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

hurt, but something else, something altogether wonderful and unexpected, was distracting her from the pain. From the nearby plaza: music. The first music Mira had heard since they arrived on this godforsaken lump of rock. A lyre, sweet and lyrical, and joining it, the chimelike notes of a
laouto
.
    “Fucking Greek jail!” sang out Mira and she began to dance.
    Her legs, despite this morning’s trek, were suddenly feather-light. She was a bird, a bawd, a buxom ballerina. She was great, unholstered, jiggly tits and quivering fat ass and a canyon of cleavage. She was madness, mirth, and celebration.
    “Mira! No! If you don’t stop this instant, I’m leaving!”
    “Then go!” cried Mira and danced away.
    Her sandals slapped the cobblestones. Leather on stone, fuck, fuck, like lusty mating. Mira laughed and kicked them off. She whirled and capered, spun and leaped, and the musicians picked up the beat and Mira danced, and did her blouse fall open of its own accord or did her fingers tease the buttons free? She didn’t know, but somehow her tits flopped out, and the musicians yodeled at the sky like moonstruck hounds and then the moon itself swelled from behind the clouds in all its naked splendor and Mira sang out, “Fucking Greek jail!” and danced and danced.
    A few villagers gathered round to stare and grunt, before retreating, like shamed wraiths, back into their houses, white as bone shards beneath the yellow moon.
    And the musicians’ energy waned, and they put away their instruments and slunk away, but still Mira cavorted, her white skirt swirling, pink nipples dancing their own jig and she was like a Catherine wheel, all light and glamour, spinning wildly in the dark.
    A boy, barely beyond his teens, watched her with a rapt and avid gaze, wetting the corners of his mouth with a tongue made sopping by desire. Mira danced to his side. She took him by his thick black hair and buried his face between her breasts, each one of which was easily the size of the boy’s head. She let him suckle, leaving her nipples silvery with saliva, then pushed his head down and hoisted up her skirt and straddled him. His tongue knew dances of its own, quick, darting strumming motions and deep, luxurious slurps and she opened up her folds to him and took his tongue in like a raw pink fetus seeking reentry to its fleshy nest.
    The boy stood up and unzipped himself, took out a bobbing, uncut cock. The sight of it made Mira giggle with delight and recommence her dance, though the music to which she capered was now within her head.
    An old man rushed out from a nearby doorway. He grabbed the boy and shouted in his face with much agitation. Mira heard the word “Baubo,” but didn’t understand the rest. Beneath the elder’s scorn, the boy shrank both literally and figuratively. He slunk away, the old man’s arm prodding him roughly along. Leaving Mira panting, bare-breasted, and alone in the center of the plaza. She looked down at herself and gasped, began buttoning her blouse. Wetness ran between her legs, the boy’s drool and her own juices. From her groin and armpits wafted, unmistakably, the pungency of lust.
    The door was locked when Mira at last returned to the hotel room. She knocked and pleaded a good long time before C.J. let her in. C.J.’s tanned face was tracked with angry tears.
    “I talked to Stavros. Tomorrow morning, he’s leaving on the first ferry back to Piraeus,” said C.J., crawling back into bed. “I’m going with him. I want you to come with us. We’ll find a doctor for you in Athens. An English-speaking one.”
    Mira took off her soiled and rumpled clothing and slid naked into bed next to her lover.
    “I can’t do that,” she said. “I don’t understand what happened out there, but, oh God, it felt so wonderful.”
    “When you exposed yourself, you mean. When you mooned those men.”
    “Yes, wonderful,” said Mira, her voice awed and tiny. “I don’t understand. It was like I couldn’t stop