The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 5

by Maxim Jakubowski

  The latest hot real estate location was Harlem near the Park, and the nephew had tried several times to buy a perfectly restored brownstone from a huge black man who declined to sell. In his research the nephew found out the homeowner was called Marblehead and did all sorts of highly unpleasant things for lots of money. So the nephew called a contact who got a line on Toodles, who got hold of his old colleague Marblehead, and voilà. Within an hour Marblehead had joined Toodles in the walk up to and over Asshole’s front door. Then they showed the guy a window of opportunity that left him three stories up without a floor.

  Frodo did not care about the coat. It was used goods now anyway. He did not care about the five small. He did care about the guy, who was clearly an asshole with the gall to treat him like an asshole. The guys should know that they were the assholes. Otherwise there would be asshole anarchy. Now and then you had to let them know. So Frodo bit the bullet and sold a couple of T-bills before maturity, lost 5 percent and got liquid again. By five o’clock he had a hundred and seventy five thousand back in the bank. About half of that would go to Marblehead, but in business you got expenses. Frodo was not cheap, just thrifty. The guy had gone to flight school but flunked out, having no airplane.

  By seven that night Tony Crunch was off Frodo’s ass and Frodo was tenderly exploring Sylva’s. She lay on her tummy on her new gold satin sheets with lace ruffles on the pillow shams. She felt like a safe little girl, which she had never felt before in her life. She was reading a Spanish language bridal magazine which he had bought her by way of a proposal. He slowly tugged her thong from between the smooth mocha cheeks of her flawless bottom and left behind little kisses in its wake. The wedding was going to take place as soon as she could figure out a way to show him where Honduras was on a map. She was happy though to stay in Brooklyn. Honduras meant zip to Frodo but whatever made her happy.

  Sylva had seen the coat and couldn’t care less about it. Chinchillas were nasty little fuckers, whereas Frodo was a very nice, patient, caring, attentive and rich fucker. He was also an old fucker. They both knew the marriage would not last very long, as Frodo was reaching the tape at the end of the race. She would make out like a bandit when he crossed the finish line, a career he fully endorsed. When he died, she would get the ratty old Chevy. The seats were stuffed with cash and bearer bonds. Then there were the warehouses in Jersey.

  A month later at the wedding reception at Maria’s Gourmet Cuisine in Coney Island, Frodo said, “Fuckin’ Lexus, my ass. Dumb fuckin’ asshole.” Sylva fed him a tiny, delicate piece of sweet, white wedding cake with creamy icing. He smiled the smile of a man who would be forever in love and they very gently kissed.

  Turning the Tables

  Rachel Kramer Bussel

  Slinking amongst the overly bedazzled crowd, I slide my way to the bar, careful not to trip on my Cinderella slippers and long, velvet gown. And while they’re not glass, they may as well be; they are clear, tall lucite, more like stripper shoes than orphaned fairy tale footwear, but they seemed like fun, a modern twist on everyone’s favorite orphan. The fact that I’m at the party at all is only a testament to my friendship with Marlene, aka Princess Leia, who keeps swooping in and out carrying trays of food and admonishing people not to remove their costumes. She had a strict admittance policy and, fearing that I wouldn’t get in, I adhered to it, even though I wasn’t even sure I was in a party mood. Nothing like the chance of not getting in to make me want to be part of an inner circle.

