The Mammoth Book of the Best New Erotica Read online

  Hands guide me to lie first on my side and then on my back. Cushions are placed under my head and my butt. Care is taken to ensure that I am never touched by both women at the same time. I could let myself imagine that there is only Helen or only Barbara, but now is the time for feeling, not imagining.

  A mouth suckles my nipple. The sound of it is loud against the eerie silence that possesses us like a spell. The tongue moves down my belly slowly, skilfully, until it reaches my pubic hair, then it goes away. A hand, warm, strong, grips my cock around the shaft. The palm of a second hand rubs my pre-come over the head of my cock, making me wriggle and moan. It takes effort not to come, but I control myself.

  Attention shifts from my cock to my mouth. Swift butterfly kisses that make me smile. Then tickling. Tickling that goes on until I am giggling helplessly with tears wetting my blindfold.

  I am allowed to get my breath back, then I am mounted. My cock slides into ripe wetness that grabs at me eagerly. Hands on my chest. Thighs around my legs. Deep forceful strokes, followed, after the shortest of times, by a tremor of passion that passes through to my bones. She falls forward onto me, sweat-slick breasts sliding over me, teeth nipping at my neck.

  Then she rolls off me, leaving my cock straining for relief, my body demanding stimulus. Both are granted by the mouth that envelops my cock and the swollen labia that descend upon my face. I lick eagerly at first, then become distracted by the play of teeth and tongue and lips upon my cock.

  I break the spell of silence, begging to be allowed to come. The mouth releases me as she slides down my body and impales herself on my cock. She does not move, but she squeezes me with her cunt, milking me irresistibly. She is moaning now, but quietly, as if she were gagged. Her hands are on my ankles; her cunt is pressed hard against my pubis. When I start to come, her grip on my ankles tightens and I hear a groan that starts in the back of her throat and becomes an explosive “Fuck!” She stays on me until my cock softens, then she lets it slide out.

  I am exhausted. Cool fingers undo the leather around my balls. My cock is patted gently, like a Labrador being rewarded for performing a favourite trick. I find it hard to focus. My awareness always ebbs after I come.

  I am being helped up and led somewhere. A bed. Fresh clean linen. The bed feels so comforting after the hardness of the floor. My hands are uncuffed. My arms are massaged vigorously and asexually. Scarves are used to tie my wrists to the headboard.

  I am ready to give way to sleep when I hear that unmistakable buzz followed by the smell of lubricated latex. My asshole clenches in anticipation.

  “Spread, Peter,” Helen’s voice. A calm command she knows will be obeyed.

  The vibrator is slim and has a slight curve. It is perfect for stimulating the prostate. I relax and let it slide in, wondering who is holding it. My tired cock starts to rally. I think I hear a giggle from beside the bed, but I am distracted by having my balls sucked one after the other.

  My brain is fuzzy. I want to sleep. I want to fuck for ever. I turn down the noise in my mind and focus on the cunt that is now raising and lowering itself on my cock. I have no control over the pace. I am a flesh dildo. I am happy.

  With the vibrator in place, I manage to stay hard until after she comes. I am rewarded with a skilful handjob that drains my balls and takes the last of my energy.

  I hear Helen say, “You can sleep now, Peter,” and I know the game is over. As sleep washes over me, I think I hear a different voice say, very quietly, “Thank you.”

  I sleep late. When I awake my hands are free, the blindfold is gone, my ass is sore and my memory is confused. Before I can get out of bed, Helen and Barbara, both fully dressed and looking refreshed and relaxed, bring me breakfast on a tray.

  “Good morning, sleepyhead,” Helen says. “We’ve brought you something to build up your strength.”

  “Do I need building up?” I ask.

  Helen ignores the question and hands me a glass of cold OJ. Barbara is standing at the foot of the bed. She is smiling, not broadly, but persistently. I doubt she is aware of it.

  “Barbara is going to come and stay with us for a while,” Helen says.

  I look at both of them. Helen posed it as a statement, but we all know it was a question. The silence continues while I think about it.

  “It’s only until I decide what to do about Mark,” Barbara says, “Helen thought I could stay in the guest room for a while.”

