The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 5 (57 page)

“Hi,” I said decisively, extending my hand to him. “I’m Beverly Channing.” I put my other hand over his when he clasped mine. “I’m certain I’ve met you before but I’m at a loss to remember where,” I continued. I fixed my green-eyed gaze on him while I parted my lips in a hungry smile. I held his hand too long for wifey’s liking – in my peripheral vision, I saw her stiffen.

“Christopher Van Dyke,” he smiled. His hands were warm. He even smelled nice.
Bulgari pour homme,
I believe. “I’m afraid I’ve never met you before,” he added, stealing a darting glance at his wife to gauge her reaction.

We were off to a smashing start.

“No, I’m sure you’re wrong. I never forget a good-looking man,” I teased and pressed my right breast into his arm. His color deepened.

He was taller than I but not by much. His wife, at a paltry five feet four inches or so, had the dimensions of a shopping bag. I still hadn’t acknowledged her existence.

“Wasn’t it Barry Goldman’s party last spring?” I persisted. Everybody who was anybody attended Barry’s parties. Odds were good that Dudley Dooright here had been on the guest list.

“Well, yes, I was there, but I don’t remember meeting you,” he replied. His deep voice slid over my skin like a thousand little tongues.

“I was there, too. We never met you,” the little woman piped up.

I turned my head slowly and but never quite made eye contact from beneath haughty eyelids. “I have no recollection of meeting you. I was speaking to your husband.” I turned back to Christopher, who predictably then felt compelled to introduce his prickly little spouse.

“I’m sorry. This is my wife, Melissa.”

I nodded in her general direction, ignoring her chubby hand tentatively extended toward me. She retracted it quickly and immediately reached for a passing canapé.

“Why don’t you get us some drinks, Melissa?” I commanded as I continued staring into her husband’s face. Christopher, confounded by my impertinence, met his wife’s gaze imploringly:
Please do as this woman says. I’m sure this will be over soon.

“Well, what would you like?” Melissa asked me, appropriately irritated to be serving me.

“Anything. Use your imagination. Surprise me,” I purred, still holding Christopher’s hand. I had yet to look at her.

She stormed off, waddling toward the bar, unaware that drinks circulated through the party just like hors-d’oeuvres.

He tugged his hand away from mine very gently. I found this clear yet lame attempt to assert his manhood rather charming. He was visibly disquieted by my presence but once Melissa had disappeared, his eyes traveled down the length of my overheated body and back up again. He took this inventory surreptitiously, mind you, but he took it nonetheless.

“I didn’t want to say so in front of your wife,” I lied, “but I tried desperately to get your attention at Barry’s party. I find you devastatingly attractive.”

Again, he blushed but recovered admirably. “I wish I’d known.”

“Why?”

He cleared his throat and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Maybe I could have given you a ride home.”

“Oh, that’s not all I would have expected of you, Christopher.”

Have you ever had the satisfaction of watching a face work through an internal dilemma? The man parted his lips in involuntary protest and seemed to surprise himself when no words found their way past them.

“In fact,” I continued, “why not let
me
take
you
home?”

He grinned and tilted his head to hide his sheepishness. “But we just got here.”

“I know of a better party. The three of us could go together.”

“Three of us?”

“I assume you’ve got some kind of code against ditching your wife?”

He chuckled. “Of course. I’m just not sure that she’d, you know, feel comfortable at another party.”

“Sweetheart, she doesn’t look terribly at ease at this one,” I assured him, curious whether he actually was ready to leave his plodding dumpling at the party. Regardless of his desires, I wanted her along with us. Otherwise, what was the point?

I watched said dumpling make her way through the chic and chatty crowd as she tried to squeeze between bodies while balancing two champagne flutes. Horribly unsure of herself and eager not to offend, she disgusted me.

“Here she comes now,” I commented in my best monotone.

Christopher turned and satisfaction welled up inside me as I saw his face fall at the bumbling sight of her. He forced a smile to welcome her back.

“Champagne! Thank you, sweetheart.” He spoke to her in a fatherly way as he took a glass from her. He leaned forward to give her an appreciative peck on her doughy cheek. As he did so, elbows jostled and the champagne in what was soon to be my glass poured onto my Walter Steiger pumps.

