The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 7

by Maxim Jakubowski

  Andrew’s fingers left my body, came back oiled and warm.

  “It’s like playing pool,” Miss Suzanne said, her thin fingers still in place. “It’s all about speed and angles.”

  Andrew’s finger was back against me, pressing, pressing. I fought the desire to lean back onto the tip of his finger, to force him inside me once and for all. But part of our class promise had been to let our partner do all the work, go at his own pace, let him do only what he was ready for.

  He increased the pressure, opening my asshole, careful to use the flat of his fingertip. “Go,” Miss Suzanne whispered, and then Andrew pushed his way inside me. Just a little, just the tip so I could barely feel it, but oh Jesus, there he was.

  “More,” Miss Suzanne said. Andrew pushed his finger farther into my asshole. Farther, until I was sure he had to be at the first joint. Having him in there like that made my pussy ache with that special emptiness that I loved. Andrew entered me to the knuckle. I imagined what he looked like behind me – starting to sweat beneath his glasses out of fear and excitement, his finger disappearing into my asshole.

  “All the way in,” Miss Suzanne said. And then he pushed and his finger was inside me, tearing through me with that certain pain that is mostly pleasure. I bit down on the pillow, but most of the moan came out anyway.

  “See?” Miss Suzanne said. “She likes it. You’re doing a great job.”

  “Jesus,” Andrew whispered. “Oh fuck.” Awe and arousal deepened his voice to a husky whisper. Hearing that voice – no fear in there – almost made me come.

  Miss Suzanne raised her voice. “Okay, class, is everyone in? Foxes all in the holes?” I’m sure the class laughed, but I couldn’t even concentrate to hear all the answers. All I could feel was Andrew’s finger in my ass, the way he held it there, so still, the way it filled me and at the same time made me ache for something more, something bigger.

  “Great,” she said. “Now I just want you to wiggle your fingers in there a little bit. Not a lot, just enough to feel the room, to see what kind of reaction you get.”

  This time, Andrew didn’t hesitate. As soon as she said wiggle, his finger started moving, up and down, up and down, inside me.

  “Okay?” Andrew asked. But this time he wasn’t asking if I was okay. He was asking if it felt good, if he was doing the right thing in there.

  My voice was all whisper and the pressure of not fucking his finger. “Yes,” I said. “Yes, please don’t stop.”

  Miss Suzanne click-clicked back to the front of the room, apparently trusting that Andrew had gotten the hang of things.

  After a few minutes she said, “Ladies, now it’s your turn to help out. Gentlemen, your job is just to hold yourself still. Maybe for the first time ever, your ladies are going to fuck you.”

  Andrew’s finger stopped moving in my ass. Lightheaded, I pushed myself backwards onto Andrew’s finger, so far back his other curled knuckles rubbed against my skin. I let myself fuck him, showing him how much I wanted him like this, how much I wanted him inside me.

  With each thrust, Andrew’s breathing quickened. His finger burnt and rubbed the inside of me in pain and pleasure. I was so full back there that the rest of me ached, empty and untouched. With one hand, I reached beneath me and fingered my slippery clit, letting everything build inside me. The fullness and the empty. The sweet burn of Andrew’s finger in my ass, the soft roll of pleasure through my clit. And the best part was Andrew behind me, bracing himself against the table, letting me fuck him, I hoped, without fear for the first time. Seeing there was no pain, that there was only pleasure.

  I was close to coming, but I wasn’t sure if we were supposed to, if we’d been given the go-ahead, or if there was more I was supposed to do. And then Andrew moved his finger inside me, up and down, just enough to hit that spot and it didn’t matter if I was supposed to or not, it was happening. Everything sliding through me from Andrew’s finger out to my toes, up into my head. I cried out, and heard Andrew do the same.

  I pulled forward, off of Andrew’s finger, and let my head hang on the pillow. “Holy shit,” I said. I had no idea where anyone else was at in the room, or if there was even anyone else in the room any more. And then I heard Miss Suzanne’s heels click-click up. “Once you two have washed up, meet in the front room to debrief and get your assignments for next week.” She put her hand, still cool as ever, against my shoulder. “Nice job, you two.”

