The Mammoth Book of the Best New Erotica Page 2

  When the water had done its trick and we were through making a mess in the half-bath, Giselle led me back to the living room and she showed me the huge leather ottoman, how it lifted open for storing magazines and stuff. But she kept her bag of toys in there. It was a pretty big bag. That leather ottoman was sort of like a Playskool Busy Box for the seriously grown up. When she’d emptied out the ottoman, Giselle encouraged me to bend over it, so she could fasten my wrists securely to the wooden casters underneath. She even had specially made rubber wedges she’d shove under the casters to keep them from rolling all over the carpeting. Right away it occurred to me, when I saw the specially made rubber wedges, that it wasn’t likely I was the first girl Giselle had stripped and douched and put over the leather ottoman. But I was OK with that. I drank like a fish and took a lot of drugs back then, so I was usually feeling pretty self-confident.

  Once Giselle had secured my wrists, she inserted a steel thigh-spreader between my legs and buckled each padded end snugly around each of my thighs. And even though the thigh-spreader worked fine – it kept me from being able to close my legs – Giselle attached a padded ankle-spreader between my ankles, too. I guess she just wanted to be sure. And then she came around the front of the ottoman, gave me a hit off her cigarette and a couple of slugs of that great Merlot.

  My head was buzzing. I loved the feeling of being exposed – in fact, forcibly so. Giselle leaned over and kissed my mouth for a while. It made me feel hot. It made my naked backside squirm. When her tongue pushed around inside my mouth, it made my ass arch up and it made me want to have her tongue poking into my hole.

  “Look at this,” she said.

  She pulled a colour Polaroid from a leather envelope and placed it on the floor under my face and went away.

  I studied the Polaroid curiously. It was a picture of a girl much like myself. Well, it was impossible to tell if her face looked anything like mine, but she was totally naked and kneeling over the same ottoman, her legs forcibly spread in the same way, and she was tied down in the same provocatively helpless position. It could have easily been a Polaroid of me.

  That’s when I saw the familiar bright flash coming from behind me and heard the quick grinding sound of the inner workings of the camera. In a mere sixty seconds, the colour Polaroid in front of me was replaced by a colour Polaroid of myself. It was uncanny, you know; the similarities and all.

  We didn’t talk any more after that. Giselle gave me a couple quick swigs from my glass of Merlot and gave me one last drag off the cigarette, then she slipped the gag into my mouth. Tied it pretty tightly, I must say. One of those knots where you just know your hair’s in a big gnarly mess in back.

  Giselle got undressed somewhere, out of my field of vision. I couldn’t see her. But when she straddled my back her slippery pussy was sliding all over my skin. It was obvious she was naked. She leaned down and spoke in my ear confidentially, as she replaced the picture in front of me with yet another one. Of the other girl again.

  “She’s awfully pretty, honey, don’t you think? Her asshole’s so tight, would you look at that? Incredible, isn’t it?”

  I grunted, uh-huh, and nodded my gnarly head in agreement.

  “Not even a hint of a haemorrhoid, see? This girl’s in great shape.”

  I have to admit, I was a little transfixed; I’d never owned a Polaroid camera that took such vivid close-ups! Giselle had obviously invested a fortune in her camera lens.

  “She was very well behaved, if I remember correctly,” Giselle went on. “She took it like a champ, that one did. You think you’re going to be a good girl, too? Huh? You’ve been awfully accommodating so far.” Giselle began to kiss my neck slowly and she rubbed her wet pussy all over my lower back. “What do you think,” she repeated. “You think you’re going to be a good girl?”

  Uh-huh, I grunted through my gag. I was going to be a very good girl. I was going to be stellar.

  “You like things in your ass? You’ve had things in your ass before, right?”

  I nodded my head, yes, but I confess I felt a little tripped up; what did she mean by things?

  Then a different Polaroid was put in front of my face, a slightly more startling one. “Same girl,” Giselle whispered, “but do you notice anything different about her hole?”

  It’s a huge gaping hole, I thought nervously.

