The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 10

by Maxim Jakubowski

  Mood doesn’t temper the fixation, though it can alter the objects of choice. Good nervous energy – the kind that inspires me to take new risks, work harder, explore self or world in fresh directions – makes me eat. Starting a new piece of writing, for instance, means food. Baby carrots are great: I like to hold them between my back teeth and press down, suck them, then hold the end with my hand and scrape my teeth like a grater over and over and eat them in shredded layers, finally snapping the twig at the end and crunching the little core. Such ornate pleasures, however, do not keep me from wolfing down Dreamsicles (yes, I chew on the wooden stick afterwards until it begins to soften and splinter) and digging into pot-pies with equal aplomb.

  Bad energy is when I most delve into non-food orality. Painful break-ups from relationships I never should have entered in the first place have left me with an apartment full of eraserless pencils and nails chewed down to the nub. At such times, I tend to live on coffee and Fresca and my breath has got to be smelled to be believed, I hear.

  My most recent casualty of the heart wasn’t even worthy of the nail biting and stomach aches I devoted to it. Believe me, you don’t even want the details. Suffice it to say, I moved him in with me from across the country with no job prospects after only a brief and predictably trite internet affair, and he spent six months sponging off me and giving me guilt about talking to my mother too much on the phone.

  But I cannot loathe him too much because the break-up did give me more than just a room full of crunched up bendy straws. As I busily threw out any evidence whatsoever of his existence around the apartment, I found myself shifting into an unexpected and unfamiliar cleaning frenzy. I’m not the neat-freak type – that’s anal, not oral, right? So, I am throwing out his geeky Inuyasha T-shirt that was left on the closet floor (and ok, I confess it, before I trashed it I put it over my face and smelled it one last time), and I see this shoebox in the back corner I hadn’t opened in years. I knew what was in it before I even opened it, and somehow I felt all shivery and excited with anticipation anyway.

  I brought it over to the couch, pausing to pet Miss Lemon (my greedy, sofa-hogging equally oral fat cat – the only one who does not judge me for my messy, foolish life). I sat down with it on my lap and carefully raised the dusty lid. And there she was: Western Fun Barbie, circa 1990. Her hat was missing and the fringe on her pink jacket with enormous padded shoulders was unraveling. Her hair was the precise kind of frizzy mess Barbie hair always is after a week or two, when you’ve styled and bunched and combed and ignored it. Her boots are gone. But her feet … oh her feet. So perfect, with their pristine insoles and ridiculous arches. I remember viscerally how I longed to bite them off when I’d play with her. Oh, that rubbery plastic of her feet: so juicy and perfect to snap off with hungry child-teeth. But I forbore, with this doll alone – entirely because I had chomped the toes off all the others and my parents swore that I would never get another Barbie if I dared dismember this one. So I satisfied myself with chewing and sucking on all her boots until they were unwearable and let the temptation of her footed perfection drive me deliciously mad.

  And now, here she was again. Just as enticing and flawless in her sexist version of beauty and comical pink and purple pseudo-Western style as ever. I laughed as I looked her over, and decided I had nothing better to do than indulge in that wonderful pastime of undress-and-dress. I removed the jacket and skirt, undid the Velcro on the little blouse beneath, and soon she was naked, her pointy breasts hard, her waist twisty, her pink smile absurd, and her legs so long and juicy they made my mouth water. And then, yes, I put them in my mouth and suckled.

  I let my tongue lap and flick like I was sucking cock. Licked between the legs like delving between long, thick labia. Fought hard against the desire to let her slip almost out so I could touch then chew those precious feet. Such temptation and now no reason not to give in. But instead I teased myself, and Barbie, by sucking her legs and just enjoying the feel of her phallic length in my mouth.

  And then I heard a whimper. My own pleasure, of course, at having something in my mouth to suck. Something inanimate so I did not have to worry about his rejection. Something female so it wouldn’t make me think of him. Something cocklike so it would make me think of him. So, of course I would enjoy it, and make little enjoying sounds.

