Desire

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  Greg was still back at the yelp. He wondered what his wife had done to Ian to make him yelp like that. He’d sort of forgotten where he was and it wasn’t until the crop hit his nipple and his own yelp brought him back to the present. Moira rained smacks on his chest and both nipples until he was completely tenderized, then she went to work on his thighs again. Once his body was tingling and vibrating with sensation, she began to gently explore his anus, first just teasing the outside of his sphincter, then letting her gloved finger dip in and out while she played with his balls. Greg had been hard for quite a while and the deeper Moira explored inside him, the tighter his balls became. When Greg pleaded with her to finally let him fuck her, she was ready for him. Kneeling between his legs, she’d been keeping close tabs on his arousal and already had the condom out when he begged. She rolled the condom - down his cock and while he was fastened, spread wide for her, she removed her thong and settled herself on top of him, slowly impaling herself on his length. Careful What You Wish For 439 He groaned his appreciation and began to rock his pelvis with the little mobility afforded him. Moira leaned forward and lay across his chest, stopping his motion. “Now Greg, you stay still; P’'ll do the work.” She bit one of his nipples and gripped his cock tightly inside her until he squeaked. Easing up on him, she sat back and let her body rhythmically milk him until she felt him begin to shake. “Don’t you dare come. I’m not finished with you,” she said. “Please, Moira, I don’t think I can last much longer.” Moira leaned forward enough to allow the base of his cock to rub against her clit as she bounced up and down on him to the music of his groans. “You just wait till I tell you. I know you know better than to come before me. Her motion became more and more frantic until finally, in the middle of a stroke, she froze with his cock half in and half out of her. Greg could feel the vibration start in her body and transfer itself to his cock. Her orgasm broke over both of them like a storm and, somewhere in the middle of it, Greg came with a roar. Once Moira relaxed, she rolled away from Greg and said, “I don’t remember telling you to come.” - “Sorry, Moira, I couldn't help it.” “T guess next time I'll have to deal with that.” Put back together and dressed, they made their way into the living room to find Audrey and Ian already there, sitting on the couch, talking.

• From The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  Except I didn’t believe it was fantasy. I was suddenly certain that I had become one with her, that I could hear her thoughts as she had her way with me, that I was actually inside her head listening to . And I was absolutely certain they went something those thoughts . like this... . “... Oh, now I’ve really got him, this is just fabulous, he’s so easy to take, and ’m handling him just right, he’s totally my prey, my absolute victim, he’s never been made love to like this, he’s never come this close to a girl’s pussy before, the poor bastard .. . he just doesn’t know how to deal with it ... anyway I’m the one who’s Ladies Go First 471 . helping him, who’s busy deflowering him ... And I’m really being quite gentle about it, ’m doing my very best to make it all perfect for him, I mean, sure, I’m going to let it all shoot loose soon, but only when I’m good and ready . . oh my god, I’m getting too close, gotta pull back, it almost got me too excited ... can’t let that happen ... build it up slowly again .. . yes, that’s it... WOW! I am really using this guy, but I don’t feel the least bit guilty about it .. . should I feel guilty? hell, no! ... he’s loving every minute of it ... it’s the best time he’s ever had in his life . . so I’m going to just go on using him ... Pm even raping hima little, I jumped him before he was ready, maybe I even raped his cock yesterday, but what the hell, what’s the point of knowing how to do all this if I can’t use it to fuck a . anyway he’s happy I’m raping him, just look how guy’s brains out . much he’s enjoying it . .. oh god, I’m coming too close again . . oh, that feels so GOOD! ... oh yeah .. . what the hell, gotta do it some time, HERE WE GO...!!!” . . . And at that exact point her whole body started to vibrate, her sexual regions began to churn and contract and release. She had so totally taken over my mind’that I was cheering her on. It seemed nothing less than glorious when’she lunged at me with all her force five or six times, and my face was once again drenched with her fluids... She rocked back and forth over my face a number of times before she finally came to rest. She pulled herself back to glance down at me, but this time there was no real ceremony. She had taken me, just as she had promised she would, and that was that. She playfully tweaked my nose with her fingers and arose from me with a “mission accomplished” air.

• From The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  Then he placed his lips against her temple, where her hair was wet _ and slightly stuck to the area above her ear. Would he say he loved her? She didn’t think he did; she didn’t love him; she didn’t fool herself; she wasn’t a baby. Maybe she wanted him to say it so she could feel superior, could feel less than he and so more in control. 162 Laurence Klavan (She had read once that the young are more powerful in young — old affairs, because, well, they live longer. But what about her uncle’s second wife who was twenty years younger and who died first? Who was more powerful then? Her uncle, obviously, who was still alive.) Soon she didn’t care about creating distance: she found herself kissing him, too, his cheek, which was not unshaven but getting there, with the night coming on; things were changing, growing all the time, and now she knew it, this was proof. Her boss had wanted to work for her, and that was what he had done; he had not been lying, been, what was the word, rhetorical: and that made her want to serve him — not serve, that was subordinate and not what she meant — to give to him, to know what he knew, to get pleasure by giving pleasure, to feel the connection or current, the wet finger in the spilled liquid that was then stuck into a socket, only good and shocking, not bad. She took him into her mouth, even though he protested, weakly, that this was not for him but only for her, tried to insist and sincerely, not coyly, not to get what he pretended not to want. But she wouldn’t listen and soon, her breasts intentionally squashed against his leg, she kissed at the gray pubic hairs she had not noticed on him before (and which, for reasons she could not articulate, excited her ina new and discombobulating way), and it was only seconds after she started, sort of forced him to experience it, had hardly moved her mouth on him, was just getting ready to do her stuff, or figure out what stuff would do the trick for him, that he came, and more than melting in her mouth (as crass girls in college called it), seemed to completely disappear, his head tilting back, his eyes closing, his arms laid flat, his hands opening, as if going under in that ocean again — or, better, being pushed off a cliff by coming; it almost scared her: she suddenly knew how lonely he had been and yet he hadn’t used it against her but for her, had wanted to deny himself until she wouldn’t let him any more (or was the denial his way of getting over the guilt of sleeping with a young girl who was his employee? If he got nothing, in other words, what had he done wrong? He would be a kind of sex saint).

