The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 4 Page 10

  My mind was filled to bursting with images. I saw myself relaxing with a beer the night before, letting my guard down for the first time ever. I saw myself the way this man must have seen me, unwound, let loose from the tight confines I’d kept myself in all my life. I saw myself opening up, from the split of my body, from the cages within. This picture of freedom brought me to the brink. For me, there was nothing more freeing than standing naked in front of a total stranger – a man whose name I didn’t even know – and letting him see everything.

  He said, “Oh, God,” when I came. He said the words for me, so that I didn’t have to, and then, as if my pleasure had released him, he took off his sunglasses and came closer, on his knees on the patio, so very close to me, but he still didn’t touch me. “Oh, Jesus,” he said, as I brought my fingertips to my lips and slowly licked my own juices away.

  “Don’t stop,” he said, and I knew from the sound of his voice that if I chose to, I could ask him for things. That he’d give me whatever I wanted. But all I wanted from him was his gaze. “Do it again,” he said, “please make yourself come again.”

  With my fingers wet from my mouth, I parted my pussy lips for him, but this time, I slid two fingers deep inside myself. He was close now, his breath on my skin, and I pushed forward with my hips again, feeling his hair softly tickling against my naked thighs. I let him watch me from inches away as I fucked myself. I let him see everything, the way my clit grew so engorged with the heat from within. The way I worked myself hard with my fingers, thrusting my wrist upward against my body, slamming my hand inside me when the need grew stronger and then stronger still. I used only my right hand this time, my thumb rubbing back and forth over my clit, and when I felt the climax building, I put my left hand on his head and twined my fingers through his thick, dark hair, grabbing onto him, anchoring him as I came a second time.

  “So beautiful,” he said in that same low, steady voice. “You have this look, this god damn beautiful quality. I knew when I first saw you—”

  I picked up my clothes from around me on the tiles and I dressed carefully, not hurrying. I felt as if I’d never hurry again, never be nervous again. When I was ready, he drove me back to my dorm, as he’d promised he would. Delivered me back in perfect condition, unmarred and unhurt, although I wasn’t the same person. Not at all. I’d transformed under his gaze. I’d changed.

  I guess, sometimes that’s all it takes, one person’s gaze, one person’s opinion, to make all the difference. Like the way he’d said that D’Arby would be big – a single person’s opinion, summing up a powerful truth. It happens all the time in the media, the way it happened for me that time in L.A. In fact, just this weekend, I read a five-star review of Trent D’Arby’s latest CD, and the reviewer wrote: “For ten minutes in the eighties, D’Arby was on top of the world.”

  And for almost those same exact ten minutes, I was beautiful. For the first time in my life, I was so fucking beautiful it was hard to handle. Yeah, I’ve been beautiful since. But never like that.

  Never again.

  A Day with the Bernsteins

  Charlie Anders

  “Actually,” I stammered, “I’ve never . . . taken a man in my mouth before. I was hoping you’d . . . coach me.”

  There. I’d said it. I wanted Mrs Bernstein to tell me how to suck her husband’s cock. I wanted her to run her fingers through my hair and whisper encouragement. Good boy, that sort of thing. She smiled, as if she understood.

  I tingled from my nipples and my crotch as I knelt before Mr Bernstein’s big rocking chair. He grinned down at me, maybe a little nervous himself. To my right, Mrs Bernstein perched on a stool. “Unzip his fly, Tom,” she told me. “You’re going to do all the work here. John’s just going to enjoy himself.” The hardwood floor chafed my knees. I glanced around the spartan cabin fearfully for spectators before focusing on John Bernstein’s fly.

  Both Bernsteins were stocky, but in different ways. Mrs Bernstein’s torso started wide at her shoulders, broadened at the bust, and barely tapered to her waist. She wore a baggy one-piece green cotton dress. Her gray hair twined around a pencil. Mr Bernstein started with burly shoulders, too, but descended to a slight paunch. Mrs Bernstein’s wily grin contrasted with her husband’s seriousness. I lusted after both of them.

  Bernstein wore briefs under his tight jeans, so wresting his penis free proved challenging. “Don’t act like you’re digging up a potato,” Celia Bernstein counseled. “Half of a good blow job is presentation. Coax it out.” I made myself slow down and slide the briefs away from his cock.