  When I sat up, Andrew’s face was pink and flushed. But he had the biggest grin on his face. Just seeing him like that, aroused and confident, made me wet all over again. He leaned down and kissed the lobe of my ear. “That,” he whispered, “was awesome. I can’t wait to see what our new assignment is.”

  I thought of his cock, the tip of it entering me, the way it would feel when he finally pushed inside of me. “I can’t either.”

  Mindy’s Pheromones

  Jeremy Edwards

  Mindy made me sex-obsessed in a way I hadn’t been since eighth grade.

  Here I was, a well-adjusted, experienced man of thirty-two. Throughout my adult life I had studied with women, worked with women, socialized with women, seduced and been seduced by women, formed strong bonds with women, built complicated relationships with women, and had one-night stands with women. I had been fraternally friendly with them, professionally proper with them, uproariously ribald with them . . . and gloriously, so gloriously, intimate with them. I respected women, I admired women, I learned from women, I sympathized with women, I adored women.

  In the course of all this, I’d experienced captivating sexual obsession – but always in the sophisticated manner of a man of the world. These were grown-up obsessions explored on moonlit beaches furnished with champagne, or in boutique hotel rooms with their inevitably inviting beds and bathtubs, or at 1 a.m. rooftop parties for two.

  And suddenly one humdrum Tuesday, a woman whose face, though pleasant, I would never have picked out of a crowd . . . and whose interests had little or no overlap with my own . . . and whose personality, though undoubtedly agreeable, didn’t really grab me . . . was assigned the cubicle next to mine. And just as suddenly, I became, for all practical purposes, a 13-year-old again.

  It must have been pheromones, I kept telling myself. I must have been responding to her on an unconscious, olfactory-driven level that made my chemicals boil and my sexual intellect regress. No matter how blatantly I failed to connect with her, her femaleness screamed itself to me in a primal way.

  Mindy is sitting in the cubicle next to mine. Mindy, who is female, is in the cubicle next to mine. Mindy, who has breasts and slender fingers and wears dresses and skirts, is in the cubicle next to mine. Mindy, who shaves her legs and whose underpants have no fly and who inserts fingers into herself to masturbate, is in the cubicle next to mine. Such were the endless, compulsive trains of thought that displaced my priorities as a skilled graphic designer facing a precarious stack of deadlines.

  Meanwhile, Mindy had hair that was a color I thought of as “nondescript” and an hourglass figure that struck me as “predictable” and a tone of voice that reminded me of my sister’s. Her eyes glazed over on the few occasions I tried to talk to her about Art Nouveau or exotic beetles, while her rapturous discussion of car trends left me in neutral.

  After I had somehow managed to complete the most urgent of my assignments with Mindy’s chemicals simmering next door, I took a couple of personal days. I thought if I didn’t go near her from Wednesday night until Monday morning, I might shake this obsession. But all I did from Wednesday night until Monday morning – to the extent my body was up to it – was fondle and shake myself to absurd orgasms, while thinking about how Mindy had a vagina and small feet and a hairless ass. The mindset may have been eighth-grade, but the orgasms were industrial-strength. What was driving me? Could I somehow, unconsciously, smell her even from home? Ridiculous. Unless . . .

  It was a natural conversation for me to start on Monday morning.

  “How was yo
ur weekend?”

  “Good, thanks,” she replied. “Yours?”

  “Long and absorbing,” I answered truthfully. “I mostly just did things at home.”

  “Yeah, I was mostly home, too,” she stated matter-of-factly.

  This was the opening I’d wanted. “What neighborhood do you live in?”

  “I have an apartment near the Symphony. I’ve lived there about a year now.”

  Aha! But I realized there must be hundreds of apartments, in dozens of buildings “near the Symphony”. It would be audacious to assume that she lived in one of the few studios beside, above or below mine that could plausibly be within smelling distance.

  “Yep,” she continued, “near the Symphony.” And then she tossed off the address. My address.

