The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 7

by Maxim Jakubowski

  But, he suggested again with all due respect, for my own enjoyment I might consider abstaining on Friday night and Saturday morning. He’d come up with some new ideas for our date, and he was pretty sure I’d agree they were worth waiting for. He promised to send instructions on how to prepare myself by Saturday morning.

  I had to laugh again. While he’d certainly picked up on my intention to make him jealous with the public masturbation scene, he was apparently slow to grasp my broader message of female autonomy.

  Still, I had to admit the word instructions made me tingle a little down there. I even took a little vacation from tickling the clam as the weekend drew near.

  Of course, I got up extra early to check my e-mail Saturday morning. As promised, my instructions were waiting:

  I’ll call you at noon on Saturday, your time. Exactly ten minutes beforehand, I want you to do the following:

  1. Take off all your clothes and put on the Hello Kitty thong I brought from Japan last month. If you’re cold, you may cover yourself with your bathrobe, but nothing else.

  2. Place your hairbrush and hand mirror in the middle of the bed.

  3. Lie down beside them and wait, hands at your side, until the phone rings. Then you may answer it.

  That was it. A bossy to-do list. No loving endearments. No “can’t wait to hear your sexy voice.” None of the things a truly caring lover should say to his long-suffering and very horny girlfriend.

  So why was my heart going pitter-patter in my chest?

  Of course, I told myself, no man gave me “instructions.” I’d play along because I had nothing better to do – for the moment. At the appointed time, I stripped and put on the thong, a black silk triangle on a string with a silly, beribboned kitty face on the front. I’d gotten a giggle out of it when he gave it to me after his last trip, but I hadn’t worn it yet. It was a wise choice for overseas foreplay – definitely snug in all the right places.

  But the mirror and the brush stumped me. Was he planning some kind of weird naked makeover session? I suddenly remembered some amateur porn pictures I’d seen on the Internet of a woman stroking her pubic hair with her hair-brush. She had this dreamy expression as if it were the most fascinating activity on earth, although at the time I suspected she was faking it for the photographer boyfriend.

  Curious, I picked up the brush – screw the “wait with hands at your side” order – pushed down the thong, and ran it gently through my bush. No, I didn’t blast off into orgasmic orbit at the first touch, but the sensation was interesting. Soft but rough at the same time, like the strokes of a cat’s tongue.

  The phone rang.

  I jumped and tossed away the brush, as if he could somehow see me breaking the rules. It probably didn’t help that I gulped, guiltily, in the middle of my “hello”.

  “Hey there, hot stuff, did you do everything on the list?” His voice was deeper than I remembered. And cocky. Too cocky.

  “And what if I didn’t?”

  He laughed, warm and slow. “Then I guess I’ll have to make you do as you’re told.”

  “Sweetie, in case you didn’t notice, you’re thousands of miles away. How will you make me do anything? Not with words.”

  He paused. “We’ll see about that.”

  In spite of myself, my cunt muscles fluttered, as if a secret butterfly was tickling me inside with its soft wings. But I didn’t have to admit that to him.

  “So, Part-time Lover, what am I supposed to do with the grooming implements?” I asked in my brattiest tone.

  He laughed again, but this time he seemed embarrassed, as if he’d been the one caught with his hands down his pants.

  “Well, I got inspired after I read that first e-mail. But I don’t want to give away the surprise yet.”

  “Isn’t it just like you to keep me waiting a long time for the good stuff?”

  “Enough about me and my shortcomings, okay? I’d rather talk about you. Are you wearing the thong?”

  “Uh-huh,” I said, but with a healthy dash of defiance.

  “Is it pulled up high so it presses between your pussy lips?”

  That shouldn’t have taken me by surprise, but it did, as a little zing of lust darted between my legs. “Somewhat.”

  “Pull it up a little higher. So that you can’t think of anything else but that pressure against your clit.”

  I was about to refuse, on principle, but my hands seemed to reach down of their own accord and tug the sides another inch farther over my hips. An involuntary sigh of pleasure escaped my lips.

  “See, that feels nice, doesn’t it? Can you feel it rubbing against your sensitive pink asshole, too?”

  His voice was so sweet it slipped into my ear like hot fudge sauce gliding over ice cream. Already my face was hot, partly because those dirty words were making me blush, partly because they were really turning me on.

  “You didn’t answer me,” he scolded.

  “Yeah.”

  “Yeah, what?”

  “Yeah, it’s rubbing up against my asshole,” I murmured.

