The Mammoth Book of the Best New Erotica Read online

  I turned and smiled at him. I smoothed my little green and white pleated skirt, which has the same effect on men that it had on boys in my senior year of high school.

  “Tell him I have my price.”

  “What?”

  “Ask him what it’s worth.” I could blame it on the wine if I had to, but I was really tired of being so straight and working so hard.

  Cheryl had been drinking enough that she marched over to him without hesitation. She came back in a few minutes, laughing. “He says a thousand bucks, cash.”

  “You’re kidding.” I looked down at my tennis shoes and bobby socks. “Tell him he’s on – to bring me the cash and a room key and he’s in for a fantasy night.”

  Cheryl likes to be adventurous through other people – she works for the biggest bank in town and doesn’t get around too much. “I’ll check the room number, just in case I never see you again,” she said.

  When my pink-nightgown Daddy leaves in the morning he tucks the sheet up around my chin, kisses me chastely on the cheek, leaves the thousand dollars on my dresser and closes the door softly. That’s all he wants – to tease me mercilessly all evening in my schoolgirl clothes and then fuck me hard and fast in the middle of the night. There are worse ways to earn a living.

  I kept the name of my graphics business, Ariel Design, and still use the corporate identity just as though I was spending untold hours at my Mac producing work for clients to pick apart. I think of this as my Little Girl Slut business, delivering dreams to men with plenty of money and fantasies. I’m even thinking of writing one of those motivational books of my own – The 7 Habits of Highly Effective Sluts. I pay taxes on all of this, of course. I’m not an unethical person. I just happen to be illegal in this state.

  That first night dressed as a cheerleader was wild. He treated me like a bimbo and I loved it. I was so tired of being smart all day long. He told me to keep my long dark-brown hair in the ponytail, stripped my letter-sweater off of me, and made me lay across the bed while he lifted my pleated skirt. “This,” he said, “is for every girl who ever snubbed me in high school.” He started to spank me with his bare hand. I had no idea how much I would like being spanked. He made me perform a cheer for him naked. The fucking afterwards was ordinary after the intensity of the spanking, but he did pay me the thousand dollars, cash.

  I spent weeks afterwards sliding between feeling cheap and getting so hot I had to masturbate several times a day. I loved it, but I could never tell anyone except Cheryl about it.

  I called the cheerleader-fuck man up at his office a month later and told him how much I enjoyed our evening. He told me if I really liked it he knew where I could get lots more.

  My first real “trick” – such a cheap word – called me beforehand and explained what he wanted. I was nervous – I had Cheryl run a credit check on him, as though that would help. Now she does that for all my new Daddies. Running unauthorized credit checks was a walk on the wild side for her, so of course I started to kickback some of my tips her way.

  “Katie,” my first real Daddy said, “I want you to call me nothing but Daddy when I’m with you.” That’s what they all want. Daddy fantasies run deep and they’re not so uncommon. My name is carefully passed around to certain men. “And I want you to wear is a little-girl dress – deep-green taffeta. Petticoats, white cotton panties, little white socks, patent leather shoes. Your hair pulled back in two white barrettes. No make-up, no nail polish. The suite’s reserved – see you on Friday at seven.”

  It was hard to find just the right little-girl frilly dress for a size-ten woman, but I did, and as I dressed before the full-length mirror and slipped on the patent leather shoes and wiped the lipstick from my lips, I got a little scared – I actually felt like a little girl. I wanted to sit on the floor of that luxurious hotel suite and wait for my Daddy to come home and take care of me.

  Which is exactly what I did. When he arrived, this man I now call my petticoat Daddy stood in front of me in his expensive suit and shining loafers and told me to stay where I was on the floor and to be a good girl and kiss his feet. Just those words made me wet. I bent over and kissed each foot slowly.

  He took off his jacket and walked across the room near the full-length mirror on the wall. “Crawl to me, baby. Crawl to Daddy.”

  I stayed on my hands and knees and crawled to him, unable to take my eyes from his. He stood me up in front of the mirror, lifted my stiff petticoats and began to examine me. It took a long time. He pulled off my white cotton panties and told me he expected my pussy hair to be completely gone by the next time we met. He approved of the white plastic barrettes in my hair and said the size of my breasts was just perfect for little-girl clothes.

