The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 10

by Maxim Jakubowski

  You can do better than that. You take control. Show him what it’s like to be you.

  Zoe frowned into Bobby’s shoulder. Maybe that nagging voice would leave her alone if she finally took his underwear off? Yet, she knew that without those briefs hugging her ass, it would be just another ordinary day.

  He’s got a soft, pink hole, too, and he’ll purr like a kitten when you put your finger inside.

  Her fingers prickled. She had to admit the voice hadn’t steered her wrong yet. Why not venture farther into the wilderness?

  “It’s my turn now, Bobby. Lie back and spread your legs.” Zoe smiled to soften the command, but the voice – her voice – clearly meant business.

  Bobby drew back, eyebrows lifted in surprise. Then, with a wary smile, he rolled on to his back and did as he was told. Zoe crouched between his thighs, licking his cock like an ice cream cone. Her left hand closed around the base, pumping slowly while she teased him with her mouth. Bobby whimpered as she traced quick figure-eights on the sensitive skin right below the head, then groaned when she lapped the swollen knob with the flat of her tongue. Finally she took him all the way into her mouth. Bobby relaxed into the mattress with a sigh.

  But this was all familiar ground. Her right hand was itching to embark on its new adventure. First she cupped his balls, then meandered down to the ridge between his legs where her cunt would be, stroking him there until he squirmed and cooed. Her finger crept lower, into the Valley of Darkness.

  She advanced slowly, unsure of his response. She’d never done this before, with anyone.

  Bobby inched his legs wider. Apparently he was ready for adventure, too.

  The terrain grew hotter, faintly moist. When she touched a tender little knoll of flesh just above his asshole, he moaned, a ghostly sound, as if he were melting away. She began to tap him there, like she tapped her own clit. The moans became a song. His cock twitched and pulsed, as hard and smooth as marble between her lips.

  Zoe’s finger marched onward into the forbidden zone. She traced his secret little mouth with her fingertip. The ring of muscle tensed then pushed open, beckoning her inside. She pulled away, smiling at his groan of disappointment. Quickly moistening her finger with spit, she pushed the tip up through the doorway.

  Bobby took her in with a soft “ah” of surrender.

  From here on her journey presented a new, physical challenge. Bobby was virgin-tight, like a leather glove two sizes too small, and she didn’t want to hurt his tender flesh. She wiggled her fingertip gently to open him, to test if he was ready for more.

  Bobby was beyond speech, but his moans were eloquent enough. Now, with each down stroke of her lips on his cock, Zoe pushed in a little deeper, her finger dancing sinuously inside the tight little minidress of his asshole.

  Bobby’s whole body trembled and his cock seemed to swell even thicker, like an over-ripe fruit, strained to bursting. He pawed at her shoulder, the signal to pull off and finish him with her hand.

  But Zoe’s lips refused to release him, and she realized the rest of her, too, was no longer afraid. She wanted only to have him inside her when he came, just as she was buried inside him. Bobby cried out and his muscles clenched, milking her finger as he shot his spunk into her throat. Instinctively she swallowed it down, so busy in her attentions to his cock and asshole she hardly tasted it. But she did get the chance to savor the last drops: cinnamon, cumin and cloves mixed with sun-drenched meadow grass.

  In truth, it wasn’t bad at all.

  Zoe rose to her knees, eyes sparkling with triumph. And what did Bobby think of the wild things she’d done? She didn’t have time to ask because he immediately pulled her down on top of him and whispered into her neck, “You’re the best ever.”

  Lying in his arms, Zoe realized that she must make a queer picture – a curvy girl wearing boy’s briefs.

  Hey, remember, what you look like is less important than what you do.

  Zoe smiled. This time she knew that voice wasn’t coming from Bobby’s underwear. It was in her head and her flesh, hers to keep.

  Advanced Corsetry

  Justine Elyot

  I fell into this business unintentionally. I started out as an enthusiastic amateur, became a connoisseur and now I am proud to call myself a master – or mistress, I suppose – corsetière. If you ever want to talk busks, fan-lacing, whalebone or the respective merits of under-and-over bust models, I could be your woman.

