The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 10

by Maxim Jakubowski

  Taking the hem of her shirt, I lift it up. My hands trace her curves as I help her get it over her head. She wears no bra. Her skin is so pale, her nipples a sweet pink. She turns her head to watch him.

  I lean in, stroking her bare back, and take her small perfect nipple into my mouth, sucking it, grazing it with my teeth. Her breath speeds up. She tangles her fingers in my hair and guides my mouth to her other nipple.

  The small buttons marching down the back of her skirt come undone in my fingers. Squatting before her, I balance on my high heels and slide the tube of material down her legs with deliberate slowness. The muscles in her thighs tremble. She rocks her hips forward when I place a light kiss on her belly, just below her navel.

  Her skirt drops to the carpet. She kicks it aside and widens her stance. I look at her face long enough to see desire burning behind her eyes before burying my face in her damp lacy crotch. Her smell, her taste, fills my mouth and nose. She moans and her grip on my hair turns painful.

  A burst of excited energy jumps from her to me, firing across all my nerves. I part my lips and rub them in a light circle across the plump swollen front of her panties. She swears softly when I nip at the tight knot of her clit through the material. Her salty tang intensifies. A flood of wetness, my own, dampens my thong.

  I’m ready, so ready for her to be out of her panties so I can make her come. Hooking my fingers into the material on either side of her hips, I yank them down. I want her naked. Exposed.

  “Uh oh, Veronica …” He leans forward in his chair and reaches out to cover my hand with his, keeping me from getting her panties off. “You broke Rule number 3. I told you to undress her, same as you. Shoes. And panties. Left on.” He pulls me away from her, slow this time.

  “Climb on to my lap, naughty girl.”

  Fear and excitement combine, making me dizzy as I settle across his lap. My muscles grow tense waiting for the spanking. He’s dragging it out this time. I flinch each time he caresses my ass, expecting the sting of his slap instead of tenderness.

  Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack!

  Each blow brings a new flood of pain and pleasure. The urge to come is almost impossible to stop. I dig my teeth into my lip and concentrate on keeping quiet this time. As before, he helps me up when the spanking is over. I stand still, waiting for him to tell me what he wants from me.

  He sits, considering his next move, and rises from the spanking chair.

  “Lay down on the bed on your back,” he says to Ava.

  She has her panties back in place and moves quickly to obey him. He follows her, placing her where he wants her. I stay where I am, watching them.

  He glances at me. “Come here and stand still. Simon says.”

  I step up beside him.

  She lies before us on the bed, her legs dangling over the edge, waiting for my touch while I listen for his instructions.

  He leashes her collar to the headboard before bending between her legs to ease her panties off. With a lover’s gentle touch, he decorates her thighs with thick leather cuffs. A silver chain links the cuffs together, leaving her just enough slack to spread her legs.

  With his tongue and fingers, he teases her for a moment.

  Watching them elicits a groan from me. Her hips rise off the bed to meet his touch. Jealousy flashes its heat across my skin even as he moves away from her to me. He kisses me for the first time, tasting of Ava.

  I want to touch him but I don’t dare. Not yet.

  “Do you want to see her come, Veronica?” he asks.

  “God, yes.”

  He is rough in his handling of me as he jostles me into place between her legs. The soft skin of her inner thighs presses hot against the outside of mine. It’s a tight connection, constrained by the length of chain.

  He slithers around me and pulls first my right wrist, then my left, behind my back. The material he binds my wrists with feels like warm velvet. When the knots are secure, he pulls me against him. His excitement over this grown-up version of a child’s game is plain to feel.

  “Ready, Veronica?”

  “Yes.” Caught up in my own excitement, it comes out as a low whisper.

  “Simon says, down on the floor, on your knees.”

  I drop to my knees on the thick carpeting. More jingling. His hands reach around my throat, a short length of chain with clips at each end grasped in his fingers. He clips one end to the center link binding her thighs and the other end to the ring imbedded in my collar.

