The Mammoth Book of Erotica presents The Best of Thomas S. Roche

by Thomas S. Roche

  “Hey, baby?” came Jessa’s voice from the top of the stairs. Justin has never been so relieved in all his life; it gives him the perfect excuse to get up and leave the scene. His relief only lasts a moment, though, because as he walks his mostly hard dick goes wrenching down into the elastic of his boxer-briefs’ left leg, and he’s right back in discomfort-ville.

  “Need something?” he calls up the stairs, his voice as pleasant as he can make it – and fairly pleasant, really, all things considered.

  “I need help getting into my dress. Can you send one of the girls up?”

  Justin shoots a look at the couch area; Tara and Blackbird are definitely déshabillé; Sherry is most definitely occupied as Boyfriend periodically yelps “Spank her!” and “Smack ’er butt!”

  Justin races up the stairs, pausing halfway to stick his hands down his leather pants and adjust his cock; he breathes a sigh of relief. He runs the rest of the way up to the bedroom door, opens it. Jessa is stark naked; she whirls, gasps, covers herself with her hands, tits only, freshly shaved pussy still visible. Justin’s eyes go wide, then he gives her a wicked smile.

  “I said send one of the girls!”

  “They’re all busy,” says Justin, eyeing Jessa up and down lasciviously. “All of a sudden you’re afraid to let me see you naked?”

  She glances at the bed, where an immaculate black rubber minidress with a tomato-red stripe down the side sits alongside a pair of rubber panties and a bottle of cornstarch baby-powder.

  “I didn’t want you to see my dress until I’m ready,” she says with a flirty smile. “It’s a surprise.”

  “I’m surprised.” Justin smiles, and moves closer to Jessa. For an instant it seems like she’s going to move away, but then she melts into him and as his arms go around her he feels the smoothness of her well-dried flesh; four damp towels form a trail from the bathroom, terminating in a limp pair of thigh-high black latex boots, a stripe on the outside of each the exact tomato-red of the stripe on the dress.

  “Amazing,” he whispers.

  She feels the bulge in his leathers just as his finger finds she’s not dry all over. She wriggles deeper into him and he fingers her until she whimpers, then pushes away.

  “Everybody’s waiting,” she says. “I need to get dressed.”

  “They’ve got crudités,” says Justin. “And drinks.” He smiles evilly. “And I’m sure they can entertain themselves.”

  She comes close, kisses him, rubs his cock through his pants. “You can fuck me at the party,” she whispers. “They’ve got that great back alley behind the standing cage.” She pulls away; he gropes after her; she dances out of reach. “Help me get my dress on?”

  “If you insist,” he says, eyeing her naked body.

  “I have to put the boots on first,” she says, sitting on the edge of the very high four-poster bed – his thoughts going evil places: how many times has he had her tied to that bed? How desperately does he want to tie her to it right now? – and lifting one sockless foot into the air as she pulls on one high boot. She’s not going to be able to walk much without socks, thinks Justin; then again, he’s not sure he wants her to.

  Jessa wiggles her foot at him. “Zip?”

  Justin gets close enough to smell her, his fingers caressing the zipper as he draws it over her ankle, up her calf, past her scrumptious knee, and up her thigh. On the inside. His hand keeps moving. Two fingers go into her, easy as pie, before she can close her legs. She slips back onto the bed, arches her back, moans.

  “Stop,” she gasps, wriggling her way off of him. She’s smiling, but flushed, breathing hard. She kicks him away playfully with her high-heeled latex domme boot; she squirms her shapely foot into the other boot, then shoots him a wicked look, knowing what’s coming; with this one he takes his time zipping, letting his hands travel more slowly, and she lets him fuck her a little, two fingers inside her and a thumb on her clit, legs spread, her body looking magnificent, naked except for those boots. He goes to lunge onto her. She pulls and rolls away, seizing the cornstarch.

  “Powder me,” she orders, handing him the bottle and putting up her arms. He frowns, scowls, dusts cornstarch onto his palms and begins rubbing them all over her. He starts with her breasts, because how can he not? She moans softly as his dusted palms work her nipples. He rubs down lower, turns her around, does her back, dusts her ass, spends more time on her breasts, her nipples now even harder, more sensitive, more responsive to the gentle pinches he gives her.

