The Mammoth Book of the Best New Erotica

by Maxim Jakubowski

  Softly, “You know I did.”

  “I could tell. I haven’t seen you fuck like that since . . . since we first met.”

  She said, “Did you like me fucking those men?”

  I grabbed Beryl’s head. I was fast and she was surprised. I pushed her face into my crotch. I bunched up her slick wet hair in my fists, like I was angry. I was more horny than angry, or on a fine line that crosses both conditions. She took my cock in her mouth. I wondered how many loads of come she’d swallowed this evening. Mine would be just another. Beryl pulled my pants down and grabbed at the flesh of my ass, yanking me forward, so that I was partially in the water with her, getting wet . . .

  In bed, I asked her how long she’d been fucking Art. I knew that tonight wasn’t the first time – the way they were with each other: that familiarity of the body. Beryl said, “For a while now.”

  II. Sonata for a New Phase in Marriage

  The three of us were in the jacuzzi. This was inevitable, this had to happen; I knew it, Beryl knew it, Art knew it.

  We’d had dinner. It was a quiet dinner. I savoured every bite of the mushroom sauteed chicken Beryl had prepared, the potatoes that reminded me of being a child and eating Mother’s well-cooked meals. It was a warm night. Beryl suggested we relax in the jacuzzi, drink wine. Art wanted beer. Beryl drank wine. We got naked, acting like excited, modest teenagers doing something daring and naughty and went into the water.

  It was a clear night out, a lot of stars.

  I was also drinking wine.

  “That’s Mars up there.” Beryl pointed at the sky, to a bright star with a red tint.

  “Think there’s life up there?” Art said.

  “Mars? Or elsewhere?”

  “Mars.”

  “Sure,” she said.

  “What do you think?” Art asked me.

  “As long as they don’t invade us,” I said, “I don’t care.”

  “I’m glad you’re not mad,” he said.

  “I’m not mad,” I said. “I keep telling myself I should be. But I’m not.”

  “It’s good that you’re not,” Beryl said. “It means you’re growing. It means you’re moving in the direction I am, and that makes me happy.”

  Art waded through the water in her direction. She giggled. He backed her against the Jacuzzi wall. They kissed. I sipped my glass of wine and watched him kiss her. I watched him lift her body up, sit her on the edge of the jacuzzi, spread her legs, and go down on her. Beryl liked this. She ran her fingers through his wet hair and made familiar sounds of pleasure. I knew those sounds like a distant cousin one has fond memories of. She leaned back, propping herself on her elbows, and let Art work his tongue between her legs, his hairy hands rubbing her stomach and breasts. She looked at me and said, “Come here and stick that dick in my mouth.”

  I got out of the water. The hair on my body was matted, I was dripping. I liked walking about like this, my cock pointing the way. I crouched before Beryl so she could take me in her mouth as Art continued to eat her pussy, grunting sounds coming from his throat.

  We then moved away from the jacuzzi to a lounge chair, where she sucked on us both: Art and I standing close, almost touching, Beryl going from one cock to another. I could smell Art’s body. I could smell the musk from his crotch, and I wondered if I was emitting any odours he could sense. Needless to say, the smell of sex permeated the immediate air around us.

  We took turns fucking my wife. Art went first. I wanted to watch them; watching them made me want her all the more.

  “Whore,” I whispered in her ear when it was my turn.

  “Yeah,” she said, “talk dirty to me.”

  When we went to the bed, Beryl wanted us both inside her at the same time. “One in my kitty,” she said with a seductive voice, touching herself, “and one in my booty.”

  “I have hope for us,” she said later.

  We were lying in bed alone. The sex had been good. I remembered a night, not a month ago, when we were in bed together and she had said, “We should just have wild sex right now, that’d solve all our problems,” but neither of us could do it.

  “That’s good,” I said.

  “I really do.” She kissed me.

  I kissed her back.

  “I feel so sexual, so alive again. I want to fuck more men. I want to fuck a lot of men. I love you. Will you help me do this?”