  I’m making my way through my cocktail, trying to find someone I know, or might want to know, when I see a gorgeous nymph of a girl, the kind who my heart speeds up for, the kind who makes me want to pull them by the hair and never let go. She is dressed as a classic schoolgirl, not surprising in this crowd but still charming nonetheless. Her hair spurts out in two brown pigtails, tied with those rubber bands with big pink beads on the end that I haven’t seen in about 20 years. Her skirt is short and plaid, on top of strategically ripped fishnets, her shirt white and sheer, her bra the exact opposite. A studded collar beams out from around her neck, but I’ve been watching her for an hour and know she is alone. This isn’t a slave collar, but an I-want-to-be-a-slave collar, even if that desire only lasts a night. Her bottom lip is pierced smack in the center of it, a surly circle daring anyone watching to touch it. Daring in that defiant way that really means, stay away. But I can’t, or don’t want to. She is the kind of girl who challenges me, who makes me want to tie her up with her own fishnets, make her defy all her own practised coolness to beg me to fuck her. It’s Halloween and although there are far more original outfits at this party, I only have eyes for her. I approach her slowly, keeping my eyes on her until she is forced to look my way, even though others are vying for her attention. Her bright red lipstick glows against her pale skin, and though she’s probably 21 or 22, she could easily pass for 5 years younger, her sullen eyes and daring look just asking anyone who’ll try to have their way with her. My hand is practically itching to grab her, to get her across my lap, her ass exposed, but before I race too far ahead of myself and completely scare her away, I pause and regroup, taking a deep breath and trying to pretend that she’s just a pretty girl at a party who somehow hasn’t set off a rush of heat inside my brand new black lace panties.

  As I approach her, my mind is racing with all the delicious games I want to play with her but all I say is “Hi,” deadpan, not giving anything away. I lean against the table, trying to play it cool. She looks me up and down and then sticks a finger in her mouth, sucking on it like a lollipop, her eyes twinkling with girlish mischief. I take a step closer; I need to teach this brat a lesson. She finally takes her finger out of her mouth and holds it out to me, approaching my lips as if she is offering a sample of the best dessert ever. She’s being deliberately naughty but I don’t think even she knows the kind of punishment I want to dole out to her. I grab her outstretched hand but instead of taking the proffered finger, I push it behind her back and press her up against the wall. She’s wearing a choker, the kind that kinky girls like to wear to signal that they’re not your ordinary schoolgirls, that they’re far more cut-class-and-smoke-in-the-bathroom types than ponytailed-cheerleader-in-a-mini-skirt. Only they don’t know that those are often the kinkiest girls of all yet, so they dress up much like this, but on her somehow it works, less of an act and more of a display, an offering. I tower over her thanks to my sharp, spiky heels, well worth the pinching and puffiness my feet will later feel to be able to look down at her like this. I stroke her neck with my fingertips as she looks up at me, her eyes wide and mouth slightly slack.

  The tables have turned in only a moment, but one that has brought us both exactly where we need to be. My cunt is threatening to go into overdrive if I don’t give it some attention, and with each second that passes I’m torn between tormenting her further and putting her lipsticked little mouth to good use. I pause for a few moments longer, looking deep into her eyes, making sure she wants this as much as I do. As we stand there not speaking, my hand wrapped around her wrist, daring her to break away, I can feel the infinitesimal changes in her stance, her breathing, the ever-growing red creeping along her skin, the faintly faster breaths escaping from her mouth even as she tries to maintain her cool. We are both playing a game of chicken, wondering who will break first, who will admit to being so wet she cannot stand one more minute of this tension-filled foreplay, and both of us will win whoever goes first. I inch closer to her, and almost laugh at how highly charged things have become between us, before we’ve even told each other our names. I’m glad that I got a manicure today, glad my nails are just long enough and red enough and intimidating enough to make her flinch slightly as I rake them lightly along her delicate neck, then bring them towards her mouth, which is open just enough for me to slide two digits inside her. Gone is her teasing lollipop offering she made to me earlier; she knows she has no choice as I push my fingers inside, feel her hot, wet mouth fasten around them. She closes her eyes and I watch the mu
scles in her neck contract as she sucks on my fingers, ready for anything I have to give her. Just as she’s getting really into it, has made my fingers the focal point of her entire body, I remove them and bring my hand up under her skirt. Her fishnets are an optical illusion, only covering her up to her thighs; above that point I meet goosebump-covered flesh, and quickly make it my own, pinching along her upper thighs, claiming her for the night.