  He explained that I could never wear a bra because little-girl nipples were meant to be seen at all times.

  “Yes, Daddy,” I said obediently.

  He pushed me back down on my knees. “Unzip my pants, little girl. Daddy wants his cock down your throat.”

  I opened my mouth and he wrapped his fists in my hair and fucked my mouth like it had never been fucked before. I could see the image in the mirror – a little girl serving her Daddy. He stopped before he came and threw me down on my belly, lifted my petticoats, spread my legs and kneeled over me.

  “Daddy wants your ass, little girl.”

  My first Daddy fucked me until I couldn’t move that night. My mouth, my ass, my pussy, my breasts. I never got off the floor or even took the green taffeta dress off. It was covered with come when he left.

  “Say ‘Thank you, Daddy,’ ” he commanded before leaving. “And get that dress cleaned before next time.”

  I was torn between being glad he was leaving and begging him to stay to give me more. But I knew he’d left the thousand dollars on the table and that he was done with me for the moment.

  “Thank you, Daddy,” I whispered as I kissed his feet again before he walked out the door.

  I looked at myself in the mirror after he left. I was a mess, but I loved what I saw. I was in business.

  I had lunch with Cheryl at our usual table at the health club one day and noticed she was reading What Colour is Your Parachute?

  “I’m pretty sure my parachute’s black,” I told her.

  Cheryl laughed and put the book down. “How can you do it, Katie?” she asked.

  “By specializing.”

  “No, I’m serious.”

  “How can I do which part?” It’s a good question to ask of anyone who doubts the value of selling your body. “Which part bothers you? That it’s illegal? That I’m making serious money?”

  “I don’t know,” she admitted. “Maybe the little girl part. What if you make these guys want real little girls? You could make them perverts.”

  I laughed. “No, I’m pretty sure they come to me as full-blown perverts. You know what they say about the correct conjugation of the word ‘kinky’ – I am erotic, you are kinky, they are perverts. We’re all adults, and we’re certainly all consenting.”

  Cheryl sighed. “You can never do anything simple. Couldn’t you just fuck them straight and skip the abnormal psych stuff?”

  Of course not. The secret is that it turns me on as much as it does them. “I don’t think my petticoat Daddy knows how to fuck straight, Cheryl. I can barely sit down after he leaves.”

  “Katie, I’m worried about you.”

  I told her not to worry. At least not about the sex I was having. But I carefully explained how she could make some extra money and help me if she wanted to – taking messages, clearing introductions. I promised not to call her my pimp on my business records – officially, she would be freelancing for me as a fact-checker.

  Everything seems possible in this life. I can paint, I have time to bake cookies for my kids’ classes. I can dream, I have time to hear myself think. I follow the natural rhythms of my body and stay up at night in my studio painting and sleep while my kids are at school. It takes time and space and focus to create dreams. But it’
s working – my paintings have started to sell, and I’m talking to the owner of a gallery about the possibility of my own show there in the spring. Henry Miller said it best – “Paint as you like and die happy.” All I have to do to get the time I need is to live out my sexual fantasies.

  “You know I screen some by email nowadays, Katie. Wait ’til you hear this one.”

  I always smile at the vision of Cheryl in her business suit and floppy bowtie sitting in front of her computer at her desk on the third floor of the bank pimping for me.

  “It’s a woman. I told her no, women weren’t your thing, but she says she’s a Daddy too.”

  “Really? A female Daddy?” My imagination had stretched so far since I redesigned my business that everything seemed possible.

  “Yeah. And a kinky one too. Look what she sent for you.”

  Cheryl slid me the folder with the information. On top of the papers was a faxed photo of a Barbie doll. Except this Barbie doll was blindfolded, half-naked, and had her wrists and ankles tied together with bright pink ribbons.

  “Oh my.” Barbie was making me wet.

  Cheryl looked at me in surprise and maybe a little bit of satisfaction. She seemed awfully interested in this woman.

  “Well, you know,” I finally said, wondering when my mind slid so far down between my legs, “maybe I can do it if she’s a Daddy.”

  My Barbie doll Daddy rattled my brain from the first minute she arrived. She was tall, with black cropped hair, ruby-red lipstick and a wicked grin that said she was ready to play.

