The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 5 (15 page)

We washed afterwards in a natural spring. The water sprang from the loins of the earth. His cock sprang from his loins too, but I wasn’t interested any more. I was still engorged and dilated from his fierce fucking earlier and right now the knowledge that he wanted me again was all I needed.

I didn’t let him have me again; instead we dressed and I teased his twitching cock with hot fingers, letting him think that any moment now I was going to rip off my pants and let him back into me. He drove me north, up Oak Creek Canyon, and I left him without a backward glance, left him gaping in astonishment, his cock tenting his pants like a teepee.

“What’s your name?” He called the words after me into the stillness of the desert highway.

“Lileth,” I called back over my shoulder. I don’t know why; it just seemed to fit.

I hitched up my shorts, feeling the seam bite deep into my engorged sex, pulled down my top so that my breasts were barely covered, and stuck out a thumb.

Somewhere in the banging and heat of the vortex, I had decided that I would fuck one man in every state to Canada, and only one. So it was easy to resist the backpackers who picked me up next. They must have smelt my scent; the pungent smell of sex must have been rolling off my body in waves, blending seamlessly with sagebrush, pine, and dust. I made them drop me at the Utah border; a new state and I didn’t want to waste my opportunities.

Hah! I should be so lucky. Utah passed in a blur of minivans, disconsolate housewives, teenagers with babies on their hips and a wave of pale skin. I stopped for a beer in a silent, deserted bar and met Jorge, a trucker of eastern European descent. Sturdy and thickset, his short stubby cock matched his short stubby body. He grasped my hips and pounded me with short fat strokes, crying a name that wasn’t mine at the moment of climax.

He left me unsatisfied, but my resolution wouldn’t let me assuage the ache in Utah. Nevada was closest, so I headed west. Jorge dropped me on the state line.

“My fey and silent brown-eyed one,” he mumbled into my hair. “So beautiful, so willing and I don’t even know your name.”

I told him the name he had called at the moment of his orgasm and watched his eyes widen in fascinated horror.

I walked for a while in Nevada; miles along the heat-hazed bitumen, feeling the bite of sun on my exposed shoulders. The road was a shimmering ribbon, evaporating into the horizon. I heard the sounds of small and wild things; the click of the crickets, the buzz of a rattler, the loud rasp of the sagebrush against my legs.

I heard the pickup long before I saw it; old, a diesel with a missing beat in the thrum of the engine. I stuck out a thumb without looking behind and heard it slow and shudder to a halt.

“Lift, ma’am?” The drawl was mischievous, as if the owner knew my intent before he picked me up. Maybe he did; the shorts were stuck to my ass in the heat and trickles of sweat ran in rivulets down my back, sheening the strip of skin between shorts and top.

My Nevada fuck had arrived. I smiled my acceptance of his offer, climbing up in such a way that he caught a glimpse of smooth bronze thigh and a flash of brown pussy hair up the leg of my shorts.

Fifty miles down the road he swerved the pickup onto the hard shoulder and cut the engine. My hand explored the contours of muscled thigh and the bulge of his groin that swelled beneath my hand. He leaned over the gear stick to kiss me, thrusting a heated tongue in and out of my mouth in mimicry of what I knew would come later.

I left the truck and pulled my top off, exposing my breasts to the burn of the sun. His mouth was on them immediately, suckling in that strange way that men have, as if they gain sustenance. Maybe they do. He pushed me down, into the dust and the small sharp stones right there on the hard shoulder. His lips moved down my stomach, unzipping my shorts with indecent haste and sending a probing finger down inside my panties then up into the liquid heat of my sex.

Even though I had washed, I wondered if he was feeling the slippery ropes of Utah semen as he probed inside me. His fingers skated over my clit and delved inside. I lifted my hips and let him pull the shorts away from me. I ran my own fingers over his sides, soft and strangely vulnerable in contrast to the hard, muscled chest that loomed above and the jutting urgency of what was below. My hands fondled his stomach, down to his sex, feeling the lift and contract of his testicles as I kneaded their exposed vulnerability.

He devoured me with his mouth, lifting my hips to meet him; sucking and slurping with abandon on my sex. I came for the first time when he rolled his tongue around my clit, flicking it at lightning speed. I came for the second time when he pushed his thick dark cock into me and started thrusting; pushing down on me, grinding my ass into the dust and seeds that littered the desert floor.

