The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 7

by Maxim Jakubowski

  “You’re a good girl,” Mr Tom says, “and good looking too. The first time I saw you, I said to myself, Tommy, there’s a girl, who can break a man’s back and look like a beauty queen while she does it.” I’m taken aback at the turn the conversation has taken; maybe it’s just his way of being courtly.

  “Er, um, thank you,” I say but I decide to change the subject. “How’s Mrs Susie?” I ask. Mrs Susie is Tom’s wife; she had a stroke three months ago and has been in a nursing home ever since.

  “About the same,” he says, shaking his head, “She won’t be doing the old hootchie-kooch any time soon.” I am conscious of the warmth of his thigh next to mine. He’s always dressed impeccably. Today he’s got on fine beige linen slacks and a creamy colored pullover. With his big blue eyes and leading man smile, Mr Tom is adorable. He continues to hold my left hand in his left hand. He puts his right arm along the back of the bench, encircling but not quite touching my shoulders. We sit like this as I watch a monarch butterfly flit about the geraniums in the flowerbed next to the bench. Mr Tom clears his throat.

  “So,” he says, “How is your love life, girlie? A good looker like you must have plenty of boyfriends.” I tell him the truth, “Nah,” I say. “There is a guy I’ve been going out with but he’s holding back, all politeness and pecks on the cheek. I can’t get him to make the move.”

  “Ha!” says Mr Tom. “Doesn’t he know life is short? You wouldn’t have any trouble getting me to make the move!” He starts rubbing my back, caressing my spine with sure, supple fingers. I can’t believe this is happening, the butterfly continues to play in the flowerbed, the sun is still warm on my face, but suddenly my kundalini is being expertly elevated by a senior, senior citizen in expensive looking tasseled loafers. I feel the space between my legs part, the crevice between them moisten. In less than a minute he’s got me wet. All the stored up juices inside me start to simmer.

  “You wouldn’t have any trouble getting me to make the move,” Mr Tom murmurs again and then he just leans over and plants a big, juicy kiss right on my mouth. I can’t help it, I respond. His lips are as firm and determined as his fingers and his mouth smells like tobacco. I haven’t smoked a cigarette for fifteen years but the smell of tobacco still turns me on. I open my lips to Mr Tom. I feel his hot tongue slide between them, but then it hits me. This is crazy! I’m crazy, so crazy! What am I doing, canoodling in broad daylight with a lecherous octogenarian who is older than my father and on Yom Kippur no less?

  I leap up as if it was a golem who was kissing me. Mr Tom is left with his mouth hanging open. He appears surprised but right away he gives me that big smile.

  “That was lovely, Girlie,” he says smoothly, nodding at me, his bald head pink as a baby’s bottom.

  I start to stutter, “C-c-c-c coffee, I came out for c-c-coffee.”

  “I bet you take it sweet,” Mr Tom calls out after me as I turn and lurch away.

  The next day I am sitting at my father’s dining room table grading homework for the erotic writing class I teach. The student who wrote a story in which he keeps referring to his heroine’s nipples as ripe strawberries gets a C. The student who refers to her heroine’s twat as the Bat Cave gets an A.

  My father glides in on his new motorized wheelchair. He rams into my mother’s three-thousand-dollar mahogany china closet filled with her precious collection of Rose Medallion china. Miraculously, he doesn’t break the glass or damage the china, but when he disengages the wheelchair there is a long scratch in the dark wood that is shaped like a scythe. Then, standing behind my father, the angel of death appears, his grey hooded burnoose stained with blood. With infinite care, he brings his scythe down towards my father’s neck. I draw back, horrified, shutting my eyes tight. When I open them again the grim reaper is gone.

  “You look just like your mother, honey,” my father says. I have repeatedly asked him not to call me honey because that was what he always called my mother. He has repeatedly ignored me. “But,” he goes on and his eyes stray to my breasts. I remember the day when he told me, a shy, scrawny teenager proud of my new tiny boobies, that I would have a good figure if only I had bigger breasts. I shudder, but when my father continues he surprises me, “You’re even prettier than your mother.”

