‘Cleft and Wedge’ in The Mammoth Book of Quick and Dirty Erotica

Mammoth Book of Quick & Dirty Erotica


Over 130 pieces of very short erotic fiction in categories from first times to bondage.

Over 130 short, short erotic stories of about 1,500 words each, or over 500 pages of outstanding erotica in bite-sized pieces, exploring the full range of human sensual and sexual experience.

Each one of eight sections is devoted to a specific erotic kink, such as spanking, submission, voyeurism, uniforms or bondage, providing an astonishing diversity of erotica between the covers of one book.

Despite its length, this short-form erotica from the world’s leading writers remains inventive, provocative, sensual, and above all intelligent. These are sexual adventures to intrigue, shock, puzzle, and both scare and arouse. Mere titillation is never enough.

Maxim Jakubowski’s website

Extract from Cleft and Wedge

It was a warm autumn night, pints of cider before them, and the Scudamore’s punts resting side by side and bobbing in the water in front of the Anchor pub. In Sophie’s line of sight was the weir that separated the different levels of the River Cam. Above it, Cambridge students and locals cycled passed, either heading into town, or southward down the path along the banks of the Cam towards Grantchester. A pleasant evening in the graceful university town, and she was fidgeting, having just told Malcolm in what she hoped was the gentlest, least offensive way that she didn’t think this was going to work anymore.

Opposite Sophie, Malcolm sat with his hands clasped, frowning. He wore a tweed jacket, blue collared shirt, and navy chinos. With his glasses his close cropped hair, he was the perfect picture of the young Cambridge historian.

He said, after a long pause, “Is it the age gap?”

Ten years wasn’t insignificant, but her 23 and his 33 had never felt an issue.

“It’s not that. You’re lovely, so lovely…”

But as she tried to reassure him how much she liked him, she knew that was the problem. He was so nice, so sweet that she just couldn’t imagine him taking her to bed, or doing anything beyond cradling her head and stroking her hair.

From their qualifications, Sophie and Malcolm should have worked – she about to embark on a PhD in 18th century literature, his era of study though mostly politics. They could talk easily, and he was very kind to her.

There was a heavy ‘however’. Three years of undergraduate study, about to be added to with a likely four for her PhD, had been the intensely fun, wildly stressful, and deeply fulfilling Cambridge education she had hoped for. Not just her lectures and supervisions either; the theatres dotting the city, the concerts in college chapels, Shakespeare in the gardens in summer, all had filled her head with the high-minded intellectual and cultural experience she’d so badly wanted when she left her South London home to go there.

Yet something lacked. Her last really good orgasm had been in the infamous ‘fuck a fresher’ week on her first year. A cliché, she knew, but the third-year student had been persuasive (and sexy). That pure absence of thought, just giving herself to bodily exuberance, stayed with her. And after two polite and proper boyfriends her own age, both of whom came with stifled grunts (had they gone to the same school to learn that, she wondered?) Sophie wasn’t sure if she could take more of that from Malcolm, who had only chastely kissed her twice.

Sophie took a deep breath. “I think I need someone who’s more…” She searched for the best word that would describe what she meant without offending him.

Malcolm supplied it. “Manly.”

He said the word with lingering sadness, like he’d heard that before. Sophie hadn’t anticipated that. She started to deny it, but he shook his head.

“No, I understand. You don’t have to explain.” He reached across the table, and took her hand in his, and brushed his thumb over her knuckles. “Let’s finish our drinks, walk along the Backs, and leave it at that.”

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