Miss Johnson had it all worked out. If anyone asked, and a few did, she was a teacher from a boarding school near somewhere out of town and as a reward for our good conduct, she was taking us shopping.
It was the most humiliating experience of my life, but I just can’t help getting wet thinking about it.
I was dripping like a tap then too, so when we stopped at the big kind of seating area surrounded by cafes and restaurants, I’m sure that I must have left a puddle on the plastic seat.
Miss Johnson had all the money, we didn’t even have any pockets, so she went over and ordered a coffee and a garibaldi for herself and two Pepsis and sticky buns for us.
Having finished, with the icing from my bun all over my fingers, she took me by the hand and walked me to the toilet complaining about what a mess I was and how she couldn’t take me anywhere for all to hear, before pushing me into a cubicle, pulling off my knickers, sitting me down on the toilet and giving me the deepest, most satisfying fist-fuck of my life.
Lifting her skirt to reveal that she didn’t have any knickers on either, Miss Johnson then pushed my face into her cunt and ordered me to eat her out. The danger of getting caught made it so good you wouldn’t believe it.
Having smartened back up, I was led back out and made to sit alone as she obliged Claire the same way. And then we walked back to the car park where Miss Johnson said her goodbyes.
She had packed her bags the night before. And only when she got in the car and started the engine did reality kick in.
She was going to drive off without us!
“How the fuck are we going to get home?” I screamed after her.
“Hitch-hike!” she replied. And that was the last word she ever said to me, because to this day, I haven’t seen her since.
For the next hour, with no money, no mobile and no way of getting home, we both hung around the car park not knowing what the hell to do. And so when a nice older woman came and asked if we were all right, convinced that we were both lost little schoolgirls, we both played along and did our best not to touch each other’s pussies as she kindly drove us home.
Despite being left in the car park like that, however, we were both still so horny when we got back to Claire’s house that we spent the rest of the day in her bed reliving the whole experience. And even though I don’t see Claire any more, I do think about this little incident quite often, and it always makes my pussy wet every time.
FIRST PERSON, SUBMISSIVE
Amanda, Ottawa
When did I know I was submissive? Actually, not until my mid-thirties. I didn’t even realize there was a term for the way I was. It never seemed unusual to me to feel this way.
As a child I would save the plastic wrap from my sandwich at lunchtime for a windy day. I would let that wrap fly into the air and marvel as the wind shaped it, filled it full of air, tossed it high, then swept it low over the tarmac playground, then scraped it against the brick walls. Sometimes that wrap came back to me, but more often than not it soared free. The wind released it.
Do you remember those games you played as a child? Red light, green light? What Time Is It, Mr Wolf? They all revolved around the same principle. There was a commander and those who followed commands. I followed.
In the business world, I had to be a leader. Take charge. Make decisions. And I did so, every day for decades. But at night in the dark I read fantasy stories of women being told what to do in bed. I imagined letting go. I imagined flying through the wind. I yearned to fly, yearned to let go. I yearned for something I didn’t understand.
So when did I learn there was something to this, something real? I never had orgasms all through my marriage. My husband did what many men did; perhaps some still do: lick and stick fingers inside the cunt for a few minutes. They call it foreplay. Then stuck his dick inside. That’s what the real thing is, apparently. I just lay there mostly. He asked me if it was good for me, and of course it was. It was what I was taught was good for me. Mostly I thought of other things during sex. When he came, I cried out. Was I faking? I didn’t know I was.
Did I masturbate? Yes. I zipped back to those stories. It wasn’t intentional; my brain just took me there. I was on the floor at a masked man’s feet. He told me what to do and I did it. Of course it was really me, telling myself what to do. But the thought of being told not to think, just to act, just to obey. Someone strong would be able to override my thoughts and fears. It freed me.
