The Mammoth Book of Erotica presents The Best of Donna George Storey

by Donna George Storey

  I gasped as the cold, smooth surface brushed my areola.

  “Does it feel good?” His voice had a hopeful lilt.

  “Great,” I sighed as I moved the mirror in slow circles over one nipple, then the other. “It’s cold at first, but then it feels hot. And then it feels like your fingers are touching me there.” Not to mention that the sensation of fire and ice was shooting straight to my pussy and making my hips do a twitching dance against the mattress.

  Through the receiver I heard a little “hmph” of victory. “I’m glad it’s working out so well. But I want you to stop now.”

  He couldn’t mean it. This mirror trick definitely called for further exploration. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “I’m afraid not. But remember, all good things come to her who waits. I want you to move the mirror lower. To the kitty picture on your underwear.”

  I considered mutiny, but I had to admit that following orders thus far was bringing unexpected benefits.

  “Okay, for this next part we have to get you wet. Very wet. But that shouldn’t be a problem. I know how much you like to touch yourself.”

  “Yeah, and how about you?” I fired back.

  “Guilty as charged, though I don’t have nearly as many opportunities as you do, especially on the job. But right now I’m feeling fine – lying on my bed with my cock in my hand, a little lotion for lube, and a hot babe on the phone who sounds like she’s getting hotter by the minute.”

  I frowned. For the first time he’d struck the wrong note. I couldn’t help but picture him stretched out on a hotel bed, a blandly tasteful picture hanging on the wall beside him, pay-per-view porn on the TV. And the woman of his dreams on the other end of the phone was so far away, so insubstantial, she could be anyone willing to read the lines.

  “Wait a minute, lover boy, before we proceed, what’s your credit card number? Phone sex services always make you traveling businessmen pay up front to play out your fantasies, don’t they?”

  He was silent for a moment. “You are making me pay, babe, don’t doubt it for a minute.” The satiny seducer was gone. He was himself again. Lonely and a little sad.

  “Hey, I’m sorry. I know I’m being a bitch, but it’s tough for me.”

  “Yeah, I know. It’s not easy for me either. Listen, I want to make you happy. Can you let me try? I know it’s just words.”

  I felt another twinge, but higher this time, near my heart. He was trying, I could tell. In bed, in the flesh, he was more a man of action than words, but his new tongue technique was surprisingly effective. “It is making me happy. Really. Now where were we? I believe you were about to order me to masturbate.”

  His laugh was mixed with a sigh of relief. “That’s exactly what I was about to do.”

  “I need very specific instructions, though. I promise to be a good girl and do everything you say.”

  “Hey, if that’s what the lady wants. So, why don’t you spread your legs for me? But just a little. Now I want you to touch yourself through the thong. Rub your clit until you make a nice wet spot on the kitty.”

  The hot-fudge voice was back, pouring down my spine, pooling warm between my thighs. My finger pushed the silky cloth of the thong back and forth over my sweet spot so deliriously I moaned into the telephone.

  “Are you watching yourself in the mirror?”

  I gazed down at the reflection of my finger wiggling away. Through my lust-fogged eyes, it looked like a stranger’s hand, as if another woman were making love to me. The thought made my breath come faster. “Yes, I am watching.”

  “It’s the best sight in the world, isn’t it? A horny girl touching her pussy. But you have to take your hand away now.”

  I wailed in frustration. “Not again. Come on, I was just getting into it.”

  “Trust me,” he cooed. “You’re going to like this next part. I want you to give your clit a spanking. Not too hard. Just a few slaps to teach it a lesson for being so ravenous.”

  With a soft cry of shame, I covered my face with my hand. I suddenly felt so exposed, as if he’d reached through the phone and pulled me open to discover something darker and more secret than naked flesh. As if he heard that little voice deep inside me whispering, Yes, you do deserve a spanking for being so hungry for sex. You love it when he makes you do bad things, so you can do just what the teacher wants and be good and bad at the same time.

  “It sounds like you’re ready to begin. Shall we?”

