“So it would seem, my lady.”
The princess waved her hand, still not looking at me. “If the barbarian cannot wait a week, let him plant his seeds here. No one shall speak of it.”
And then I was returned to him.
And so it went, for seven days and seven nights, during which I spent most of my time either in the bathhouse or in the air-light bed, waiting for my prince to quicken, waiting to have my newly empty spaces filled in a manner so intimate I would never have imagined it possible before. The household was busy, preparing for the wedding. The cool white halls were filled with the scent of meats being roasted on the beach, and servants with heaping baskets of fruit went back and forth. From the prince’s window I could see men were erecting a roof where the wedding would take place. But my prince had no role in these preparations, and we spent long hours, lying in the bedclothes, as he would slide a finger over my shoulders, down my arm, or use a small palm frond to brush and tickle my newest and most sensitive skin, between my thighs.
On the seventh night, he came to the room bearing a basket with food for me as he always did, but he did not feed it to me as he had before. He put the basket down and took me in his arms immediately.
The torchlight flickered in his gold-spun hair, and his kiss ranged down from my lips to my neck, then to my breasts as he pulled the cloth away from me, as his lips and tongue moved hungrily over my skin. My hunger for food was forgotten as I drank in his touch instead. He lifted me off my feet then, and brought me to the bed. I lay there a moment watching him emerge from his clothing like a crab from his shell. Naked and new again he came to me then, his skin on fire and his eagerness for me making his breath shallow. I matched his hunger with mine, gobbling up his maleness as I had that day on the beach, the hard pole of him going deep into my mouth. But soon he pulled me away with a shudder, before the salt spray could come. He hooked one of my legs over each shoulder, folding me up so that the burning slot between my legs was lifted for him.
He plunged a finger into me and I gasped. “You know,” he said to me then, “I had not known many women before you. I had dreamed of them, desired them, hungered for them, but had tasted so few.” Here he bent his head to lick at me and I tensed with pleasure. “And the few who would give in, desperate serving wenches looking for a way to better their position. Dirty sluts. I feared their diseases and their plots for my bastards.” His finger returned to the empty place in me, and burrowed there. “But then there you were, delivered to me by a magic prayer. A virgin, clean as the sea water running off your skin, and you took me in.” Now he heaved himself up to lay his manhood onto my mound. I felt it there, heavy and hot, and it twitched like a fish. He seemed to have no more to say, and into me he dove. How many times had he been inside me since that first night on the beach? More times than I had digits to count. And yet I lived for that moment, when we were as close together as two bodies could be. Even as my arms clutched at his back, I held him tight, inside, and he cried out. I felt the salty flow that always reminded me of home.
He slept, then, and I would have, too, but I heard a song then borne on the sea breeze through the window. I heard my sisters singing down in the lagoon, and walking on my pins-and-needles feet, I made my way down to the water. There they bobbed, their heads just far enough above the water that I could hear them.
“Sister, sister, come back to us!” they cried.
I shook my head, unable to say anything else.
“We spoke to the sea witch,” Mara, the oldest told me. “And she told us what she had done.”
“But she did not tell you everything,” Lara, the youngest said, salt tears welling in her eyes. “She said you would lose everything of us if you joined with him.”
“Your tail, your voice . . .” said Sara, my closest sister.
“But she did not tell you what would happen if you lost him!” Mara swam closer to the shore. “Only while he is yours will you live. If he gives his heart to another, you will die.”
Lara wailed. “We begged her that it not be so. She should have told you.”
Sara held something out of the water. “So she told us there is one way you might be saved.” She tossed the thing and it flew slickly through the night air to land in the sand near my aching feet. “Take the knife. If you cut out his heart, you will live. Let his blood drip over your legs and you will grow a tail again. Swallow his blood and you will regain your voice. And then you can come back to us.”
“Emerald?” The prince’s voice came from above me on the terrace. And my sisters disappeared with a quiet splash.
“Here you are,” he said, as he approached. The tips of his fingers brushed my cheek and I leaned my face into the dry smoothness of his hand. I took a deep breath of his salty scent, and licked his palm.
