The Mammoth Book of Quick & Dirty Erotica

Introduction

For the many years that I have been assembling the red hot volumes in The Mammoth Book of Erotica series, I have been selecting stories from all provenances and covering a wild variety of themes in the process.

Apart from quality and inherent sexiness and the fact the hundreds of stories I featured in the anthologies all connected with me in a very personal way and answered to my often generous and all-encompassing definition of what is actually erotic, what the tales I’ve been privileged to edit have had in common is their length.

In my crusade to make erotic writing not only respectable but appreciated, my greatest sin has been so far to prefer longer stories in which characters and plot were properly developed and I’ve been reluctantly turning down on a regular basis many stories where the length was too brief to accommodate those factors. Not that any of them weren’t erotic. They were sizzling, close to the bone and wonderfully arousing. Like fires of lust caught in amber, all too often.

So I’m particularly pleased to now be able to devote a whole volume to shorter length erotic tales, “quickies” if you will. Ably demonstrating that, to use an analogy from another trade altogether, it’s not the quantity, but the quality that counts.

Many of the regular contributors to The Mammoth Book of Erotica series make welcome returns together with an invigorating injection of new names, all demonstrating that you can, over the space of a few short pages, evoke lust, desire, love, romance and, most of all, emotions in myriad ways, all touching, surprising, oft shocking but always exciting.

Two-thirds of the 120 stories in this bumper collection were specially commissioned to showcase the breadth of talent in today’s erotic writing field, and the remaining third were selected from the many stories already available in a variety of sources, so a particular big vote of thanks goes to Clean Sheets online magazine, the Erotica Readers and Writers Association Treasure Chest where many of the existing stories originated, as well as to some of the authors who were generous enough to recommend tales or writers of which I was previously unaware.

So, if you will forgive me a cliché that is just too much of a temptation not to use, enjoy these tales and agree with me that it’s not how long a story it is but how good it is that counts at the end of the day.

I hope you enjoy all these sizzling tales of lust at first sight.

Erotically yours.

Maxim Jakubowski

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Acknowledgements

All stories © 2013 by the respective authors, with the exception of:

“Gravity” © Helen E. H. Madden, 2008

“Pattern Passion” © Remittance Girl, 2009

“Scars” © R. V. Riment, 2012

“Flowering” © Valentine Bonnaire, 2011

All appeared first on the Erotica Readers and Writers Association website.

“They Plan Bunch” © Bill Noble, 2002

“Barbados Bound” © Lily Lick, 2003

“Kissing on Concourse C” © Susannah Indigo, 2003

“Mad Ida Loved the Wind” © Lily Lick, 2001

“Strange Fruit” © Shanna Germain, 2003

“At Liberty” © Sacchi Green, 2004

“Joining the Mile High Club” © Rachel Kramer Bussel, 2004

“Engineers and Astronauts” © Jacqueline Applebee, 2008

“The History of her Tongue” © Shaun Levin, 2008

“The year of Fucking Badly” © Susannah Indigo, 2008

All appeared first on the Clean Sheets website.

“The Room After She Left” © Maxim Jakubowski, 2002. First appeared in 13, edited by Mare Atkins.

“Like A Virgin” © Maxim Jakubowski, 2002. First appeared in Down and Dirty, edited by Alison Tyler.

“In The Empire of Lust” © Maxim Jakubowski, 2008. First appeared in Open for Business, edited by Alison Tyler.

“The Shape of Cities” © Maxim Jakubowski, 2003. First appeared in this version in Fools for Lust.

“The Blonde in the Caffe Cavour” © Maxim Jakubowski, 2006. First appeared in Fools for Lust.

“Vegas Slut” © Michael Hemmingson, 1996. First appeared in Fiction International.

“Hot Tomato” © Thomas S. Roche, 2003. First appeared in Hers.

“Creatures of the Night” © Thomas S. Roche, 2000. First appeared in Good Vibes.

“The Stranger” © Thomas S. Roche, 2000. First appeared in Good Vibes.

“Tess Needs a Spanking” © N. T. Morley, 2004. First appeared in Naughting Spanking Stories, edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel.