  Panting, I brought my flattened fingers down against my mons, once, twice, three times, groaning as the sharp jolt on my clit rolled through my whole body in waves.

  “Again,” he commanded.

  I slapped myself once more, whimpering until the hot prickling pleasure faded.

  “Very good. Now, we’ve got one more thing to try. I want you to pick up the brush, push the thong to the side, and press the end of the handle gently against your vagina.”

  I caught my breath.

  “Um, I’m not so sure I can do that.” My voice squeaked out, small and scared.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked, confused. “Don’t you ever put hard things inside when you play with yourself?”

  Should I tell him the truth? That, sure, I could talk like a crazed nympho, but when it came to push and shove, I was a pedestrian masturbator. Too chicken even to put my own fingers inside. “Actually, I don’t.”

  “Hmm, I wouldn’t have guessed that. Could you be a brave girl and try? For me?”

  It really was magic the way he made his voice so warm and soft it sank under my skin to melt every muscle in my body. Including my tongue, which babbled out the answer I wasn’t sure I wanted to give: “Yeah, sure. You know I’ll do anything for you.”

  With a shaking hand and the help of the mirror, I guided the handle of the brush to my pussy lips. It probably helped that my only companions were his words, whispering inside me like the echo of my own lust. I don’t think I could have done it if he’d really been watching.

  I pushed the end of the brush slowly inside. My swollen lips parted with a faint, welcoming smack. He had made me wet with his talk. Very wet. I pushed deeper. The handle slipped all the way up to the point where the brush flared into bristles. It looked silly, but it felt nice. And very naughty.

  “It’s in.”

  “Good girl. You don’t know how jealous I am of that lucky brush. But now we get to put everything together for the grand finale. Do you think you can come around the brush if I let you play with your clit and rub the mirror on your nipples?”

  A rhetorical question if there ever was one. I was certainly willing to try. I had to clench my legs together to keep the brush in place, but the rest was easy. He was right, too, it was magic how it all came together. The mirror was his one hand, twisting and tugging my nipples. The thong was his other, teasing the groove of my ass. The brush was his cock, so hard, so there.

  And all around were sounds, moans and rhythmic grunts racing at the speed of light under the Atlantic, the squish of a lubed-up palm on his cock, the click of my finger finally snaking under the thong to bare, slick flesh.

  “Tell me when you’re going to come. I want you to come now,” he barked.

  “Yes, now,” I called out, just as his guttural cries shot back through the phone.

  I could hear it was as good for him as it was for me.

  Afterward, he told me how much he missed me and asked, uncertainly, if I missed him, too.

  I touched my fingers to my belly. I was a little sore down there, deliciously tender and used. As if he had just been inside me, as if he still was there, filling me with his voice, his cock, his love. I wanted to tell him I didn’t miss him at all, because he was with me.

  All it took was words.

  Spring Pictures

  Donna George Storey

  “Please open it,” Kimura said. He was smiling.

  Anna fingered the knot of the old-fashioned wrapping cloth and smiled back. After a year in Japan, she knew it wasn’t
proper to open a gift in the presence of the giver. But some nights Kimura wanted her all-American side, impulsive and refreshingly innocent of the finer points of etiquette.

  “Please.” In his eagerness, he almost brushed her arm with his fingertips.

  It was a book – she’d guessed as much from the shape and heft. The crimson cover was blank. Inside, the first page had characters she could read – “spring” and “picture” – but the next pages were all Japanese text, winding down the page in tendrils, incomprehensible without a dictionary. Still, she enjoyed the softness of the fine paper, the intoxicating fragrance of expensive book. She fought the urge to bury her nose in the crease of the binding. That would not be proper at all.

  Then came the pictures.

  At first, in the carefully crafted twilight of the hostess club, she saw only shapes: swirls of kimono silk, tangled limbs, caterpillar crescents of pubic hair against pale flesh, towering cocks, and conch-shell vulvas. Kimura had given her a book of shunga. Antique dirty pictures. Of course, some people would call such things art. Anna thought of herself as that sort of person and yet she was blushing.

