The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 5 (11 page)

I remember a lot of wetness – her mouth, his mouth, her pussy. I remember Sam leaning against the wood-paneled wall at one point in the evening and watching, just watching the three of us entwined, the TV-glow flickering over us, my slim body stretched out between our new lovers. I felt beloved as their fingers stroked me, as they took turns tasting me, splitting my legs as wide as possible and getting in between. I held my arms over my head and Sam bent down and gripped my wrists tight while Pamela licked at me like a pussycat at a saucer of milk.

Scenes flowed through the night, lubricated by our red-wine daze, and we moved easily from one position to another. Pamela bent on her knees at Sam’s feet and brought her mouth to his cock. I worked Andy, bobbing up and down, and after he came for the first time, I moved over to Pamela’s side so we could take turns drinking from Sam. I was reeling with the wonder of it. The illusion that anything was possible. Any position, any desire.

“You like that?” Andy asked when I returned to his side, pointing to Pamela as she sucked off my husband. “You like watching?”

I nodded.

“What else do you like?”

“I like that you spanked her,” I confessed in a soft voice.

“Ah,” he smiled. “So you’re a bad girl, too.”

My blush told him all he needed to know; soon I was upended over his sturdy lap, and the erotic clapping sounds of a bare-ass spanking rang through the room. Andy punished me to perfection, not letting up when I started to cry and squirm, making me earn the pleasure that flooded through me. Sam filled Pamela’s mouth while watching another man tan my hide.

Andy was a true sadist, which I could appreciate. He had a pair of shiny orange-handled pliers which he used like a magician on his girlfriend’s teacup tits. She didn’t cry or scream – she moaned. He twisted the pliers harder, and her green eyes took on a vibrant glow, as if she’d found some deep hidden secret within herself, and that secret gave her power. Andy told us how he liked to spank her with his hand or belt or paddle. Sometimes he used a wooden ruler. Sometimes he used whatever was nearby.

He told us detailed stories of how he fucked her up the ass, how he made her bend over and part her cheeks for him, holding herself open as wide as possible and begging him for it. He liked to lube her up good, and then pour a handful of K-Y into his fist and pump his cock once or twice before taking her. The size of his cock in her backdoor would often make her cry, but it was a good sort of cry, he explained. Pain and pleasure were entwined in everything they did. Andy’s stories made me more excited, and we kept up our games all night long, screwing on stage with the long-haired boys in the bands.

Sam and I had fun with that couple, and we didn’t laugh afterwards. We fucked. Not like bunnies, which are cute and soft and sweet. We fucked like us. Hard and raw and all the time. Sam’s large hand slapped down on my ass, connecting over and over as he relived the night. “You little cock slut,” he said, his voice gravelly and low. “Your mouth was all hungry for him. You couldn’t get enough.” I would be red and sore after our sessions, and I relished every mark, every pale plum-colored bruise, every memory. The night was fuel for a year’s worth of fantasies.

We got precisely what we wanted. We never saw them again. The woman called and called after our one-night stand. She emailed that she was in love with me, that she was desperate to see me. But Sam and I didn’t want love. We wanted something much less involved but much more momentarily intense: four on the floor.

With Sheila and Richard, we got a great deal more than we bargained for. A gourmet dinner – delivered by a local party service – that dragged on for hours. A tour of their two-story house and their walk-in closets. Close-up views of their his-and-hers Armanis.

These appearance-obsessed people were the ones we were about to have sex with. I had a difficult time picturing it. Yes, she was attractive, although “cool” was a better word. Yes, I liked how distinguished he looked in his open-necked crisp white shirt and pressed khakis with the ironed crease down the center. He was so different from Sam with his faded Levis and dangling silver wallet chain. But they were trying to win us over, and somehow that made me feel hard and bristly inside.

