The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 10

by Maxim Jakubowski

  As she approached the chair, she understood at once that everything had changed. She smelled something in the room, a scent, sharp and tangy, exhilarating and new. She heard their breath, as ragged as her own, but with a primal edge.

  Every one of them watched the bounce of her breasts.

  She sat and gathered the roses, leaned forward so that the revealed cream of her chest emerged from the linen, her dark nipples harder yet in clinging, translucent pink, her lips parted in a smile, a promise.

  The clicking almost deafened her.

  “You are everything Bobby said, my dear.” Mr Bentley took the roses from her this time. He put his hands lightly on her shoulders and his fingertips kneaded lightly through the blouse. He held her gaze, the unspoken question as clear as a shout. She answered it with a nod. He knelt, his gray eyes intense on hers, not looking down to where his fingers worked at the last four buttons, not until he had finished and stood up so that she could open the blouse and drop it in a whisper to the floor.

  Click.

  She picked up the roses, spread them in a fan over her breasts, not covering herself at all, letting the red flowers brush the most sensitive spots just below the nipples. The men watched her, rapt, their cameras silent.

  She grew still in the moment, the pulse in her treasure and the blazing heat just under her skin demanding obedience.

  She saw the intense shapes against the rising light of the morning sun and tried to find Bobby among them. Paint me, she thought to him. Paint me with light.

  Raising a finger to her lips, she wet it to dripping, then touched her right nipple, slick and shining, catching the sun like the sweat of its luminescent desire.

  Gus groaned. Click, click.

  “Wait,” Bobby said, stepping between her and the cameras. She became a goddess under his gaze and his hands felt divine where he touched her shoulders while he turned her slightly in the chair, so that her breast stood in sharp silhouette. He took the roses and selected one, the darkest of the dozen, and rested the cool bloom against her nipple. “Hold it there,” he said. Bentley nodded his approval as Bobby stepped back.

  She imagined each of the men in turn as an absent lover whose memory had come upon her like a ghost, wistful, vulnerable, the red flesh of the rose the spirit of distant lips, kissing the brown tip of her breast.

  “Beautiful,” Bentley breathed.

  Hundreds of clicks filled the room. They shot her with the roses, without the roses, standing, sitting, her body arched into the light. Her nipples softened only to harden again as Bentley or Bobby posed her, and she felt their arousal as each new seduction unfolded.

  Somewhat to Desi’s disappointment, no one asked her to remove her skirt.

  “We’re losing the morning light,” Doug Spencer said after awhile.

  “Time to move to the seraglio,” Mr Bentley laughed. “Would you like some wine or a drink, Desi?”

  She picked up her blouse and draped it around her shoulders, a thin vein of self-consciousness creeping into her when the cameras no longer courted their queen. She was glad, but also a little sorry, when Charlie brought her a robe. Smiling, still slick between her legs, her voice trembled slightly as she nodded to Mr Bentley. “A little wine, maybe?”

  Most of the men had a Collins, though Mr Bentley took straight Scotch. They talked about the photos, about film and lenses, things Desi knew nothing about, but they talked to her too, including her in their discussion of the poses, what they saw through their lenses, what they hoped to capture. Her. She. Light made solid on glossy paper for unknown – and known – eyes to see. She sat among them, her breasts still, for all purposes, bare, their gazes easier on her now, though she still saw the heat in their eyes, the anticipation of whatever lay ahead, and she shared that anticipation with them, loving the threads of communion and impulse.

  The wine was sweet and barely chilled. Desi had only had wine a few times, at weddings and parties, but she remembered how much she liked it, how the warmth moved under her skin.

  When the drinks had been mostly consumed, Charlie helped everyone move their tripods and gear across the room to the Oriental divan at the center of the bank of lamps.

  “We’ll spend the rest of the afternoon here, Desi,” Mr Bentley said. “I bet you have a good imagination. Our theme will be a night in a harem. Is that all right with you?”

  “Sure.” She smiled.