  Mr Bernstein’s cock, already half-hard, reached full size in my hand. Smaller than mine, and circumcised, it twitched as I ran a finger along its underside. “Lick his balls,” Mrs Bernstein said. “Ever so lightly, like a kitten.” The trembling in my chest and stomach grew as I obeyed; I’d chosen well when I’d asked the Bernsteins to fulfill my fantasy of being dominated by an older married couple.

  He moaned as I tongued his scrotum. I worked my tongue up until it was on the base of his shaft; his moans grew. I felt a hand grab my hair. “Did I tell you to lick his cock? Wait for orders, boy!”

  I started to apologize, but Mrs. Bernstein cautioned me not to let my tongue leave its task. I worked his balls for a while until she told me to move on. “Take the head in your mouth. Suck for all you’re worth.” Mr. Bernstein was as surprised as I was.

  I sucked really hard until I felt her grip my hair. “Stop.”

  “Good boy.” I felt her big fingers run through my hair. “Keep ’em off guard. Now lick the shaft with that kitten tongue of yours.” She cooed praise as I licked, then after a while sent me back to sucking hard on the head. Slowly, I took more of Mr. Bernstein’s cock in my mouth. Then back to licking. Mrs. Bernstein stroked the back of my neck with one hand and tickled my crotch with the other.

  The blow job went on for what seemed like hours. Mr. Bernstein got more and more worked up, but didn’t quite come. I felt entranced by Mrs. Bernstein’s bossy whisper. She only occasionally touched my cock, but I stayed rock hard.

  By the time Bernstein’s unexpectedly sweet come poured over my taste buds, my jaw ached and my tongue was sore. But I lied when Mrs. Bernstein asked if my tongue needed to rest. “I’m fine,” I said.

  “Gargle.” Mrs. Bernstein handed me a tiny cup of mouthwash.

  We left the wilting Mr. Bernstein in his chair. Mrs. Bernstein led me to a smaller room. There, she perched on the bed, kicking her Birkenstocks onto the floor. “Kiss my feet,” she said. “And maybe I’ll let you eat me.”

  The hugeness of her feet only lent their wriggling more sensuousness. I licked between each toe on her left foot, then over the arch and under the instep. After I repeated the process on her right foot, she grabbed my hair and guided me on a grand, unhurried tongue-ride up her leg. She hitched up her big green dress as we went.

  The only thing sexier than a big beautiful woman is a BBW with a bush that floods down onto her thighs. I got lost in Mrs. Bernstein’s bush. Her snatch was a pleasant surprise when I stumbled on it, deep in the thicket. It smelled like a fresh-baked olive loaf.

  “Remember the kitten tongue?” Mrs. Bernstein said.

  I nodded.

  “Well, forget about it. I want dog tongue. Up and down, then in circles. Until I tell you to change.” I followed directions. Her hand flailed around, brushing my head, her mound. My tongue got so sore I had to prop it up between my teeth.

  Mrs. Bernstein quivered. Both her big hands pressed my mouth onto her clitoris. She wailed. Her orgasm came on like a hellfire sermon. I didn’t dare stop licking.

  “Come up here,” she hissed. “Grab a condom.”

  I’d been hard for an hour and a half, and every passing minute had ratcheted the tension in my balls. Sliding inside Mrs. Bernstein was so blessed I could have come immediately. But she bit my ear and growled, “Don’t come until I tell you.”

  A novice at BD SM and bi-sex, I knew how to last a long time
at conventional het sex. I had self-control. I’d learned to vary my thrusts and hold back my orgasm. After a few hundred missionary thrusts we switched to doggy style, and I lost count. Mrs. Bernstein came twice, tightening and shuddering around me, before she growled permission for me to come. I pushed myself deep in; I heard my own voice descanting over Mrs. Bernstein’s grunts, and for a moment I was oblivious to everything but the tingling of my whole body. I collapsed, falling over sideways and landing curled up on the foot of the bed.

  “God,” Mrs. Bernstein said after a time. “That was amazing. I haven’t been fucked like that since the fall of the Soviet Union. You’re so much better than my husband.” She raised her voice. “Hear that, John? You should ask him for pointers. He may be a sub, but he’s twice the lover you are. God. What was that, an hour and a half?”