  “Beautiful,” he says.

  He stands, admiring his work for just a moment before starting to take pictures. When he is satisfied, he sets the camera aside. Kneeling behind me, he reaches around either side of my body to stroke her skin above the cuffs.

  “Simon says, show me. Show me what you can do with your mouth and your tongue. Make her come loudly.” He thrusts himself against me, encouraging me toward her while his fingers raise thin red lines on her pale skin.

  Pushing back into him, the chain tethered to my collar goes taut with a metallic chink. She likes being made to wait, likes being teased on the edge for as long as possible. I don’t know if I can wait that long.

  I kiss her thigh before opening my mouth to lick a wet path from her inner thigh to her outer, just above the edge of the cuff. Her breath comes in fast, excited little noises. I switch paths, working my tongue up, letting the chain between us grow slack. She jumps a little as the chain settles against her pussy. As much as I want to taste her and lick her and feel her come in my mouth, I hold back, pulling the chain tight again so that I can do the same to her other thigh. Her whole body vibrates. She moans, louder and longer this time.

  He leans his weight forward, pinning my bound arms between us, urging me on. Time has run out, there’s nowhere left to go but forward. I trace my lips across her smooth, bare skin for the first time. She hisses and jerks. A warm trickle runs down the curve of her thigh. I want to hear her begging to come. Using only the faintest touch, I kiss my way toward her clit, stopping just short. She moans and rocks her whole body toward me, straining for contact.

  He stands and begins undressing. When he has everything off, he kneels behind me and leans against me once again.

  “You’re so good with her,” he whispers. “Simon says, make us both come, Veronica.” He shifts on to his knees and slides his cock against my bound hands. “Make us both come.”

  Without letting up on her, I grip his cock so he can fuck my hands.

  He reaches forward, his fingers digging into her thighs while he thrusts. Every time he buries his cock in the tight well of my fists, it forces my mouth harder against her. He helps me fuck her this way, all on the same rhythm. So close, she is so close. All it takes is my tongue finally flashing across her clit to set her off.

  She begs for permission to come loudly. He swells in my hands at the sound of her words.

  Before he can even finish granting her permission, I feel her climax flow through her body, hear her loud cries of release, taste her orgasm. He comes right behind her, spraying hot jets across my back.

  She goes quiet first, laying limp on the soft bed. He rests his weight against me, his breathing deep and controlled. After a couple of minutes, he backs off me.

  “It’s your turn, Veronica. We’re both going to make you come. Simon says.”

  Rain and the Library

  Kris Saknussemm

  The thing about research is that it’s so much more fun with two. And the thing about a library is that it’s like a superstore for people who love books and secret, seemingly random knowledge that suddenly gets found, as if part of a quest. So, I was excited about you helping me dig up a very hard to find book in the main files.

  On the surface, it was a legitimate, innocent venture. Two smart people, who wanted to spend time together, doing something productive. It wasn’t something suspicious. The shortness of your skirt? That was just part of the play. There’s no harm in a young sexy woman teasing an older man. It’s a sign of af
fection and respect. Part of the game. And if he really does get a furious hard-on for her, and that thirst in the mouth, as if for a stem of rye grass when he was walking home from school as a lonely kid, when demons started appearing and people died or wished they had, that’s a good thing.

  Besides, it was raining very hard and you couldn’t have predicted that. Spring thunderstorm. Black licorice and ozone smell. It would be good to get inside the library. Where it was dry. And where our minds wouldn’t wander.

  I’d come a long way to find an original of a very old book called The Trials of Great Men Accused of Magic, which as it turned out, was to be found down in the lower basement, down in a very quiet labyrinth of books arranged on very high shelves. It was a lovely bonus that the only library in the US to have a genuine, undamaged copy was at least a little close to where you live.

  It gave us the excuse of not doing what I wanted to do straight up – and take you to some lost Magic Fingers motel or some resort along the coast where people in uniform bring the rum to your room and discreetly turn away. This was going to be work.