  “Good. You will want to undress completely. We want all the costumes to look authentic. Are you ready?”

  “What should I wear first?” she asked as she started toward the screen. Her head spun a little with the wine and the heat that had collected between her legs.

  “Any of the costumes you wish.”

  Behind the screen, she dropped the robe and her nipples stiffened instantly. She examined the costumes and picked one with a short red jacket and a pair of ballooning ebon pants. She grinned as her hands unfastened her skirt and dropped it beside the robe, unsnapped the garter as if she broke chains, and rolled the stockings down her shapely legs.

  She felt them on the other side of the screen, six men, all waiting for her. She slid her soaked white panties down her legs. All through the morning while the men had been shooting her she’d watched them and felt their desire, saw their erections – some more than others. She knew what men had between their legs – she had seen statues and paintings – but this was different. Statues and paintings were tastefully flaccid, not stiff enough to snap a photo.

  As she posed for these men, they had all grown hard watching her, wanting her, just as she needed them to see her and to want her. Never, even in her imagination, had anything felt so good, so purely ecstatic.

  She peeled away the wet panties and reveled for a moment in anticipation of their worship, and then she pulled on the harem pants and slipped on the halter that might as well have been made of spun glass.

  When she stepped in front of them, the wine’s heat spread all through her legs and up her spine. Pleasure she had known in dreams and a few times when she had touched herself, manifested magically before them, before the wide eyes of lenses.

  They posed her on the divan, chastely at first, but then more wanton, sprawled in opiate abandon, her jacket open and then gone altogether.

  “Change,” Mr Bentley commanded and she obeyed, wearing a bra made of golden chains and a belt and breechcloth that barely covered her pleasure. When she took off the bra and only a scrap of silk covered her, Doug Spencer’s pants looked like they might split open.

  Charlie wore a costume too, a harem guard, they said, and he looked good in what there was of it. He posed with her, his stomach and chest bare and hard with muscles. Mostly he posed behind her, but sometimes he stood over her while she sat at his feet. Every time he touched her, she thought she might come.

  All the time, the other five men clicked intently, spellbound as she was, their cameras touching her, chasing the light along her curves, fondling her breasts and bringing the nipples to explosive sensitive peaks, molding the tight curve of her thighs and hips. She turned before them, showing her bare bottom, aware that if she bent only a little, they would see the spread lips of her treasure.

  But she kept that from them.

  Then, late in the afternoon, the light beyond the windows ruby and gold, she wore the last costume, a tattered white shift that left her breasts and almost all of her legs bare. Charlie had stripped down to a single band of white cloth, the idea being that she and he were slaves together to a wicked sultan.

  “Now, Desi,” Mr Bentley said, his voice warm and breathless, “take off the dress.”

  She did not hesitate, her heart trilling with power and excitement, but she held them in the infinite compliance of her motion, not pulling it over her head but letting the thin straps fall from her shoulders and the fabric pool around her waist, standing to roll it over her hips and down.

  With a little gesture of submissive flirtation, Desi stepped quickly out of the white cotton and dropped it, finall
y naked before them.

  The light on her treasure thrilled her, their eyes, their desire, pulsed through her sex. She welcomed them, wanted them, soared into an ecstasy that their eyes would drink, their cameras record. Charlie’s hands rested on her hips as ripples of pleasure flowed from her treasure, through her core, her heart, her fingers and toes, and she came right there, immortal on their film.

  Scheherazade. That was who she was. The servant of these men and their mistress, and the thousand and one tales had only begun to be told.

  “Oh, baby!” Bobby exclaimed to her in the car on the way home.

  “That was the best. You’re incredible.”

  “I liked it,” Desi laughed, drunk beyond the wine. “I liked it a lot.”

  Mr Bentley, his gaze hot and flashing, had handed her a $100 tip. Dr Barlow gave her 50 and the other men pooled another 100. They wanted her to come back, but Desi didn’t commit. Another idea bloomed in her soul.

  “Bobby?” she asked. “You ever been to San Francisco?”