“Hungry again, are we?” he whispered. My lips found his neck then, and the soft place behind his ear, and I felt the fire in him begin to burn again. The breeze itself was a caress on my bare flesh, the rush of the waves a seductive song of its own.
He slid his fingers into my hair and it felt as if I dove into a clear lagoon, my hair swept back from my face and my body tingling with his touch. Our lips met then, and it was like the moment when I broke the surface for the first time, his breath mingling with mine. I could feel his heart beat everywhere along his skin.
We let gravity take its course, as it so easily did on land, and soon our legs were entwined on the sand. I could feel the hard barb of him, the stone that I hungered for, sliding back and forth trying to find its way inside me. And I knew, somehow, that my sisters were wrong. In that first fateful moment when we had kissed, in that first spark of fire inside me, in the first breath of air we shared that fanned the spark to a flame, in that first embrace of the weight of the earth, I had lost the purity of the water. I could not go back. I could no longer live without air and earth and fire.
I cried out as he sank into me, salt tears tracking my face, my feeble feet drumming on his back as I tried to drive him deeper and deeper in. Tomorrow he would marry the princess and I knew, if I did not have his stone to hold me, I would float away into the air. If I did not have the salt of his come, I would burn away to ash. If I did not have his breath to fill my lungs, I would be buried alive. If I did not have his burning desire to draw me up again and again, I would drown. Tomorrow he would marry the princess but, for tonight, I was whole.
Fried Blonde Tomatoes
Robert Schaffer
What is it about burnt-out blondes? There they are, on the train to Long Island, a few too many scotches floating them along. Or out in fancy Connecticut suburbs, hair rinsed to a crisp, the financial beneficiaries of one too many divorces. And on the streets of Manhattan, with delicate perfume trailing behind them, they sashay in bewildered astonishment.
And I crave them. I crave them all.
Take the other day. I was in a toy store on Bleecker street, and behind the counter was a stringy blonde in her late thirties, skin pockmarked and eyes droopy. A drug user or ex-junkie. I got hard just hearing her husky voice, the product of too many cigarettes and sleepless nights. We smiled at each other as I pretended to peruse the plastic goods. She leaned forwards, letting her cleavage bulge.
“You know, anything you want, I’m sure I can offer you a deal.”
I pretended to think about this.
“What sort of deal?”
She looked at her watch.
“Almost lunch time. You hungry?”
“Very,” I said, in a voice that left no doubt what I was hungry for.
She walked out from the counter, her ass tight in a dark leather mini-skirt, locked the door, flipped the closed sign and pulled the shade.
“So,” I said, “What’s for lunch?”
“Oh,” she breathed, and hopped up on the glass counter, “we got the blue plate special,” and she pulled up her skirt and spread her panty-less crotch, “pussy on glass.”
“Well, I’ve got the perfect side dish,” I replied.
<
br /> “Yeah? And what would that be, lover?”
I put my hands on her legs and bent down.
“Tongue in bush, what else?” and went to it.
She grunted as I licked. She tasted of nicotine, alcohol, and several illegal substances.
“Take your time, lover, lunch is an hour long,” and she leaned back to open up wider. She didn’t make much noise, just sighed deeply as I plunged my tongue this way and that.
“Make more noise,” she said, in that husky raspy voice. “I want to hear you slurp!”
I slurped.
“Yeah, lover, that’s it!” and she put a hand to her mouth and bit one of her fingers, making soft noises. “Kiss it, kiss it all over.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I mumbled, and I loudly placed big wet kisses on her moist cunt. I could feel the beginnings of her orgasm as she agitated her ass, and her breathing became jagged. She finally came with a long drawn-out sigh. She leaned back on the counter while I gently kissed her crotch. I left with an Astro-Boy keychain, Catwoman magnet, rubber squid, and Baby Spice doll.
And an open invitation for lunch any time I wanted it.
I was on a roll with druggies, because my next blonde was a platinum 24-year-old heroin addict with lovely eyes, rotten teeth, and plush breasts. She was shivering in 85 degrees heat sitting on a bench in Tompkins Square Park, and as I walked by she made a pitch for money in a surprisingly girlish voice.
