted and rubbed her left shoulder. Warm sensation filled his palms and sent nervous vibration through his arms, shoulders, chest, belly, and cock. His cock! The world seemed full of teasing textures. His cotton pyjamas, his cotton flannel bed sheets, his starched boxer shorts. As he imagined being surrounded by its texture, his prick swelled against his cotton boxers and slacks. **Memo: Create and market cashmere bed sheets. Slash cost!**

  At Wilson’s Tailors, two men discussed a transaction.

  “The styles, items, and material we discussed . . . how very unusual.”

  “Can you do it or not?”

  “Yes, we can. But it will not be inexpensive.”

  “Very well.”

  “It will require fittings.”

  “Just do them in sizes eight, 38B, and medium. And make it snappy.”

  Stuart let himself in and marveled at his surroundings. “Honey, I’m home!” Minimalist Deco furnishings rested upon shag carpet. White tailored polyester drapes were drawn against the sun. Dark wood paneling and a faux stone fireplace helped to complete the decor.

  After a dinner of hot dog casserole, iceberg lettuce, and cherry Jello, Stuart and Donna sat on the plastic-covered couch. Donna wore yellow baby doll pyjamas. Stuart wore a t-shirt and boxers. As he clicked the television remote, a dark, intense man came on. “Portrait of a little woman with big dreams, one Annie T. Zimmer by name. A housewife cursed to wander a physical universe where there is no end to dirt and drudgery. A woman for whom perfection is an impossible dream and who feels criticism like knives. A bitter woman who’s never been able to capture realities more intangible than herself – respect, success, acceptance, and love. Up ahead, an intersection of her desires, an entrance that leads to opportunity and . . . The Twilight Zone.”

  BRRRVVVUP! As Stuart and Donna moved toward one another, their legs made moist suction noises as they peeled from the plastic. His hands fondled her cotton covered breasts as his mouth explored hers. Her lipstick was messy and waxy and smeared. She smelled of Ivory Soap. He was scented with Old Spice. His nipples rubbed his t-shirt as his chest buffed hers. He moved his knee from between her legs. Her transparent cotton pyjama bottoms clung in her splayed pussy lips, a thin sheath of soft yellow, bisecting moist pink underneath.

  She gripped his tented cock through his shorts, pulling the cloth firmly over it. She could feel its unique shape as she squeezed and ran her hand up and down its covered expanse.

  He left on her soft pyjama top. As she lay on her back, her breasts slightly drooped toward her prone arms. He put his fingers under her pyjama shorts waistband and pulled them down, peeling them from her and slipping them down her legs, and off. He cupped her and stroked her and slid his middle finger inside her. If not for the flange of his spread hand he felt he might be consumed by quivering monstrous wetness. She ground herself around him, hips rocking and heels digging into plastic. He guided his cock in and out of her, shallow to deep, shallow to deep, shallow to deep! As she arched her back, engulfing him, her moist backside slid forth then back. Her head against the arm of the sofa, they slid toward orgasm. There! Yes! Stuart’s face froze as he pumped and stopped; Donna briefly cried out, before they lay in tiny pools of moisture. BRRRVVVUP! Donna rose and went to the kitchen. Returning, she leaned over the sofa and cleaned it with a damp sponge.

  Donna walked out of her front door, onto the walk and lawn. Cars gleamed in driveways. Sprinklers hissed in the dark. Plastic flamingos shone wetly. Drops of water splashed on her naked skin. As street lights sent their shafts, her form glimmered, face and breasts and belly and legs. A spotless sidewalk led her past her neighbors’ houses, which seemed to be breathing, their surfaces slightly rising and falling, rising and falling.

  “Check your FLUIDS, Mrs Metzler?” Tony the Texaco man was suddenly in her path, eyes and teeth sparkling, maniacally grinning. He had something draped over his left shoulder.

  “What? . . .”