• From The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  “Tf you aren’t in the mood to do it that way, that’s OK.” She was off the hook if she screwed up. Patty’d only had anal sex once with Gene and that had been pretty straightforward, so to speak. But she thought she could guess what her sister might do that was so special. After all, how can a girl do much of anything different when a man’s weight is crushing her? What she did for Gene was the only way she could think of. She said, her voice husky, “Lift up, then.” He raised himself on to straight stiff arms and the tips of his toes. “Are you ready?” she asked. “Ready!” Rotating her hips clockwise, she pushed up at him, skewering herself on his rigid flesh until the wet lips of her cunt kissed his dangling balls. She paused, then sank down again, rotating counterclockwise, until only the head of his cock was still trapped inside her. “Oh fuck!” he groaned. “Fucking fantastic.” She was surprised at the thrill that traveled her body at the sound of his breathless praise. Surprised and inspired. After she’d raised and lowered herself half a dozen times, undulating each time the obscenely split globes of her ass made contact with crotch, his lust seemed to take him over. He pushed her flat and pounded into her, fast and furious. The sex seemed to teeter on the very brink of craziness. Whether it was the taboo nature of the act itself or the depth of the sensations it created, she didn’t know, but Patty was seized with a desperate need to come. She managed to slide her hand down between her body and the bed and rub her clit so that, a mere moment later, when Pat began to roar and jerk in ecstasy, Patty was ecstatic, too. The next morning, the girls met in the pool’s changing rooms and switched bikinis, so that Jeannie was once more in pink; Patty in blue. They settled in their customary chairs by the ocean to wait for their men. Jeannie said, “You were right about your husband.” She pouted. “He is better in bed than mine, dammit! Not bigger, mind you, but yes, better. He ate me until I screamed for mercy.” “Funny,” said Patty, “because I was about to tell you the same thing. Your Pat is a dynamo, Twinnie. He fucked my ass like there was no tomorrow. It was so exciting! I have to apologize though.” “Why’s that?” Double Take | : 197 “By the time he flipped me over and fucked my cunt — but I called it my pussy, don’t worry — I was so out of my mind I raked my nails down his back. He’s got marks.”

• From The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  For a month, a solid month after her nipples had healed, she’d been able to make herself come by tugging on the sterling rings adorning her tits. Just a little tug to start, working harder, imagining him pulling them with his mouth, biting into her. On weekends, she’d started wearing tight J-shirts: without bras, loving the way her decorated breasts looked beneath the stretchy fabric. Yet soon the ache started up again. That and the loneliness. Her belly button was next. She didn’t have to get naked this time. She lifted her shirt, let him see her nearly concave stomach. His breath there made her clench her thighs together under her knee- length plaid skirt. “Breathe, baby.” She looked down at him, startled. Had he called her baby? But he didn’t repeat the word. Didn’t act as if he’d said anything unusual at all. She wondered if he understood the big picture — they were working down her body in a silver-studded game of musical parts. If he did, he kept quiet, professional in every sense. She watched his head bent over her, and thought of telling him that at night, she envisioned him fucking her asshole, the gloves, the lube. The tears that would streak her face when he thrust in deep. 268 Alison Tyler He’d only touched her with gloves so far, and somehow they existed in her fantasies. Every last one. There weren’t many places left. She could have gone with her nether lips. But why wait? She was going to have her clit done, and she knew exactly how it would feel. She’d done the research online, understood the procedure. How many times had she imagined watching him slip on the rubber gloves? Smelling that sweet sickly scent of antiseptic. The sensation of him touching her through that barrier, coaxing her clit to attention before slipping on the clamp. “Not your clit,” he said, looking at her. “The lips first.” Her eyes widened as he slid a photo album forward. Here were close-up shots of women, bejeweled parts on display, and she blushed immediately, even though she’d been fantasizing about this moment endlessly. Each time she went to the studio, she’d meant to ask for this, but had failed herself again and again. What else would she have to pierce to make him understand? “The clit’s extreme,” he said. But she knew, she wanted to say. She knew what it would be like: the needle. The slow thrust forward. The pain shot with ribbons of pleasure. She was going to come when he did it. “You’re not ready.” She hadn’t been expecting this. The customer was always right, after all. She had the money. She had the nerve. But then she realized — her clit would be the finale. The end game, and she nodded — fine, let him decide. He led her back to the private room once more, and this time, for the first time, he seemed to really see her.