He didn’t last long but it was long enough. He lay on top of me, covering me like a blanket, his cock softening inside me. His come was slick on my thighs. His mouth moved against my neck.

The whine of passing cars intruded, but although we were barely hidden by the carelessly parked pickup, we didn’t stir for long moments.

He lifted himself off and out of me. “Where to?”

“Idaho,” I said.

He wanted to fuck again and so did I, in spite of my resolution. His turgid, pulsating penis was good, better than the indifferent Utah fuck, more real than the Arizona prick. As we drove north through the long plains of sage and creosote bush, passing purple-topped mountains and salt pans, I fondled his prick; exploring its hardening contours with my hand, delving into his pants to wipe the moisture from the slotted tip.

We compromised, he and I. At the bullet-ridden border sign on a deserted dusty road, he pushed me up against the roughened trunk of a juniper and drove himself into me; sloppy wet in the spend of our previous encounter. I came quickly, contracting around him, drawing him into me. One leg in Nevada, one leg in Idaho.

As he did up his pants he asked my name. “Sedona,” I replied. It just seemed to fit.

In Idaho I had a slow and not-so-meaningful encounter with a churchman on his way home, slow driving through the forest in his battered old sedan. He was elderly and it was a pity fuck. I felt magnanimous enough to give him that. He called me “Ruth” and I didn’t care enough to ask why, but I let him take me home and feed me overcooked meat and soggy vegetables. I slept in his daughter’s bed, surrounded by teddy bears and the stench of damp and decay.

Washington State was cold, even for July. The forests of damp-barked trees stretched out in military rows, dripping lichen and dank, dark water. It took me a while to get a lift, thumb outstretched on the back roads that I preferred. A woman picked me up, the first of the journey. She was stout and olive, dressed in a touque and fleece pants. She reminded me of a pit-bull; all hard-eyed hackles and defense. She was going to save trees in one of the national forests outside of Seattle, she said.

She invited me along; I caught the flicker of interest in her eyes, but I was too tired to play the coy games of seduction that women need so I refused.

“Is it a man?” she asked me in frank curiosity.

I told her about Jonno, and the beaches, and the men I had used on this trip.

“Found your Washington fuck yet?” Her inquiry was blunt and to the point, like her sharp-featured face.

I shook my head and she smiled in satisfaction.

“Come and meet my brother.”

It felt almost like prostitution; being led off to sleep with a stranger, but the border was close and I liked the idea of the decision being taken out of my hands.

Her brother was a lean, earnest man, shambling and skinny. He lived in a cabin on the edge of the woods, a hermit-like existence that had me hunting furtively for evidence of gunpowder and ransom letters. He was the sort of man who would cut you into small pieces and put you in his freezer. Liver for supper on Monday, shanks on Tuesday.

His sweet and tender lovemaking caught me unawares. I had expected a quick and desperate copulation, a quiet fitting together of sticky body parts, but the prolonged and crawling sex he gave me made me long for more. His morning beard rasped my skin as he kissed me without haste, sweeping his tongue into my mouth, fitting his lips to mine with great deliberation.

He undressed me with care, moving his mouth over my breast, suckling my nipple as his fingers crawled with agonizing slowness down, over the planes of my belly, tripping lightly along the top of my cotton panties. I was sobbing with the need of him when his mouth followed the path of his meandering fingers. If I had known his name I would have been grunting it at that moment.

He pulled my panties away from my body, parted my thighs and rested his head between. He studied me with great care, parting my sex with a gentle finger. I knew he would see me reddened and swollen from the not-so-sacred sex of the past few days, but he made no comment, simply slipped two fingers into me, swirling them around, stretching me open.

He put his mouth to me and I gasped with the suddenness of it. His long tongue lapped me like a puppy, stiffening to jab inside, then gentling to soothe my rawness. I came with an incoherent shout, my back arching up from the bed in a bowstring of tension, convulsing again and again against his mouth. He quieted me with stroking hands, gentling me like a skittish colt, then drove me up once more from my plateau into a second climax.

