The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 11 Read online

  “Addie,” the minister said. “Let’s sit down. Are you hungry?”

  “A little, but mostly I’d just like to sit a while.”

  They entered the open air café and emphatically planted their behinds in the chairs. Adeline wiped away a fall of light brown hair from her forehead. “Whew! I thought we were going to be pulled apart.”

  “Amazing, isn’t it?” her husband agreed. “All this revelry, and all in the service of the devil. Revd Hanson had warned me, but I had no idea. We can do some real good here, Addie.”

  “Oh, Walter, I don’t know. It seems such harmless fun. The young people especially enjoy it.”

  “Addie, it’s the young people we are most in danger of losing. Of course they think it’s all fun, but it’s subversive fun, it undermines the message of the Lord. This city is entirely in danger of losing its soul.”

  “Amen to that, sir.”

  Neither of the Wrights had noticed the young man sit at the table next to theirs. His eyes were dark, set back deep beneath his black brows. His hair was long and loosely curled; his beard black as his mane.

  “Forgive me,” he said. “I couldn’t help overhearing. I’ve been saying the same thing since I moved to Salem, but no one wants to listen. My name’s Tovan.”

  The reverend glanced at his wife. “Revd Walter . . .”

  “Yes, Pastor Wright . . . I know, and this must be Mrs Wright.” The young man nodded at Adeline who responded with a smile.

  “I read about your visit to the Enoch Baptist Church, all the way from Iowa. I’ve been looking forward to listening to your lectures.”

  “Are you a member of the church?”

  “No, sir, in fact, I haven’t made up my mind which church to join, but Enoch is one of those high on my list. It has a good, consistent message.”

  “Well, it’s very refreshing to meet a young person so concerned with his spiritual welfare, uh . . . Tovan?”

  “A very unusual name,” Adeline added. “Is it your first or last?”

  “My only,” he answered as his eyes narrowed. A smile, more like a smirk, subtly creased his face.

  Before either of the Wrights could respond, he twirled his finger in the air then aimed it directly at Adeline’s chest.

  “I had no idea your wife had such full and lovely breasts, may I see them?”

  Adeline’s hand went to her throat. She began to say something, but hesitated.

  “Revd Wright?” Tovan pressed.

  Walter’s words also backed up behind his teeth. Then he looked at Adeline.

  “Well, go ahead, dear. We don’t want to seem rude.”

  Adeline smiled, a nervous tic twitching her cheek.

  “Um . . . of course . . . I don’t . . . that is, I suppose . . .”

  She unknotted the little tie at her throat and began to undo the buttons of her dirndl blouse.

  “I’ll have to reach back,” she said, as if in apology. Then she unfastened the clasp on her bra. Hesitating a moment, she lifted blouse and bra and exposed her vanilla-hued scoops of flesh to Tovan. Some passersby stopped and pointed; chortling rang out in the crowd.

  “Very nice, Adeline.” Tovan nodded. Then he turned to Walter.

  “You enjoy your wife exposing her breasts to others’ eyes, don’t you, Revd Wright?”

  “I . . . but . . . well . . . yes, I suppose.”

  “And why not? They’re such awesome tits; they should be shared.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” the Reverend nodded, but his expression was that of a man who was struggling to remember something.

  “Adeline, you like to exhibit yourself, too, don’t you.”

  “I . . . I suppose . . .”

  “Nothing to suppose, it makes you feel good. You’re such a slut, Adeline.”

  Tovan pointed across the mall. “See that young man there?”

  The Wrights peered towards a hulking, shirtless man tugging at his crotch.

  “Adeline, that big healthy teenager has been watching you, wanting you. Won’t you please give him some relief? There’s a van parked around the corner. Go with him; ask him if you can suck his cock.”

  “I . . . I . . . well, of course, I suppose I should . . . cock?”

  “Penis . . . you stupid cunt. You like being called a stupid cunt too, don’t you. Your pussy is drenched, isn’t it?”

  “My . . . my . . ..”

  “Don’t pretend you don’t know what a pussy is. Now, be a good Christian and go with that young man. Walter will be along soon.”

