Maxim Jakubowski: The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica. Volume 3

Marlo felt the man growing rock hard before she pushed herself up and rejoined him on the chair. She straddled him gleefully. Again he tried to remove his shirt; again she wouldn’t let him. He went to unhook her bra, confusing Marlo when he took it all the way off. But once he began sucking on her nipples she didn’t mind. His tongue flicked them gently until they were hard as cherry pits. Marlo slid her panties over to one side and the man slid on a condom.

Soon she was lowering herself on top of him, slowly opening for him. She was tight and he opened her. He slid one hand up her back, supporting her as they began to rock, their momentum increasing as they moved back and forth, up and down. Marlo looked down to watch his large cock slide in and out of her wet pussy, framed by the silky red panties, so dark they looked like blood. The sight alone got her going. She pressed down harder on his shoulders and used her stair-stepper leg muscles to push her up and down, harder, faster. The man began to pant; both hands were helping her move up and down, like a piston in an engine.

He thumped her harder, deep inside. Marlo screamed. A blood-curdling current of wavy red passion. Her cunt clenched, her thighs shivered, her back arched. Marlo came, her eyes squished shut so all she could see was white dots on a black background. The man came as well, pushing so deep Marlo thought he would surely spurt up into her stomach.

She collapsed on top of him. He brushed back her sweaty hair.

She slowly climbed off him. He groaned audibly as he pulled out of her. She got dressed silently, as did he. They both stood in that awkward after sex moment, looking at their feet, playing with shirt sleeves and rings.

“Well,” Marlo said slowly, “I want to buy the chair.”

“The chair?” the man repeated blankly.

“The one for sale. On the lawn. The red one.”

“Oh,” the man brightened, “that’s not for sale.”

“What?” Marlo exclaimed, her eyes widening, her brain spinning.

“Oh, my girlfriend let me keep it. I love these chairs. It’s the only place I can… you know…”

“What?” Marlo asked, suddenly feeling used and offended.

“The only place I can do it,” the man said quietly. “I thought that’s what you wanted too,” he added as an afterthought.

“The chairs?” Marlo asked incredulously. “These ugly old things? I only liked the red one. I don’t care about chairs,” she spat, exasperated.

The man looked as if he might cry. Both walked out through the house, shame-faced and confused.

When they stepped out onto the lawn they immediately noticed one huge difference: the red throne chair was gone, four indentions in the grass were the only sign it had ever even existed.

The man and Marlo walked as if asleep to the spot where the chair had been. The man choked back a sob and Marlo closed her eyes and shook her head, already missing the hot nights she never had.

The man’s neighbour walked up, wagging two crisp hundred-dollar bills. “I got two hundred for that crummy old thing,” he bragged. “Can you believe it? Some woman almost orgasmed when she saw it. She told me that she always wanted a red chair, paid two big ones on the spot and hauled it off. What a freak…” The neighbour handed the dumbstruck chair man his bills and walked away, shaking his head and mumbling about weirdos and good luck.

The man and Marlo stood silently, mourning the loss of what could have been. The man handed Marlo one of the hundreds. As she took it she swore she saw a tear in his eye.

It is not that socially acceptable, yet, to talk about male domination of submissive females. It still looks a bit nasty to the uninitiated – because many educated people are still in thrall to the 1970s idea that men are all secretly Jack the Ripper. They seem to think, because of some bad-tempered college girls, that the hand-spanking of a willing female leads inexorably to torture and murder. And I’ve just breathed further life into what should be a rotting corpse by now. Never mind. I was a lettuce-eating liberal myself once, before reality reasserted itself. Even I need to have a disclaimer before I can tell you about gently warming Truly Scrumptious’s tight little bottom cheeks with the palm of my right hand. While slowly insinuating the fingers of my left hand into her moistening cleft until… but that would rob the moment of why it was so interesting in the first place. If we don’t know who Truly Scrumptious is, none of the other stuff would matter particularly. And it’s not the same if you’re not just a little bit in love, now is it?

Her real name is Holly but I wanted to give her a new name; Truly – as in Truly Scrumptious. My son had recently forced me to watch Chitty Chitty Bang Bang far more often than was good for me. The name of the attractive nanny seemed to fit her very well – as she was and is gorgeous – although I didn’t learn the “true” significance of “Truly” until later. Her habit of telling the truth, always, no exceptions, was refreshing but sometimes made you long for the traditional system of saying whatever caused the least grief.

I lost my heart to Truly on our second meeting.

I was already smitten the first time I saw her, when she walked on stage during a slave auction at an S/M club. She had short black hair cut any old how. Her smile was wide and salacious, full-lipped with a cute little gap in her front teeth. Some of the others were arranged in the traditionally haphazard British manner. I found this honest and endearing, like her charity shop clothes. I might have a shaven head and some serious tattoos but I’m an old hippy at heart – like my wife, Katrin. And like Truly. Although they are younger and considerably easier on the eye.

Even in a night club Truly wore almost no make-up and her only accessory was a school prefect’s badge on her jacket lapel. The lettering read “Perfect” instead of “Prefect”. I couldn’t argue with that.

Her blue eyes seemed to be saucers full of nourishing liquid. Or were they shot glasses full of some ferociously strong hooch? I had been off the hard stuff for some time, being married. But you never really get over the craving, you just decide life’s smoother without it. Or you keep telling yourself that till you believe it…

After my wife and I had bought her company for the price of a few pints of foul British beer we had the option of some lewd chastisement – to which she had already assented as part of the auction. But instead we talked about what it felt like to offer yourself to strangers. Even in the safe confines of a fetish club it was still an edgy thing to do.

Then we talked of her recent romantic entanglements. She preferred sex with other women’s men. It seemed to me that this bizarre preference was in order to shield her from commitment, although she dressed it up in a lot of nonsense about breaking the shackles of conventional morality and no one being anyone else’s property. Fine. But not everyone believes in what used to be called free love. In fact, very few people do. Not only is there no such thing as a free lunch there may not be free love either. Although you probably have to be over a certain age to find that out.

Later that evening I dipped my head between her legs and licked and nuzzled her for what seemed an eternity – time having melted due to some pure MDMA powder, a substance that had yet to drive me mad with overuse. That would come later… or was it the loss of Truly Scrumptious that pushed me over the edge? This was long before the blizzards of e-mail, the endless phone calls, the hopes, the wishes, the dreams.

The day after the auction Truly Scrumptious turned up at our flat. She looked different in daylight, but still warm and cuddly and smart and cute and lovely in a manner that was hers alone. There can sometimes be nasty surprises when you meet people who have bewitched you in the flattering light of night clubs. Especially with the aid of Ecstasy. Luckily she was still beautiful. Her features were still fine enough to stand being foregrounded by the scruffy student haircut. I was already very fond of her by the time she had sat her bejeaned bottom down opposite me.