The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica. Volume 3

Six Before Nine by Michael Crawley

He – 6.

Her thighs were slender and pale. Even with the left laying on the right there was a triangular gap – well, not triangular, exactly. There were no straight lines. The two longer sides were subtly curved. The shorter one was bow-shaped, a cleft arc. All the lines were clean, no fuzz. She’d shaven, perhaps for me. I hoped it was special, for me.

I inhaled. There was a trace of talc, a hint of some perfume, Shalimar perhaps. Beneath the artificial odours I could just detect her own fragrance. Her musk was a blend of lemon and cognac, heady and slightly sharp.

My mouth was watering and she was likely growing impatient. I wanted her to be impatient. My lips pursed and puffed out a breath of air. It would have stirred fine hairs, if she’d left any, but she hadn’t. There was just porcelain skin, fine pored, infinitely tempting.

My right arm stretched down the bed, to her knees. My hand flattened on them to hold them in place and together. It wasn’t time to part them, yet. My left hand spread across the firm cushions of her buttocks and pulled. I wanted her taut but not parted. My pressure tightened the creases of her groin. There were tiny blue veins there, usually invisible, tucked into the creases between thighs and torso, but now exposed.

My head lifted. I extended my tongue. Its tip traced a vein. I think that perhaps she shivered. My tongue flattened and lapped, tasting her skin and the residue of her sweat. Tracing with tongue-tip is for her pleasure. Lapping is for mine. Tantalize, then taste.

I lowered my head and repeated the lick-lap in the other crease. She made a little muffled sound. The cheeks of her bottom twitched. I could feel that had I released her knees her upper thigh would have lifted in invitation.

Not yet, my love.

I increased my hands’ pressure, bending her at her hips. My mouth opened wide, a short inch from her pursed sex. I didn’t blow on it, but I breathed more heavily, warming her with my humid breath. Inhaling brought a taste of her to my mouth.

I pulled back to inspect her. The lips of her sex were still closed but they had thickened a little. My tongue crept out and touched, exactly between them but not penetrating. I held it there, letting her become aware of the immobile touch. Her hips tensed and tried to thrust but I was holding her too firmly to allow that.

My tongue retreated, made spit, and deposited a single droplet on the edge of one lip. When I puffed on it the drop trembled. Would she feel that? Likely not.

I released her knees. Her thighs sprang apart, the upper one at a sharp angle to her hips. When I took a sighting up along her leg it was stretched and perfectly straight, toes pointed at the ceiling. There was an angle of 90° between her thighs, giving me ample room to play in.

No half measures, my love.

My palms flattened on the insides of her thighs. She’s limber. I didn’t relent until her upper knee touched her ribcage.

The stretching raised the tendons inside her thighs. That left deep hollows. I grazed in them, lips and tongue and teeth. I nipped her skin. I pursed and sucked, and sucked, and sucked. It was not my intention to inflict pain, not then. I was leaving my mark. The bruise would be my brand. I was here. This is mine.

I hunched down the bed to get my face deeper between the straining division. It was our first time. She’d be expecting my mouth on her sex, and she would have that, but first she had a lesson to learn. I was taking ownership. She was to be mine, to use as I wished, when I wished. No modesty would be allowed.

My fingers parted the cheeks of her bottom. She didn’t object. With a ferocious lunge, I buried my face into her, tongue stretched and stiff, stabbing deep and wet, piercing the clench of her sphincter and worming beyond, into the dark dragging musk-laden tightness.

She sighed. Her buttocks clenched and relaxed.

For that, for being sweetly depraved, I love you, my love.

My tongue withdrew. Two fingers replaced it. Her bottom accepted the deeper penetration with the same grace as it had welcomed my tongue. I made a silent promise, “All you can take, my love, and just a little more.”

The lips of her sex were thicker and darker. Their inner edges glistened. I tried the glistening with my tongue and found it delicious. My tongue wagged, not penetrating, just slithering between them no deeper than their parting allowed. As my tongue worked, her lips sighed apart, opening to me without my demanding entrance. For each fraction they parted, I penetrated. There was a pulse in one lip. I kissed it. It throbbed between my lips, a delicate, vulnerable flutter that connected me to her heart.

