The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 7

by Maxim Jakubowski

  Gina herself went very soon after, a more subdued departure on the Boat Train that stopped at the village station once a week. It was reported that the only person to see her off on the platform was Helen Rowe. I was the only one not to be surprised, because that pair had already surprised me before when I spotted them down a lane where I’d been sent on some errand kissing each other in the way men and women did in American films. That puzzled me for a long time, but I never did bring it forward as a topic for debate under the street lamp, even if they’d have believed me it somehow didn’t seem right, and I doubt even Frank Blunt could have come up with an explanation for it.

  Tight Spots

  Debra Hyde

  If an interviewer ever asked sex writer Delta Faragate where her ideas came from, she’d have to look the person square in the eye and admit, “Honey, I do my best thinking sucking cock.” That answer might go down just fine in the pages of Playboy or Hustler but it’d be cause for scandal in any “family” paper or periodical. But Delta wasn’t fantasizing about fame or notoriety. She was busy puzzling out the topic of her next column – and voraciously working her boyfriend’s meat in the process.

  She had it just right, too: matching the right force of suction to his rhythmic pumping, pressing her tongue to that one spot on his dick that made him swell towards orgasm, giving him a sensual extra by cupping his balls. His breath was ragged; his moans barely escaping his lips. She knew it was only a matter of moments.

  When she heard that certain firecracker gasp of his, she knew he was there, and his dick surged and shot forth the fruits of their shared labor into her waiting mouth.

  After Robert came, Delta tended to his retiring tool with gentle licks. And, when he recovered from his explosion, he chuckled and asked, “So what’d you come up with this time?”

  Robert, the dear soul of a beau, was in on her dirty little trade secret. And he loved these working meetings of hers.

  Delta mumbled something unintelligible. Robert grabbed her hair, tilted her head up towards him, and reminded her, “It’s impolite to talk with your mouth full. Swallow.”

  Swallow, she did, tasting sweet jizz upon her tongue. He’s still drinking OJ, she thought.

  “Well,” she resumed in a more polite fashion. “Think about this: with visions of long hair and love beads dancing in their heads, America’s oldest boomers turn sixty this year.”

  She paused, rose from the floor and joined Robert on the couch.

  “I want to write about one particular symbol of hippiedom and sexual liberation.”

  “The peace sign?” Robert posed.

  “No. The VW Beetle. Pneumatic made mobile.”

  “Huh?”

  “Remember the first time you encountered the word pneumatic?”

  “Yeah. In an engineering class.”

  Delta laughed. “OK, so my literary reference might be lost on you slide-ruler types. I first saw it in a modern lit course – Brave New World, where a woman’s sexual value was measured by her innate ‘pneumatic’ ability. When I think of the VW bug, pneumatic comes to mind. And pneumatic makes me think Brave New World and Brave New World reminds me of youthful freedom and discovery, coming into your own, and the noturning-back of the sexual revolution.”

  “But,” Robert countered. “The revolution kind of fizzled, you know.”

  Delta scoffed. “You think today’s sixty-year-olds are hanging up their spurs? I bet lube is selling better than ever in their demographic.”

  Robert smiled at Delta. She had a point.

  “Why not drum up some nostalgia?” she asked. “I mean, remember the backseat? What it was like to fuck in glorious and cramped abandon?”

  “I remember the cramped part.”

  A sly smile crept across Delta’s face. “Let’s test drive a Beetle. Let’s do a backseat assessment.”

  “Too cramped. Let’s try the PT Cruiser instead.”

  “That’s a guy car. Only guys had jalopies. The bug was a car of its time, owned and adored by all – freedom, liberation, equality! Besides, be thankful I’m not hankering for that Mini-Cooper. Remember what I told you about them?”

  Robert remembered. Delta’s USAF father had brought a Cooper back from England in the 1950s and driving it stateside brought vocal ridicule, namely “What’s it going to be when it grows up?” From guys driving jalopies.

  “Call the dealer,” Robert relented. “I’ll take time off from work.”

