The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 7 Page 12

  Andrea bared her teeth, shoved the weapon harder and twisted it. Despite the chemical working its venomous magic, pain neurons sprang to life and Aaron’s leg twitched. An agonized groan escaped him.

  She relaxed as quickly as she had tensed to inflict the injury. Smiling once again, she said, “I can see what you’re thinking.” She chuckled. “Oh, don’t worry, I’m not going to separate you from your baton . . . or your lovely little castanets. God’s sake, Aaron, give me some credit for originality. That’s been done to death.”

  Still gripping the knife, Andrea rose and looked down at him. She inhaled then heaved a theatrical sigh.

  “Geez,” she said, “you’re bleeding all over the bed.”

  She snickered and turned away from him then went to the mirrored dresser. She laid the weapon down on the surface, opened up a small bag and took out a digital camera. A tiny beep sounded as she activated it then after making some adjustments, she pivoted to face the bed.

  “These will make really terrific publicity shots, don’t you think?”

  She aimed and pressed the shutter button. She moved casually around the room angling the camera and taking pictures then paused and reviewed the shots squinting at the small window.

  “I love the technology these days, don’t you? I’ve found you on a few web sites just by punching in your name. You’ve carved out quite a niche for yourself, but you can never have too many fans, can you? I could post these with a link to your name and cultivate a whole new audience for you. Do you think these shots would do you justice? How about a few close-ups?”

  Andrea stood over the bed and aimed the viewfinder at Aaron’s genitals. “The Boy” stood out in stark relief and she snapped several shots.

  “I think I’ll call that one ‘A Study in Contrasts,’ or maybe, ‘The Long and the Short of It.’ God, I’m clever. I never used to believe I was a genius, not like you, but hey . . . think about it. I’m standing here taking shots of your limp dick and you’re lying there like a crash test dummy. So who’s the genius?”

  She focused on his face to capture for posterity the essence of helpless dread.

  “Love the look, Aaron. Still so lifelike.” She went back to the dresser, set down the camera, and picked up the knife again.

  Humming no identifiable tune and gripping the haft in her right hand, she returned to him.

  She stared down and reached out with her left hand to caress the dildo. As she did so, she brought the knife back to the single wound. Only a thin trickle of red still seeped out.

  “Hmmm. The flow seems to be drying up. It was hard to be exact with the procoagulant factor because I was working with others’ research and computer models. I’ve never actually used this on a human, and the idea of trying it out on some helpless little animal, who never harmed me, seemed totally unjustified and unfair. So let’s see what we can do about getting that flow going again.”

  Once more she retrieved the plastic container and took out another syringe.

  “I may not have been a very good musician, Aaron, but I’m a world-class dabbler. I planned for this contingency.”

  Yet a third time, Andrea injected her prey with a clear fluid.

  “I have several options here,” she said, replacing the paraphernalia,

  “I think, just for the poetic justice of it all, I should let you exsanguinate. That’s the technical term for ‘bleed to death,’ but you must know that because you are, after all, a genius. Exsanguinate is forensically correct. It really doesn’t sound like what it means, though, does it? It’s such a lovely, melodious word. Musical.” Andrea lowered her voice and, in the manner of an elocutionist using full, rounded tones, said, “Exsaaaaanguinate.”

  “Oh, does ‘forensically’ bother you? You’re thinking that’s the word they usually use when a corpse gets involved.”

  Andrea sighed. “Oh Aaron, Aaron, how can you be sooo creative in one area and so monumentally unimaginative in another? I hate having to nudge you, but . . .” She jabbed at the wound again going deeper and watched as the flow of blood resumed.

  As she continued conversing, Andrea idly caressed herself with her free hand; stroked her breasts, pinched the nipples. Her fingers found their way to her pussy and she massaged absently.