• From The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  “T know,” she said. “Tt’s from Nobu.” “Nobu,” she whispered back. “Where you had your first sushi.” She remembered everything. “The sushi chef gave it to me.” “Does he know why you want to use it?” She was breathing heavy. “Do you know why?” I whispered. “Of course. I knew before you told me. And I trust you enough to let you.” “How did you know?” “When we met, you weren’t just talking. You gave me your card, you took me for sushi, you take me for sushi every night, and you Raw 431 whisper things in my ear. I listen. I listen between the words. You make me feel good and this will make you feel good.” “You won’t even feel it.” “T want to feel it a little.” “Just a little.” “And then we’ll say good bye,” she said. “You do listen between the words,” I said. “The words stack up,” she whispered and I moved inside of her, to get her to that place again. When she was there, when she was on that edge, I opened her up, took a piece of her lip and pulled it taut. The flesh was perfect pink. I pressed the knife’s fine edge against her lip and committed to the cut. One. Two. It was just a sliver, the smallest sliver, a tiny V of raw, live flesh. A drop of blood formed, bubbled and then popped into a thin line of red. I took her flesh and put it into the empty roll. I did not need soy sauce or wasabi. I wanted this pure. I put the roll in my mouth and held its flavor there and I’fucked her for me. She was making her sound and I fucked her harder and I didn’t have to tell her to go over now, she knew the words and between the words, all the words, all the meals, all the nights stacked up. She started to come and I let myself come and right at that moment, me inside of her, her inside of me, I swallowed the roll. Perfect. She kept pressing against me. I lifted myself up so I could look down at her. At her perfect lips. I was the master sushi chef, the story come to life. I had taken a piece of the fish and then I had let the fish go. This fish would keep swimming. I had nothing else to take and so nothing else to give and this fish, my fish, uninjured, just missing a small perfect piece stacked inside me, would swim and swim, her colors vivid, human-vivid, swimming and swimming out of the water where she belonged. Careful What You Wish For D. L. King “T’ve been thinking about sharing you with another woman; does that idea make your cock stand up and take notice? Oh, I see that it has definite possibilities.”

• From The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  Once again, I began to wonder if her goal was to entrance me with these rhythms. Or to make me feel faint by limiting the air I could breathe. But then suddenly I would see her eyes again — as soon as I looked into them, I felt almost infinite comfort and reassurance. This whole sequence of motions and rhythms went on for some time, I can’t say exactly how long, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it lasted half an hour. At length I found myself growing a bit impatient. And to my surprise I realized that she felt the same way. “Something’s missing,” she said abruptly and rose up from me. I wondered if I should try to escape from her now, but I had promised her she could do it her way first. And one of the few rules of love is that lovers’ promises should be kept. Besides, I did not want to escape. 464 Alex Gross She immediately turned around and sat back down on my face from the other direction. Whatever she was looking for she now seemed to find, as she ground herself even more deeply into my features. I now found my nose implanted in her rosebud and my chin dividing her lips. She rocked back and forth repeatedly between rosebud and lips, nose and chin. Now the aroma was even muskier, though still not unpleasant. But what precisely was she trying to do to me? From this position her hands were free to fondle my cock, and she had begun to do so. She wasn’t too gentle about it either, at first pulling and tugging the shaft in various directions and finally dealing it some hard, audible slaps. But at least I could tell that it was, if not yet at its hardest, usefully erect. This too was just a stage for her, it didn’t last too long, at most a few minutes. “That’s it!” she shouted, and she turned herself around again on top of me, coming back to her former position. She drew back from my face briefly and picked up her lube tube again. “Now I’ve got it!” I think I heard her mutter. But I wasn’t sure = it could just as easily have been “Now I’ve got you.” She pressed more gel on to her hand and straightway rubbed it down into my face. Then she pressed out another palmful and stretched her right arm out behind her. I felt her hand clasping my cock and distributing the gel there as well. To achieve this her balance now veered slightly to the right, a posture her strength and agility allowed her to achieve with grace and elegance.