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Violet Sex

Kristina Lloyd

I’ve always enjoyed violent sex but then John lost our letter “n”, and sex turned violet. It was filled with the colours of love: rose-pink, mauve, lilac and wine. At its most intense, usually on Sunday evenings, our designated “special time”, it was the deep blue-purple of violets.

“John,” I said, as we got kissy in the kitchen. “I’m not so sure about this. Do you think we could put a little ‘n’ back into it?”

He moved to strike me but his hand turned lavender, his fingers stroking bruise-hued streaks across my cheek.

“Harder!” I hissed.

He slammed me against the counter but his strength dimmed in an indigo puff, sparks of firework-purple shimmering to the floor.

I lunged for his crotch and he was stiff inside his jeans. “Fuck me!” I urged. “Fuck me like a filthy, filthy beast.”

“Sweetheart, I don’t think I can,” he replied. “I’m feeling kinda off-colour. I don’t want to hurt you. I’m sorry. It’s not you, it’s me.”

“I know,” I replied grimly.

We hunted high and low for our “n”: behind the sofa, under the bed, in the dog basket. We even searched the garden, paying particular attention to the heliotrope, the buddleia (made a note to cut that back), the romping clematis and baskets of lobelia, both of us alert to signs of unwarranted botanical aggression. It was to no avail. Our “n” was lost.

As time slipped by, our lovemaking became increasingly gentle and purplish until one day we stopped altogether. In the emptiness, I grew randier than a sailor’s wife. I considered taking another lover and John said he wouldn’t mind but I could see from his eyes he didn’t mean it. I didn’t much care for the idea either. At night in bed, I would trail my hand over his back, swoop over his hips and, as I kissed his shoulder, I would reach around to test how he was feeling. Nothing. His cock was palest mauve. I would watch him fresh out of the shower as he towelled his hair, beads of water coursing down his torso and glinting like rain in the black bush of his pubes. I’d forgotten how much I wanted that body until our misplaced “n” had rendered it off-limits.

The worst times were when he was hard, his cock jutting up to his belly, his tip a fierce blood-violet and filmy with moisture.

“Let me,” I would plead. “Let me suck you, let me get on top, let me have it inside me.”

Oh God, I’d never wanted anything so much in my life. My cunt was wet and ready, his cock was massive and eager. But no: “Darling, I’d love to, you know I would, but let’s just have a cuddle, eh?”

One night, I got up to masturbate. It always seemed rude to do it with him there and anyway, my fear of waking him would have put me off my stroke. I went into the kitchen, looking for a suitable vegetable. I hadn’t bought a vibrator, fearing plastic would imply permanence, choosing instead to fuck myself with green and orange perishables. On the kitchen table, a small bowl of plums gleamed in the moonlight, a whitish bloom dusting their skins like a soft, quiet frost. I took one and ate it, and then another. Juice trickled down my chin and strands of flesh got stuck in my teeth. I was reaching for a greedy third when I saw it, nestled among the fruits, our much-loved letter “n”.

“John!”

But John was fast asleep. Hurrying carefully, I carried the “n” in the palm of my hand and clambered onto the bed. I didn’t know how John had lost it so I didn’t know how to return it. Force-feed him? Squash it in his ears? Up his butt? In the end, I wiped it on his cheek, although I suppose you could say I slapped him across the face. He woke with a jolt.

“What the . . .?” He glared at me, a hand pressed to his cheek, dark sleepy curls tumbling around his face. “You insane fucking bitch!”

“Bitch” made me moist.

John flung the covers aside and sprang at me. I lurched back and he grabbed my hair. “You hit me!” he exclaimed. I tried to resist him, hair follicles stinging as he pulled my head to the mattress, pinning me there, angled down on all fours. I caught a glimpse of his cock, rearing up and ready for battle.

“Apologize!” he barked.

“No way!”

He yanked my hair.

“Ouch, no.”

My cunt was plump and slippery. John swivelled behind me, grabbed my hips and, before I even realized we were about to end our purple period, his big, strong cock was rushing inside me.

“Greedy bitch.” He yanked back my arms, making me half wheelbarrow, half woman, and hammered away at me. “Teach you a lesson,” he gasped. “Teach you to wake me up, you slut. Always wants fucking! Wakes me up so I’ll fuck her.”