Flash forward to my mid-thirties. A lover wanted to engage in some soft-core BDSM. I wasn’t sure what he meant, but he was very experienced. He pointed me towards some books and websites, and we discussed it. He was a gentle, intelligent man, very rational, very controlled and also very patient. He didn’t rush me into anything I didn’t want. When I was ready, he tied my arms and wrists with silk scarves, gently so as not to cut off circulation points or nerve endings. He put a blindfold around me. It felt good, incredibly so. I wasn’t me. I was just a flying, floating being. This lover, he showed me. Commanded me. I respected him and trusted him. Wasn’t like I could do that with any man. No, it took months before I was ready to give that trust to him, and I never gave it all the way. We were just casual lovers. But it awakened something in me.
He liked role play. We’d set up scenes ahead of time to try. His fantasy was to come to my door, to find me tied up and blindfolded, and then to use my mouth with his cock. The plan was set up carefully, ensuring that I was very comfortable with the idea. Neither one of us was supposed to talk and I wasn’t supposed to peak, that was all part of the fantasy.
The day arrived. My telephone intercom rang and I saw him arrive through my apartment’s security video camera. I unlocked the door and put a scarf around my eyes, then attached my legs to the table with two soft, silk scarves, then tied my hands, loosely because it’s hard to work with one hand and with not that much time. It was fun, and kind of silly too. But it was also arousing. I remember lying there and slipping in to the fantasy. The door opened. My heartbeats quickened and I felt an adrenaline rush like I’d been running. I heard a set of footsteps, then a shushing of material as the stranger walked towards me. I smelled a mixture of cigarette smoke, fresh cold air and cologne. At first I wondered if this was really my lover. I didn’t remember that cologne. My heart raced and my body tingled. My cunt was wet with excitement. This man was going to fuck my mouth, just use me.
I’d had fantasies like this all my life and now it was coming true. I was still a bit scared, then he reached down and stroked my cheek with his thumb. His hand felt familiar to me. He always did that during our lovemaking. It meant so much to me that he cared enough to reassure me, reminded me that this was all fantasy. I heard the sound of a zipper going down. My tits hardened as I felt the draught of his body moving over mine. He ran his hands over my breasts and I heard his unmistakable moan. My pulse quickened as I realized he was as turned on as me and I felt so good to be giving him his fantasy. I felt his warm cock rub over my face and along my body, then back up again, seeking my mouth. I held it there. When you can’t see there are so many sensations you are suddenly awakened to. I never really noticed the texture of a cock before, how soft the head was, how much like a nipple. He pushed it in further.
Ahead of time, we’d talked about whether it would be OK to be a bit rough or whether I would prefer gentle. I told him that I didn’t think I wanted rough when I was tied up and blindfolded, not without being held afterwards. So he was gentle. He respected my wishes. I felt sexy and tender all at once. He started to pump in and out of my mouth, and I was all mouth and he was all cock. Meditative. Sexy. Primal feelings coursed through me. My cunt tightened. All the motion made my blindfold, which was very loosely tied, turn up a bit, and I got a sneak peak of my lover. I closed my eyes, but smiled against his cock. The come started to seep out—hot and salty on my tongue. I heard his breathing grow heavier and smelled the musky scent of his balls. Soon he was coming and I received it, felt like my mouth was my cunt. I didn’t orgasm
, but felt so exhilarated and happy. I heard him zip up and felt a tissue rubbing against my face, wiping off his come. He told me it was amazing and we both laughed a bit. So much for our anonymity fantasy. But he couldn’t help himself and that was both sexy and charming and loving all at once. He left then, and I untied myself and went to bed, using my vibe to reach orgasm while reliving every sensation. Later we chatted and he told me how ravishing and exuberant I looked and how wonderful I was for giving him this fantasy. I felt good, powerful and satisfied.
I learned through all this experimentation that sex can be wonderful and that submission was the thing that really turned me on. I read a bit, was too afraid to experiment with other lovers, kept this side of myself quiet, until he came along. The one. My Master.
Like me, his own path was not straightforward, but he can tell his own story. First he was my friend and confidant. I could tell him anything, everything. All about other lovers, my past, my ex, the orgasms I faked. He let me sit in his arms and cry. I’d missed out on so much in my life. I’d been asleep. I was his sleeping beauty. I tasted food, saw sunsets. I wrote poetry and songs. I was becoming me.
