The Mammoth Book of Erotica presents The Best of Marilyn Jaye Lewis

Marilyn Jaye Lewis
is an award-winning author whose works range from fiction, to memoir, to essays and to creative nonfiction. She has been a groundbreaking pioneer in multimedia, working in various arts & literature projects on the Internet continually since 1997. She is an internationally renowned erotica writer as well. Her award-winning erotic fiction has been translated into five languages over the last twenty years. She is a devoted mentor to younger writers and is sought after for her private creative writing workshops. Visit her on the web at
marilynjayelewis.com
.

After Hours

The Best of Marilyn Jaye Lewis: Five Erotic Stories

Constable & Robinson Ltd

55–56 Russell Square

London WC1B 4HP

www.constablerobinson.com

First published in the UK by Robinson,

an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd, 2012

Copyright © Marilyn Jaye Lewis, 2012

The right of Marilyn Jaye Lewis to be identified as the author of this
work has been asserted by her in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in
Publication Data is available from the British Library

EISBN: 978-1-47210-049-8

Acknowledgements

Chapters in a Past Life

The Epicures

Baby, It’s Cold Outside

After Hours

Three for the Money

“Chapters in a Past Life” © Marilyn Jaye Lewis, 1993. First published in
The Mammoth Book of Erotica
, edited by Maxim Jakubowski, (Robinson, 1994). Reprinted in
The Mammoth Book of the Best of Best New Erotica
, edited by Maxim Jakubowski (Robinson, 2012), by permission of the author.

“The Epicures” © Marilyn Jaye Lewis, 2010. First published in
The Mammoth Book of Threesomes and Moresomes
, edited by Linda Alvarez (Robinson, 2010). Reprinted by permission of the author.

“Baby, It’s Cold Outside” © Marilyn Jaye Lewis, 2008. First published in
Bedding Down: A Collection of Winter Erotica
, edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel . Reprinted in
The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 9
, edited by Maxim Jakubowski (Robinson, 2010), by permission of the author.

“After Hours” © Marilyn Jaye Lewis, 2006. First published in
Naughty Spanking Stories from A-Z, Vol, 2
, edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel. Reprinted in
The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 7
, edited by Maxim Jakubowski (Robinson, 2008), by permission of the author.

“Three for the Money” © Marilyn Jaye Lewis, 2004. First published in
Three-Way
, edited by Alison Tyler. Reprinted in
The Mammoth Book of International Erotica
, edited by Maxim Jakubowski (Robinson, 2006), by permission of the author.

I knew a woman who had a virgin asshole until she was in her early thirties. I never understood that kind of woman, she’s not at all like me. I’d read about
Last Tango in Paris
in my mother’s
Cosmo
when I was only thirteen, for God’s sake – and the accompanying article, too, all about how to do it through the back door and, more importantly, why: because a
Cosmo
girl is an American girl and American girls love pressure.

I don’t know if it was related to that distant article or not, but I dropped out of college in a real hurry, after only about six weeks. Something about wanting to feel alive instead, and that’s how I ended up in New York; at the tail end of the disco era, pre-AIDS, a time when any self-respecting underpaid New York office worker drank heavily on his or her lunch hour and didn’t have to be choosy about who he or she wanted to fuck when the work day was over because eventually you fucked everybody. And there were so many exciting cross-purposes going on! For instance, drugs. Did you fuck somebody sheerly because s/he had the good drugs? Or did you use the good drugs as bait to get somebody to fuck you? Of course, if you hung in there long enough, the inevitable descent into hell finally occurred. That’s right, you remember it: you fell hopelessly in love with a completely
insane
person, a dangerously paranoid schizophrenic perhaps, but you were too fucked-up on the good drugs to even notice it. Maybe for a couple of years.

When it happened to me, it was with a woman. Back then, she was already twenty years older than me, so
God knows
, if she’s still alive now she’s using a cane to get around. But she was in fine form in 1980, thin as a rail of course. All bone, no muscle, but that was de rigueur in 1980. We didn’t lift free weights. Every ounce of energy was reserved for lifting cocktail glasses off the wet bar (a long distance endurance process) and for raising those teeny-weeny silver spoons, over and over – all right, I won’t go on. I guess your memory’s a little better than I’d thought . . .

So I’ll call her Giselle. Not that her name was anything close to that, but it
was
similarly unpronounceable and she possessed that quick, nervous energy sometimes, reminiscent of the leaping gazelle. And on our first date – or more succinctly – when we hit on each other in that 10th Avenue after-hours meat rack and went home together to fuck like dogs, she was in fine, lithe, energetic form. I know we were kissing in the back seat of that cab, but I don’t remember how we got from the cab to her sparsely furnished living room in that huge penthouse apartment in midtown, with the vaulted ceilings and all that glass. That part’s a complete blank, but what happened from that point on is clear and that’s the sex part and all that matters anyway.