  Adeline smiled and stood, her breasts jostled unfettered behind her dishevelled blouse. Her eyes fixed on the young man across the pedestrian mall.

  Tovan and Walter watched her as she spoke to the young man, who put his arm around her waist and guided her around a corner.

  “Well now, Walter, does she often fuck other men?”

  “I . . . well . . . I can’t remember . . .”

  “You enjoy it though, don’t you?”

  “I . . . yes . . . Yes, I do . . .”

  “Have you ever wondered what a smooth, pale teenaged cock like the one your wife is sucking on right now would feel like in your own mouth, Reverend?”

  “I . . . that isn’t . . .”

  “And to play with young, virile balls?”

  “I’m so . . . what’s happening?”

  “Come with me, Walter.”

  Walter followed Tovan around the corner where a nondescript white van was parked. They approached and Tovan flung open the door. Adeline was on her knees sucking the young man’s cock. She was naked, her clothes piled in a corner.

  A tall blond man stood behind her.

  “Walter, this is Lars. Lars’s prick is as smooth as porcelain, just delicious. You want a taste?”

  “Yes . . . yes!”

  “Lars, may Revd Wright suck your lovely dick?”

  “He can, after I fuck his slut of a wife. I’ll need a cleaning then.”

  “Is that all right with you, Walter? Ask Adeline.”

  “Addie, please, I must have some of this beautiful young man’s cock. Please, let him . . . let him . . .”

  “Fuck her, Walter.”

  “Yes, please let him fuck you.”

  “Yes, Walter, of course he can fuck me. They can all fuck me. Walter, see, I’m a whore, they said I’m their whore.”

  “Yes, yes, Addie.”

  “Watch me fuck this bitch’s cunt,” Lars ordered.

  “Yes, yes, please, fuck her . . . . fuck her!”

  Tovan hopped outside and slammed the door of the van.

  “Too easy,” he chortled.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, the captain has indicated we are making our final approach to Boston’s Logan International Airport, please place your trays in the upright position in preparation for landing.”

  Lois squeezed the hand that had tumbled into her skirted lap when her companion dozed off more than an hour ago.

  “Hey, we’re landing soon.”

  Locan groaned and stretched. “Damn, I hate sleeping on these things. I don’t usually.”

  “You had quite the strenuous night,” Lois said and squeezed his hand again. “But I didn’t mind.”

  “Oh?” He grinned.

  “Even if it did kinda make me feel like a thief.”

  “Huh?”

  “Locan, it wasn’t me you were making such amazing love to last night.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You know, I was going to take another night before I headed back to DC. Maybe shack up with you in Boston one more time, but . . . dammit, I’m so envious. Who is she?”

  Locan frowned. “No one I’m ever likely to see again.”

  “Somehow, I think you’ll find a way. Just for my own ego, I’d like to think she’s some skanky alley cat.”

  Locan chuckled. “She’s definitely no kitten.”

  “Hmm, well, I guess I’ll always have Rome, even if I was just a stand-in.”

  “Lois, look—”


  “Shhh, it’s okay. It was a romantic weekend in the Eternal City, and all paid for by the State Department. This girl’s got nothing to complain about.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short, Bouncy.”

  “Bouncy? I heard you had a penchant for bestowing nicknames on people, but ‘bouncy’?”

  “Uh-huh, and I’m the trampoline.”

  “Oh? Yeah, I see what you mean.” She shrugged. “It must have been the chianti.”

  “I didn’t mind,” he said, and kissed her hand. “At least you’re cushioned.”

  “I guess I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “You should. You are a very lovely, very sexy . . . civil servant.”

  “Hmm.”

  They parted with a kiss at the airport where Lois hurried off to make her connecting flight to Washington. Locan gathered his one bag and stood outside the terminal. The nondescript, but official-looking car soon pulled up and he got in.

  “Ever been to Salem before?” Special Agent Mullens asked.

  “Yup, plenty of times.”

  Mullens laughed. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, in your line of work.”

  Locan’s grin was wry and crooked. “I used to visit that town long before all of that Halloween shit took hold. It’s a pretty fascinating place. That whole witch trials episode was a brief hiccup in its history.”