  And yet if she’d been living in my immediate vicinity all this time, exuding her potent pheromones, then why had I never been affected by them before we became co-workers? Had sitting a mere cubicle away from her somehow triggered something – akin to an allergic reaction – which could now be rekindled by a weaker, more distant version of the same stimulus? For lack of a better theory, I accepted this premise that close exposure to Mindy’s chemicals had made me hypersensitive to her.

  “It’s kind of funny that I ended up in that area,” Mindy was saying, “since I’m totally uninterested in music – of any kind.”

  More evidence, of course, that we had nothing in common. I could not even imagine living without music. I appeared to be a thoroughly unsuitable match for Mindy.

  Mindy, whose legs converge in a neat, feminine juncture instead of a collage of male genitalia like my own. Mindy who has a smooth neck and a high voice and would sing soprano, if she didn’t hate music. Mindy who keeps her knees together when sitting on the bench in front of the elevator in our lobby. Mindy who walks nonchalantly through a door marked WOMEN when it’s time to wash up for lunch.

  Mindy’s computer crashed a minute later. “Argh!” she said from her cubicle. Argh. I wondered if she said “Ngh” when she approached orgasm. I had fucked three or four women in my time who said “Ngh” as they ramped up to climax, and I wanted desperately to know if Mindy said “Ngh.”

  Mindy couldn’t have cared less about the food I liked or the authors I treasured. She loved camping and skiing, which I couldn’t stand. She never laughed at my jokes. Nevertheless, I spent my first morning back at work pondering whether she said “Ngh” in bed.

  We had two single-occupant, unisex bathrooms in our office. That afternoon, as I was heading for the restroom nearest our department, Mindy came out of it. I had heard her on the phone just a minute or two earlier, so she’d obviously just gone for a quick pee – or maybe simply to glance in the mirror.

  As I closed the door, it became obvious that Mindy had indeed pulled her tight little jeans down in this room. The aroma of her femaleness was as overwhelming as it was immediate. No unconscious senses were required to detect her this time. Though my intention in sequestering myself here had been to take a piss, I found myself stroking my cock as I stood at the toilet, gazing down on the seat that had hosted her bare ass moments before, her sex diffusing into the small room’s atmosphere. Mindy is female. She sits down to urinate and makes the bathroom smell like cunt. Her cunt. In seconds, I was ejaculating into a palmful of bleach-white toilet paper.

  Over the next few days, my sense of smell finally seduced my other senses. Now I could not look at Mindy without admiring the subtle grace of her features; I could not listen to her talk without feeling tremors. How, I marveled, could I ever have found her looks to be bland and her voice to be ordinary? I began to see my previous unresponsiveness to her physical charms as a reflection on my own shortcomings.

  Even more, her personality began to fascinate me. Her lack of interest in the things I cared about somehow became an intriguing lack of interest. Her enthusiasm over subjects which bored me became enchanting enthusiasm. I was infatuated with everything about this woman, even though I knew it was ultimately just the result of mischievous molecules from her vagina tickling my horny nose, day in and day out. I didn’t care. I just wanted to fuck her all night, every night, and really get to know her during the intervening days.

  On Friday, the day she wore the soft white jeans with the pocket-buttons, I couldn’t hold back any longer. You know the sort of pants I mean – with cute little button-down pockets on the ass, impractical as pockets but intoxicating as textures, ornamenting pert cheeks the way that nipples ornament breasts. When Mindy was standing at the photocopier with her back to me, I found I could not take my eyes off those little buttons. All I wanted to do was unbutton each pocket in turn and caress her ass.

  I had three deadline-sensitive projects on my desk. But the only projects I worked on that morning consisted of various fantasies that each involved (a) unbuttoning those pockets and (b) fondling Mindy’s bottom through the thin layer of fabric inside them. (For the purposes of these fantasies, I took the liberty of presuming Mindy to be wearing a thong.) By lunch-time, I had already masturbated my head off in the john three times.

  “Hey, do you have plans this weekend?” Any reservations I might once have had about asking this question were by now comfortably submerged beneath my consuming desire to touch Mindy’s body.