  I think about how long I have known Mark and yet how little I really like him. I consider how comfortable Helen and Barbara are together. I remember the carefully anonymous passion we shared last night. I know that if I say yes, it will change things for ever in ways that I can’t yet predict.

  “I’m sorry about you and Mark,” I say to Barbara, “but I’m glad you’re coming to stay. I’m sure we’ll work something out.”

  The look on Helen’s face tells me I’ve done the right thing. I don’t know if last night will be repeated. I trust Helen to work that out. I do know that I am still naked under the bedclothes and that I desperately need to use the bathroom.

  “If you ladies will excuse me,” I say, “I have some urgent business to attend to, privately.”

  Helen grins and leads Barbara by the elbow, saying, “A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do,” in a terrible John Wayne accent.

  Barbara picks up the theme and says, “Yep, and there are some things a man must do alone.” They are both laughing as they leave the room.

  I’m still not sure what I’ve just agreed to, but however it turns out, it won’t be dull. I head off to the bathroom, whistling happily.

  Independence Day

  “So how often do you fuck my soon-to-be ex-wife, Peter?”

  Peter looks the way he always looks, calm to the point of not being there. I wonder if he even sees me.

  “Is she good? Does she moan for you? Or does the frigid bitch freeze your dick off?”

  I don’t want to be saying this. I don’t plan it. It just comes.

  “Or maybe it’s your bulldyke wife that she has between her legs?” I hear myself say.

  My mouth fills with blood, my jaw is on fire and the floor of the bar is much closer than it was. The bastard hit me.

  By the time I make it to my feet he’s gone. People are trying not to look at me. No one offers to help.

  Who would have thought Peter would know how to punch? I knew he was the silent type, but I didn’t think he was the violent silent type. Shit, this is a man who lets his wife tie him to the bed before they fuck – not exactly Mr Macho. I haven’t seen him hit anyone since grade school. And then he just walks away like he’s John Wayne and I’m a bit-part player from central casting.

  So much for trying to arrange a meeting with Barbara for tomorrow. Just once I wish I could keep my smart mouth shut. My wife’s been living at Peter and Helen’s since she left me on Memorial Day. Great sense of timing she has. We’ve all been friends for years, Peter, Helen, Barbara and I. At least I thought we had. Now I wonder when I became the odd one out; an unfortunate addition that arrived whenever they invited Barbara anywhere.

  I’m sure there’s nothing going on; Barbara is just staying with them while she sorts herself out. At least she hasn’t tried to throw me out of our house. I should be grateful, but you know how it is in the dark hours of the night. I keep imagining them in a continuous three-way. If Peter wasn’t so terminally monogamous and Helen wasn’t such a control freak, I could almost believe it.

  All I’d wanted out of the meeting today was to arrange to see Barbara face to face. She won’t talk to me on the phone, but Peter agreed to meet me here. We used to do a lot of drinking here once. Well I did. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Peter really shit-faced. So I get him here and insult him badly enough that Peter the placid actually hits me. Good job!

  I decide to stop being the barroom floor show and go to the restroom to clean myself up. The man in the mirror looks older than me, he hasn’t had enough sleep, and his bottom lip
is split just below the left incisor. My shirt is history, blood all over the collar. I’m meeting Kirsten for lunch in an hour. “Welcome to the fucked-up life of Mark Grady,” I say. Even my reflection in the mirror doesn’t smile.

  My cell phone goes off and the Mission Impossible theme tune, my latest choice of ringtone, bounces around the restroom. This strikes me as absurdly appropriate. “Your mission, Mr Grady, should you decide to accept it, is to get a life.” I start to laugh, way too loudly. I’m still laughing when I answer the call.

  “Well, you sound like you’re having a good time,” Kirsten says, “did you start to party without me?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Listen, Mark, I know it’s a bummer but I’m going have to blow you off for lunch today.”

  “Why?” I say, sounding petulant even to my own ears. I hate the but-mom-you-promised whine in my voice.

  “I’ve got to work, Mark. To get things done before the holiday tomorrow.”

  I hear a male voice I almost recognize calling out impatiently, “Come on, Kirsten, or we’ll lose our table.”

