The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 5 (32 page)

“But why?”

“I want to know if you look the same.”

“What?”

“You know, whether you still get that ‘I’ve-been-constipated-for-so-long-but-it-will-soon-be-over’ look.”

“Bloody hell.” If I was a real man, I’d leave right now.

“Don’t take offence. I’m just curious.” She makes that sound so reasonable. Like it’s something every woman has to find out eventually.

“Look, I’ll strip if it will help,” she says and starts to unbutton her blouse. I’m still thinking about sulking until she reaches the third button. She has beautiful breasts.

She looks up from under her fringe, her hands frozen on the fourth button, and says. “Wouldn’t you like to stand over me while you do it? Hmmm?”

“What if I knelt?” She slides to the floor in front of me. “And touched myself like this?” she says rubbing one prominent nipple with her thumb.

“Fuck,” I say. I’m so eloquent at these moments.

“No, wank. Come on, you’ll enjoy it.”

So I pull my cock out. It is very hard, thank God. I push it in Karen’s direction but she moves back.

Karen’s right: looking down at her is a rush. I pull back the foreskin with my finger and thumb. She’s watching with the same close attention as when I showed her how to hold a golf club. I slowly start to stroke up and down. I don’t normally do this standing; for some reason it’s more difficult than lying down. My legs are starting to tire. I move faster, my whole fist around my cock now.

Karen is fascinated. “Doesn’t it hurt, grabbing yourself so tightly?”

“Nnnnnggghhhhhhhhh,” is all I manage in reply. I’m thinking about coming now. Wanting it. Rushing for it.

Karen’s face is right in front of my cock. Vixen that she is, she opens her mouth and licks around her lips.

“Fuck, fuck fuck, fuck.” I say, in rhythm to my hand. My buttocks are clenched and I’m rising on tiptoe with every upward stroke.

Then there is nothing but me and the need to come right . . . now!

My eyes are closed. My calves are screaming. My hand is a blur. And I’m coming.

I open my eyes just in time to see the slap coming but not in time to turn away.

“You bastard,” Karen cries out.

“What the . . .”

“You complete shit.”

For a moment I wonder if I’ve woken up in an episode of “My Life as an Idiot.”

Karen is actually crying now. And hitting me. It hurts.

Feeling stupid and vulnerable with my sticky cock hanging out, I grab both her wrists and hold her to me until she stops struggling.

I manage to get her to sit on the sofa.

“What have I done? Did I get some in your eye?” I think I’m doing well: sounding concerned and sensitive and everything.

Karen shrugs out from under my arm and pokes me in the ribs, hard. Even as I wince with the pain I can’t help but notice that the last button of her blouse has given way in the struggle and her breasts are now free. God, I want them.

“You enjoyed that,” she says, making it obvious that this is a bad thing.

“But you told me to enjoy it.”

“I didn’t tell you to enjoy it that much.”

“What?”

“Rita was right about you.”

“What’s Rita got to do with this?” Rita is my ex-just-before-Karen-girlfriend. She never forgave me for falling asleep on top of her after sex one night.

“She said you preferred wanking to fucking – and she was right. To think I defended you.”

I can see it now. Rita, my female lago, pouring poison into Karen’s ear. Or am I getting Othello and Hamlet mixed? Anyway, I imagine Rita saying nasty things and Karen being defensive and loyal.

“So you decided on an experiment?” I said.

Karen nods her head, little nods that end with her leaning against me. This is a good sign.

“And I enjoy masturbating more than I enjoy fucking you?”

Another nod.

I take Karen’s shoulders and make her look at me. “There’s a flaw in your methodology,” I say, pulling her blouse open further and pushing her shoulders back.

“You see,” I say, dropping my head and letting the flat of my tongue graze her fat little nipple, “what I like best,” my tongue works on the other nipple, “is feeling you come.”

I suck half her breast in my mouth and hear her say, “Truly?”

“Let’s go back to where we were and I’ll demonstrate.” I take her by both wrists and pull her to her feet. She doesn’t move to cover her breasts but she does glance down at my now-shrunken cock.

“Poor thing,” she says, as if she was talking about an overtired puppy, “I think you may have killed it.”

She starts to bend, to curtsy, saying, “Maybe I could save it if I gave it the kiss of life?”

