The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 5 (50 page)

“Ahhh . . .
ostra rosada
. . . pink oyster . . .” he murmured.

Licking and entering me with his tongue then fingers, he moaned and intermittently gave soft voice. “
Mar salado
. . . salty sea . . .”

The Spanish language would never be the same, I thought. It now seemed even more beautiful, if that was possible. I clenched and came around his fingers.

“Wait.” He pulled away, his erection straining against his jeans. He unzipped his fly and lowered his jeans, releasing his prick. He fumbled in his small travel sack, pulling a small square brightly-coloured packet from it.
Gallo
read the lettering; the art was of a red rooster. He removed the white condom, held the tip, and rolled it onto his brown erection, vanilla-white engulfing caramel-tan. The wind grabbed and whipped the empty condom wrapper down the beach. I dripped onto the leather seat. He held my hips and slowly slid his cock into me. He moved deeply into and out of me, gliding clitoris and G spot, clitoris and G spot, clitoris and G spot. Orgasm rolled from my wet center, sensation becoming sound, escaping through my O-shaped mouth. I envisioned my orgasm having come from the sea and returning to it; my cries metamorphosing into ocean roar.

“
Caliente, caliente
. . . hot . . .
mojado
! Anna!”

In front of my television, I drank shiraz and ate take-out crab and shrimp enchiladas and squash with red peppers. I clicked my DVD play button.
Sexo En El Camino
was subtitled. Miguel entered his girlfriend’s bedroom, and her, in rapid succession, with no foreplay. The girl had long dark hair, perky breasts, a thin build. In a fascinating, non-American quality she had lots of thick, dark pubic hair.

The film’s logic seemed to imply that women were in a perpetually pre-moistened state. It worked. The sex was quick and intense and hot, with penises and vaginas artistically filmed in shadow.

Fast Forward.

In a dilapidated motel room in Oaxaco, the young naked Sergio stood with an erection.

“Drop the towel,” commanded Gabriella, from the edge of the bed.

He stood in front of her and kneeled.

“I’m wet for you. Eat me . . .” she said. He lowered his mouth to her and began to lick. “Wait! Let me take off my panties!” She laughed. He very soon fucked her, in another quick, intense scene. Miguel watched his friend from a doorway, a hurt look in his eyes.

Fast Forward.

The two young male friends and the older woman drove through mountainous jungles and small villages towards an allegedly mythical beach, laughing and telling stories, stopping in rundown cantinas for beer and food. At the beach the three fucked. The men fought and drove away together. She stayed at Heaven’s Mouth for the rest of her short life. Fade to black.

I sighed and thought of a spontaneous, passionate man who made love in soft whispers, intense cries and beautiful words; who could have been manifesting Tourette’s or channeling spirits as he thrust and came.

I drove 120, and I-5 to the Citrus exit. The generica of strip malls seemed somehow obscene. I pulled into the medical plaza and parked. I walked the maze between offices and entered the lobby at 3:50 p.m. I took a seat on the sofa in Dr Wellman’s lobby. “Hi, Anna! He’ll be right with you.”

Cassandra loves my bottom. “Your lovely little girly ass,” she calls it. But it’s never me she makes love to, never me she goes down on. It’s always Tatiana, Mei Lei, Rosa, or whatever other girl she has staying with her.

They’re all illegals, of course, which I am not. All struggling to find a way to stay in my homeland and usually finding it with someone’s cock or cunt in mouth or other moistened orifice, and usually in front of a rolling camera, at the game, or both.

Tatiana, her latest, is typical of them – a tiny wisp of a thing but beautifully proportioned, tits and ass cheeks like two pairs of apples, small and plump and ripe and rosy. Lots of head-hair for Cassandra to play with, almost no hair anywhere else.

My bottom, at least, is fuller and rounder, and my hair – as Cass requires of us – is long and falling to my shoulders. Just like Tatiana I am otherwise shaven, the mound of my pubis smooth and bald as a baby’s bottom.

I am what I am because of Cassandra, and I love her. It seems to me I have loved her forever, even in lives we’ve lived and no longer remember. I have loved her the most since that day at school long ago. The day I told her I loved her, when she told me I could and I first learned the price, bent over the changing room bench, my gym shorts round my ankles. Cassandra’s hand was down the front of her own shorts, playing with her little jewel, while Miriam – an early acolyte – whipped my ass red with my gym shoe, and spanked me until I wept and came.