  “Good. Now, I want you to open your robe and hold the mirror in front of your gorgeous breasts.”

  As I reached for the mirror, I noticed my hand was trembling. What would he tell me to do next? And would I continue to obey this easily, like a pliant little sex slave with no will of her own?

  “Tell me, is your chest flushed and red, like it gets when you’re all turned on?”

  My “yes” slipped out before I could manage a lie.

  “And your nipples? Are they hard yet?”

  “Not really. The room’s pretty warm.”

  “We’ll have to do something about that. I want you to try a new trick. I want you to rub the mirror against your nipple very gently.”

  An unusual idea, but I figured it was worth a try.

  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.

  Poker Night

  Lisabet Sarai

  It was just an ordinary door. Solid core, Yale lock, standard peephole, identical to all the other doors on the fourth floor of this unexceptional building on the corner of West 14th and B Street.

  So why was he sweating and trembling as though he stood before the gates of hell? No, that wasn’t quite right. He knew the door led through damnation, to salvation. He craved the peace, needed to be redeemed. But he was, as always, afraid to take that first step.

  His cock was already an iron bar in his worn jeans. His heart jack-hammered against his ribs. Don’t be a pussy, he told himself. Get on with it. His work-reddened knuckles hesitated, inches from the door.

  Without warning, it swung open. His heartbeat raced into overdrive. He could hardly breath.

  “ ‘Evening, Jack. I thought I heard you shuffling around out in the hall. Come on in, before I shock all my neighbors.’

  She was decent enough, with her miniskirt and the black lace bra that cradled her ample breasts. But Jack scurried into the apartment. He didn’t want to be seen, though everyone else in the apartment building was probably parked in front of the tube.

  Helen stood with her back to the closed door, surveying him. He blushed and stared down at his work boots.

  “It’s been a while, Jack. I was beginning to think you didn’t want to see me any more.”

  “Seven weeks, Ma’am. I tried – tried to stay away. But I couldn’t stand it.” He was appalled to feel tears pricking the corners of his eyes. “I needed to see you.”

  Perceptive as always, she saw his distress. “Hey, don’t cry!” She enfolded him in a brawny embrace, burying his face in her bosom. “It’s OK. I understand.” She smelled of Ivory soap and talcum powder. His swollen cock throbbed painfully, and for a moment he thought he’d come right there.

  She released him in the nick of time. He stepped away from her, head bowed in embarrassment.

  “How’s Maude?”

  “Fine,” he mumbled.

  “Does she know you’re here?”

  He gazed at his mistress, eyes full of pain. “Of course not. She thinks I’m over at the Moose Club, playing poker with the boys. Hey, I was, for more than two hours, before I came here.” He stared at his hands, fighting the guilt. “I don’t like to lie to her.”

  “Why don’t you tell her the truth?”

  “I can’t. She wouldn’
t understand. She’s the church organist, for heaven’s sake. She teaches Sunday school.”

  “You told me that she likes sex.”

  “Sure she does, but only normal sex. Healthy, ordinary sex, insert tab A into slot B. You know what I mean.”

  “There’s nothing unhealthy about what you and I do.”

  “Yeah, right.” He gave a bitter laugh. “Well, I suppose there’s no law against it. It’s not like I’m a homo or anything.”

  “Nothing unhealthy about that either.”

  “Look, I don’t want to talk about it. Ok? Let’s just get on with it.” Jack dug his wallet out of his pocket with difficulty, wincing as the denim stimulated his bulging prick. He pulled out a wad of bills and laid them on the television table. “Here. I was lucky tonight. Won more than a hundred bucks.”

  Helen looked at him, some unreadable expression on her broad features. Then she rearranged her face into a mask of authority. He could see it happen, the shift to her professional mode. He could hear it in her voice.

  “All right, then. Into the dungeon, little boy.”

  She opened the door into what would have been the kids’ bedroom, if Helen had kids. The non-traditional decor, familiar as it was, still shocked him.

  Heavy black curtains hid the walls and cloaked the one window, which faced onto the alley running between B and C streets. The yards of fabric muffled noise, making the room into a dark cocoon. The light was indirect and soothing, coming from several track fixtures installed in the ceiling.

  The furnishings were home-made, but effective enough. In the center of the room was a punishment bench fashioned from two heavy-duty sawhorses – he knew the brand, popular with local contractors – and a plank padded with gardener’s foam knee pads.

  Opposite the door stood a bondage rack made of steel conduit. In one corner was a sturdy old armchair she must have picked up from Salvation Army, augmented by leather wrist and ankle restraints.