The Mercy of Strange Men: Erotic Stories (9 page)

She began to
thrust, slowly, insistently, testing my responses. I began to move
against her, thrusting in my own rhythm, which melded with hers
until we were in synchronicity, both of us covered in a light sheen
of sweat. The dildo felt thick and warm and firm inside me,
contrasting with the softness of Sabina’s body. I wrapped my legs
around her and we fucked like that for a while, kissing each other
at random moments, my hands exploring the smooth expanse of her
back, occasionally moving around to stroke her breasts again.

Eventually she
pulled back slightly and looked me in the eye.

‘Do you want to
touch yourself?’

I could feel
every nerve ending in my cunt and clit screaming for release. I
managed a raspy ‘yes,’ and she smiled. Then she moved back a bit,
enough so that I could reach my hand down between us and find my
clit. It responded immediately to the slight pressure of my finger.
I began to rub myself, and she resumed thrusting. I felt my orgasm
begin to build, a gradual pressure in my nerves that made my cunt
clamp down on the dildo and hold it tight as Sabina continued to
thrust.

I felt the low
moan of orgasm begin deep down in the back of my throat as the
delirious pressure in my clit continued to grow. I rubbed faster,
wanting the release, needing it, hungering for it as though
starved.

I came with a
moan that transformed into a howl, squeezing my legs and bringing
Sabina in closer to me, the orgasm exploding into a thousand
fragments in my clit and in my cunt, moving down my legs and up my
body, forcing me to shake uncontrollably.

Afterwards I
lay still. Sabina lay on top of me, our skin warm against each
other, breasts and bellies meeting agreeably, our combined softness
intermingling. We were still and silent for several minutes. I
wrapped my arms around her, not wanting to let her go, thinking I
didn’t want this to end here. I didn’t want this to be the only
lesson she taught me. She burrowed against me, voluptuously warm,
her cock still inside me. I didn’t want her to pull out; I wanted
us, in this moment, to be joined for as long as we could.

Eventually,
though, she moved, leaning up and pulling out, unbuckling herself
out of the harness and discarding it before lying down next to me
again and taking me in her arms.

‘Did you like
that?’

‘What sort of a
question is that?’

She laughed.
‘Yeah, I know. Sometimes I like to state the obvious. Or ask the
obvious, as the case may be.’

‘It was great.
You’re wonderful.’

She grinned at
me, and mimed tipping a hat. ‘Why, thank you, ma’am. You’re not so
bad yourself.’

We held each
other for a while without speaking, our skin cooling, our sweat
drying. She held me close.

I’m not the
type of girl to start demanding exclusivity and all that jazz after
one sexual encounter, but I couldn’t help thinking about how long
I’d been lusting after Sabina, how much I’d wanted her, and how
much it felt like an amazing stroke of luck that we’d finally
gotten together. I wasn’t entirely sure what I wanted at that
moment, except that I knew I didn’t want to get off that couch and
out of Sabina’s arms any time soon.

‘Sabina?’

‘Yes, Bree
dear?’

‘What else do
you have to show me?’

She laughed,
and kissed me.

His Feet

He finds his own feet a bit of a
turn-on.

He doesn’t do
anything special to them, not really. He’s seen other guys who
paint their nails, rid themselves of all foot and toe hair. He
thinks that looks nice enough, just as it does when women do it,
but looking at the foot fetish websites has made him realise that
he’s not interested in anyone else’s feet.

He’s not
interested in other men. He’s not interested in other male body
parts.

He’s never said
anything outright to any of his lovers. One seemed to know, and
would lean backwards and stroke his feet as she rode him. Never for
very long though, as the position was sadly impractical from a
comfort standpoint.

But he’s
started doing yoga, and he’s pretty pleased with how well he’s
progressing with the Baddha Konasana. It’s only a matter of
time.

My Thigh

The threads of
my fishnets form slightly different patterns this far up on my
thigh. Not like the girls on the packaging where it stays pretty
much the same all the way up. Past my knee, the holes in my
fishnets transform into hundreds of tiny mouths, gasping, caught
wide in a moment of some undefined emotion. Heading to the apex
where they become fraught diamonds, the place where flesh threatens
to spill through.

My right leg
has won this particular battle, its victory two small, strategic
snappings of thread. Flesh pouts out from it, a sensitive little
mound all softness and nerve endings. I stroke it and tremble; it
is like finding a new clit, so close to my old one that surely I’m
being greedy.

All night I
keep my hand under the table, skirt rucked up, and play with my new
treasure. No one at the table of National Party MPs even
notices.

Her
Genitals

She has always
found the things not quite said to be the most interesting. Her
friends laugh at jokes about budgie-smugglers, sneer at guys with
their singlets and shorts too tight in summer. The idea of the male
body as a thing of beauty, to be displayed and looked over, fills
them with revulsion.

