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

by Donna George Storey

  A smile dancing on his lips, he reached out to trace her vulva through the cotton.

  Zoe gasped, involuntarily parting her thighs as Bobby’s finger tunneled through that irresistible opening. Soon she didn’t recognize the sounds coming from her lips – shameless moans of pleasure mixed with deep, staccato grunts. Her ass was thrusting so fast in time with his strumming finger, the bedsprings screeched in protest.

  Bobby always made her feel good, but it had never quite been this good. As he rubbed, a column of heat arched up into her belly, as if a cock were buried inside her. But it wasn’t like a guy’s cock, just pressure and motion and heat. It was her cock. She could feel it thicken and throb, feel the hot spunk gather and burn, ready to explode in a fountain of pearly white cream.

  In no time at all, she climaxed, arching up off the bed with a bellowing groan.

  Afterwards, Bobby wrapped his arms around her as he always did. She was glad she could bury her face in his shoulder to hide her blush. She’d wanted him inside her when she came.

  “Wow, you’re hot this morning,” he breathed. He didn’t seem to mind she’d climaxed too soon, like a boy.

  Of course, she knew she had the advantage over the typical premature ejaculator. She wouldn’t have to work on him with her finger or tongue for god-knows-how-long when all she really wanted to do was go back to sleep. All a girl had to do was lie back and let the guy pump away.

  You can do better than that. You take control. Show him what it’s like to be you.

  Zoe frowned into Bobby’s shoulder. Maybe that nagging voice would leave her alone if she finally took his underwear off? Yet, she knew that without those briefs hugging her ass, it would be just another ordinary day.

  He’s got a soft, pink hole, too, and he’ll purr like a kitten when you put your finger inside.

  Her fingers prickled. She had to admit the voice hadn’t steered her wrong yet. Why not venture farther into the wilderness?

  “It’s my turn now, Bobby. Lie back and spread your legs.” Zoe smiled to soften the command, but the voice – her voice – clearly meant business.

  Bobby drew back, eyebrows lifted in surprise. Then, with a wary smile, he rolled on to his back and did as he was told. Zoe crouched between his thighs, licking his cock like an ice cream cone. Her left hand closed around the base, pumping slowly while she teased him with her mouth. Bobby whimpered as she traced quick figure-eights on the sensitive skin right below the head, then groaned when she lapped the swollen knob with the flat of her tongue. Finally she took him all the way into her mouth. Bobby relaxed into the mattress with a sigh.

  But this was all familiar ground. Her right hand was itching to embark on its new adventure. First she cupped his balls, then meandered down to the ridge between his legs where her cunt would be, stroking him there until he squirmed and cooed. Her finger crept lower, into the Valley of Darkness.

  She advanced slowly, unsure of his response. She’d never done this before, with anyone.

  Bobby inched his legs wider. Apparently he was ready for adventure, too.

  The terrain grew hotter, faintly moist. When she touched a tender little knoll of flesh just above his asshole, he moaned, a ghostly sound, as if he were melting away. She began to tap him there, like she tapped her own clit. The moans became a song. His cock twitched and pulsed, as hard and smooth as marble between her lips.

  Zoe’s finger marched onward into the forbidden zone. She traced his secret little mouth with her fingertip. The ring of muscle tensed then pushed open, beckoning her inside. She pulled away, smiling at his groan of disappointment. Quickly moistening her finger with spit, she pushed the tip up through the doorway.

  Bobby took her in with a soft “ah” of surrender.

  From here on her journey presented a new, physical challenge. Bobby was virgin-tight, like a leather glove two sizes too small, and she didn’t want to hurt his tender flesh. She wiggled her fingertip gently to open him, to test if he was ready for more.

  Bobby was beyond speech, but his moans were eloquent enough. Now, with each down stroke of her lips on his cock, Zoe pushed in a little deeper, her finger dancing sinuously inside the tight little mini-dress of his asshole.

  Bobby’s whole body trembled and his cock seemed to swell even thicker, like an over-ripe fruit, strained to bursting. He pawed at her shoulder, the signal to pull off and finish him with her hand.

