The Mammoth Book of Erotica presents The Best of Marilyn Jaye Lewis (6 page)

“Now what?” I cried. “I lost it.”

Bertrand swallowed finally and looked startled.

Paulina was a step ahead of us, though. She grunted determinedly, bearing down. “Grab it,” she said haltingly. “Get it before it pops out.”

Bertrand and I watched as the hole pushed open. Her pussy looked incredible. Straining, spreading, then the neck of the squash began to emerge. “Grab it,” she said again. “Don’t let it pop out. I want to get fucked with it.”

I managed to grab the squash by its neck but it was slippery now. I had to dig my nails into it to keep it from sliding back up her. I fucked her with it slow at first, amazed that her pussy was so resilient. Easing it down her canal until the widest part of the squash was wedging her hole completely open, I then held it there, stuck in her. Its bright yellow colour looked even brighter squeezed on all sides, as it was, by the deeply engorged lips. When I did that, she cried out; she sputtered a bunch of “Oh gods” and “Oh, yes. Fuck.” And Bertrand groaned appealingly into his glass of wine.

Then I pushed the squash deep into her, as deep as I could get it while still holding on to it. I fucked her with it fast and hard, until her cries sounded more like she might hyperventilate. But I only stopped the fucking motion to ease the widest part down the canal again to thoroughly open her hole. Paulina groaned low: “Oh. Yes – God.” And she held it there, its widest part stretching her open; her knees raised and completely spread. Nothing obstructed our view. Bertrand said softly, “I can’t believe this. This is incredible, isn’t it? Christ, dinner will
never
be ready at this rate . . .” While Paulina panted and grunted and sounded like she was giving birth.

And then I realized what this was all about for Paulina: she’d wanted to experience giving birth but they’d forced her to have a Caesarean delivery. I had an idea. I eased the squash out of her completely. “Hey!” Bertrand said, and Paulina looked at me in shock, her hole gaping open, empty.

“Wait,” I said. “Don’t panic. I have an idea. I’ll be right back, I promise.”

I came back with a baby eggplant. “Want to try this?” I said, holding it out to her.

Bertrand looked at Paulina and me wide-eyed, clearly hoping that she was going to consent. She did, without even batting an eye.

The stem end would have to go up first this time. There wouldn’t be any fucking; she was simply going to give birth to the thing. She braced herself. The stem end easily opened her right up, but the bottom of the eggplant was significantly wider than the squash had been. She took a few breaths – she was really concentrating. Bertrand had done away with sipping his wine and was now swallowing it in mouthfuls. “It’s not going to go,” he said. “That thing’s too big.”

Paulina breathed sharply and said, “No – I’ll do it. I will.
Ah!
” She pushed hard. But then she squirted us, accidentally. A quick stream of piss flew out of her. “Sorry!” she said urgently. Her voice sounded high-pitched now and overwrought. “I’m sorry!”

“Don’t worry about it,” Bertrand assured her. “In fact, do it again if you have to.”

His insatiable lust amused me, but still, I was on a mission. This was about giving birth to an eggplant; it wasn’t about his fondness for water sports. “Make yourself useful,” I told him. “Go pour yourself some more wine.”

“But I don’t want to miss anything,” he protested.

“We’re right here. We aren’t going anywhere. This is going to take a minute.”

But it didn’t take a minute. Suddenly, she’d opened up and the rest of the eggplant went in, and then the hole closed immediately around it once it was securely up the canal.

“Holy Christ,” Bertrand said.

“Wow,” Paulina said, breathing heavily. “Wow.” Then she added, “I’d like a little wine.”

Bertrand did the honours and brought us our glasses of wine. He topped us off with more Font-Mars and then we clinked our glasses in a toast. “To the baby eggplant,” I said. “Cheers, Paulina.”

She took a few sips of wine and then set her glass aside. She stripped off her stockings then scooted her bottom to the very edge of our kitchen island. She planted her heels wide apart and propped herself up in a half-sitting position. She bore down hard, until her anus was pushing open. She pushed and then pushed harder still. She grunted and groaned. She held her breath at times; then let her breath go and panted hard. She spit on her fingertips and began rubbing her clit. But it wasn’t coming. She let her clit alone and pushed some more.