• From The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  When I was eventually able to stroke the leather nether harness, poking a finger or two through its rings, I called my deviant couple to invite them for a final fitting. On the mannequin, the contraption looked devilishly wicked and alluring and I could not seem to stop experimenting with tightening and adjusting its fixtures. The two specially made dildoes — thick, but not quite long enough to go far — stood on my desk like sentinels, ready to greet her when she walked through the door. She saw them straightaway, flinched and then turned to the mannequin. With her eyes, she asked her husband’s permission to touch and examine her new garment, and she stood before it, running her elegant fingers over the smooth silk and the expensive leather; moving closer in to gape at the shining silver nipple clamps. “You’ve done a wonderful job,’ commented Mr Fox. “My wife will get a lot of pleasure from this. And so will I.” Mention of his wife’s pleasure struck me instantly as a subtle green light. I smiled at him and nodded. “The pleasure was all mine. _ I do enjoy these projects.” “Good. Should we move on to the fitting?” Without having to be asked, my model tugged at the ties of her wrap dress until it fell open, exposing her bra. She slipped off the 70 Justine Elyot skyscraper heels she was wearing, but her husband shook his head, and she put them back on again. She had only to shrug off the dress, unclip her bra and step out of her knickers today, and it was scant minutes before she stood in front of us in nothing but hold-up stockings, high heels and that silver collar. Having removed the corset from the mannequin, I prepared to transfer it to Mrs Fox — a complex operation, involving much unlacing and unclipping. First I tied the main body of the corset tightly, but not too tightly, reining her in until the required hourglass was moulded. The straps at the front hung down between her thighs, but I left them there and began work on the thin chains that were to cross her breasts. I clipped each chain to her collar, so that silver Xs adorned the pert little tits, then I went to work on attaching the nipple clamps. One notch, then two; the nipples crimsoned and stood out like tiny beacons. How lickable they looked, and the discomfort indicated by her gritted teeth was not putting me off in the least. Nonetheless, it was time to move downwards, to fix the leather straps, passing them down between her thighs to hook them up at the base of her spine.

• From The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  but following with every trace her body made in the space. The way he imagined her soft white skin twisting through the air, her hands so warm touching herself, running her fingers through her hair, the drops of sweat running down her body. She kept her poker face, not only because she had a straight flush, but because she saw the faintest throb upon his neck underneath the white shirt he wore buttoned up tight. She could see his chest rising higher, the definition of his body, lean and muscular — obviously Mr White’s most prized specimen. Were they testing him? Able to resist anything physical, they were testing the ultimate downfall of any man. Mr White coughed and Caspar shifted instantly: “Pll raise you another Capote novel if you tell me Station Enigma’s entry code.” She sniffed and hummed a little more trying to give the air of nonchalance. “No, I want my iPod back.” Mr White came up behind Caspar and whispered in his ear. It would be easy. There were only songs — they had scanned for anything else. Caspar nodded. They laid their cards down, saw that she had the stronger hand and paused before Caspar left the room. Mr White looked at him severely instead of the usual approving nod, then stamped over and threw the iPod at her. “We’re not done with that name.” “But—” “He may play to the rules, but I don’t...” And that’s why when she reached into her pocket later in the moonlight, Caspar had to stifle a gasp at the hand mark left on her wrist, that had been twisted backwards so hard until she screamed so loud that the guard dogs started howling. She plugged her iPod into the computer to find a song, and he started to walk towards her to stop, but as soon as he heard the music, his feet anchored to the floor. If he got any closer to her, he wasn’t sure if... She walked out from behind the desk to be in front of the poker table. Everything was dark except for the moonlight glinting off the polished brass statues and rococo mirrors. The sound of the crickets disappeared as his consciousness diverted to what he had tried shifting from his mind since she was brought here a week ago, still in her jogging gear, eyelashes closed in slumber and peace before the hell began. Not exactly the vindictive assassin he had been led to believe. He had leaned over her, wanting to stroke her thick red hair, The Escape 201 to make her wake up so he could see if her eyes were green like in her dossier, but Mr White came in and grabbed his arm.

• From The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  “Oh no, please, I’m too sore! Please, wait a while till I recover.” He ruffles my hair. “Okay, the rope then. Then I want you on your back on the bed. Legs wide, knees up to your shoulders.” I’m not sure that I’m still flexible enough to comply with his orders, but I manage. He loops the soft cotton rope around one thigh. “Sit up.” I struggle to raise my back off the bed, and he slips the rope underneath, around my torso, then winds it around my other thigh. I’m now roped open, my cunt lips spread wide. It’s an incredibly vulnerable position. I love it. “Grab your ankles.” When I do, he circles my wrist and ankle on the left and then the right, binding them together on each side. He finishes up on my left side with a neat bow. Reunion 339 His light mood has fled. He’s concentrated, serious. A sparkle of fear dazzles me. What will he do, now that I’m totally helpless? “How’s that? Any pain, or numbness?” I wiggle my fingers and toes, then shake my head. “Good. Now take a look at yourself.” I hadn’t realized that there was a mirror at the foot of the bed. It’s difficult to raise my head enough to regard my reflection, but its worth it. In all the filthy pictures and videos he has sent me, Ive rarely seen something so obscene. My thighs and belly are pale as marble contrasted with the black satin of the corset. My labia, emerging from the damp tangle of my pubic hair, are purple and puffy. They are stretched wide, open, and I can see a wet cavern between them, pulsing and quivering. I can’t see my clit, but I can feel it, hard, insistent, crying out for his attention. He zips open his backpack and pulls out a plastic bag. “I thought I should bring some supplies of my own.” What does he have? I wonder, simultaneously worried and aroused. He replies as if I’'d asked the question aloud. “Just a few clothes pins and elastic bands.” He hovers over me, searching my face. “Are you ready?” I nod, then yell as he fastens aplastic clothes pin to one of my pussy lips. It bites into my flesh. Sharp pain ricochets through my sex. Each echo modulates subtly in the direction of pleasure. I feel liquid trickling from my cleft on to the bedspread. Then he ramps up the pain again by clipping a symmetrical pin opposite the first. “You know I’m a frugal guy. Why bother paying for toys when there are so many ordinary household items that can be pressed into kinky service? Shall I add a third clothes pin on your clit, Sarah?” The pain is already overwhelming, though muddied with pleasure. He’s giving me the chance to choose. I don’t really want more pain, but I want, I need, to please him. There’s so much time to make up for.