  Sometimes, it didn’t pay to be a known sex writer. Often, people didn’t want to see Delta coming their way – sin by association, she called it – and trying to jump-start the Volkswagen story was a case study of people fleeing in the face of Delta’s notoriety. Dealers throughout the greater metro region begged off Delta’s brand of automotive review. Oh sure, they wished her well and why not? Risk nothing and if her column created a buzz, they’d reap the benefits. But help her directly? No way.

  The entire situation made Delta roll her eyes and shake her head in facetious disgust.

  To run with her story, Delta had had to dig into the Volkswagen underground, networking her way among Beetle hobbyists to find a car geek who owned Beetles both old and new and had a sense of adventure. That geek turned out to be one Paul Clotsman; middle-aged, glasses, receding hairline, and a swallowing tic. He owned a fleet of Beetles, one for each decade of its North American existence, and he was both open- and dirty-minded. In negotiating the terms of acceptance, his only request was that he got to stand guard over his new bug as they did the deed.

  “Don’t trust us?” Delta asked.

  “It’s not that. I’m a big fan of yours, actually.” Paul’s swallow ticked three times between sentences. “Umm, I’d like to watch.”

  Delta rolled her eyes as Paul, having risked it all, shuffled from foot to foot, awaiting her answer. The last time something like this happened, she recalled, was at an SF convention and it involved Klingon mating practices. Then, she had declined the offer but, this time, with her deadline looming, Delta didn’t have time to fuss the details. She eyed Paul and, as he squirmed under her scrutiny, she deemed him harmless compared to that wannabe Klingon.

  “Done,” she decided.

  Paul’s swallow was working overtime when he met Delta and Robert outside his garage. He pushed open one of two rolling doors and admitted his guests to his own private little heaven, a long and deep barn in which Volkswagen Beetles sat, lined up in formation.

  It wasn’t difficult to pick out the new Beetle among the old. A vibrant blue, it was rounder in the front, blunt in the rear, and shaped wider overall. Paul opened the driver’s side door and, Delta looking to Robert, she motioned him to get in. “We might as well do this like a date out of the 70s,” she said as she made her way to the passenger side and slipped in.

  Robert put his seat back as far as it would go and smiled conspiratorially at Delta. She slid her seat back and returned his grin in kind. They reached for each other and started kissing. Action underway, Paul shut the driver’s door and went to a neighboring car where he sat on its hood and watched.

  Robert and Delta let their kisses lead to necking and necking to groping. They shared the hurried passion of a mutual agenda and in no time, his pants were open, her skirt hiked up, and their first complaints came in unison. Presenting herself sprawled and spread to Robert, she yelped as the door handle pressed into her back; Robert as he attempted to straddle her.

  “Damn stick shift,” he complained, defeatedly plopping back into his seat.

  “So much for a well-planned lay,” Delta observed. Struggling, she returned her legs to her side of the car. “Let’s try some lap action.” She dove onto Robert’s cock mouth-first and started working him in earnest. She licked and sucked him, teased that sweet spot which had inspired this entire lark, and bobbed along until she muttered a second “ouch!” This time, the gearshift was against her shoulder.

  How did we do it back then? she wondered, rising from Robert’s prick and apologizing. He shrugged. �
��It wasn’t quite the right angle anyway.”

  “Yeah,” Delta agreed, “Kind of hard to give you a satisfying hummer from the side.”

  “Guess you need a hummer for that,” Robert quipped.

  “Ha. Ha,” Delta said in sarcasm unmistakable.

  “Lean back and put your legs up,” Robert suggested. “Let’s see if oral works in the other direction.”

  As she raised one leg to the dashboard and the other to the head rest of Robert’s seat, Delta felt positively porno with her strappy little red shoes pointed heels on high. She braced her hands against the car’s floor and car seat to resist placing all her weight on the door handle and Robert angled himself to reach her rich lap of luxury where he would place the talents of his tongue. She shivered as he touched her there, his tongue lapping and circling her clit. Delta sank into the pleasure of arousal and, eyes closed, wandered through several imaginary scenes of lust before watching her legs bounce in synch with Robert’s hearty efforts.

  Looking around, she spied Paul spying her. Standing, he peered over the hood, taking an occasional drag on a cigarette.