Then he was my lover. He was a good lover. Knew his way around a clit. Found my sweet spots. Kissed the nape of my neck until I had goosebumps all over my body. Then he kissed those too. Wanted to discover every inch of me.
He knew about my experiments with scarves and a blindfold. My favourite books to read at bedtime. What turned me on. This man knew me inside out. And what turned me on, turned him on. So we learned. Together. He read and asked questions. How could we set each other free?
Books and websites and chatting with people online taught us the safe, sane and consensual rules of BDSM. We started with what you’d expect. A starter kit from one of those sex shops. Cuffs made of Velcro, easy to get out of, but strong enough so that when attached to the bedposts, they could withstand my yanking on them as my lover tortured my little clit to stiffness, rolled my nipples between his dexterous finger and thumb, then pinched them hard, till I felt alive again. To erase the numbness. To make me come. So I pulled on those restraints as I surrendered myself to his will, and his will was to release me.
Afterwards, the questions began. What part did I like best? Were there things that made me uncomfortable? What else made me curious? Months went by with me being put in these restraints regularly and my lover exercising his control. He tickled me lightly with a feather, but that just made me squeal and I didn’t like it, so he stopped. He placed ice cubes in his mouth then sucked my tits and my clit. So cold, then so hot. He thought I might enjoy wax, and it sounded good, but flames were scary to me, so he rigged up this effective method involving a mug warmer, a metal Turkish coffee cup and white kosher candles, plus a candy thermometer. He found out that white candles don’t burn as hot as coloured ones and were therefore much safer. We’d moved up to chains; they were stronger and could handle the pressure of my pulling better. Plus they were cold against my skin, much more sensual and theatrical. They made me feel like I was truly bound. Stirred both our imaginations. So much of BDSM is theatre, role play, getting into the mood. I had panic snaps of course. All I had to do was pull, and the chains would release. From there it was so simple to unhook my velvet-lined oxblood leather cuffs.
Ah yes, the wax. He blindfolded me, let me feel the heat of the metal cup gently on my inner thighs, and up onto my breasts. My cunt juices flowed. I didn’t know then what was going on. He surprised me, but not totally out of left field. We’d discussed it in one of our briefing sessions, and in a survey he had me fill out regularly to figure out my limits, which changed all the time. Finding a way to communicate with him was and is essential. It is my number one obligation and the way I serve him best: being open and honest at all times.
The wax: the drip down, down, down onto my breasts, around the nipples. Oh so hot, burning almost. God, I was alive and this man was putting me there. Exciting and dangerous feeling, although not really so. But it was the edge of something. The edge of real trust, mine of him. He could do this to me when I was all bound up, unable to resist, well, unless I really insisted. Vulnerable.
I felt him coming as the wax hardened on my skin. Heard him cry out. Felt the cold splashes of his orgasm all over my body. Opened my mouth to drink the rain of come. The sky had opened, releasing us both. We were sticky and wet with it, with him.
He unbound me, washed me in warm water, then dipped his head down, put his tongue in to taste me. So tenderly he licked, then moved up to my lips so I could taste myself. We kissed as he caressed along my moist sex lips, immersing his fingers in plum juice. I was greedy to quench him and he wanted to taste every drop. His head moved down again. His breath so warm on my breasts, my stomach, my cunt. What I had done for him, he did for me. He found my vortex and swirled it, creating the storm of my passion for him once again until I shook and stopped, shook and stopped, shook and stopped, until this rhythm and the heat and his tongue all coalesced into an open, flowing orgasm.
Days and nights after that were magic. Busy with some daytime chore, we looked up at each other and smiled, knowingly. We had a secret no other person knew of. We had shared intimacy in its truest, most honest form. We knew everything there was to know about one another. Trust. Control. Release. Love. Knowledge. Peace. Joy. If there were seven deadly sins, these were seven happy blessings. And we had experienced them. This was the secret of life as far as we were concerned. Details are sharper when you’re as exhilarated as we were and still are. It’s like being constantly high. Euphoric.