I privately worried that the thing was stuck in there and would never come out; then what would we do? Take her to Beth Israel? It was the closest hospital . . .

“Oh shit,” she finally squealed. “Yes .”

And we saw it, big and purple and round, crowning in her hole.

“Oh God,” she groaned deeply, her whole body relaxing. But then it disappeared again. It
still
wasn’t coming – it had slipped back up the canal. For a moment, Paulina did nothing. She was pacing herself, it seemed; she caught her breath. Then she bore down again and there it was, pushing her vagina open, really coming out now. She cried out and the pitch of her cry made my heart race. And then, for a few moments, she didn’t move and the eggplant sat there, right in her hole, opening her impossibly wide. I realized then that I was holding my breath, my mouth was filled with wine; I couldn’t swallow. I looked quickly at Bertrand and understood him a little better then. His eyes were glued to the sight of Paulina’s stretched vagina; he wasn’t swallowing either but his right hand was back underneath his apron.

Paulina gave a final grunt, a final push and, to our relief and delight, the eggplant popped out and headed straight for the kitchen floor.

The bottle of Font-Mars was long gone; we’d moved on to a Cavalchina Bardolino. Bertrand had settled on grilled brined salmon fillets for dinner with a fresh dill and fennel relish, roasted stuffed onions, green beans and chive and parsley mashed potatoes. Our
amuse-bouches
had turned out to be delightful: mesclun and ricotta
salata
on grilled garlic toasts. The wine suited it all to perfection. We ate leisurely, sitting in the overstuffed chairs by the fire, our plates spread out on the large coffee table before us.

Rather than putting her clothes back on, Paulina passed the remainder of the evening in one of Bertrand’s white, button-down shirts. Of course it was much too big for her and she looked adorable in it. The shirt held the added advantage of falling to the floor in a heartbeat, as well. It wasn’t long after our meal that we were feeling amorous for one another again. We were more subdued after two bottles of wine and a good meal (light as it was) than we’d been earlier in the kitchen, but we still had a grand time.

Understandably, Paulina was too worn out for traditional intercourse, so she and I concentrated mostly on using our mouths on each other. Until Bertrand wanted to have her the back way and she was game. It aroused me no end – watching the two of them together. They enjoyed their passions so thoroughly; they made such noise. Paulina was a good sport all the way around. She spent most Sunday evenings at our apartment after that, usually spending the night. We didn’t always start out in the kitchen on her nights with us but when we didn’t, it was solely because we were dining in bed . . .

In the many weeks that followed, we experimented with all sorts of vegetables, helping Paulina give birth to quite an unusual selection. We had such great times with her, in fact – that and she’d lost the lease on her pricey uptown apartment – that in March, we asked her to move in and were delighted when she did.

One rainy night when we were feeling contemplative – the dinner had been heavy: a beef ragout with a Saint-Emilion – Paulina lamented once again that she had never given birth the real way. “I never got to breastfeed my baby,” she said. “I really wanted to experience that, too.”

As usual, Bertrand and I glanced at each other, reading each other’s thoughts. Paulina’s breasts were so full and exquisite, her nipples so responsive, that nursing would likely have sent her into orgasmic bliss in record time.

“In my country,” she assured us, “women can give milk without being pregnant. It is not necessary to be with child in order to give milk.”

We were sceptical, Bertrand and I. The following day, over the telephone, we consulted with some fetishists we knew on East 9th Street and they, in turn, assured us that it was true. The trick, they said, was to fool the pituitary gland into thinking Paulina had an infant to nurse.

Really? This was certainly news to us. But intriguing news; exciting news!

“It would require constant suckling, of course, maybe even for a couple of months. Do you think you’re up for the task?”

Constant suckling at Paulina’s breasts, her ecstasy so contagious that it would nearly make us come, as well? We hung up the phone. Our mission was clear: we would suck on Paulina’s nipples, night and day, until the milk came out. It was a mission that suited us thoroughly. And as luck would have it, in late spring, when Paulina’s milk finally came, I found myself with child. Bertrand and Paulina couldn’t have been more pleased. With Veuve Cliquot, they joyously toasted the baby’s conception. Though no less joyous, I abstained, however, from the champagne and thought instead of the moment of birth, contemplating ecstasy.

