The Mammoth Book of Erotica presents The Best of Lucy Taylor by Lucy Taylor

marked her breast with smears of dirt from its webbed hind feet.
    Mira screamed and writhed, dislodging the toads on her legs and head only to find three more arranged like horrid tumors upon her breasts and belly. The largest of these, endowed with shining amber eyes, seized the soft flesh below Mira’s navel and delivered a painful bite. Blood slicked the toad’s wide mouth, and bile rose up in Mira’s throat. The world turned. She tried to rise but found her limbs were powerless, her vision growing inky at the edges.
    Through a gauze of sick terror, she could still see the horrid birthing taking place. As she passed out, her ears rang with the woman’s mad laughter that almost – but not completely – drowned out a sound far worse, the soft, throaty glugging of the toads.
    “You shouldn’t have gone out in the heat today,” C.J. said, nibbling at a piece of fried octopus. “You look like hell.”
    “I’m all right,” said Mira, cutting into the leg of lamb the waiter had just set before her. “Just hungry.”
    Hungry and – if truth be known – bizarrely energized. Her belly throbbed, but not with pain. More like concentric circles of appetite and energy radiating out from the wound on her stomach. The toad appeared to have nipped out a tiny chunk of flesh. The bleeding had been copious on her bike ride back to town. Mira had been forced to hurry back to the hotel, where she had shed her filthy clothing and stuffed it deep inside her duffle bag.
    Fortunately, other than remarking on Mira’s appearance, C.J. had shown little curiosity about her day. Now she added some more water to her glass of ouzo and sipped the milky liquid with that look of studied smugness that Mira had come to recognize as presaging some admission aimed at provoking jealousy.
    “I met someone today. His name’s Stavros. He grew up here, but he worked in his cousin’s restaurant in New York for a couple of years, so he speaks really good English.”
    Mira shrugged and forked a chunk of meat into her mouth. “So did you fuck him yet?”
    C.J. recoiled. “No, of course not. I’m with you, aren’t I?”
    “I don’t know. Are you?”
    “Jesus, we’re in a pissy mood tonight.”
    “So what’s the point of telling me about some guy you met? To make me jealous, right? To remind me how fucking desirable you are to each and every gender. Well, fuck him if you want to. Suck his dick until it falls off. I don’t care.”
    “God, Mira, what’s got into you? I only said . . .”
    “This looks so good,” said Mira, reaching over with her fork to poke at C.J.’s food. She chose the longest piece of octopus, a tentacle pale and tender as the flesh of an armpit, studded with small, rose-colored suckers.
    C.J., misunderstanding her intention, said, “I thought you didn’t like octopus. You said it was disgusting.”
    “I didn’t say I was going to eat it.” Mira plucked the tentacle from the fork and held it between her fingers. “Look here.”
    She glanced to either side of her. Only a few of the tables in the taverna were filled and these by locals whose faces, in most cases, were either directed at their plates or wreathed in a fog of cigarette smoke. Slowly, savoring C.J.’s agitation, she undid the top three buttons of her blouse, revealing ample cleavage unfettered by a bra.
    “I wonder if your friend Stavros would like to do this with his tongue?” She slid the octopus between her freckled breasts. Up and down, down and up, leaving a sheen of grease against the pale skin.
    “Jesus, Mira, stop it.”
    “But then your tits are smaller than mine, so he might rather tonguefuck you other places.”
    She slid sideways in her chair, pulled her cotton skirt up to mid-thigh. She wore no underpants, and her cunt was moist and ready. On the first push, the tentacle got away from her and slid so far inside, she almost lost it. Mira threw back her head and howled with laughter at the thought of walking around being fucked with an