The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 5

by Maxim Jakubowski

  I called Brian at work to tell him about my art project.

  “Hey, Kira.” I knew someone was in his office by his offhand tone, but I went ahead and told him anyway.

  “I just shaved my pussy.”

  There was a pause.

  “Oh, is that so? Listen, honey, I’m in the middle of a meeting right now. I’ll call you back when I can. Okay?” Only a wife would have picked up the faint tremor in his voice.

  Unfortunately, Brian was a model employee – not the type who would stand up in front of the boss and announce, “Sorry, I have to go. My wife just shaved her pussy.” It would probably be hours before he could get home. That left a whole afternoon alone, just me and my bald snatch.

  I went over to the full-length mirror. My heart was pounding. I hadn’t felt this naughty since I was a teenager doing “homework” up in my bedroom with my panties around one ankle and a pillow pushed between my legs, ear cocked for the sound of my mother’s footsteps in the hall. Which was silly because I was alone in my own house and all I was doing was looking at myself, my new self: the white triangle of smooth skin, the fold of tender pink flesh now visible between the lips. There was an indentation at the top of the slit, as if someone had pressed a finger into it. I had an overwhelming urge to play with myself. Just an appetizer before I jumped Brian’s bones tonight. I touched a tentative finger to my clit. I was already wet.

  The phone rang.

  “I’m taking the afternoon off,” Brian told me. His voice was husky. “I’ll be home in twenty minutes. Don’t you dare touch that shaved pussy of yours until I get there.”

  When I hung up, I had to laugh. My husband knew me well. Very well.

  There were no hi-honey kisses or how-was-your-day; the moment Brian got through the door, he pushed me back on the sofa and yanked open my robe. He made a little sound in his throat, half gasp, half moan.

  “Wow, you really did a job on it.”

  I smiled. “Didn’t you believe me?”

  He gaped, eyes glowing. Pussy power – suddenly the words took on fresh meaning. Gently he nudged my thighs apart. I shivered. He bent down. I thought – and hoped – he was going to kiss me there.

  “You didn’t get all the hair off.”

  “Hey, it’s a tricky job.”

  He frowned. “Don’t move.”

  He left me lying on the sofa with my legs spread like a virgin sacrifice. My pussy was getting chilly, but my breath was coming fast and I had that naughty teenage feeling again, arousal so sharp it was almost pain.

  Brian returned with a towel, a canister of shaving cream and a razor. He’d changed into his bathrobe, which did nothing to hide his bobbing erection. He came back again with a basin of water, which he set carefully on the coffee table. The last trip brought the video camera and tripod.

  I felt a contraction low in my belly.

  “Spread your legs wider.”

  I caught my breath, but obeyed.

  He patted a dab of shaving cream between my legs. The coolness made me squirm.

  “Lie still.”

  He was acting awfully bossy, but I didn’t want any slipups. I held my thighs to keep them from shaking.

  “Relax, Kira,” Brian said, more kindly. Guys are always saying that when they’re about to mess around with your private parts. Still Brian did have plenty of experience with shaving, so I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. The room was quiet, except for the scraping sound of the razor and the occasional swish of water. At last he rinsed me with a washcloth, smiling as I wriggled under his vigorous assault.

  He leaned close to examine his work.

  “Picture perfect,” he declared.

  Five minutes later, I was sitting naked in our armchair, watching my own twat, larger than life on our new plasma TV screen. My legs were modestly pressed together, but Brian had me lounge back so you could see the slit, shorn of its covering. He knelt, pointing the camera straight at me.

  “Did you get turned on when you were shaving?” His tone was soothing now, like a friendly interviewer on a weekly news magazine.

  “Yes,” I admitted in a small voice.

  “Did you masturbate?”

  “No.” A few flicks didn’t count, right?

  “You wanted to, though.”

  I swallowed.

  Brian clicked his tongue. “Why don’t you do it now? Don’t you want to know if it feels different when it’s shaved?”

  My cheeks burned, but I ignored the question and turned to the screen. “It sure looks different.”

  “Yeah. It really does look like lips. The skin gets pinker here and pouts.” He reached over and pinched the edges.

  I bit back a moan.