  Of course, should you choose to engage me in conversation on this subject, I must warn you that certain assumptions may be made regarding your personal preferences. These days we get our share of trendy young things surfing the wave of the burlesque revival, but our traditional customer has more personal reasons for favouring this most retro-chic of foundation garments.

  Few people are better placed than I to appreciate the allure of the corset: her restrictive embrace, her provocative display of the finer feminine features, her fetishistic cross-lacing. You cannot ever forget you are wearing one; like an insatiable lover, she demands your full attention.

  This is why I often find myself measuring and fitting women who want a little more than the traditional ribboned satin or silk. I have requests for custom-made pieces in rubber, latex or leather; others require additional features, such as delicate chains crossing the breasts, or linking the front and back of the garment between the thighs. One customer even emailed me to request that I add a harness-like leather construction connecting the panels, which could run between the thighs and up the cleft of the buttocks, and to which could be attached various phallic objects. I wish she could have summoned the nerve to request this of me face to face; I always had a feeling we may have hit it off.

  I thought, then, I had heard every outré suggestion possible: corsets for fetish balls, corsets for waist restriction, corsets for the bedroom, corsets for lovers of Victorian kink.

  As it turned out, however, things could, and did, get more decadent still.

  My clients had occasionally come with friends, or even lovers; the intention being to canvass an additional opinion on what suited best, or perhaps to add a little titillation to the experience.

  The couple I saw on that memorable afternoon were a different proposition entirely.

  When I arrived in the small waiting area outside my atelier, she was sitting, hands folded demurely, while he stood scanning the photographs and framed magazine clippings on the wall. At first, there seemed nothing of special note about them, indeed they were rather less showy in their style and fashion taste than many I see. This in itself seems noteworthy in retrospect; at the time I simply cocked an admiring eyebrow at his Italian suit and her immaculate haircut and invited them into my fitting room.

  At first I was taken aback when my initial “what can I do for you?” spiel, addressed to the lady, was responded to by the man. He appeared at least twenty years older than her, and for a bizarre moment I wondered if he were her father. It was a relief when he used the words “my wife” in his reply, and I presumed the more exotic dynamic of Dominant and Submissive – a bread-and-butter breed of customer, though I usually only interview one half of the sketch.

  Instantly her silence became fascinating to me, and throughout the man’s lengthy discourse regarding their wants and tastes, I kept my eye on her. She was somewhere in her twenties, though conservatively dressed for her age in a blouse of ecru silk, the high neck adorned with what is incongruously termed a “pussy-bow”. A knee-length tweed skirt and low courts completed the ensemble; hardly the pink-haired rubber-skirted brigade I generally tend to encounter en route to the Fetish Ball.

  Her head remained bowed, our eyes never met, and I found myself wondering whether her doggedly maintained silence conveyed weakness or strength.

  When the time came for her to have her measurements taken, she stood unbidden and planted herself in the centre of the room, chin up and shoulders back, awaiting instruction.

  “You will need to remove your blouse and skirt, Mrs Fox,” I
told her, affecting intense concentration on my tape measure while she unbuttoned and cast off her outer layers of clothing. I was struck by two things once the clothes were neatly folded: the 1950 styling of her underwear, which was a flesh-coloured bra and girdle with old-fashioned metal suspender snaps; and the understated magnificence of her body, all luscious curves and creamy skin.

  “Surely you will need her naked?” said her husband, standing behind her with his arms folded. “To get the true measure of her, I mean.”

  “I … do not usually insist …” I told him, though my throat dried at his suggestion. I longed to see what was held in by that severe girdle, cut so tantalizingly high and yet retaining the letter, if not the spirit, of modesty.

  “I think in this instance …” his voice trailed away, questioningly.

  I nodded, caught up in his scheme, made complicit by the slightly menacing smile he flashed in my direction. “If you could just slip out of your underthings for me, Mrs Fox,” I said, my voice much lower now.