  “So where was I? Oh yes. I could let you . . . exsanguinate. You’d just get weaker and weaker and pass out. It really wouldn’t be too exciting. Well, not for me at least. I imagine your frigid little heart would be all aflutter though . . . for a while, anyway. But bleeding to death is rather pedestrian, don’t you think? Wouldn’t make very good press either and no one would really make the connection between you shedding your blood for my pleasure the way I was willing to shed mine for yours. It’s still an option, though, so let’s not cross it off our list just yet.

  “Option two represents the time and effort I put into dabbling in chemistry. I have two more vials in my little bag of tricks. One of them contains a simple saline solution with a sedative. The other is something totally different. It’s something I concocted that would be rather fascinating to experiment with. A delicious little cocktail of toxins, but more like liqueur, highly concentrated. A super-venom combo that just shuts things down. Muscle tissue disintegrates and brain function ceases. Depending on the dosage, this could occur gradually or rapidly.

  “That would probably be a little more stimulating than watching paint dry. You’d probably panic a little, which would be good; once-in-a-lifetime photo op for me. And you’d feel nauseous. That would be very good. I think you should feel sick like that. I think it would do you good, just once before you die, to feel your stomach heave like someone just punched you in the gut and kicked your balls at the same time. But I’d be a lot more honourable about it than you were, because I wouldn’t turn my back on you. Nope, I’d stand here and watch the whole thing. You’d feel like shit for a while then you’d just suffocate because the muscles enabling you to breathe would just . . . pffft.

  “Hmmm. Your breathing is getting a little raspy there, Maestro. That’s just excitement and to be expected. I haven’t given you a lethal dose, so no need to get too panicky just yet.” Andrea reached with wet fingers to Aaron’s mouth and smeared a light coating of her own juices across his lips. They glistened.

  “Wouldn’t do to have chapped lips, now, would it? Heh! Bet the forensics team would get a chuckle when they analyzed that lip balm.”

  Andrea stroked “The Boy”.

  “I really do like men, Aaron. Oh, not you, of course, but men in general. I have to tell you, though, there’s a lot to be said for the fair sex, too. That’s something else I dabbled in. Still do. Quite enjoy it. I was doing a remarkable business simply catering to men, who crave a woman on her knees sucking them off. Some of them get off on it even more, if I wear handcuffs and a collar, a few chains, the occasional blindfold. In my line of work, knowing how to accessorize is really important. And honestly . . . I do so love indulging them. Hell, I’d do it for free, but getting paid for it is icing on the cake and I say, ‘find something you love to do and make money at it.’ Well, you’d know that, wouldn’t you? So I was doing that and one particularly adventurous evening, when I was still cultivating a loyal clientele, one of my wealthier patrons proved to me that three is a crowd, but a fun one. He presented the opportunity and, bingo, one more joy of sex.

  “I did find that I lean more towards having the upper hand in those relationships and apparently I have a knack.”

  All helpless innocence, Andrea shrugged. “What can I say? The girls like me, too.”

  “Oh, stop looking so ‘what’s-she-on-about-now?’ I’m getting to that.”

  Andrea checked the oozing wound in Aaron’s thigh and gave it a little poke with the knife tip, testing the meat. The trickle increased.

  “So anyway, not only do I indulge myself in the sheer pleasure of playing with pussy, I’ve formed some very rewarding friendships. And a few very sturdy bonds of something way beyond playing and far exceeding friendship. Th
ree ladies in particular seem to think the sun rises and sets on me. Wow! I sound just like you used to. You probably still would if you could get your tongue to work and actually talk again.

  “These three ladies are a blessing. Heh! A blessed trinity. I just thought that up. See how inspiring you can be even just lying there like a seemingly useless piece of crap. Anyway, I’ve worked with them for quite some time, trained them in many ways. They are a labour of love on a number of levels. Each on her own is a perfection and joy. The three of them in concert are a work of art, a masterpiece. In fact, I think of them as my concerto.

  “Hey, you’re not the only genius in this room, Maestro,” she said elbowing him as a teammate would, sharing a gruff, intimate understanding of what it takes to succeed.

  Andrea’s demeanor transformed from playful to serious in a heartbeat.