  “If you say so, but that’s all anyone ever remembers about the place.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “Anyway, Rome talked to State, which talked to Justice, which talked to the bureau, and so here I am watching your back again. Just try to keep a low profile this time; it gets tougher bailing you out of shit.”

  “You’re my own guardian angel, Mullens.”

  “Angel, my ass.”

  “So what does the bureau have on this guy?”

  “Not much. He has no record. His name is Marshall Conway, but lately he goes by Tovan – just Tovan. Ex-seminary school student, left before he graduated and never got his DD. Could have been something concerning a girl, another student. Some rumours it was even a rape or sexual assault, but no charges brought. Then he shows up as an asterisk in a bank heist in New Jersey.”

  “Why just an asterisk?”

  “It wasn’t actually a heist . . . at least nothing he could be charged with. He said something to this little girl teller who filled up a couple of bank bags with cash and walked outside to the kerb and waited there as if she was expecting someone to pull up and scoop the loot. Probably no one would have paid any attention to her except, before she went outside, she stripped down to her bikinis. He was questioned because he was the last one who talked to her before her episode.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Oh, another thing I’m supposed to tell you.”

  “What’s that?” Locan said, as he rolled down the window and took in a lungful of ocean air along Lynn Shore Drive.

  “They’ve partnered you up on this one.”

  “No. What the hell for? I work better by myself.”

  “They didn’t tell me why; I’m just the messenger.”

  “Shit. Did they at least say who?”

  Mullens tried to avoid traffic by detouring off Route 1A through Marblehead, but as they came abreast of the state university he could see it would be a long chug into the city. They sat and stared at the bumper of the car in front of them.

  “It’s a bitch getting into this town this time of year,” Mullens said, as if trying to spit a seed from his mouth. “Shit!”

  “Yeah, it’s that time of year.”

  “So, is your guy some kind of Halloween freak, or something? And why is the Vatican so interested in a guy who has no record? Must be some kind of spook if they’ve sic’d not one but two paladins on him. Why Salem, of all places?”

  “Because this is where the landmarks are.”

  “Landmarks? What landmarks?”

  “The school here.”

  “The state university?”

  “Arkham University.”

  “Huh?”

  “Ever read any horror stories, Mullens?”

  “I read some of King’s stuff when I was a kid. I get enough real horror tossed my way on the job.”

  “Yeah, I suppose you do at that.”

  They inched along Lafayette Street and turned right onto New Derby.

  “Headed for the Hawthorne?” Locan asked.

  “Nope. You guys are putting up at a little bed and breakfast off Derby Street.”

  “A B&B?”

  “I checked it out. Little place in an old house. Don’t worry; you have your own shower and a-c.”

  “Won’t need the a-c at night. No matter how unseasonably warm it gets in October, the nights are always chilly on the coast.”

  “Your partner’s already there. Oh, and your name for check-in purposes in Sumner Osgood.”

  “Where the fuck they come up with a name like that?”

  “You’re tracking your genealogy in case anyone asks. That’s why you came to Salem.”

  “Not the Halloween festivities?”

  “That too.”

  They passed the maritime site and the old Customs House, then Mullens turned hard down a narrow street that paralleled Derby Wharf.

  “Kosciusko Street?” Locan said, noting the street sign.

  “Polish neighborhood. Practically on the water. You know that Seven Gables joint is just up the street.”

  “I know.”

  “Oh, yeah, you said you’d been here before.”

  Mullens stopped the car and indicated they had reached their destination. Locan stepped out and retrieved his bag from the trunk.

  “Stay in touch,” Mullens said. Locan nodded.

  A small white wooden shingle affixed to the house indicated it was built in 1800 by Joshua Briggs, sailmaker.

  Inside Locan was greeted by a cheery blonde girl he guessed to be about fourteen.

  “Hi, I’m Jeanie. My dad’ll be back soon. I can check you in.” she said. Her grin seemed to brighten the dark-wood interior from a tiny pulpit of a desk wedged into a corner.

  “Hi, yourself, Jeannie. Sumner Osgood.”

  “Yes, Mr Osgood. Mrs Osgood checked in two nights ago.”