I was gasping like a landed fish when he moved up and over me, pushing in his penis, long and slender. I could scarcely feel him at first, but then he started to move, circular motions that changed the angle with each thrust so that he stroked my inner walls with every slight movement. I was so wet that there wasn’t any friction. I tightened myself in counter to his strokes and reached between us to stroke his balls. They were small and hard, like marbles, tight up against his body. His lean and muscular butt tightened each time he pushed inside me.

He went on and on, showing no sign of coming. I came enough for both of us, pushing my clit against his narrow, hollow pelvis, wrapping myself around him, stroking his balls with wet fingers, spreading my moisture over him until he was as messy as I.

It must have been an hour later when his sister banged on the door. “You ready?” she hollered through the leaning timber frame. “Come now and I’ll give you a lift to the border.”

He lifted himself off and out of me; his penis was still hard, wet and sticky. He hadn’t come. Without a word he stood over me and brought himself off with three hard strokes. His spend dropped down onto my belly, landing in great gobs in my pubic hair, already dark and matted with my juice. He turned and left through the other door, walking naked out of the house into the forest without a word.

He never asked my name.

I rang Jonno from Vancouver, and found him at the bar where we used to drink. “Are you coming back, Moni?” he asked. “I miss you.”

I smiled into the payphone. “I think I will.”

“Take the coach,” he urged.

“No.” Anyone watching me would have recognized my grin for what it was; feral and predatory. “I want to hitch.”

“Texas?” said my mother. “Watch out for the longhorns.”

I think she meant the cattle.

Spider was horny when he walked into the hotel room – he was always horny after a gig. But it wasn’t like he planned to do anything about it – at least, not right away. He had a 3 a.m. “dinner” date with Sierra Verdi from
Darkness Calls
magazine, who, in creaking from her usual reticence the last time he was in town, reviewed Spider’s show by saying that “Spider is the only guy in creation besides Billy Bob Thornton whom I would gladly fuck for a dime and a cappuccino.”

Spider had a pocket full of dimes, and Daddy’s All-Night on Castro had the best espresso drinks of anywhere in town.

He’d already stripped off his sweat-soaked muscle shirt when he hit the lights. For a second, he thought Sierra had jumped the gun on him; in fact, he wondered if maybe she’d waived the cash fee and ordered room service. He’d never actually seen Sierra outside of her photo accompanying her column, and of course hair colors changed as quickly as sexual orientations in the land of rock and roll, so the possibility that Sierra had picked his lock – so to speak – was not dispelled by the fact that it was not a curvy thirty-something brunette but a slim twenty-something blonde stretched out on the hotel bed wearing only leopard-print underwear and a pair of handcuffs.

But the gag – that
definitely
wasn’t Sierra’s style.

Spider walked over and sat on the edge of the hotel bed. The chick was young, maybe even younger than mid-twenties, and had a longish mane of platinum-blonde hair scattered across the crisp hotel pillows. Her teacup breasts were clutched in a tight push-up bra in pink-and-silver leopard print with black lace at the top, and her cute little ass was cupped in a matching pair of panties. She lay on her side, twisted slightly so that he could see both ass and tits. Obviously she knew her ass was her best feature, but it received stern competition from the tits, which spilled lushly over the tops of her bra cups.

She was pretty. Her features were delicate, those of a perky rock-and-roll starlet effecting the pierced-and-primped look. She definitely wasn’t aping the sexy honorary femme-dyke punk style that Sierra sported. Truth be told, the latter was Spider’s preference, but the girl on his bed certainly wasn’t in danger of getting kicked out.

The girl’s big blue eyes blinked up at him cheerfully; only the oversized gag preventing her from showing a broad smile.

Spider rooted under the bed and found the girl’s clothes: skimpy black jean shorts, high boots, and a crop top. Tucked into the shorts was a small key-ring, a packet of lube and a tiny leather clutch purse. He tossed the lube on the bed, unsnapped the girl’s wallet and took out her I.D. The I.D. looked reasonably convincing – she was twenty-two, well within the legal range. Still, he put his hand on the girl’s hip, turned her to her side, and unlocked the handcuffs. She wriggled slightly, resisting his attempts to free her and keeping her wrists pressed together behind her back. She whimpered in protest as he unbuckled the gag. It was one of those ring gags like Spider had occasionally seen on bondage websites – allowing full access while preventing effective protest. Though she whined a little, the girl didn’t say a word.