  She could have done it by herself, or with Art, but she wanted me involved, and I wanted to be involved. And Art, of course, wished to be there too.

  It started with the gang bang. Art made the arrangements for this, being the resourceful fellow that he is, getting the guys Beryl had fucked at The Party together for another go at it. There were nine of them in all, more than I had originally imagined. Had my wife really fucked nine men that night? I suppose so. Ten, including Art. Eleven, including me.

  If I should ever think that what happened was just a wild fantasy, or a dream, I have the evidence on videotape. It was, yes, Art’s idea to capture this night for posterity. When he suggested it to Beryl, she got this wild look in her eyes and said, “Yes.” I was beginning to know that look better and better. I wanted her to say no. I wanted her to say no because I liked the idea myself.

  (A number of times, alone, feeling lonely, thinking of the life I once had, I will put that tape into the VCR and watch. I will watch my wife fuck all those men in a single session, fucking in every combination possible.

  Others have watched her. Hundreds, thousands, all over the world. This is really what this story is about.)

  It was Art’s idea – again – to create a website and place stills from the gang-bang video on it. He created the web page and allowed people to access it for free. In a matter of days, the site was getting thousands of hits. Art said this was a combination of posting stills to various news groups with sexual themes, and the help of a number of search engines.

  After a month, he – or we – announced that the whole videotape could be purchased for $34.95.

  In a matter of weeks, two thousand orders came in.

  First we were just some people doing kinky things, and now we were in business.

  We were, I guess you can say, pornographers.

  III. Solo in the Jacuzzi, with Memory

  I was alone in the jacuzzi. It was another clear night. That red star was indeed Mars. I stared at it. I wanted to go there. I wondered what sex life was like on Mars.

  In the bedroom, in the house, Art and Beryl were fucking. He had been fucking her in the ass when I had left, and came out here, turned on the jet streams, and sat in the warm bubbling water. I closed my eyes while looking up.

  In the water, I thought about the two of them. I pictured his cock going in and out of her butt, the muscles of her sphincter contracting with each thrust. As I thought of this, I started to become aroused. The image in my head was far more enticing than returning to the bedroom and seeing and smelling it. In my mind, I was the director, I was in control, and I made my own movie of the act.

  I also pictured scenes from the night of The Party.

  I touched myself. I had my cock in my hand under the water, and I began to jack off.

  I watched my semen clump in the water and float to the top, getting caught in a whirlwind of bubbles, spinning around, blending in with water and chlorine.

  Intermission

  How We Met

  I met Beryl at the recital of an experimental cellist; he was on tour for his new CD. In the first half of his performance, he presented classical pieces by Debussy and Mozart. I had difficulty listening – I kept glancing at the blonde woman who was sitting alone, across from me in the small concert hall. She was wearing black slacks and a white cotton blouse. She kept looking at me as well. We talked during the intermission. Small talk: What do you think of the cellist? Oh, he’s good. We sat together for the second half, and the cellist presented his own iconoclastic work, hooking his instrument to microphones, adding special effects, or playing along with a ta
pe full of strange sounds. towards the end, he did a manic solo and broke two strings. After, I asked the blonde woman – Beryl – if she’d like to go get some coffee. “No,” she said, “but how about a beer?” Two months later, we were living together. Six months later, we were married.

  IV. Quartet

  “We’ve been approached with a business deal,” Art said on the phone. Beryl and I were on separate phones in different rooms, listening together.

  “Go on,” she said.

  He said, “There’s this couple – here in the city – who have a successful online business. They do the same as us: sell videos and pix of them fucking, or the wife fucking some guys. Then they started to make and distribute vids of other couples. Acting as distributors, growing their business. You know. They came across our website, and they want Beryl. I mean, they can sell five times the amount of videos we do. Or so they say.”

  “What does this mean?” I said.

  “More money,” Art said.

  “More money,” Beryl said, “sounds good to me.”

  This couple – Fred and Donna – invited the three of us for dinner to talk about the possibility of a business venture. Art drove in his own car and was late. Beryl and I were both nervous and we didn’t know why.