  She doesn’t dare protest, and I know she secretly likes the way I squeeze the tender skin between my fingers, the way that zap travels right up into her nearby pussy, the way with the slightest movement my hand will brush across her cunt and feel her wetness. Because of course even though her skirt is short enough to be considered scandalous even at this party, she’s not wearing any panties, not caring who might get a peek at her, and before I can even think better of it my fingers are stroking her along her very wet opening, making my own cunt suddenly ache in a most torturous way. I’d love to sink to my knees and taste her for myself, lick along this slickness my fingers are exploring, bury my face in her juices and suck on her clit, make her grab my head and claw the wall with desire. But, as risqué as this party is, that would be going too far. I loop a finger through the collar and tug on it, making her look at me, then pulling her around so I can lead her into the private closet that only a select few know about, the one that rivals the size of my room and is perfect for fucking, according to Marlene. Leading her along by the studded choker, my hand at the back of her neck, I prod her gently with the occasional brush of my knee against her ass. We are both silent but our walk speaks volumes. I tug on the collar strategically, and shove her inside once we reach the coveted closet, the walk having almost exceeding my patience. I slam her up against the wall and bring my hand back under her skirt, pressing urgently against her cunt, sliding the edge of my hand through her slick lips, then shoving three fingers inside her, my other hand holding her by the neck. “You’re a little brat, aren’t you? A tease? With that lollipop and little girl look, and those I-need-you-to-fuck-me eyes? This is what you wanted, isn’t it, sweetheart?” I croon at her as my fingers probe her sleek walls. But she surprises me, more agile than I’ve given her credit for.

  “Actually, no, that’s not what I’m looking for at all.” She pushes me away from her and then manages to get me up against the opposite wall, propelling me across the room with her tiny body. “Put your hands up,” she says, the cop language working her too, and I do it, too stunned, surprised and aroused to protest. I hear her fumble and then the awful sound of a knife tearing its way up my long velvet skirt, cutting it away until I feel a breeze against my ass. The bitch just ruined my precious thrift store dress! I know I could take her, despite the knife, could turn around and wrestle her to the floor and show her who’s boss, but despite her appalling behavior – or maybe because of it – I am now soaking my panties and even more turned on than before. Her fishnet-covered knee comes slamming into my pussy and hits me just hard enough to send a rocket of desire jolting through me. She leaves it there, kneading it against me, and I reach up and hold onto Marlene’s closet rod for support, needing something to keep my balance as she works her knee back and forth and has my pussy clenching and way more than ready.

  “You think that just because I’m short, or I look the way I do, that I don’t know that you want me to fuck you too? You think I don’t know that your pussy is pounding right now, that you need it just as bad as I do?” Every word out of her snotty little mouth is just sending me further into overdrive. She moves her knee and rips the dress even further, then yanks down my thin panties in one swoop. They land around my ankles and I move to lift a leg but she doesn’t let me, so I stand there, trapped by the flimsy fabric and my own lust, fully exposed to her.

  She slides her fingers along my wetness, teasing me just as I did to her, and tears come to my eyes as she taunts me with the nearness of her fingers, almost sliding them in and then back right out, not going near my clit either but simply over and over my slit until she finally takes pity on me and slides those same fingers easily into me, pressing and pushing and expertly working my cunt, though by now I’m so turned on she could do practically anything to me and I’d respond. And she does, her fingers somehow knowing exactly what I need, making me come in a fierce series of spasms that have me holding onto the rod above me for dear life as I push down against her probing digits, her small but powerful fingers that have tears streaming down my face at the intensity of it all. I haven’t come like this with someone else in years, haven’t let anyone that close to the real me, haven’t indulged in quite so much vulnerability, and with a stranger no less. She keeps her fingers there, waiting, her other arm wrapping around me, hugging me as she presses herself to me, and I let her, any composure I once had gone as quickly as it took her to shove me across the closet.