Then a hotel visit to the city. High, sturdy bedposts, a four-poster bed. Made for bondage. And our first flogger, made by my lover out of rope from a hardware store and a rubbery bicycle handle. That first lash with the soft silky rope turned rough against my skin . . . What was that? Pain? Yes, slightly, but not more than a bit. Heat, yes some. Excitement. Tension. Surprise. What would he do? Strike harder? Could I handle it? Did he think I could? He did. And, oh. My cunt was wet. Those first whispered orders. “Hump the bed.” I paused. The flogger struck again. This time harder. I humped. “Count the lashes.” His voice had never seemed so urgent, so strong. So confident. I trusted him. He wouldn’t hurt me, but he’d push me, beyond. He’d show me, beyond. He’d trust me to tell him what I could handle and what I couldn’t. Then that first slip as the words rumbled and the bed creaked and my body softened and yielded to the beat of the whip and the rocking of my hips, the rhythm of his lashes on my skin, soft then hard, then soft then hard as I count and moan. I want to come. “Not yet,” he whispered. “Tell me what you are.”
What was I? I was his, I was nothing, I was this bed, I was this whip, I was this heat, this soft, this hard, this come, this . . . his and only his.
I am not who now, but what. I am a piece of plastic wrap floating, driven by the wind.
WIFE SANDWICH
Giselle, Scarborough
I can’t believe I’m actually going to tell this story. I’m still pretty amazed that it happened at all. You see, my younger sister Rachel played soccer for her high school’s team. I had finished my studies and entered the workforce by that time, but I would often attend her games to cheer her on and all that. Well, I actually did more reading than cheering, but the fact that I was sitting in the bleachers at all meant a lot to my little sister.
I noticed Steve at the first game I attended, partly because the sunlight was reflecting off of his bald head and partly because he was the only other person there who was sitting alone. Steve was the father of one of the girls on Rachel’s team, which meant that I got to see him at every game. I’m generally shy and cautious around new people, but I took to Steve right away because he seemed rather shy as well. He was an intellectual sort with a toned physique, and I’ve always had a thing for older men who work out.
At first, Steve and I would discuss the books that we were reading. Eventually, our conversations became more intimate. Steve told me how lonely he felt in his marriage. Stev
e worked from home as a technical writer and was fairly deprived of human interaction for that reason. He told me that he had always looked forward to six o’clock, when his executive wife Helen arrived home from work. Over the past five years, though, Helen had been working later and later into the evenings and when she finally arrived home she was always too exhausted to pay him any attention. I felt very close to Steve because he had confided in me and it soon became apparent that an intense attraction was developing between the two of us.
At the end of each soccer game, Steve and I would go our separate ways, he with his daughter and I with my sister. One day, after our team had achieved a 4–1 victory, I wrote my address down on a scrap of paper and invited Steve to come over on Friday afternoon, since I did not have to work. He knew what the invitation implied. I remember Steve staring down at my address and saying that he would have to think about it. When Steve arrived on my doorstep that Friday at two o’clock, I was overjoyed. I really wasn’t sure if he would come or not. I took the man straight into the bedroom, stripped off his clothes and rode his cock until he flipped me onto my back and pummelled me with penetrations. It was the most frenzied, passionate sex I had ever experienced. I’m now convinced that bookworms have the best sex!
Steve and I continued seeing each other every Friday afternoon. By the time he arrived at my house, we were already so hot for each other that we almost never remembered to lock the front door before heading to the bedroom . . . or living room, or kitchen or wherever. One Friday in May, two years into the relationship, Steve sat on my sofa while I devoured his hard cock. Suddenly, I heard the front door open and I just about had a heart attack. Who would just walk into my house unannounced? I froze, thinking it might be a family member or a friend of mine, but it was not. It was a stylish woman with short blondish hair and a professional demeanour. I had never seen her before. I had no idea who she was, but Steve certainly did: she was his wife.
The Mammoth Book of Erotic Confessions Page 16