  “What I should tell you about my Concerto is that, unlike me, and despite the fact that they are able to put on a really good show of being cock-worshippers, they have no use for men. None whatsoever. In fact, if I were a man, I wouldn’t feel at all safe alone with any one of them. What you need to know, Aaron, what you must understand, as you may never have understood anything else in your life, is that these three ladies will do anything I ask them to do. Anything. I don’t have to make it an order. I can just say, ‘I would be very appreciative, if you would find a way for this fellow to suffer and die,’ and any one of them will consider performing that act both a joy and a privilege. They’re a little competitive amongst themselves, too, which is good because they try to outdo each other in pursuit of my happiness. They would vie for the opportunity not only to win my favour, but to satisfy their own rather perversely male-oriented homicidal lust.

  “They are my third option. You’re going to love the simplicity of this creation. Here’s what I’m thinking.

  “Other than what I’ve just told you about them, there is nothing else you will know about my little trio, except that one day you will meet one of them.

  “She could be outstandingly, stunningly attractive, or just one-of-the-crowd ordinary. She could be blonde, brunette, redhead, raven-haired . . . even a little or a lot grey. Young, not so young, my age. Tall, short, thin, plump. Skin colour could be white, black, brown, creamy, olive. She could speak perfect English, or barely any, or with a foreign accent: French, German, Chinese, Australian, Italian. Take your pick. A southern belle, a Midwest farm girl, or a Boston socialite. She could be part of the audience sitting behind you, or one of the fans jostling to meet you backstage, after a performance, or an intense student hanging off every word in one of your lectures. She could present herself as artist or academician. She might approach you smoothly, but shyly, just like I did, or come across as a giggling groupie. She could be someone seemingly not paying the slightest attention to you, or a fawning acolyte. You could be seated beside her at some posh dinner party, or she could be someone totally anonymous sharing an otherwise empty elevator with you.

  “The point is, Aaron, Maestro, you won’t know. You will never know, for certain, who she is. Any woman you meet, ever again, could be the part of my Concerto who won the draw, earned the reward of taking you out of the picture. Any time there are unfamiliar women around you, you will search their faces and study their behaviour for clues that will be too well hidden for you to see. Every time you are alone with a woman, you’ll need to ask yourself, ‘Is this Andrea’s slave?’ ”

  She gazed at Aaron with an expression of serene superiority that she knew he had never before seen.

  “The only other thing you need to know about option three is that you don’t have to be a genius to understand I have the money, the power, and more than anything, the incentive, to exercise it.”

  She looked at the clock and said, “I have to get going.”

  She took off her boots, rose and gathered together her belongings. She put the knife and the used syringes in the sport bag, but left the open plastic case with the two vials of clear liquid on the night stand. She took three lengths of gold drapery cord out of the bag and tossed them on the bed.

  After packing the velvet suit, the footwear, and the long black coat in her luggage, she dressed in stylish blue jeans and a white cotton shirt. She paused to check Aaron’s pulse, nodding, satisfied that all was in order. She donned a pair of tan cowboy boots and a brown leather jacket then checked her grooming one more time in the mirror.

  “I’ll leave the goody bag here so that you can have everything analyzed if you want. A little additional proof for you, if any is needed, that I know exactly what I’m doing and that this wasn’t all some elaborate practical joke.”

  Andrea stood over Aaron, reached out and patted his shrivelled penis then stroked the dildo.

  “I’m going to leave ‘The Boy’ with you, too, something of substance to remember me by. I think I’ll leave him right here like this. It’ll make for an interesting tableau when they find you. And they will find you. I’ll make a couple of phone calls just before take-off. I’ve been very diligent with the quantities, Aaron. The dosages I’ve given you won’t kill you, although, sorry, but there may be some permanent muscle and nerve damage. Nothing too drastic . . . perhaps a slackness here and there.

  “In any case, I don’t want you getting mobile too soon. Wouldn’t do to have you up and about before I’m safely in the air.”