I love her still, and have been hers for several years, now. I do not mind that she finds pleasure in my pain, in my routine humiliation. It is as it ought to be. The feelings that stir in my loins and flood my parts I know I should not feel. I do not deserve her, could never deserve her, and the chance to gaze almost constantly upon that perfect, wonderful form, is worth any price. I am glad to serve her.

Cassandra brokers influence. That is her life and way.

It is gloomy beneath the table in the dining room, the illumination of a hundred silver mounted candles lost behind the thick white damask table cloth which hangs almost to the floor. Plush carpet cushions my knees. I am naked and warm, but I do not really like it here, do not really like what I must do.

Cassandra and Tatiana are greeting our guests in the hallway – I can hear the buzz of voices muted by distance, tablecloth and nervous discretion. I can picture them in my mind. Six people, almost always; three men of power and influence and three women who are the real owners of it, all of them gleaming and well-dressed. All excited by the luxury and taste which surrounds them, by the promise of unknown wickedness, and by the sight of their hostesses.

My love and her other lover are wearing nothing, unless you count the body paint. I watched them apply it to each other and wished they would do so to me. But they didn’t – they never do.

Black, white and amber rippling stripes, white abdomen and groin, make each a tigress. There are subtle hints of matching color about their brows, their eyes and cheeks. But it is the white diamond on each black-painted pubis which most excites the guests and it excites me, too.

Cassandra, I know, is introducing Tatiana, encouraging them to ogle her, remarking on her beauty. She shocks them deliciously by telling them, right in front of the gently smiling, inscrutable naked girl, that Tatiana gives the most wonderful head. She tells them there is no greater joy than to have Tatiana’s tongue dance a piquant ballet on her own sweet, glistening, clit. And I know they stir, small pink cobras of cock uncurl from sleep in soft warm undershorts, pink orchids bloom to a touch of dew, and they all want her, eagerly or apprehensively according to their gender and experience.

Tatiana takes their coats and leaves on Cassandra’s implication-laden promise that they will “see more of Tatiana later.”

I hear a feminine gasp of delight as they walk into the room, see a shadowed ghost of hall light falling through the doorway before it closes, hear Cassandra’s voice explaining, telling them the rules, telling me the rules for the night.

She calls this one “Russian Roulette”, although sometimes it’s Chinese Roulette, Cuban, Thai or whatever, depending on the girl. It’s a game of pairs and pairings that they have all agreed to. I hear her soft, dark voice invite them to sit down, introduce Raoul to fill their glasses. I have never met Raoul.

It is no longer dark, seven pairs of hands carefully – according to the rules – lifting the cloth into their laps as they sit down, but forbidden to peep beneath the cloth. At the top of the table is one pair of naked legs, white diamond gleaming on black-painted shaven pubis, the lovely slit of my lovely Cassandra brightly pink in the sun-bronzed darkness of her, tempting but yet untouchable.

My first course comes with theirs. They are seated in pairs, man and partner, on the three broad sides of the table around me, and in front of me, now, an elegantly tailored pair of dinner-suit trousers, side stripe gleaming. I rest my hands on his blind knees, feel the body tense, sense the tension around the table as some suddenly arrested motion of his or rapid change of expression tells them he’s been chosen.

Beneath the cover I unbutton and unzip him, draw the thickening impostor through its tailored exit, firm the cotton gently beneath the weight of his balls, and grip him in my lip-protected teeth.

I’m not displeased to meet the little stranger. I quite like cocks, their blind ebullience, their babe-like hunger. This one grows less little by the instant. It fills my mouth, stretching my lips as I slide upon him, feel the silky wetness of skin, corded veins registering soft, fleeting pressures on my lips and tongue.

He is all rigid now, and no doubt flushed where they can see it, his five companions watching, wondering, anticipating. The men are hungry for their turn, the women perhaps for theirs. Or maybe they are apprehensive, not knowing what it is like to feel a woman’s tongue there. Maybe they are wondering who will be first, which cunt Tatiana’s unseen mouth will choose to join with this cock later, the second part of this game.

I am hot myself, and ache with wanting, ache with knowing how long I must wait before she’ll thank me, meet my needs.