  She brought me a Barbie doll. I was already wearing Barbie’s pink leotard outfit per her instructions, and now here I sat with my plastic twin. “Play with the doll for me,” she commanded.

  I knew right away that this Daddy and I had the same kind of girlhood. While some girls were making cute little prom dresses for their Barbies, some of us were stripping her down, checking her out, making her the slut she was meant to be. Let’s face it, Barbie is built to get fucked.

  She tied me up with pink satin ribbons just like the doll. She stood over me and fucked with my mind and then let me go to work on her body.

  “Suck Daddy’s breasts,” she ordered, leaning down close to my mouth. “Yes, sweetheart, yes, suck Daddy’s nipples harder.”

  I learned something incredible that first night with my Barbie-doll Daddy. It didn’t matter that I had had no experience with women. My kink has nothing to do with gender.

  “Lick Daddy’s pussy, baby,” she said, and she was straddling me and riding my mouth and I was tasting her juices and she was hard and I was soft and she was completely in control of me and taking me down where all good Daddies take me. I was her little doll and I was serving her and she made me bring her to orgasm over and over until she finally wrapped the pink ribbons loosely around both of our bodies and we fell asleep breast to breast, her knee pressed up hard against my own untouched pussy.

  The Barbie doll sits on my office shelf as a reminder. Cheryl begged me for every single detail afterwards. I gave her the high points the best I could remember. I swear she’s going to ask me to videotape it all before I know it.

  The only problem in my big business plan is my charm-bracelet Daddy. He came into my life six months ago. My charm-bracelet Daddy took me to the amusement park on our first night together. He held me tight on the roller coaster, ordered food for me and when we left he bought me a balloon and tied the string around my wrist. We went back to the hotel and spent the night together. There was no sex, and I just slept wrapped in his arms. It was intensely erotic. This Daddy not only rattles my brain, he rattles my heart. Nobody’s been allowed to do that in so many years I’d forgotten how it could be.

  In the morning he fastened the heavy silver charm bracelet around my wrist. There was just one charm – a silver ferris wheel. “I know you, Katie,” he whispered softly. “You’ll wear this bracelet for me, and only for me.” I did.

  This Daddy gets to my heart like no one ever has. His name is Jeffrey and he’s a writer. I know all their names, of course, but he’s the only one I think of by name, since I’m not supposed to call them anything but Daddy. He ties me to the bed and tells me stories.

  Sometimes he unbuttons my blouse and ties my hands behind my back and reads to me and I close my eyes and enter the warm and loving childhood I never had. A few times he’s even tied me up and talked about baseball. He says he likes the captive audience.

  He tells me it’s all about power. He takes my control away little by little until it’s all real and it’s all new and it all matters. The sex is spectacular when he gets me like that – it’s like I enter another space, another realm, where only the sensual and the artistic sides of life can be seen. This Daddy knows some secrets about me that even I don’t know and it scares me more every time I see him.

  There are ten charms on the bracelet now. Some of them are reminders of the places we’ve gone to – the ferris wheel, a little sailboat, a roller skate, a Rockies baseball cap. One of the prettiest ones is a little silver and gold pair of ballet slippers, a reminder of the night he took me to the ballet and we went out dancing afterwards and he held his hands on my hips in just that way that only certain men know, making me beg him to take me home and fuck me.

  The other three charms are a little more intense, from different kinds of nights when we never set foot out the door. There’s a baby rattle, a miniature dildo and a baby bottle. I could never explain them to anyone. It’s enough to say that I was definitely doing what I loved when he gave them to me.

  He’s on his way over now. He’s the only Daddy I’ve ever let come to my house. The kids are at Cheryl’s and my upstairs studio is locked up. I’ve put on the outfit he requested – red halter top, blue jean short shorts that show my ass if I bend over, bare feet. The charm bracelet weighs heavily on my wrist.

  He brings dinner, a big bouquet of my favourite orange roses, a new Van Morrison CD and a small wrapped box. I sit on his lap to open it. His hand high and hard on my thigh makes me almost forget about presents.

  I open it and it’s a new charm, of course, signifying what we’re going to do tonight, just as all the others have. I hold it up to the light. “It’s beautiful, Daddy, thank you.” A tiny silver paintbrush and palette. “It’s very pretty. But I don’t understand?”