• From The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  The guy laughed and with good reason. My demand sounded so pitifully insincere I may as well have said, “Molest me.” He crooked a finger, resting it in the hollow of my throat, and I turned aside, looking past him to the room below. The woman was watching us. She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth and laughed, white teeth flashing. I was relieved to see she wasn’t in trouble but, more than that, I was relieved to see I wasn’t the only woman keen on skirting so close to danger. I turned to face Big Nose with renewed bravery but he trailed his bent finger up my neck. My skin tingled to his touch, tiny shivers of pleasure rippling through my body’s heat. I tried defying him, tried steeling myself against his advances, but I caught the sadistic brightness in his bitter chocolate eyes and I melted a little more. I pressed my head back to the wall. “No me molestes,” | repeated, my voice soft and tremulous. On My Knees in Barcelona 113 He laughed quietly, his breath tickling my face. I wanted him to touch me in horrible ways, to stick his hand between my thighs or paw my breasts. But he didn’t. He just reiterated his price. When I didn’t reply, he ground his crotch against me, rubbing his hard-on above the swell of my pubis. The pressure of him there distilled to my cunt, making my lips part and pout. “Qué barato!” he said. A good price. The basement was hot as hell. Sweat prickled on my back, cotton clinging damply. He knew he was turning me on and every rock of his body was sweet torture, twisting me with what I didn’t want to want. In Spanish, I said, “I just came for ice. I need to go home now. Release me, please.” “You will not sleep,” he replied. “It’s too hot.” “T have ice.” “You don’t want ice,” he said. “You want cock.” I felt the color rise in my face. He placed his hands either side of my head, caging me loosely in his arms, his biceps forming swarthy little hillocks on the edges of my vision. A waft of sweat, earthy and masculine, surged into my serfses and I wanted to bury my nose in his armpits and inhale him. . “'There’s cock here,” he continued. “Take it, guapa. We are not expensive. Take what you want then go home.” His eyes were such a deep brown I could barely distinguish pupil from iris.

• From The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  I grasp the support with one hand, lean out star fashion, tacitly encouraging Leon to do the same. He follows and when I glance left, he’s arched into the wind, his face ecstatic. I shift to one foot, raise the other leg, point my toe, perform a slow series of poses around the pole. Leon follows a second behind. He’s good at this. “Going about,” says Bob over the radio, and Leon nods, prepared to hold his pose through the bank and turn. I’m the one watching him now, and there’s a thrill in watching something so beautiful this close. Watching someone too. He’s graceful; more deliberate in his movements than a woman, but no less glorious. With a thrill, I notice the hard lines of his thighs, the curve of his butt, the weight of his calves. And I notice too that in the wind, his suit is pulled tight across his groin, and he’s erect. Not simply turgid from effort, but supporting a full on pointing-to-the- right erection. Pointing to me. I glance again. He’s not particularly long, but the outline looks thick. He must be really wound up for the cold and the wind not to send him as limp as one of Bob’s lo-mein noodles. Two more passes of the airfield, and then Leon takes the lead. He handstands, as straight and steady as a redwood, his fingers splayed on the wing. He must be confident to try this so soon, with an unknown pilot and plane. Then his legs spread wide, and he holds the pose. Great abs. Another second, and his feet are lightly planted on the wing again. He flashes me a smile, rests his butt against the pole, jackknifes forward until he’s in a cat stretch along the wing. I’m not trying to follow his moves. I’m simply watching him, his body, and trying to ignore the feelings in my cunt. It throbs in time with Buttercup’s engine. The throb that tells me to radio Bob to get the hell down out of the sky, so that I can take Leon by the hand and find a quiet corner of the hangar to see if his dick is as delicious as it looks, flattened by his tight pants. Leon stands. “You try,” he mouths, the words whipped away by the wind. Try what? I’ve been watching his body in the minutest detail, thinking of golden skin and muscles as hard as Buttercup’s seat underneath that god-awful flying gear. ’ve been thinking of what he’ll taste like, all sweat and adrenaline leaking out through his pores, and I haven’t been paying attention to his moves. Wing Walker 147 He smiles. “Put your back against the support,” he instructs, this time through the radio. “Going around again,” comes Bob’s voice over the radio, and it’s Leon who acknowledges him.