  “We could put lipstick on it. Deep red like a forties movie star.”

  “No, that’s too weird,” I said and immediately regretted it. Why was I being such a prude? After all, I’d started this with my little experiment in the tub. Suddenly bold, I glided my middle finger up and down along the groove. “This is an easier way to make it redder.”

  Brian grinned. “Yes, indeed. Let’s get the full view.” The camera zoomed in expectantly.

  I hesitated. I’d played with myself in front of Brian before, but now a stranger was in the room with us, a stranger with a round, staring eye. “Go ahead, honey. I know you’re turned on. Your chest is all flushed.” I inched my thighs open, glancing at the TV. To my embarrassment I was already quite ruddy down there and shiny-slick with pussy juice. The fleshy folds and hole filled up the screen. My finger, laboring at my clit, looked strangely small.

  “Does it feel different?” Brian was back to being the cordial journalist.

  “A little.”

  “Tell me.”

  “The mound is really smooth, like satin.”

  “Is it more sensitive?”

  “Yes, I think so. The outer lips are tingling. Or maybe I’m just noticing it more.” I looked up at him. “What’s with all the questions? You sound like you’re interviewing my pussy for a dirty documentary.”

  Brian laughed. “What if I was?”

  “Now wait a minute.” I sat up and snapped my legs together.

  He turned the camera to my face. A frowning twin gazed back at me from the TV.

  Brian, on the other hand, was still smiling. “What if there was a guy in the city, a dot-com billionaire, who collects videos of married ladies pleasuring themselves?”

  My pulse jumped. “You’re joking, right?”

  “For his eyes only, discretion guaranteed. He pays well for it.”

  “Oh, yeah? How much?”

  “Three grand for a genuine orgasm. That won’t be a problem for you. We might get even more because you’re all shaved down there. Just think, Kira, we could go on a nice vacation for a few very pleasant minutes of work.” I moaned and covered my face with my hands.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll edit this part out. He specifically requested no faces. Just sweet pussy.”

  Would my own husband really sell some rich voyeur a movie of me masturbating? I never thought he had it in him. And I never thought I’d find the idea so fiercely arousing. Funny all the things you discover when you shave your pussy.

  Brian put the camera on standby. His eyes twinkled. “Jake and Ashley did it.”

  “No way.”

  “Lie back. I’ll tell you about it.”

  There I was with my pussy on the screen again, a sprawled-leg Aphrodite, her naughty parts tinted dark rose.

  “Ashley let Jake talk her into this?”

  “Better than that. She went with him to drop it off. The guy tacks on a bonus if the lady and her husband join him for a drink.”

  I pictured Brian’s best friend’s wife, with her spiky blonde hair and lip ring, swishing up the stairs of a mansion in a black party dress and heels. That wasn’t so hard to believe. “What was the rich guy like? I bet he was a creep.”

  “Jake said he was the perfect gentleman. Fortyish. Friendly. He served them a glass of champagne and hor
s d’oeuvres made by his personal chef. They chatted a bit, then left with an envelope of cash. Easiest money they ever made.”

  “I don’t think I could meet him.” So why did I see myself walking up those same mansion steps, Brian at my side, video in hand? I wasn’t as wild as Ashley. I’d have on something prim: a lace blouse, a velvet choker with a cameo, a long skirt. I’d wear my hair up and keep my eyes down, blushing under his billion-dollar gaze. The perfect lady. That rich guy would get a boner the size of Florida just looking at me.

  “Jake said the guy only did one thing that crossed the line. When they were leaving he took Ashley’s right hand and kissed it like he was a baron or something.”

  “What’s wrong with kissing her hand?” I had a weakness for old-fashioned manners.

  “Well, it’s the hand she uses to masturbate, of course. Like you’re doing right now.”

  Without my realizing it, my hand had wandered back down between my legs. I jerked it away.

  Brian laughed. Holding the camera steady, he reached up and guided my fingers back to my pussy. “Don’t be bashful, honey. He wants to watch you do it. So do I.”

  And the truth was, I wanted them to see, the two pairs of eyes floating before me, Brian’s the greenish-gray of a northern sea, the rich guy’s golden and glittering.

