The Mammoth Book of the Best New Erotica Page 13

  The thought brought a pulse.

  Cyn lifted the base of the recliner, tilting me back and lifting my feet to the level of her breasts. She took hold of my right foot and her left breast. Her nipple dragged up over the sole of my foot, from the hardness of my heel to beneath where my toes curled over. It’s sensitive in there, at the bases of your toes. I could feel the tantalizing spike there as well as with my fingertips. She folded my toes down with her palm, gripping her nipple with my toes, and writhed, prodding rigid flesh between my big toe and the next one.

  “You’re growing,” she said. She was right. My cock was thickening and lifting.

  Cyn plucked her nipple from my toes. Her head bent, mouth wide. She engulfed three toes, wet and hot. Her tongue squirmed over, and between, and under. She put her nipple back and flickered it from side to side, frotting its tip on my soaking toes.

  My cock lifted higher.

  “Keep perfectly still!” Cyn ordered.

  She stood and bridged me, her arms straight and her hands on the chair’s arms. My fingers wanted me to reach out to her dangling breasts but she’d said I had to keep still. I didn’t want to spoil whatever she had planned.

  My cock was straight up by then, not fully erect, but close.

  Her arms bent, lowering her face towards my cock. Cyn’s mouth stretched. She paused, my naked glans an inch from her gaping lips, pointed directly into her mouth.

  She swooped. My cock passed between her lips, past her teeth, over her tongue, all without touching, and butted the back of her throat. With her mouth still open too wide to make contact, she made a deep gargling sound, and pushed.

  Little bubbles from her throat burst against the glossy-tight skin of my glans. There was vibration, vibration so intimate that it seemed my cock’s head had to be pressed against her larynx.

  She nodded, once, twice, three times, and then withdrew slowly, closing her mouth on me as she dragged it off my stem. By the time my cock flipped out from between her lips it was hard enough to burst.

  Cyn scrambled up the chair. Brief slithers of fevered skin electrified me as she climbed over me. Her knees bracketed my waist. She reached down between us, took my cock in one hand and her pussy in her other, and slammed her hips down.

  I froze, letting her impale herself. She looked down at me, wild, almost hating. “Don’t move! Don’t you dare move! I’m going to have a big one. I can feel it building. Keep still!”

  Her hips juddered. She glared into my eyes. Her lips twisted. Her face contorted. Her sex was slapping at me, mashing down. She wasn’t focused on the feel of my cock inside her, just on rubbing her clit’s head against my pubic bone. She wasn’t making love to me. She was using me to masturbate with.

  There was froth on her lips. Her eyes were insane. She reared up, made two tiny fists, and punched down. I flinched, but she didn’t hit me. She pounded the chair’s back to either side of my head.

  “Drag me down harder. Pull down on my shoulders!”

  I got a grip and pressed down through her entire body, to where we were united. She bore down with all of her might, trying to squirm her way through me, not riding my cock, just frictioning her squishy pubes and stiff clit, grinding and grinding.

  Cyn screamed and toppled sideways, over the chair’s arm, to plop to the floor, sprawling, limp, lifeless.

  I hadn’t come. It’d been an incredible experience. I’d never known a woman so totally consumed by her passion, but I hadn’t come. She looked to be absolutely sated, but I hadn’t come and my cock was nagging at me. I gave myself a stroke.

  Cyn sat up. “Don’t you dare! That’s mine.”

  “I thought . . .”

  “I told you I was multi-orgasmic. Be patient, damn you!”

  She crawled around in front of the chair again, put both hands flat on the foot-piece, and pushed it down. I was lifted up. She leaned over my thighs, dragging the points of her nipples over their hairiness and took me into her mouth again. Her two hands lifted the edge, pulling me back, drawing me almost out of her mouth and then pushed down, driving me back into the steamy soft cavern. Up and down. In and out. I just lay there, letting her rock me towards . . .

  My cock’s head exploded inside her mouth. She sucked and sucked until I was dry.

  “I didn’t spill a single drop,” she said.

  “No – you didn’t.”

  “I never will. If I do, you must punish me.”