  I pretend I didn’t hear that, and put a leer into my voice to say, “I’d rather you were blowing me than just blowing me off.”

  “So would I,” Kirsten said, “in fact, didn’t I do that this morning?” I don’t know if she’s being humourous or genuinely can’t remember.

  We always have sex in the mornings. In seven years of marriage with Barbara she never once woke up wanting to fuck. Kirsten does it like it’s part of her morning exercise routine; a warm-up before she goes jogging.

  The first time we spent the whole night together I was delighted to wake with my cock already in Kirsten’s mouth. She likes to be on top. She does what she calls “the jockey”. She tells me it’s very good for her pelvic floor. She squats over me so that only the palms of her hands and the inside of her cunt are touching me. Then she rides me. She squeezes me like she’s making orange juice with my cock. She looks wonderful up there: fit, young, tanned, little tits that don’t move when she fucks, topped by nipples so hard you could hang your coat on one. I was in heaven that first morning.

  But here’s the thing: she does it every morning. Great, right? Wrong. Some mornings I want to sleep or just hold her. But Kirsten has a schedule and she’s never late. Last week I timed her by the bedside clock. The fuck takes eight minutes. Every day. Exactly. If I’m slow to rise, she grows impatient. I think that if I couldn’t get it up one day, she’d just use her vibrator and then go jogging. But listen to me, I’m fucking an ambitious intern who does sexercises on my cock each morning and I’m feeling sorry for myself? Loser!

  “Mark, you there? You’ve gone all quiet. Listen, I have to go. I’ll be late this evening but we can spend all day tomorrow together, OK?” She hangs up before I can reply.

  I put my phone away, look at my bruised and bleeding face in the mirror once more, and wonder how the hell I let all this happen. “I couldda been a contenda,” I mumble at the bum in the mirror. Not funny. Not funny at all.

  Outside the bar I have difficulty getting a cab to stop. Too much blood on my shirt. So I indulge myself. I’m good at that. I walk three blocks in the noon heat to my favourite hotel and I rent a room for the afternoon. I love luxury hotels. All life should work the way they do. From the comfort of my room I order a fresh shirt from the hotel store, some Tylenol for my aching head, and a good room-service meal with a decent bottle of wine.

  I pour myself four fingers of J&B and relish that first-taste-of-the-day moment. Ah, that’s better. So Peter hit me. I can cope with that. Maybe even use it to get some sympathy from Barbara. The day is definitely getting better, until my phone goes off and it’s Anthea the Hun, my boss, looking for me. I made a pass at Anthea once, before she was my boss. Bad mistake.

  Anthea comes from that mix of Norwegian and German stock that produces blonde Amazons that can work in the fields all day long and then drink you under the table at night. We’d been working late together on an important project. We got along very well. We had had some Chinese delivered to the office so we could work even later. The meal felt relaxed and fun. It also felt sexy. Something about watching Anthea’s powerful jaw suck down those noodles made my flesh tingle.

  We were in the little kitchen area, the only people on the entire floor. We’d been laughing at something. Anthea bent over to dump her cartons in the trash and I couldn’t resist it, I ran my hand up the inside of her leg. She was wearing stockings. Who would have thought it? I love stockings. I love that transition from the rougher surface of the silk to the smooth warm flesh of the upper thigh. It gives me a hard-on every time. Then I got a bit carried away and let my fingers rush upwards and push into her.

  The effect was dramatic and unexpected; she clamped her thighs around my hand and then turned rapidly on her heels. I was pulled off balance and ended up on the floor. Anthea stood on my wrist and pressed hard enough to hurt. I was pinned to the floor, wondering how I got there, and trying hard not to look up her skirt. She looked wonderful from that angle. If it hadn’t been for the pain I might have enjoyed myself.

  The idea of fun ended the moment I heard her speak. “They told me you were a hopeless letch,” she said, “but I thought they were wrong. You’re bright. You have a nice wife. You don’t need to screw around.”

  She sounded very angry and I found myself wondering if she was stronger than me.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “I just . . .”

  “You just thought you’d shove your fingers up my cunt. Did you think I’d like that? Or that I’d be a good sport and put up with it anyway? Or do you just see me as a cunt on legs, a slot to be filled?”