  “This is how her asshole looked when I was through appreciating her. Pretty remarkable, isn’t it?”

  Giselle brushed some stray hairs affectionately from my forehead, I guess to make sure my vision wasn’t obscured in any way. I was riveted to that Polaroid, the crystal clear close-up of that well-appreciated sphincter.

  “Of course, this sort of appreciation takes a few hours,” Giselle explained. “You don’t have to be anywhere for a while, do you?”

  I don’t think I really responded to that, I was a little too transfixed. She left the gaping-hole Polaroid on the floor in front of my face and then disappeared somewhere behind me.

  The anticipation is always the greatest part, isn’t it? Man, you’re just waiting and you don’t even know what the hell for. But you feel real certain that you’re going to get it, that it’s eventually going to come. And that’s the sort of excitement I was feeling; like some mad ferret had chewed his paw free from a steel leghold trap inside me and now he tore wildly around in the darkness of my intestines, wanting very much to find his way out. But that was 1980. You know I was young. I was still excited by things like suspense and fear, and the chance to get my asshole reamed by a seriously grown-up girl.

  It started with a simple strawberry. A bright red one with a long stem. Giselle had straddled my back again and lowered the long stem down in front of my face. She twirled it gently, holding the stem between her thumb and forefinger. “What do you think?” she asked. “Can you take it? It’s not too big but it’s awfully fragile.”

  In an instant the bright red berry was gone and Giselle slid her slippery pussy slowly down my back, until I imagined she must have been on her knees between my spread thighs. The tip of the berry was icy cold when she pressed it against my tight hole, but I could feel my asshole clench even tighter. It was an involuntary reaction to the icy intrusion.

  “I can see I have my work cut out for me,” Giselle announced solemnly. “We could be at this a long time.”

  I felt something sticky dribble down the crease in my ass. It oozed slow, like honey. And I think that’s just what it was. When the slowly dribbling drop inched towards my clenching asshole, Giselle’s tongue was there to meet it. She pushed the sticky substance around and around, all over my anus. The stickiness felt strange. It was lightly pulling at my hole. But the warmth of her tongue, pushing into the tight opening now and then, felt good. My hole definitely liked that. When Giselle had licked the surface of my asshole clean, she dripped another trail of honey down the crack of my ass. Again, it oozed so slowly down I felt that this alone, this waiting on the honey business, could in itself take hours. My ass wriggled and squirmed impatiently, perhaps trying to assist the honey in its journey down, but when the honey finally reached its destination, and when Giselle’s warm tongue was once again there to greet it, the honey felt even more appealing than it had the first time. I felt my sphincter muscle relax a little. I felt it eagerly anticipate her poking tongue. I moaned into my gag. And I arched my ass open for her.

  “This is definitely progress,” Giselle announced quietly. “But let’s not rush it. You’re not really ready for the berry yet.”

  Giselle came around in front of me and I watched her polish off my glass of wine. She sat naked where I could see her and she lit a cigarette.

  “I know how to remedy this, though, so don’t lose heart,” she said. “It takes patience and then you’ll be able to get anything you want in there. Even something like a strawberry.”

  I watched her as she thoughtfully smoked and even though I didn’t have some long list of things I’d been trying to get in there, I suddenly felt li
ke I desperately wanted to please Giselle. I wanted anything in my ass that she wanted to put in there. My hips were rotating restlessly against the ottoman while I watched her smoke. I could feel the wetness in my vagina beginning to drool down into a puddle on the carpeting. I didn’t know what she had in mind for me, but I had a pretty good inkling that my ass was going to get fucked good by this gorgeous skinny woman who, let’s face it, was technically old enough to be my mother.

  When she finally stubbed out her cigarette, I watched her snap on a latex glove. I’d never been with anybody who’d worn gloves like that before, except the doctor in the examining room and it made my stomach a little queasy watching her snap it on. I wanted to ask her where she got gloves like that, but I had that gag stuck in my mouth and couldn’t say a word. But when she disappeared again behind me and, without much fuss, slid a lubed finger up my ass, I wasn’t thinking about buying gloves. I just gasped. Well, I moaned a little bit, too. She worked that latexed finger into me deep. And it was so slick with lube my tiny hole couldn’t put up any kind of resistance. It tried to push against the intrusion, but Giselle was insistent. She worked against the pushing hole. She slid two fingers in, in fact, and pumped them vigorously in and out while I grunted a little and tried to figure out whether or not I liked it.