  That was the first time she’d mentioned my punishing her. I didn’t take much notice. It was just a figure of speech, wasn’t it?

  It was dawn before she let me rest. That was OK. It was Saturday morning. I could sleep in.

  I woke at noon to the smell of bacon and eggs. After breakfast she suggested I might like to go get some wine and vodka because we’d drunk the last of her booze. When I got back she was made-up and wearing that jersey sweater and nothing else but a pair of metallic black stay-up hose.

  I’d been contemplating maybe another session that evening, not at two in the afternoon, but my cock took one look at that tiny triangle of curls, black on white and framed by black jersey above and black nylon below, and made my decision for me. I took her in my arms for a long kiss with my hands checking out how well the weals on her bottom were healing.

  They were doing well, but still tender. Whenever my fingertip grazed a ridge she shivered and gasped into my mouth. Her pubes bumped at me as well, which didn’t discourage me.

  “I wasn’t nice to you, when you were on the recliner,” she said. “I plan to make that up to you.”

  “You were fine – more than fine – fantastic,” I said.

  “No – I forgot your pleasure. I feel guilty. Let me do it right, please?”

  It’d been a while since a woman had asked me to let her screw me, “please”. I let her undress me and sit me back on the chair. She poured two half-tumblers of straight vodka over ice, set them on a side table, and climbed up astride me.

  “I’m not ready,” I apologized.

  “You will be.”

  She did that shared-drink thing again, with vodka. That, and the heat that was radiating down from her pussy onto my cock, started to take effect. She chewed at my bottom lip for a while, tickle-touching my ribs and chest, brushing her fingertips across my nipples, and then she swooped down and bit one, quite hard.

  “Ouch!”

  She grinned at me. “Did that hurt?”

  I rubbed my chest. “Some.”

  She tugged her sweater up into a roll above her breasts and said, “So – take your revenge.”

  I nipped.

  “I bit you harder than that.”

  “Harder.”

  I clamped my teeth as hard as I could short of drawing blood. Cyn sucked air, arched at me, and clawed one hand down my chest.

  I jerked back. She’d drawn blood. There were four parallel furrows with little curls of skin at the ends.

  Cyn said, “Kiss better.”

  Her tongue-tip traced them, one at a time. When all four had been tingled she sat back and said, “And antiseptic.” She poured icy vodka over my chest. It stung the scratches but then she put her tongue to work again, lapping and sucking it out of my wounds.

  “More?”

  I nodded.

  “Watch closely. Don’t be chicken.”

  I watched. She rested the heel of her hand on my sternum. Her fingers curled. Four nail-points prickled. I stared down as they made tiny dents.

  “Say when.”

  The tension was unbearable, so I said, “When.”

  I reared from the searing, but it was good. Her nails had cut deeper this time, but that just left wider wounds to be tongue-lapped and vodka-stung. She was still licking at me when her hand groped to wrap around my shaft and she lowered herself onto it and I sunk right up into her sponginess.

  Then she went berserk. By the time I came my face was soaked with the sweat she’d flicked with her flailing hair and my shoulders were sore from the gouges, but it was worth th
e pain. It was worth every delirious moment of it.

  Then we had to have a shower together. I was sure I wasn’t up to any more but she turned away from me and had me soap her long back and her round bottom and all the time she was reaching behind and slithering her soapy palm up and down on my cock, rubbing its head over her firm smooth slippery buttock, and I found that I could get another erection, and have another orgasm. I came thick and foamy, dribbling obscenely down the back of her glossy thigh.

  When you come on a woman, instead of in her, it’s like you mark her as your territory. It defiles her the way a brand defiles the haunch of a cow, making her more precious because she’s yours.

  We called out for fried chicken and she licked my fingers for me and then finger-painted her own breasts with chicken grease, so it was early in the morning before we slept again.

  Sunday was the same, from noon till four in the morning. I was glad to go to my office on Monday.

  She phoned at three. “What time do I expect you, and what would you like for supper?”

  “Six. Whatever. Should I bring something in?”

  “Lamb chops. What are you going to do to me tonight, Paul?”

  “Do to you?”

  “In bed, on the chair, on the floor?”