  I finally let go of the rod, wipe my face and turn to look at her in the dim light coming in under the door. We still don’t speak, but she gets my message as my eyes probe hers, thankful and needy and just a little bit shy. The dress is ruined, but I don’t care. Marlene will surely understand as I ditch the dress and slip into one of hers, a flowery summer sundress that has me feeling like I should be out picking flowers or skipping along a field. The girl still looks the same, but somehow all her outer symbols take on a new meaning, not quite menacing but not quite bratty either. I’m still not sure what to make of her, but I let her take my hand as we make our way out of the closet. The party is still in full swing; nobody seems to have missed us. And then I’m not quite sure what to do – how does one make small talk after someone has rocked you to your very soul, gotten inside you so thoroughly and completely you’re not even sure who you are anymore? We smile at each other, sweet, sad smiles, and then I go back to the punch table and she goes back to her corner, each of us more than slightly shaken. I wonder if I’ll see her again, but even if I don’t, she’s taught me never to judge a girl by her costume.

  Exceptions

  J.D. Smith

  I’ve never been a man for ass. The allure of the gluteal has always eluded me; the female form offers far choicer real estate just around the corner, and just a few blocks to the north. Jennifer Lopez’s hip-checked rise to stardom is a bigger mystery to me than the tax code, and when Sir Mix-a-Lot recorded “Baby Got Back,” I admired his enthusiasm but couldn’t share his bulbous faith.

  There have been exceptions. From time to time a particularly taut or ample-and-inviting derrière sheathed in a tight skirt might catch my eye, but those were but merely passing things.

  The biggest exception, the one that changed my life, stood in front of me in the cashier’s line at the company cafeteria. I nearly dropped my tray.

  As she turned I saw a fairly pretty woman. Her eyes were a pleasant blue, but watery and a little too far apart. Her breasts stood like Appalachians rather than Rockies.

  Then there was, in all its subequatorial splendor, her ass. Not a “bottom”, or a “behind”, or some other euphemism. Not a butt or a rump, one of those labels that sounds like a cut on a butcher’s chart. No. An ass, and one that had to be taken on its own round terms.

  Ample? Yes, like the lower reaches of a cello. This ass could claim its own zip code. Taut? I couldn’t say – yet; it was too soon to bounce a dime off those lower slopes of Paradise. Soft? Again, I couldn’t say, but there was no jiggling or sag, no speed bumps of cellulite. Firm seemed to be the safest guess. Not sculpted or overflowing, but molded like an English pudding. Remember the bumper sticker? Life is uncertain. Eat dessert first.

  I reached in my pocket for cash, and when I looked up she was gone.

  My cafeteria receipt was my only souvenir of our not-quite meeting. I tucked it, a scrap of hope, under a refrigerator magnet at home. I resolved to save my money: I’d need every spare dime for flowers and chocolates, for reservations at fondue restaurants, for ties that didn’t clip on.

  For the next week the time stamps on my receipts ranged from 11:58 to 12:47, b
ut I’d received none of them in her presence.

  At a corporate headquarters of more than two thousand people she had many places to be present, and many ways to go absent. She might have been a temp, a consultant on assignment from one of the regional offices, or an interviewee who didn’t make the final cut. Or she might have been an embezzler, absconding to the south of France or packed off to prison. I had no way of knowing. The employee directory wasn’t searchable even by gender, let alone ass.

  Each day at a different time I’d wolf down a mini-pizza – or frozen yogurt, sometimes so quickly that my head hurt while looking over the room. Other times, playing periscope for my manly parts, I’d linger over broccoli-and-cheese soup or a slow-nursed double espresso, scanning every table twice. Or I’d make multiple trips, buying first a bagel, then a sandwich, then a cookie.

  In five weeks I gained seven pounds. I began to explore for her in other restaurants, partly to walk off my meal.

  To paraphrase the song, I was looking for lunch in all the wrong places: the food court of a boutique-ridden mall, the mysterious buffets with fluorescent macaroni and cheese, the nouveau-deli sandwich shops and malt chains with aspiring folk singers perched on stools. I never looked in the hamburger chains or chicken shacks. I couldn’t bear the thought that she might keep her figure – especially its most prominent feature – by frequenting grease pits.

  Wandering, and some days walking instead of eating, I lost the seven pounds I’d gained, and then some.

  Ass ass ass ass.

  During my beret phase in college, I read a short story titled “In Dreams Begin Responsibilities”. I never learned what the hell that meant, but dreams did provide a great starting point.