  He reminded Delta of a long-ago beau who didn’t have a car. Or rather, of his best friend, who drove them around and put up with their backseat antics. Occasionally, he would park the car and they would kick him out so they could grab a hot quickie.

  Paul blushed and turned away, returning to the nearby hood like a neighbor who had outstayed his visit.

  Just like her beau’s friend had done. Only Delta didn’t remember the high school friend peeking quite so openly at them.

  Delta shifted her focus to Robert’s tongue, which was moving downward to her slit and trying to pry its way in. He lapped and poked and made some headway, but again the angle wasn’t right. Delta knew her chances for an orgasm were evaporating in the process.

  Just as well, really. Her hands were giving out, the door handle again was against her back, and Robert’s tolerance was giving out as well. Rising up from her, he stretched and straightened, then reached a hand to the back of his neck and rotated it left, right, then left again. It cracked twice, knuckle-like.

  “How’d we do this when we were young?” he asked, baffled.

  “Backseat,” Delta answered by way of order.

  They slid their seats as far forward as possible and stumbled from the front to the back. They didn’t even try to go over the seats; at their age, one of them might twist an ankle – or break a hip – trying.

  They settled into place and sought out the same position. Delta hiked her legs and, grinning like a Cheshire cat in heat, raised her skirt up, slowly revealing her sweet thighs and the womanly cleft between them. Robert watched as she displayed herself and, when all was in plain sight, he let out a teasing “yummy!”

  “You’re all swollen down there,” he remarked, placing fingers on her clit, her slit, massaging them into renewed excitement. “You look like you could come.”

  Delta’s grin waned into a sly smile. “Maybe I will if you do it right,” she coaxed.

  Robert took the challenge, slipped a finger into her slick depth, and unbuttoned her blouse with his other hand. He laid her breasts bare and nuzzled his way to her nipples, sucking and tonguing and nibbling her into readiness. Delta gave into the mounting pleasures he offered her, growing aroused enough to grind against his busy hand. She clasped his head in her hands and urged him to nibble more exuberantly. Her breath quickened, matching the heat that grew between her legs, a heat so intense, it cried out for cock. Delta pulled Robert away from her tits and cooed, “Get up here and get that big prick of yours in me.”

  Robert struggled to lower his pants and fully free his hard length. The metallic sounds of pocket change and his belt buckle jangled as his cock came into view, bobbing eagerly. Delta grabbed it and guided it to her. She felt its tip at her slit and she rose to meet it, contorting herself as she moved. Robert grunted, not out of passion but because he couldn’t decide whether to scrunch into a rounded hump or lay flat. And no matter how Delta tilted herself, they succeeded in achieving only the slightest of penetration.

  The Beetle’s backseat was not ergonomically designed for pelvic assignations.

  “You’ve got to be on top,” Robert finally declared, exasperated.

  They keystone-kopped their way around each other until Robert was on his back, one leg resting on the seat, the other stretched across the floor, with Delta spread over him, her knees competing with him for whatever seat space they could claim. Again, she had him by his length and, this time, she took aim. Lowering herself, she moved slowly, sinuously, drawing him into her and making him slick with her wet glee.

  Robert reached for her breasts and kneaded them. “Great globes,” he muttered. He tweaked a nipple here and there, adding as much sensation as possible to Delta’s sensual fucking. “You look like something out of a porn movie,” he claimed.

  “Oh, baby,” she moaned in mock dialog, “Fuck my pussy. Fuck it.” She punctuated her words with movement. “Come on, baby, ram that big cock up my hole.”

  Delta giggled and looked down at Robert. Fuck-addled, he could only smile while he absent-mindedly worked her breasts. “You’re tight,” was all he could manage to say.

  But his hips did push upwards. His generous length and girth plumbed her depths at the pace she commanded, plunging into her and satisfying her need to be filled. Robert pulled out almost entirely, dragging her rippling labia as he did; touched her rich spots of desire and pleasure, ground about in her, stabbed her and pierced her – and fucked her good.

  Delta was there, ready. Fingers to her clit, she took him fast, slamming and banging her way to orgasm. Clenching her legs to his side, she grew rigid, held her breath, and focused entirely on the tightening, swirling sensation until it seized her and shook her and took all she had.