  “You were going to let Sherry do this?”

  “Maybe,” she sighs softly. “With a few minor variations.”

  Bending over so that her naked, cornstarch-dusted ass rubs against the swell of his leather-clad cock, she reaches out and gets the dress. She stands, and he takes it from her, stretches it, holds it for her to slide her arms into, then pulls it over her head, then gently pulls it down over her body: shoulders, breasts – going very slowly, caressing as he does – belly – ditto – then hips, and as he snugs the dress down over her thighs to the point where it’s just barely decent, she wriggles to help him settle it, and he decides the last thing he wants is this fucking dress settled.

  She doesn’ t even realize what’s happening; he’s bent her over the edge of the bed and has one hand on his belt, the other circling her wrist. She gasps, squirms a little, struggles, pushes back, starts to fight, weakly. When he kicks her booted feet apart, she does not pull them back together; she does not wriggle out of his grasp, and when the zipper goes down and his cock comes free, her hand gropes after it – but no, that’s not how she’s going to have him. He grabs her free wrist and pins it with the other up high in the small of her back, bending her over harder, shoving her against the bed as he surges onto her. She’s played the tease, now she’ll play the victim.

  He holds her wrists tight and pins her to the bed. He wants to enter her without preliminary, taking her violently, savagely – but he stops at the last minute, holding his pinned captive and biting the back of her neck so hard she surges and writhes against him, crying out. His cockhead teases and rubs her lips, smooth with razor and lotion and cornstarch, in that order, slick with pussy juice and pre-come, in that order. Then as he pins her wrists behind her, holding them tighter than ever, he uses his other hand to open up the swollen lips of her sex and his cockhead finds her center.

  He’s in her with a single smooth thrust, and she tries to stifle it, the scream, but she can’t. With the second thrust, deep into her, it’s midway between a cry and a yelp; then it’s all moan, slow and soft, as he begins to fuck her rapidly, not giving her a chance to acclimate, just taking her, using her, giving her stroke after stroke and not caring that he’s going to come well before she can.

  But then he remembers his own wicked plan for the evening – a surreptitious, forbidden fuck, in that dark corner behind the standing cage, and Jessa climaxing desperately on his cock because ever the Boy Scout, he’s thought ahead.

  He no longer needs both hands; the one pinning her wrists is a nice touch, but his cock’s doing a fine job of holding her lips open wide as he slides in and out of her. He reaches into his tight leather pants, the belt buckle rattling and making her gasp a little as its coldness grazes her skin. He comes out with a tiny pushbutton vibrator, the size of a robin’s egg.

  She never sees it coming. He’s into her all the way again, so deep that when he pushes the vibe up against her clit he can feel her muscles contracting around his cock. But she holds him too tight; he wants her too bad; as he fucks wildly into her he realizes they’re not going to hit it together. Holding the vibrator in place, he stops, all the way inside her; he breathes hard, he shudders, he freezes; every muscle in his body goes tense. He pulls out and his head swells her entrance. She arches her back and shoves herself back onto him.

  Fuck it, he figures, and starts thrusting smoothly into her; it’s maybe three strokes before it happens. He lets out a long, savage groan. He heaves his body onto her and his hips piston as h
e pins her against the bed. She shoves back against his pressure, and he floods her with his come.

  Jessa lets out a low sigh of satisfaction, obviously thinking she’s finished, but nothing could be further from the truth. When he pulls out of her easily, a thick string of his come glistens between his cock and her sex. She goes to get up from under him, but he still pins her wrists. She seems puzzled for a moment.

  “What about the guests?”

  “By now I think Mike’s probably bisexual,” I said, “and I wouldn’t be surprised if Sherry’s boyfriend’s gone gay.”

  She looks at him over her shoulder, her makeup a little messy, one eye open wider than the other.

  “Huh?”

  Without answering, he clicks off the vibe, holds her wrists tighter, leans over her, grabs the rubber panties, not caring a bit that they’re both dribbling his come onto the floor. He has to let go of her wrists to do it, which is a disappointment since that’s his biggest turn-on, pinning her wrists while he fucks her; he also has to nudge her legs closed, which is a disappointment since that’s his second biggest turn-on. But it’s all worth it, as he guides first one booted foot, then the other, up and through the legs of the rubber panties.