  “Good. I suppose I would have had to be a bit flummoxed if she wasn’t here.”

  “Well, she isn’t here right this minute, sir. She took the ghost tour; it came by to pick her up about twenty minutes ago.”

  “You don’t say. Hey, would you have a copy of their itinerary?”

  “Yeah, sure. Gonna catch up to her?”

  “Gonna try to head her off at the pass . . . maybe here: Howard Street Burial Ground.”

  “I bet she’ll be surprised. If you don’t mind my saying, Mr Osgood, your wife is really pretty. Kinda younger than you, huh?”

  He nodded. “Kinda.”

  “Well, nice to have you stay with us. Here’s your key.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Oh, and Mr Osgood?”

  “Yes, Jeanie?”

  “I hope . . . I mean, when I said you were older than your wife, I didn’t mean . . . well, truth is, I can see why she married you, if you don’t mind my saying.”

  Locan grinned. “Don’t mind at all. You are a refreshingly candid young woman, Jeanie.”

  He made her blush.

  She wasn’t dressed for the season, but the translucent pale yellow sundress and floppy white hat were perfect for the weather: 80 degrees and breezy even as twilight approached. The breeze teased its way around her ankles, lifting the hem of her dress just fleetingly to reveal an enticing view of her knees and calves. Locan sighed, then admonished himself. But his cock twitched too. Had he missed her that much?

  She meandered between the tourists who disembarked from a bus made out to look like a trolley that was made out to look like a big hearse. The guide led his charges through the gate of the burial ground. The kid looked to be about eighteen and was dressed in a crypt-keeper’s cowl. Locan
thought he must have been sweltering.

  “Now, folks,” the kid began, “there isn’t much to tell you about this dumpy old graveyard except one very important thing . . . it’s haunted.”

  “Excuse me, son,” Locan called out. “Would you mind where you’re stepping? You’re about to trip over Mrs Peabody.”

  The kid did a slow turn and a slow burn. Locan grinned widely from the granite tomb cap he sat upon.

  “Sir?”

  “Mrs Eliza Palmer Peabody . . . Nathaniel Hawthorne’s mother-in-law. Mom to Elizabeth the transcendentalist who introduced kindergarten to America, and Mary, who married the great educator Horace Mann, and Sophia, Nathaniel’s wife. She was an artist, you know. Anyway, you’re stepping on her, Mrs Peabody, I mean.”

  The kid cocked his head like a confused mutt.

  “Her gravestone is pretty eroded already; I’d hate to see someone accidentally damage it.”

  A collective mumble rose among the tourists. Some snapped pictures of the tombstone.

  The kid forced a chuckle. “Everyone’s a historian in Salem, folks. Sir, maybe you should wait for the literary tour to come along.”

  “You don’t have one. Shame. There’s a lot more to Salem than witches and ghosts.”

  “Well, for the moment, I’m working the hauntings tour. Think I could continue?”

  “Oh, pardon me, son,” Locan grinned and nodded. “Didn’t mean to interrupt. Please, carry on.”

  “Thanks.” He turned towards his group. “As I was saying, this is where the ghost of Giles Corey appears whenever there is an impending disaster facing the city of Salem. He was crushed to death right here.” The kid waved his arms, indicating Giles met his end right behind where the kid was standing.

  “Oh, sorry, hate to be a pest,” Locan interjected again, “but more likely old Giles was pressed over yonder in the parking lot of the Catholic church there. It would have been right across the street from the old gaol.”

  The kid was seething now. A familiar sweet giggle erupted among the tourists.

  “Is that so?” the kid challenged. “Well, I’ve been conducting this tour all summer and—”

  “Well, glad I could set you straight. Wouldn’t want to misinform all these good people who paid to get the accurate story. Especially since there’s nothing else to recommend this old bone yard. Except perhaps that I’m sitting on Mrs Hawthorne, Nathaniel’s mom, and his sisters and grandparents. And just a few yards away lies one of the most celebrated marine artists of his day, and a stone’s toss from Mrs H. is Colonel Carleton, who raised his own regiment and served under Washington at Valley Forge. Hey, folks, has he shown you where Captain White was murdered yet?”