  But Zoe’s lips refused to release him, and she realized the rest of her, too, was no longer afraid. She wanted only to have him inside her when he came, just as she was buried inside him. Bobby cried out and his muscles clenched, milking her finger as he shot his spunk into her throat. Instinctively she swallowed it down, so busy in her attentions to his cock and asshole she hardly tasted it. But she did get the chance to savor the last drops: cinnamon, cumin and cloves mixed with sun-drenched meadow grass.

  In truth, it wasn’t bad at all.

  Zoe rose to her knees, eyes sparkling with triumph. And what did Bobby think of the wild things she’d done? She didn’t have time to ask because he immediately pulled her down on top of him and whispered into her neck, “You’re the best ever.”

  Lying in his arms, Zoe realized that she must make a queer picture – a curvy girl wearing boy’s briefs.

  Hey, remember, what you look like is less important than what you do.

  Zoe smiled. This time she knew that voice wasn’t coming from Bobby’s underwear. It was in her head and her flesh, hers to keep.

  To Dance at the Fair

  Donna George Storey

  Naked

  Whenever I stand up to speak before an audience – be it a ballroom full of steely-eyed colleagues or the semester’s first class of yawning kids – I think of Sally, and I feel strong.

  Because, of course, Sally Rand – the sensation of Chicago’s Century of Progress Exposition during the dark Depression years of 1933 and 1934 – stepped onto the stage wearing nothing but two ostrich feather fans and a dusting of pure white powder. As the dance progressed, she would swirl her fans, teasing the audience with a flash of nipple or a glimpse of buttock, until, at long last, she would spread her wings to reveal everything. And then, in a flash of light, she was gone, before anyone could really know – had they really seen Sally nude, or was it all an illusion?

  This afternoon it was especially fitting to conjure Sally’s ghost as I took the podium. I was giving a paper on her and her sister performers, entitled, “ ‘Enough Nudity for Anyone’s Fifteen Cents’: Sally Rand, the Crystal Lassies, and the Roots of Internet Porn at the Century of Progress Exposition.” I brought plenty of slides, and the ballroom was packed. Sally has been dead for more than twenty years, but she still knows how to pull them in.

  Novice that I was to burlesque, I was lucky not to be facing my audience alone. On my left was a dark and very handsome man named Mario Carbone. He had written a paper on “primitive cultures” exhibits and fantasies of empire specifically to join me on this panel. The lean, fair-haired man to my right with the intriguing air of melancholy was Christopher Hansen. For my benefit, he had tweaked his customary focus on FDR into a discussion of the perfect marriage of corporate capitalism and the New Deal at the interwar world fairs.

  Although we now teach in different parts of the country, the three of us have been best friends since the first week of grad school. Our professors dubbed us “the inseparable threesome,” and the other students openly laid bets on who got to be in the middle during our all-night fuckfests.

  Mario, Chris, and I laughed it off, because we were sure our bond was purely platonic, founded on mutual intellectual admiration. We wouldn’t be honest enough with ourselves to go to bed together for another fifteen years.

  City Fathers

  The stripper and the schoolmarm. On the surface, it would be hard to find two women more different than Sally and I.

  Born in 1904 in the Ozarks and christened Harriet Helen Beck, Sally longed to be a ballerina from the first time she saw Pavlova dance
the dying swan in Kansas City. At fourteen, she ran off with the carnival. Her wits and her blonde good looks took her as far as Hollywood, where Cecil B. DeMille himself renamed her, thanks to the Rand McNally atlas that caught his eye. The advent of the talkies proved disastrous for Sally – she had a lisp – and the Depression hit her as hard as everyone else. It was out of desperation for work that she first walked onto the stage in Chicago’s Paramount Club, naked but for her trademark feather fans.

  Something more than desperation made Sally a star. Chicago was to host a world’s fair, and she dreamed of a share in its riches. She applied to perform through official channels, but the city fathers turned her down. City fathers: I always imagine plump, sober-faced men atop Louis Sullivan skyscrapers, spraying the metropolis with semen, their dicks as fat as fire hoses. No doubt most of them sported tent poles in their trousers when Sally crashed their gala opening ceremonies as Lady Godiva on a white horse. The acclaim for this daring display of nudity forced the worthy gentlemen to authorize her show at the Streets of Paris. Most sources agree that Sally helped the fair turn a profit. She didn’t do so badly herself. By the end of the summer, her salary had soared from $125 to $3,000 a week.