  “Make long passionate love to you, Cyn.”

  “Give me the details. I want to be thinking about it till you get here.”

  “I’ll call you back.”

  When I’d thought, and I called her, all she said was, “Is that all? You can do better than that, darling. Leave it to me tonight then.”

  I came home and found her on the bed, naked except for one stocking. The other was wrapped around her wrists and tied to the bedrail.

  She said, “You bastard! You’ve got me in your power now, haven’t you. I’m helpless and you can do anything you like to me.”

  I can play games. I sat on the bed beside her and rested my palm on her pubes. Leering, I said, “Do anything I like to this,” and gave her a squeeze.

  Her thighs spread wide under my hand. “I bet you plan to oil your hand—” she nodded sideways towards the bottle of baby oil that stood ready open “—and work it right up into me, no matter what I say.”

  I took off my jacket and rolled my shirt sleeve up. The oil was cool in my palm. I smoothed it over her pubes and her pussy’s pulpy lips.

  “I might scream,” she said. “I might beg you to stop, but you’ll be merciless, won’t you.”

  “Merciless,” I agreed. I folded three fingers together and worked them into her.

  “I thought you were going to be cruel.”

  I straightened my hand into a blade and forced all four fingers and half of my palm between her lips.

  “You were going to use your whole hand.”

  I added my thumb and wriggled, pushing as hard as I dared. Cyn set her feet flat on the bed and lifted her hips at me.

  “Deeper. I can take it.”

  Women have babies, don’t they? And don’t necessarily split? I pushed harder, against slippery convoluted resistance. My hand sank in, deeper, to the heel of my palm. She was incredibly strong in there. Her vaginal muscles clamped. I struggled against the pressure. I pushed. Her constriction folded my hand into a fist. It was like my hand was in a hot wet rubber sack that was shrinking, slowly crushing my fingers.

  “I have to take it out,” I told her. “I’m getting a cramp.”

  “No! Revolve it first. Twist your fist in me.”

  I turned it left and then right and then started to withdraw, slowly, gingerly, unfolding my fingers as soon as I was able, and finally I was free.

  “I’ll be loose for about an hour,” she said. “Better turn me over.”

  It took me a moment to understand, but then I did, and flipped her, and shucked my clothes. She was kneeling rump up, ready. I oiled my cock and poured more oil over her sphincter. Two thumbs pressed her open. I got my cock’s head in place and then pushed down on it with the ball of one thumb. It slowly sank into her, and disappeared.

  “Am I tight, back there?” she asked.

  “Damned tight. Wonderfully tight.”

  “Cocks like ‘tight’, don’t they?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know how I’d be tighter?”

  “How?”

  “If there were two of you, one buggering me while the other one screwed me.”

  I stopped in mid-thrust. “I’m not into that – sharing.”

  She twisted her hips, plucking herself off me. “How dare you! I’m a one-man woman. You should know that. I was just thinking of something special to make you happy. Now you’ve spoiled it.”

  I apologized, but it was no good. She didn’t speak to me for the rest of the night. I felt bad, but at least I got some sleep.

  We made up the next morning. I moved in on the weekend. On the Monday I found she’d thrown out my robe and bought me a new one. I understood. Women always do that when a man moves in. They think they can smell the previous woman on it.

  “It was a horrible disgusting thing. I don’t know how you could have worn it.”

  That wasn’t necessary. Perhaps my anger at her rudeness showed, because she instantly begged my forgiveness and suggested I might feel better if I punished her.

  In the brief interludes between sex, she sometimes talked about her past. She’d been raped by a friend of the family when she was thirteen. She’d been raped again when she was twenty and working as a model. A guy she’d lived with, Bill something, had brought three friends home once and gang-banged her.

  If I’d kept track right, she’d been raped on a total of seven different occasions and abused in other ways by every man she’d ever known.

  We watched TV once in a while. I counted five celebrities that she told me she’d either had affairs with or fought off, including two women.

  I found out what she’d been getting at when she’d suggested she’d be tighter if there were two men. She liked it if there was a vibrator deep in her rectum when I took her vaginally, and in her pussy when I buggered her. When I couldn’t get it up, two vibrators were fine. It was best for her if I tied her up before going to work with the twin dildos, then “she couldn’t stop me, no matter what I did to her”.