  But after a few contented moments, the whimpering grew louder, and it was so entirely clear that it was not mine. I pulled the doll from my mouth and looked around the room in that insane way you do when you think you’re suddenly in a horror movie and if you snap your head around fast enough you’ll spot the ghost of the class president who killed herself in high school. Or, in this case, the whoever-it-was who was making little high-pitched erotic noises while watching me suck Barbie’s legs. When that didn’t work, I looked at Miss Lemon, who was curled in a sweet little feline ball with her tail covering her nose, obviously uninterested in either Barbie-sucking or little erotic noises from nowhere.

  I gave a mental shrug and thought about doing more cleaning or maybe writing or chatting online or forcing myself to eat something. But then Barbie’s legs were just all I wanted in my mouth right then, so back in she went. I really devoted myself this time, thinking about how it would be to have a lover who truly appreciated my devotion to all things oral, who would constantly command me to suck their genitals and nipples and asshole and tongue as well as their fingers and toes and ears and belly and whatever else struck my fancy. Why did I keep ending up with idiot women who only liked penetration (and tongues didn’t count) and moronic men who passively accepted blow jobs only until they were hard and ready to fuck?

  The whimpering noise started again. This time louder. And damned if the more I sucked the louder it got. I didn’t take her out of my mouth this time but still whipped my head around to see what could be making the noise. But when I slipped my tongue up hard between those creamy tender plastic thighs, the pitch raised and I realized, without a doubt, that it was Barbie herself who was moaning.

  I pulled her from between my lips, fast, and looked at her absurdly smiling face. It did not move. I expected it to, frankly, because if she could moan I was in the Twilight Zone and she should be blinking and her mouth moving, too. Funny how once you go there, you just go all the way. But she was not moving and the sound stopped. Then, of course, I had to experiment. Into my mouth went her legs again and the whimpers began again. Out of my mouth and silence reigned. Entirely insane, sure, but I wasn’t thinking about the break-up at all now.

  An idea suddenly came to me: spread those legs and make Barbie come. But damn, Barbie’s legs do not spread! I had never realized this – or perhaps I had, for Western Fun Barbie came with a horse (long ago lost or given to Goodwill) and no way could she ride it, except maybe sorta sidesaddle. Right now, though, I wanted to lick Barbie’s pussy, or the flat plastic patch that substituted for it. So I took her out of my mouth again and scissored her into the splits (so limber in some ways, so rigid in others), and licked and lapped at the space between her leg joints. The whimpers became a whine then, inspiring me to lick faster and faster, devoted entirely to my task and feeling like a feminist goddess giving Barbie what she has deserved all along for her suffering in an impossibly shaped body. It fed me, too, and I grew wet then wetter as I labored, until at last the whine stuttered to a ghostly “Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh” and I knew my doll was coming for me, just me; and I was giving it to her just the way she wanted it.

  When her orgasm noise stopped, she was not silent, however. She started making little puppy noises, like there was more she wanted, but I could not understand them. I kept licking, but the sounds did not change in timbre or volume. I put her legs back together and put them in my mouth again, but still the same urgent little sounds. I put her down in my lap for a moment because my pussy was wet and I needed to adjust my panties, and then her vocalizations grew more intense. Barbie wanted me.

  Who was I to keep the girl from getting exactly what she wanted? I removed m
y underwear, spread my legs (excuse me, Miss Lemon, don’t mind my splayed thigh in your face), and teased my clit with those lovely feet. Barbie made a high humming noise now, and it brought the delights of battery-powered vibes to mind. My frizzy-haired girl teased and played and danced on my pussy. I pressed her toes down the cleft of inner labia and back up again. Around and over, firm little plastic roaming my slick flesh until we were both whimpering together as she brought me to climax.

  Now she’s my constant companion, sitting on my desk as I write, on my kitchen counter while I cook, in my bathroom when I go. She sleeps on the pillow where the ex’s head rested. She never hogs the covers, she loves the way I suck, and she’s always hard for me. Oh, and even when I’m tempted to bite the toes that feed me? Barbie always forgives.