  Even then, she did not look up or speak. Almost casually, she turned to present the clasp of her bra to me. I unhooked it briskly and took it from her, touching her shoulder to indicate that she should face me once more. Beautiful tits, high and firm with strawberry-pink areolae were my reward. I caught myself fidgeting with the tape measure again while she struggled and wriggled out of the tight girdle and, although I am noted for my composure, I found I could not look at her husband for fear of blushing.

  Besides, a feast for my eyes was before me; the legs were not model-perfect, but they tapered nicely. The thighs were milky and a well-tended cluster of golden brown fleece curled between and above them. Unusual, I thought, that he doesn’t make her shave; I understood it was de rigueur these days.

  “Could you raise your arms above your head for me, please.”

  I moved around behind her, placing one end of my measure in the small of her back, risking a swift glance down at the curve of her arse (perfection) before returning in front to run my smooth tape across her breasts. The coldness of it perked her nipples up more so they stood stiffly, and, without even thinking about it, I pulled the tape a little tauter and rubbed it slightly back and forth. She bit her lip and I had to exhale briefly, watching her rock on the balls of her feet and clench her fists. She felt that. Again, her husband sent that flicker of a smile in my direction, emboldening me.

  Keeping the tape firmly held in one hand, I scribbled down her measurements on my deskpad, pulling slightly at her numerated tether while I did so. I had to admire her poise and grace; she did not stumble in the least.

  Passing swiftly through the duller terrain of under-bust and waist, I came to another favoured spot – her hips. “Let’s keep this smooth – you have just a little pot belly here,” I clucked at her, and her husband laughed and said, “Yes, she does, doesn’t she.” Her cheeks flamed, but she kept her eyes fixed to the floor and made no other response.

  “The corset will hold that in for you; nobody will know it is there,” I said reassuringly, working hard at keeping my hand steady when I laid my length of plastic-coated fabric across the upper slope of her buttocks. Then I took a measurement I often eschew: the broadest part of her bottom and around the upper thigh. I had to kneel to check the measurement, my nose no more than an inch from her triangle of fuzzy hair, and the smell of her was, for a moment, almost too evocative. I took a lungful of it, to keep and bring out in my bed that night, thinking of other white thighs parted and welcoming, other crimson lips glistening at me. It had been so long.

  But I am a professional, and I rolled my tape back up, wrote down my figures and turned to the gentleman, ready to enact business.

  He held up a hand. “Don’t put your tape away yet,” he suggested. “I think we may want something in the way of a garter or stocking top – perhaps you could measure the circumference of her thighs. Just at the very top, perhaps – as high as you can comfortably go.”

  I stifled a smile. “Certainly, sir. Madam, may I ask you to stand with your feet a little apart.” The very tops of her thighs were tightly encircled, just below the crease of her bottom. It was impossible to perform this task without brushing my hand against her muff, and so very easy to rest it gently between the slightly opened lips of her vulva. Good Lord, she was dripping. I pushed my knuckles discreetly upwards, garnering a good coating of her juices, before completing my task. My tape also harvested a little of her lubrication.

  It was all I could do not to put my hand to my nose and take a deep breath while I trotted out final arrangements for our fitting at top speed. I wanted them out, door locked, feet up on the desk, skirt hitched, hand inside knickers, post-haste.

  For the rest of that week, every spare minute was consumed by thoughts of her. Did she ever speak? What did her voice sound like? In the heat of sex, would she make a noise? Was she silent even at the moment of climax? Had her husband enforced a speaking ban, or was it voluntary? I remembered the humidity between her thighs, the sticky, wanting smell of her. Was she a willing participant in this, or was I her unwitting tormentor?

  I hoped to find out the answers to all of these questions, plus more regarding the exact feel and taste of her, at our next meeting – though I expected the latter queries to remain unanswered. I constructed her corset – red satin, with black velvet running the length of the bones – with greater care than I usually expend. How perfectly it would frame her, covering her middle to expose more fully the tempting expanses above and below. I laced the eyelets lovingly, seeing the criss-cross pattern traverse her back from tailbone to bustline in my mind’s eye.