  “Once,” he said. “Why?”

  “We could go out there,” she said, resting her hand on his thigh as the car rumbled down the lane leading away from Bentley’s house. “I could be a model and you could be my photographer.”

  “That’s …” he started to say and then he laughed. “Why not? You’re amazing and you make me amazing. Those pictures I took the other day – they’re the best I’ve taken – well, until today.”

  “Bobby,” she said, her hand running up his thigh. “I watched you today. You weren’t like the others.” She stroked the line of his penis under his pants and he stirred, but only a little.

  They rode in silence for a few minutes.

  “Baby,” he said. She heard the serious sound of his voice as he hunted for words. “When them other guys shoot you, they want to make love to you. When I do, it’s ’cause I see how beautiful you are and I want to be you. You dig?”

  Her gut tightened at the candid confession, but now, after this day, she understood and it was all right with her, maybe better than all right. Certain kinds of jealousy would never be an issue between them.

  “Bobby, I’ve never felt so beautiful,” she said, resting her head on his shoulder. “And I want to go to California with you.”

  Stu Gilbert turned the envelope in his hands, his brow furrowing at the postmark: Oakland, California. He tore the paper and smiled his naughty twelve-year-old smile.

  Four months into 1959 and somebody had sent him a calendar worth hanging in his office. He leafed through it, regretting that he had missed January, February, and March, figuring he at least owed them a look.

  When he flipped the page to April, he stopped breathing.

  Desi! His Desi smiled back at him without a stitch on her, every bump on her pretty nipples sharp and clear as if painted with God’s own hand. She winked at him. His smile split his face as he admired her mink bush and her legs spread just a little to show perfect pussy lips.

  Stu’s boner didn’t go down till he made it to the john and jacked the toilet full of cream. He came back to his office and reverently, like a priest with a cross, hung the calendar over his desk, where it was a shrine for the rest of the month, to every one of the mechanics and the parts guys and half the customers. Stu grinned wickedly watching some of the women blush, but they couldn’t take their eyes off her.

  When the month ended, Stu very carefully tore the page from the calendar and put it with April 1958, in a folder he had found between the ledgers.

  He scratched his neck as he wandered toward the john, his cock rubbing against his trousers, the image of Desi’s snatch vivid in his mind.

  April 1958 was pretty. April 1959 was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen.

  What the hell would 1960 bring?

  The Hamper Affair

  Mel Bosworth

  “Why do you still do it, Harry?”

  Harry had been caught again, this time with his cock penetrating a swirl of wet panties. Laura stood looking on, jug of detergent hanging limply at her side.

  “I’m sorry?”

  Laura stormed off. She knew as well as Harry that he wasn’t sorry. He’d been fucking the laundry for years. Her footfalls in the kitchen came fast and loud, but Harry would be damned if he didn’t finish. He was still a man with principles, no matter the work or fetish. With a few sudsy pumps, he emptied his load into the wad of fabric, then tossed it back into the machine.

  Laura wasn’t in the kitchen by the time he made it upstairs, his belt loose and dangling.

  “Laura?”

  Since the children had gone, the need for discretion had dissipated as far as Harry was concerned. Laura might not agree, but she’d grown cold ever since menopause, which in turn fueled Harry’s thread lust.

  “Fuck it,” he said to himself.

  Harry looked out the window. Laura’s car was absent from the driveway, the space offering a loud, prophetic echo of things to come. Shaking his head, he noticed his neighbor, Marla Johnson, hanging laundry on the clothesline.

  With his belt already undone, getting his pants off was a snap. He jacked himself dry on to the window pane while watching her shake and clip, shake and clip, soppy jeans and white brassieres, her fingers well versed, her lipstick red. When Harry was spent, he slunk off to the bedroom and lay down, thoughts of stretched socks and ratty nylon ushering him to a peaceful mid-morning slumber.

  * * *

  “Wake up, Harry. I’m leaving you.”