  The Spanking Machine

  Rachel Kramer Bussel

  What’s a girl to do when she longs to get spanked by a powerful hand, but can never seem to find a man who’ll commit? As a high-powered publicist to celebrities, I’m a bit too butch for most men. Maybe it’s the short blonde hair (do gentleman only prefer generous yellow curls or long straight glossy pale tresses?), or the sharp New York sense of humor, or the fact that I make close to half a million dollars a year. Maybe it’s that I don’t tolerate fools, even ones who know where to land a smack. They might do for a night, but that’s about it. The others say they want a woman who’s a handful, but really that’s the quality they look for in a pair of tits; they’re not looking for a full-fledged actual woman, one with thoughts and opinions.

  At forty-five, I can’t just prowl the bars, and the fetish clubs are a little too intense for me. I want a man who both loves me and loves to make me beg and moan, but until I find him (if I ever find him), I ask again, what’s a kinky girl to do to satisfy her urge to be smacked, spanked, and struck with force? Well, she could go gay, but having a live-in girlfriend isn’t really my thing, much as I love to strap one on now and then or fondle a gorgeous pair of breasts. I believe women can deliver spankings as powerful as those from men – I’ve felt plenty of ’em – but that wasn’t what I was looking for on a permanent basis. I could hire a professional, or likely even hire myself out, a slutty, spankable bottom for hire (in disguise – I do have a reputation to protect), but to me, playing with a partner is only fun if you’re both into each other. What if I wound up with someone I couldn’t stand; would I lower my standards, not to mention my drawers, for a man who repulsed me simply so I could get the paddling I craved?

  There were too many variables in human nature for me to rely on it for my daily quota of spanking, as I’d learned over many long years of kinky deprivation. So, for my pleasure, I’ve taken my fondness for sex toys to a whole new level. You see, more than any other fetish, more than sweet kisses or a hard cock pounding me or anything else, I love to get spanked. Hard. I like to get spanked so firmly that my ass tingles for days on end, so it’s hard to sit down, so I have to think about my bottom every moment of the day. I’m greedy about my spankings; I crave them in a way that’s tough for most of the partners I’ve had to keep up with. Only the kinkiest of souls have managed to give me exactly what I wanted, and they often got tired of keeping up with my increasingly naughty need for degradation.

  So as a modern, liberated woman, I decided to take a particularly American approach to the problem, and buy my pleasure in the form of a spanking machine. If that sounds ridiculous, go online and Google those words; you’ll find several models suited to various needs. The more I researched, the more excited I became. After all, I had a collection of powerful vibrators to fuck myself with when there was no one else around (and sometimes even when there was), so why couldn’t a mechanical device help me get my ass-smacking on?

  I opted for the Robospanker, because it offered the most intense, hard spanking. I loved the fact that it wouldn’t let up until I told it to, giving me the chance to top from below, which is what I tend to do anyway. Spanking is one of those activities that you just can’t provide for yourself, even with your own hand. So I was willing to set the scene, as long as the machine did the work of making me whimper, making my ass burn, making my pussy throb in the way that only a good spanking can do.

  For a moment, as my finger hovered over the purchase now button, I had my doubts. It might be 2009, but what would a new lover say if he came over and saw that this machine was his competition? Men are squeamish enough about vibrators, even the battery-operated kind, and this wasn’t the kind of toy I could shove into any drawer or closet, and since I live in Manhattan, I don’t exactly have much by way of storage space. I pictured the scene: a stud and I hot to trot, then he sees this contraption. I could say it was an exercise bench, I supposed. And then I slipped my fingers into my frilly white panties, and pictured my olive-colored ass turned a dusky rose, making the contrast against these very same panties even more intense. Tears sprang to my eyes as I tried to recall when I’d last gotten spanked. Oh yes, Raphael; he’d gotten tired of my constant lateness and hurled me across his lap, ripped my fishnets and panties, and pounded my bottom with his hand until I banged against the floor with my fists, until I almost couldn’t take it anymore, flirting on the edge of giving up. My cunt danced with excitement as I recalled his anger, and I pressed the button, setting the transaction in motion. Of course, a machine wasn’t going to get angry with me, but that part I could supply for myself.

