Лорен Хендерсон: The Mammoth Book of the Best of Best New Erotica

I groaned like some drugged animal giving birth in a public zoo, but I was loving every minute of it. The Crisco made it easy on my hole. I opened right up and accepted every round fat rubbery inch of the fake dick that Giselle pounded so mercilessly into me.

And my eyes were glued to the photo in front of me, I was transfixed by that gaping hole. I was suddenly in love with the mystery girl in the Polaroid. I knew now what had stretched her open, I knew now how she must have felt – spread wide and securely battened down. A gag probably shoved into her mouth, too, so she could grunt over and over in it as her rectum was filled to capacity, her ears filled with the sounds of Giselle’s own grunting, from all the strenuous effort…

When Giselle had worn herself out she disappeared briefly into the half-bath then re-emerged with a soaking towel. The towel was hot and felt great against my tired hole. And when Giselle had wiped away most of the grease, there was the familiar bright flash again behind me and the sound of the grinding inner workings of the camera. By the time she’d untied my gag, the new photo was ready.

“What do you think?” she asked softly, as she laid the Polaroid of my seriously opened hole on the floor in front of me. “You think you can handle that berry now?”

I’d forgotten about the strawberry. “I suppose so,” I panted, although I wasn’t entirely sure.

“I’ll wedge it in with a little honey and then I’ll eat it out of you. But I want to get a picture of it first. My husband loves these pictures,” Giselle explained, “the ones with the food in the girls’ asses. He carries them in his overnight case and takes them all over the world.”

I wasn’t sure I was particularly pleased with that idea, but I couldn’t keep Giselle from wedging that sticky strawberry into my gaping hole. It took it easily this time, the berry perched right there in my puckered anus. Then the camera flashed away. I wondered what her husband looked like; would I ever recognize him on the street? Would it haunt me that somewhere in the world a man was flying from place to place with a picture in his overnight bag of me with a strawberry in my ass? And what about the mystery girl in the other Polaroid? What kind of food had ended up in her stretched hole?

But my worries melted away when Giselle’s mouth found the berry. True to her word, she nibbled it out. She plucked the stem clean and then sucked the berry and gnawed it and licked it until it was gone.

“Come on,” she said, as she undid all the hardware, the buckles and the restraints, “let’s go to bed. Let’s make a little love.”

She refilled my wine glass but I didn’t want it any more. I just wanted to be flat on my back underneath her on her big bed. The sun was just coming up in all those enormous penthouse windows, so when she straddled my face for some sixty-nine I could see her bung hole clearly. It was stretched like mine, but hers was permanent. She lowered it right onto my tongue while she shoved my thighs apart wide and buried her face between my legs. Her hot tongue licked at my tender aching worn-out hole, while her fingertips deftly massaged my clit. I tried to rub her clitoris, too, but she didn’t seem to want that. She seemed content to just ride my tongue with her open hole.

I licked her asshole with all the earnest attention I could give her, but after a while, I must confess I couldn’t help it; the way her mouth was making me feel between my legs absorbed more and more of my concentration. I couldn’t give Giselle the amount of attention I should have. While her fingertips slipped all over my swollen clit, and while her tongue licked eagerly at my played-out asshole, I couldn’t help myself, I came. I dug my fingers into Giselle’s gorgeous ass and clamped my thighs tight around her head and came.

And since it was 1980 I didn’t sleep with her. I stumbled into my clothes and left. I kissed her goodbye and all, but then I went out alone for breakfast.

A couple nights later she called me. “My husband’s in Thailand,” she said. “What do you say we go at it again? Are you up for it? You’re not still sore, are you?”

My bung hole quivered. “No, I’m not sore,” I said into the receiver.

“I have some new things that we could try putting up there. Are you game?”

And I realized I was. It was the beginning of my inevitable descent into hell with a completely insane person. “I’m game,” I confessed.

“Good,” she exclaimed quietly. “Be a doll and pick up some film. Now how do you feel about root vegetables?”

Friday night I went home with some married people. I wish I could tell you they were those vibrantly tan, Hollywood fast-lane types but they weren’t. They were just married people. Intellectuals. Two married couples clearly pushing something like their mid-fifties. I have to say they weren’t even very attractive. They certainly weren’t fans of cosmetic surgery or fad diets.

You’re probably wondering why I went home with them, then. I’ll tell you. They asked me to.

I was hanging out in one of those book bars. You know the one, the really well-lit place. Small and stuffy with the built-in bookcases lining the walls, a teeny-weeny fire in the equally microscopic hearth. I was there being stood-up. Nothing serious, though, no tragedie l’amour . It was just my intensely hyper garment-industry-worker girlfriend who had stood me up. She’d obviously got snagged into working more overtime.

So I was alone in a surprisingly comfy chair, nursing a glass of red wine tentatively since I wasn’t sure if I was just going to turn around and go home. That’s when they walked in. Two unattractive married couples in their mid-fifties. They made an instant commotion, dragging a tiny table around and scooting a bunch of comfy chairs together so they could all sit down in high spirits, practically on top of me, and proceeded to order an incredibly expensive bottle of wine. I loved watching that; the waiter trying to find a spot to stand in that was anywhere near them while they ordered, and then having to set up an elaborate pedestal wine bucket somewhere in reach of them, too. Thank God they smoked. They really needed some more stuff on that tiny table.

They couldn’t help but notice me right away since they were practically sitting in my lap, and they kept trying to engage me in their small talk. I resisted their stabs at friendliness until they offered to share their wine, which necessitated their ordering another bottle. The waiter was really glad to see a fifth party, me, push into the already unmanoeuvrable fray. So physically we got close in a hurry. We couldn’t help it. Still, one of the women, Fran, seemed to impinge on more of my personal space than I thought was really necessary. Right away I figured she was hitting on me. It took a couple glasses of that expensive wine before I realized they were all hitting on me.

I went home with them mostly because I couldn’t believe they’d had the balls to ask me. They were so matter of fact about it, too, like they always came on to younger, much more attractive single women and got affirmative results. I was swept off my feet by their sheer blind optimism. Well, no. Actually I was swept off my feet by them, literally. I think they wanted to rush me into the nearest cab before I could change my mind.

We wound up in the home of the couple who lived closest to the bar. It was a really nice apartment. That couple, Cy and Ruthie, had never had any kids. Every extra penny had been available for them to spend on themselves. They favoured upholstery, too. Everything was upholstered, in every conceivable pattern. I could tell an interior decorator had been paid handsomely to have his or her way with Cy and Ruthie. But I ceased noticing the decor when Fran started to undress me.