The bitch was starting to incense me.

“Oh! Honey! I think you spilled some champagne on your friend!” she exclaimed, mastering the obvious.

“He didn’t spill it. You did.” I remarked coolly, surveying my soiled shoe as if it belonged to some street person.

She blushed furiously and looked from her husband to me and back to her husband, undoubtedly waiting for him to come to her defense.

“I saw it all quite clearly. You spilled champagne on my shoe. What I really can’t fathom is why you’re just standing there when you should be cleaning it up.”

Christopher froze, mute with disbelief. Tears welled up in Mrs Van Dyke during the pregnant pause before she crouched at my feet with a napkin. While she dabbed, I attempted to resume my conversation with her husband by taking yet another step closer to him. This movement caused me to squash Melissa’s pinky. I heard her yelp and responded by discreetly placing my hand on the top of her head, to keep her crouching.

“Don’t even think about getting up until that shoe is spotless,” I spat at her. At this moment, I also spread my legs so that if she were to look up, she would be treated to my glistening wet pooch.

“Now, then, Christopher. Where were we? I was telling you about this other party I’d like to take you to. Who do you work for, by the way?”

“I’m with Bozell. I handle Bank of America.”

I flicked on my suitably impressed face, to which he responded like the egotist that most account executives are. He no longer seemed to care that his wife was on all fours at a posh cocktail party just to clean up a spill that he himself had made. He still didn’t even know who I was or appeared to be interested in finding out.

“Well, then. You need to go to this party more than you need to be here. All you’ll find here are people moving up. I’ll take you where the people have already made it and are enjoying the spoils.”

His face shone with excitement. When I cupped his basket in the hand I’d just removed from his wife’s head, his eyes nearly bugged out of their sockets.

“Does that sound good to you?” I squeezed his ballsack ever so slightly.

He nodded, furtively trying to determine whether Melissa could see what I was doing. On her unbalanced way up, she did indeed catch the action and gasped in horror.

“Christopher!”

“Are my shoes clean?” I asked her, boldly staring her down.

She blurted something that has no English equivalent and I ignored it. Christopher’s cock inflated in my hand. He blinked and blurted something equally unintelligible.

“Oh, the hell with the shoes. Are we ready to get to that party?” My face was close enough to his ear for him to feel my hot breath. My breast pressed into his arm and the memory of my hand at his crotch robbed him of the power of speech.

“Sure,” he finally uttered.

“What? Christopher! What’s going on here?” She was a teapot ready to boil, a smokestack about to blow. Her phony suburban manners disintegrated and all of a sudden I noticed where I’d flattened her mousy, outdated coiffure with my hand.

“Nothing’s going on, honey. What’s the matter?” he cooed to his wife. Unctuous bastard – how solicitous men could be when new pussy was at stake.

“Nothing’s the matter,” I interrupted. “Maybe you should just keep quiet while I’m trying to seduce your husband.”

Her whole face turned the color of her acne splotches. Christopher laughed nervously in an attempt to make light of my comment. “Don’t be silly, Beverly,” he said with no discernable conviction. “You’re doing no such thing.”

“This discussion is getting tedious,” I announced. “Let’s get going.” I led the way to the door and out to my waiting limo. It didn’t surprise me in the least when they both followed me.

“This is yours?” Melissa observed. Her naïve incredulity bored me so I decided to ignore her. She was probably used to people paying no attention to her.

I made her sit across from me in the limo so that I could be closer to Christopher. When I sat down, I made sure my skirt rode up indecently. I wore pantyhose constructed like stockings and garter belt – generous arcs of bare skin, including an unfettered crotch, characterize them. I nearly squealed with delight as Melissa’s jaw dropped at the sight of my neatly trimmed but gaping crotch.

“Your wife seems to be disturbed by my lack of panties,” I purred into Christopher’s ear. He was as close to me as I’d hoped and upon hearing my disclosure, he looked down at my lap. Reluctantly, he checked his wife’s expression. Even Melissa’s ample body could not contain her shock.

I led Christopher’s hand to my slippery lips as Melissa watched. Once his fingers delved into my wetness, I grabbed a handful of his hair and brought his mouth to mine. Christopher’s hand did not leave my gushing pussy. In fact, he was now spreading my juice over my growing clit. She leaned forward and slapped his knee.