  Tony quickly unrolled a large tarp and threw it over her, lifted her, and slung her over his shoulder. Donna struggled as Tony marched the sidewalk, whistling I Get A Kick Out Of You. Physically subdued and verbally stifled, she noticed that the material smelled of motor oil and auto mechanical chemistry. It draped and rubbed and chafed her skin, as her waist bent over the jut of Tony’s shoulder, breasts flattening against his back.

  “Mmmmmpppph . . . Mmmmmmppphhh!”

  **Wake up!** Lucidity ruled; she awoke in her twin bed.

  Stuart and Donna sat across from one another at the kitchen table. Stuart gobbled meat: sausage, bacon, and to insure adequate protein consumption, eggs. Toast, juice and coffee rounded off his menu. Donna nibbled boiled eggs and fruit.

  “Need more butter, sweetie?”

  “I’m fine, thanks,” Stuart said, his mouth and chin shining greasily.

  “Busy day today? Lots of clients scheduled?”

  “Fairly busy. How about yours?”

  “Cleaning. Shopping. Gassing the car. Nothing special.” She smiled.

 
Stuart drove west on Oak. He loved his large formidable Pontiac, a veritable tank of a vehicle. He imagined almost effortlessly driving through fences and walls. The interior needed additional features, he thought: beverage holders. A small built-in television. A minuscule broiler oven. A tiny barbecue grill. . .

  “Good morning, Vicky.” He strode past Vicky’s desk and into his office, sat down at his desk and opened his briefcase. He pulled a magazine from it. He lay the issue of Goat World in front of him and flipped it open. The Himalayan Cashmere Goat is a ruminant mammal of the cattle family, with hollow horns, coarse hair, and a characteristic beard. It is closely related to the sheep. It has been bred for centuries for its highly valuable hair and wool. It can exist only in mountain regions of the Himalayan mountains and in Tibet and Mongolia, at altitudes of 15,000 feet or more. Himalayan cashmere goats live in herds and feed on grass and shrubs.

  Its long, straight, coarse outer hair has little value; however, the small quantity of the underhair, or down, is made into luxuriously soft wool-like yarns with a characteristic highly napped finish. This fine cashmere fiber is not sheared from the goat but acquired through frequent combings during the shedding season. Cashmere is a much finer fiber than mohair or any wool fiber. It is soft and lighter in weight than wool, and quite warm; however, because it is a soft, delicate fiber, fabrics produced from cashmere are not as durable as wool.

  The intercom buzzed. “Mr Metzler? Mr Johnson is here.”

  “Fine. Send him in.”

  “Good morning, Mr Johnson. Please have a seat.”

  “Thank you. Mr Metzler, I understand that you suggest that Corp Inc. not proceed with the fast food idea?”

  Stuart smiled. His eyes gleamed. “I do. In my opinion, the fast food business is a flash in the pan. It will never last. I’d recommend going into Specialty Retailing. It’s all in the report.”

  “Specialty Retailing?”

  “Yes. Specialty Retailing. Choose a single type of merchandise. Scotch tape, for example. Sell only that item. KA Ching! See?”

  Donna sat at the cluttered kitchen table and read over coffee. She had a magazine jones. The paper was glossy. The colors were bright. The text was perky. Their pages called to her from newsstands and checkout stands. Their energy could be exciting. Comforting. Some of the information was practical. Woman Today offered advice. A housewife should run her household the way an executive runs his business: with goals, schedules and plans. Plan for dinner, or at least shop early. Take time to rest and relax during the day so as to avoid exhaustion and depletion. With proper planning, one can have all home duties finished before noon. When he arrives home, greet him with a warm smile. Don’t voice problems or complaints. Don’t complain if he’s late for dinner. Just count this as minor compared to his potentially rough day. Make him comfortable. Suggest he lean back in a comfortable chair or lie down in the bedroom. Have a cool or warm drink ready for him. Fluff his pillow and offer to remove his shoes. Speak in a low, soft, soothing and pleasant voice. The last part made Donna warm and tingly.