  When she slowed – afterglow fucking, she’d call it in her column – she noticed Paul, watching. This time, she played to him, opening her blouse and flashing him. She toyed with her nipples and licked her lips and gave him a memorable moment.

  Robert, though, had other plans. He pulled himself from her, grabbed his cock and began to stroke himself. Delta slid from him and, as he pumped himself more fiercely than she had fucked him, she settled into the gully of the backseat, watching and waiting. She pulled her blouse open, gathered her tits in her hands, and pressed them together. Positively porno all over again, she beckoned to Robert, “Come on, baby, give it to me right here.” She leaned forward and brushed her breasts against his hand.

  It was just what Robert needed. He gasped and, in swift strokes, came, his cock a fountain that gushed over Delta’s tits in several powerful surges.

  Soon in repose, Robert surveyed his pro bono money shot as it dripped from the rise of Delta’s breasts. “Too bad it’s so cramped in here,” Delta teased, “I’d love to have you lick my titties clean.” Instead, she rubbed his juices into her skin, massaging her breasts so sensuously that, had Robert been a younger man, he probably would’ve achieved an instant, second-chance hard-on.

  A knock on the passenger-side window sounded. Paul. Delta smiled as she looked up at the man’s geeky, peering face. Impulsively, she shimmied over Robert and out the backseat. She went to her host and shook his hand so vigorously that her still-exposed tits bounced and jiggled in an unabashed and retro T&A fashion. The way she figured it, Delta owed Paul.

  As she and Robert departed, Delta buttoned her blouse and gloated over her final exploit. “If that doesn’t make him masturbate the minute we leave, I don’t know what will.”

  Robert threw her a sidelong smile and drove on. Life with Delta, he had decided long ago, would always be exciting, so much so that he’d likely wake up retired one day and discover that he forgot to have a mid-life crisis. But, hell, who needs a red sports car and a twenty-something trophy babe when your Significant Other brought Delta’s kind of work home from the office?

  Field research completed, Delta hunkered down to the task of wr
iting her column. She wrote that the pneumatic appeal of the Beetle reborn was offset by its cramped quarters. She wrote about cracking joints and fading flexibility, how the older age body couldn’t contort the way the teen body could. She wondered if the middle-aged need for generous, backseat legroom prompted some kind of subliminal or subconscious response in boomers who bought SUVs. And she pondered whether small cars made for outdoor sex, speculating that perhaps the Brits were so into dogging now was because their cars were forever small.

  Delta even pondered the possibility that Volkswagen might, as more and more boomers aged, bring back its once-hip van – perhaps as a hybrid or a green machine – and if it did, she vowed to assess its shock absorbers and cargo space. Horizontally, of course.

  “Don’t come a-knocking!” she proclaimed out loud as she finished her column. Then she cocked her head thoughtfully and added, “Unless you’re Paul.”

  Deadline met, Delta leaned back in her chair and considered treating herself to a long, hearty lunch. But first she picked up a notepad, scribbled on it, and tossed it onto her desk.

  Call Robert, it said.

  Story ideas, Delta needed more story ideas. And a really intense brainstorming session to boot.

  The Man from Albuquerque

  Julie Saget

  The first time I heard about him, where was it exactly? The man from Albuquerque . . . His real name was never uttered, perhaps no one knew it; that was what he was called: the man from Albuquerque.

  Yes, the first time, where was it exactly?

  Surely in a city with a harbor, those are the only ones he visits. What he looks for he finds on the wharves, along the docks; inland towns don’t interest him, he keeps to the edges of the continents; from there it’s easier to escape, to vanish.

  That is what I was told: he disembarked one beautiful day – in Valparaiso or Liverpool, Tampico or Hamburg – and no one even knew he had landed, for he was only a shadow haunting the ports. And then someone boasted of having seen him, and the news spread; it was the only thing people talked about. On the gangways of the cargo ships berthed at the quay, his name, like a rumor, passed from mouth to mouth, and along the counters, too, in the bars for sailors, which smell of sour beer and men’s sweat. They spoke of the man from Albuquerque with dread, admiration, disgust, and envy. I can still hear all those voices talking about him. I started to look for him, and what each voice revealed pushed me forward to meet him.