  Maybe he is mellowing because it is the New Year and this is the time that the Midrash says we must make amends to those we have slighted. Maybe he just wants love like me and everyone else.

  I look at my father in the scooter. He’s gotten so skinny but he has a big belly as if his once fine physique has melted down around his waist. He used to swim a mile a day. He is wearing a baseball cap as he always does to conceal the fact that all that that is left of his once thick, dark hair is a few silver strands. Today it is his Baltimore Orioles cap, a bright red flag above his pallid face. It must be so hard for him now, careening around these four rooms in his little cripple’s cart, struggling to change his diapers.

  “Hey, Dad,” I ask, “You want to have tea and cookies? I need to take a break.”

  His face brightens. “Sure, honey,” he says.

  We sit together drinking tea and eating Oreos. My father starts to tell the story about how my mother wouldn’t take off her nightgown on their wedding night. I don’t want to hear this story, certainly not for the twentieth time. I recite Kubla Khan to myself and pretend to listen.

  My father has stopped talking and is looking at me expectantly as if he is waiting for an answer. “I couldn’t hear what you said, Dad,” I tell him, “because I was chewing. What did you say?”

  “Will you do something for me, honey?” my father asks. “Bring some books up to Mr Tom? He has some books for me.” My father and Mr Tom are both mystery fans, sharing a preference for the contemporary thrillers of Lawrence Block. They trade books back and forth. “Er, um, sure,” I say.

  “Thanks, honey,” my father answers. “I’ll call Mr Tom right up.” My father drives off eagerly to the telephone in his bedroom. He soon calls in to me, “Tommy says come up in an hour.”

  I’m standing in front of Mr Tom’s door holding three paperback books. The top one is The Sins of Our Fathers. As I knock on the door, I feel nervous. Mr Tom answers immediately. He is wearing a maroon satin smoking jacket with a white cravat. The smell of Brut surrounding him is very strong. I fight the impulse to run back into the elevator.

  “Here, Mr Tom,” I say as I hold the books out to him. ‘If you’ll just give me the books you have for my dad, I’ll be on my way.” He shakes his head, “Oh, no, no, you can’t do that, you just can’t. You must come in, you must. I have something special to show you. Please, please come in.” He looks at me so imploringly that I cannot refuse.

  “Okay,” I say, “but only for a minute.” I follow him into a spacious living room with fancy furniture in white and gold. A big white sofa dominates the room, a low gold coffee table in front of it. “Do me the honor of sitting down,” says Mr Tom and I do.

  “Take a look at this,” he says, “I’ve made a little display for you.” Standing on the coffee table, there are perhaps a dozen framed pictures of Mr Tom, a much younger Mr Tom, Mr Tom in uniform, Mr Tom the soldier. There is also an open cigar box filled with medals and brightly colored war ribbons. In the center of the table sits a pink porcelain candy dish piled with Hershey’s kisses.

  “These are the souvenirs of my military career,” says Mr Tom. “I wanted you to see me when I was a young warrior fighting for my country. I enlisted again after the war. Now in this one, I’m in front of my plane, we were liberating Belgium, bet you didn’t know Tommy was a pilot.” He picks up a picture of a handsome young charmer with large, luminous eyes, his light hair combed into an old style pompadour. One by one he shows me the photos, recounts their histories. He was in Morocco standing under a palm tree. He was in Palermo sitting at the wheel of a jeep. “Those Italian lasses were saucy,” says Mr Tom, “but they couldn’t hold a candle to you.” My father said when Mr Tom was diagnosed with cancer the doctor s
aid he’d be dead in three months. Now a couple of years later, here he is, an aged Don Juan trying to seduce me with war pictures and medals attesting to his courage and valor.

  “Will you join me in a cocktail?” Mr Tom asks. “I usually have one at this time of day.”

  I thought of Timothy Leary’s last words. “Why not?” I say.

  “I like an Old Fashioned,” he tells me. “Would that be okay?” I tell him that would be fine. He vanishes into the other room, while I idly examine his Silver Star, his Purple Heart.

  He is soon back with a tray holding a cocktail shaker and two highball glasses, the glasses already full. The old devil has planned this very carefully. The drink is deliriously sweet and powerful; just a few sips and my head is spinning.