  Andrea picked up one of the ropes, grabbed his left wrist, and secured it to the nearest bedpost then moved to the other side of the bed to repeat the procedure with his right arm. Finally, she bound his legs together just above the knees and adjusted “The Boy”, who had slumped a little. Once again, it stood straight and tall.

  “There. All snug. And I must say that you’re looking much more erect than the last time we parted company.

  “Okay, last but not least, I don’t want you regaining the use of your vocal cords for a while. Don’t want you making a whole lot of noise, waking everyone up at this ungodly hour and attracting a crowd too soon.”

  She stretched her hand towards the night table, then stopped short.

  “Oh, shit!” she said.

  She picked up first one vial, studied it then replaced it. She did the same with the other, then sighed.

  “Now how the fuck did that happen? I could have sworn I marked the killer stuff.”

  Andrea shrugged. “Ah, well. I guess I’ll just have to take my chances.”

  She frowned, said, “Eeny, meeny, miney, mo,” then with no further hesitation, made her choice. One last time, she jabbed Aaron’s neck and depressed the plunger.

  “This will either put you to sleep for a few hours then you’ll wake up, if not all bright-eyed and bushy tailed, at least alive, or very excruciatingly turn everything inside you to mush before you expire. Hope I picked the right one. I really would hate to deprive one of my little slaves of my pleasure.”

  Andrea bestowed a benevolent smile upon her subject noting with glee the stark terror in his blue angel eyes. She watched and waited. She listened to the panicked gasps ratcheting from his throat.

  Andrea cackled. “Oh, relax, Aaron. That was just a little goodbye gotcha for old time’s sake. Do you really think I’m air-headed enough to get my potions mixed up? You just don’t get it, do you? She sighed and shook her head. “I want you to live . . . for now. I want my Concerto to be one of those tunes you just can’t get out of your head.” She patted his cock.

  “Well, Maestro, I can’t begin to tell you how much I’ve enjoyed our sweet reunion, but I have a plane to catch. I’m finally taking your advice and getting on with my life.”

  She turned and walked away from him. She could feel his eyes staring at the back of her head. Andrea grinned.

  Serendipity

  Tsaurah Litzky

  I walk out the door of my father’s building in the Serendipity Senior Housing Complex in which he lives. It is Yom Kippur morning and I’ve come down to Philadelphia from my Brooklyn home to spend the highest of the holy days with him.


  I don’t feel very holy. Sadly, ten minutes in my father’s company has the same effect on me that it did when I was small. Then he was always comparing me to my cousin Marcia who got straight As in school and played with dolls like a little girl should; now he compares me to my dead mother who looked like a movie star and never, never burned his oatmeal like I did an hour ago. Whatever I do, I can’t please my father; spending time with him makes me feel useless and sad.

  I pause and survey the lovely pale blue cloudless sky. I enjoy the comforting feeling of the warm sun on my face. I feel useless and sad lately anyway. I miss my old boyfriend Robby. I miss his miraculous tongue. It’s been almost a year since we broke up and in all that time I haven’t had any of the old in-and-out except with my Blue Bunny vibrator.

  Before I can ponder the sources of my melancholy further, I see Mr Tom. He is sitting on the bench beside the door. Three times a week he goes for radiation for liver cancer, but he still chain-smokes his brown Nat Shermans, lighting the new one off the butt of the last. He sits smoking cigarettes and holding court on this bench everyday except when it is raining or snowing or too cold. One of the neighbors has even donated an old stone spittoon that sits beside the bench for him. Mr Tom is a friend of my father’s. They’re both WW II vets in their eighties, though Mr Tom is older. On his good days, my father wheels outside to join Mr Tom and trade war stories. Mr Tom is genial and sharp; he always has a smile on his face.

  “Hey, Girlie,” Mr Tom calls out to me, “so you’re visiting your Dad.” He offers me his hand. I take it and sit down. His fingers are strong and firm as he grasps mine and draws me closer to him. He is freshly shaved and smells of Brut, the same aftershave Robby used. “Yes,” I tell him, “I’m trying to be a better daughter.”