The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 5

by Maxim Jakubowski

  Spider obliged, pounding China mercilessly as she shoved her ass up into the air to present it for his use. Abandoning her clit, he reached under her and felt the firm, small mounds of her naked breasts, pinching her pierced nipples as he fucked her harder. Then he felt her body go rigid, heard her moans turn to wails, heard her struggle to get out the sobbing words “I’m coming” as he drove faster and faster into her tight asshole – and he felt the clutch, the rhythmic muscle spasms through China’s ass that spelled the intense orgasm of a groupie who’d trained for her moment in the spotlight. The grip of China’s no doubt Kegel-enhanced climax drove Spider right over the edge, and he came hard in China’s ass as she pushed her body up against him, begging for his come.

  When he’d finished, he rested there atop her and listened to the whimpering sounds of China’s post-orgasmic bliss. He looked at the clock.

  He slid out of her, off of her. He found the key chain again and unlocked China’s handcuffs, then slapped her once more on the ass, playfully, lightly this time.

  “I’ve got a date,” he said.

  “I know,” said China enigmatically, shooting him a mischievous smile.

  Spider went into the bathroom and locked the door again, but this time China didn’t try to make her way in. When he came out, the scent of China’s body scrubbed from his, he discovered her curled up in bed, the covers pulled over her naked body.

  “I’ll be back in an hour,” said Spider. “I’ll probably have company, so please don’t be here. I’m calling housekeeping to change the sheets.”

  “I’ll do it,” said China, picking up the phone.

  Spider listened to her sweet-talking the housekeeping staff as he got dressed. He wondered if the girl was a hotel groupie, too. “Call me a cab, will you?” he asked, and she did, obediently, without hesitation. Spider felt a strange sense of satisfaction about that.

  When he was dressed the way he figured Sierra would expect him – stretch jeans, tight T-shirt, high boots and a leather jacket – Spider looked at China, the outline of her body still fetching despite the bulky covers.

  “Gone,” he said warily. “In an hour. All right?”

  She nodded.

  “Steal anything, and my goons will track you down and break your legs.”

  “I love it when you talk dirty,” she said.

  The cab was waiting downstairs.

  Sierra was already there, sipping an Evian as he slipped into the diner booth. The place was practically empty. She looked even cuter than her picture – dark hair, full features, and thick, kissable lips. She was wearing a tight black dress that revealed the top of her bra with her legendary breasts spilling out. The bra showed black lace, and underneath it pink and silver leopard print. Spider puzzled over that.

  “Sierra? It’s nice to meet you,” he said, shaking her hand. “Sorry I’m late.”

  “No problem,” she said with a knowing smile. “Did you get my gift basket?”

  Spider felt a momentary stab of guilt – he hadn’t even bothered to check for gift baskets. He hoped Sierra wasn’t the easily offended type; she didn’t seem like it. Still, she seemed even less like the type to send him a bunch of tropical fruit and a bottle of cheap champagne.

  “I don’t think so,” he said.

  “You didn’t? I was sure it’d be there when you finished the show. About five-two, blonde, pink-and-silver leopard-print underwear?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Nice tight pussy, teacup tits, gag, and handcuffs?”

  After ten years as a rock ’n’ roll star, corrupting the morals of America’s youth and driving the world inexorably toward Sodom, Spider just then discovered he could still blush.

  “Looks like I got it after all,” he said. “It was a lot better than a basket of pomegranates.”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” smiled Sierra. “She was just warming you up for me. And, for the record, I can live without the cappuccino.”

  “They’ve got decaf,” said Spider.

  “If I’m not mistaken, China’ll have room service waiting.”

  Spider looked into Sierra’s dark eyes for a moment, chuckled and took out a roll of dimes.

  “Oh, please,” said Sierra Verdi, breaking the roll open and fishing out a single dime. “No need to overpay.”

  The two of them left four dollars and ninety cents on the table – nice tip for an Evian. Luckily, Spider’s cab was still parked outside.