• From The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  The bar was in that “city” part of the city where Brian had business, a place where men suchas himself, in sober suits and with busy schedules, went for lunch or for a couple of quick drinks after work before catching their trains back out to the suburbs. Its ceilings were low, there were just two rooms decorated with much dark wood and polished brass, and squeezed as it was between two banks, with floor upon floor of offices bearing down on it, it seemed like an afterthought, like a vestige of some past time when commerce was a less hectic thing. Though it was barely midday Brian had already had two lengthy meetings, was left with an hour to kill before the next one, so thought he would call in for a drink and a sandwich. The place had the beery smell he expected, of hops and polish, maybe faint traces of the previous night’s excesses, and the gleaming pumps offered an interesting selection of ales. Any sampling of them would have to wait until he had conducted the last of his meetings, though, he was far too professional to meet a client with beer on his breath, and so he took his place at the bar, waited while the only other customer was served, then asked for a tonic water. “Tce and lemon?” She was at the far end of the bar, where her other customer was slouched silently on a stool, and as she turned to face Brian the first thing he noted was her lack of make-up, quickly followed by the realization that she had no need of any. In the tawny light of that bar, 250 Severin Rossetti where brass and glass and polished wood cast so many reflections, her pale complexion seemed as perfect as well-worn marble, as if she was a sculpture which had been caressed by legions of admirers. She was as soberly dressed as any of the pub’s clientele might be, wore a dark pin-striped jacket and trousers which were sharply creased, a grey silk polo neck beneath against which hung a slender string of black pearls which glinted as they caught the light, drawing the eye to her full breasts. “Well? Ice and lemon with the tonic?” She had moved the length of the bar, set Brian’s drink before him, he had not been aware of the staccato tap of her heels approaching so nodded quickly, said, “Yes please. And maybe a sandwich?” “We have ham and cheese or cheese and ham,” she told him, dropping a slice of lemon and a cube of ice into his glass. “That will be fine, thanks.” “Which?” she asked, and when he looked into her eyes, expecting to find some trace of humour, he saw none, just her cold unsmiling gaze.

• From The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  “Hold still.” He whispers his command in my ear. I try to obey but she’s fucking me with her fingers and kissing me, making it impossible to keep from moving. Some unspoken signal passes between them. She breaks away from my mouth and uses her free hand to gather my hair off my shoulders. He slides a sleek leather collar around my neck. The buckle jingles again as his practiced fingers make quick work of the fastening. “Bound by collar rules, Veronica.” His words are low and hot in my ear. She hasn’t let up on me. I’m so close to coming that I know my legs won’t hold me up if they release me from their embrace. “Rule number one. You have to ask permission to come. If you come without permission—” “Please, please, oh please,:..’ Already they have me begging, fighting with everything I have not to break the rules before I even know what the rules are. He backs off me a little and reaches around to cover her hand with his. “Naughty girl. Don’t interrupt me when I’m speaking to you.” He makes Ava stop. “You don’t have permission to come, yet.” My orgasm threatens to steal over me when he draws her fingers out of me. My head is too heavy. I rest my forehead on her shoulder and draw long, ragged breaths. “Rule number one is only for coming quietly. Rule number two. You need special permission to come loudly.” I nod to let him know I understand. “Rule number three is to obey me when I say ‘Simon says’. Understand?” S Ven “Good. You will be punished for any rule that is broken.” Cold air rushes across my back when he takes a step back. It helps to clear my head. “Simon says, undress, Ronnie. Everything but your panties and your shoes.” I step away from Ava. She still has her back against the door, arms at her sides with her palms pushing flat against the door behind her. Her breasts rise and fall with her own excited breath. 284 Alice Gray I try to be quick because I don’t know if there is a time limit but my fingers are shaking. I have to slow down. When the buttons are all undone, I slip my arms out of the blouse and let it flutter to the floor. My bra is next. The black lace falls away, exposing my breasts to the cold air. My nipples sting as they contract. Skirt. I tug the small zipper down, hook my fingers into the waistband, and slide it over my hips until it puddles around my feet. Stepping out of it, I kick it aside. I’m left in nothing but my silky black thong, my heels and my new collar. “Good girl.’ His words hold encouragement. He moves closer, holding something out to me. Her collar. “Put it on her.”

• From The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  It was a Thursday in early sunimer, the dusk misty and warm. I'd just finished buying my usual quota of uninspired staples at the Superfresh — cereal, tuna fish, TV dinners — and I was headed to the far, dim corner of the lot where I’'d parked my pickup. I never parked close to my destination; I liked to walk, and I especially liked to walk when my head was loaded with chemicals, as it usually was in those days. My job got me high. I stripped furniture for a living, and all day long I breathed fumes that put the world on a tilt, and made me feel sad when I shouldn’t, and caused me to think that my sinuses — and even the inside of my skull — were coated with a thin, shimmery layer of silver or frost or one on top of the other. When I drew near my truck, a pink light came on above me, and it shot through my fuzzy mind that this — the sudden wash of pinkness — might be another effect of the methylene chloride. But then I looked up and saw a large lilac bush, heavy with thick white flowers, and behind it a wooden apartment house, and above the white-tipped lilac, two stories up, a casement window glowing softly with a warm pink light. In a moment, the girl stepped to the window. She was wearing only a low-scooped bra and thong panties — white or possibly pink. Not a stitch more that I could see. As I stared up at her, she began to move, to stroll back and forth with a kind of slow, 352 Greg Jenkins languid, musical rhythm. Sometimes she’d turn away from me, and that’s when I saw she was wearing a thong. “God up in heaven,” I whispered. It never occurred to me that what I was doing might be wrong — or that what she was doing might be wrong. I was caught up in the moment, and while it lasted, nothing else seemed to matter. At first I didn’t think she was aware of me, but then I began to suspect differently. Her graceful movements — the strolling, the strutting — began now to evolve into something else. Into dancing. Very gradually and subtly, she’d begun to dance, swaying and stretching and undulating in the window. Her movements were slow and controlled, yet they were passionate too, especially when her long auburn hair swept across her full breasts, and her slender hands, as if of their own volition, passed down over those same breasts, to her taut belly, to her lush thighs, and then lovingly back up again. She kept at it for five or ten minutes, maybe more, and then suddenly the light cut out, and the window was dark.