  “Hits the spot,” I say to him.

  “I like a woman who appreciates her liquor and I like you, Girlie,” Mr Tom says. “Would you grant my wish? Would you permit me to use my Uncle Woody the way God intended at least one more time?” Even though he was trying to play on my sympathies, I am charmed by his ingenious attempt at seduction, his courage. Mr Tom has a pair as big as Sicily.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Oh, baby!” Mr Tom exclaims. He reaches into the pocket of the smoking jacket, pulls out two pleasure mesh Trojans in their purple packets and puts them on the table. I don’t know what to do next so I gulp down the rest of my drink and ask for another. Mr Tom pours it for me and I take a big swallow. He slips off the smoking jacket and cravat to reveal he still has plenty of wiry white hair on his bony chest. His nipples are plump and pink like those of a much younger man. He puts his arms up like a bodybuilder and begins preening, flexing his biceps for me, showing me he still has some muscle. “I’m the boogie woogie bugle boy,” he starts to sing; proving he can still carry a tune. He is so happy his bugle is already making a little tent inside his pants.

  Mr Tom starts to kiss my face with his big lava lips. He moves on to my mouth, opening it with a wily tongue. He shows me he knows how to take his time as he slowly fucks my mouth. Once again he quickly gets my little jam pot simmering. I put my fingers up to tug languidly at his nipple and soon it hardens beneath my fingers. Matching the rhythm of my fingers to that of his tongue in my mouth, I pull it; milk it like it was a tiny cock. Our lower bodies start to work in tandem grinding against each other. The heavy package he presses against my vulva is so big, I wonder if he has a howitzer in his pants.

  Mr Tom stops kissing me and starts to fumble with the bottom of my sweater. I let go of his nipple and help him pull my sweater and bra off over my head.

  He surveys the terrain below. “You got tits like an angel,” he says. He lowers his body on top of mine and we start smooching again, making out wildly like teenagers, our hips churning even faster. It was all so pleasurable and I felt those juices simmering between my legs heat up to a rolling boil.

  “Are you ready?” Mr Tom asks.

  “Proceed, soldier,” I tell him.

  He sits up on the edge of the couch and unzips his trousers. He picks up a condom packet and tears it open. I look away; I don’t want to watch this part. I’m afraid I’ll see a strange wizened appendage, wrinkled like a prune, but at the last minute, my curiosity gets the best of me. I glance over. I see Mr Tom slide the love sock onto a long meaty shaft that would make a twenty-year-old marine proud. He hovers over me again and pulls up my skirt. I spread my legs eagerly; I want that big thing inside me. I shut my eyes. I feel Mr Tom pull the crotch of my panties aside.

  My sweet cunt stink floats out into the room, I hear Mr Tom take a hearty sniff, and then he slides right in, filling me completely. We begin our campaign and I hear troops, whole regiments, marching, stomping into battle. I hear rifle fire, artillery, cannons, mortars exploding. We come at exactly the same instant. It’s a direct hit.

  “Bombs away!” Mr Tom yells. For the first time in ages, I feel completely relaxed. I want to reach up; touch Mr Tom’s cheek, his mouth. I open my eyes as he pulls out of me. His face is very red. Suddenly, he just keels over and falls off the couch with a big kerpunk, landing between the couch and coffee table. I’m frightened! Did he have a heart attack? Has he died in the saddle, my saddle? I make myself look down.

  He is still breathing. His eyes are open. “Mr Tom,” I ask. “Are you all right?”

  He smiles up at me. “Yes, Girlie,” he answers. “Guess I just got a little wobbly. How did I do?”

  I am so relieved. “Victory on all fronts,” I tell him.

  We put our tops back on and straighten our clothes. We polish off the Old Fashioneds. Mr Tom gives me a couple of books for my father that had been on the floor next to the couch. As I get up to leave my eyes fall on the unused Trojan on the coffee table.

  Mr Tom sees me looking. “For next time,” he says.

  My father is sitting in front of the TV in the living room watching Oprah when I return. “What took you so long? I was going to call up,” my father asks.