  My Mother’s Child

  Marie Lyn

  I was conceived twenty-three years ago in the walk-in refrigerator of Jonathan’s Family Restaurant in Dayton, Ohio. My mother was a server. My father was a customer; a wiry, eager college kid who guzzled his coffee and focused lustfully at the tanned, freckled breasts of his red-haired waitress. “He didn’t look like a stud,” my mother laughs. When she laughs again, her whole body laughs, those ample breasts still rounded and dotted with amber freckles, still welcoming.

  When my mother tells this story, she describes herself as a beauty of pin-up girl proportions, a Betty Page with the rosy cheeks of a fairy princess. She’s half Aphrodite, half Marilyn Monroe. She tells how he left a generous tip and how she waited for him at the kitchen door, next to the bathrooms. When he emerged from the men’s room she grabbed him, shuffled him through the back entrance and into the cold, frosty depths of the walk-in refrigerator. “I thought he’d be shocked! But it was like he knew all along, you know?” Then she’ll close her eyes, pause, remember. “He wanted to be sure I wanted it too, and then – Bam! Oh God,” she sighs. “Just bam! Bam bam bam.” She laughs at her words.

  He was more than eager, she says, kissing her like a husband just returned from war, like he’d just come from the dessert and her mouth contained his first drink of water. The timid kid turned into a firecracker, hands all over her, fumbling the zipper of her skirt, pushing it down. She helped him, pulling down her nylons as he kissed her neck. When she was naked enough he shoved her ass against shelves of ground beef, her head by the boxes of lemons and limes. The smell of citrus, she tells me, still brings her back.

  In the story, my father is the possessor of a tremendous uncut cock which he thrusts into her, pulsing in and out of her deep, wet, throbbing hole. They fuck for “some time” (that’s how she tells the story – as if the exact time of the fucking is the one part of the tale that’s too much for my tender ears – and this is one of many things I don’t understand about my mother). Then he pulls out, falls to his knees and sticks his tongue into the bush of curly red hair that surrounds her clit. After he brings her to orgasm, she turns and lets him pummel her from behind. Her head is almost entirely submerged in a pile of lemons when he comes.

  That was the beginning of me. My mother was fired and she never saw my father again.

  Does this surprise you? That a daughter should know so much about her mother’s sex life, that a daughter should be privy to the intimate details of her mother’s fuck? My mother doesn’t keep secrets. I didn’t realize until high school that no one else’s mother talked about “getting wet” or “zipless fucks”. No one else’s mother decorated the living room with Mel Ramos nudes (I still dream about pale women making love to ketchup bottles, to gigantic cigars). So it was only natural that I’d grow up feeling different from the other girls in my class. Instead, I was close to the oversexed boys who knew about the same things I did, boys educated via porn and older brothers. I did my best to further their education with invitations to feel my new breasts or with open-season kissing practice.

  And it’s only natural that, when I grew up into the red-haired vixen my mother had once been, I’d end up in a similar place. I have my mother’s hair, her breasts and her complexion, but my father’s skinny limbs. I radiate sex. My mother passed sex on to me like other mothers pass on manners. So why wouldn’t I repeat the sins of my mother?

  I’m twenty-three, fresh out of college, where I’ve fucked my way through the core curriculum and written a glorious thesis on Dorothy Parker. I
’m living outside of Chicago. I’m engaged to Carter, a wonderful, forgiving man, a law student at Northwestern who wakes me up before his 7 a.m. torts lectures for lazy, delicious morning sex. I wake up five hours later tingling and wet. He makes me feel all kinds of new things, like the desire to be faithful.

  I work at Goldie’s Steakhouse, an easy job that got me through college. I cling to this job like some girls cling to families, boyfriends: the one part of my life that stays the same. I’m waiting for a journalism job to fall into my lap.