Didn’t stop us from getting busy, though and peeling our clothes off. Richard didn’t fuck me. He sat nearby and stroked my sleek dark hair out of my eyes and said he wanted to watch. Sheila had on a black velvet catsuit, and she stripped it off in one practiced move and was naked, her platinum hair rippling over her shoulders, her body gleaming chestnut in the candlelight. She stood for a moment, holding the pose, waiting for applause or flashbulbs.

Sam took his cue from Richard, backing away, watching while Sheila courted me. Sheila had obviously done this before. She strode to my side and helped to undress me. She cooed admiringly as she undid my bra and pulled it free, as she slid my dove-gray satin panties down my thighs. Her fingers inspected me all over, as if she was checking to see that a purchase she’d made was acceptable.

She kissed wetly into the hollow of my neck and caressed my breasts with her long, delicate fingers, tweaking my rosy nipples just so to make them erect. Then she spread me out on the luxurious multi-colored living room rug and started to kiss along the basin of my belly. I had a second to wonder why it is that menages never take place in beds before I sighed and arched my back, parted my legs for her, closed my eyes. She turned her body, lowered herself on me, let me taste her.

Everything about her body felt cool, like polished foil. Her skin. Her lips. Her tangy juices when they flooded out to meet my tongue. We sixty-nined for the men, and for a moment I was won over. I was fine, alert and happy. With my mouth on the older woman’s pussy and my hands stroking her perfect silky body, I lost myself in momentary bliss. She was exotically perfumed, a scent I didn’t recognize but knew must have been imported from Europe. She even tasted expensive. But sex levels out any playing field. I might only have been able to afford CoverGirl dime-store cosmetics rather than Neiman-Marcus special blends, but I could find her swollen clit, and that’s all that mattered. I teased it out from between her perfectly shaved pussy lips. I sucked hard, and then used my tongue to trace a ring around the rosy.

When I felt Sam’s eyes on me, I turned my head to look at him. He gave me a wink, as if to let me know that he approved, and then he nodded forward with his head for me to continue. I could already hear his voice in my head, “You liked your mouth all glossy with pussy juices, didn’t you, girl? You liked the way she tasted, all slippery and wet?”

But then Sheila started to direct, positioning my body on all fours, before grabbing a carved wooden box from under the coffee table and pulling out a variety of sex toys. This wasn’t like Andy lifting his pliers off the oval-shaped coffee table, an unexpected turn-on. This was planned; I could tell. We had been carefully chosen to star in a pre-written fantasy of Sheila’s. A fantasy in which she was the star and I was her assistant, her underling, her protégé. And even as she buckled on the thick, pink strap-on, I felt myself withdraw.

Still, we fucked.

She took me from behind, held tightly onto my long black hair and rode me. Her manicured fingertips gripped firmly near the base of my scalp, holding me in place. Sam stared into my eyes as I was pounded by this icy woman, and then he came close, his cock out, and placed the very head on my full bottom lip.

I heard Sheila hiss something – Sam was taking charge and she didn’t like it. But she also didn’t know Sam. Sam would have none of her noise. He fucked my mouth fiercely while she fucked my cunt, while Richard, silent and somewhere off inside himself, tugged on his dick and watched us all.

Sheila had oils that she spread on me with the finesse of a masseuse, and soon we were drippy and glistening in the golden light. She had sturdy metal nipple clamps and assorted colorful dildos, vibrating devices and butt plugs. She arrayed her collection and went to work. And Sam let it all happen. This was far different and far less spontaneous than our experience with Pamela and Andy, but we’d use it. We’d go with it. There were four of us, after all, and we were there.

I came when she oiled me between my rear cheeks and slowly slipped in a petal-pink butt plug, her knowing fingers working between my thighs to tickle my clit as she filled my ass.

I came again when Sam jacked himself hard and let loose in my mouth, filling me up with his cream as Sheila fucked me from behind.

I jammed my own fingers between my legs, working my clit to come a final time when Richard, so distant, lowered his head and shuddered, his body wracked with tremors as he climaxed a white fountain up onto his hard belly.

