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

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?”
2.   Swingers
    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