  I sat up, startled by the unwanted praise. I felt cast out of my appointed role, and the feeling only worsened as I saw Mr. Bernstein standing in the doorway. He held a tray of crackers and spread. His face looked calm, but calm as if he didn’t trust himself to express the rage he felt. He was dressed, and he looked at our naked bodies with something like contempt. “Paté?” he said after a long pause, holding out the tray.

  We ate in silence, Mrs. Bernstein and me still naked. The three of us sat around a glass-topped table eating off little plates that were almost saucers. After we’d eaten, I resumed my submissive role and did the dishes.

  On my way back from the kitchen, I ran into Mr. Bernstein. His arms were folded. He stared at me, his unshaven jaw clenched and his brown eyes cold. “My turn again,” he said. “Come.”

  Mr. Bernstein sat in a big armchair. He gestured for me to lay face down. I obeyed, naked against his denim lap. He brought his palm down on my butt. Then he hit the same spot harder. Then he hit another spot with a hairbrush he hadn’t let me see. The strokes got harder and fiercer – but occasionally he’d lighten up, remembering his wife’s dictum: “Always keep them off guard.”

  I bit my lip. The pain went from a sting to a burn, and then to a nerve-racking throb. I barely felt Mrs. Bernstein touch my chin with one finger.

  “Stay away,” Mr. Bernstein said in between strokes.

  Mrs. Bernstein ignored him. “You remember your safe-word, right, Tom?” I nodded. We hadn’t done a great job of negotiating the scene ahead of time, but we had agreed on a safe word: “Soufflé.”

  The beating continued. My cock chafed against Mr. Bernstein’s jeans. I heard myself sob. The truth was I didn’t want to use my safe word. I hadn’t exactly asked for what was happening, but I was lost in it. It was the escape from control I’d dreamed of when I’d discovered submission. I lost myself in the terror, the inevitability, of this large man spanking me brutally.

  I heard myself bawling. I felt my skin ablaze. By the time Mr. Bernstein said, “Beg me to stop,” I think I was already begging. His command only made me beg louder. I felt like a blubbering kid.

  Mr. Bernstein lifted me off his lap and stood up. He dropped me face down on the armchair and leaned over. He pulled a lever. The backrest slid backwards, leaving my face about a foot from the ground and my butt highest in the air. Mr. Bernstein asked Mrs. Bernstein where she’d put the condoms and the lube.

  I felt a prodding at my sore ass, and something slid inside me. I felt like I was being stuffed. Mr. Bernstein thrust deeper. The pain kept company with the pleasure. Deeper and harder. I cried out, tears and sweat on my face. His thrusts became spasmodic. He roared. He grew more and more violent and arrhythmic. Then he stopped.

  I lay face down, sobbing. Mr. Bernstein pulled out of me and walked away without speaking. After a moment, I heard water running in the bathroom. I ground my face into the backrest, ashamed of my tears.

  “Come here.” I turned to see Mrs. Bernstein on the rocking chair. She beckoned. I crawled over. She clasped my head to her breast. “I know that was hard for you. I hope you got something out of it.”

  “It’s not that . . .” I sniffled. “It’s . . . you treat your husband cruel. He treats me cruel in turn. What’s the point?”

  Mrs. Bernstein chuckled. “God forbid your exploration of domination and submission should lead to an actual lesson about the nature of power.” She patted my head, in a different way than she’d patted it when I was sucking Mr. Bernstein’s cock.

  “Don’t laugh at me.” I’d stopped crying. “I just don’t understand why you . . . why you treat him like that.”

  “Hard to say.” Mrs. Bernstein hugged me against her chest, rocking back and forth. “The patterns seem to come from the spaces between the decisions, not the decisions themselves. I never made up my mind one day to be a bitch. Maybe I could do better by John.”

  She grabbed my cock. She pumped it to full erection, then lay me on the floor and took me in her mouth. No games this time. Instead, she worked her lips and tongue up and down me until I shot. She kept me in her mouth until I was completely soft, all the while brushing my stomach lightly with her wide, strong fingers.

  Bassai Dai

  Zoe Constantin

  Bassai Jhoon Bee

  Swing both hands around as you raise your left foot. Clasp the right fist with the left hand, and breathe out hard as you thrust fist and foot down. The Bassai ready stance.