My lips sucked. The flat of my tongue smoothed. Like an orchid, my love opened up to me. An incredibly internal pinkness blossomed between chocolate-tinged petals. There were smooth, slick places and places that were corrugated and yet others that offered polyps of quivering flesh.

How tender, my love.

I sipped. I drew nectar into my mouth. My face burrowed, spreading the lips of her sex across my cheeks. It was six hours since I’d shaved. There would be tiny bristles. She’d feel that.

My lips made an “O” that fitted the dark opening beyond the external beauty of her florid, floral offering. This was the entrance to her secret places, the soft portal to her labyrinth. I blew and sucked, exchanging air with her womb, taking my breath from her inner recesses. My tongue scoured, running around a place that was inside her.

The root of my tongue began to ache. I withdrew, deliberately slurping. Making the noise intentionally obscene. My head lifted so that I could inspect her once more. The lips of her sex were engorged with blood, darkened until they were almost black. I nibbled one, then the other, toying. I let them feel my teeth. She was so malleable that I couldn’t resist subjecting her most vulnerable parts to gentle abuse. My fingers, in her rectum, hooked and pressed. The floor of her sex was forced up and out. What had been inside her was everted. A wet pink plain invited my tongue to flatten, press and slither. I grazed on her skin, pressing the membranous division that separated her rectum from her soft vestibule between my tongue and my fingers.

You whispered, “Please?”

I could tell by her tone that she wasn’t asking me to stop what I was doing. She yearned for more.

My thumb replaced my tongue. I had the muscular wall in a firm grip. I could manipulate her insides, tugging on her uterus and womb. I owned her.

I shifted back on the bed. Her clitoral ridge was thick with need. I hadn’t touched her there but the glossy dome of her clit’s head peeked from under its hood.

She asked, “My clit?”

“You want me to?”

A pause. “Yes.” A longer pause. “Yes,” again.

But my mouth had the smoothness of her mound to savour. It, and my teeth and my tongue, grazed. Each time I found the ridge, I lifted over it. My attention wandered, though not purposelessly. A nip at the delicate inside of a thigh, a tongue-slither in her groin, a chaste kiss on one pendulous wet and quivering lip, then back to the gentle swelling.

“My clit,” she reminded me.

“Soon,” I promised.

The tip of my tongue found the subtle place where the root of her shaft disappeared. It pressed. I tongue-stroked down the left side of her ridge, then down the right. She was leaking. My thumb was in a puddle of her essence. I removed it from the humid folds and sucked her from it before replacing it.

Her hood had half retracted, exposing a hemisphere of the tiny treasure it adorned. My tongue’s tip prodded it back so that I could wonder at the miracle of its re-emergence. When it reappeared, it had overcome its shyness enough that it extended further, to the narrower part behind the head. How could I resist? My lips closed on its neck and held it firmly. My tongue touched it – just that – just a touch. Her sex spasmed on my thumb as if to draw it in.

I licked – one long slow hard lap. Touch, then lap, but harder and faster. Then no “touch”, just a steady lapping until her rectum clenched on my fingers and she lifted towards me – when I stopped.

You sighed.

My tongue moved from side to side, punishing the core of your lust for being so desirable. I felt the urge to bite, but resisted. Instead, I let my teeth graze that vulnerable morsel for a few seconds before licking again.

There were noises coming from her throat. Her body was a drawn bow.

My tongue retreated to the back of my mouth. My lips pursed. I sucked, and sucked, and sucked.

Her clitoris was drawn out, elongated, a trembling shaft that my tongue whipped. It felt as if every muscle in her body was rigid and quaking. She inhaled and froze…

At the precise moment of her orgasm, I deserted her clitoris and fastened my mouth to her sex, a lascivious lamprey that drew her climax and the spring that it flowed on and consumed them.

When the incoherent noises stopped, I told her, “Your turn, my love.”

Her – 9.

His cock lay heavy along the line of his groin. It wasn’t erect, yet, nor was it flaccid. He was uncircumsized. His foreskin covered his glans and extended beyond it for perhaps an inch. Its mouth was a soft beak, like the tip of an elephant’s trunk. There was a thick vein running up the underside of his cock and a network of tiny blue lines barely visible through the skin.

