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

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.

The Epicures
Marilyn Jaye Lewis
    It was called Petrograd in honour of the opulence of czarist Russia. Its interior brimmed with ostentation and the owners didn’t care; attracting the proletariat was not their aim. The average working stiff could hardly afford the cocktails at Petrograd, let alone anything from its tasting menu. We, however, always ordered from the tasting menu, blind, with our wine flights selected especially for us by Sergei – who was not really Russian, or if he was, it was from so many generations ago as to make any Tartar roots in him undetectable beneath his Brooklyn accent.
    In those days, we savoured every moment of our affluence because we recalled too keenly how it had felt to be among the starving class. Our riches were so new to us in fact that poverty, it seemed, still lay in wait for us up the block, wondering when we might return. We weren’t sure. All we knew was that good fortune had alighted on us at last and we planned to wring the most from it – starting with haute cuisine and vintage wines – before good fortune evaporated into the ether and left us poor again.
    Every booming market goes bust eventually, and to survive it you have to prepare for the inevitable in advance. Our safety net was our loft apartment in Tribeca; we’d paid cash for it in early 1982. It belonged to us. We were determined not to be homeless again and we turned that cavernous, once-industrial space into a lush cocoon. That was where our hedonism went unleashed for many years, right there in the bosom of our sanctuary.
    Paulina moved in with us in March of that particular year (was it ’84, ’85?). We’d met her at Petrograd in early December, when everyone in New York was already tipping extravagantly and bursting with Christmas cheer. She was a coat check girl there, an immigrant. Illegal, for all we knew, but it wasn’t important to us. We liked her enormously. She was saucy with a dry sense of the absurd. Yet when we welcomed her into our home that first frosty evening, we discovered quickly that all her worldly urbanity fell away from her when she was kissed – along her collarbone, say, or on her lips, her neck, across her pale shoulders; she melted under the tenderness.
    Paulina’s legs were long and parted so easily, but she was not tall. She gave the impression of being tall, however, because she wore those very high Italian heels that made her legs look even longer.
    Her breasts were full, her waist was narrow and her hips wide, and although she was curvy, she was also slender. When not in her coat check uniform, she dressed in the height of fashion. She was fastidious about her appearance. And truth be told, so were we. I guess you could have called us vain and not been far off the mark. Still, at least we could kid ourselves about it. Perhaps it was that unexpected dash of humility that kept us from being too insufferable. Whatever it was, we were always greeted by the staff at Petrograd with welcoming smiles. We were made to feel at home there.
    Bertrand, my fiancé, was what one used to call “a salty dog” – an experienced