“Dude, you gotta buck, I needa buck.”
I looked at her sternly. “Do your parents know you’re out here?”
She opened her eyes (or I think she did, hard to tell) and looked up at me.
“Shit, dude, my dad’s a dog-fucker and my mom gave me my first taste!”
I sat down next to her.
“Gee, so you’ve had it hard, huh?”
“Fuck, yeah!” and she breathed in mucus. “Looka this,” and she pulled up her T-shirt to show me scars on her stomach.
“Christ,” I whistled, “what happened?”
“My dad used to beat me.” She took my hand and placed it on the right side of her head. There was a valley in her skull. “He knocked me so hard one day I got dented,” and she began to sniff.
“There there,” I cooed to her, and she fell passively against my body. I stroked her hair and rocked her, breathing in her odour: essence of unwashed skin spiced with urine notes. I wanted to lick her right there.
“What’s your name?”
“Dorothy.”
“Where do you live, Dorothy?”
She shrugged. “Wherever, man,” and I could see her eyes getting wet. I lifted her face.
“Tell you what, Dorothy, why don’t I take you to dinner?”
Her eyes widened. “Yeah? You ain’t shittin’ me?”
“Nope. You deserve a night out.”
She shook against me. “I’m kinda fucked-up.”
I brushed my lips against hers and whispered in her ear. “We can take care of that, too.”
“That’d be so cool, dude. I know where to get supremo shit.”
“And you can, ahh, ‘do your business’ at my place, maybe take a shower.”
She threw her arms around my neck in a very childish gesture. “Oh, dude!” she exclaimed, and kissed my cheek. “What’s your name?”
I told her. She smiled at me.
“Know what?” she said with a Shirley Temple intonation.
“No, what?”
“You can fuck me if you want,” she lisped. “I gotta very tight pussy. Everyone says so.”
“Well, how nice of them.”
“Yeah – and know what else?”
I already knew what I needed to know, but what the hey – In cases like this, more is more, you know?
“Nope, I don’t.”
“I really like my ass fucked,” and she turned her baby eyes on me. “Would you like to fuck my ass?”
I smiled at her. “Maybe after dinner. I don’t like to ass fuck on an empty stomach.”
She frowned. “Dude, you’re not making funna me, are you?”
I kissed her full on the lips, taking in a mouthful of her bad breath, and said, “Let’s get your shit.” She shyly took my hand and led me out of the park to a street off Avenue B that must’ve been missed when the Lower East Side became the East Village. It was filthy. In the middle of the block, we stopped in front of a boarded-up tenement. She instructed me to wait out front, because “the dude’ll freak if he sees you, dude!” I slipped her the necessary bills and she entered the building through a space in the boards. Some people passed me and glared. I smiled back. She suddenly reappeared.
“Done deal, dude!”
I put my arm around her waist and led her to 14th Street, where I hailed a cab. She sank back on the seat, her eyes glazing over. I hustled her into my apartment building in Chelsea, and felt her up in the elevator, running my hands over her breasts. She fell back against the wall and shut her eyes.
“You dig me, that’s cool,” she mumbled.
In the apartment she kicked off her ratty sneakers and pulled her shirt off, gleefully falling on my sofa and rummaging in her bag for her works. With an engineer’s precision she assembled her needle and prepared the packet and spoon.
“Uh, would you like a candle?”
“Thanks, dude!” and spoon was set to flame. She looked up at me, with serious eyes. “You wanna fuck me while I shoot?” She pulled the heroin into the syringe. “Really, I dig being fucked,” and she wrapped a worn piece of surgical tubing around her arm, “while I do shit.”
I knelt by her and kissed her, then filled my mouth with those nubile breasts, biting into her nipples while she squirmed. Her skin had an earthy, dirty flavour.
“Take my pants off, dude.”
I tongued her breasts, then licked her navel, which was pierced with a small silver ring. I undid her pants and slid them off. The pungent odour of unwashed pussy wafted forth.
“Now you. I wanna see your cock.”