  I couldn’t help but notice the shortness of the skirt though. And I knew instantly, in some animal way, that you weren’t wearing panties. Which made me think all kinds of thoughts as we descended to the basement. Do I kiss her? Do I fondle her? Or do I just let things run their course? Do I behave?

  The basement was silent, a veritable maze of old, unlooked-at books filled with who knows what. I was intrigued, however, to see a ladder of a particular kind resting against one of the shelves. I’d often dreamed of having just such a ladder, in the private library of my brownstone on the Upper West Side of New York (of course!). It was very tall, neatly made of individually dowelled rungs, with hooked ends at the top and lubricated wheels at the bottom.

  The curious thing about such a ladder, however, is that its very ingenuity undermines its function. You would think that it would allow a single person to scurry up to its full height and pluck out a book from even a very high shelf. And so it does, they do. But with a catch. Someone must brace the ladder, because the freedom made possible by the wheels is offset by the fact that the wheels can turn in their brackets – the ladder’s height making it too heavy for the wheels to only move in one direction, the designer of such things having apparently decided it was easier to find a person to “mind” the ladder rather than to help move the ladder.

  I think you were inclined to climb up it just for the fun of it – or to see my reaction. But as it turns out (and don’t things have an interesting way of turning out, when you start off properly?), the book we were looking for was supposedly on the top shelf where the ladder was.

  So, you being young and spry (and wearing a very short skirt), were selected as our ambassador to the heights. And while you were rummaging around trying to find the book in question, batting away the dust and dead moths, you came upon another volume called The Chains of Desire. It was on the very top shelf, near where the other book should’ve been. It looked old and the spine was broken, but the original making was clearly of a very high standard. You couldn’t resist having a look, having climbed up to the top of the ladder and blown away a cloud of dust to boot. And you couldn’t help thinking that whatever page you opened up to would mean something. A special stop on the journey. A clue in the treasure hunt. Balanced on the top step of the ladder, you opened to a scene. And, to your surprise, this is what you saw … you see it now … and will never quite forget it.

  The picture is sumptuously illustrated and deeply obscene. It shows a man, naked and tautly muscled, wearing a glistening metal mask in the shape of a bull’s head – like the suggestion of a minotaur. There is something evil and yet inviting about the beast face … something forbidden and perverse … and yet proud, noble, even tragic. You can’t quite bring the impression into focus, for there are other things to consider. Like the height of the ladder.

  And the size of his penis. While the rest of his body is that of a human male, the organ is that of a bull – or a monster. So swollen and erect it seems to be like another creature … making an angle with his rippled abdomen that reminds you of the cleft between the first thick branch and the trunk that made a favorite tree easy to climb when you were a little girl. But this is no room for little girls. All innocence has been swept away in this private world … with the sight of the shining cock head, sculpted like some kind of medieval battering ram.

  And then there is the room. It is richly appointed, like something from eighteenth-century France, the curtains not quite drawn, with a hint of rain on the leadlight pane. So, this moment too, that you’ve just stumbled upon is another afternoon of rain and possibility. Lust. Perhaps things unleashed. Another piece of the puzzle.

  Before the bull-man lies a naked woman, porcelain white of flesh, but coated with a fine sheen of perspiration and fragrance – spread wide on an amethyst and black sheeted bed of silk with fat tasseled pillows, like a giant version of a pearl butterfly she had made for her at great expense by a blind jeweler who died when it was finished and she only bothered to wear once.

  She has the air of grotesque wealth and depravity, the kind that is only shown in secrecy. Her legs are parted fully, so that you can see how neatly she has been shaved by a serving girl, how smooth her thighs are, her clitoris unusually large, bulbing up from under its hood of skin in monstrous mimicry of the minotaur’s giant phallus. Her whole sex is gaping, like an overbloomed rose torn apart in a single swift gesture by strong hands. You can see all the way inside her … all the way to the words she wants to say … her mouth open like a second ravenous, meat-eating flower.