Giselle’s husband was apparently loaded. And not one of those cash-poor types, either. He seemed to travel on business constantly – or so he said. At any rate, he was away an awful lot and Giselle had nothing but time and money to take his place. You’d think those two things – time and money – would have been enough, but when you’re remarkably thin and nearly forty, and beautiful and sharp and hopelessly underutilized like my dear Giselle, it takes a lot more than time and money to get your rocks completely
off
. Hence, Giselle’s insatiable drive towards the strange.

I’d agreed willingly from the outset, I just want that part to be clear. I had my clothes off in a hurry and was letting Giselle douche my ass, simply because she wanted it so much. I was happy to let her do it. I was on my knees and elbows in her half-bath, right off the living room, there. Completely stripped with my ass in the air, a bulb syringe squeezing warm water into my rectum while I had a lit cigarette in one hand and a nice glass of Merlot in the other.

When the water had done its trick and we were through making a mess in the half-bath, Giselle led me back to the living room and she showed me the huge leather ottoman, how it lifted open for storing magazines and stuff. But she kept her bag of toys in there. It was a pretty big bag. That leather ottoman was sort of like a Playskool Busy Box for the seriously grown up. When she’d emptied out the ottoman, Giselle encouraged me to bend over it, so she could fasten my wrists securely to the wooden casters underneath. She even had specially made rubber wedges she’d shove under the casters to keep them from rolling all over the carpeting. Right away it occurred to me, when I saw the specially made rubber wedges, that it wasn’t likely I was the first girl Giselle had stripped and douched and put over the leather ottoman. But I was OK with that. I drank like a fish and took a lot of drugs back then, so I was usually feeling pretty self-confident.

Once Giselle had secured my wrists, she inserted a steel thigh-spreader between my legs and buckled each padded end snugly around each of my thighs. And even though the thigh-spreader worked fine – it kept me from being able to close my legs – Giselle attached a padded ankle-spreader between my ankles, too. I guess she just wanted to be sure. And then she came around the front of the ottoman, gave me a hit off her cigarette and a couple of slugs of that great Merlot.

My head was buzzing. I loved the feeling of being exposed – in fact, forcibly so. Giselle leaned over and kissed my mouth for a while. It made me feel hot. It made my naked backside squirm. When her tongue pushed around inside my mouth, it made my ass arch up and it made me want to have her tongue poking into my hole.

“Look at this,” she said.

She pulled a colour Polaroid from a leather envelope and placed it on the floor under my face and went away.

I studied the Polaroid curiously. It was a picture of a girl much like myself. Well, it was impossible to tell if her face looked anything like mine, but she was totally naked and kneeling over the same ottoman, her legs forcibly spread in the same way, and she was tied down in the same provocatively helpless position. It could have
easily
been a Polaroid of me.

That’s when I saw the familiar bright flash coming from behind me and heard the quick grinding sound of the inner workings of the camera. In a mere sixty seconds, the colour Polaroid in front of me was replaced by a colour Polaroid of myself. It was uncanny, you know; the similarities and all.

We didn’t talk any more after that. Giselle gave me a couple quick swigs from my glass of Merlot and gave me one last drag off the cigarette, then she slipped the gag into my mouth. Tied it pretty tightly, I must say. One of those knots where you just know your hair’s in a big gnarly mess in back.

Giselle got undressed somewhere, out of my field of vision. I couldn’t see her. But when she straddled my back her slippery pussy was sliding all over my skin. It was obvious she was naked. She leaned down and spoke in my ear confidentially, as she replaced the picture in front of me with yet another one. Of the other girl again.

“She’s awfully pretty, honey, don’t you think? Her asshole’s so tight, would you look at that? Incredible, isn’t it?”

I grunted,
uh-huh
, and nodded my gnarly head in agreement.

“Not even a hint of a haemorrhoid, see? This girl’s in great shape.”

I have to admit, I was a little transfixed;
I’d
never owned a Polaroid camera that took such vivid close-ups! Giselle had obviously invested a fortune in her camera lens.

“She was very well behaved, if I remember correctly,” Giselle went on. “She took it like a champ, that one did. You think you’re going to be a good girl, too? Huh? You’ve been awfully accommodating so far.” Giselle began to kiss my neck slowly and she rubbed her wet pussy all over my lower back. “What do you think,” she repeated. “You think you’re going to be a good girl?”

Uh-huh
, I grunted through my gag. I was going to be a very good girl. I was going to be stellar.

“You like things in your ass? You’ve had things in your ass before, right?”

I nodded my head, yes, but I confess I felt a little tripped up; what did she mean by
things?

Then a different Polaroid was put in front of my face, a slightly more startling one. “Same girl,” Giselle whispered, “but do you notice anything different about her hole?”