I groaned into the bedclothes, biting at fabric, shoulder sockets pulling, wrists hurting where he clutched. But the pain was nothing compared to the pleasure of him fucking me, his end rubbing over my sweet spot then bumping deep and good.

“Whore. Filthy little whore.”

He reached for my clit, fretting me there. “Come on!” he said. “If you want it so bad, come. Show me what a slut you are. Come for me, you dirty, greedy bitch.”

Before long I did. He quickly followed suit, weeks of distance ending in an eruption of crazy, colourless cries.

“Ohhhhh.”

“Oh God.”

We flopped onto our backs, panting heavily before edging together for kisses and cuddles. My cunt was throbbing with the impact of his thrusts, and my arms and shoulders ached. We fell asleep, united in bliss. In the morning, my wrists were tender. In the evening, I checked them. Bruises were forming where his fingers had gripped, moody purple patches, bluish-plum like a storm gathering at dusk, the colour of violent beauty.

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Sniper’s Song

Robert Buckley

I could’ve drunk a lake. It was the damned wind. It wasn’t just cold, it was so damned dry it cracked my skin and drew the moisture right out of my throat. My nostrils burned.

Still, I managed to sleep, if only fitfully. ‘I’m too old to be doing this,’ I chuckled to myself, but it was true. Climbing goddamned mountains and sleeping in thorny scrub on a cliff face just a few yards from eternity – that was for younger guys. Like my spotter.

Bogs . . . short for Bogdan, a Polish kid. He went straight from Gdansk into Uncle Sam’s Army. One of the best spotters I ever worked with. He seemed to be happy to be teamed with this old fossil too.

I heard Bogs tapping away at the laptop. A false dawn was beginning to reveal the contour of the peak across the chasm. Neither of us wanted to have been sent up here on a wild goose chase.

I began to doze again, and dream of Linda. Always the same dream, always about the last night we were together. I never thought I’d be reactivated. Not in this century. Maybe they’d called me back to be an instructor. That’s what I had told Linda.

“They’ll keep me stateside to teach young kids coming up. They aren’t going to trust a pair of eyes that are nearly fifty years old.”

“Those eyes never age,” she had said, smiling through tears. “They look the same, since the day they caught me skinny-dipping.”

I didn’t stay stateside, thanks to Willard. Damned company man put in a special request for me. He probably thought he was doing me a favor. He was always a pain in the ass.

Willard was in charge of this mission and that meant he got to handpick his team, whether they wanted to be picked or not.

Willard’s prune face receded and again I dreamt of Linda, naked, eyes glistening from fresh tears. I had never felt such a powerful need to fuck a woman as I did that night before I left. I was relentless and she responded fiercely and recklessly, screaming and crying . . . even drawing blood. It was as if she felt it would be our last time.

Bogs shook me awake. “Camel is on the move.”

Camel was the code name of our target. He had returned to this mountaintop twice, a foolish mistake. We expected him to return a third time, a fatal mistake. Intelligence had tried to divine what attraction this godforsaken place had for him in this entire shithole of a country. In the end, it was enough that he returned at regular intervals.

His movements were tracked by satellite. They could have taken him out with a Predator, but Willard demanded absolute confirmation of a kill. That meant death had to be made by personal delivery, with a bullet.

A natural arch spanned the chasm and provided access to the opposite peak as it had since the days of Alexander the Great. Camel’s vehicle would traverse the arch to our right, turn left and disappear behind a jagged formation of rock, and then stop on the small, sloped plateau outside the rude hovel we’d been spying on since we arrived. There was no sign the hovel was occupied.

Bogs efficiently set up equipment and attached cables to the riflescope that fed into a small black box that itself connected to the laptop.

In a moment, the whine of a struggling engine caught our attention. A beige Range Rover made its way gingerly over the natural bridge. Once it had attained the opposite peak, it stopped and dislodged five armed men, Camel’s bodyguards.

The engine began to whine again and we could hear the stubborn clutch as it popped into gear. The vehicle disappeared behind the rock formation and then entered the unobstructed plateau. I already had the driver fixed in my sights as he emerged from the Range Rover. I zoomed in. Everything I could see was being fed via satellite to Willard, wherever the hell he was.

I fixed my earpiece and waited for Willard to confirm the target and authorize the shot.