  “What are you doing?” she whines meekly. “We’ve got to get to the party.”

  The cornstarch on her thighs is lost to sweat and friction, so the stroke of the rubber up her legs is not quite smooth, but it’s worth it when he snuggles the form-fitting panties over her sex, then tucks the vibe into it and squeezes.

  “Oh Jesus fucking Christ,” she says, and a few other things, considerably louder, as he climbs onto the bed and drags her bodily over his lap, smearing the remnants of his come over her latex dress and not caring, pinning her wrists with his left hand while with his right he does something he knows she’s wanted since the first time he playfully smacked her ass in the kitchen, around three, when she protested weakly that she had crudités to slice.

  He pulls up her skirt and exposes her ass for a spanking.

  “The guests,” she says, her voice all bleating desperation as he rubs the crotch of the rubber panties, forcing the vibe against her clit so that she gasps. Then he draws back and his cupped hand comes down hard on one firm cheek of her ass. She utters a yelp, grinds her hips against him. The vibe goes visibly jiggling around; even in the tight rubber panties it can’t stay absolutely still. He brings his hand down again, feeling the taut clench and the give of her ass cheek. This time she doesn’t yelp; she moans.

  He adjusts the vibe and lifts his hand. This blow makes her whimper, softly, as she fucks herself slowly and rhythmically against his lap, rubbing the vibe between her clit and his thigh while she presents herself, ass high, for his next blow.

  He gives it to her, right on the sweet spot, knowing from experience that the burst of sensation is going right into her clit, or her cunt, or her asshole, or something, some magic part of her that’s going to get her off, especially with the vibe buzzing crazily.

  He starts spanking her faster, a blow every other second, one cheek to the other, then both, then her pussy, careful not to smack the vibe – that would hurt, and worse yet, it might break the damn thing. She’s moaning and bucking, and he’s let go of her wrists because she needs them to claw at the bed. His hand’s in her mouth, now, her biting his palm, hard, as he spanks her rapidly, adjusting the vibe every dozen strokes or so to make sure it’s right where it’s supposed to be – on her clit, making her come.

  But it’s the spanking that pushes her over the edge, when he blows off the vibe and just lets it bounce and jiggle in there, and smacks her hard on one sweet spot and then the other, over and over again, faster while she bites his palm until he’s afraid she’ll draw blood and is surprised he doesn’t care – then she moans so loud he knows the guests downstairs are hearing it, and since he’s sure they don’t care, he doesn’t care – but he probably wouldn’t anyway.

  She writhes until her face is pointing up a little and her back is straight, leaving her rigid across his lap; her eyes go wide, and he catches them – open, lost, empty, focused on nothing but the explosion of pleasure that’s about to go through her. Then it happens, and her eyes go tightly shut, and she melts into him again, dissolving into the rapid blows of his open hand on her ass, bucking and humping and shuddering all over as she comes.

  When she finally goes slack, she desperately gropes after the vibe to turn it off, but can’t manage it, her hands are shaking so bad. He slips his hands into her rubber panties and turns off the tiny machine. Good thing the vibrator’s waterproof. Inside, the panties are molten, juices leaking out onto his leather pants and dribbling onto the bed.

  She takes a deep breath, goes sliding out of his lap, lands on the floor with her head on his thigh.

  “The guests,” says Jessa. “We should get downstairs. How rude of us.”

  Justin smiles, caressing her face as another little set of spasms goes through her body.

  “I’m pretty sure they’re entertaining each other,” he says. “But yes. We should get downstairs.”

  He helps her up, dries her off a little, and even adds some cornstarch. The vibe goes back in his pocket, and he doesn’t even bother to rinse it off first. They’ve got a fetish ball to get to.

  Matching Skirt and Kneepads

  Thomas Roche

  The sun cast skyscraper shadows across the leather fair, broken at each block by great gleaming shafts of molten light. Though it wouldn’t be dark for hours, the settling sun meant that it had started to cool off a little bit, which everyone was thankful for.

  Madame Iris threaded her way through the crowd leading Tess on a leash. She was taller than Tess, five-eight in bare feet and something terrifyingly greater in heels. The low heels of Tess’ combat boots left her feeling like a pet heeled in Madame Iris’s path, which she liked almost as much as the feeling of swelling, aching pain between her legs.