  They had a nice, modestly furnished suburban house, not the kind of place you’d think a big internet porn outfit would be located. Fred and Donna were also the kind of couple you might see at a PTA meeting – almost conservatively dressed, quiet, and friendly. They were in their late thirties, attractive and unassuming.

  Over dinner, we talked about our lives, not sex.

  I wondered why I was here. I was expecting drugs, hard booze, triple-X love acts.

  Fred suggested we go to the water.

  They also had a jacuzzi, but this one could fit ten people. It was very nice and spacious. Fred and Donna disrobed before us and got in. Donna was a bit on the chubby side, but had a magnificent tan and silicone-enhanced breasts. Fred, I was quick to notice, didn’t have a hair on his well-muscled body, and his dick had to be ten inches long.

  Art stripped and jumped in. Beryl and I took our clothes off slowly, still uncertain, and joined the party.

  We were all drinking champagne, by the way. It always begins with some kind of party.

  “You have a great body,” Donna said to Beryl.

  “Thank you,” Beryl said.

  “I’d love to fuck you,” Donna said.

  “I’m not bi,” Beryl said.

  “Too bad,” Donna said. “But maybe Fred can fuck you. I like to watch him fuck other women.”

  “Sounds good to me.” Beryl laughed.

  “You got a look-see at his tool?” Donna said.

  “Oh, yes,” Beryl said. “I wonder if I could take it.”

  “It takes some getting used to,” Donna said. “His cock is very nice.”

  “Yeah,” Beryl said.

  Art and I looked at each other.

  “Let’s talk business,” Fred said.

  “Let’s,” Art said.

  “This past year,” Fred said, “we’ve cleared three million in sales.”

  I almost choked on my champagne. Beryl did.

  “You’re shitting me,” Art said.

  “No,” Fred said.

  Donna smiled. “We’ll make more each year.”

  “Porn is the backbone of e-commerce,” Fred said, “and the amateur market is in a boom. A huge boom. There are dozens, hundreds of people like us making a living off pleasure. We have something many people out there want.”

  “Intimacy,” Donna said, “and love.”

  “This business saved our marriage,” Fred said. He drew Donna close to him. They held each other. They kissed. “We wouldn’t be together now,” he went on. “It added . . . excitement. It delivered us from an absolutely dull life, the same thing day after day. You know what I mean.”

  “I was ready to leave him,” Donna said. “I wanted something more.”

  “We both did,” Fred said.

  “And we found it,” Donna said.

  Beryl and I looked at each other. I moved to kiss her. She kissed me. Art looked away.

  “We like what you have,” Donna said.

  “We can get rich together,” Fred said.

  “I like the sound of that,” Beryl said.

  “Me too,” I said.

  Fred said, “So let’s fuck and seal the deal.”

  We all laughed.

  “Hey, buddy,” Fred said to Art, “there’s a camera in the house, and a light. Why don’t you get it.”

  Art nodded and got out of the water. He looked lonely, walking away wet and naked. I can’t say that I felt sorry for him.

  Donna moved to me, and Beryl moved to Fred. I took Donna’s large breasts in my hands and rubbed them. Her pink nipples were pointing at me. Beryl was stroking Fred’s big dick and she said something like, “Oh, my.” He sat on the edge of the spa, and Beryl did her best to take him in her mouth.

  “You want me to suck your dick too?” Donna whispered. “What do you want me to do? I’ll do anything, anything.” Art set up the camera.

  Donna and I got out of the water to fuck. I had her on her back, her thick legs on my shoulders. She smelled strongly of perfume. She reached up and bit my nipple as I fucked her. Beryl was still sucking on Fred.

  “Hey,” Fred said, turning to me with a smile. “I think I’m about to come in your wife’s mouth.”

  Art didn’t join us. As he operated the video camera, he jerked off. He was now an observer. I could see it on his face: something was missing. He looked lonely and I didn’t care.