But in the car at 2 a.m., on the way home, still reeking of imported essential oils, still throbbing from the poundings I’d taken, I started to giggle. And then Sam started to laugh out loud, shaking his head as he drove the empty highway.

“Crazy.”

“So much Armani,” he snorted.

“And gold records.”

“And cigars.”

“And their view.”

“And their money.”

And we didn’t see them again, even though they called for weeks afterwards. Even though they fell a little bit in love with us, as had Pamela and Andy. Because Sam and I weren’t looking for love. We had plenty of that. We were looking for one thing only. And somehow I was sure that we’d find it again once I placed a personal ad of our own:

Happily married twosome seeks similar couple for debauchery. For intensity. For four on the floor.

I am an excitable person who only understands life lyrically, musically, in whom feelings are much stronger as reason. I am so thirsty for the marvelous that only the marvelous has power over me. Anything I cannot transform into something marvelous, I let go. Reality doesn’t impress me. I only believe in intoxication, in ecstasy, and when ordinary life shackles me, I escape, one way or another. No more walls.
– July 7, 1934 from
Incest
by Anais Nin

After class that first day, the day it all began, he’d called her over to his desk and asked her to walk with him to his car while they continued the talk about Anais Nin’s writing. Actually he didn’t really ask, he told her. And she obeyed. She admired him so much as a professor. He was erudite, intelligent and very attractive with his black hair, tinged with silver, tailored suits, and black leather shoes.

His car was a Jaguar XK with a robust V8 engine. He asked her to join him for a drink so they could discuss Nin further and she found herself agreeing. It wasn’t forbidden to associate with faculty, just frowned upon.

In the car, she felt like the professor was inspecting her as his eyes lingered over her tight black skirt and thin braless blouse. Yes, perhaps it was a bit over the top, but heck, one of the reasons she was taking university classes was to meet men. She hadn’t thought about professors as possible candidates for bedding, but he certainly turned her on.

“You like to dress like a slut, don’t you, Clare?”

This surprised her. She blushed and slouched down on the buttery black leather seat.

“Hey, if you don’t like my outfit, or my company, why don’t we just forget about the drink?” This wasn’t any way to talk to a professor, but he’d called her a slut.

“I didn’t say that I didn’t like your clothing, Clare. To the contrary, I find it very alluring. Do you think being a slut is something to be ashamed of?”

Clare sat up a little taller in her seat.

“That’s it, girl, show me those long legs.”

Clare found herself complying, strangely proud of her body. She used to hide it behind layers of clothes, but she’d lost weight, rather a lot of weight. The curves remained, but now she was much fitter and trimmer, and she loved to show it off. And her professor was right, she did wear those clothes to be a slut, to find a man, men to fuck. She smiled up at him, feeling as if a weight had been lifted off her shoulders.

“You know, you’re right. Why deny it? I am a slut.”

“That’s a good girl. And what are sluts good for, Clare?”

Clare’s cunt got wet as she listened to David, his voice sliding lower, the car mesmerizing her with its sensual rocking motion and the gentle purr of the engine.

“Being used, sir?”

“That’s right, Clare. You are such a quick learner.” David stopped the car in front of a hotel surrounded by rolling hills and farms. Clare looked around. She hadn’t been paying attention to the drive at all from Concordia University in Montreal. They were now up in the Eastern Townships, a beautiful area of Quebec. She was rather surprised. This man was very presumptuous, and yet, she was also curious and turned on by his presumption.

“Now that we both know you are a slut, girl. Let’s enjoy it, shall we?” He grabbed Clare’s arm and walked her into the hotel.

“Saint-John, checking in,” he said to the front desk clerk.

“You’ve got the usual room, Professor Saint-John. Here’s your key.”

He just marched Clare into the elevator, and she said nothing. Her cunt was moist, her breasts tingled and she felt so sexy and powerful, being able to get a man to want her like this, to command her. In the elevator, David unzipped his pants.