  Waiting for it was like having a long-distance lover and pining for his arrival. Every day without it felt shallow and empty to the point that even my clients noticed. “Claire, I think you need to get laid,” one of the most famous actresses in the world said to me and I knew she was right; she just didn’t know how right. The day the machine was set to arrive, I called in sick and waited anxiously. I couldn’t risk my new master being misdelivered or, heaven forbid, the doorman peering too closely at the box and wondering what exactly it contained. Even though I’m sure the neighbors in my upscale high-rise have heard plenty of moaning, yelling, and spanking coming from behind my door, I’ve never out and out admitted that I’m the girl in 12D who likes to get spanked, who likes to role-play, who lets her lovers use and abuse all her orifices after a good, hard smackdown; who loves to wince the next day as she sits down in her skirt suits, wondering if the men who sit across from her at meetings or lunches, the reporters who press her for details, know exactly what’s caused the expression on her face. What I do inside the confines of my well-upholstered apartment is my business.

  For the special day, I wore my favorite jeans and a loose white top, leaving the pearly buttons undone to the center of my bra. I went online and read story after story of naughty girls who needed to be spanked. Some of them horrified me; I mean, I’m a middle-aged businesswoman, and I was getting off on the idea of girls half my age getting paddled by their former teachers right after they’d graduated? Well, yes, I was. All those pretty young things in their schoolgirl skirts made me long to be eighteen or nineteen again, innocent and carefree. How I’d wasted my early years, content to do it in the dark, under the covers, missionary or, if I was lucky, on top.

  Marco hadn’t even let me suck his cock, telling me that such behavior was unbecoming of a young lady like myself. Of course, when he wasn’t around, I’d spent copious solo masturbation time fantasizing about a man who didn’t give a shit what was ladylike or even what I would be into; he’d take from me exactly what he needed, pulling my hair, slapping my ass, and “forcing” me to suck his cock. Those fantasies got me through countless boring classes, solo expeditions, and even a few sessions with Marco.

  And now, perhaps, I was simply doing what I was destined to do: take the spanking that rightly belonged to me. That’s right; this was all about empowerment. I jolted in my seat, feeling heat rising to my cheeks as my doorbell rang, and wondering if I had a just-been-fucked flush on my skin. I buttoned my jeans back up and gave myself a once-over in the mirror, then raced to the door and flung it open. It should say a lot that I barely glanced at the
muscular young man before me. He looked like a college student; way too young for me, but that had never stopped me before.

  “Good afternoon, ma’am,” he said, almost killing my sex buzz. “Where shall I put this?” I’d pondered and pondered that question, but had opted for the only real space I had available: my living room. The bedroom would’ve been more discreet, but it also would’ve swallowed it. Besides, I live alone and I have the right to get off in any room I damn well please. I’d certainly spent plenty of nights sprawled on my couch with my vibrator pressed against my clit while watching a dirty movie.

  I watched him put the box down, then wipe his brow with a handkerchief. “Would you like something to drink?” I asked, more out of rote politeness than any real desire to delay him. I wasn’t looking to seduce him, or even flirt, which was new for me; usually men like him were a challenge to me, a pleasant distraction from the rush of my daily business dealings.

  But I’d just plunked down a very healthy amount of cash for something that would distract me any time I wanted, so when he asked for a beer, I just smiled and went to get it. I took one for myself as well, cracking them open and feeling the wetness in my panties as I walked back to him. “Feel free to sit down,” I said, my fingers itching to open the box but willing myself to wait.

  “Do you need any … help?” he asked. It was only when the red splotches sprang up on his cheeks that I realized he might have a clue as to the contents of my very special box.