He’d used my anus. There was a nice obscenity in that. There is an unspoken protocol – a man services a woman, using his mouth on her sex, one night. The next night, or the one after the next, he explores her reaction to anal probing with some diffidence, testing, hoping.

He hadn’t followed the rules. He was an arrogant bastard, this one. I liked that, but… I wet my finger in my mouth. My arm circled his hip. My finger found the crease between his buttocks and explored. When I found the tight pucker I rimmed it twice, then plunged. My finger sank to its second joint. Although my finger had been wet he was dry and tight, hot and rubbery. When I moved my finger his skin moved with it.

His cock reacted. It grew longer and thicker and lifted a fraction. The skin over its head retracted far enough to expose a glistening pink. The side of my finger lifted it aside. My mouth made a line of tiny puckered kisses down the crease from his hip to where I had to nuzzle his sac aside and squirm my tongue in. There were a few drops of fresh man-sweat in there, brought out by what he’d been doing to me. I sucked each bitter-salt drop up.

My tongue and the tip of one fingernail found the place below and behind his scrotum. I scratched and licked, licked and scratched. Against my finger, his cock lifted and engorged. At the spot where his cock emerged from the wrinkled skin of his sac, I bit him. His cock twitched. My teeth nibbled up the ridge that ran up his cock’s underside. By the time I reached the top his foreskin had rolled back, exposing his glans completely. I could see the little knot of twisted skin where his foreskin was attached to his shaft, just beneath his dome. His cock was straining hard, as if it wanted to grow even bigger but couldn’t. I opened my mouth wide and closed it around his shaft. My head shook from side to side, sliding his foreskin, forcing it back further, masturbating his stem but not his head.

He groaned.

Did I hurt you, my love? Did I force you into an erection more powerful than any woman has before?

My finger worked in his rectum. I closed my lips on the knot and sucked it and licked it. His hips tried to move but I held him back with just a tiny crook of the finger that was hooked into his rectum. Wait.

It’d been a while since I’d had a foreskin to play with. My hand closed around his shaft, just beneath its head, and eased his skin up to cover the dome once more. As if the flaccid skin were a mouth, I planted a chaste kiss on its wrinkled lips. Still holding his foreskin forward, I inserted my tongue. It found a wet dimple and stabbed. He jerked. I rimmed his glans, running my tongue between it and his foreskin, round and round and round.

Men can whimper, you know.

My fist forced his foreskin back and released it. It stayed back. I spat into my hand and laid my palm on the head of his cock. I polished that bulbous knob, to and fro, then up and down. It drooled. The mixture of spit and precome was slicker than spit alone. My fist ran down his shaft, loosely, then up, tightening as it neared the top, smoothed over, then down again.

Was it torture, my love? Did the need to come tighten your balls?

My lips, soft and gentle, covered his glans. I let my mouth go slack and shook my head. As his cock wobbled between my lips, I made little noises. He grunted.

I took him deeper, still loose, still wet. My fist steered him into the pouch of my cheek. I rubbed him there, the tip of his cock on hot soft flesh. My tongue lifted his shaft and pushed it up, pressing his glans against the roof of my mouth.

I nodded. He went rigid.

I told you, “I want you to come in my mouth. I want it all.” You didn’t speak.

And I did want him to. I wanted to devour him, to drink him down. I wanted that which was him in me, to be digested by me, the cells of his body to feed cells of mine.

I pumped his shaft. My finger, in his rectum, found the walnut lump and massaged it. My mouth became ferocious. I slurped and mumbled and sucked and lapped and gobbled. I willed him to give me his essence.

You sobbed, I think, but my own noises drowned yours.

His legs stiffened. His balls retracted. It was time. I lifted my head and parted my lips. My tongue extended. My fist stroked and stroked.

Yes! Hot wet come flopped onto the flat of my tongue. I swallowed that first benison and swooped, engulfing his cock. My cheeks hollowed. I sucked hard and long. Manflesh was twitching and jerking in my mouth but I was adamant. I wanted it all. My mouth dragged every last drop from him, three spurts, less each time, and then just a trickle and finally there was nothing left to draw out.

I licked my lips and told him, “Your turn, my love.”