  She smiled. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

  So dinner that night it was, at a restaurant near our building. It was a curry place – one of the few cuisines on which we agreed. It seemed appropriate that we were going somewhere enticingly fragrant.

  “They don’t serve alcohol,” she warned me. Mindy liked beer; I liked wine.

  “No worries,” I ventured in reply. “I’ve got stuff at my place, so we can go up for a drink afterwards.”

  “Perfect.”

  Dinner conversation involved a predictable assortment of dead ends. And yet there was a level of comfort there, a rapport. We had come a long way in two weeks of cubicle-bumping.

  After dinner, we very naturally slid onto opposite ends of the convertible couch in my pad, drinks in hand. We raised our glasses in a casual, unspoken toast.

  “You realize we have nothing in common,” said Mindy after a sip of beer.

  “Oh, yes,” I replied.

  “But you’re cute,” she stated, as if this were a fact. “That’s why I wanted to go out to dinner with you . . . and everything.” She blushed. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d spent an evening with a woman who blushed. “How about you?”

  “You mean, why did I want to go out to dinner – and everything?”

  “Yes. Even though we—”

  “I know, I know. Even though we have nothing in common.” We laughed together, perhaps for the first time, united by a shared awareness of our irreconcilable differences.

  Mindy’s candor inspired my own. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but – believe it or not – I wanted to go out with you because . . .” I hesitated and made a quick detour. “Now, I think you’re cute, too, and I like you. I like you more with each moment, in fact.” I cleared my throat. “But I really wanted to go out with you because . . . I can unconsciously smell your cunt all day long, and it’s driving me wild.”

  Her mouth dropped open. Was it shock? Incredulity? I thought I saw her eyes tearing up.

  “Wow,” she said softly, her soprano pitch suddenly husky.

  With great delicacy she placed her beer on the coffee table, next to my glass of wine.

  Then she pounced on me, and I was enveloped in arms and legs and breath and liquid kisses, my head spinning in the strongest dose yet of Mindy’s aroma. Of all the times I had fantasized about Mindy, it had never occurred to me that she might go even wilder than I would, that she would fling herself onto me and fuck me like she’d been waiting for it all her life.

  I don’t remember how, or when, our clothes came off. But I’ll never forget the way she rode me, her thighs trembling while she guided herself up and down my pole, juicing every ounce of pleasure from the machine of o
ur genitals. She smelled like home, like dinner, like laughter and dessert . . . and, of course, like cunt.

  “Ngh,” she said, her face a grimace of hard-earned bliss. “Ngh,” she reiterated, and reiterated, with shorter and shorter interludes between iterations. When she’d taken us as high as we could go, I clutched her butt cheeks for my own ninety eternal seconds of free-fall.

  Afterward, she rolled into the crook of the loveseat. I dropped to the floor, preparing to make a proper meal of her. But her ass was facing out, and I couldn’t ignore it. I had to kiss every inch of this ass – this ass I had once dismissed as “ordinary” – before going near her pussy, potent though the pussy’s olfactory beckoning was.

  When I had kissed cheeks and crack so comprehensively that Mindy’s bottom was jiggling in my face like it had its own motor, I moved at last to the heart of the matter. Tonguing and kissing every possible place between her legs, I felt drunk on her essence. It was the oxygen my lungs had craved since I met her. And though Mindy claimed not to have a musical bone in her body, her soprano trills were tonally perfect every time she hit a climax. “Ngh” for fucking and trills for being eaten, I noted, having always been a devoted student of languages – unlike Mindy, who could rattle off sports stats but had flunked out of Spanish.

  “I have to pee,” she said after I’d finally exhausted her.

  My couch smelled like Mindy’s cunt. My body smelled like Mindy’s cunt. My bathroom would soon smell like Mindy’s cunt. And I knew I would do my best to make sure that Mindy returned again and again, so that her delicious scent could never dissipate and leave me deprived.

  Mindy the delightful. Mindy the compelling and enchanting. Mindy who, at that very moment, was making her splendid, fluid, utterly naked way toward my bathroom. Mindy who was, and always would be . . . Mindy.