She feels a
little bit differently. In high school photography class, her
appreciation of Max Dupain’s work was a little more furtive than
everyone else’s. Discovering beefcake photography was like finding
the holy grail. She ogles the tight swimming trunks, the skimpy
little swimmers, the designer underwear. She traces over the
pronounced bulges with her thumbnail, biting her lip, imagining the
heat and silkiness that would be present in real life. Her
favourite combination is white and wet, where the skin shows
through, just a little, and contours are all the more sharp.

She likes the
same look on herself. She puts on high-waisted white cotton
knickers, the kind her friends would call granny knickers, and
watches in the mirror as she pulls them up, up until they bunch and
fold and cleave, her lips pouting through them. She rests her
vibrator against the cotton gusset and focuses on the warming of
fabric and flesh.

His Torso

If she could
burrow her way into his chest and live there, she would. She
doesn’t tell him this because she senses it would be a little weird
to reveal her desire to be a parasite in his body.

His chest and
stomach are muscle, enveloped in fat, coated thickly with hair. She
understands what a bear is now; that special combination of
softness and the power to tear flesh apart at the slightest whim. A
fierce wild being popularly rewritten as a cuddly companion.

She wishes she
could name every hair on his chest. She runs her fingers through
the forest on his stomach, up to his nipples, and squeezes.

His Hands

His hands are
just as big as they need to be.

People have
given him shit for them all his life. His father was a proper burly
blokey bloke who took up all the space and air in every room he
walked into, with big rough dirty-nailed hands with which he made
his living. He never quite got over his bemusement and offence at
having such a girly-man for a son, smallness and soft skin and
clean nails all adding up to the crime of limp-wristedness.

Many of his
friends have been no better. His hands scream pampered desk job in
a world that sees rugged outdoorsyness as a virtue. The world is
divided about his hands; divided into camps of those who know what
he can do with them and those who do not.

Now his hand is
inside her, fist bunched tight. She has enveloped him, and he
barely dares breathe, let alone move, as she writhes against the
bed, there on the end of his arm. Her arousal flows around his
hand, into the folds of his clenched fist, drips down to his wrist
outside. She clenches and convulses around him, making sounds that
in all his life he’s never heard before, and finally he
understands.

His hands are
just as big as they need to be.

My Head

My brain has
basically been a custom porno theatre since I was twelve years old.
A few things happened that year: I got The Talk, and I saw my first
nudie magazine. Compared to some of what I hear kids watch on the
internet these days, seeing a smiling, pretty young woman spreading
her pussy lips with her fingers seems damned tame by
comparison.

Moralists like
to rant about gateways. Gateway drugs, gateways and stepping stones
into various realms of vice. That magazine, pilfered from a
friend’s older brother, was my gateway into sexual fantasy, and
into porn.

They say your
brain is your biggest sexual organ and my biggest sexual organ can
encompass everyone and everything. In my mind I’ve fucked pretty
much all of the guys working in porn today, a decent proportion of
the women, as well as boyfriends of girlfriends, girlfriends of
boyfriends, attractive people I see on the street and around
everywhere, and particularly of note the guy who works night shift
at my local 7/11; we’ve had some damned kinky cerebral good
times.

I don’t see a
raging pervert when I look in the mirror; I see a pretty ordinary
twentysomething woman, albeit one with a knowing little smirk that
never quite seems to get wiped away. Only the most trusted of
lovers get to see inside to what’s really there, and only if I
think they can handle it.

In the outside
world I am meekpolitenicegood; all these characteristics ascribed
to girls like me, I play them like a virtuoso. In my head I taste
and fuck the world.

###

Aimee Nichols is an
award-winning erotic fiction author and burlesque performer who
lives in Melbourne, Australia. Her writing has appeared in
anthologies and magazines including The Mammoth Book of Best New
Erotica Volume 6, Little Raven One, Ultimate Lesbian Erotica 2006,
Under Her Thumb: Erotic Stories of Female Domination, Best Lesbian
Erotica 2001, Eroticus, Blue Food, Voiceworks, and many more.

Connect with Aimee online:

Twitter:
http://twitter.com/wordsandsequins

Facebook:
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Email:
[email protected]

Website:
http://www.aimee-nichols.com

Cover designed
by Humble Nations

@humblenations

http://www.goonwrite.com

‘The Mercy of
Strange Men’ was previously published in
Sixteen of the Best
and
The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 6

‘Down in the
Park’ was previously published in
Ultimate Lesbian Erotica
2006

‘The Gospel of
Sophie’ was previously published in
Little Raven Two

‘Lipstick’ was
previously published in
Best Lesbian Erotica 2001

‘All Eyes on
Him’ was previously published in
Under Her Thumb: Erotic Stories
of Female Domination

‘The Window’
was previously published in
Got a Minute?: Sixty Second
Erotica

An earlier
version of ‘Strap-On Sex is So Passé’ was published in
First-Timers: True Stories of Lesbian Awakening

‘Exquisite
Corpse’ was previously published in
Little Raven One