  But I didn’t have a lot of options. I was spread open for her either way. She paused for a moment and squirted the lube directly into my hole. It was an icy and unpleasant feeling, but the sensation didn’t last long. It was replaced by the less subtle intrusion of three greasy fingers this time. Three greasy fingers shoved into my lubed hole. Giselle was exerting herself, I could tell; she was grunting from the effort of pumping her three fingers against the muscle that was trying to expel her.

  “Jesus,” I gasped into my gag. And my eyes were riveted to the picture on the floor in front of me. That gaping hole. It was going to be mine before morning came and I was sickly curious about how we were going to achieve this.

  “Are you ready to pick up the pace?” she panted. “Are you ready for some action?”

  Of course I couldn’t answer her and I guess she didn’t really expect me to, but Giselle came around the front of me then and let me watch her strap on the dildo.

  “What do you think?” she asked urgently. “Can you handle this guy?”

  She was referring to the dildo, to its overall size. But I was too caught up in looking at her. I’d been with girls before, and girls with dildos, too, but I’d never been with a woman yet who had actually strapped one on. Giselle looked hot. I was eager again.

  “What do you think?” she persisted, as if she’d forgotten about the gag. “You think you can take him?”

  I grunted my urgent approval as I watched her lube it up. Uh-huh, I grunted several times, and I even nodded my head.

  And when she climbed onto me, mounted me, pressing the greased-up head against my asshole, easing the dildo into my rectum, it was like I was fourteen again and I was with that boy. We’d skipped school and we were hiding in his father’s den. It was dark and very quiet in there. Their maid was home, but she didn’t know we’d skipped school and snuck back into the house. She didn’t know we were hiding in the den. But we had decided we were going to do this thing, we were going to try it out. We were determined. And I’d brought my torn-out article from my mother’s old Cosmo and my plastic jar of Vaseline in my shoulder bag. We didn’t get undressed because we were afraid of needing to leave in a hurry. So we just unzipped his fly and took his hard dick out. We smeared Vaseline all over that thing. And then I leaned into one of his father’s big leather club chairs, I laid with my face pressed against the cool leather, while the boy shoved up my skirt and pulled my panties down to my knees. Vaseline makes everything a greasy mess, especially nice leather club chairs, but it sure helped that boy’s hard-on slide right into me, right into my asshole. It was like we’d talked about over the phone, he was actually fucking my ass. I wasn’t sure I really liked it, but I wasn’t sure I didn’t like it either. The pressure felt exciting, I liked the feeling of being filled up. But what I liked most was his fully clothed weight on top of me while my panties were around my knees, and the way he smelled while he grunted and pumped away at my virgin asshole, the way all boys smelled back then; like mown grass and sweat and tobacco and spearmint gum.

  That was how it felt with Giselle, like I wasn’t really sure I liked it, but I wasn’t sure I didn’t like it either. The dildo felt huge in my ass and I was grunting into my gag. But her naked weight was on top of me. Her breasts were pressed flat against my back and she was sweating from the effort of pounding my hole. I loved all that sweat. And I didn’t mind it when she pulled the dildo out and reminded me I wasn’t fourteen any more and that it was 1980. She shoved a glob of Crisco up my ass and proceeded to pump me with a dildo too huge, too heavy to even attempt to fit into the harness. Giselle didn’t strap it on, she held it with two hands and shoved it clear down to its base, stretching me completely open.

  I groaned like some drugged animal giving birth in a public zoo, but I was loving every minute of it. The Crisco made it easy on my hole. I opened right up and accepted every round fat rubbery inch of the fake dick that Giselle pounded so mercilessly into me.