  “Mr Tom was showing me some of his war souvenirs,” I tell him. “You’re a sweet girl,” my father replies. “Trying to make an old man happy, I’m proud of you,” and this time he doesn’t call me honey.

  The Good Place

  Ashley Lister

  I’ve heard psychologists refer to “the good place”.

  It’s not a specific location, or a town you can visit. It’s a state of mind where – instead of being glum about your lack of prospects or miserable because you’re lonely – you’re content with life and all it has to offer. I was there once and I know it’s a good place. It’s a better place than where I am now. But, as I’m currently sitting on death row, Waverley, Virginia, with less than a week to go before execution, I think any other place might be considered better.

  Not that I should be on death row.

  I’m an innocent man.

  And, while I did kill Katy and although I do hear voices in my head, I’m not one of your crazy murderers.

  Have I just rushed ahead too fast? Should I slow this down a pace and start from the beginning?

  I first fell in love with Katy’s voice. She spoke with a throaty chuckle set deep into her Virginia drawl. There was the hint of mischief dripping from every word and the sultry promise of passion in each syllable. She breathed every sentence, speaking from the swell of her breasts and projecting with the competence of the finest opera singer. It would only take the simplest invitation: Are you coming for dinner? Can I do anything special for you? and the mere timbre of her suggestion had me besotted.

  And she chose her vocabulary with a deliberation that was always delightful. She had a risqué way of phrasing every question or response, so you never knew if she was teasing, talking straight or deliberately flirting. When I fixed her dilapidated runabout, she gave me a kiss and told me she “appreciated the services of a capable man.” Each time I saw her at the diner, where she faithfully waited tables, Katy would ask if she could “try to satisfy my appetite.”

  Not that it was just her voice or her wordplay that I loved.

  She was a good person – kind-hearted, intelligent and fun – and the sexiest woman I’ve ever had the good fortune to encounter. Petite, brunette, perfectly formed and invariably dressed in shorts and a T-shirt: she was blessed with a figure to die for.

  I guess that last observation is an irony.

  I genuinely do regret killing her.

  But it wasn’t murder and . . .

  I’m getting ahead of myself again, aren’t I? Things didn’t happen slowly between Katy and me. The sultry tone of her voice was enough to tempt me to her side and, as soon as we were alone together, I discovered another quality to her words aside from the rich accent or the clever wordplay. She could make the air crackle with the electric taste of promise. Using no more expression than a flutter of dark lashes over large eyes, she had me enlisted as a willing partner to her every sordid fantasy.

  And, now that we’re talking about Katy’s fantasies, it’s only fair to mention that she had
more than a few. The first time we made love it happened on a balmy summer’s evening. I found her sitting on the porch, with a V of sweat molding her T-shirt to her breasts and giving her sun-kissed skin a glossy luster. The fading light of the day caught auburn flecks in her brunette tresses. Beads of perspiration on her neck and collarbone glistened like diamonds.

  “I’m hot,” she breathed.

  And there it was again. The casual inflection in her tone that said more than those two words should be able. It was a double entendre that was maddeningly appropriate regardless of which way I chose to interpret what she’d said. The day was sweltering, admittedly. But the glint in her eye, and that perplexing way she spoke, suggested that she wasn’t discussing the clemency of the weather.

  The electricity in the air made it hard for me to breath. I tried to shift my legs in case she was embarrassed about the effect her declaration had stirred in me. Not wanting to appear stupid, or incapable of matching her banter, I struggled to find a suitable retort. Swallowing thickly, nervous that such a specimen of feminine perfection could show an interest in a lummock like me, I observed, “Hot suits you.”

  “You don’t think all this sweat makes my skin look clammy and unattractive?”

  “Hell! No!”

  “You don’t think it makes my skin feel unattractive?”

  I hesitated, aware that she was taking my hand, watching as she guided the tips of my fingers to the slick skin of her collarbone. The heel of my palm was mere millimeters above the thrust of one nipple. I had noticed they stood erect, their shapes defined through the fabric of the clinging T-shirt. The ghosts of her areolae were deliriously obvious beneath the flimsy material. Touching her body – and painfully aware of how close I was to properly touching her breasts – I came near to shivering in spite of the sweltering heat.