The Mammoth Book of Erotica presents The Best of Marilyn Jaye Lewis Read Free

plastic jar of Vaseline in my shoulder bag. We didn’t get undressed because we were afraid of needing to leave in a hurry. So we just unzipped his fly and took his hard dick out. We smeared Vaseline all over that thing. And then I leaned into one of his father’s big leather club chairs, I laid with my face pressed against the cool leather, while the boy shoved up my skirt and pulled my panties down to my knees. Vaseline makes everything a greasy mess, especially nice leather club chairs, but it sure helped that boy’s hard-on slide right into me, right into my asshole. It was like we’d talked about over the phone, he was actually fucking my ass. I wasn’t sure I really liked it, but I wasn’t sure I didn’t like it either. The pressure felt exciting, I liked the feeling of being filled up. But what I liked most was his fully clothed weight on top of me while my panties were around my knees, and the way he smelled while he grunted and pumped away at my virgin asshole, the way all boys smelled back then; like mown grass and sweat and tobacco and spearmint gum.
    That was how it felt with Giselle, like I wasn’t really sure I liked it, but I wasn’t sure I didn’t like it either. The dildo felt huge in my ass and I was grunting into my gag. But her naked weight was on top of me. Her breasts were pressed flat against my back and she was sweating from the effort of pounding my hole. I loved all that sweat. And I didn’t mind it when she pulled the dildo out and reminded me I wasn’t fourteen any more and that it was 1980. She shoved a glob of Crisco up my ass and proceeded to pump me with a dildo too huge, too heavy to even attempt to fit into the harness. Giselle didn’t strap it on, she held it with two hands and shoved it clear down to its base, stretching me completely open.
    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