• From The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  One night, while she sat on a black barstool with her back to me and I tried to capture her dragon, she told a story. “I met this up and coming tattoo artist in college, and he thought my skin was perfect. He wanted to tattoo me. I told him I couldn’t afford it. He said he just wanted to work on my skin to add me to his portfolio. That’s how I got the tats for free.” Turned out this tattoo artist became a maestro of his media. Even I knew his name. My eyes settled on the unadorned flesh on her right butt cheek. Perfect skin indeed. “‘Well, that solves one.” “One?” Her shoulder length hair hung free, still as Red Rocks. “One mystery. Now tell me why you work at Ollie’s.” “No mystery there. I love to work with my back. I like to lift things, use my muscles.” “So go to a gym. It’s obvious you could get another job.” “T don’t want another job. When I do, I’ll get one.” ‘The next position I had her hold was back on the chaise. It was a bit provocative, and gave me a perfect view of the vibrant red hair between her legs. Her vagina was particularly beautiful, with an inviting pucker that was wonderfully complex to paint. Her eyes locked on my crotch as I reached in my pants and lined my sudden hard-on up along the zipper, as if that might provide some Canvas Back 385 camouflage. She opened her legs a bit more and rested her hand on the crease of her groin. I'd only gone to bed with models twice before. Some artists claim not to be affected, but it had an undeniable Samson and Delilah effect on me. Perhaps it was the release of tension, succumbing to the inferior sense of touch, or simply a mutant synapse in my brain that sapped the creative flow. Leeny grinned. “Ever paint in the nude?” “What? “You heard me.” “Uh, yeah, on occasion.” “With a model?” “Well, no.” My chest throbbed and I took a deep breath. “Go for it.” Her eyes were locked in mine. They drifted approvingly down my chest and took in the bulge. “Do it.” I moved slowly at first, taking off my socks and shirt. I drew a deep breath then stripped off my jeans and underwear. She smiled as my boner popped free. I tried to cover, but I’ve always painted with both hands. ra I fought my urge to join Leeny‘on the chaise. I continued to paint, my cock fitfully softened and hardened. I managed, somehow, to keep to my easel for the rest of the session.

• From The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  For a moment, as my finger hovered over the purchase now button, I had my doubts. It might be 2009, but what would a new lover say if he came over and saw that this machine was his competition? Men are squeamish enough about vibrators, even the battery-operated kind, and this wasn’t the kind of toy I could shove into any drawer or closet, and since I live in Manhattan, I don’t exactly have much by way of storage space. I pictured the scene: a stud and I hot to trot, then he sees this contraption. I could say it was an exercise bench, I supposed. And then I slipped my fingers into my frilly white panties, and pictured my olive-colored ass turned a dusky rose, making the contrast against these very same panties even more intense. Tears sprang to my eyes as I tried to recall when I’d last gotten spanked. Oh yes, Raphael; he’d gotten tired of my constant lateness and hurled me across his lap, ripped my fishnets and panties, and pounded my bottom with his hand until I banged against the floor with my fists, until I almost couldn’t take it anymore, flirting on the edge of giving up. My cunt danced with excitement as I recalled his anger, and I The Spanking Machine 415 pressed the button, setting the transaction in motion. Of course, a machine wasn’t going to get angry with me, but that part I could supply for myself. Waiting for it was like having a long-distance lover and pining for his arrival. Every day without it felt shallow and empty to the point that even my clients noticed. “Claire, I think you need to get laid,’ one of the most famous actresses in the world said to me and I knew she was right; she just didn’t know how right. The day the machine was set to arrive, I called in sick and waited anxiously. I couldn’t risk my new master being misdelivered or, heaven forbid, the doorman peering too closely at the box and wondering what exactly it contained. Even though I’m sure the neighbors in my upscale high-rise have heard plenty of moaning, yelling, and spanking coming from behind my door, I’ve never out and out admitted that I’m the girl in 12D who likes to get spanked, who likes to role-play, who lets her lovers use and abuse all her orifices after a good, hard smackdown; who loves to wince the next day as she sits down in her skirt suits, wondering if the men who sit across from her at meetings or lunches, the reporters who press her for details, know exactly what’s caused the expression on her face. What I do inside the confines of my well-upholstered apartment is my business.