  I step out to the back dock of Goldie’s, carrying a mug of merlot and my cell phone. My mother’s on the phone, delivering a diatribe on menopause, interrupting herself periodically to exclaim, “Oh! Hot Flash!” like a DJ announcing a new dance.

  “Where are you?” she asks suddenly.

  “Umm – at work?”

  “At work? Jesus – you have tables, honey? Don’t talk to me if you have tables.”

  “No, I’m done for the night, I just have my sidework.” I sit down and extend my legs. With my right hand I roll my nylons off, revealing the sun-desperate legs underneath. I’ve shaved my legs this morning. I’d been waiting for Carter to complain about the hair, but he hadn’t, and before long I couldn’t take it anymore. I lathered up, slid the razor up and down each leg and delicately around my pussy. I love feeling smooth. I’m constantly amazed by my body, by how smooth my skin is. The night manager has gone home, and I’m free to be bare-legged, and I like the way the night cold feels against my naked limbs.

  “Are you smoking?”

  “What? Why? I haven’t smoked since high school. Are you smoking?”

  “You’ve had a lot of stress lately,” my mother says. “I don’t want you to hurt the baby.”

  “Mom, I’m fine,” I take a long drink of wine. “And I’m not fucking pregnant! Lay off already.”

  “You could be.”

  “Mom, I have a fifteen-minute break. Anything else you’d like to talk about?”

  “I want a grandchild,” she says softly.

  “I must have the wrong number. What happened to the ‘don’t settle down’ lecture? The ‘men are only good for one thing’? The ‘if he can’t make you come, get rid of the bastard’?

  She sighs, mourning herself. “I guess it’s menopause.”

  I wiggle my toes, watching the light from our outdoor lamp that bounces like stars against my cotton-candy-pink toenails.

  And then something moves in the parking lot.

  A man. A single man. A rarity at this corny family place, he emerges from a white Lexus. He steps out like a politician on a small-town tour, taking a quick look in his mirror, touching up his hair with a wet thumb, preparing to encounter the citizens.

  “My God, Mom, my prince has arrived.”

  “Huh?” I imagine her at the kitchen table, fanning herself with a page of the Trib. “Carter’s there?”

  “No! When have I ever called Carter a prince? Whatever – I’m kidding – Look, I gotta go fill the barbecue sauce bottles.”

  “Okay, okay,” my Mom sighs. “Take a pregnancy test.”

  “Mother! I’ll be fine. Don’t start planning a baby shower, okay? I’m not even married!”

  Silence on the other end of the line. I’m holding my breath, realizing what I’ve said. “I love you,” she says, finally.

  “I love you, too.”

  My eyes follow the prince as he walks, moving in and out of the slivers of light cast across the parking lot. It’s like a cartoon: with each flicker of illumination he looks more like a superhero, approaching me in a series of comic book panels, growing more handsome, and larger, with each new image.

  The dregs of my wine sting like pine needles in my throat. I almost float, free of gravity and logic, back inside the restaurant. I float like that to the guy’s table, where he’s just settling in. On closer inspection he’s kind-looking, gentle and blue-eyed. His jaw is broad; his nose almost hooks, but in a good way. I avoid the looks of the other servers – they know Carter – and set up my napkin-folding station next to him. I stretch my legs under the table, resting my feet on the chair next to him. I leave my shoes on the floor.

  He looks up as if I was his dinner companion. “So,” he smiles, “what’s good here?” His voice is soft, like a boy whispering in class. He stares intently at me afterwards. I like it; it makes him hard to figure out. He’s removed his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt, loosened the collar, draped his tie over his chair.

  “Get a burger.”

  “I don’t eat red meat.” He’s offhand, as if the information’s inconsequential.

  “Well, you’ve come to the wrong place.” I laugh, folding a checkered napkin into a neat pattern.

  He lets his eyes meet mine, then chuckles and looks back down at the menu. “You must have something.”

  The night closing waitress arrives, interrupting our triumphant love scene. She goes through the menu with pointy red fingernails, discussing each dish with gusto, as if this was a real restaurant worth talking about.