  I didn’t know what to say. I hadn’t meant any harm. I mean, things had gone too far too fast, but it’s not like I raped her or anything. But I’d really pissed her off and she looked scary. She took her foot off my wrist and I went to get up.

  “Don’t move,” she said.

  I lay still.

  “I hate shits like you, Mark. I could have you fired, you know that, don’t you? But then I’d be the ball-breaking bitch who her co-workers can’t work late with in case she accuses them of rape.”

  “Anthea, look, I . . .”

  “I’m talking now. You’re listening. I’m going to teach you a lesson, Mark. And then you’re going to leave. Show me your cock.”

  Nothing she said could have surprised me more.

  “Come on, Mark, get it out. Show me what you were thinking with.”

  “I don’t want . . .”

  “Or should I get it out for you? Maybe I should just unzip you and find out what you’re made of.”

  She bent towards me and I found myself shuffling backwards on the floor.

  “Just a quick feel,” she said. “A compliment really. What’s the matter, Mark? Be a good sport.”

  She reached for me again. I was frightened. She looked like she could kill me. I bumped into the cupboard behind me. Instinctively, I covered my cock with my hands, unable even to speak.

  Then she stood up straight and looked down at me. “I want you to remember this, Mark. I want you to remember just how it feels. Tomorrow, you’re going to phone in sick. You’ll stay sick for a week and I’ll finish this project alone. Do you understand?”

  I nodded. She left. I did phone in sick. She got a promotion for completing that project. We worked together from time to time after that, but always in a bigger group. She never mentioned it again, but there was always some hostility there.

  When she was made head of my section, I knew she’d fire me. She called me into her new office. Before I could speak she said, “I’m not going to fire you, Grady—” she never calls me Mark any more “—because you are going to work your balls off for me aren’t you? And I will make sure you get the bonuses that go with that. OK? Good. You can go.” And that was it.

  I’ve worked for her for six months now, and every week I wish I had the courage to tell her to stuff her job. One moment of weak
ness and she crucifies me.

  So, as I answer Anthea’s call on my cell phone, all enjoyment of the hotel fades. Jesus, even my balls retract slightly. I hate her for making me feel like this.

  “Why aren’t you here, Grady? Did you quit and forget to send me an email? Just let me know where you want the stuff from your desk sent and I’ll have it couriered over.”

  Bitch, I think to myself, but I put a smile in my voice and say, “Hi, Anthea. I was just about to call in. I’m not feeling too good. I think I’m coming down with something. Good thing tomorrow’s a holiday.”

  “You poor thing,” she says, “Which is it, the booze getting to you, or the intern wearing you out?”

  “Look, I came in above target last month, didn’t I? I always make my numbers. I can afford the time.”

  “So far, Grady. You’ve always made your numbers so far. But try looking in the mirror some time. You look like a man who’s losing it. I don’t have losers on my team. Are you hearing me?”

  I really want to come up with some smart remark; to tell her how wrong she is, but a small voice in my head is whispering to me, “Loser, loser, loser.” I empty my glass of J&B in one swallow to try and make the voice go away.

  “Yes, Anthea, I hear you,” I say. I sound resigned and a bit pathetic.

  “One more thing, Grady.” She makes me wait three seconds, wondering what the sting will be. “Happy fourth of July,” she says. Then she hangs up.

  Shit. Not good. Not good at all.

  I strip and head for the shower, wondering when the damn painkillers will kick in. I love showers. It makes me feel I can start everything again from the beginning. Clean, wrapped in a bathrobe so thick and soft it cuddles me, I pour another three fingers of J&B into my glass and I feel better.

  I start thinking about tomorrow, Independence Day. I always have a barbecue at my house. Barbara does the cooking, so the guests survive OK. I get to go round making sure everyone has enough to drink. Barbara’s parents moved down to St Pete’s in Florida two years back and mine are both dead now, so it’s a friends and neighbours deal mostly. No one stays long, but lots of people drop by. I think having the game on the projection TV on the patio helps. I call it Al Fresco’s Sports Bar. When I told Kirsten that, she asked who Al was.