  But Sally was more than a naked body, more than a clever manipulator of male fantasy. Another reason she rode as Lady Godiva was to protest the publicity shots of city matrons in their gala gowns, a callous gesture when so many working people were starving. One night that summer, she refused to let her friends be bumped from the best table in the house by FDR’s son and his wedding party. Either the friends stayed put or she wouldn’t do the show. As always, Sally got what she wanted in the end.

  I, on the other hand, was born in a prosperous northeastern suburb more than sixty years after Sally. I never ran off with carnies. I never earned my keep exposing my small – but, to my lovers’ delight, very sensitive – breasts. I never endured an arrest on obscenity charges – much less four in one day, like Sally. I did put on plenty of performances for my teachers and advisers. And I pulled off an impressive masquerade for my father-figure husband, who seemed, with the twenty-year age difference, to be the perfect partner for a scholar of mid-century American studies.

  He wasn’t.

  Now I’m on my own again, my fortieth birthday looming. I’m supposed to be courting the tenure committee with the same old song and dance. But I find myself thinking of Sally and itching to be as daring and shocking and free.

  The History of Desire

  After we gave our papers, fielded questions, and kissed the requisite asses of the powerful eminences in our field, Mario, Chris, and I went off to do what we really came to the conference for – a long-awaited reunion dinner at a charming Italian place on M Street.

  Things had changed in the two years since we’d last seen each other. Mario was being courted by Columbia and was complaining about how slow they were to make an official offer – rather bad form, since he’s scored tenure and Chris and I are still waiting for the decision. Chris made dour jokes about his ongoing search for the right antidepressant. He made no secret of the fact that estrangement from his daughters after his divorce tore him apart. I leered at the young waiter, then regretted it. I didn’t want it to be too obvious that I hadn’t had good sex with anyone other than my hand in quite some time.

  With the help of a few bottles of chianti, however, we gradually found our younger selves still very much alive beneath the older, tougher skin. We laughed and said clever things and confessed that we’d never found the same fellowship with anyone since. It was Mario, of course, who made the first light-hearted reference to another dinner à trois, some ten years before. A piece of history, I must confess, that was on my mind as well.

  Mario had just turned in his dissertation and was flying off to take a plum job at Duke, while Chris and I still languished in the bog of research. Of course we were glad for him, glad to celebrate with pasta and wine. We were lounging about afterward on throw pillows on the orange shag rug of his apartment when suddenly Mario took me in his arms and kissed me.

  It was more than a goodbye. It was a real kiss, slow and soft and piquant, with red pepper and Côtes du Rhône. The kind of kiss you feel in your pussy, or rather, the kind that makes your whole body feel like a pussy, tingling and melting and hungry for more. It took me by surprise, for Mario had been unfailingly faithful to his harem of bubbly undergraduates, all blonde and busty with a fuck-me-now wiggle to their hips, all very different from me. Fate would have it that the phone rang, and the voice of his latest young conquest trilled through the answering machine. We jumped apart, and he went to pick up the phone with a regretful shrug.

  I turned to Chris, my lips pleasantly sore, my cheeks hot with arousal and shame. I was wearing Bill’s engagement ring. Chris’s wedding to Shannon was two months away. I suppose I was expecting to see judgment in his eyes for my sluttish behavior, but I met instead the second surprise of the evening.

  Call me easy, and some have, but a man gets inside me first with his eyes. That silver flicker of desire sinks straight into my belly, and – if I want it to happen – he has me right then and there. The rest of it – spreading my legs with his knees and pushing open my wet, pink cunt lips with the swollen knob of his cock – is pretty much an afterthought.

  Desire is exactly what I saw in Chris’s eyes. He wanted to fuck me, fiancée or no. And I realized I wanted to fuck him. More than anything in the world.