  There is a blood-red sleep mask in her right hand – you can’t tell if she’s just removed it or longs to put it on, confronted as she is by the monster – the wall-splitting girth of him poised before her. Does she feel horror and fear … or insane longing?

  Beside her, on the floor by the bed, is another woman, also naked, much younger, and even though you can’t see her face, you realize she is much more beautiful. Perhaps she is the serving girl who has done the immaculate shaving and grooming … plumped the pillows, misted the room with aromatic spray.

  You can tell the younger woman has a very different bearing than the woman on the bed, even though her position argues against this. She is bent over, with her hands tied with black velvet behind her back … her ass curving up like … like the ass the older woman wished she had. It is round and rude, and yet exquisitely shaped, so that even in its intense lewdness, there is some sheltered modesty. Completely exposed. Flaunted. The skin is the same color as the inside of a snow apple, the kind that only come into season very suddenly and then are gone. So sweet it’s like tiny crystals of sugar have been ladled into full cream … and yet savory too … a confliction of tastes … a flavored ice treat and a chunk of just shot game, cooked hot and fast on spit-burst charcoal. A perfect ass, bent over in total supplication … the skin and curve of the young girl, the flow into her lower back and up the spine, all suggestive of that hint of divinity the ancients used to claim lay hidden for all to see in the white meat within a single walnut.

  This delicacy intrigues you, and saddens you. For the girl too is neatly groomed, so that her tender pussy lips are visible between her legs, as pink as a shellfish, but thick and tactile, like a puckered fig.

  There are other things in the room. Objects of disturbing implications. Hairbrushes that look too sharp, too big. A kind of chair seemingly made of bones – and iron. A draped veil that looks more like a net to catch something in. Paper masks hang from long hooks in the shape of hard penises. Masks of distorted faces, some animal-like … goats, pigs, wolves. Some like faces of the damned. Swirled and cracked … or bloated and leering.

  You begin to realize that this is not a single scene, but a ritual you are witnessing … something which has happened before. More details emerge then. The wood and leather crop that lies beside the bed … just fallen from the hand of the older woman perhaps.

&
nbsp; You notice a faint but still cruel line of blush across the full rounded cheek of the younger woman’s buttocks that you hadn’t seen before. And you see that the light reflects off the minotaur’s mask in a strange way that hadn’t earlier caught your eye – the stack and line of his carved body and the massive organ having distracted you.

  He is not staring at the woman on the bed, eager to ream her – to plunge inside her and thrust her inside out. He is mindful of the girl on the floor. The serving girl with the ass made by God’s own artisan.

  And then you understand the terrible truth of the picture.

  This is not the minotaur’s game. The mask can never be removed. It is fixed to his head forever, like a kind of cage. He is a slave, wanted only for his virility. He is but another implement in the room … and the servant girl with the voluptuous ass and tender other mouth of young female succulence … she is what has been used to entice him … to bring up the blood and thicken his root. She is the one he wants … and can never have …

  All this of course, has been taken in very quickly in real time. Meanwhile, I have been fixated on a picture myself.

  Perched on the tall ladder, your skirt falls in such a way, that by standing behind the ladder I can not only glimpse, but luxuriantly examine, the curve of your ass. If I move forward, slipping between the ladder and the shelf, I can look up and see your pussy just above me … and more than that. Stopped still in mid air above me, I am close enough to catch your scent …

  Like Italy …

  The way the canals and markets of Venice smelled to me when I came down out of the chalk-blue frigid-faced passport thumbing police-ridden Balkans, broke and hungry, so sick with fever and bronchitis I saw huge candelabra before my eyes at midday and all the pigeons in St Mark’s Square were like angels … and people I didn’t know offered me food and wine instead of clubs and jails.

  Like the mirror tidepools of Apollo Bay, each volcanic indentation of seawater a miniature miracle world of writhing, watchful life.