In the gloom above, a mouth unseen mutters obscenities, the body convulses. Delicious spasms shoot down the length of his hot phallus, spurting unseen white and wet into the warm waiting of me. I swallow, as I must, for she knows I don’t much like that and she’ll punish me for the slightest yellowing stain upon her snow-white carpet.

I can feel the tension all around me as I turn upon my knees, deciding which cunt it will be. I move towards it, raise the skirt and find no panties. This one is eager. So I let the skirt fall and I can almost feel her disappointment, all of their surprise at her change of posture or expression. I turn to another and find lovely chocolate skin, a livid pink flower under vivid pink knickers, and I press my tongue against here.

Muted laughter. Hers perhaps, or maybe that of the girl who knows I’ve bypassed her, who thought that my tongue would first be within her, and knows, now, from the tensing body at the foot of the table, the expressions I cannot see, that someone else has it.

I imagine, of course, that it’s Cassandra’s clit, and tease it and play with it as long as I dare, darting and wetting and licking and pricking. I feel it moisten with my wetness and hers, feel her soften around me, and then she shudders and softly moans. I wish it was Cass who was coming so wetly, filling my mouth with her potion.

A warm word above and behind me, a man expressing pleasure and probably him of the fresh-emptied balls who will be her post-prandial lover.

I choose to take her partner’s cock next, hoping it is chocolate as hers and full-creaming. Then I open his flies, and there’s a disappointment, of sorts. But I don’t really mind. This one is gorgeous, fully engorging, and fully engaging, a monster in skin. It pries me wide until it quite hurts and then explodes like a hydrant, white liquid to the flame that burns only higher inside me. It hurts now. I want her.

And now I take pity on she that I spurned and moistly I pair her with the dark girl’s big partner, pretending her Cass again, tonguing Cass’s clit again, finding the gush again and hearing her whimper. Cass never whimpers.

The last man sounds angry in his civilized way. He knows from Cass’s earlier instruction that the rules mean the two pairs chosen leaves a third which is wanting but is left unrequited. A woman’s voice protests, sweetly, sincerely, that she really doesn’t mind. Everyone knows fully her secret relief – and I can feel Cass’s soft smile, see it clearly behind my eyelids.

My choice is her choice, and I know her choice always, when a woman is reluctant. In an instant I’m at those soft panties, so girly, naïve, and I’m at the pink flower that’s full, hot and frightened in its nest of roan curls, and I’m tonguing my Cassandra with all of my being, sending all my love searing in wet, white-hot lapping. I hear her mewing, her body soft-shaking as if she is weeping, and then she is weeping a flood in my face and pooling full wet in the chair.

His cock, last now and wanting, is ripe for playing. I play him till long past dessert, leaving him trembling, leaving him shuddering, as I finish my own final course.

It’s an age until they leave; I’m wet with their juices, sticky and full, thirsty and hungry and hurting. There is a slow burning ache of a heat deep within me, the pain of my wanting intense.

When they’re gone to the rec room, with its beds and benches, its plush and velvet, I can creep to the peep-hole and watch them. Tatiana has rejoined them and I watch the couples I’ve created coupling. I match their faces to trousers and skirts, whilst Cass and her lover hover, watching and smiling, two tigers in happy embrace, fleetingly breaking to caress breast or ass, bestow fleet finger-blessings on cock or pink clit and smile their encouragement.

Our guests are sure it was Tatiana, of course, who pleasured and ate them through their own gourmet courses, and do not know of my existence. In consequence she has their gratitude, shares close secrets. If that’s not enough she’s always got the videotape, although she rarely has to threaten it.

And I have . . . what?

I have served Cassandra, I have loved her. I have done as she requires me, given in entirely to her will, so that later I may watch them, as I sit cuffed to my chair: Cass and Tatiana mutually astride, each with her face between the other’s thighs, each supping at the precious fount until they’re full.

And then they will untie me. They will lie side by side in silence, softly kissing, and allow me to lick their pink lips clean, to seek to please them.

I do try, really. For if I please them I’m rewarded. The strap in Cass’s hand beating heat into my ass-cheeks, the close metal cage unfastened from my cock which strains against it, checkered patterns of red pressure lines upon my hot and thrusting flesh.