  The day of our fitting arrived at last; she was again respectably dressed in a boxy Jackie O-inspired skirt suit. When I passed the corset across the desk to her, she fingered it tenderly, catching her breath and shooting me my first eye contact: a cringing gratitude.

  “Do you think it will do?” I asked her, smiling.

  “I’m sure it will be just right,” replied her husband, taking it off her and holding it up in front of him. “Once we’ve added our little extras.”

  “Extras?”

  “Let’s have her try it on first, then we can discuss the adjustments I have in mind.”

  He left it to me to issue the order to undress. My mind raced while I watched her perfectly polished nails wrestle with the large buttons of her jacket. Adjustments. Extras. Memories of the customized corset the lady had requested by email flashed through my mind. Was something along those lines required here? I rather hoped so.

  How obediently she divested herself of her clothes, folding them neatly and piling them on the nearby chair, unsnapping her suspender clips, rolling down her stockings, tackling the hooks and eyes of her front-fastening basque and then standing quietly naked, head bowed as always, hands clasped modestly over her pubic triangle. She was not fully naked, though, for there was a plain silver torque around her neck, which fastened with a tiny chain at the back. Almost like a collar, of a very discreet kind.

  She complied patiently with my every request while I settled the corset in under her bust and commenced the task of lacing it.

  “How tight do you want it?” I asked, addressing my question unthinkingly to her husband.

  “Well, now, I think we decided that we don’t want it so tight that her breathing was affected. Tight enough to ensure that she is constantly aware of it, I suppose.”

  “I understand completely.” I pulled hard at the laces, enjoying her gasps, and the first sound to come from her throat – a tiny mewl. “So you have a voice,” I said briskly, and she fidgeted uncomfortably. One hand moved to cover her right buttock and I noticed for the first time a tiny mark there, dark red, almost a bruise but not quite.

  “Don’t cover it, or I shall tell the lady how you came by it,” said her husband in a warning tone. “You are to behave yourself for Miss Frost, remember.”

  Her hand moved away and once more her bare bum was on full display, mark and all. Now that the corset was lace
d, it swelled and undulated magnificently, crying out for attention.

  “Now how’s that?” I asked, clapping my hands together with satisfaction at the beautiful picture she made, nude but for her severely cinched waist and silver collar.

  “Exquisite,” commented her husband. “Almost exactly what we wanted. Give us a twirl, love.”

  She pirouetted obediently, then struck a number of suggested poses – hands on hips, one leg on a chair, bent at the waist. “Perhaps you would like to photograph her for a private catalogue?” he suggested, and when I demurred he said, “Do you mind if I do?” and took a number of pictures on his mobile phone.

  “Almost exactly?” I quoted him when he had finished, holding my notepad and pen in my hand as if ready to dash off a list of new requirements.

  “Yes.” He lowered his voice. “I have been led to understand that you can provide modifications to order. Is this correct?”

  I nodded expressionlessly. “Quite correct. I am discreet and prepared to cater for even the most unusual tastes. If you could tell me what you have in mind …”

  He produced a piece of crumpled paper from his breast pocket – a blueprint of sorts – and handed it over.

  “Fascinating,” I commented, looking up at his lovely little submissive, still standing in corset and collar in the centre of the room. “I shall have to think how I can make this work … so these …?”

  “Chains, linking the top of the corset to her … necklet. Crossing the breasts, with a nipple clamp in the centre of each cross. I envisage sterling silver, perhaps even white gold, for the clamps. Would you be able to source something like this?”

  “I’m sure I know an outlet or two. And then these straps below …?”

  “Yes, thin straps, about a centimetre in width, of black leather, attached to each side of the front panel, crossing her thighs diagonally and meeting in the centre. As you see, they would pass underneath and between her legs, and up the cleft of her arse.”