The Philadelphia Flyers had come into the new hockey season ranked down at the very bottom of the Eastern Conference, but Connor Moore, a die-hard Flyers fan, knew there was still plenty of time left in the season for them to get back on top. He was determined to get to the arena in plenty of time for today’s face-off – the Flyers were playing the NY Rangers at five o’clock. Another snowfall was heading toward Hellertown, but Connor was undeterred. They would make it to Philadelphia come hell or high water – or even more snow.

Kaylie Moore, Connor’s wife, was less than a die-hard hockey fan. She didn’t hate it; she simply didn’t love it. But she did love Connor and after three years of marriage and two years of steady dating, she’d gotten used to his devotion to the Flyers, to his love of the sport. She saw the home games as a way to spend time with her husband, if nothing else. Still, sometimes his fanaticism drove Kaylie a little nuts. Here they were, already getting into the car.

“Don’t you think that two o’clock is a little early to be leaving, Connor? The game doesn’t start until five. We’re only about an hour away.”

Connor slid into the driver’s seat and pulled closed the car door. “I’m leaving plenty of time for bad weather and – I thought I’d surprise you.”

This perked Kaylie’s interest. “Really? Surprise me how?” She fastened her seatbelt.

“We’re taking the scenic route. I thought I’d go 611 the whole way instead of the freeway. How does that sound? And we can stop at that old barn thing you like – that farmer’s market.”

It was a very nice surprise. Kaylie was amazed that he’d even thought of it – on a hockey day, no less. “I’ll bet 611 will be beautiful in this snow, but I don’t think the market is open in the winter time, Connor.”

“Sure they are.” Connor put the car in reverse and backed down the long graveled driveway to the semi-rural street they lived on, Fullerton Way. “There must be something farmers can sell in the winter. You know, stuff they ship in from California that we could buy cheaper just about anywhere else. It’s the ambiance we’re after here and I’m sure they’re well aware of it, even in winter. Farmers can be pretty shrewd.”

Kaylie smiled in spite of herself. “Pretty shrewd” was her husband’s pat way of describing anyone whose crafts, food, folk art, or furniture were packaged in just the right way to get Kaylie to part with her hard-earned money. The Amish, the Quakers, and now, apparently, the farmers were all “pretty shrewd.”

“You’re sweet,” she said. “Thank you for thinking of it.”

“I just wanted to make sure you knew that I wasn’t
totally
self-centered. I know I’ve seemed like it lately.”

“It’s not that, Connor. I don’t think of you as self-centered.”

“As what, then – afraid? Is that how you think of me?”

“Yes, maybe a little afraid.” She was quick to add, “But that’s okay.”

“It’s okay because I’m a man, you mean? We’re all afraid of having children?”

“No, I didn’t say that.”

“Then it’s not the children we’re afraid of, per se –” Connor drove east on Fullerton Way, past the old filling station that was now called Rosie’s Bar & Grille. “It’s the
cost
of children, the permanence, the un-ending responsibility of them; that’s what we men are afraid of, right?”

Kaylie looked away from him and made sure not to sigh. Sighing usually made Connor feel guilty and then this never-changing discussion they seemed to have almost daily now would morph into an argument and Kaylie didn’t want that, least of all today when he was trying so hard to be a good egg about everything.

“You’re allowed to respond, you know, Kaylie; you don’t have to sit there and just stare out the window. We can talk about this, can’t we, without getting into a fight?”

It was such a loaded topic that Kaylie couldn’t help herself now, she sighed.

“What?” he said, sounding exasperated already. “I know you want to have a baby.”

She looked at him. “
We
want to have one.”

“Right.
We
want to have one. Just not –” Connor caught himself before he said it but it was too late.

“Just not now.” Kaylie finished his thought for him.

“I didn’t say that.”

“What are you saying then, Connor? Just tell me.”

“I’m thinking about it. That’s all.”

Kaylie thought this was either very promising news; that he was seriously thinking about it, about being agreeable, finally, and trying to make a baby with her. Or it was merely another stall tactic. She decided to think positive and leave well enough alone for now. No reason to push him if he was indeed trying to be agreeable. “Thanks, Connor,” she said. And she thought it would be best to change the subject for a while. “So how are the NY Rangers ranked right now?”