  “Rolf! Bear! Look, Tess! It’s Rolf and Bear!” Tess didn’t remember meeting them, but then, she was very often blindfolded. Iris hugged a pair of hunky leather men, booted and jockstrapped and shirtless, one smooth and the other hairy. The contrast helped Tess understand that Rolf and Bear were, in fact, names. Probably some hippy Burner fags, Tess thought to herself with an internal eye-roll. Iris hugged them both and kissed Rolf, the smooth one (duh) on the lips, then the four of them edged into the shadow cast by a photography booth, which was not that easy. The crush of the crowd was still oppressive.

  “How have you boys been? Good, I hope, all things considered?” Madame I’s lilting voice went in and out of Tess’s perception; the babble of the crowd still made it difficult to hear. Tess stood respectfully with her leash rattling softly between her tits as Madame Iris spoke with her hands. If they had been somewhere other than the street, or if Tess had been wearing her kneepads, she would have respectfully knelt at Madame Iris’s side, perhaps even cast her eyes up to her Mistress as she spoke.

  As it was, though, the red mesh kneepads had simply not gone with the plaid skirt, and a fashion queen like Madame I was not about to let her slave’s outfit clash.

  Tess twisted and squirmed slightly, acutely aware of the sharp pain as her clit alternately swelled and stung, deflated, swelled, hurt like hell. In an instinctive attempt to brace herself against the pain, Tess kept cinching her internal muscles, which didn’t help at all.

  Rolf and Bear were huddled close to the Mistress, laughing and talking as if Tess wasn’t there, which either offended her or turned her on, depending on whether her clit was more in a swelling-with-pleasure moment or more on an ow-that-hurts moment.

  Tess tried to let her mind wander; Rolf certainly had awfully nice pectorals, and that was a hell of a piercing. What the fuck did that tattoo on his left tit say? Was that . . . “Bitch Slut?”

  “. . . that’s what I was telling my slave Tess just now,” said Madame Iris, her voice raising as she glanced back at Tess. “Her snatch is off limits, so she’s just going to
have to lick more pussy!” The three shared a beer-and-a-half laugh, from which came a tittering “She doesn’t already?” which might have been amusing except that all Tess could think was: “Snatch?!?”

  Surely this was the influence of the two male homosexuals, she mused to herself. “Actually, she’s been telling me she might want to do the other thing,” said Madame Iris.

  Rolf and Bear both feigned shock and dismay. Rolf, whom Tess had already decided was impossibly cute, almost lost her when he laughed: “Tell me she’s not bisexual – those people are fucking crazy!” which caused Madame Iris to punch him very, very hard on the arm and damn, that lady could punch.

  Rolf put up his hands in defense and said wryly, “Speaking for my tribe here!” which made awful things happen under Tess’ skirt while she chewed on that one.

  By the time the three had put their heads together and were whispering, Tess was in extreme pain and amazingly hot. Before she knew it, Madame Iris had handed her leash to Rolf, who gave her the kind of bedroom eyes that only a gay man could get away with, which didn’t help the sharp swelling sensation in her skirt. Madame I disappeared into the long slit between the curtains at the back of the tent.

  “Hello, Tess,” said Rolf in a lascivious purr. “I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced.”

  Tess curtseyed, something she still did with phenomenal awkwardness despite hours of training at Madame I’s hands. The combat boots didn’t help. “Pleased to meet you, sir.”

  Madame Iris poked her head out and hissed: “Psst! Arty’s done for the day. He says we can use it. Twenty minutes, OK?”

  “Oh, honey, give me ten,” said Rolf, his eyes lingering over Tess just long enough to make her shiver before he turned and kissed Bear deeply.

  “Come on!” hissed Madame Iris. “We’re on the clock, bitch!”

  The leashed Tess obediently followed Rolf into the tent, not that she had much choice. Bear brought up the rear, and Tess was surprised to feel a firm pinch on her ass. Two things happened: first she felt a surge of outrage in her chest; an instant later, it turned warm and went dribbling down into her aching sex, as she understood, as she always did an instant after her outrage, that she no longer got to decide if her ass got pinched, or for that matter fucked. Or, perhaps even more to the point, if her sex got pierced.