“Stop that, now!” she reprimanded.

At the sound of her slap, we stopped kissing and turned to face her ridiculous presence.

“What the hell was that?” I snapped at her.

“I want you to stop.”

I sat back in the rich leather seat and stared at her until she averted her eyes. “
You
want me to stop.”

“I want you both to stop,” the plump lady mumbled.

“Don’t you like watching your husband play with my pussy?” I asked, slumping a bit so that Christopher could finger-fuck me. “Tell you what, Melissa. You can play, too.”

“I don’t want to play,” she pouted as Christopher buried his face in my neck. Under the erratic flashes of streetlight through the limo’s moonroof, the shadows in her puffy face gave her a ghoulish quality. The poor cow didn’t know who to be angry with, me or her amorous husband.

“Of course you do,” I insisted. “Slide forward on your seat, there, and get on your knees.”

“Why?”

“If you’re going to ask questions, I’ll have the driver let you out right here. We’re only a few blocks from Harlem. Would you like that?”

“No.”

“Then do what I tell you. On your knees.”

Melissa heaved her unwieldy body forward and landed with a thud onto her knees. The position put her much closer to my excitable crotch.

“Stick your face between my legs and tell your husband what I smell like.”

Horror crossed her face for a second time that evening. Or was it a third? In any event, she looked at her husband, who had long since put her out of his mind. His tongue played with my earlobe as his middle finger made squishing noises where I’d led it.

“Christopher!” she wailed, on the verge of tears. Her frustration made me wetter.

“Sniff my pussy, you pathetic whiner.”

Her face contorted into hideous expressions before the tears began to flow. I laughed, which disturbed Christopher from his ministrations at my neck.

“What’s going on?” It was as if we’d awakened him from a pleasant dream.

“Your wife won’t smell my pussy.”

“Come on, honey. Just play along. Everything’s gonna be all right,” he said distractedly, now moving to kiss my mouth as two fingers pumped my hole. I subtly moved his face into my thick mass of wavy hair so that I could watch Melissa sniff down below. This was a show too good to miss.

She leaned forward as if my muff were rotten meat. With her eyes closed, she ventured closer. I didn’t know whether she just didn’t want to see pussy up close and personal or she didn’t want to see her beloved’s hands buried in happy juice. Either way, her extreme unease tickled me and I could only imagine that I was marring her psyche for life.

I loved disturbing her world, upsetting everything she thought was real. Seeing her pudgy form at my mercy while her husband indulged himself on me quickened my pulse. Who needed drugs or alcohol when a high like this was available?

She inhaled dramatically but briefly about six inches from my creamy center, then backed up quickly.

“Are you afraid it’ll bite or are you just expecting mine to be as rancid as yours?” I asked.

She stared at me, blustering yet wordless in her rage. Arms trembling, she struggled to hoist herself back into her seat. The violet atrocity she called a dress bunched up over her thick knees, making me crave something from Pillsbury.

“What do I smell like?”

“I don’t know.”

“Christopher has to know what I smell like before he eats me, don’t you, baby?” I purred as I ran my fingers through his hair.

“Mmmm,” he replied, still breathing into my red locks. Suddenly, he sat upright, and I giggled, realizing he was finally aware of what had been going on around him.

“Tell him what he can expect to taste, Melissa, or the driver lets you off here.” Shouts from a passing car full of foul-mouthed youths reminded her where she was.

“She smells like perfume.”

“Is there anything about you that’s even been
near
an imagination?” I wondered aloud.

“Let me eat you now, Beverly,” he pleaded. I liked his style – urgent yet refined. What was a class act like this doing with such a
hausfrau
? I couldn’t wait for his tongue to lap up my juice. But first, some appreciation of the merchandise.

“Not so fast, loverboy. It’s a little warm in here, don’t you think? Help me with my jacket.”

Barely able to restrain a grin, his suave hands dedicated themselves to working the buttons of my Armani jacket. He slid his palms over my ribcage to my sides, pushing the jacket open to reveal my blue corseted torso. The moonlight hit the upper hemisphere of my alabaster globes perfectly, highlighting their smooth, ripe roundness.