  “Where does he watch it? In his home theater?” Under the veil of my lashes I studied the screen. My labia jiggled lewdly as my finger strummed on. That’s what the rich guy would see as he sat on his leather couch in his silk dressing gown. A wine-colored gown, the same color as his swollen dick. He’d pull it out and stroke it as he watched.

  “A home theater, yes,” Brian said softly. “State of the art.”

  “Why are you doing this? Don’t you care if your wife shows her cunt to some horny billionaire?” The words came in gasps.

  “The joke’s on him. We’ll take his money and get a suite in the fanciest hotel in town and fuck all night.” Brian sounded winded, too, as if he’d just finished a run. Then I realized he was jerking off.

  “I’m not a whore.” I was half-sobbing, from shame and pleasure.

  “Of course you’re not, honey. You’re a nice, pretty married lady. That’s what he wants. Someone he’d glimpse at the gourmet grocery store or the espresso bar, buying a nonfat decaf cappuccino. I see guys staring at you. If only they knew the truth about my sweet-faced angel. If only they knew you want it so bad you shave your pussy and let men take pictures of it.”

  Sounds were coming out of my throat, sounds I’d never made before, high-pitched whines and animal moans.

  “You’re the hottest thing he’s ever seen, but no matter how much he pays he can never have the real you.”

  “Oh, god, I’m gonna come,” I whimpered.

  A hand closed around my wrist and wrenched it away.

  “He’ll pay an extra thousand if you come while we fuck.”

  “Did – Ashley do it?” I panted. I knew what the answer would be.

  “Jake said she had the best orgasm of her life.”

  Brian hurriedly fixed the camera to the tripod, adjusted the height, then lifted me to my feet and took my place on the chair.

  “Face the camera,” he said.

  My knees were as soft as melted caramel, but by gripping the arms of the chair I managed to position myself properly. On the screen Brian’s penis reared up, my smooth snatch hovering above.

  “Sit on it.”

  I lowered myself onto him with a sigh. Then I was up again, a woman who couldn’t make up her mind. Up or down? It was there in full color: Brian’s rod plunging in and out, his balls dangling beneath like a small pink pillow. “Now turn around and ride me.”

  In a daze I straddled him, my knees digging into the cushion. Just last week, we’d done it this way on the sofa. We pretended it was prom night and we were sneaking a midnight quickie while my parents snored in the bedroom upstairs.

  “Do you like to fuck with a shaved twat?”

  “Yes,” I confessed. “I like to rub my bare lips on you.” Which was exactly what I was doing, lingering on the down-stroke to grind my exposed clit against the rough hairs at the base of his cock.

  “You’re so wet. That rich guy can hear it. Your hungry lips gobbling up my cock.”

  Brian began to twist my nipples between his fingers.

  “It’s an extra five hundred if you show him your asshole.”

  I grunted assent and bucked harder. In that position, the rich guy could see it anyway.

  Then he whispered in my ear, “And another five hundred if you let me touch it.”

  I froze mid-thrust. “Please, Brian, don’t,” I whispered back. I didn’t want the rich guy to hear. We’d recently discovered that when Brian diddles my butt crack when we fuck, it feels like a second clit. I loved it, but I was embarrassed and wanted it to be our secret. Brian knew he could make me blush just talking about it.

  “Why not, baby? Because he’ll know you’re a bad girl who comes when I play with your pretty ass?”

  “Please,” I begged. My asshole, however, seemed to have other ideas, the brazen little show-off, pushing itself out, all plumped and ticklish.

  “Please what, Kira? I know you want it, but I won’t touch it until you say yes.”

  “Please,” I gasped. “Yes.”

  “That’s a good girl. Nice and polite.”

  Good girl, bad girl, I wasn’t sure what I was, but it didn’t matter. My torso rippled like a column of heat between his hands, one tweaking my nipple, the other going to town on my quivering bottom. Our bodies made rude noises, swampy, squishy sounds – or was it the rich guy whacking off? He probably used a special custom-made lotion to make his dick all slippery. He’d be close to the end now, pumping his fist faster and faster, his single nether eye weeping a tear of delight. He’d gotten everything he wanted. The cool lady in the gourmet grocery store was unzipped and undone, a bitch in heat, writhing shamelessly on her husband’s cock for his viewing pleasure.