  It was past noon, and Laura stood at the foot of the bed clutching a suitcase. Harry flopped around, cock caught in a soiled pillowcase, balls tucked into the sleeve of a T-shirt.

  Laura looked away as he gathered himself.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to stay with Heather for now. I’ll be gone for two weeks, Harry. I don’t want to see even a trace of you when I get back.”

  Harry sat up, absently pawing a pair of boxer briefs. He brought them to his nose, and sniffed. His cock stirred, rose, then whapped against his naked stomach. Laura’s face twisted like a sheet in a tornado.

  “This is exactly what I’m talking about, Harry. You and your fetish. It’s taken over. I thought I could handle it, I thought I might one day be a part of it, but you’re not interested in me anymore. You’re only interested in fucking baseball caps and fleece jackets.”

  “I never really got into baseball caps, Laura.”

  Harry’s attempt to defend himself only incited Laura’s rage. She swung the suitcase wildly, the hard nubs on the bottom grazing Harry’s forehead. He fell back, a girlish scream slipping from his lips. Laura laughed.

  “You’re such a bitch, Harry. If only the children could see you now.”

  “I’m having dinner with Cody tomorrow night,” said Harry, suddenly remembering. He’d planned the dinner with his son the week before, immediately after he and Laura had come from the steakhouse. The tablecloths there were green, and rough like a seasoned whore. Laura had pretended not to notice him curling an edge around his pole. However, when he came, he came hard, and the table shook, inviting the curious eyes of patrons and waitstaff. Laura had nearly choked on her ribeye then, but Harry was too bent in his swoon to notice.

  “Good,” she said. “You can explain to him that we’re separated. I’ll tell Heather.”

  “Separated?” asked Harry. “You don’t want a divorce?”

  Truth be told, nothing less than divorce was what Harry had expected, and the fact that he was okay with this notion made the idea of a separation a bit of a disappointment. It’s not that he didn’t love Laura anymore, but he just …

  “No,” sighed Laura. “I don’t want a divorce. Not yet.” Then her face went slack, eyes drooping. “But look at yourself, Harry. You fuck our dirty laundry. You fuck our clean laundry. Why? Have you become so disinterested in sex with a real person that you’d rather roll around with a shit-stained towel?”

  The image made Harry’s rod pulse, and Laura shook
her head disgustedly.

  “Never mind,” she said. “Don’t answer that.”

  She leaned toward the door, and Harry could tell she was waiting for something, but what, he wasn’t sure.

  “I’m sorry?” he offered, but the words immediately fell flat, both knowing they were devoid of sincerity. Harry just wasn’t ready.

  Laura cried, but she cried proudly, still strong and feminine.

  “It’s not all my fault,” said Harry, and Laura hardened like dried mud on sweatpants.

  “What the fuck do you mean, Harry, it’s not all your fault?”

  Harry recognized the tactlessness of his words, and melted. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, this time with real emotion. “But ever since your ‘change’, Laura, you’ve grown distant. And I know I’ve had my … fetish for years, but …”

  “But nothing, Harry. I’ve tried to enter into your world, I really have. Remember when I wore the same panties for a week? I asked if you wanted to play libertine? No, of course you don’t remember. You were too busy humping the mattress cover to notice me. And I know I’m still sexy. Men hit on me all the time. But …” Laura took a step toward Harry. “… I still love you.” Then she took a step back. “But you don’t see that anymore.”

  Harry put his face in his hands, trying to ignore the scent of flowery detergent. “Laura,” he began, an exasperated breath filling and then leaving his lungs. “It’s …”

  But Laura was gone. Again.

  Harry wept into the blankets for a time, thinking of all the years he and Laura had shared, all their joys and laughter. Then he grew hungry and thought about the steakhouse, then the tablecloths. He simply couldn’t wait to have dinner with Cody. “Cody? It’s Pop. Can we push that dinner to tonight? I’ve got some news.”

  “Elastic pants, Dad? Really? Is that what you’re wearing?”

  Harry had opted for elastic pants for two reasons: they were comfortable, and they were practical.