  And my eyes were glued to the photo in front of me, I was transfixed by that gaping hole. I was suddenly in love with the mystery girl in the Polaroid. I knew now what had stretched her open, I knew now how she must have felt – spread wide and securely battened down. A gag probably shoved into her mouth, too, so she could grunt over and over in it as her rectum was filled to capacity, her ears filled with the sounds of Giselle’s own grunting, from all the strenuous effort . . .

  When Giselle had worn herself out she disappeared briefly into the half-bath then re-emerged with a soaking towel. The towel was hot and felt great against my tired hole. And when Giselle had wiped away most of the grease, there was the familiar bright flash again behind me and the sound of the grinding inner workings of the camera. By the time she’d untied my gag, the new photo was ready.

  “What do you think?” she asked softly, as she laid the Polaroid of my seriously opened hole on the floor in front of me. “You think you can handle that berry now?”

  I’d forgotten about the strawberry. “I suppose so,” I panted, although I wasn’t entirely sure.

  “I’ll wedge it in with a little honey and then I’ll eat it out of you. But I want to get a picture of it first. My husband loves these pictures,” Giselle explained, “the ones with the food in the girls’ asses. He carries them in his overnight case and takes them all over the world.”

  I wasn’t sure I was particularly pleased with that idea, but I couldn’t keep Giselle from wedging that sticky strawberry into my gaping hole. It took it easily this time, the berry perched right there in my puckered anus. Then the camera flashed away. I wondered what her husband looked like; would I ever recognize him on the street? Would it haunt me that somewhere in the world a man was flying from place to place with a picture in his overnight bag of me with a strawberry in my ass? And what about the mystery girl in the other Polaroid? What kind of food had ended up in her stretched hole?

  But my worries melted away when Giselle’s mouth found the berry. True to her word, she nibbled it out. She plucked the stem clean and then sucked the berry and gnawed it and licked it until it was gone.

  “Come on,” she said, as she undid all the hardware, the buckles and the restraints, “let’s go to bed. Let’s make a little love.”

  She refilled my wine glass but I didn’t want it any more. I just wanted to be flat on my back underneath her on her big bed. The sun was just coming up in all those enormous penthouse windows, so when she straddled my face for some sixty-nine I could see her bung hole clearly. It was stretched like mine, but hers was permanent. She lowered it right onto my tongue while she shoved my thighs apart wide and buried her face between my legs. Her hot tongue licked at my tender aching worn-out hole, while her fingertips deftly
massaged my clit. I tried to rub her clitoris, too, but she didn’t seem to want that. She seemed content to just ride my tongue with her open hole.

  I licked her asshole with all the earnest attention I could give her, but after a while, I must confess I couldn’t help it; the way her mouth was making me feel between my legs absorbed more and more of my concentration. I couldn’t give Giselle the amount of attention I should have. While her fingertips slipped all over my swollen clit, and while her tongue licked eagerly at my played-out asshole, I couldn’t help myself, I came. I dug my fingers into Giselle’s gorgeous ass and clamped my thighs tight around her head and came.

  And since it was 1980 I didn’t sleep with her. I stumbled into my clothes and left. I kissed her goodbye and all, but then I went out alone for breakfast.

  A couple nights later she called me. “My husband’s in Thailand,” she said. “What do you say we go at it again? Are you up for it? You’re not still sore, are you?”

  My bung hole quivered. “No, I’m not sore,” I said into the receiver.

  “I have some new things that we could try putting up there. Are you game?”

  And I realized I was. It was the beginning of my inevitable descent into hell with a completely insane person. “I’m game,” I confessed.

  “Good,” she exclaimed quietly. “Be a doll and pick up some film. Now how do you feel about root vegetables?”

  2. Swingers

  Friday night I went home with some married people. I wish I could tell you they were those vibrantly tan, Hollywood fast-lane types but they weren’t. They were just married people. Intellectuals. Two married couples clearly pushing something like their mid-fifties. I have to say they weren’t even very attractive. They certainly weren’t fans of cosmetic surgery or fad diets.

  You’re probably wondering why I went home with them, then. I’ll tell you. They asked me to.