Her eyes brightened as I threw off all my clothes.
“Dude, you’re so clean!” and she grabbed my cock and licked it like a greedy child with a candy cane. she sucked it into her mouth. The sight of my cock going in and out of those young pillowy lips, while one of her hands held a needle and the other arm wore surgical tubing thrilled me to the balls. I twined her unwashed hair into my fingers and pumped her mouth. But before I could come she pulled my cock out.
“Fuck me,” she said.
I prepared to roll a condom on, but she stopped me.
“Nyuh-uh, dude, you gotta do it raw.”
“Dorothy –” I began to protest, but she cut me off.
“You ain’t afraid of catchin’ somethin’, are ya?”
I paused.
“Cause if you think I’m dirty, I’m leaving, dude.”
She arched and spread her legs, and revealed the raw sweet pinkness in her pubic hair (dyed blonde – very careful for a homeless junkie, I thought). I got on the couch and rubbed my dick along her crack.
“Wait, dude, I just gotta get ready,” and she pulled the tubing tight with her mouth and positioned the needle. Then she smiled.
I pushed in and she shot up. The heroin took her and she went slack and her arms drooped. “Baby’s being fucked,” she murmured in a sing-song girly voice. “Yummy yummy yummy, I got jism in my tummy, and I feel like nodding out.” She stopped singing and giggled as I fucked her using long strokes, and she hadn’t lied: she had a tight sweet twat.
Suddenly she kicked against me, forcing me out of her hole, my cock twanging stupidly in the air. “Jesus, Dorothy, what the hell!” but for an answer she twirled, got up on all fours, and presented her ass to me. There was a tattoo on her left cheek of a heart pierced by a bloody knife.
“Please dude, up my ass, fuck me up my ass!” and she pulled her cheeks apart. What the hell, in for a penny, etc. etc. I positioned myself while reaching one of my arms forwards to grasp her tits. I used my other hand to shove my cock into her r
ather unpleasantly brown small hole.
She screeched in delight, “Yeah, baby likes, oooh, yeah, hard, baby wants it hard!” and I began to pound her. Her face fell into a sofa pillow, and she drooled as she made little grunting noises. I never thought of myself as a fan of anal sex, but I dug the feel of her anal canal, and I dug the way my cock looked going in and out of that tight round ass of hers.
“You dig baby’s ass?” she mumbled into the pillow.
“Yeah, I dig it!” I exuberantly replied, and fucked her harder. I could feel the come rising, pouring into my cock-head. I jerked, and came with a glorious spurt that curled my toes and made me moan. I even had some after-tremors, little oozing quakes after the main event. Sperm dribbled out her asshole, disgusting and exciting me. I pulled free, and saw brown flecks on my dick.
“Jesus,” I whispered, and fell against her back.
We were soon sleeping side by side. I was in a deep post-coital sleep, but she – she was deep in junkie heaven, her mind in a black abyss, lost to the world and herself.
Afterwards, I scrubbed myself with scalding water and steel wool.
Oh, and I did take her to dinner.
Of course, there was a very brief interlude with a ditzy single mom, black roots showing beneath a bad rinse job. I finger-fucked her in the furniture department at Macy’s, while her kid jumped on chaise lounges.
But let me tell you about my prize: a plastic surgerized fifty-something with the proverbial penthouse on Park Avenue, courtesy of husband number three. Her face stretched behind her ears, her hair was like a mane of frizzled fools gold, and her pussy was shaved. She had one of those vulgar deep tans that showed off her age spots. Yet her breasts were real, small and charmingly flat against her chest. I met her in a bar off Union Square. She wore white Capri pants, red pumps, and a pale blue scarf twirled around her neck. Her shirt had one too many buttons undone, revealing a very expensive red satin bra. Depending on your zip code, her outfit was either retro-chic or suburban vulgar. She was finishing a Cosmopolitan, her loud red lipstick firmly imprinted on the glass. I stood next to her stool. Her perfume wafted against my nostrils. I ordered bourbon, water on the side. She glanced sideways, appraising me.
The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 1 Page 34