You’d think that was the perfect offer, wouldn’t you? She’s literally going to go down on me. So why do I feel like this is another test?

“Leave it.” I say. Shit, I didn’t mean to bark at her like that.

Karen looks up from her curtsy, arms outstretched, breasts jutting, one eyebrow raised, mischief in her eyes.

“Yes, O Masterful One,” she says, bowing and making a real curtsy.

My first instinct is that she’s making fun of me again, but something in her posture makes me wonder if she’s also sending a message. Nothing Karen says ever has only one meaning. Sometimes I don’t find out what a conversation was about until weeks after we’ve finished it.

It’s lucky I’ve just come. For once I’m able to concentrate, even with Karen half-naked in front of me. Maybe she had a reason for telling me that when she masturbates she imagines being taken with her hands bound or being licked to ecstasy? Because she’s a faster thinker and a smoother talker than me, Karen has always been the one in charge, but maybe it’s time for me to take control, to show her that I also have a pretty skilled tongue?

I have an image of Karen twisting helplessly as my tongue plays tunes on her clit. My cock salutes the idea with enthusiasm.

“Gosh,” Karen says, “whatever that glint in your eye is, it was shock therapy for our dying patient here.”

She hasn’t stood up from her curtsy.

“I was thinking . . .” I bring her to her feet, letting her fall forward onto my chest so that I feel the warmth of her breasts through my shirt. Before she can say anything to confuse me, I let go of one wrist and twirl her around by the other in a dance move I didn’t think I was capable of. She comes to rest with her back against my chest. “. . . about making you come.” I fold her arm down and across her chest and press both of our hands into the round softness of her breasts. Karen presses her backside up against my erection. I’m certain I know what she wants.

“And then come again.” I slide my free hand up her thigh and across her mound.

“And again.” She spreads her legs so I can slip a finger between her labia. I feel her hand close under mine, kneading her breast. I like this “being in charge” thing. I’m pumped up with excitement as well as lust. Life seems full of possibilities – and all of them end with Karen coming on my tongue.

I let the tip of my finger push her labia apart. But I don’t enter her, so she brings her free hand down to guide me.

“No,” I say, softly but clearly.

Her hand moves back to her thigh.

I bite her neck before saying: “Relax. Just do what I ask and don’t say a word until you come at least twice. Nod your head if you agree.”

Karen stiffens. She may be small, but she’s strong. I doubt that I could hold her if she didn’t want me to. I feel her heart hammering and half expect her to start hitting me and calling me names again. Then she nods. It’s a small nod and after it her head is hanging forward, her hair half covering her face. Waiting.

My mouth goes dry. This isn’t a game any more. It’s something different, something important. God, I hope I don’t fuck this up.

I let go and she just stands there, holding her breast with one hand, head tipped forward, other hand on her thigh, like some action figure that’s been posed and forgotten.

Time slows down. Normally sex with Karen is an urgent thing. I get so aroused that I want to do everything at once. But this time it’s different. I’m just as aroused, maybe more aroused than I’ve ever been in my life, but it’s all focused on Karen, on what she wants and how I can give it to her. It’s scary . . . but it’s as sexy as hell.

I feel so calm. I only become aware that I’ve decided to use my belt to tie her when I hear the noise it makes as I pull it out of my jeans. Karen hears it too: her head raises but she doesn’t turn around.

I stand behind her pressed into her back, and reach my arms around her. My hands seem to know what to do. I slip the belt around her right wrist and pull it tight through the buckle; then I tie the other end of the belt in a knot around her left wrist. She shivers and presses back into me.

“Lift your arms. Put your hands behind your head.” I sound calm and reasonable.

“Good girl,” I say when her hands are in place.

I run my hands over her flanks, letting my spread fingers brush her breasts. She stretches like a cat, arching her back into my chest. Her eyes are closed and she’s smiling.

“You are beautiful,” I say.

I unzip her skirt and push it down to pool at her feet. She’s wearing plain cotton panties that ought not to be sexy but which I find exciting today. My thumbs slip into the panties and I push them down. Normally she’d laugh or tell me to hurry but this time she lets me drive. I even have to lift her feet one at a time to clear her panties and skirt away.