  Once she told me, “I wouldn’t need this if you were as big as Jeff was.”

  Later she apologized again – and suggested I punish her again. That time I did. She complained that I didn’t spank like I meant it and my hand was too soft. Mr Fox had done a lot of woodwork so his palms were hard. When he spanked a woman she knew she’d been spanked by a real man.

  One night when I was seeing to her pleasure she made a pencil mark on a pad. When I asked why, she told me I’d given her eleven orgasms so far that night and she wanted to keep score. I really worked that night. By morning the score-pad read “twenty-seven”. I remarked, hopefully, that it had to be some kind of record. “Not by a long way. Bill got me up to fifty, once.”

  We didn’t go out much. When we did, she flirted with the waiter or someone at the next table and we ended up fighting.

  I took her swimming in the pool in her building. That was fun until a couple of young guys came in. Somehow or another she lost the top of her bikini and that made her squeal loud enough to turn the lads’ heads. I left her chatting to them, clutching her bra-top to her breasts.

  When she finally came up she woke me to tell me I’d misunderstood her natural friendliness.

  “I suppose you expect another spanking,” I said.

  “With your soft hands? Anyway, you aren’t man enough, you hear me? You’re a wimp, Paul, with a puny little cock. Those boys down in the pool, though, they were real men. You should have seen the size of the erections they got from looking at me.”

  I grabbed her and got her over my lap but even mad as I was I had to take care not to break her arms so she managed to wriggle off me. I pushed her down flat on the bed. The cords were there, tied to the four corners, ready for “play”. I used them. />
  I slapped her bum four times, almost hard.

  She said, “Wimp.”

  I grabbed my belt off the chair, lifted it high . . . and tossed it aside.

  She twisted her face towards me as I pulled my underpants up. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m going. This is where I came in.”

  Sweating Profusely in Mérida: A Memoir

  Carol Queen

  The boyfriend and I met at a sex party. I was in a back room trying to help facilitate an erection for a gentleman brought to the party by a woman who would have nothing to do with him once they got there. She had charged him a pretty penny to get in, and I actually felt that I should have got every cent, but I suppose it was my own fault that I was playing Mother Teresa and didn’t know when to let go of the man’s dick. Boyfriend was hiding behind a potted palm eyeing me and this guy’s uncooperative, uncut dick, and it seemed Boyfriend had a thing for pretty girls and uncut men, especially the latter. So he decided to help me out and replaced my hand with his mouth. That was when it got interesting. The uncut straight guy finally left and I stayed.

  In the few months our relationship lasted, we shared many more straight men, most of them – Boyfriend’s radar was incredible – uncircumcised and willing to do almost anything with a man as long as there was a woman in the room. I often acted as sort of a hook to hang a guy’s heterosexuality on while Boyfriend sucked his dick or even fucked him. My favourite was the hitchhiker wearing pink lace panties under his grungy jeans – but that’s another story. Long before we met him, Boyfriend had invited me to go to Mexico.

  This was the plan. Almost all the guys in Mexico are uncut, right? And lots will play with me, too, Boyfriend assured me, especially if there’s a woman there. (I guessed they resembled American men in this respect.) Besides, it would be a romantic vacation.

  That was how we wound up in Room 201 of the Hotel Reforma in sleepy Mérida, capital of the Yucatán. Mérida’s popularity as a tourist town had been eclipsed by the growth of Cancún, the nearest Americanized resort. That meant the boys would be hornier, Boyfriend reasoned. The Hotel Reforma had been recommended by a fellow foreskin fancier. Its chief advantages were the price – about $14 a night – and the fact that the management didn’t charge extra for extra guests. I liked it because it was old, airy, and cool, with wrought-iron railings and floor tiles worn thin from all the people who’d come before. Boyfriend liked it because it had a pool, always a good place to cruise, and a disco across the street. That’s where we headed as soon as we got in from the airport, showered, and changed into skimpy clothes suitable for turning tropical boys’ heads.