“Hey,” Bogs said. “He’s got company.”

I raised the scope a bit to the left. From the hovel emerged a small woman. She was dressed in the garb of the mountain people from this region, but her face was uncovered. As her features became clearer I surmised she was in her twenties. As she got closer to Camel she broke into a run and threw herself into his arms. He spun her around, and as he did he revealed his face.

Less than thirty seconds later Willard’s voice crackled through my earpiece. “Target is confirmed – repeat – target is confirmed. Looks like he had a yen for a little poontang. It’ll get ’em every time. Take your shot – repeat – take this fucking prick out.”

It was perfect. The moon lit up the area like a ballpark during a night game. Camel was dead. He just didn’t know it.

Camel and the girl kissed. He had to bend down to her. Her hands gripped the material of his shirt in tight fists as his hands roamed gently over her body. They broke the kiss and he stepped away to the vehicle from which he retrieved blankets and other loose bedding and tossed them on the ground.

The girl’s hands moved deftly over her garments, which fell away in ribbons and billows in the wind. She ran to Camel and began to help him shed his own clothes.

Bogs’s voice was insistent, yet questioning. “They repeat – take your shot. They’ll lose satellite in thirty seconds.”

Willard’s voice crackled again. “What’s happening? Looks like a clear shot.”

“I’ll take it when I’m ready,” I whispered into the microphone set.

“We’re losing satellite video for thirty minutes. What are you waiting for?”

“I’ll take it when I’m ready and confirm he’s down. You stand by with Predators when we need to book it out of here.”

There was a second or two of hesitation before Willard said, “Roger that.”

I yanked the cables off the scope. They couldn’t see what was happening now anyway.

Camel and the girl were all arms and legs rocking on the ground. And when the wind blew just right, I thought I could hear their moans and sighs as they made love in one of the most loveless places on the planet.

Bogs said nothing. He knew enough to trust me not to let the target slip away.

Now we both heard the cries of urgent passion, and a sweet, sad girlish voice waft across the chasm. Camel sat up with his back toward us. The girl sat in his lap, her breasts to his chest and her legs clenched tightly around his hips. Through the scope I saw the ripple of his muscles as he rocked himself up deeply inside her. Her small hands traced his shoulder blades and the three shrapnel scars about midway down his back.

The girl’s chin rested on his shoulder. Tears running freely down her cheeks. Her face – like Linda’s – a profound mixture of passion and sadness. It was as if she knew this would be their last time.

He shuddered and her eyes rolled back. Then they fell back on the blankets and curled together.

Bogs nudged me. “It’ll be dawn soon.”

I nodded. I wondered about the girl, and about Camel. I wondered if she knew how many arms were left empty because of him, how many cunts were left empty because of him, how many hearts were empty because of him.

Even as I watched him fill her legs and fill her womb, my thoughts turned to Linda. Linda liked to fuck like that, breasts to chest, in my lap, with her thighs clenched around my waist. Strong little thighs. My ribs hurt after we were done.

The sky was becoming pink. Camel rose and lifted the girl to her feet. Tenderly, he swathed her in a blanket against the cold. She handed him a piece of red cloth that fluttered like silk. One tender kiss and he took his leave.

“We have satellite back,” Bogs said.

I reattached the cables to the scope. “Tell Willard to have the Predators target the arch bridge,” I said.

The Range Rover left the girl standing in a swirl of dust and disappeared behind the rock formation. It reappeared and stopped at the arch. Camel’s men tumbled into the vehicle as he moved over into the passenger’s seat. I trained the scope on him through the windshield.

The vehicle again moved gingerly over the ancient formation. At about halfway across, I watched him lift the red fabric to his nose and breathe deeply. It was the last thing he knew before my rifle coughed and his chest exploded all over his companions.

They tumbled out of the Range Rover like a clown act pointing their AKs in all directions. They didn’t have a clue where the shot came from. Two glints like welders’ torches in the sky shot over the peaks. The missiles launched by the Predators hurtled into the stone arch. Then the entire formation, which had stood since before the time of Alexander the Great, broke into blocks of granite and plummeted into the chasm below.

“Confirmed, Camel down – repeat – confirmed, Camel down.” Willard’s voice crackled again. “Nice shot, excellent . . .”