The image of her standing above me, hands tied behind her neck, breasts spilling out her shirt, sex exposed and vulnerable, almost overwhelms me. It is so . . . Damn, I don’t know what it is except that I want more of it.

I move in front of her. I lift her head and kiss her lips, gently and with complete attention. Only our lips touch. I concentrate on the full soft wetness of her mouth. I feel strong and needed.

Karen’s eyes are open when the kiss ends. I expect to see some question in her eyes. Instead I see only trust and desire. In some strange way, that summons my next move. It’s as if she is providing the music and I’m improvising the lyrics.

“Get down on your knees and lower your breasts onto the coffee table.”

She raises an eyebrow. Will she refuse? Then I realise how difficult it is to get down on her knees with her hands tied.

“I’ll help,” I say and she smiles.

It’s obvious that her hands can’t stay behind her head like that. I push her arms up over her head and then use the belt to pull her hands down the front of her body and between her legs. Now her weight is on her chest, her breasts pushed together by her arms, and her fingers can reach her sex. I push down on her back and pull hard on the belt between her legs to make sure she knows how I want her.

She’s expecting me to fuck her now. I always like taking her from behind. But I decide to surprise her.

“Slide a finger of each hand into your cunt. I’m sure it’s wet enough. Hold your labia and spread them for me. No, don’t lift off the table. Stretch. You can reach. Good girl. Make circles with your thumbs but keep your cunt open; I want to see it drizzle.”

Karen groans, maybe with pleasure, maybe from frustration at not being fucked, but she obeys.

I watch before putting my hands on her tight arse cheeks and pulling them apart.

“Keep stroking.”

Karen pauses. We haven’t had anal sex. She doesn’t like the idea and she says she’s too small. Looking at her tiny arsehole, I think she may be right.

“Trust me.”

I wait until she pulls at her labia again, then I lower my mouth onto her arsehole. She bounces against the coffee table, but there’s nowhere for her to go. I make a small wet circle around the brown ridge of her arse. I can taste her sweat and smell a faint whiff of shit. It ought to be gross, but it feels wonderful.

When I push my tongue in she cries: “Fuck, yes.” I decide not to reprove her for speaking; I’m too busy pushing into her. My tongue finds its way out of the dell of her arse over the small mound of smooth flesh between arse and cunt and then back up, making a spiral back into her arsehole. On the third of these circuits, I let my nose follow my tongue down towards her cunt.

Karen has both fingers buried in her cunt. I let my tongue flick across them, then pull them out and suck them. When my mouth finally finds her cunt, Karen pushed back so hard I think she’s going to break my nose. I force her legs a little wider apart and turn my head sideways so that I can extend my tongue up and down her slit like a finger. She’s wet and smells of sex and sweat. I can’t resist pushing my nose into her cunt. I’m crazy for her smell.

I lift my mouth and say, “Rub yourself, Karen. Show me how you frig yourself.”

To my surprise, Karen doesn’t push inside herself, she just presses on her mound. I press my thumb against her arsehole in the same rhythm, not entering her but just keeping the pressure on. After only a few seconds, she comes with a low growl I’ve never heard her make before.

Before she can relax, I slip two fingers into her and bend towards the roof of her cunt, searching for that little ridged spot the makes her explode.

“Oh, God, you can’t . . .” Karen just can’t do the silence thing.

Her sentence ends when I find the spot. I’m kneeling to one side, my erection against her thigh, one arm across her hips, holding her down, the other hand pressing her up again and again and again. She twists and bounces but I won’t let go.

At first I think she’s peed herself, but the gush over my fingers is slick and the smell is sex, not urine. When the gush is over, Karen goes limp under me.

My calm deserts me. What If I’ve hurt her, ruptured something? What if she’s bleeding?

“Are you okay?”

Silence.

I pull her up off the coffee table. Though her eyes are closed I can see tears. Shit, I must have really hurt her. How could I be so stupid?

I turn her to face me. I have both hands on her face when her eyes open.

“That was wonderful,” she says.

“But you’re crying?”

She just nods, as if crying is the most sensible thing in the world. Then she lifts her arms and laces her belt-bound hands behind my head.

“Look me in the eyes while you fuck me,” she says. So much for me being in charge.