• From The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  “You’ve met Luke, haven’t you, Karen?” my dad had said when Luke walked into our house that first night, a suit carrier flung casually over one shoulder, an overnight bag in the other hand. I remember being glued to the spot, thinking that I’d surely have remembered him if ’'d met him before. Apparently I had, briefly. Four years earlier. I guess ’d been different then. I’'d been fifteen Tic Woah kis Room 447 and a tomboy. Now I was at college, and my focus was on the adult world, with all its risks and discoveries. Luke had set down the bag he held and put his hand out to me. “You’ve grown up,” he said under his breath and looked at me with an appraising stare that made me feel hot all over. I managed to put my hand in his. He held it tightly, drawing me closer in against him. I looked up into his wickedly suggestive eyes, and it made my pussy clench. My mother disapproved of him. Why had his wife thrown him out? she demanded of my dad, when Luke was out of the house. Dad wouldn’t answer. I made up my own reasons, fantasies that featured me in a starring role. Maybe he left his wife for a hot younger woman, me. The truth was that Luke moving in had made something shift in my world. He was a man, a real man. Sex with him wouldn’t be like the fumbling bad sex I'd had with a guy I met at college. As soon as I saw Luke, I knew that it wouldn’t feel like that, not with him. Sex would be exciting, maybe even kinky. The idea of it fascinated me. Luke wasn’t what you’d call handsome, but he was attractive in a bad boy sort of a way. Tall and leanly muscled, his body suggested athletic vigor. His features were craggy, his hair cut close to his head. He had a maverick quality about him that appealed to the dark side of my imagination. At night I'd lie in my bed and imagine there was no wall between our rooms and that I could reach out and touch his body. ’'d imagine him responding. He’d climb over me and screw me into the bed, teaching me what it was like to be fucked by a real man. During the day when he was out I would go into his room and touch his things. Sometimes I even lay down on his bed. I would close my eyes and breath him in, getting high on the smell of his body and his expensive cologne, the experience building up a frenzy of longing inside me. What if he walked in and found me there? The idea of being caught by him made it even worse. Sometimes I’'d push my hand inside my jeans and press my panties into the seam of my pussy, massaging my clit for relief.

• From The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  “Si, si, claro,” I replied. He clasped my head and drew me sharply on to his cock. The sudden fullness of my mouth made me splutter and he held me there, forcing me to inhale his humidity and that smell I’'d forgotten, the smell of men, a smell reminiscent of depths and of things discarded, of dark oceans, forest floors, dereliction, old tires and knives left out in the sun. “Ast me gusta, nena,” he said approvingly as I withdrew to his tip. He held my head, adding a slight pressure as I began slurping back and forth, making it seem as if he were the one leading. Perhaps he was. That seemed at odds with me being the paying customer but I enjoyed him taking the upper hand, so perhaps the incongruity was superficial. “Qué bonita,” said Flamenco. How pretty. Those watching eyes inflamed a shame that fueled my lust. I swallowed Jordi as deep as I could, my appetite provoking him to greater force. He began fucking my face, driving into my instinctive 116 Kristina Lloyd resistance, making me whimper and cough as my saliva spilled and my eyes watered. I felt sluttish and used, at the mercy of these callous brutes, and it was bliss. My swollen cunt was so fat and rich it barely seemed to have room between my thighs. “Hey, Angel,” said Jordi, addressing his friend. “Why don’t you give her a free fuck? You would like this, nena? Es gratis!” He withdrew from my mouth to let me speak. “Si, si, follame!”’ I croaked, gazing up at Jordi through a veil of tears. He sat heavily in the chair, lowering my head to his height. I dropped on to all fours, engulfing his length again while hoping the free fuck would be as hot and rough as the free brandy. I heard Angel cross the room. Angel. What a perfect, preternatural name for this other-worldly scenario. Taking position behind me, Angel flipped up my skirt and yanked down my underwear. I groaned around Jordi’s cock and his answering groan echoed in my ears. I heard Angel unzip and I shuffled my knees wider, groaning again when he teased me by slotting his cock to the length of my folds. He sawed to and fro, the upward strain of his erection pressing into my wetness and making me ache for penetration.

• From The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  They were supposed to be doing something at work, and they were. She was doing something, anyway, talking to him while sitting beside him on super-structured swivel chairs imported at great expense from Finland (or some foreign place) in her office, which had been presented to Isabel as an incentive to take the job — she wouldn’t be working in a cubicle, in other words — and which had actually become a boon for them, since it was small enough for them to be close together — “conferring on data” — without arousing suspicions when she did this, when she tolti him stories about herself to excite him and he touched himself through his jeans or — if he was feeling bold enough — unbuckled and unzipped his pants and touched himself directly. They had started doing it a few weeks ago during lunch hour when the rest of the office emptied out. She had learned that Martin didn’t eat lunch, hardly ate at all, unlike herself, who felt even at twenty-three that she ate too much, even though others thought she was being silly, others found her attractive, Martin did, at any rate, though it took him forever to say so and, come to think of it, maybe he never actually had: he had just moved toward Isabel like an object on a ship’s table sliding amidst a storm at sea. Maybe his not eating enough explained more than his — not entirely unappealing — ultra- slimness, it had caused his — how should she say it? — lack of strength in a certain area, something she had discovered during their first date, if you could even call it a date; it had been more, again, a kind of gravitational drift in each other’s direction after hours. ‘Though now that she thought of it — as he came forcefully, hearing the most erotic part of her monologue breathed into his ear — he was only weak sexually in certain ways and not in others; in fact, he was incredibly avid when he heard her tales; she might even have called him potent, if potency didn’t imply an interaction with another person, though 150 Laurence Klavan maybe it only meant having the potential of powerfully reproducing, which Martin obviously had, even though he was currently wasting his precious (or was it inexhaustible?) reproductive material in the front flap of his underwear.