  V. Epilogue

  Our hair was still wet when we got in the car. We were electrified. The sex had been good, the idea of success even better.

  I touched my wife’s face.

  “We don’t need Art,” she said.

  “I was thinking the same thing.”

  “Our marriage will work, won’t it?”

  “I hope so.”

  “We can be as happy and wealthy as Donna and Fred.”

  I wanted to say that we were Donna and Fred. We’d just made love to our mirror images, and it was caught on tape.

  I started the car.

  “Turn on the heater,” Beryl said. “I don’t want to catch cold.”

  I did, and as we drove, the warmth started at our feet and moved up our bodies and to our faces. We were holding hands the whole way.

  Home, our hair dry, we went into our own jacuzzi and fucked in the water and under the stars, and there was only us, and it was very nice again, for a while.

  Do What You Love

  Susannah Indigo

  Sitting up here on the kitchen counter with my blue plaid skirt up over my hips and my legs spread open, I watch him slice carrots for the soup. He likes me to sit here and tell him stories about my day in school. Especially about boys. When he walked in he lifted me up onto the counter without a word, pulled my panties off, spread my legs and propped my knees up. He watches my bare pussy and cooks while I talk. This may be the kinkiest Daddy I have ever had.

  “Eddie Burke pulled my skirt up again after maths class, Daddy,” I begin. I know he loves this, and it’s a true story, just a very old one. “And then he said I was a slut because he looked at my panties and they were blue and not white. I hate him.”

  Daddy comes over and kisses me, stroking his fingers across my clit. This is part of what makes him so kinky, those damn fingers. I’ve never seen his cock in the daylight, but he drives me wild with his fingers.

  “Those little boys who tease you in school don’t even know what a clit is, do they, baby?” he says. His fingers are everywhere. It’s his fingers and the spankings that get to me. This Daddy can spank me like nobody else can. I think it’s because he makes me wait so long – always talking about what he’s going to do, talking about how my ass looks when I’m over his knee, about how deep his finger is going to go up my ass if I don’t hold still for him.
r />   The only time I ever feel his cock is in the middle of the night, long after he’s brushed my teeth and read me a bedtime story and dressed me in the soft pink ruffled nightgown he bought for me. Then when I’m sound asleep, I’ll wake up on my belly with his weight on top of me and the nightgown raised to my waist and his lips against my ear whispering, “It’s OK, baby, Daddy’s here, it’s OK, Daddy will make you feel better, just lift your bottom up in the air for Daddy, yes, baby,” and his hard cock forces its way all at once up into my pussy and Daddy whispers and rocks his hips hard into me and I cry a little bit because I’m not ready and it hurts and that makes him fuck me harder and harder until I’m more than ready and Daddy comes hard and fast up inside of me and he falls back asleep with his full weight pressing me down into the bed, whispering, “You’re such a good little girl, you’re so good to your Daddy. You make your Daddy come so hard.”

  It really does hurt, in an intensely erotic kind of way. But he’s not the Daddy that worries me.

  A book got me started in this, one of the dozens of motivational ones I read back when I worked for a corporation and thought I needed it. Do What You Love, the Money Will Follow was the name of it and I liked that one because it told me what I wanted to hear: that you could make money having fun. I already knew what my kind of fun was – painting, feeling sexy and getting well fucked.

  Money and energy underlie all our dreams, no matter what those dreams are. They said I was a good painter back in college but then real life and two babies – their father is long gone – took over my energy and priorities. I started my own graphic design business on a surge of energy, but it exhausted me trying to make ends meet.

  Not long after I read that book, I found myself at a charity masquerade ball at the Black Palace Hotel. I wasn’t planning on going, but my friend Cheryl dragged me there at the last minute. All I could find to wear was my high-school cheerleader outfit.

  “Katie,” Cheryl whispered to me over by the bar where I was spending most of my time. “See that man over there, the one with the silver hair and the black cape?” I did. “He’s so toasted! You won’t believe this. He pointed to you and said, ‘I’d give anything to fuck that little cheerleader.’ ”