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

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

The Mammoth Book of the Best of Best New Erotica: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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The very best of over ten years of the Best New Erotica series and other erotica titles compiled by Maxim Jakubowski. Stories have been taken from all volumes of The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica with the exception of recent volumes 8 and 9. They have also been drawn from the Mammoth Book of International Erotica, Mammoth Book of Historical Erotica, Mammoth Book of Erotica, Mammoth Book of New Erotica and Mammoth Book of Short Erotic Novels. The anthology is likely to include stories by Thomas S. Roche; Poppy Z. Brite; Alison Tyler; Lucy Taylor; Matt Thorne; M. Christian; Michael Hemmingson; Mike Kimera; Tara Alton; Marilyn Jaye-Lewis; Savannah Lee; Heather Corinna; Carol Queen; Donna George Storey; Lauren Henderson; Vicki Hendricks; O’Neil De Noux; Cara Bruce; Mark Timlin; Graham Joyce; Conrad Williams; Claude Lalumière; Kristina Lloyd; and Mitzi Szereto.

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“God,” I groaned. Then I cried out uncontrollably while his huge tool went to work on my pitiful little hole.

“I hate to have to do this,” he grunted, “you know that. But maybe this’ll teach you not to go home with people you don’t know.”

“God,” I was panting as he pounded into my stretching hole. “Jesus, God.”

“Are you going to be a good girl now?” he continued, lifting my hips off the back seat and deflty sliding his hand down to my swollen clit.

“Yes,” I whimpered, “yes,” while he rubbed my clit hard.

“Yes what?”

“I’m going to be a good girl,” I cried, as his cock seemed to swell in me even more, filling me to capacity with every thrust.

“And what happens if you’re naughty again? What is Daddy going to do?”

“Spank me,” I sputtered. “Daddy’s going to spank me!”

“And what else?”

“Fuck my ass!”

“That’s right,” he concluded. “Daddy is going to fuck your ass.”

These last words he enunciated with amazing diction because he was coming at the sound of his own words. He slammed deep into my hole then and mashed me down on the seat. “Jesus!” he exclaimed with one last powerful thrust. “Jesus!”

And I was saying it, too: “Jesus!” Partly because I was coming underneath him, shuddering and squirming against the leather seat, but mostly because I was testifying. I wanted my joy to be heard.

L’Enfer

Alice Joanou

We had a magnificent passion for dark alleys, expensive champagne, and each other. She was very rich and unhappily married. Happily, I was neither.

She was generous or silly enough to pay my way during the length of our affair, and I had the wit to make no objection. Her husband was an old man – yes, it was one of those marriages. She was an ornament, a gesture of diffidence towards his ageing, and a symbol of his wealth: having her on his arm meant virility, especially in the public eye. The old man didn’t seem to mind that she was out nearly every night cavorting in the underworlds of Paris. She adored the cabarets and the most sordid cafés in Montmartre. He was glad to have her as his companion once or twice a month for the opera or some business function. Certainly, she was one of the most exquisite women in Paris.

She wore her sleek hair bobbed and was always dressed in the height of fashion. She never wore corsets or other restraining undergarments, not even knickers. When I asked her why she chose not to wear what other women considered such finery, she replied blithely that she liked the freedom it afforded her body. Her body. Her fine body. It was true that it would have been an insult to nature had she strapped it in or belted it down. Her body mirrored her soul. Her body was wild, animalistic. Her breasts were small and sat high on her slim torso. Her nipples’ areolae were a deep-brown colour, and her torso, her hips, were virtually without curve. She had a dangerous body, and whenever I came near her I could smell that fire and needed to possess her. I could hardly keep my hands from tearing away the sheer silken dresses she wore. I could hardly stop myself from falling on my knees and taking her in my mouth, beginning with her feet. I needed to genuflect before her and taste her sex.

She almost always wore low-cut dresses with subtle slits in the sides of the skirt that rose perilously high on her long, slender legs. She decorated terrifying eyes with make-up, swearing, as she applied the make-up, that it served a protective device. She never went out without kohl smudged heavily around her eyes, the eyes of a corpse, blue-black and empty. Only now and again would they light when I took her in a violent way. Her eyes haunt me still. As if to compensate for such iciness, her full lips she painted with a flaming red tint she called “Madder Crimson”. Her mouth was her vitality, and her smile was eccentric and not really beautiful. But it was human. Her painted red lips matched her luxuriant cinnabar hair. I loved watching her stand in front of the mirror, methodically making up her face. I watched her go through this preening ritual, and never did I grow tired of it.

One evening, I lay on my bed. The sheets were a sea of sweat and semen. We had been making love all day, and she said it was time to go out. To go out and see what kind of hell we could release upon a city like Paris. She wanted to go up to Sacré-Coeur and look out upon the city that loved her best. Paris was a city that looked good on her. It matched her lips and eyes. I was unable to move from the bed, half-mesmerized as she put the make-up around her eyes. Her back was to me, and she was naked, yet I could see her face and breasts in the mirror.

“Come here,” I said to her quietly, almost unwilling to disturb her in her ministrations. But the sight of her body naked and pale and her face dressed for the evening gave me the strangest sensation. She looked nearly like a boy from behind, yet her face was clearly a woman’s.

“You must come here if there is something you want,” she said, her mouth smiling, her eyes dead.

“Please come here.”

She ignored me and continued to put the finishing touches of light-pink rouge on her cheeks. And then she did something she didn’t ordinarily do as she prepared herself for Paris: she took the powder puff and began to make slow circles around the tips of her breasts. Then she dipped the white puff in another powder that was a deeper red and began to rouge her nipples. My cock was already stiff. I had begun to imagine she was a young boy from the back and a gorgeous woman from the front. The idea of taking her from behind overwhelmed me. I had never entered her there. She had not permitted it. Her uncanny eyes were following my hand as it went involuntarily to my sex. She continued to slowly decorate her nipples, never turning.

Edith Piaf sang out defiantly and permanently damaged, her song wafting out in a thin line from the radio in the next room. It was summer and slightly humid. The flowers next to the bed violently perfumed the air. She was looking at me still. At last, I stood and went to her, taking the powder puff from her hand. Rather than put it on the vanity, as she suspected I would do, rather than take her immediately, I surprised her by dipping the make-up puff into the pot of rouge and reaching down to rouge her sex. She smiled and allowed herself a low sound of pleasure, realizing I had only just started.

“You look like a boy from behind. Are you my boy?”

“Yes,” she answered, “I am your boy.”

“I want to fuck you, boy. I am going to take you.”

She made no reply, but raised her eyebrow at me in the mirror. She had a quizzical look on her face that was mixed with pleasure as I continued to lightly tease her pussy with the powder, making her blush between her legs. I set down the puff.

“Of course, from the front, you are the most exquisite woman I have ever seen.” As I said this, I was dipping my fingers into a jar of pomade. My desire for him was unimaginable. My need for her was desperate.

“I am going to fuck you in the ass, my boy, my love. You’d like that, you little queer, wouldn’t you?” He nodded… while she managed a wan, almost frightened, smile.

I rubbed my finger, lubricated with the pomade slowly up and down the crack of his ass. She sang with “La Vie en Rose”. She opened her mouth. Edith Piaf opened her mouth and a flower scent came out. My love opened the lips of her crimson sex. I was to christen her a man. I wasted no time, though the heat in the flat made me feel as though I were moving exceedingly slowly, moving through an erotic heat that was material, that weighed down my caresses, and I noticed how heavy my hands were on his slim hips. I touched her breast, and the tip of my sex entered him slightly. She winced and moved backward in shock; he moved over me with delighted pain.

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