  Mario came to the rescue. His girlfriend needed him to come over right away. She was freaked out about an exam, and the newly minted Dr. Mario had the cure. We all rose, smoothed out our clothes, and left to be with the people we were supposed to be fucking, our bland smiles promising we would forget everything that had just happened.

  But I still remembered very well that Mario and I kissed. And I remembered even more keenly, with the yearning of ten long years, that Chris and I did not.

  Why Not?

  In fact, Chris and I had been exchanging wary, questioning glances all evening now that both of us were free, or as free as two people with battered hearts can ever be. But Mario saved us again. His cheerful chatter lubricated our path from the restaurant to my hotel room, where the party continued. We raided the minibar and talked on through the evening. Midnight found me sprawled on my king-size bed, my feet in Mario’s warm lap as he rubbed the arches with his strong thumbs, sending sweet, electric twinges running up my legs. Chris, who’d been nursing the same glass of well-watered whiskey all night, had crawled onto the bed beside me, joking that he was waiting in line for a massage too.

  “You’re looking tired, Chris, my man,” Mario said with his lovely smile. “Don’t you think you should be getting back to your room?” Though he’d put on weight and his lush hair was touched with snow at the temples, Dr. Carbone was still very easy on the eyes.

  “Hell, no, I’m waiting for you to stagger out of here first so I can finally make my move.”

  I gave Chris a sidelong glance. He winked at me, to let me know that was a joke too.

  “Then I guess Elizabeth will have to choose which one of us gets the boot.”

  I wiggled my foot against Mario’s thighs. There was a bulge there. Through the alcohol haze, I realized I was glad.

  “Why?” I murmured.

  “Why?” Mario echoed. “Because Chris won’t be a gentleman and admit defeat.”

  “No, I mean why do I have to choose? I want you both to be with me tonight.”

  “I think she’s kidding,” Chris said too quickly.

  Historians spend a lot of time asking “how,” which inevitably leads to “why,” and there was, no doubt, a tangle of complex reasons why three middle-aged academics were about to engage in group sex on this particular night. But there, in the moment, the decision – and it was mine – to finally do a three-way with my two best friends was frighteningly simple. Because the real question that stokes the engine of history is not “why,” but “why not.”

  Why not, indeed.

&n
bsp; I sat up and put on my most seductive smile. Sally’s smile. “There’s obviously a lot you don’t know about me.”

  My gaze flitted from one to the other, to make sure I had them where I wanted them, jaws slack, their eyes fixed in that primal, my-god-is-she-really-going-to-let-me-do-it-to-her amazement. I slowly unbuttoned my blouse. Their eyes followed, as if bound to the movement of my hands with steel cable. I pulled my shirt down over my shoulders with a shimmy and, still smiling, I traced the lacy edge of my bra with my fingertip. Could Sally have done better?

  Mario’s face had gone scarlet. Chris was up on one elbow, staring. He swallowed with a wet, slightly strangled sound.

  Sally would have teased more. Sally would have them howling with their tongues on the floor before she gave any more, but the world moves faster in the twenty-first century. I unclasped the bra and let it slide over my arms, then took my breasts in my hands and arched my back, offering myself to them.

  Mario whistled softly, like a distant train. Chris’s face was tight, as if he were about to cry, but he was still staring.

  “She’s not kidding,” Mario said.

  Chris nodded.

  “Come on, boys, get yourselves out of those clothes before I change my mind.”

  It was then they pulled their eyes from me and looked at each other.

  What do you say, mate? Are you up for taking turns fucking our old friend Elizabeth in full view of each other?

  Mario rose and began to unbutton his Oxford shirt. Chris pulled off his sweater. I watched them unbuckle their belts and wriggle out of their khakis. Mario wore briefs; Chris, boxers.

  I pulled down the sheets and lay down in the middle of the bed. My friends joined me, one on each side.

  Something wasn’t right. In the lamp’s glare, it was all too clear that Mario had grown a paunch, that he was too hairy for my taste. Chris had the smooth skin I prefer, but his ribs stood out like Jesus on the cross, the body of a man who’d endured hard times. I’m sure I disappointed them with my scrawny form. For all my feelings of sisterhood with Sally, I doubt anyone would ever pay to see me naked.