  But I had one little surprise left for him.

  “What if you spank it? Is that another thousand?”

  “Two thousand.” I could tell Brian was close, too.

  “I want him to see it. Spank my naughty asshole,” I yelled, so the rich guy could hear.

  The first slap sent a jolt straight through me that quickly dissolved into pleasure, foamy fingers of a wave creeping into the hollows of my body.

  “Again.”

  Smack.

  Each blow hammered me deeper onto Brian’s cock. I pushed my ass out to take the next one, to show that rich guy I could do it. He was so turned on, I could feel his eyes burning into my back through the screen. But it wasn’t just him. There were others watching – my parents, my tenth-grade science teacher, the postal clerk who sneaks glances at my tits, a Supreme Court Justice or two – dozens of them, their faces twisted into masks of shock and fascination. And beneath, in the shadows, hands were stroking hard-ons or shoved into panties, damp and fragrant with arousal. They liked it, all of them, and I was watching them as they watched me in an endless circle of revelation and desire.

  “I’m . . . gonna . . . come.”

  “Come for him. Now!” Brian bellowed. The last slaps fell like firecrackers snapping, and I jerked my hips to their rhythm as my climax tore through my belly. With the chair springs squeaking like crazy and Brian grunting, fuck your shaved pussy, fuck it, that rich guy got himself quite a show.

  I’d say it was worth every penny.

  Afterward, I pulled Brian down to the carpet with me. Our profiles filled the screen. He’d seen me and I’d seen him and we fit so well together and I loved him more than anything. I told him that. Or maybe I just kissed him, a deep soul kiss that lasted a long, long time.

  The rich guy got that part for free.

  Death Poems

  Mark Ramsden

  “Japanese monks compose a poem on the day of their deaths,” said Madame Petra. “Words they want to be remembered by.”<
br />
  Madame Petra. The big blonde. The vast blue eyes. The soppy red heart. We were at her place, a pleasant space tucked in, up?, the East End of London. It’s more or less where the prostate gland is in a gentleman’s anus, if we are using the London Underground district line analogy. As I believe we should. Lube in at Liverpool Street, ease gently, very gently, up the Hackney Road, and find pleasure gland in Bethnal Green, Tower Hamlets. Which may not be green or a hamlet any more but is adequately supplied with tower blocks.

  “That makes the City of London, the financial district, the World’s Anus?” she said.

  “Am I mistaken?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  It was full moon in Taurus. Late Autumn with a cruel wind rustling the leaves. We were sprawled inside on the chocolate leather sofa, Petra’s ample warmth wrapped in her courtesan’s kimono.

  Small red paper lanterns cast a glow. She riffled the pages of her blue sky book.

  “‘Autumn driftwood. My day here is done.’”

  It would be good to accept death as easily as the poet did.

  When I remembered to take vitamin B with ketamine I sometimes experienced blissful near-death experiences. As opposed to the often harrowing K-trips produced by coffee, stress, running around town without adequate fuel or water. The best method of release seems to be drifting gently downstream on a straw mat, head dipping backwards into the warm water. Although it might not be awkward for scribbling down any last minute pearls of wisdom, of course.

  “I was thinking of what people say at the moment of orgasm, the little death,” I said. “Maybe there should be a little book of those.”

  “Doesn’t matter as long as you say the right name, really.”

  Yes.

  Saying the wrong one in a moment of ecstatic transcendence can be tricky. It can change your whole life.

  For ever.

  It may alter your profile, blacken an eye or two. But don’t take any advice from me. I just spent a weekend trying to get up a lovely post-op transsexual’s derrière when the only thing post-op transsexuals want – reasonably enough – is to be treated like a lady. And this wish should certainly be granted after the lengthy ordeal they have been through on their long, difficult journey. We did satisfy each other eventually but it’s sometimes embarrassing how much of an obsession anal sex can become. It’s hardly the Holy Grail, that renowned vaginal cup. It’s closer to a dance with My Lord Lucifer – not that you need adolescent bogey men when you have reached a state of mellow grace in your forties.