  Anna vented a sharp breath. Ready. Of course she was ready. Even so, it took her a full minute before she finally dialed the karate studio’s telephone number. Rain spattered against her office window, and her hands shook momentarily, in spite of the non-regulation space heater under her desk.

  Two weeks ago, she had hung up before the first ring. Last week, she had shredded the paper with the studio’s phone number. It didn’t matter. Her memory, her stubborn, unreliable memory, still retained every digit.

  Make the call. Tell him you want a second chance.

  A second chance to prove herself competent. To confront her failures. To prove herself immune to . . .

  Anna winced away from that last thought. She punched in the last number, and the line clicked. In the brief dead space before the phone rang, she mentally recited her opening line. Hello, Master Sengor. It’s Anna Kubrick.

  Two years since she last spoke with him. Would he recognize her name? Would he remember why he had dismissed her from his studio?

  “Sengor’s Academy of Karate.”

  His voice. Dâvûd’s. Anna’s cheeks turned hot, then cold. In class, he snapped out commands in a guttural tone. When he spoke privately with a student, like now, his voice reminded her of dark blue silk, cool and smooth and soft. There was the faint accent from Turkey, his homeland, and France, where he studied. That interlude in Belgium. All the familiar slips and slurs and a lilting intonation.

  Anna shook away thoughts about dark blue silk and launched into her speech. “Master Sengor, it’s Anna Kubrick. Do you remember me? I saw your ad in the newspapers, and I wondered if you had openings in your class. Your red belt class.”

  The phone line crackled. Outside the rain pelted harder against the window. Anna waited, aware how loud her breathing sounded; aware, too, that a full minute passed before Master Sengor spoke again.

  “No,” he said. “I’m sorry. I have no openings for a red belt.”

  “But Master Sengor . . .”

  She broke off and closed her eyes. Control. That was the key.

  Lowering her voice, she said quickly, “Please listen. I’d like to come back. I started practicing again. Strikes. Blocks. Forms . . .”

  “Which studio?”

  His abrupt question silenced her a moment. “Wilcott Academy. In Redding.”

  “I know the studio. Why come to me then?”

  Because you taught me first. Because you sent me away. Because I want . . .

  “It’s because of Bassai,” she said. “I’m still having trouble. You know me better. I think you can help me through that last part.”

  A longer silence followed, during which the air seemed to draw tight around her. Eventually, Master Sengor rele
ased an audible sigh. “Come tonight at nine o’clock. Wear your uniform.”

  Her breath trickled out. “So you’ll take me back as a student?”

  “No.” Then, “We’ll talk tonight.”

  The line clicked off. Anna stared at the receiver, her mind blank with surprise, before she remembered to return it to its cradle.

  Shi Jak

  Begin the form. Lean forward, hands clasped and twisted to one side, until you cannot balance any longer. In that moment between falling and not-falling, you leap. Land with ankles crossed, left hand against the right arm, right hand fisted in a block. An attack that resembles a defense.

  Anna peered through her rain-streaked windshield, trying to remember if Andover Mountain Road twisted right or left ahead. She wore a thin T-shirt and her karate pants underneath an exercise suit. Jacket and belt waited, neatly folded, inside her gym bag, along with her sparring gear. The jacket cuffs had started to fray, and the Sengor Academy logo had faded, but the red trim looked as crisp and bright as new.

  I lied to him, she thought.

  A small lie. A temporary one. But what if Dâvûd Sengor called the Wilcott Academy? He’d find out she had never signed up for classes there. She intended to, however. Just as soon as she proved – to herself and Master Sengor – she had overcome her difficulties with Bassai Dai.

  You can do it, she told herself. You can master the goddamned form.

  Except she hadn’t, the last time she tried, and she never knew if one particular distraction had contributed to that failure.

  Bassai Dai. Master Sengor had always pronounced the name with a pure Korean accent, perfected from decades of teaching. The name meant Penetrate the Fortress, he had said. Like the Eight Key Concepts, or the poem at the back of her Gup manual, the name was more than poetry. Bassai meant destruction of pride, of self-deception. She also remembered their last talk before he dismissed her.