Bogs broke the connection. In his thick Polish accent he said, “Time to boogie, boss. Gotta make the LZ in twenty minutes.”

I nodded. Bogs had already packed the equipment and was humping it down the slope. I lifted my glasses to the opposite slope. The girl stood, looking at us. I focused in tighter. Her face was wet. I looked for a sign of hate in her eyes, but saw none. Just sadness.

I turned and stumbled down the slope. I was going home to Linda. Nothing, or no one could stop me.

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The Swimming Pool

Vina Green

I have always loved the water.

My family is religious.

I grew up near the sea, reading the Bible.

As a child, one of my favourite stories was the biblical account of Moses leading the Israelites through to the Promised Land by parting the Red Sea. In pictorial reproductions of this story, I always thought that Moses seemed unreasonably terrified, holding his staff aloft as if that stick alone might hold back the walls of water which in a short time would sweep away the Egyptians.

I was never particularly impressed by Moses’s miracle. The ocean and I were good friends. Given the right motivation, I thought, I could convince water to part. It was just a matter of asking nicely.

I often fantasized about how the Egyptians must have felt as the sea came tumbling down on them. I thought that the illustrators of my children’s Bible story book had it wrong. The pictures were full of screaming soldiers with wide white eyes clinging to the backs of horses with legs kicking high into the air as if running against the waves. I thought that it might feel wonderful to drown. When I swam laps with my high school swimming team, I angered my coach by neglecting overarm and back stroke and breast stroke and instead travelling from one end of the pool to the other in a single dive, holding the air in my lungs until I felt my chest would burst into flames without another breath, and then bursting out of the water in one heady gasp, like a whale emptying its blowhole.

The first time I ever discovered pubic hair and the natural secretions of a woman’s sex, I was in a swimming pool. I was lowering myself into the water, easing a severe sunburn, when I found a thick strand of coarse black hair, curled up and stuck to the side of the pool.

“What’s that?” I asked my older and wiser friend.

“Ugh,” she said in disgust, “it’s a pube.”

“What’s it got on it?” I asked again, pointing to a thick, luminous droplet that had gathered on one end of the hair.

“It’s come,” she hissed into my ear, pushing off from the pool side with a splash to signal that the conversation was over.

That explained a few things, I thought, tying together strange words overheard in schoolyard conversations and remembering the shock I had felt when I had looked down at the small mound between my legs one day and noticed a few long strands of silky hair gathering in a place that I was too ashamed and too afraid to talk about.

I gave up swimming in school clubs, as I was always too independent to turn up on time and to swim drills, which I hated. I continued swimming, but always on my own, and always when and where I wanted to swim.

Years later, when I was married, I shocked my husband by taking off my clothes and diving into the water naked when we were on holiday in Brighton one November.

“Someone will see you!” he hissed, kneeling onto the pier and flailing his arm in the water, as if to grab me by an errant limb and pull me out again.

“I don’t care!” I yelled back, the cold weight of the water rushing against my skin with all the hard comfort of a steel blanket.

When we returned from holiday, he filed for divorce.

I still swim, nearly every day, at a pool around the corner from my office. Of course, the other executives presume that I do it out of some kind of dutiful attempt to stay slim, because having the long slender legs and the strong muscled shoulders that come from regularly pushing through water is good for business. But I couldn’t care less about that. I swim for the feeling of swimming, the cool brush of liquid against my skin, the heady freedom of nearly passing out in the water with a foolish too long holding of breath. I swim because it’s the only chance that I have, that I have ever had, to do whatever I like with my own damn body.

There was a boy who swam around the same time of day, and I could tell by the way that he glided through the water that he swam for the same reasons I do. He was about half my age, perhaps twenty, perhaps twenty-two. He had milky skin that glowed in the water and the firm chiselled body of someone who is both very young and very careful with their diet. I was glad, watching him, that I didn’t have a son of my own, so I felt no rush of guilt at my voyeurism, despite his youth.

Sometimes we swam laps alongside each other, in adjacent lanes if the pool was quiet, or in the same lane, if it was busy. I imagined as we passed each other that the rush of water that lapped my skin was an extension of his skin, the wave instigated by his body like a cool hand running from the tip of my feet to the top of my head.