  She began to turn the pages quickly. She crossed her legs. She uncrossed them again. Had she been alone, she would have stopped for a closer look, but she was all too aware of the silvery glint in Kimura’s eyes that seemed to cut through clothes and flesh to the warm ache of arousal growing inside her.

  Only when the wanton figures were safely hidden away between the crimson covers did she have the courage to look at him. By then he was himself again: the kind, but slightly bewildered, widower who patronized the club every Friday evening. A yogurt wholesaler of all things.

  “I hope this will prove useful in your study of old Japan.”

  She’d told him that she was hostessing to save money for graduate study in history. Unlike most of the things she said to men in this room, it was true.

  Anna nodded, accepting the gift, although it meant she must give something in return. Kimura was a gentleman. It was probably enough, letting him watch her that way.

  It came to be a ritual. Anna would get home from the club at one in the morning, strip off her tasteful working dress and lie naked on her futon to lose herself in Kimura’s book. It was no longer foreign to her, this world of ochre and ivory, black and terre verte. She glided easily through paper doors and behind painted screens to spy on couples engaged in intimate embrace, men and women frozen in ecstasy for 250 years. She even grew accustomed to the mammoth sex organs, for that was what her body became as she lay on her stomach rocking her hips into the soft mattress – one huge cunt with grasping, ravenous lips.

  When she could bear it no longer, she chose a pose: lying on her back with one knee to her chest, toes curled in. On all fours, ass tilted up in invitation. Sitting with her legs open wide to be studied by a samurai lover or passing serving wench or Tom Thumb Maneemon watching it all from under a kimono sleeve, or all three at the same time. It was for them that she stroked the fleshy folds the shunga makers so lovingly tinted rose or salmon, for them that she rubbed her nipples with a spit-slick palm. But it was for Kimura that she came, legs trembling with the strain of contortion, neck arched back from the weight of her elaborate coiffure. His eyes seemed to float before her still, affirming her hunger, feeding it.

  At the club he was as courteous as ever, content to chat on about censorship and sumptuary laws in the Tokugawa period, while she stole peeks at his trousers, half hoping to see his exposed member, thick as a tree trunk and brocaded with veins, arching up from the open fly.

  Some weeks later, he casually mentioned he would like to guide her around the old post towns of the Nakasendô, where the daimyô stopped on the long journey from their fiefdoms to the capital. The trip would require an overnight stay, but it was far more appealing than the usual drunken proposition to meet after work at a rent-by-the-hour hotel. Still, Anna knew a clever hostess was expected to toy with a prospective lover first, and certainly lighten his wallet of more than the price of a book. She pulled out her palm pilot to set the date. She had a favor to return.

  By dinner, she was convinced Kimura was toying with her. Why else would he bring her to a centuries-old inn deep in the mountains to share an eight-course meal in their bathrobes, then spend the whole time flirting with their maid?

  It didn’t help that the woman was handsome. She was older – Anna guessed late forties – but still elegant in a dove gray kimono and obi of midnight blue. It was her tongue Anna envied most, the way it swirled around those thorny honorifics, the way its music eased the lines of tension in Kimura’s forehead. He was tired from showing Anna around the local sights all afternoon. No doubt he was tired of English, too.

  When dinner was over, the maid laid out the bedding side by side, quilt edges touching, then bid them good-night. It was a promising sign. If they were a couple in that woman’s practiced eye, Anna knew there was hope. All she had to do was nudge the shy Kimura in the right direction. She got the book of spring pictures from her overnight bag and sat down beside him at the table.

  “I want to show you the ones I like,” she said.

  His eyes twinkled. “I would very much like to see them.”

  This time she turned the pages slowly. The amorous couples were good friends. She paused at her current favorite, a scene of a courtesan kneeling before a mirror to fix her hair, her kimono in artful disarray, while her lover reached from behind to fondle her exposed pussy.

  “I see you prefer Harunobu, the most elegant of the shunga artists. He discovered much in his exploration of the multicolored print.”