  “So, you work here?” he says when she’s gone.

  “No, I just think this shirt looks good on me. And I enjoy folding napkins. It’s kind of a hobby.” So is fucking cute strangers.

  He shakes his head, as if he’s saying, You’re gonna make me work for this, aren’t you?

  I slide over in the booth so I’m sitting across from him. I don’t give a fuck, really, about getting fired, because I’ve worked at this place for so long I practically have tenure, and besides, I’m doing my best to provide one-hundred-percent guest satisfaction.

  He looks like a soccer coach, or a grown-up frat boy who still writes checks to his alma mater’s philanthropic fund knowing every cent of his charitable tax-write-off will most likely pay for kegs. Does this make it easier – his goodness? Does it make me feel, as my cunt ripens and swells, like I’m not a cheater? Maybe. It feels like it’s past time to remove my damp panties, but I can’t do it alone.

  Under the table, I stick my foot between his legs. He just raises his eyebrows, smiles that charming smile again, and leans back. I move my toes up and around the bulge in his pants, tracing his cock.

  His salad arrives, and I set my foot down.

  “I’ll be right back.” I slide out of the booth, my panties wet and warm. I feel like my juices are purging fidelity, all the life I’ve been trying so hard to want.

  I do my sidework. Then I walk over as he’s paying his bill.

  “How was everything?” I ask.

  He just signs his credit-card slip and stands up. He motions for me to follow him, and so I do, out to the parking lot, and I run towards his car to see if he’ll try to catch me.

  He comes after me. I am leaning against the car, still panting. He takes my hipbone in broad hands and lifts me onto the hood of his car. The car is wet from a sprinkle of rain, but I don’t care. I can’t imagine any rainstorm wetter than my pussy. My pussy: it opens up like a fire-eater’s throat preparing for the plunge of the torch and the sweet, salient ecstasy of penetration.

  “I saw you,” he whispers. His hands glide through my hair, his eager lips plant kisses up and down my neck, biting and sucking and licking.

  “Where?”

  He bites my earlobe, and I gasp. He traces the rim of my ear with his tongue before answering, his breath so hot that his words feel like sex. “Outside, taking off your tights. I saw you. You were sitting under the light.”

  “I thought you were hungry.”

  “I was,” he says, and he demonstrates by biting my neck. I scoot forward to feel the pulse of his cock against my panties.

  “But I was lost.” He reaches up under my shirt, fingertips grazing my stomach, and lifts my shirt over my head.

  “I needed directions.” He slides his hand between bra and breast, rubbing one nipple and then the other. They’re as erect as earring studs and I want so badly for him to suck them.

  “But then I got hungry.” He unsnaps my bra
and it falls to the dingy pavement, and I don’t care. I love the feel of my bare buds against his chest. I love knowing that I’m almost naked and he’s altogether clothed, because it makes me feel vulnerable, ethereal, lusty and alive.

  I feel taken, and even with my feminist morals I love to fantasize about being dominated. I’m a waitress hungry for tips, outside on the hood of a car, pussy dripping like the gently falling rain. Her seducer, in a dry-clean-only suit, drives his pelvis into her like he’s trying to push through his pants and all the way through her body.

  I unbutton his shirt, and he throws his head up to the sky like he’s eating rain. His body bursts from his shirt: Clark Kent turning into Superman. We’re beautiful. We’re a pornographic Hallmark card. We’re two kids necking in the high-school parking lot.

  He looks at me for a few silent seconds with his unbelievably tender eyes – the eyes of a boy, not a lusty, swashbuckling lover. I think of how he is that kind of lover. Our bare chests smack together. He kisses me. I’m waking up from a coma of fidelity, Sleeping Beauty resurrected by impassioned lips.

  I clasp my thighs around his legs, pulling my knees towards each other and drawing his package up to my stormy cunt. It’s raining harder, and my hair is sticking to my neck.