  Daddy kisses me like I’m his. “Take me upstairs, Katie, to your studio. It’s time.”

  Nobody ever goes in there except close friends. “No.”

  Daddy finishes fastening the charm on my bracelet and wraps my legs around his waist. “Yes, baby, you’re going to let me into your life tonight. From now on, no more secrets. You’re mine.”

  Only for tonight, I feel like saying, and only for a price. This is just business.

  He stands up and carries me like a child up the stairs, pausing to get the studio key. “I know what you need,” he whispers.

  I don’t stop him. Maybe it’s the weight of the charms or maybe it’s just the way he’s holding me with my face buried in his neck. Or maybe it’s the love I forgot existed.

  He carries me around my studio and looks at every single canvas, admiring them and commenting in detail. He even seems to know something about art, thank God. But not as much as I do. I like that. He stops for a long time at the painting I made of a headstone with my imaginary epitaph on it:

  KATHERINE ELLIS

  PAINTER

  MOTHER

  DANCER

  LOVER

  WHILE ALIVE

  SHE LIVED

  I don’t think I can stand it – it’s making me cry. I don’t want this closeness, not here, not yet.

  “Katie, it will all be OK. You can trust me.” He lays me down on the hardwood floor and begins to make love to me softly, gently, with his tongue, with his hands, and the kisses, the kisses, the kisses that I know will never stop until they reach down into my soul and bring me all the way out for him. Daddy unties my shirt and starts in on my nipples, teasing, twisting, biting, sta
ying there until he knows I will feel him hard on me tomorrow. I cry softly, so softly that it feels like joy and Daddy wipes my tears away with his cock. He straddles my face and caresses it with his cock, stroking my lips, my eyes, my cheeks, until I can’t see anything but my Daddy.

  “You belong under me, baby, always.” Daddy rolls me over and lifts my skirt and enters me hard, laying his full weight flat out on top of me, pinning me to the floor, holding me down, keeping me still, giving me the force I need. When he begins to move into me, slowly at first and then harder, rolling his hips into mine, I give way to his power and I cry for my Daddy, I cry and I come and I pray that he will never stop, never release me, never let me be anywhere but here.

  I fall asleep curled between his legs with his soft cock in my mouth and his hand wrapped in my hair. This Daddy knows how to hold me down, how to own me, and how to lift me back up and give me wings.

  In the morning he stands before me. “I’m leaving, Katie. The money is on the dresser. But it’s the last time.”

  Oh God, he’s never coming back.

  “I’ll be here next Friday night, same time. I’m not anything to you any more but your Daddy. If you want to be with your Daddy, it has to be for love, not money.” He pauses to give me a look that melts me back into the bed. “Do you want to keep the appointment? Do you want to move forward, Katie? I’m your Daddy. I’ll take care of you.”

  This is not in the business plan. But taking risks is. I rise from the bed and kneel before him, nipples tingling and heart fully awake. Do what you love. Do what you love.

  “Yes, Daddy, I do.”

  What will Cheryl think? Maybe she’s ready to take over the business and find out what she loves.

  Only Connect

  Lauren Henderson

  It’s a truism that men can only concentrate on one thing at a time. Isn’t that the stereotype, that women can juggle twenty different tasks at once, running from one pole to the next, keeping the plates spinning with a few swift flicks of the wrist? Men are supposed to be the opposite: so single-minded that if they try to do more than one thing simultaneously they end up messing up both. It’s a neat little theory but it completely fails to account for what Dan is doing to me right now. One hand on the wheel, the other between my legs, his eyes never leaving the road, his index and third fingers stroking me through my silky French knickers. A stereotypical man would be completely thrown by the speed bumps; but Dan, far from treating them as an obstacle, is actually using them as a choreographic motif, working his fingers round the edge of the material and into me a split-second before the front wheels hit the first bump, then remaining frustratingly still, allowing each subsequent bump to drive his fingers a little deeper into me, like a wedge, so that I find myself grinding my hips in anticipation as we reach the next one, barely able to wait. Dan starts rubbing the heel of his hand against me, his fingers still inside me. The seam of my knickers, caught between us, chafes against me so successfully that it might have been specially designed for the purpose. I am moaning. Dan is still looking straight ahead – it’s pretty much a point of honour – but his lips are curved into the smuggest smile I have ever seen on a man.