  Anna tilted her head in the saucy way she used at the club. “He certainly discovered what a clitoris is for.”

  “Yes, that is important knowledge.” She’d made him blush.

  “But it’s more than that, don’t you think? I don’t know how he does it, but his figures seem alive in there. That woman in the picture knows she’s being watched.” Her voice trailed off.

  They sat in silence.

  “Kimura-san, I want to thank you for the book. I didn’t do it properly before.” She stumbled over the words, as if she were baring something more intimate than flesh.

  He bowed. “I am glad it has given you pleasure.”

  She was sure she saw it in his eyes then: the tiny image of herself, masturbating furiously as she gazed down at the book.

  Kimura stood up. “Excuse me a moment. I have something to attend to.” Before she could speak, he left the room.

  She rested her forehead on the table, shamed and confused. He probably just had to use the toilet at the end of the hall. It was like him to be discreet. But surely it was the height of decorum for a man to make amorous advances to a woman he’d invited to a secluded inn? Everyone knew couples came to places like this to screw themselves silly. Kimura would have to be blind not to see that she was more than willing to continue this venerable tradition.

  Anna frowned. What if she were the blind one? What if the book was his subtle way of telling her he was “unable,” that images and ideas were the only form of intercourse they could share?

  He was back. Anna sat up and fixed her face with a smile. He walked over to the futons and pulled the closest across the room. He could not have made his intentions clearer.

  “I think I’ll go down to the bath now,” she said briskly. It wouldn’t do to let him see her cry.

  He shook his head. “Come here, Anna-chan. Bring that book with you.”

  Her body took on a strange languor as she knelt before the old-fashioned mirror stand – for that is where Kimura placed the futon – and set the book down. He knelt behind her and eased the robe over her shoulders, arranging it at her waist.

  “Now fix your hair. Like the girl in the picture.”

  Anna raised her arms and grabbed two thick ponytails of honey brown hair in each hand. The pose stretched and lifted her breasts, as if she were offering them – not to him, exactly, but to someone waiting in a mirror world
beyond.

  “Now, how was the man touching her?” Kimura pulled one side of the robe open like a curtain and began to tease her curls.

  “I smell you, Anna,” he whispered. “I could smell you when you were showing me the book. A most joyous perfume. I worried you thought I was nothing but an old fool. My English is too poor to say the things in my heart. My dream, Anna-chan, is to meet in a place where we don’t need words.” His finger inched closer to her clit. “Senzuri they called it in the old days. A thousand rubs. Do you think it will take a thousand tonight?”

  She moaned and swayed back against him. Kimura wasn’t impotent. The evidence was pressing into the cleft of her ass. If only he would touch her breasts, too. The starched cotton robe the inn provided had been chafing her sensitive nipples all evening. They needed soothing with hands and lips. But that wasn’t in the picture.

  And neither was the maid, now standing in the doorway with a tray in her hands.

  With a yelp of surprise, Anna crumpled forward, scrambling to cover herself with her robe.

  “You asked for more tea, sir?” The maid’s voice was as cool as a mountain stream.

  “Yes, thank you.” Kimura seemed unfazed by her entrance.

  The maid nodded and busied herself measuring tea-leaves into the pot.

  Gently Kimura pulled Anna up and positioned her body before the mirror again. He tugged the robe down to her hips and guided her hands back to her head.

  “Shall I wait and pour for you, sir? The young lady appears otherwise engaged.”

  “Yes, please. In the meantime do help yourself to a cigarette. You must be tired taking care of all of these troublesome guests.” As he spoke, Kimura’s hand wandered back between Anna’s thighs.

  “Thank you, sir, I think I will.” The maid tapped a cigarette from the pack on the table. In the darkness, she seemed larger than before. Coarser. She must have put on makeup, too, because her lips were fuller, a dark glistening red. Her eyes swept boldly over Anna’s body, lingering first at the breasts, then the exposed slit. A fine sweat rose on Anna’s skin, as if she’d been rubbed with wet silk.